by Tim Waggoner
“Do you have a bed?” Devona asked.
“I told you: I don’t do those kinds of favors.”
She gave me a look which said I was being less than amusing. “I’m just curious. Do zombies sleep? I’ve never thought about it before. But then, I’ve never been to a zombie’s apartment, either.”
“I have a bed.” Though it was just a lumpy mattress sitting on the floor, no sheets, no covers. “I don’t sleep, exactly, but sometimes I feel a need to…rest. To relax.”
“And so you just lie there and stare at the ceiling?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I close my eyes. So tell me, what’s it like to sleep in a coffin? Ever feel like a sardine?”
“Bloodborn don’t sleep in coffins,” she said disdainfully.
“Even when they’re half human?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “How did you know?”
I shrugged, the gesture a bit lopsided thanks to the bite Honani had taken out of my shoulder, which Papa hadn’t been able to repair completely. “Little things. You don’t move as gracefully as other vampires. Your pallor isn’t as white. And whatever your problem is, it’s got you tied up in knots inside. I’ve never seen a fullblooded vampire afraid. It doesn’t seem to be an emotion they’re capable of.”
I went into the bedroom, and she followed. Aside from my mattress, the only other items in the room were my laptop computer, the desk it sat on, and the chair I sat on when I used it. In Nekropolis, the computers are organic, fashioned from bone, cartilage, muscle, sinew, and specialized organs. The machines breathe, gurgle, and moan-especially when doing difficult tasks-and have even been known to burst blood vessels if asked to perform too many functions at the same time. The damned things literally get sick when they catch a virus and become all mopey and lazy, refusing to do any work until they get better. The spoiled things are worse than pampered cats.
My computer made a soft humming sound to catch my attention, and I grudgingly went over and scratched the top of its casing. In response, it let out a moist, phlegmy purr.
“You use your bedroom as your office too?” Devona asked.
“I don’t have an office because I don’t have a business,” I said. “I mostly use the computer to play DVDs-it works better for me than the Mind’s Eye-and to hop on the Aethernet from time to time.” The Aethernet is Nekropolis’s answer to the Internet back on Earth. Information is swiftly transported through the system by data-ghosts: the spirits of executed criminals sentenced to spend their afterlives ferrying bytes back and forth for the rest of us.
“So you can check out zombie porn?” Devona asked with a wry grin.
“You ever see one of those sites? No? Well, if you get curious, take my advice and don’t eat for a week or two before logging on.”
I removed the soul jar from my pocket, and placed it on the desk next to my computer. I then walked over to the closet and removed my torn jacket, tie, and shirt. I opened the closet door, dropped my ruined garments on the floor next to my footlocker, and scanned my pitifully small collection of clothes for replacements. If Devona felt any disgust upon seeing so much of my bare zombie skin with its slight grayish cast revealed, she showed no sign.
“You said you don’t think vampires experience fear,” Devona said, picking up the thread of our earlier conversation. “But they do. They just don’t like to show it. But you were right about me; I’m only half Bloodborn. My mother was human.”
From my closet’s meager offerings, I chose a brown shirt, yellow paisley tie, and a brown jacket. I could wear whatever I want, I suppose. I’m not a cop anymore, and besides, I’m dead. Who cares how I dress? But old habits-and old cops like me-die hard, I guess. And besides, wearing the sort of clothes I wore in life makes me feel more…well, human.
I dressed and stood before the cracked mirror hanging on the wall and adjusted my tie. Thanks to Papa Chatha’s latest round of spells, I didn’t look too much different than I had in life, grayish skin aside. Black hair, brown eyes, features on the ordinary side of handsome (or so I’d been told by my ex-wife; I’m no judge of such things). Face a bit thinner than when I’d been alive. Death is a great diet plan.
I put the soul jar in the pocket of my new jacket. I’m not really sure why; it just didn’t seem like the sort of thing a person should leave lying around, and then I turned to face my guest. “And who’s your father?”
She hesitated a moment before answering. “Lord Galm.”
If my heart had been functional, it would’ve skipped a beat or two right then.
“I think you’d better leave now,” I said.
Confusion spread across her face. “Why?”
“It’s nothing personal; I just make it a policy never to get involved with Darklords if I can avoid it. And that includes getting involved with their relatives.”
Lord Galm is an ancient, powerful vampire, ruler of the Bloodborn, and of Gothtown, the Dominion where the vampires live, or rather, exist. And like any Darklord, he’s dangerous as hell. I’d rather run up to a Mafia don in his favorite restaurant, dump his spaghetti marinara in his lap, and accuse him of diddling his grandchildren than I would mess with a Darklord.
“Please, at least let me-”
I held up a hand to cut her off. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. But getting involved with a Darklord is what got me killed and resurrected as a zombie. I hate to think what might happen to me the next time. Being dead isn’t all that much fun, but I’ve lived in Nekropolis long enough to know it could be worse. A lot worse.”
She cocked her head to one side and looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Which Darklord was it?”
“I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind. And I don’t want to talk about your problem either, not if it involves Lord Galm.”
She crossed her arms and gave me a calculating look. It didn’t appear as if she were in a hurry to leave.
“I don’t know a lot about zombies, but I know they need to have preservative spells regularly applied to keep them from rotting.” She smiled. “And as I’ve seen, they occasionally need limbs reattached. Spells like that cost money.”
“I can get darkgems somewhere else,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. And besides, I wasn’t worried about mere preservative spells now. I needed to find a way to keep my body from rotting away to nothing. I imagined I could already feel the slight itch of decay-one of the few sensations I can feel.
“One hundred? Two? Three hundred?” she countered. “Three hundred darkgems would pay for quite a lot of spells.”
“They would at that,” I was forced to admit. That would be roughly the equivalent of several thousand dollars back home in Cleveland. But would even three hundred darkgems be enough to buy the kind of magic I would need to keep my body intact?
And then it hit me. I needed the kind of power few beings in Nekropolis possessed: the power of a Darklord. If I helped Devona, perhaps she would intercede with her father on my behalf-and Lord Galm could use his magic to “cure” me.
I cautioned myself not too get excited, that it was a long shot, that even if Devona asked, Lord Galm might not help me. But right then it looked like the best-and only-shot I had. Besides, if I did have only a few days left in my existence, I’d rather spend them working than sitting around my place staring at the walls.
“All right, Devona, tell me about your problem.”
“I’m seventy-three years old,” she said. “Surprised?”
“Not really,” I said. “Seventy-three is young for a vampire.”
We were sitting in the living room. Devona was on the couch, and I’d taken the chair. The sounds of the Descension celebration out in the street-blaring music, laughter, shouting, and the occasional scream-served as a muted background to our conversation.
“Although,” I added, “you’re the best looking seventy-three year-old I’ve ever seen.”
She blushed slightly. Another sign that she was half human. A full-blooded vampire can’t b
lush.
“Lord Galm didn’t exactly love my mother. But he came as close to it as a being like him can, and when I was born, he brought me from Earth to Nekropolis.”
“And your mother?”
“Died delivering me,” she said softly. “Human women usually do when giving birth to a half-Bloodborn child.” She looked down at her lap, where the thin, fine fingers of her delicate hands played nervously with each other. “We have our teeth early, you see, and we’re born hungry…”
The resultant images in my mind might’ve nauseated me if I still had a working digestive system. “I understand. Go on.”
“I was raised in the Cathedral. I didn’t see my father very often-he was usually busy ruling Gothtown or engaging in power struggles with the other Lords. I was cared for and taught by Father’s staff, and I grew and learned.”
“I thought vampires didn’t age.”
“Those that were originally human and transformed into Bloodborn do not. But those like me, who are half human, do age, only very, very slowly.”
“So you’ll die one day?”
She nodded. “And afterward, I may rise as one completely Bloodborn. Or I may not. No one can say.”
“Could your father transform you, make you a full vampire?”
“He could try. But there’s no guarantee I would survive the process and be reborn. At this point, I’d rather wait and take my chances.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“When I reached my forty-fifth birthday, Father called me in to his study and told me that he wished me to join the staff of the Cathedral and serve him. It was a great honor, and I accepted thankfully.”
“What did he want you to do?”
“I was given charge of his Collection, and I have taken care of it for the last twenty-eight years.”
I noticed a black spot on the far wall-a spot which hadn’t been there when we’d started talking. It was a roach-like insect. Gregor, or rather one of his little informants. I nearly waved hello, but I didn’t want Devona to think I wasn’t listening to her. Besides, the bug didn’t care if I acknowledged its presence or not. All it wanted to do was observe.
“His…Collection?” I said, returning to the conversation.
“Father is incredibly ancient; how old, even he isn’t certain. Thousands and thousands of years, at least. And in all that time, he has acquired quite a number of items. Some are merely mementos of lives lived, countries and cities long dead; others are trophies: of triumphs, conquests, battles won, enemies defeated. Still others are tokens of magic, mystical objects of great power-any of which the other Darklords would dearly love to get their hands on in order to increase their own strength.
“As I said, I have watched over, cared for, and guarded the Collection for nearly three decades. And I have never had any problems,” she said proudly. But then she lowered her head. “Until yesterday.”
“Let me guess. You went to check on the Collection and found something missing.”
“How did-of course, you’re a detective.”
I almost protested that I wasn’t, that I was just an ex-cop-and ex-human-who did favors for people, but I decided to let it lie.
“Yes, something was missing. And I want you to help me get it back.”
I thought for a moment. “Why come to me? Why not go to Lord Galm? He’s a Darklord. With the powers at his command, I should think he’d be able to locate the object easily.”
“Perhaps. But I cannot go to my father. Lord Galm is not especially…understanding of failure. Or forgiving. My only hope is to recover the object on my own, or at least discover what has happened to it. If I am unable to do either…” she trailed off, shuddering.
“But you’re his daughter.”
“Yes, but the Bloodborn have a different set of values when it comes to determining family relationships. Those who are chosen for transformation are considered true children, and are closest to their sires’ hearts. Half-human get like me…well, I suppose the closest human equivalent would be children born out of wedlock. Our sires still care for us, just not as deeply.
“Most of Lord Galm’s staff are children of his, whether fully Bloodborn or partially. And there is a great deal of competition among us for our father’s favor.”
“And so you can’t turn to any of them, either.”
She nodded. “That’s why I need your help. You have a reputation for not only getting the job done, but for keeping quiet about it as well.”
“I didn’t know I had a reputation. I don’t suppose you heard anything about my sparkling personality or my dazzling wit?”
She smiled. “Unfortunately not.”
She had a beautiful smile, the effect spoiled only slightly by her revealed canine teeth.
“Tell me about the object.”
“It’s a crystal a little larger than my fist called the Dawnstone. What it does precisely, I’m not certain. While I tend his Collection, Father doesn’t entrust me with complete knowledge of it. The Dawnstone is one of those items whose secrets he wishes to keep to himself.”
I thought it ironic a vampire would own an artifact called a “Dawnstone.”
“But you know it’s powerful,” I said.
“Of course. Why else would Father be so secretive about it? And the wardspells which protect it are among the most potent in the Cathedral.”
“Yet someone got past those spells.”
“Yes.”
“How do you know Lord Galm didn’t just take the Dawnstone himself and forgot to tell you?”
“Father is a stickler for procedure. In twenty-eight years he has never failed to inform me when he removed an item from the Collection.”
“Still, there’s always a first time,” I pointed out.
“I suppose. But I can hardly go up and ask him, can I? If he hasn’t removed the Dawnstone, my asking after it would alert him to its disappearance.”
“And buy you a world of trouble.”
“Yes.”
She definitely needed help-and I needed the aid of a Darklord if I was to survive. I stood. “I have more questions, but I can ask them on the way.”
“The way to where?”
“The Cathedral, of course. One of the first steps in any investigation is to examine the scene of the crime.”
I looked over at the spot on the wall where the bug had been, but it was gone now. Gregor’s tiny minion had probably heard enough and moved on to find something more interesting to observe.
Devona stood. She smiled, took my hand, and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you, Mr. Richter.”
I could only feel the pressure of her hand, but I could imagine how smooth and soft her skin was. “Call me Matthew.”
Detective or not, I was on the job once more-and this time, I was working not only to help my “client,” but to save my own life.
Talk about incentive.
THREE
Before leaving, I strapped on my shoulder holster and then made a few selections from the foot locker on the floor of my closet. My 9mm handgun-a souvenir from my days on the force back in Cleveland-along with a few other goodies that I’d picked up since. I slid the 9mm into the holster and hid the rest in various places about my person, mostly in the extra pockets sewn into in the inner lining of my suit jacket, and then I was ready. Or at least as ready as I was going to get.
As we walked down the front steps of my building, Devona eyed the street full of drunken revelers. “It’s going to take some time to get through this mess.”
“You could go on ahead, and I could meet you.”
“Go on? Oh, you mean shapeshift. I don’t possess the capability of assuming a travel form. Not many halfhuman Bloodborn do. Although I do have other…talents.”
Before I could think of a witty reply, a shriek went up from the festivalgoers at the far end of the street, and the crowd began to part like water before a large yellow object careening toward us.
“Oh, no,” I moaned. “It’s Lazlo.”
Su
re enough, with a rattling and knocking of the engine and a roar of purplish exhaust, Lazlo’s cab carved a path through the suddenly terrified partiers, only running down one or two in the process. Lazlo pulled up to the curb in front of my building with a pitiful squeal of brakes begging to be replaced and sent on to car-part heaven.
“Heya, Matt! How’s it hanging?”
“I’m dead, Lazlo, remember? Hanging is all it does anymore.”
Lazlo guffawed violently, his laughter a combination of genuine amusement and someone in desperate need of the Heimlich maneuver. Lazlo’s a demon whose face looks something like a cross between a mandrill and a ferret, with a little carp thrown in for good measure. And although I can’t testify to this personally, I’ve heard he smells like a toxic waste dump.
Evidently the rumors were true, for Devona recoiled as if she’d just taken a sledge hammer blow to the side of the head.
Before Lazlo could say anything else, one of the festival-goers came lumbering toward us. I’d seen it around the Sprawl before, but I didn’t know its name and I’d taken to mentally referring to it as Tri-bod. The creature had one extremely large head which looked something like a half-rotted flesh-colored pumpkin with humanoid eyes, noise, and mouth. Supporting that immense dome were three bodies-the outer two male, the one in the middle female. The two male bodies wore tuxedos, while the female was garbed in a sequin-covered evening gown. The female body could’ve graced the cover of any high-profile beauty magazine back on Earth…as long as the photographer made sure to shoot her from the neck down.
