Nekropolis n-1

by Tim Waggoner

  Dale and I exchanged a quick look. Understanding the emotional stressors on your opponents is just as important as knowing what weapons they have-sometimes more so. It was obvious that Yberio was Talaith’s lover and that he thought that relationship made them equals. It was just as obvious to Dale and me that Talaith thought differently.

  Yberio glared at Talaith for a moment, but she ignored him as she continued working whatever magic was necessary to get the Overmind to do its thing. Yberio turned back to face us, and from the dark expression on his face, it was clear he intended to take out his anger toward Talaith on us.

  Dale kept his empty gun trained on the warlock, and with his free hand he gestured to me behind his back. Get ready.

  My left hand still had fragments of glass in it-and still hurt like hell-but my gun-hand was free and uninjured, and I took a half-step behind Dale to cover my motion from Yberio as I reached into my jacket pocket and removed the last device we’d managed to acquire in the Sprawl. It looked like a simple pocket watch, old and badly in need of polishing, but otherwise unremarkable. Lady Varvara-who was very displeased that Talaith had made use of her dimension portal in her latest scheme to attack Lord Edrigu-had given the device to us before we left the Sprawl. She’d said it was called the Death Watch and that all we would have to do was push the switch to activate it when the right time came. After that, we’d know what to do.

  I hoped like hell she was right-and that she was telling the truth. She was a demon, after all, and her kind had a reputation for being somewhat lacking in the truth-telling department.

  If Yberio had seen me take hold of the Death Watch, he gave no sign. Perhaps he simply thought he was too powerful to worry about whatever meager magics Dale and I might have acquired during our brief stay in Nekropolis.

  “You gentlemen were quite correct in your earlier surmise,” the warlock said. “I did use magic to kill those people. The spell is a quite simple one, really.” He smiled coldly. “Allow me to demonstrate it to you.”

  That sure as hell sounded like a cue to me. I thumbed the switch atop the Death Watch, and the black hands on the clock face began spinning wildly. Dark energy spread outward from the watch, so cold that it felt as if I’d plunged my hand into ice water. I wanted to drop the damned thing, but I forced myself to hold on to it.

  Talaith continued chanting, but she shot me a quick look, and her eyes widened in shock when she saw what I held. Yberio stared at the Death Watch and the spreading ebon energy that surrounded it, his jaw hanging open in a way that might’ve been comical in other circumstances.

  “You can’t possibly have that!” Yberio shouted. “There’s no way you could’ve gained possession of a token of such power!

  Talaith broke off her chanting to yell at him. “Don’t be an idiot! That bitch Varvara must’ve have given it to them! But it doesn’t matter how those poor excuses for mortals came by it, just kill the morons before they can use it!”

  Yberio’s head jerked as if she’d just physically slapped him, and he blinked several times before raising his hand and pointing his index finger at me. I understood then what was going to happen to me: Yberio was going to use his magic to stop my heart, just as he had done with the seven men and women he’d killed on Earth. By this time the dark energy emanating from the Death Watch had formed a black sphere around my hand about the size of a soccer ball. My hand felt frozen, and I could sense tremendous power building up within the sphere, but I still had no idea what to do with it.

  C’mon, Varvara…you said I’d know what to do when the time came…

  Yberio spoke a word and a thin beam of white light shot forth from his finger and headed straight toward me. But Dale threw himself between me and the warlock, and the light speared him straight through the heart instead. He made no sound, but his entire body stiffened as if a massive electric current passed through him, and then he simply collapsed to the floor. No final words, no last look passing between us. It was like Yberio had reached inside my partner, found his life switch, and flipped it off.

  Yberio grinned as he looked down at Dale’s corpse, then he raised his head to look at me.

  “That’s eight,” he said. “And you’ll make nine.” He lifted his hand and aimed his index finger at me.

  And then, just as Varvara had promised, I understood what I had to do.

  “Fuck you-” I looked to Talaith-“both.” And then I turned to the Overmind and thrust the hand holding the Death Watch into the pulpy mass of the gigantic brain. I heard Talaith shout “No!” followed by the sharp sensation of Yberio’s magic beam cutting through me. And then I heard the Overmind’s voice in my mind-a chorus of six voices combined, actually, and it whispered two words:

  Thank you.

  And then a darkness blacker, deeper, and colder than anything I had ever imagined rushed in to fill me, and I knew nothing more.

  “When I woke up, the Overmind was nothing but a pool of necrotized tissue on the floor on the metal chamber, the cables that had attached it to the walls dangling useless in the air. I crawled over to Dale-my limbs were stiff and uncooperative, and at the time I thought it was just due to the aftershock of the Over-mind’s destruction-and I checked his pulse. I wasn’t surprised to find he no longer had one. Yberio and Talaith were both lying on the floor as well. I assumed they’d been hit by some kind of psychic or magical backlash when the Overmind exploded, but I had no idea if it would cause them any permanent damage. After all, I was still alive. Or so I thought.

  “I checked their pulses. Yberio didn’t have one. Talaith did, but hers was weak. I was a cop-supposedly one of the good guys-but I confess at that moment, I seriously considering wrapping my hands around Talaith’s throat and finishing what the destruction of the Overmind had started. Instead, I turned away and did a quick search for the Death Watch. I’d lost my grip on the device when I blacked out, I couldn’t find it in the mess of what remained of the Overmind. For all I know the Death Watch was destroyed, but if not, I suppose Talaith has it. I really don’t know, and to tell you the truth, I don’t care. I gave up looking for the watch, picked up Dale’s body, and carried him out of the chamber.”

  Devona, who’d been listening to my story as raptly as Arvel, if not more so, put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed hard enough so I’d be sure to feel it. “I’m sorry for your loss, Matt.”

  I nodded my thanks for her sympathy. Dale was a good man, a good partner, and a good friend. I don’t know how I would’ve made it through my divorce if he hadn’t been there for me. He saved my life more than once on the streets of Cleveland, and in the end he’d given his own life so that I could live a few moments longer to finish the last case we’d ever work together.

  “He was a hell of a cop, and he died in the line of duty.” It was all the epitaph I could bring myself to say aloud, but maybe it was enough.

  “Yberio was a Demilord,” Arvel said, “one of the high-ranking Darkfolk who, while extremely strong, weren’t quite powerful enough to be chosen by Dis to help him create Nekropolis. There’s been no mention of him on the streets for the last couple years.” The ghoul smiled with his blood-stained lamprey mouth. “Now I know why.”

  “What happened to Talaith?” Devona asked.

  “She’s a Darklord,” I said. “I assume her powers enabled her to withstand the blast, but considerably weakened. She’s recovered some since then, but she’s still not up to her full strength. Needless to say, I haven’t been to Glamere many times since. And I make sure to watch my back when any Arcane are around.”

  Arvel smacked his lips. “A most…delicious story, Mr. Richter. But you left out one salient detail: how you became a zombie.”

  “Remember how I said the murder victims showed no sign of external injuries? It’s because Yberio threw a deathspell at them and stopped their hearts instantly. That’s how Dale died, and Yberio did the same to me-just as I released the power of the Death Watch into the Overmind. Somehow, Yberio’s spell, the Death Watch’s magic, and
the release of psychic energy when the Overmind died all combined and when I awoke, I was dead, but in a way still alive, too.” I shrugged. “That’s Papa Chatha’s theory, anyway.”

  “Fascinating!” Arvel gushed. “I knew some of the details, of course, but I’ve never heard the full story. Tell me, what arrangements did you make for the disposal of Mr. Ramsey’s remains?”

  I felt a wave of anger and disgust. Ghouls had an unhealthy preoccupation with dead bodies, and I wasn’t about to tell Arvel where and how I’d laid Dale to rest, just in case the gluttonous monster decided to go in search of my dear, departed partner.

  “Not to be rude,” I said, not caring if I was or not, “but my associate and I are in something of a hurry.”

  “Ah, another case full of danger and intrigue! You must let me know how it turns out!”

  “I will,” I said. It was an easy promise to make, since I knew there was a chance I might not be around to keep it. “Now if you could quid quo pro us right back?”

  “I’ll be happy to answer your questions; once I’ve finished attending to nature’s call, that is.”

  I was about to ask if he needed any help getting up, but then I noticed the large metal washtub beneath his chair. Arvel clicked his teeth and Carbuncle scuttled over and pulled a lever on the side of the ghoul’s chair, releasing a trap door in the seat.

  As the next few moments passed-along with a number of other things-I was more grateful than ever that I had no sense of smell.

  TEN

  As we left the Krimson Kiss, Devona looked like she was suffering from shellshock.

  “My father is anything but a saint, and during my time at the Cathedral I’ve seen some terrible things. But I have never experienced anything as sickening as that ghoul!”

  “He’s disgusting, no doubt about it. But he did give us some useful information.”

  Devona snorted, but whether because she didn’t agree with me or because she was trying to get the stink out of her nostrils, I don’t know.

  “All he told us was that while Varma used to frequent the Krimson Kiss, he hasn’t been around in the last few weeks.”

  “You’re forgetting what he said about Varma being a heavy drug user.”

  “That’s no surprise; I told you he was a hedonist. Besides, drugs don’t affect Bloodborn physiology the same way they do the human body. Varma would need to take large doses to get even mild effects.”

  Nekropolis has all the drugs you’d find on the streets of any city on Earth-marijuana, coke, crack, heroin, crystal meth-as well as quite a few locally produced specialties, such as tangleglow and mind dust.

  “But that gives Varma a motive for stealing the Dawnstone beyond mere lust for power” I said. “He wouldn’t be the first junkie to steal to support his habit. And don’t forget the traces of powder we found in the Collection room. They could very well be drug residue of some sort.”

  Devona shook her head. “I told you, Bloodborn handle drugs differently than humans. We don’t get addicted. I suppose it’s because the need for blood supersedes all other needs.”

  “Maybe,” I allowed. “We’ll just have to ask Varma when we find him, won’t we?”

  We continued walking down Sybarite Street and checked a couple more places, including the Freakatorium and, as Father Dis is my witness, a country vampire bar named Westerna’s. I’ll never forget the sight of vampires in cowboy hats, jeans, and boots line dancing-though I intend to spend the rest of my existence trying like hell.

  Finally, we’d penetrated to the heart of the Sprawl, and one of the hottest of its hot spots: the Broken Cross. From the outside, it looks like any trendy Earth night club: all chrome, glass, and glitter. The only difference is the day-glow neon sign above the entrance; it looks like the sixties’ peace symbol, only without the circle. An upside down and broken cross.

  The street outside the club was completely jammed with people who wanted in. Half a block away was the closest we could get. I steered us toward a fluorescent street light, and we took up a position alongside it.

  “Now what?” Devona asked. “Are you planning to introduce the Broken Cross’s doorman to the wonders of instant hairloss or do you have yet another surprise in those pockets of yours?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” I reached into one of my jacket pockets and brought forth two of the most dangerous weapons in my entire arsenal-a string of firecrackers and my trusty lighter.

  “Would you like to do the honors?” I offered.

  She frowned, unsure of what I was up to, but she took the lighter and lit the firecrackers.

  “Throw them as close to the entrance as you can,” I instructed.

  She heaved the firecrackers over the heads of the crowd and, thanks to her half-vampire strength, they fell within five feet of the entrance.

  I cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted, “The Hidden Light! They’re attacking!”

  And the pop-pop-pop of firecrackers exploding began. The sound wasn’t very impressive, but then it didn’t have to be, given what I’d just yelled. People screamed, shrieked, bellowed, and howled in fear, probably believing incendiary grenades were going off in their midst, or perhaps a hail of silver bullets rained down upon them. Whatever they thought, they had a single common desire: escape.

  “Grab hold of the pole and don’t let go!” I told Devona. We held tight as a panicking mass of Darkfolk and humans rushed past, nearly sweeping us away. We got battered pretty good, but we managed to hold on, if only barely.

  Several minutes later, the street was clear.

  Devona looked at me. “That wasn’t very nice.”

  “Tell you what, you find me a blackboard, and I’ll write, ‘I’ll never fake a terrorist attack again’ a thousand times-after we find the Dawnstone.” I started across the empty street and Devona followed, looking like she was trying hard not to laugh.

  Inside, the party was going strong. Either word of the faux Hidden Light assault hadn’t filtered into the club, or everyone was too high or drunk to care. I suspected the latter.

  Techno-rave music throbbed and pulsed, the jams cranked out by Nekropolis’s most sought-after DJ, the Phantom of the Paradise, and laser lights flashed in time with the beat. Beings of all sorts gyrated wildly on the dance floor, looking more like they were engaging in foreplay or ritualistic warfare-perhaps both-rather than dancing. Above their heads played out a holoshow depicting various scenes of torture. It looked as if MTV had produced a special on the Inquisition.

  Though all of Nekropolis’s many and varied types of Darkfolk were represented in the Broken Cross, the club was a favorite with Bloodborn, and they predominated tonight. One of the things about vampires, especially the younger ones, is that because of their supernatural healing abilities, they go in for the most extreme forms of entertainment. Not so much because they enjoy pain more than anyone else, but because of how much physical punishment they can take. For example, in one corner of the Broken Cross, a vampire who called himself Anklebiter-appropriately enough, since he appeared to be no more than three years old-was taking on all comers in a one-on-one, no-holds-barred mixed martial arts battle. Whoever was dumb enough to accept Anklebiter’s challenge got to make the first move. Anklebiter then got the second, which was also usually the last. In another corner, a vampire wearing only a pair of black shorts stood with his back against the wall, while a group of enthusiastic knife throwers used him for target practice (no silver blades allowed, though).

  Perhaps most disturbing of all was Mimi the Conflagration Artist. She danced naked in an iron cage that hung down from the ceiling above the middle of the dance floor, just below the holographic torture scenes. She thrashed and writhed along to the music while flames licked at her pale undead flesh. Before performing, she slathered her body with a chemical that kept the fire from burning too fast or too hot, so it wouldn’t devour the flesh before her Bloodborn physiology could repair the damage. I’d had occasion to speak with her a time or two, and I’d once asked her i
f she enjoyed her work. She’d shrugged and replied, “At the risk of making a terrible pun, it’s a living.”

  Devona leaned close to my ear and shouted in order to be heard over the racket. “How are we supposed to find Varma in this chaos?”

  “The same way we’ve been doing: we start asking around.”

  I caught sight of Patchwork the Living Voodoo Doll on the dance floor, and I took Devona by the hand and led her over to him. Patchwork was gyrating bonelessly to the throbbing dance-club beat, arms and legs flopping about wildly. As his name implies, Patchwork is made up of cast-off scraps of cloth, all different sizes, patterns, and colors, and he has two large black buttons for eyes. I have no idea how he sees with those things, but then I also can’t figure out how he can stand upright with no skeletal system.

  Patchwork is a hair under six feet tall, and while he normally had dozens of hat pins sticking out of his body, he’d thoughtfully removed them before starting to dance. That, or he’d lost them all doing his whirling dervish act and they were scattered across the floor, or had become embedded in his fellow dancers.

  The music was so loud that I had to lean close to Patchwork’s ear-or at least where an ear would’ve been if he’d had one sewn on-and shout.

  “Hey, Patch! I’m looking for a vampire named Varma!”

  Patchwork shook his head. “Never heard of him, but you want me to put a hurt on him for you?” Patch’s voice sounded like rustling cloth and came from a small flap of a mouth sewn into the bottom of his face. “Free of charge for you, Matt!”

  Despite his somewhat whimsical appearance, Patchwork was one of the deadliest beings in Nekropolis. All he needed was a personal token of a target-a photo, a piece of clothing, or better yet a lock of hair or a nail clipping-and wherever he stabbed himself with his pins, his target felt the pain. Depending on his clients’ wishes, Patchwork could simply annoy a target, make life miserable for him or her, temporarily or permanently disable them or-if he jabbed a long enough, sharp enough needle into the right place on his artificial body-kill them.