by Tim Waggoner
“We’re wasting time, Matthew,” Devona said, exasperated. “Waldemar obviously doesn’t wish to talk to us. Instead of wandering aimlessly through here, we should be trying to locate Varma.”
“I understand how you feel, but the more we can learn about the Dawnstone, the more-” I broke off, frowning. “Do you hear something?”
Devona’s brow furrowed as she listened. It was faint, but there was a definite skritch-skritch-skritch coming from an overburdened shelf of books against the far wall.
“What is it?” she asked.
Despite the fact that my nervous system was as dead as the rest of me, a chill rippled down the length of my spine. “So you do hear it. Damn! I was hoping it was just my imagination.”
The skritching became louder.
“Matthew, just tell me what the hell it is!”
Before I could answer, the bookshelf exploded, sending fragments of torn paper, parchment, and vellum flying toward us. Devona hissed in pain as the sharp edges of the paper-storm sliced through the flesh on her face and hands. I suffered similar injuries, of course, but I didn’t feel them. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have cared right then. I was too busy watching the thing that was responsible for the explosion step forward from the hole in the wall where the bookshelf had been. A seven foot tall insect with a silvery carapace stood upright on its four rear legs, sheafs of paper clutched in its upper two limbs. Antennae quivering nervously, the giant bug stepped forward into the room, jammed the paper it held into its mouthparts, and chewed noisily.
“Just what I was afraid of,” I said. “It’s a goddamned silverfish.”
Devona goggled at the monstrous insect. “That’s a silverfish? It should be the size of the end of my little finger, if that!”
I shrugged. “This is the greatest library that’s ever existed, so it only makes sense that it would attract the largest pests in existence.”
The silverfish finished its snack and regarded us dispassionately with cold black eyes. The creature’s antennae continued to quiver, as if drinking in every bit of sensory data it could find, but otherwise, its body remained unnaturally still. But a certain tension radiated from the giant insect nevertheless, as if the thing might dash toward us in an instant if we made the wrong move.
Devona, as if sensing the silverfish’s mood, spoke in a hushed tone. “What does it want?”
“Mostly, just to be left alone to gorge itself on paper,” I said. “It’s trying to decide whether or not we’re a threat to it.”
“You mean it’s afraid we might be the exterminators?” she asked in disbelief.
“Something like that.”
“And if it should decide we mean it harm?”
“While the giant silverfish that dine at the Great Library might prefer a diet of paper products, they’ve been known to eat other things from time to time,” I said. “This is Nekropolis, after all.”
“When you say ‘other things’, I don’t suppose you mean popcorn and potato chips.”
“Afraid not.”
The silverfish shifted its weight from side to side then, as if working up the courage to attack.
“So what do we do?” Devona asked. “Slowly back away, keeping our gazes trained on it the whole time?”
“You’ve watched one too many nature documentaries,” I said. “That’s a sure way to get us both eaten. There’s only one way to deal with a monster silverfish.” I’d known we’d probably end up at the Great Library sooner or later, and so I’d come prepared. Slowly-very, very slowly-I reached into my jacket pocket and removed a small white plastic container.
The silverfish’s entire body began to quiver then. I unscrewed the container’s lid, careful not to make any sudden moves. Devona watched me, a puzzled frown on her face.
“Is that…glue?”
“Not just any glue,” I answered. “It’s really thick…and it has sparkles in it.”
The silverfish’s antennae blurred with anticipation, and it legs began tap-tap-tapping on the floor, like an excited little dog getting so worked up it was going to start peeing any minute.
I slowly held the container of sparkle-glue out before me. “Back on Earth, silverfish eat more than just paper. They also eat the glue in book bindings. And this is really good glue. Expensive, top-of-the-line stuff, imported from an art supply store near the Louvre.”
The silverfish’s body began to undulate rapidly, almost as if it were swimming underwater, the strange motion a major reason for its species’ name. The giant insect took a single hesitant step forward, then a second…
“Whatever you do,” I said to Devona, “don’t move.”
Before she could ask why, the silverfish darted forward. I spun around and hurled the open container of glue through the nearest doorway. The silverfish became an argent blur as it scuttled past-missing us by only a few inches-and raced out of the room in mad pursuit of the treat I had brought it. A moment later loud, enthusiastic slurping noises came from the outer chamber, quickly followed by a heavy thud.
“Poison?” Devona asked.
I started to answer, but before I could say anything, a new sound disturbed the Library’s quiet. A soft papery rustling. A sheaf of torn book pages blew into the room on what I imagine was a musty, antiquity-laden breeze, tumbling and scratching against each other like dry autumn leaves caught in a windstorm. The pages stopped in front of us, whirled about in a column, faster and faster, closer and closer, until they merged together and resolved into the form of a friendly-faced, middle-aged man wearing granny glasses. He looked like Ben Franklin by way of Shakespeare’s tailor.
“There’s no need for poison,” Waldemar said. “A rich meal of French glue just makes the poor things logy.” He sighed. “I try my best to keep them out, but somehow they always manage to find their way in again.”
“Maybe if you wouldn’t keep leaving scraps of paper in the back alley for them to eat,” I said.
Waldemar grinned, displaying a small set of fangs. “And where would be the fun in that, I ask you?” He took my hand in both of his pale, pudgy ones and pumped vigorously. “Delighted to see you again, Matthew, my boy!”
“Good to see you too, Waldemar.” I was about to introduce Devona when he released my hands and took hers, shaking them just as energetically.
“Devona Kanti-it’s a privilege and a joy to finally meet you! And how is your esteemed father?”
Devona looked at Waldemar for a moment, his effusive greeting catching her off guard. I guess she hadn’t expected Nekropolis’s most respected historian to act like someone’s effusive uncle.
“He’s, uh, rather busy right now, actually,” she said.
Waldermar nodded. “Of course, of course. It is the anniversary of the Descension, after all. The three hundred and seventy-third, to be precise.” He paused and touched a finger to his lips. “Or is it three hundred and thirty-seven? Oh, well, it’s one or the other. I think.” Then he looked at me and brightened, as if he’d forgotten all about us and had just remembered.
“Now, how may I be of service to you and your lovely companion, Matthew?”
Waldemar’s befuddled scholar pose didn’t fool me. I’d known him too long. He was a vampire as old as Lord Galm, perhaps older. And when I looked closely into his gray eyes, I sometimes got a sense of the ancient, vast intelligence at work between them. I had no doubt he’d be able to tell us what we needed to know.
“We’d like to learn about a mystic artifact called the Dawnstone.”
Waldemar’s finger returned to his lips, only this time to tap them thoughtfully. “Dawnstone, Dawnstone…” His eyes got a far away look in them, and not for the first time after asking him a question, I had the impression that I had set a complicated process into motion, as if I’d asked a computer to divine the meaning of life and then balance my checkbook.
Waldemar began meandering about the room, muttering softly to himself, the words unintelligible, except for the occasional repetition of “Dawnstone.”
“Dawnstone, Dawnstone, Dawnstone…” He pulled books off the shelves, seemingly at random, flipped them open, and barely glanced at their pages before putting them back. Once, I swore he checked a book, replaced it, and then immediately removed and looked at it once more before moving on.
Curious, I pulled the book in question off the shelf myself and opened it. I wasn’t particularly surprised to find that the page I had chosen-like all the pages, in fact-was blank.
I reshelved the volume and wondered if all the books, scrolls, and parchments in this room-maybe in the entire Library-were also blank.
As I watched Waldemar continue randomly searching his collection, I had the impression that he wasn’t consulting books so much as sifting through the immense reaches of his unfathomably ancient mind, and that perhaps the Great Library itself was nothing more than a physical manifestation of his memories. And if that was true, what about the giant silverfish? Were they really pests or were they simply Waldemar’s way of forgetting?
Another thought occurred to me then. If Devona and I truly were standing somehow within Waldemar’s memories made real, what might happen if his absentmindedness wasn’t an act after all, and he really did forget we were here? Would we vanish, just two more minor memories, no longer needed? I didn’t want to think about it. I had all the existential dilemma I could handle just being a possibly soon-to-be-rotted-away-to-dust zombie, thank you very much.
“I have a number of interesting references regarding dawn,” Waldemar said as he continued looking. “Some lovely bits of poetry, and quite a few more references dealing with stone, stone cutting, stone working…Especially fascinating is a song cycle from an ancient aboriginal people dealing with a man who wanted to mate with a boulder shaped like a woman. His chief difficulty lay in his inanimate paramour’s lack of the requisite, ah, anatomy. He solved the problem by constructing a crude hammer and chisel and-”
“We just want to hear about the Dawnstone, Waldemar,” I cut in. “Not to be rude, but we’re in something of a hurry.”
He looked a bit hurt, but thankfully didn’t resume his story. Instead he took a volume which appeared to be bound in green scale from the shelf, flipped it open, and ran a finger along the righthand page. “Ah, yes, here it is! No wonder it took me so long to find it. The object in question is only mentioned in several obscure pre-Atlantean myths, and only once as the Dawnstone. Other names include the Eye of the Sun and-”
I must have been frowning because Waldemar looked at me, cleared his throat, and said, “So on and so forth. While the details of the myths vary somewhat, the basic story is the same. A loathsome demon carries off a beautiful young woman to a shadowy underworld with the intention of making her his bride. The maiden’s paramour, a strong and clever hero, ascends into the heavens and steals one of the Sun’s eyes. He takes it down into the underworld, and-after overcoming sundry obstacles-confronts the demon and unleashes the eye’s light. The creature of darkness cannot withstand the Sun’s all-powerful illumination and perishes. The hero escorts his love back to the surface world, and then returns the eye to its rightful owner, the Sun.”
Waldemar snapped the book shut. “Quite an amusing little fable. It rather puts one in mind of Orpheus and Eurydice, doesn’t it?”
“Is that all?” Devona asked, sounding like a kid who’s opened all her Christmas presents and discovered that Santa not only brought her underwear this year, it’s full of holes.
“I’m afraid so, my dear,” Waldemar said. “But I have quite a selection of other myths dealing with similar themes. For instance, there’s a story among the Native American Indians regarding-”
“Thanks, anyway, Waldemar,” I said hurriedly before he could get too far into this latest digression. “But we really must be going.”
“So soon? Ah well, if you must, you must, I suppose. You’ll have to promise to stop back and see me again, though, Matthew.”
“I will,” I said, knowing it was a promise I might not be able to keep. “Same price as usual today?”
“Of course.” And then Waldemar reached into my chest-or seemed to; I was never clear on that-and pulled forth a scrap of paper, leaving my flesh and the shirt that covered it unmarked.
I felt a wrench deep in my soul, and then a sense of loss which quickly began to fade.
“Father Dis!” Devona swore in surprise. “What…?”
“Waldemar’s standard price for information,” I explained. “A page out of your life.”
Waldemar held the page up to his face, adjusted his glasses, and quickly perused its contents. “Most interesting, most interesting indeed.” He sniffed the paper like a bloodhound trying to catch a scent, and then in a single, swift motion crumpled the page and stuffed it into his mouth. He chewed greedily, noisily, a thin line of saliva rolling down his chin. Then he swallowed and grinned.
“Most delicious, Matthew. Thank you.”
Devona had gone as pale as a full vampire. I took her by the arm, said goodbye to Waldemar, and led her out of the room with the domed ceiling, the master of the Great Library licking his fingers behind us as we left.
I knew it didn’t matter which route we took as we departed. However we went, we’d eventually discover the way out or it would discover us. And sure enough, before long we found ourselves back at the entrance, and then outside on the Avenue of Dread Wonders once more. The sidewalk was still deserted, and everything was still quiet. For some reason, the stillness made me uncomfortable, and I wondered if I’d gotten too used to living in the chaos of the Sprawl.
I started walking, but Devona took hold of my arm to stop me. I turned to look at her, glad to see that the vicious paper-cuts she’d received thanks to the silverfish were almost fully healed. Before long, not even scars would remain to mar her flesh. I wished I could’ve said the same.
“What happened in there?” Devona asked. “Waldemar didn’t actually-”
“Devour a snatch of my life? He sure did. Most vampires live on blood. He subsists on memories.”
“You mean you gave up one of your memories just for some information…to help me?”
I didn’t want to tell her that it hardly mattered, seeing as how I’d be zombie guacamole in a couple days. So I just nodded.
“Which…which memory did you lose?”
“I don’t know. I never do. Once they’re gone, they’re gone completely. It could have been something as boring as failing an algebra test in high school.”
“Or something as important as the first time you fell in love.”
“I suppose. But it doesn’t matter now.”
She thought for a moment. “How many times have you done this, Matthew? Given Waldemar one of your memories?”
Too damned many, I almost said, but then I realized it would cheapen what I had done in her eyes-cheapen me, too, for what kind of a man, living or dead, thinks so little of his own memories that he’s willing to spend them like money?
“Only a couple,” I lied.
“You shouldn’t have,” Devona said. “It’s my case you’re working on; I should’ve been the one to pay.”
But you’re not the one who may die soon, I thought. “The important thing is we’ve gained some vital information about the Dawnstone.”
“Assuming what he told us was more than just an old, forgotten myth. And even if it was, I’m not sure we learned anything useful, certainly not anything worth the price you paid.”
“We learned that the Dawnstone is probably the most potent weapon Nekropolis has ever seen. For what could be more devastating in a world of shadows and darkness than a piece of the sun itself?”
SEVEN
We started walking through Gothtown, away from the Great Library, heading toward the Bridge of Nine Sorrows. Devona kept looking around nervously, as if she were expecting trouble.
“Worried that Lazlo’s going to show up and run us over?” I as
ked, only half-jokingly. “Don’t be. His frequency of appearances, like everything else about him, tends to be erratic. A month might go by before I see him again.” Not that I might be here-or anywhere for that matter-in a month, but I decided not to mention that particular tidbit of information.
“It’s not that,” she said, shooting a quick glance over her shoulder. “I think we’re being followed.”
On TV and in the movies, cops always sense when they’re being tailed, as if they have a sixth sense or something. It’s true that you do develop certain instincts after a while, but when you live in Nekropolis, where quite a few of the residents possess the physical capabilities to sneak up on a fly, instincts don’t do you a lot of good. Besides, Devona’s half-vampire senses were much sharper than my dulled zombie ones; I decided to trust her.
I reached into one of the homemade inner pockets of my jacket and removed another of the little surprises I’d picked up before we left my apartment. I held it down at my side, and gestured with my other hand for Devona to stop. I quickly scanned the street, looking for cover, but there was nothing. We’d just have to fight in the open.
“Hey, deader! What you doing here in Bloodsville?” The voice, a male’s, came from out in the street, but no one was in sight.
“Maybe he’s come to see how his betters live,” came a second voice, this one female.
“Or maybe he’s looking to upgrade.” Another male. “Trade in his rotten zombie teeth for a nice new pair of shiny fangs.”
Disembodied laughter echoed up and down the street.
“Who-” Devona started to ask, but I cut her off and pointed to the end of the street.
