by Tim Waggoner
"Do you really think Papa Chatha will be able to give us any advice?" she asked. "He's not a doctor, and he's not even exactly a magician. He's a voodoo priest."
"True, but he has one thing that no other doctor or magic-user in the city has," I said. "My trust. Not only does he know enough about magic to keep me from rotting away to nothing, he's provided magical assistance to me on numerous cases over the years." I paused. "Besides that, he's my friend."
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to get a second opinion," Devona said, managing to give me a smile. It wasn't very big and it didn't last very long, but I appreciated the effort.
And while we were there, I'd see if Papa could take a look at my right hand. It remained attached to my wrist and continued to work just fine, but that condition was merely temporary. I needed Papa's magic to effect a more permanent repair job. But what was foremost on my mind was the revelation Galm had given us about our child. Could it really be possible that our baby would be as powerful as Galm claimed? That he or she would possess a kind of magic unlike any that the Darkfolk had ever known before? The thought scared the hell out of me. I was already afraid of being a father – afraid that I wouldn't be smart enough, patient enough, loving enough – but to be a father to a being of immense power? There was no way I was up to that kind of challenge.
Varney turned around in his seat to look at me. "Sounds like Papa Chatha's been a real help to you over the years. Can you tell me how the two of you met?" His camera eye whirred softly as it focused on me, and I felt a now-familiar urge to draw my 9mm and smash the gun butt into the lens. Instead I sighed.
"I'm not sure it's that interesting a story, but all right. I'd only been in Nekropolis for a couple weeks when Baron Samedi got wind that there was a new kind of zombie in town – one who was not only intelligent but wasn't under the control of a sorcerer. Samedi decided he wanted to examine this undead novelty, and he sent one of his servants to collect me."
I continued relating the tale, only half paying attention to myself as I talked. I saw a greenish flickering light ahead, and I knew we were approaching the edge of Gothtown. Nekropolis is shaped like a gigantic pentagram and split into five separate Dominions, each ruled by a separate Darklord. At the center of the city is the Nightspire, home to Father Dis, the ultimate ruler of Nekropolis, and floating in the starless sky directly above the Nightspire is Umbriel the Shadowsun, the dark celestial orb which provides the city with the shadowy gloom that serves in place of light. A river of mystical green fire called Phlegethon forms the city's outer border and also the divisions between Dominions. Phlegethon's flames are deadly to all creatures living, dead, or undead, with the exception of the monstrous serpents called Lesk which swim its waters. While it's possible to fly over the flames – assuming one possesses the capability – it's illegal to do so. Not to mention dangerous as hell since the Lesk will try to leap out of the water and snatch you out of the air. The only legal and safe way to travel between the Dominions is across one of the five bridges that connect the Dominions, and we were nearing the Bridge of Nine Sorrows, the passage between Gothtown and the Sprawl.
Papa Chatha's place was located in the Sprawl not far from the bridge, and I knew we'd be there soon, which suited me just fine. I was more nervous about the complications with Devona's pregnancy than I wanted to admit, even to myself, and even though I knew Papa wasn't a physician, he had a calming way about him, and I figured I could use all the reassurance I could get.
The greenish glow increased in intensity as we drew closer to the bridge, its light standing out dramatically against the black void that serves in place of a sky in Nekropolis. When the Darkfolk decided to emigrate from Earth long ago, they chose to relocate to a distant uninhabited dimension called the Null Plains, a place of utter darkness and desolation. But the Null Plains aren't, as it turned out, entirely uninhabited, as I'd learned during the last Descension Day, and as I looked at the empty dark sky, I wondered if it too was truly empty or merely seemed that way.
By this time Lazlo had pulled onto the Obsidian Way, the glossy black road which passes through all five Dominions, and joined the line of traffic leaving Gothtown and heading for the Sprawl. There was the usual mix of Earthly vehicles – limousines and high-performance sports cars being favorite choices – traveling alongside stranger conveyances: ghostly coaches, riders on hell-mounts, and Agony DeLites. There were also a fair amount of scuttling Carapacers, hollowed-out giant insect husks reanimated to serve as vehicles, and Meatrunners, leprous obscenities constructed (if that's the right word) from sinew, muscle and bone. Both of these vehicles had sprung from the diseased imagination of Victor Baron, the original Frankenstein monster and the city's leading inventor and industrialist. He's responsible for all the flesh-tech in Nekropolis. All the "repurposed dead," as they're called, bear his tattooed label: "Another Victor Baron creation." Baron had reattached my head to my body for me once, and though my left hand still didn't work quite right, he'd gotten most of the major connections hooked back up properly, so I figured I couldn't complain. I wouldn't let him slap a tattoo on me when he'd finished, though.
We pulled onto the bridge and were about a third of the way across when a bright light flashed overhead. Both Lazlo and Varney cried out in alarm – light in any form is at best frightening to Darkfolk and at worst deadly – and our demon cabbie slammed a misshapen foot onto the brake pedal. The vehicle swerved and sideswiped a were-panther motorcyclist. The catman veered off, struck the bridge railing, flew over his handlebars of his bike, and plummeted over the edge and into the fiery river below. Lykes can heal almost any injury, but I wasn't sure he could survive Phlegethon's flames. Maybe if he managed to crawl out before one of the Lesk got hold of him… I forgot all about the werepanther then, for the light continued to shine brightly onto the bridge, and the other drivers had either hit their brakes like Lazlo or jammed down on the gas in hope of making an escape. The result was, as you might imagine, a complete and total traffic clusterfuck, and the air was filled with the sounds of crunching metal and the howls of frustrated, terrified, and injured drivers. Whatever was happening, one thing was clear: none of us were going anywhere anytime soon.
"Is that sunlight?" Varney asked. He'd slumped down onto the seat and curled into a ball. As scared as he looked, I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd tried to claw through the upholstery and climb inside the seat to hide.
"I don't think so," Devona said. "It looks more like a release of mystic energy to me."
"I'll go out and take a look," I said. Sunlight has no effect on zombies, except maybe to dry out our rotting skin a bit faster. As a half-vampire, Devona wasn't as affected by sunlight as Varney, and I had no idea about Lazlo. Some demons shun sunlight, some don't mind it, and some few actually thrive on it. I didn't know what kind he was. But if anyone was going to step outside and take a gander at the situation, I was the safest bet. Besides, I was more than a wee bit curious. I knew of only one object capable of projecting sunlight in this dark dimension, and Dis had it safely locked away in the Nightspire – or so I believed. If someone had managed to get hold of it somehow, it would be a Very Bad Thing. I opened the rear passenger door and stepped out onto the bridge.
The first thing I noticed was that the sides of Lazlo's cab were expanding and contracting rapidly. The vehicle is, at least in some rudimentary sense, alive, and from its rapid breathing, I knew it was scared. I reached up and patted it on the roof.
"There, there," I murmured. "It'll be OK."
The cab whined like a frightened puppy and shivered under my touch. I doubted I'd done anything to reassure it, and I decided to leave that task to Lazlo. After all, he was its owner. Or sibling. Or lover. Or perhaps something else entirely. I didn't know, and I didn't want to know. I looked around and saw that a number of other motorists had gotten out of their vehicles and were gazing up into the sky. They were a mixture of Darkfolk – lykes, ghosts, demons, ghouls and some other less common types – but no Bloodborn. Presumably a
ny vampires trapped on the bridge, like Varney, were remaining hidden inside their vehicles. I directed my gaze upward, touching a hand to my brow to shield my eyes.
The light shone above us bright white and cold, like starlight against the stark black sky, but by squinting I was able to make out a trio of figures floating in the air within the patch of illumination. The light began to fade, and once it was gone I could see the figures more clearly. They were human – or at least humanseeming – all female, and all using some sort of magical steed to remain aloft. One sat astride a giant raven, another rode a midnight-black horse whose mane and tail crackled with electric energy, and the last sat in a chair made from human bones with a pair of large flapping bat wings protruding from the back. The women were dressed in medieval-era clothing, making them look like refugees from a Renaissance fair, and they held wooden staves with glowing crystals affixed to the ends.
The witch on the raven's back spoke, her magically amplified voice booming forth like thunder.
"Tell Varvara that if she does not return our people to us within twenty-four hours, Talaith shall consider it a declaration of war between our two Dominions! This shall be her only warning!"
Before I could say anything – not that I had any idea what to say – the three Arcane women leveled their staves at the bridge and their already-glowing lux crystals blazed even brighter with power. As I watched, I became distantly aware of Lazlo shouting at me.
"Matt! Get back inside! Now!'"
The lux crystals grew so bright that it hurt even my dead eyes to look at them, and I wracked my brain to try to come up with something I could do to stop the Arcane. I usually carry a number of magical weapons and tricks with me, but I didn't have anything even close to powerful enough to deal with a trio of pissed-off sorceresses.
Lazlo yelled again, louder this time. "Matt!"
The demon's voice was drowned out by a deafening roar, and the reptilian head of a Lesk came into view. The great serpents were tasked by Father Dis with protecting the borders of the city, and this one looked more than ready to do its job. The behemoth's plate-sized eyes shone with anger, and green fire trailed down its scaly neck as the serpent stretched up toward the hovering witches, jaws open, teeth glinting in the light cast by their magic. The horse rider swiveled her staff toward the attacking beast and a beam of magic energy shot forth from the lux crystal to strike the massive serpent in the face. The Lesk shuddered once and then exploded into a cloud of butterflies which – as if realizing they were no longer quite as intimidating as they had been a moment ago – quickly scattered and flew off in separate directions.
I generally don't have much use for the Arcane, as they tend to think a little too highly of themselves, but I had to admit that was a nifty trick. I felt a hand grab my shoulder then, and out of reflex I drew my 9mm and jammed the muzzle into the soft flesh behind Lazlo's chin. Luckily, I had enough presence of mind not to fire… although as awful as the demon looked, he could probably stand to have his facial features rearranged a bit.
"You need to get into the cab, Matt!" Lazlo shouted, seeming not at all intimidated by having a gun pressed against his throat. "We're leaving!"
"What the hell are you-" I heard a tearing sound then and looked down to see that Lazlo's cab was, for lack of a better word, shedding its tires. Thick strips of black rubber peeled away to reveal clawed lizard feet instead of metal rims, and the vehicle's chassis began to rise as scaled legs extended from the wheel wells. Evidently, the cab had decided not to stick around for a fleet of tow trucks to arrive and clear away the wrecked and stalled vehicles clogging the bridge, which – since it looked as if there wasn't going to be a bridge in a few moments – was a very smart move.
I'd long ago given up questioning the bizarre nature of Lazlo's cab and had decided to do my best to appreciate its quirky charms, especially when they saved my undead ass. I holstered my gun, and Lazlo and I hopped back into the cab. Before we slammed the doors shut, the cab fully extended its legs and began racing forward, scuttling between and, when necessary, crawling over the mass of unmoving vehicles as it made a beeline – or in this case, a lizardline – for the Sprawl side of the bridge. Lazlo's cab has no seatbelts (he feels they only cause passengers to doubt their driver's capability), and so Devona and I held on to each other as best we could as the cab surged forward. Varney, who up until this point hadn't had occasion to experience the special surprises that Lazlo's cab served up from time to time, looked about as bewildered as you might imagine. Still, he was a professional cameraman, and he hurriedly rolled down his window, crawled halfway out, and used all his vampiric strength to hold onto the roof for support while he filmed what was happening.
The cab had made it halfway across when all three Arcane women released blasts of mystic energy from their staves at different points of the bridge to devastating effect. First, they targeted the supports beneath the bridge, then they fired again, this time shearing through the bridge's surface, cutting it into separate pieces. Cracks appeared in the glossy black substance of the Obsidian Way, and the loud groaning of slowly twisting metal filled the air. It was quickly followed by shouting and screaming as terrified motorists abandoned their vehicles and began running to get off the bridge before it collapsed. Some of the fleeing drivers had the misfortune to get in the way of Lazlo's cab, and they were either knocked aside or trampled as the lizard-legged vehicle raced pell-mell toward the Sprawl. Four more Lesk rose from Phlegethon's fiery waters to attack the Arcane, but they met with no more success than their predecessor. A few blasts from the magic-users' staves was all it took to deal with the serpents. One exploded in a shower of what looked like dandelion fluff, one's flesh ran off its skeleton like melting wax, one turned into several thousand minnows, and the last shrank down to the size of an earthworm before falling back into the river.
The damaged bridge shuddered beneath us, and the cab lurched as it fought to maintain its footing. The railing collapsed, the bridge listed to one side, and the Obsidian Way – already cut into three pieces – shattered into dozens of jagged fragments that then began to slide toward the blazing green waters of Phlegethon. Vehicles and fleeing drivers tumbled into the river, the Darkfolk screaming all the way down, though their screams ended abruptly once they were claimed by Phlegethon's fiery embrace. The cab's lizard claws scuttled frantically for purchase on what remained of the Obsidian Way, broken fragments of the road shifting beneath its feet as it ran. The cab slipped and slid, and more than once I thought we would fall into the river and be lost. But when the cab was within twenty feet of the Sprawl side, it hunkered down, coiled its leg muscles, and then sprang forward with a mighty leap just as what was left of the Bridge of Nine Sorrows collapsed completely. The cab soared through the air, and Varney pulled himself back inside with a panicked yelp as the bridge – and those unlucky enough not to get off it in time – plunged into the river, gouts of water splashing upward with accompanying bursts of green flame.
The cab landed on the broken edge of the Obsidian Way where the bridge had torn away from the road, and it scrabbled with its back legs to keep from falling into the water. It was close, but the cab managed to climb up onto the road, where it collapsed, exhausted.
"You OK?" Devona and I asked each other at the same time. We nodded in answer, then we climbed out of the cab, along with Varney and Lazlo, and surveyed the devastation that the Arcane had wrought. The bridge and its occupants were gone, swallowed by Phlegethon, and the river's roiling fiery surface was slowly becoming calm once more. The three witches remained hovering in the sky, and the raven rider spoke, her voice once again magically augmented so that it could carry for miles.
"Tell Varvara she has twenty-four hours, and not a moment more!"
And then light erupted around the three Arcane women, and when it was gone, so were they. A teleportation spell, I assumed.
"What in the name of Oblivion was that all about?" Varney asked. While he gazed at the river's surface, continuing to film, he
sounded quite shaken.
"I believe that is what's known as an attentiongetter," I said. If Varvara wasn't already aware of the attack on the bridge, she soon would be, and I doubted the Demon Queen was going to take the news calmly.
"It's more than that," Devona said, sounding just as shaken as Varney. "It's an opening salvo."
I had a bad feeling she was right.
Devona stepped closer to the broken ledge and peered down at the river. She was six feet to the left of Varney and stood even closer to the edge than he did. I was still standing next to the cab, and I felt extremely uncomfortable seeing Devona so close to the edge. I wanted to call out and tell her that she should step back, that it wasn't safe, but I hesitated, mindful that the last thing she wanted was for me to babysit her. I decided I'd rather irritate her than risk her falling, and I opened my mouth to ask her – in as nonpatronizing a manner as I could manage – not to stand too near the edge. But before I could say anything, a chunk of the Obsidian Way – already cracked from the bridge's collapse – beneath Devona's feet broke into several fragments, slid out from under her, and tumbled toward the river. Devona's feet slipped, she lost her balance, and started to pitch forward.
For a horrible instant, time seemed to stand still, and I saw Devona slide, arms flailing, in the process of following the stone fragments down into Phlegethon's deadly flames. I was too far away to reach her in time, even if I had normal reflexes, which as a zombie, I don't. Half-vampires don't possess the ability to assume travel forms, and her psychic powers were restricted to telepathy for the most part, so there was no way she could fly or use telekinesis to save herself. She was a dead woman, and there was nothing I could do about it.
