Nekropolis Read online

  “Just watch,” I said.

  Moments later a roiling wall of crimson mist came wafting around the corner. It rolled forward, gathering momentum, completely filling the street. The mist stopped when it reached us, and quickly dissipated, as if scattered by wind. But the air was still.

  Standing in front us were now three young (or at least young-seeming) vampires, two male, one female. Instead of wearing clothing, their fish-belly white bodies were wrapped in tangles of multicolored wire, cables, and circuitry. The bodysuits might’ve been high-tech, but I knew they were powered by the vampires’ own dark lifeforces, making their outfits a fusion of science and magic. All three had clean-shaven skulls, and in their foreheads were embedded tiny silver crosses, the flesh around the holy objects swollen, cracked, and festering. They smiled, displaying their canines, the left incisors painted bright ruby red-the calling card of the Red Tide, one of the most vicious street gangs in Nekropolis.

  “How are you two doing this fine Descension Day?” asked the girl, whose body appeared to be that of a fourteen year-old girl, fifteen tops. A pair of glowing tesseracts dangled from her lobes like earrings. The latter were a nice touch, I thought.

  “Us, we’re bored bloodless,” said one of the males, who was tall, lean, and looked to be in his mid-twenties.

  “Then you three ought to head to the Sprawl and live it up with the rest of the city,” I said.

  The other male, short, stocky, and looking like he was in his early thirties, spat a gob of blood-colored saliva onto the cobblestones. “Fuck that noise. Bunch of lameasses running around drunk in the streets. Not our kind of fun, is it, Narda?”

  The girl gave a wicked, lopsided smile. “Not at all, Enan.”

  The lean male giggled, a high-pitched, crazy sound.

  “What is your kind of fun?” I asked, though I had a damned good idea.

  Narda answered. “Thought maybe we’d take ourselves apart a zombie.”

  “See what it looks like inside,” added Enan.

  The still nameless male just kept giggling.

  Narda looked at Devona and frowned. “What are you doing with this corpse, honey? Can’t find yourself a real man?”

  “Maybe she likes ‘em dead,” Enan said.

  “Dead and limp,” added the giggler.

  “Why don’t you just go on ahead and find a party somewhere, honey?” Narda said. “And leave the deader to us.”

  I’d had enough of this, and was about to step into the street and confront them when Devona spoke, her voice shaky with barely contained fear.

  “Do you have any idea who I am?”

  Nada wasn’t impressed. “Yeah, you’re a dumb halfbreed blood-slut who ought to have better taste than to hang around with a pile of walking hamburger like him.” She nodded in my direction.

  I signaled for Devona to be quiet, but she ignored me and went on.

  “I am Devona Kanti, daughter of Lord Galm and guardian of his Collection,” she said haughtily, or at least as haughtily as she could while trembling.

  I groaned inwardly. That was exactly the wrong thing to say.

  “You’re lying, bitch,” Narda said. “And if you aren’t, you’re just plain stupid. The Red Tide doesn’t give a damn about the high-and-mighty Lord Galm.”

  “Galm hates tech,” Enan put in.

  The giggler raised his forearm and made a fist. The wires around his arm quivered like hungry worms. “And Red Tide is wired, man.”

  As if in agreement, the holo-cubes dangling from Narda’s ears flashed red. “Wired solid,” she finished.

  Screw this, I thought, and raised my surprise and leveled it at the three undead gang bangers.

  “You’ll get the hell out of here if you know what’s good for you,” I said in my best I’m-a-cop-and-I’m-through-taking-shit voice.

  They saw what I was holding and burst out laughing.

  “A squirt gun?” Narda said, incredulous. “Deadboy, your brains must have rotted away to goo!” She turned to her two companions. “C’mon, let’s each grab a limb and make a wish.”

  They started forward and I aimed my plastic green squirt gun at their heads and pumped the trigger three times in rapid succession. Three streams of liquid flew out of the nozzle, one for each vamp.

  When the fluid struck them, their undead flesh sizzled and popped and steam rose into the air. I imagine it didn’t smell too good, either. They screamed and fell to their knees, clutching their wounded faces in their hands.

  “That’s a mixture of holy water and garlic juice,” I said. “And unless you want some more, you’ll-” Before I could finish, Narda-her burns already beginning to heal-pointed at me and a thick tentacle of braided wire and circuitry shot forth from her arm. The tentacle wrapped around my gun arm and squeezed. Sparks crackled where the wire connected with my arm, and I could hear my own flesh begin to fry. I knew I had to do something quick, before my dry zombie skin caught fire.

  I dropped my gun, intending to catch it with my left hand and continue squirting, but my zombie reflexes were too slow. I missed and the plastic gun clattered to the street.

  I tried to bend down to retrieve my weapon, but Enan stabbed his hand forward and a thick black cable lashed out toward me like a whip. It coiled around my neck and Enan grunted as he yanked me forward. I slammed face-first onto the cobblestones and got to listen to a few of my ribs break for good measure.

  This wasn’t exactly going as well as I’d hoped.

  The Giggler decided to get into the act then. Thin tendrils of wire uncoiled from around his arms and came snaking through the air toward me. Like Narda’s, electricity coruscated up and down the length of the Giggler’s wires, but unlike hers, his streaked toward my mouth. I realized then that the bastard intended to cook me from the inside out.

  I clamped my mouth shut tight and struggled to roll over onto my side. I would’ve pinched my nostrils shut to prevent the Giggler’s wires from entering me that way, but I only had one hand free, and I had a more important use for it. I reached into my jacket and groped for something else that might fend off the vampires, but before I could get hold of anything they started shrieking anew. I looked up and saw that Devona had retrieved my squirt gun and was dousing the Red Tide members with my holy water and garlic combo.

  “For godsakes, be careful!” I warned. “You don’t want to get any of that stuff on you!”

  The three tech-vampires retracted their cables and wires, releasing me. She and the other two vamps didn’t look so hot. Their faces were a mass of burns, and their combination hi-tech and magic body suits were starting to short circuit, throwing off showers of miniature fireworks.

  The vampires staggered to their feet and stumbled off, howling in pain. At the end of the street, Narda turned, and fixed us with a hate-filled stare from her single remaining eye.

  “The Red Tide’s going to store this in permanent memory, fuckers! Bet on it!” Then she turned and continued running after the other two, leaving us alone on the streets of Gothtown. They were vampires; their injuries would heal eventually. But it was going to take some time.

  I pushed myself to my feet with my left arm, and stepped over to Devona. She still pointed the squirt gun in the direction the Red Tide vamps had gone, holding it in an iron grip. Her entire body shook, and her breath came in ragged gasps. I’d only fired my weapon twice in the line of duty when I was cop-before coming to Nekropolis, that is-but I understood what Devona was feeling.

  “Why don’t you give that back to me before you break it and that crap leaks all over your hands?”

  She looked at the gun as if realizing for the first time what she was holding, and she handed it over to me gingerly, like it was a live grenade. I suppose for a vampire-even a half-vampire-it was.

  I checked the water level, saw that the squirt gun was almost empty, and then replaced it in my jacket pocket.

  “Thanks for taking care of those three, Devona. You probably saved my unlife.” At least for another day or two, I
added mentally.

  “I didn’t think about it; I just grabbed the gun off the ground and started shooting.” She sounded amazed, as if surprised by her own actions. “Where in Nekropolis did you get holy water, anyway? It’s extremely illegal. If Father Dis found out-” She stopped and looked at me in horror. “The Hidden Light! You’re a member of the Hidden Light!”

  She started backing away and I held up a hand-my right one-to calm her. It was a little hard to control, thanks to Narda sizzling my arm, but it still worked. “Take it easy. I’m not one of the Hidden Light, but from time to time they supply me with certain items I can’t get any other way.”

  That didn’t do much to reassure her. “They’re a terrorist version of the Inquisition, Matthew: radical Christians completely dedicated to the destruction of Nekropolis and the Darkfolk by any means necessary!”

  “I don’t condone their actions, but if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have been able to get me hands on the holy water that just helped save your butt.”

  “I don’t care what your reasons are. It’s because of people like them that my kind had to leave Earth in the first place. People like them-and like you.” She looked at me like I was the lowest form of life imaginable.

  I knew the intensity of Devona’s reaction was an emotional aftereffect of the battle we’d just survived-most likely the first she’d ever fought-but despite that I couldn’t control my rising anger.

  “If you don’t want my help anymore, just say so. Maybe you’ll get lucky and the Dawnstone will just show up on its own. And if it doesn’t, maybe Lord Galm will have mercy and kill you quickly.” It was a rotten thing to say, and I immediately wanted take it back, but I didn’t know how. I’ve never been good at apologies.

  Devona was silent for a few moments, and I could tell that she was considering walking away and being done with me. But in the end her dedication to her job-and fear of her father-won out.

  She let out a long sigh and then in a tired voice said, ““All right. Where to now?”

  I was glad she stayed. I needed her to intercede with her father on my behalf, get him to use his powers, or his influence with the other Lords or even Father Dis himself, to save my undead excuse for an existence. Not because it mattered to me what happened to her…and definitely not because I was starting to care for her.

  Honest.

  “We head back to the Sprawl,” I said. “To find Varma and-with any luck-the Dawnstone.”

  EIGHT

  I wouldn’t have been all that unhappy if Lazlo had shown up then, truth to tell. I wasn’t looking forward to battling the crowds in the Sprawl again. But of course he didn’t, and so we had no choice but to walk. There were no coaches or cars for hire in Gothtown that night; they’d all been previously engaged by Bloodborn for transportation to the Cathedral.

  To pass the time, and more importantly because it might have something to do with why the Dawnstone was stolen, I asked Devona to tell me everything she knew about the Renewal Ceremony. I was familiar with the basics-every Nekropolitan was-but I hoped that as the daughter of a Darklord, she might be able to provide more insight into the specifics.

  “The river Phlegethon, the air we breathe, and in some ways the city itself are all maintained by the power of Umbriel. When the Darkfolk first came to this dimension, Father Dis and the five Lords created the shadowsun and set it above the Nightspire to sustain their people in their new home. But Umbriel isn’t eternal; it needs to be recharged once a year.”

  “And thus the Renewal Ceremony,” I said.

  She nodded. “The five Darklords conserve their powers for months and then, on the anniversary of the Descension they gather in the Nightspire along with Father Dis to perform the rite which will revitalize Umbriel. Nekropolis’s most illustrious citizens are invited to witness the ceremony. I never have, though. My rank among the Bloodborn isn’t high enough to merit an invitation.” She said this quietly, without self pity. “Do you think there’s a connection between the theft of the Dawnstone and the Renewal Ceremony?”

  “Maybe,” I answered. “The Darklords don’t particularly like being equal; they’re always trying to gain an advantage over each other.”

  That’s what caused the Bloodwars two hundred years ago, and though a lasting peace was finally negotiated-or, as I’ve heard it, violently enforced by an extremely fed-up Father Dis-to this day the Darklords continue to spy on and plot against one another. I suppose all the intrigue and power-struggles prevent them from getting bored as they while away Eternity.

  I went on. “From what Waldemar told us, it sounds like the Dawnstone would be a powerful weapon-especially against a vampire. Because of the Renewal Ceremony, this day is the one time of the year when the Darklords’ minds are on matters other than their endless bickering…a good time to take an opponent by surprise.”

  Devona stopped walking, grabbed me by the arms, and turned me toward her. She might have only been a half vampire, but she was still strong as hell. “You think someone-perhaps Varma-is plotting to destroy my father?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Then we must return to the Cathedral and warn him!”

  She let go of me and started to run in the direction of Lord Galm’s stronghold, but it was my turn to grab her, and I took hold of her arm to stop her. She struggled, and she was more than strong enough to break free of my grip if she wanted to, so I knew I had to talk fast.

  “You told me you didn’t want your father to know about the Dawnstone being missing before we had a chance to at least find out what happened to it.”

  “That was before you said he might be in danger. Now let me go!” She tried to pull away from me, but I tightened my grip, praying her exertions wouldn’t snap off my fingers.

  “Listen to me for a minute: if someone does intend to kill Lord Galm, whoever it is won’t try now. Think. You told me the Darklords conserve their power for months before the Renewal Ceremony-right?”

  “Right.”

  “So who would be foolish enough to attack Galm at the height of his strength? No, the best time to kill him would be during the Ceremony, when he’s distracted and expending his power to help recharge Umbriel. He’s safe until then.”

  Devona didn’t look completely convinced, but she stopped trying to tear away from me, which was good, because as strong as she was, she probably would’ve taken my arm with her when she left.

  I pressed on. “Even if you did try to warn him, as busy as he is right now, would he even talk to you?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “And don’t forget that there’s a good chance your father is angry with you right now for bringing a zombie to his pre-Ceremony celebration. Besides, what do you really have to tell him, other than vague suspicions? The more we can learn, the greater the chance we can make him listen to us. Make him believe us. Look, how long do we have before the ceremony starts?”

  She shrugged. “Hours, at least. We’ll know it’s near when the Deathknell of the Nightspire sounds.”

  “So we have time to try to find Varma.”

  She sighed. “I suppose.”

  “All right, then let’s quit talking and start walking.”

  She nodded, but she didn’t look happy about it.

  We started in the direction of the bridge again, but immediately stopped. There before us was a midnight black coach hitched to two large ebony horses. And perched in the seat on top sat a man in a top hat and cloak which looked as if they’d been fashioned out of solid darkness, a horsewhip cradled in his lap. He turned his face toward us, but I couldn’t make out his shadowy, indistinct features. He inclined his head and touched the brim of his hat in greeting, but said nothing.

  The coach had made no noise whatsoever pulling up, but either Devona hadn’t noticed or it didn’t bother her.

  “Look, Matthew, perhaps we won’t have to fight our way through the crowds after all.” She stepped toward the coach, but I grabbed her elbow and pulled her back.

  “That’s th
e Black Rig, Silent Jack’s coach,” I said harshly. “You don’t want to ride with him.”

  She frowned at me. “Why not?”

  “That’s right; you said you didn’t get out of Gothtown much. Let’s just say that Jack has a thing for the ladies. And his fares are quite steep.”

  Jack’s shadow-shrouded face remained pointed at us a moment more, then he turned forward, raised his whip, and cracked it soundlessly over his horses, Malice and Misery. The animals whinnied silently, displaying teeth as black as their hides, and then the rig vanished, winking out of existence as if it had never been.

  “You know,” Devona said in a shaky voice, “Suddenly walking doesn’t seem so bad after all.”

  Bars, nightclubs, strip joints, and bad theatre are as common in the Sprawl as scales on a Gill-man. But the hottest, trendiest, most debauched entertainments can be found in only one place: Sybarite Street. It’s jam-packed with pleasure-seekers at the best of times, but during the Descension celebration, you couldn’t cut your way through the throngs with a high-precision laser. Still, if Varma were anywhere in Nekropolis, he was probably here, so Devona and I made our way the best we could.

  According to Devona, Varma frequented quite a few establishments on Sybarite Street, so we decided to start with the first one we came to: the Krimson Kiss. I’d never been inside before, but I’d heard a few things about it. I wasn’t looking forward to finding out if they were true.

  Outside, the Krimson Kiss wasn’t much to look at. A large blocky stone building with two large neon K’s on the roof, blazing-what else?-crimson light into the darkness. Like everywhere else on the street tonight, there was a long line of less-than-patient would-be patrons standing outside. But I figured there was a good chance I would rot away to a pile of zombie dust before the line budged a foot, so I took hold of Devona’s hand and pulled her along with me to the front. A tall, broadshouldered satyr was working the Krimson Kiss’s door that night, and he stood behind a velvet rope barrier, well-muscled arms crossed over his body-builder chest, grinning at the crowd through his curly reddish-brown beard. He was naked, as was customary for his kind, but since he was covered with thick fur from beneath his washboard abs down to his cloven-hoofed feet, he didn’t really need any clothing.