Nekropolis n-1 Page 13

  We went down in a tangle of undead and half-undead limbs. Thokk advanced on us, the ragged neck wound Devona had inflicted already healing.

  With vampiric grace and speed, Devona disengaged herself from me and stood before Thokk, fingers touching her temples.

  “Stop,” she said in an even, measured voice.

  Thokk hesitated.

  “Leave this place now,” Devona continued. “Go.”

  Devona had told me she had a certain amount of magical training, and now it seemed she was attempting to use her abilities to influence Thokk’s mind. At first, it looked like Devona’s plan was going to work. Thokk stopped coming toward us. She lowered her hands to her sides and seemed about to turn away, but then she chuckled-the sound like a snake’s rattle-reared back, and spat venom into Devona’s face. Devona screamed and frantically began wiping at the poison, trying to get it out of her eyes.

  Thokk knocked Devona aside easily and came stomping toward me once more. But I’d had enough time to fish a small metal box out of my jacket. I flipped open the lid, stood, and flung the contents at Thokk’s muzzle.

  Her eyes teared up instantly and she began wheezing.

  “Powdered wolfsbane,” I said. “Never leave the grave without it.”

  Her eyes began swelling shut and her wheezing took on a more desperate, labored tone. Her throat was closing. I allowed myself to feel smug. All lykes are allergic to wolfsbane to some degree, some more so than others. But it appeared Thokk-

  I stopped my self-congratulating in mid-thought. Thokk’s breathing became easier and the swelling around her eyes lessened. Her mixblood physiology was counteracting the effects of the wolfsbane. Like I said, whoever designed her had done it right.

  I had nothing left in my bag-or rather jacket-of tricks that would stop her. I glanced toward the dance floor. I doubted I could reach to my gun before Thokk recovered. But I had to try.

  I started toward the dance floor, running as best I could in the slow, stiff-legged way we zombies have and hoped that it would take just a few more seconds for Thokk to fully throw off the effects of the wolfsbane.

  My hope was in vain. Claws raked the right side of my head, knocking me to the floor.

  “I’m going to shred you to gobbets for that,” Thokk said, her voice hoarse and thick with mucus. “Very, very slowly.”

  I rolled over to face her. After all, dead or not, a man should look his fate straight in the eye.

  She lifted her clawed hands to strike, disturbing a cloud of smoke hovering over her head. And then the smoke darted toward her mouth and curled down her throat.

  Thokk howled in agony, and thrashed about as if her every nerve was on fire. She coughed up a gout of blood and crashed to the floor, rolling back and forth, her limbs flailing spastically. But finally her exertions slowed and then ceased altogether.

  A moment later tendrils of smoke wafted from her mouth and coalesced into the form of Shrike, his everpresent cigarette the last thing to solidify.

  He took a drag and exhaled. “Did you know you can do a lot of damage by partially solidifying inside someone?”

  “Do tell.” I hauled my undead carcass to its feet. “Is she dead?”

  “Nah, not even the kind of damage I did to her can kill a lyke. But I bet she’s not going to be moving too fast for a few weeks. Unless, of course, someone does something about her first.” He nodded toward my gun.

  It was tempting. Thokk had tried to kill me, and would no doubt try again when she recovered. And it wasn’t like anyone would try to stop me. But that wasn’t the way I operated.

  I shook my head. “Why don’t you retrieve the gun while I see to Devona?” Without waiting for Shrike to reply, I turned and headed back toward my client-I mean, the person who I was doing a favor for.

  Devona knelt on the floor, her face cradled in her hands.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Not exactly. I’m blind.”

  I helped her stand and kept a hand on her elbow to steady her. She took her hands away from her face, but she kept her eyes shut tight.

  She took in a hiss of breath. “Dis, but it hurts!”

  I didn’t know what to say. I’d been human for most of my existence, and in that time I’d known my share of pain. You’d think I’d remember what it was like to hurt. And I do, sort of, but the memory’s hazy, indistinct, like a memory of a memory. I suppose a lot of people would’ve been grateful for that. But it made me feel cut off from Devona, distant, as if we were at the moment inhabiting two vastly different worlds, and there was no bridging the gap between them.

  Shrike came up, holding my gun gingerly by the butt with two fingers-like shapeshifters, vampires aren’t especially fond of silver. He was carrying a glass in the other hand: a glass filled with thick red liquid-and I doubted it was aqua sanguis. He handed me the gun, then offered the glass to Devona, saying, “Drink; it’ll help.”

  Her nostrils flared as she picked up the scent of blood, the real thing. She reached out and Shrike placed the glass in her hand. She brought it to her lips, but then hesitated.

  At first I couldn’t figure out why she wouldn’t drink. And then it hit me. Though being half human was a negative to most Bloodborn, it was important to Devona, maybe even a secret source of pride for her. And humans didn’t drink blood.

  “Go on,” I said. “Shrike’s right, it’ll help.”

  She hesitated a second more, but then drank, slowly at first, but then with increasing enthusiasm, gulping down the last few swallows.

  Devona shuddered as if she’d just downed a glassful of hard liquor and couldn’t stand the taste. A few moments went by, during which a couple lykes came forward. From the way they glared at me and snarled, I thought they were going to cause trouble, and I wasn’t sure I was up to it just then. But the lykes merely took hold of Thokk by the arms and hauled her out of the club, probably to take her back to the Wyldwood so she could convalesce. Soon the noise level in the club returned to normal and people were back on the floor, dancing. No one bothered to wipe up the blood Thokk had vomited. Perhaps they thought it added to the club’s ambience.

  Devona gingerly opened her eyes. She blinked a few times, and then smiled. “Much better.”

  Like lykes, vampires heal fast, but only if they’ve fed recently. Otherwise their wounds don’t heal any faster than a human’s.

  I holstered my gun and then turned to Shrike. “Thanks for taking care of the lyke. I owe you one, kid.”

  “Hardly. I’ve got a few hundred more favors to do for you before we’re close to being even.” Shrike grinned. “Besides, it was fun.”

  “That kind of fun I can do without, thank you.” I turned back to Devona. “And thank you for jumping into the fray too.”

  “What for? All I did was manage to get myself blinded.”

  “If you hadn’t attacked when you did, Thokk probably would’ve squeezed me in two. And what was that other thing you tried? It looked like you were casting a spell on her or something.”

  “Remember when I told you I can’t assume a travel form but had other talents? Besides my minor skill with magic, I also possess some rudimentary psychic abilities, as half Bloodborn often do. Not that they did anyone much good today. All I did was make Thokk hesitate.”

  “When you’re fighting for you life, sometimes that’s enough,” I said.

  “That’s nice of you to say, but I still-” She broke off and frowned. “Matt, are you missing an ear?”

  Shrike snapped his fingers. “Almost forgot!” He reached into the pocket of his jeans and brought out a grayish-colored ear. “Found this on the floor, not too far from your gun. Thokk must’ve torn it off you sometime during the fight.”

  I brushed my hair back and felt the open dry wound where my right ear had been. “Probably happened when she knocked me down the last time.” I took my ear from Shrike and, without any place better to put it, stuck it in one of my jacket’s handy pockets.

  “Won’t you lose it if you don’t
get it reattached right away?” Devona asked, concerned.

  “Maybe not. An ear isn’t all that complicated, not like an arm. It’ll keep longer.” I had no idea if that was true or not, but I didn’t have time to bother with one ear, not when I had the survival of the rest of my body to worry about.

  That reminded me of why we’d come to the Broken Cross in the first place.

  “Shrike, did you spot Varma?”

  “In all the excitement, I forgot you were looking for him. Yeah, I found him. He was sitting alone at a table in the back, looking like he was higher than Umbriel.” He turned and pointed. “Right over-” Pointed to an empty table. “He was there just a minute ago, I swear to Christ! OW!”

  I sighed as Shrike’s mouth sizzled. He’d never learn.

  Varma had probably cut out when Thokk attacked. I doubt he recognized me, but he surely recognized Devona. He didn’t have much of a head start on us, though.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked Devona.

  “Well enough; let’s go.”

  I thanked Shrike again, but he was too busy frantically slapping his tongue in an attempt to extinguish the flames. Devona and I headed for the table Varma had until only recently occupied-the one next to the door marked EXIT.

  The door opened onto a trash-strewn alley.

  “Which way?” Devona asked.

  I pointed left. “But there’s no need to hurry. Not anymore.”

  Lying face down on the ground not twenty feet away, surrounded by a massive pool of blood, was the body of a redheaded male.

  Varma.

  TWELVE

  I was pretty sure Varma was dead, but I looked to Devona-and her heightened senses-for confirmation. She nodded, her eyes moist with tears. I was surprised; I’d thought there was no love lost between Devona and her “cousin.”

  Nekropolis has more than its fair share of scavengers. Stray dogs and cats brought from Earth as pets and then abandoned and left to fend for themselves. The poor animals often end up mutating into bizarre and dangerous forms upon repeated exposure to the strange magics coursing through the city. And there are rats, of courses, far larger and meaner than back home, if nowhere near the size and ferocity of vermen. But there are a number of home-grown varieties as well. Carrion imps are tiny, primitive versions of ghouls that scuttle about in their endless quest to fill their bellies with dead flesh. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been meditating in my bedroom and opened my eyes to find one or more of the little bastards gnawing on me. Leech vine is a vampiric plant that grows on buildings, especially in the Sprawl where no one bothers to kill it. There was some growing on the walls of the alley, but I wasn’t worried about it. Leech vine doesn’t move; it’s only dangerous if you’re foolish enough to brush up against it-and once it has you, if you can’t escape fast enough, it’ll drain you dry just as fast as a flesh vampire.

  But one scavenger always gave me pause. It was one of the deadiest of the city’s bottom feeders, and a prime specimen was standing at the edge of the blood pool on four tiny legs, lapping daintily at the gore.

  “What is that horrid thing?” Devona cried, and started toward the small creature, intending to scare it away from Varma’s body. I grabbed hold of her arm to keep her back.

  “Don’t. That’s a chiranha. It’s alone, but if it calls for its pack, we’re done for.”

  She looked at me with disbelief. “You can’t be serious! It’s so tiny!”

  The creature under discussion raised its head, glared at us with beady black eyes, and let out a soft, highpitched growl. It resembled a small dog with short tan fur blended with fish scales, and its mouth was filled with rows of razor-sharp triangular teeth.

  “Chiranha are either someone’s idea of a sick joke or the result of some very unnatural evolution, but either way, the damned things are dangerous as hell. Believe it or not, they’re a hybrid of chihuahua and piranha fish. They may look harmless at first glance, even adorable in their way, but get them in a pack, and they can strip the flesh from your bones within seconds. I once saw a pack take down a sasquatch-the poor sonofabitch didn’t even have time to scream.”

  “Use your gun,” she said. “Fire a bullet in the air to scare it away.”

  “The little fuckers are fearless,” I said. “Besides, I doubt he’d even hear the gunshot with all the noise coming from Sybarite Street. I could shoot him, but the one thing guaranteed to bring a pack of chiranha faster than a bark from one of their own is the smell of chiranha blood. They tend not to eat vampire flesh-not unless they’re really hungry, that is. Let’s just wait a minute. With any luck, this one will decide to go seek his dinner elsewhere.”

  The chiranha growled at us a few seconds longer, before leaning down to sniff Varma’s blood once more. Then after giving us a parting glare to let us know it wasn’t afraid of us, the chiranha turned and padded off down the alley in the other direction.

  “All right. It should be safe to approach now.”

  I moved forward to examine Varma’s body, trying not to step in blood, unable to avoid it. He was thin, and shorter than I’d imagined. I realized that somehow I’d expected him to resemble Galm, even though he wasn’t the Darklord’s biological child. He was dressed in the white silken weave of spidermesh, a fashion popular in Nekropolis at the time, and one with partially technological origins-a rebellion against his bloodsire? Or just the latest in a series of trends he’d followed over the centuries? Or maybe he’d just liked the way it felt; Devona had said he was a hedonist.

  From the back, there appeared to be no marks on the body to account for so much blood. I put my hands under Varma, intending to roll him over, but my damaged right arm refused to cooperate. I had no choice but to ask Devona to help me.

  She did so, fighting tears, but when Varma’s bloodsmeared face was revealed, she lost the battle and sobbed.

  His skin was bone-white, dry, and brittle like the castoff husk of a cicada. He stared lifelessly, eyes wide, whites completely red, pupils dilated so much they were practically nonexistent. His skin was white as polished bone. Dry, cracked lips had pulled away from his teeth to reveal sickly gray gum. The inside of his desiccated mouth was caked with blood-soaked clumps of whitish powder. Veinburn.

  No sign of a wound on his front, either. I looked more closely.

  “He overdosed on veinburn, didn’t he?” Devona asked as she wiped tears from her eyes. “When one of the Bloodborn’s blood supply is contaminated beyond the power of his system to cleanse it, his body casts it out-all of it-and unless he can replenish it within moments, he dies.”

  “I didn’t know vampires could die of bloodloss. Interesting.”

  She looked at me as if I had just slapped her. When she spoke, I thought she might yell at me, though I had no idea why she would want to. But all she said was, “It’s very rare.”

  “Shrike said veinburn was an extremely powerful drug, but I’m not sure Varma did this to himself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The veinburn in his mouth. You said a vampire’s blood is poisoned, he has to get rid of it. I assume it would be vomited out.”

  Devona’s expression became steely, and she wiped away the last of her tears. “Primarily.”

  “Then why is there veinburn left in his mouth? Wouldn’t the blood have washed it away?”

  Devona glared at me. She was obviously upset with me, but I still didn’t know why. “Perhaps it had been in his stomach and became lodged there, perhaps after he fell forward onto his face.”

  “Maybe, but then why is it still partially white? With the all the blood Varma brought up, the veinburn should be completely soaked. And there are these.” I turned Varma’s forearm so Devona could see the five tiny puckered marks arranged in a half circle.

  “They look like needle marks,” she said.

  “They sure do, don’t they?”

  “So perhaps Varma injected the veinburn.”

  “Then why is there some caked in his mouth? And where’s the
needle? There isn’t one lying around, and spidermesh is skin tight; no room for pockets. Not that Varma needed them. I assume that as the bloodchild of a Darklord, he could charge whatever he wanted to Galm’s account-when he just didn’t get things handed to him free, that is. “In my experience, addicts don’t usually vary how they ingest drugs. There’s more than one reason they’re called drug habits.” I ran a finger over one of the marks. Why, I don’t know; it wasn’t like I could feel it. “And these marks are fresh. All of them.”

  “That merely means that Varma died before they could begin to heal.”

  “Which means he died fast. And that he injected quite a bit of veinburn into himself at one time. Literally one time, for if he’d given himself five shots with one needle, the first mark would’ve started to heal before the last was made.”

  Devona’s eyes widened in comprehension. “Unless it had been some time since Varma had fed, the first mark would’ve fully healed before he made the fifth.”

  I glanced at the pool of blood surrounding us. “I think it’s safe to say it hasn’t been that long since his last meal.”

  Devona’s lips tightened, but she didn’t respond.

  “So if the first mark is as fresh as the last, that means Varma was injected by five different needles at the same time. And I doubt even the bloodchild of a Darklord is talented enough to do that-and then make the needles disappear the instant before he dies. No, Varma was killed. Probably to keep him from revealing what happened to the Dawnstone.” I looked up and down the alley. “No tracks. Whoever injected Varma took off before he started puking.” Too bad; I could have used an easy-to-follow set of bloody footprints just then.

  I stood. “Damn it!” I swore in frustration. With Varma dead, and no clues as to who killed him, I didn’t know what to do next.

  And then I saw a tiny black shape I hadn’t noticed before scuttle quickly away along the surface of the alley wall. A roach. Or something so close to a roach as to make no difference.

  I knew then what we could do-if I was willing to risk it, that is. But given Papa Chatha’s prognosis for my survival, what choice did I have?