Dark War Read online

  "Maybe not," I admitted. "But when have I ever let the fact that someone didn't want to talk with me ever stop me from talking with them?"

  Devona smiled. "Good point."

  "If you two are planning on going to Demon's Roost, then I should accompany you," Scorch said. I started to protest, but Scorch cut me off. "The Demonkin are going to be upset over the Weyward Sisters' attack. Neither of you are Arcane, so their anger won't necessarily be directed at you, but once my people get stirred up, they can be like a nest of angry hornets. They'll sting anyone unlucky enough to get in their way. Having a demon escort might make things go more smoothly for you."

  I wanted to tell her that Devona and I could handle ourselves just fine without her help, but I had to admit the precaution she suggested was a sensible one.

  "All right. And that leaves just one detail to attend to." I turned to Shamika. "We could drop you off at your home."

  It was a given that Shamika wouldn't be accompanying us to Varvara. I wouldn't take a kid to Demon's Roost at the best of times, and I certainly had no intention of taking her there while Varvara might be preparing for war. But I didn't like the idea of the girl going home by herself, either. Traversing the streets of the Sprawl is always an iffy proposition safety-wise, and having a whole lot of pissed-off demons running around wasn't going to make them any safer – especially for a young Arcane woman.

  Shamika looked at me for a moment, and I had the feeling that she was at loss for how to answer. But then she said, "I'm too worried about Uncle to go home. I need to know what happened to him."

  Devona scooted closer to Shamika and put a sympathetic hand on the girl's arm. My better half may have been raised in a Darklord's stronghold, but she's one of the kindest souls I've ever met. She can also kick major ass when she wishes, making her the woman who has it all, as far as I'm concerned.

  "I'd feel the same way if I were in your position," Devona said. "Why don't you stay here? The rest of us will be gone for a while, but the Midnight Watch is one of the most secure places in the city."

  "And Rover will be here to watch you," I added.

  "We'll make sure to call you as soon as we learn anything," Devona finished.

  Shamika didn't even think about it. "I'd rather go with you." She hurried on before we could say anything. "I don't think I could stand to just sit around here by myself waiting. And it's not like I can't take care of myself. I am Arcane, you know."

  But you're just a teenager, I thought, but I didn't say it. Regardless of appearances, everything and everyone in Nekropolis is dangerous in one way or another. You have to be in order to survive from one tick of the clock to the next. Just because Shamika looked sweet and innocent didn't mean she couldn't be lethal when she had to. Scorch's teenage girl guise was a perfect example.

  I looked at Devona and she looked at me. This time I didn't have to access our telepathic link to know what she was thinking. Devona smiled at Shamika.

  "OK, honey, but stick close to us," she said. "All right?"

  Shamika smiled gratefully and nodded.

  I hoped Shamika really could take care of herself and that Devona wasn't letting her burgeoning maternal instincts get the best of her.

  "All right then," I said, turning to Scorch. "Take us to your leader."

  EIGHT

  We saw no sign of Lazlo when we stepped outside, so I figured he was still tending to his cab. Besides, the only times he’s sure to show up is when I’m truly desperate for a ride, and as much as I wanted to get to Demon’s Roost, our current situation wasn’t exactly a dire one. Bogdan said farewell and headed off on foot to track down whatever Arcane sources he intended to consult, and I can’t say I was sorry to see him go. After a few moments of discussion, the rest of us decided to follow suit and take shanks’ mare, as some of the longer-lived Darkfolk put it, and we headed down the sidewalk, traveling east in the general direction of Demon’s Roost.

  Varney was thrilled. “Righteous! There’s more chance of getting good footage if we hoof it!”

  I didn’t reply. I was still mad at him for the “improved” video he’d shown us earlier. And, truth to tell, I was a little depressed, too. Without realizing it, I’d kind of gotten used to being a celebrity in town, but seeing how Varney’s producer had felt the need to noir-ify the footage Varney had shot of me made me realize that maybe my unvarnished life wasn’t all that fascinating after all. Being brought back down to earth was probably a good thing, if sobering.

  We hadn’t gone far when my hand vox rang – actually, its mouth called out the words “Ring-ring, ring-ring!” – and I answered. It was Tavi.

  “I’m at Papa Chatha’s,” he said. His voice was guttural and hard to understand, and I knew he was still in his wildform. “I can’t get inside because of the security spells on the place, but I’ve sniffed around outside. It was hard to pick up Papa’s scent, not because he hasn’t been here for a while but because you’ve been here recently. Nothing personal, but the scent of ripe zombie tends to be a bit overpowering.”

  “But you found a scent trail.”

  “Yes. There’s another scent mingled with it that I don’t recognize, though it’s similar to certain breeds of Demonkin. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to attempt to follow the trail and see what I can turn up.”

  “All right, but if you find him, call me before you do anything.” I’d come to respect Tavi’s skills, but Devona had hired him not because he was a fighter but because he was a reformed thief. He’d stolen something from the notorious demon Mammon who hired me to retrieve the object. I’d done so after a certain amount of highly skilled detecting, but in the process I learned that Tavi was a decent enough sort who stole primarily for the sport and challenge of it. It had taken some swift talking on my part to convince Mammon not to devour Tavi’s soul for his crime. In the end, Mammon reluctantly agreed to spare Tavi, and Devona offered the lyke a job working for the Midnight Watch. His knowledge of thievery, coupled with his contacts among Nekropolis’ criminal element, had proved invaluable to Devona’s business, but as swift and clever as Tavi was, he wasn’t a warrior, and if he did manage track down Papa and the other missing magic-users, I didn’t want him to try to deal with the situation on his own. I’d already saved his mixblood ass once, and I didn’t want to have to do it again.

  Tavi promised he’d do as I asked, then hung up, and I imagined him racing away from Papa’s shack, following the scent trail at top supernatural speed. I tucked my vox back in my pocket, relayed Tavi’s report to the others, and we continued walking.

  There were still plenty of people crowding the sidewalks, and traffic roared by in the street at suicidal speeds, but the atmosphere in the Sprawl was noticeably subdued. The pedestrians were quieter than usual, continuously casting furtive glances about and keeping their hands in their pockets, no doubt grasping a weapon or two. There were fewer vehicles than normal in the street, and those that passed by were more often than not armored – or encased in force fields of magical or technological origin. Hood, roof, and side-mounted weapons were prominent, everything from machine guns to rocket launchers, energy blasters to curse throwers.

  The threat of open warfare in the Sprawl might not have been enough to keep the die-hard partiers indoors, but it had made them more cautious. The Sprawl was already a powder keg most of the time, and Talaith’s destruction of the bridges had lit the fuse. The only question was how long it would take to burn down and ignite an explosion.

  We’d gotten maybe halfway to Demon’s Roost when that question was answered. There were two popular dance clubs on either side of the street here: Overhexed, which catered primarily to Arcane clientele, and Disco Infernal, a demonic hotspot. But the action wasn’t confined to the clubs’ interiors tonight. Revelers from both places had taken to the street, where they stood in two groups, facing each other. And from the way they were shouting and gesturing, I knew that they hadn’t met for a civilized cross-cultural exchange. Traffic had been blocked of
f at one end of the street by a barrier of mystic flame, while a jagged line of sharp bonelike projections protruded from the asphalt at the other end. It seemed that neither the demons nor the magic-users wanted anyone to interrupt their little get-together.

  The sidewalks on both sides of the street were deserted here. Evidently our fellow pedestrians possessed stronger survival instincts than us and had gotten the hell away at the first sign of trouble. I figured it would be wise of us to follow suit, and I motioned for everyone in our group to stop.

  “I think we should quickly and quietly retrace our steps, then cut over a couple streets and take a nice wide detour around this block,” I said.

  “I like that idea,” Devona said softly, never taking her eyes off the shouting demons and magic-users.

  “I like it very much.”

  The two groups were an eclectic mix of their kinds. Many of the Arcane were dressed in standard Nekropolitan street clothes, but some wore period costumes: medieval robes, stark Puritan outfits, Arabian finery, Native American deerskins, Aztec capes, stage magician tuxedos or sparkling gowns, and a good number of them carried wooden or metal staves with lux crystals affixed to the ends. The demons varied more in their physical forms. Some were the standard diabolic type, like Scorch’s true shape, while others were bizarre amalgams of different animals: insects combined with fish, mammals with lizards, birds with crustaceans and so on…

  Some of the demons wore ethnic garb that indicated which human mythology they belonged to – Chinese, Japanese, Inuit, Persian, Egyptian, Hindu – while some appeared so alien that their shapes not only defied description, they defied perception. Creatures that appeared to be made of a series of floating transdimensional geometric shapes that seemed to warp in and out of existence, and others that were purely conceptual in nature. I saw one demon I recognized as Schadenfreude, and another that was Antidisestablishmentarianism.

  But despite the two groups’ striking differences, they had one important thing in common: they clearly loathed one another, and given the aggressive way they were acting, I knew it would only be a matter of moments until…

  A heavily tattooed Arcane man wearing a dragonskin jacket raised his hands and began chanting a spell in a language I didn’t recognize. The words seemed to echo in the air, and despite the fact that I have no nerve endings in my ears, it hurt to hear those words spoken aloud. A few seconds later, a half-dozen other Arcane joined in, and soon all of the magic-users stood chanting, hands raised toward the sky.

  The Demonkin’s reaction to the spell was dramatic.

  They fell back several steps, roaring and hissing, shrinking in upon themselves and averting their gazes as if it was too painful to look upon the faces of the chanting Arcane.

  “What’s happening?” I turned to Scorch, hoping she might be able to tell me, but she didn’t respond.

  She stood there with her hands pressed over her ears, eyes squinted closed, jaws clenched tight, as if she were trying to shut out the world – or perhaps just the Arcanes’ chanting.

  “The magic-users are attempting a binding spell!” Devona said.

  I understood what was going on then, but I had a hard time believing it. The enmity between Demonkin and Arcane goes back centuries, back to before the Darkfolk left Earth and emigrated to Nekropolis, when witches, warlocks, and wizards would attempt to summon demons, bind them to their will, and enslave them. Having a powerful creature like a demon to command was an attractive prospect for a magic-user, but you can see how a demon would find the arrangement less than appealing.

  After the founding of Nekropolis, slavery of any sort was outlawed by Dis and the Darklords, more as a practical matter than for any other reason. It’s hard enough to keep the peace in a city full of monsters without having to worry about them running around constantly trying to enslave one another. The prohibition against slavery included the summoning and binding of demons, but the fact that it was now a major crime didn’t seem to deter these Arcane in the least, and I doubted any of them considered what they were doing as breaking the law. After all, war was in the offing between Glamere and the Sprawl, and people – Darkfolk or human – are only too willing to suspend the rule of law during wartime… especially when it gives them an excuse to indulge the darker side of their nature.

  Devona put her arm around Scorch as if to lend the demon strength and turned to look at me. “We have to stop the spell, Matt! If we don’t she’ll become the Arcanes’ slave, bound to them until they set her free!”

  I sighed. “Of course we do. Shamika, you stay here and take care of Scorch. Devona and I will be right back.”

  Up to this point Shamika had been staring wideeyed at the scene in the street, but she tore her gaze away and gave me a solemn nod.

  “But if the Arcane finish the spell and Scorch becomes bound, get away from her as fast as you can,” Devona added. “They’ll be able to make her do what they want, and she won’t be able to resist their commands.”

  Shamika nodded once again, and I turned to Varney, who was watching the action in the street, undoubtedly filming it all with his cyber-eye camera.

  “As for you…” I trailed off. I wanted to tell him to stay put, but I knew there wasn’t any point. “Just try not to get in the way.”

  “Will do,” he said. “You know, Matt, you get into some of the strangest situations.”

  I sighed again. “It’s a gift.”

  Devona gave Scorch’s shoulder a last squeeze, and then the two of us starting walking into the street, Varney following close behind.

  “I don’t suppose you know any way of blocking a binding spell,” I said to Devona.

  “None whatsoever. I figured we’d just do what we always do: stick our noses in where they don’t belong and see what happens.”

  I grinned. “I thought I was the improviser and you were the planner.”

  She shrugged. “What can I say? You’ve rubbed off on me.”

  We continued walking toward the two groups, and while I did my best to project an air of casual calm – letting anyone in Nekropolis see how scared you really are isn’t conducive to your long-term survival prospects – I frantically tried to think of some way to diffuse the situation Devona and I were about to insert ourselves into. I’d restocked my weaponry before leaving the Midnight Watch, and I now carried a few of my more interesting toys in my pockets, but I couldn’t see how any of them would prove useful against an angry mob of combined Arcane and Demonkin.

  As we neared the two groups, I noticed a small shop a couple doors down from Overhexed called The Teahouse of the Gibbous Moon. It had a large front window, and sitting at a table, keeping an eye on the incipient mayhem in the street, was a figure garbed in a voluminous crimson cloak with a large hood. At first I didn’t think she saw me, but then she lifted her teacup in greeting, and I gave a slight nod in return.

  Devona had picked up on the exchange, either telepathically or through old-fashioned observation.

  “Who is it?”

  “The cavalry,” I said. “I hope.”

  As we drew nearer to the mob, I could see that the binding spell was coming along nicely. Most of the Demonkin lay curled in fetal positions on the ground, rocking back and forth as they let loose blistering streams of curses or, just as often, loud wails and streams of tears. I wasn’t sure how much longer it would take before the spell was complete, but I doubted we had more than a few moments at this point. No time left for subtlety.

  I reached into my jacket pocket and brought out what appeared to be an empty glass vial sealed with a black rubber stopper. “Cover your ears,” I warned Devona and Varney, and then I hurled the vial toward the mass of magic-users. It struck the ground at the feet of an Arcane woman who appeared to be wearing a gown made of shifting multicolored mist. She held her hands raised above her head and was chanting along with rest of the Arcane, but the moment the vial burst her voice – along with the voices of her fellow magikers – was drowned out by a high-pitched shrieking.
The sound rapidly grew in volume until it seemed to fill the entire world, and the Arcane broke off their chanting and clapped their hands over their ears to block the deafening noise. It didn’t bother me – no nerveendings, remember? – but Devona pressed her palms tight against her ears to muffle the sound.

  Given her sensitive vampire hearing, the noise must’ve been incredibly painful for her, but the only reaction she showed was a slight tightening of her lips. A tough gal, my Devona.

  Varney didn’t bother to protect his ears. Maybe he was even tougher than Devona, or maybe his ears also had cyber implants and he was able to mentally turn down the volume on them. Either way, he simply watched and recorded the action unfolding before him.

  The shrieking only lasted a few seconds, and when it was over, the Arcane slowly removed their hands from their ears and turned to look at us, confused.

  “That was a gift from a friend of mine named Scream Queen,” I said, shouting so that they could hear me over the ringing in their ears. “She was nice enough to bottle a bit of her voice for me. It probably didn’t do too much permanent damage to your hearing, but it did manage to shut you all up long enough for us to get your attention.” Scream Queen was a banshee and lead singer of Kakaphonie, one of Nekropolis’ hottest pop bands.

  Devona and I, along with the rest of the Midnight Watch, had helped her out once, and she’d been so grateful that – after paying Devona her fee – she gave me a few of her screams. How the banshee had managed to store them in a glass vial was beyond me, but I was grateful that it had worked. Up until the vial had shattered, I hadn’t been a hundred percent sure that it would.