Nekropolis Page 30

  “I thought it best if the portal closed as soon as she passed through.”

  I turned to see Varvara sitting on the edge of her bed. The Demon Queen was dressed in a skimpy red silk gown with a Chinese dragon embroidered in gold encircling the waist, its tail-which served as the robe’s belt-clutched in its mouth.

  “I should have known you couldn’t pass up spying on us,” I said bitterly. “I hope you enjoyed the show.”

  “I just teleported in this very moment, Matthew. I placed a spell on the mirror to let me know when Devona had gone through. I assure you, I know nothing of what occurred between the two of you-but I can guess. Noble idiot that you are, you let her go, didn’t you?”

  “She was born on Earth, Varvara. She deserves a chance to get to know her homeworld.”

  “You could’ve gone with her.”

  “It wouldn’t have worked. I’d still need preservative spells.”

  “You could always come back to get them.”

  “Magic doesn’t function as reliably on Earth as it does in Nekropolis, you know that. There’s no telling how long a preservative spell would last for me there. I might decompose after only a few hours.”

  “Or you might not. You might be just fine. But that’s not the real reason you didn’t go with her, Matt, is it?”

  “You may have been away from Earth for a few centuries, Varvara, but I bet you haven’t forgotten what it’s like. It’s so much more than Nekropolis…Devona will have more opportunities, more chances, more choices than she ever could have here-especially since Galm made her an outcast among the Bloodborn. How could I deny her that?”

  Varvara rose from her bed, walked over, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. For an instant, I felt her lips on my flesh just as if I’d been a living man, but the sensation quickly faded.

  “I still say you’re an idiot, Matt, but alive or not, you’re a good man.” She smiled, and the embroidered dragon around her waist winked. Her manner grew serious. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Of course. I’m a zombie; I don’t have any feelings, remember?”

  “Right. I forgot.”

  I knew Varvara didn’t believe it, and for the first time in a long time, neither did I.

  Lazlo was waiting for me in his cab outside the main lobby of Demon’s Roost. He offered to give me a ride back to my place, but I told him I’d rather walk. If he noticed my mood, he didn’t say anything. I turned away from his cab and started heading in the general direction of my apartment building.

  Now that Umbriel had been renewed for another year, the Descension festival was officially over. Most of the partiers had already gone home to recover from the damage they’d done to themselves, but a few stragglers-or perhaps I should say staggerers-remained out, probably because they didn’t possess enough command of their higher brain functions to remember where they lived or how to get there. The streets and sidewalks were covered with trash, most of it fairly innocuous-discarded fast-food wrappers, cigarette butts, Styrofoam cups and the like-but some of the debris was a bit more disturbing in nature and didn’t bear close inspection. Already thick glutinous pseudopods were extruding from the sewer grates and stretching toward the trash, engulfing it, swiftly breaking down its molecular structure, and absorbing its mass. The Azure Slime lives beneath the streets of the Sprawl and functions as the Dominion’s waste removal service. While the Slime feeds well all year, when Descension Day is over and everyone else’s good times have ended, that’s when the Slime’s feast of feasts begins. It’s usually good about not absorbing anything-or anyone-it shouldn’t, but occasionallt it gets so excited by the grand repast laid out before it that it forgets and devours a passed-out drunk or a barely conscious partier who’s hung around on the streets just a bit too long. I was walking fast enough that I wasn’t worried about being absorbed, and the one time a bluish psuedopod did slither too close to my feet, I kicked at it, and the tendril withdrew almost sulkily.

  Crimson ambulances from the Fever House slowly patrolled the streets, searching for those who’d been wounded beyond their capacity to heal themselves. When the Bloodwagon medics found someone who needed to be taken to the hospital, they stopped the ambulance, got out, and rushed to put their patient in the back of the vehicle before the Azure Slime got there. Sometimes they succeeded, sometimes they didn’t, and sometimes they had to pry what was left of a patient out of the Slime’s fluidic clutches and hope enough remained for them to restore to some semblance of health. The Bloodwagon medics had competition, however. Midnight-black hearses from the Foundry also cruised the Sprawl, the Bonegetters looking for dead bodies, severed limbs, or misplaced organs to salvage and return to their master. Victor Baron was always in need of fresh supplies, and the raw material his assistants recovered could keep the Foundry going for another year.

  I saw more than a few predators lurking in the shadows, but those who made a move toward me took one look at the expression on my face and decided it might not be a bad idea to go in search of easier prey. Wise choice.

  Now that they were no longer needed for the Renewal Ceremony, Sentinels patrolled the streets again-the Azure Slime made damn sure to stay clear of them-and I found it more than a little eerie to see the impassive golems after what had happened at the Nightspire. For a few moments, I’d actually been one of the things, and I knew I’d never look at them the same way again. Still, there was no doubt they were needed. Those Darkfolk who were unconscious but not in need of medical attention would be left to lie where they’d fallen until they managed to sleep off whatever had put them down. In the meantime, they were prime targets for thieves of all sorts, those who wanted darkgems, of course, but also those desiring to steal a victim’s memories, soul, and even his or her potential futures. The Sentinels were the police force of Nekropolis, and they had their beat to walk, and while the impassive creatures made me uncomfortable now, as a former cop myself, I had to respect that.

  I don’t know how long I wandered, but eventually I found myself in front of my building. I almost expected crazy Carl to come running up to me with his latest bizarre expose, but he was nowhere to be seen. He was probably exhausted and getting some rest, like everyone else in the city. Sometimes I really miss sleeping. When you sleep, you don’t have to think. Or remember. Or regret.

  I climbed the steps to the building, entered the lobby, and walked to my apartment door. As I reached for the knob, I saw the door was open and slightly ajar. My cop instincts kicked into high gear, and I silently drew my 9mm and listened. I heard nothing, so I slowly pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  Devona was sitting on the couch. She put down the book she’d been reading and smiled at me. “It’s about time you got home.”

  I had no idea what to say, but at least I had the presence of mind to holster my gun.

  “By the time I came back through Varvara’s mirror and got down to the street, you were already gone. Lazlo was still there, though, and he gave me a ride here.” She made a face. “Did you see what he’s done to that cab? And I thought it was hideous before! When I got here and discovered you weren’t home, I used the mystical lock-picks Shrike found for us, and I let myself in.”

  I walked over to the couch and sat down next to her. “I know Cleveland isn’t exactly the grandest city on Earth, but I have a hard time believing you got tired of it this fast.”

  “That’s not why I came back. There I was, standing in the park, drinking in all these wonderful new sights, sounds, and smells, when I realized something: I’d forgotten to pay you for helping me find the Dawnstone. If I remember right, the price we settled on was three hundred darkgems.”

  I was surprised, and truthfully, a bit insulted. “You don’t need to pay me. Dis restored my body, and I’m as good as new. Well, good as a new zombie, anyway. Besides, it’s not like I really did anything to help you. We found the Dawnstone, sure, but you ended up losing your job and being cast out from your people.”

  “Be that as it may, we made a de
al and I intend to honor my part of the bargain. And don’t tell me you can’t use the money. Dis may have repaired your body with his magic, but you’re still a zombie, and you still need preservative spells, right?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ve decided to get out of the business of doing favors and start an official private investigation business. A real one, with an office and everything.”

  “Good for you! But from what I understand, there are a lot of expenses associated with starting a new business-which is all the more reason to let me pay you. You’re going to need the money.” She paused. “Of course, I don’t have a job at the moment, and I can’t go to Father and ask to borrow some darkgems…so it might be a while before I can scrape up what I owe you.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “Tell you what, let’s put it on your tab, and you can get it to me whenever you can, okay?”

  She smiled back. “Okay.” She leaned close and laid her head on my shoulder, and I put my arm around her. It felt so natural, so right, and I would’ve been content to sit like that for hours. But after a few moments, Devona said, “There’s something I’ve been thinking about trying ever since we left the Wyldwood, Matt.”

  “What?”

  “It might be easier if I show you.” She sat up, touched her fingertips to my temples, and then closed her eyes.

  I experienced a dizzying lurch, and then I was tumbling through a seemingly endless void. But it did have an end, and when I reached it, the falling sensation ceased and I found myself sitting on the grass by the edge of a pond, with Devona by my side. The sky above was a gentle blue and a light spring breeze was blowing. It was daylight, and for the first time in two years I felt the sun on my face. I looked down at my hands. Instead of gray, the flesh was a healthy pink. I turned to Devona and saw that her skin was no longer pale. We were both dressed the same as we’d been in Nekropolis, except now our clothes were clean and in good repair.

  “What’s happening?” I asked. The breeze blew across my skin, and I trembled. “Where are we?”

  Devona placed her fingers on my lips and gently stroked them. The sensation was so intense, I couldn’t stop myself from moaning.

  “Home,” she said simply.

  Then she leaned forward and pressed her lips against mine. And you know something?

  She was right.

  Extras…

  THE LONG, STRANGE TRIP TO NEKROPOLIS

  It’s January 1995. I’m thirty-one years old and I’m living in Columbus, Ohio. My then-wife is pregnant with our first child, and I’m teaching composition part-time at various area colleges while writing fiction full time. I’m in a writers’ group with a number of wonderful people, including the fantasy novelist Dennis McKiernan, best known for a series of novels taking place in the wondrous realm of Mithgar. Dennis has become both a good friend and mentor to me, and he’s introduced me to his agent, Jonathan Matson, who’s taken me on as a client. I’ve published about a dozen short stories by this point, and I’ve got my first novel deal cooking: Jonathan is negotiating contract terms with a publisher for a surreal horror novel called The Harmony Society.

  Life, as the saying goes, is pretty damned good.

  In addition to my writers’ group, I’m also in a gamers’ group with Dennis and another member of our writers’ group, Peter Busch. What’s cool about this group is that each person takes a turn being gamemaster and designs an original scenario for the others to play. We’ve just finished playing a wonderful game Dennis designed, in which we were aliens - truly inhuman, scientifically plausible aliens - sent to investigate a mysterious abandoned space station. Now it’s my turn to develop and run a scenario for Dennis and Pete.

  I have to admit, I’m intimidated. Both Dennis and Pete are experienced gamers, and while I’ve played D&D and such before, I’ve never gamemastered, let alone designed a scenario myself. But Dennis and Pete promise to help me with the game mechanics as we play, so I roll up my metaphorical sleeves and get to work. For a few years, I’ve been thinking about writing a novel set in an otherwordly city full of monsters. So I decide to finally get to work on bringing this dark city of mine - which I’ve named Necropolis - to life. Or unlife, whichever is more appropriate.

  I design the city and its inhabitants, come up with a nefarious plot for Dennis and Pete to deal with, and create characters for them. They’re a pair of Earth cops who were trapped in Necropolis on a previous case: one who no can no longer withstand sunlight (though he’s still fully human) and the other who has become a zombie. The two work as private investigators on the very mean streets of this shadow-enshrouded city.

  I’m pleased with what I’ve developed, and when the day comes to begin playing, Dennis and Pete love the world and have a lot of fun with the scenario (even though I’ve made a rookie mistake and designed their characters to be too strong and they’re tearing through my world like it was made of tissue paper - but then, maybe that’s part of why they’re having so much fun). We get halfway through the game scenario in our first session. It’ll be a few months before we finish, though. My daughter Devona decides to come into the world five weeks early, and I’m a bit busy for a while. Eventually, we get back to the game and finish it up. Dennis and Pete had a great time, they congratulate me on doing a good job on running the game, and an even better one on designing Necropolis.

  Life is still pretty damned good, even if now I’m suffering from new parent sleep-deprivation most of the time.

  Then I get a call from my agent. The publisher’s made an offer on The Harmony Society. It’s a small publisher, and the money’s not great, but I’m thrilled. My first novel sale!

  Then Jonathan calls me a few days later to tell me the deal’s fallen through because the publisher “No longer feels comfortable with the book.” Whatever the hell that means.

  Naturally enough, I’m devastated, and like any other first-time novelist in my position, I want to give up, want to curl up in a corner and die, boohoo, sob-sob. Instead, I get good and pissed and decide to write another novel. I turn my attention to Necropolis. I’ve already got the world designed, and I have a plot, plus, I’ve lived the story along with Dennis and Pete. So I sit down and, with some changes (combining the two detectives into one character, for example), I plant my ass in the office chair in front of my computer and my fingers start flying across the keys. Twenty-one days later, Necropolis the novel is finished. It only runs about 67,000 words, relatively short for a novel, but around the right size for a mystery, and since Necropolis is as much a mystery as it is fantasy and horror (with a little science fiction, humor, and romance sprinkled in here and there), I’m satisfied. After some revision, the book goes off to Jonathan to start sending around, and I move on to the next project.

  Nine years pass.

  It’s 2004. My daughter Devona is nine, and her sister Leigh is four. I’m now a tenure-track professor teaching composition and creative writing at Sinclair Community College in Dayton, Ohio. I’ve published close to fifty stories now and a few novels, most of them media tie-ins. Necropolis, however, still hasn’t found a home. It’s too weird, blends too many genres, and publishers aren’t sure what to do with it.

  I decide to submit it to editor John Helfers for Five Star Books, a publisher that specializes in producing library-edition hardbacks (meaning sturdy books sold directly to libraries instead of in bookstores). I’ve worked with John on numerous anthology projects. He’s a great editor, a swell guy, and we work well together, so I figure he might like Necropolis. And indeed he does. The book comes out from Five Star late in 2004, and I’m a happy man. I’ve come to really love that world and my main character over the last nine years, and I’m glad other people will finally get a chance to read about them.

  More years pass.

  I continue to publish more novels and stories, some original, some tie-in work, and the Internet continues to grow at an astonishing pace. I have a website now, and through it, readers send me email, usually telling me how much they enjoyed th
is story or that novel (with the exception of the anonymous three-word e-mail I received which said, in all lowercase letters: “you write badly”). The most common e-mails I get are those telling me how much the sender enjoyed Necropolis - which they found at their local library - and asking when there will be a sequel. When I do panels at conventions people ask me when there’s going to be a Necropolis sequel. People I run into at the bookstore recognize my name and ask about a sequel. It’s getting so bad, I’m starting to have dreams in which nameless, faceless apparitions demand I write a sequel to Necropolis.

  Hmmmm, I think to myself. Maybe I should starting listening to these folks. At least that way maybe I can stop having those dreams…

  It’s around 2007 now, and a couple new genres have become extremely popular in publishing: urban fantasy and paranormal romance. For the last couple years, I’ve been wandering through bookstores, seeing these books and thinking, Man, I guess I was ahead of my time with Necropolis. (And truth to tell, thinking this with more than a bit of envy.) Still, pragmatism is the hallmark of the professional writer, and I hope that the current popularity of urban fantasy means a publisher might be interested in bringing out a mass-market edition of Necropolis, hopefully as part of a new series. So my agent and I rededicate ourselves to pitching the book to editors. We get some nibbles, but no one swallows the bait. In the meantime, I’m getting even more people begging me for a sequel to Necropolis, and I tell them that I’m working on it.

  Early in 2008, author, editor, and more-wonderful-than-you-can-possibly-imagine person Jean Rabe is kind enough to ask me to write a story for an anthology of urban fantasy tales called City Fantastic. I’ve toyed with writing some stories about my main character from Necropolis for years, but I’ve never gotten around to it. I decide to quit stalling and write “Disarmed and Dangerous,” zombie detective Matthew Adrion’s first new adventure in thirteen years.