The Nekropolis Archives (21 page)

  "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?

  Time to pay Gregor a visit.

  "C'mon, Devona. We need to talk to someone."

  "Talk – Matthew, Varma's dead. We have to take care of him."

  "Take care… what are you talking about? He's dead; for real this time. There's nothing we can do for him now."

  "We can not leave him lying in an alley like discarded refuse," she said tightly.

  "Well, we can't very well take him with us. Even in Nekropolis, carrying a bloody corpse around attracts attention. Besides, you didn't seem to care very much for him when I made the mistake of calling him your brother. In fact, you seemed quite offended."

  "Varma was not especially kind to me, it's true. But he was related to me, after a fashion. He was family. And besides, you just don't leave a person to rot in an alley when he dies – it just isn't right!"

  "Now I
know
you don't get out of the Cathedral much. Most of the people in this city would do just that and not think twice about it. Hell, I doubt they'd even think once about it."

  "I'm not most people. But I guess you are, eh?"

  "What are you insinuating?"

  "I can't believe how cold you're being, Matt. The way you didn't blink an eye when we found Varma… examined him as if he were just a piece a meat. He was alive and now he's dead. Doesn't that mean anything to you? Doesn't it do anything to you?"

  "I'm a zombie, Devona. And zombies don't feel emotions, at least not the same way–"

  "Normal zombies don't think, either; they only do what their masters tell them too. But you think just fine. If you don't feel anything, perhaps it doesn't have anything to do with your being a zombie. Perhaps that's who Matthew Richter really is – a man who was dead inside long before he died on the outside."

  She pushed past me and ran out of the alley. I just stood and watched her go, her words having hurt me in a way I didn't think I could be hurt anymore. I told myself I'd only been doing my job, had been focused on trying to help Devona and prevent my final end.

  Maybe she was right, maybe I should have, could have, felt more. But Christ, I was a cop for twenty years, and in that time I saw more cruelty, despair, and death than I can remember. You had to become numb eventually to survive, to get through the day without losing it, climbing up a water tower, and taking potshots at pedestrians. All cops knew it; it was part of the price you paid when you signed on to serve and protect.

  But human beings aren't machines: they can't turn off their emotions at work and then turn them on once they get home. So they get into the habit of leaving them off all the time. That's why so many cops are divorced, like me. Or end up substance abusers or suicides.

  Maybe Devona was right; maybe I had been a zombie long before I came to Nekropolis.

  I looked down at Varma, and tried to feel something – sadness, pity, disgust. But I didn't feel anything. I hadn't known Varma. But I did know Devona.

  I bent down and, as best I could with my bum right arm, I lifted him over my shoulder and carried him out of the alley.

Devona didn't say anything when I caught up with her. We walked in silence, making our way through the crowds in the street as best we could. I had been wrong about one thing: no one paid any attention to us. Since it was the Descension celebration, I guess everyone assumed that we were escorting a friend who'd ingested a little too much fun. That, or they had ingested a little too much of their own and didn't give a damn about anything except remaining upright.

  I didn't know what Devona expected us to do with the body. If we took Varma back to the Cathedral – to Lord Galm – that would be the end of our investigation. Galm would learn of the Dawnstone's theft, punish Devona (and perhaps blame her for not informing him about the Dawnstone earlier so that he could have taken steps to prevent his son's death), and in a day or two I'd be a pile of Kellogg's Zombie Flakes. Unless Lord Galm in his anger decided to destroy Devona and me on the spot.

  Preoccupied with these cheery thoughts, I almost didn't notice when Devona held up a hand for me to stop. She pointed to a hulking gray figure stomping unimpeded down the street as if the crowd didn't exist.

  "Sentinel!" she called out.

  The faceless – and for that matter earless – golem stopped, and then turned in our direction. It regarded us for several seconds before heading toward us with its stiff-legged gait, parting the crowd before it like the Moses of ambulatory clay.

  It stopped and regarded us with whatever sensory apparatus it possessed. It looked like every other Sentinel I'd ever seen, save that this one had faint line about nine inches long down the middle of its chest. Probably a souvenir left by one of Nekropolis's more powerful – and foolish – denizens resisting arrest.

  "My friend and I found this man," she indicated Varma, "in the alley behind the Broken Cross. We believe he died of a drug overdose."

  The Sentinel stood impassively for a moment and then pointed with a thick finger at the ground. The message was clear; I set Varma down. The Sentinel bent forward from the waist as if hinged, and examined the body. At least, I assumed it examined the body. I had no real way of telling for certain.

  When it was satisfied, the Sentinel straightened and pointed down the street. Again, the message was unmistakable. We were free to go.

  If I'd been alive, I'd have probably had to release a relieved breath. There had been a good chance that the Sentinel might've wanted to take us to the Nightspire for questioning by an Adjudicator. Maybe there was too much going on during the Descension festival for the Sentinel to bother. Even in Nekropolis, where the police force had been mystically manufactured, there weren't enough cops to go around.

  I nodded, one cop to another, and we got the hell out of there before the Sentinel could change its mind. When we were halfway down the street, I looked back to see that the Sentinel had slung Varma's body over its shoulder and was moving off in the opposite direction – toward the Nightspire.

  "The Adjudicators will eventually identify Varma, and then inform Lord Galm," Devona said. "And Father will claim the body and see that it's laid to rest." She sounded relieved.

  "Then you intend to continue searching for the Dawnstone?"

  "Of course. Whatever gave you the idea I wanted to stop?"

  Human, vampire, or a combination of the two – sometimes women just didn't make any sense to me.

  "Oh, and Matt? Thanks." She smiled gratefully.

  It was one of the best smiles I'd ever been favored with. "Sure. And now we need to find a way to–"

  I was interrupted by the loud
blat-blat-blat
of some idiot leaning on a car horn.

  Across the street, parked halfway on the sidewalk, was a cab.

  "Hey!" Lazlo shouted. "You two need a ride?"

THIRTEEN

"Are you out of your worm-eaten mind?" Lazlo shouted as he swerved to avoid a being that resembled a pair of giant Siamese frogs.

  "I've gone through Glamere a couple times since my run-in with Talaith," I said. "And you've taken me on nearly every occasion. We got through okay then."

  "That's because of my finely honed driving skills and a hell of a lot of luck." Lazlo roared across the Bridge of Nine Sorrows, taking us from the Sprawl and back into Gothtown. "But luck doesn't hold forever, Matt – and you've used more than your fair share over the last couple years."

  "Life's a gamble, Lazlo." Especially when you might only have a day or two of it left. "The case I'm working on is stalled, and I need Gregor to give it a jump start. Besides, if you think about it, this is the safest time for me to cross Glamere. Talaith is undoubtedly conserving her strength for the Renewal Ceremony. She won't have the time – or the energy – to worry about me."

  "Maybe," the demon allowed, "but if your bones end up hanging on a wall in Woodhome, don't say I didn't warn you."

  "Duly noted." I sat back against the seat and turned to Devona. "Maybe you should think about letting us drop you off before we get to Glamere. If Talaith detects my presence, things will get very ugly, very fast."

  "I understand the risk involved, but I still want to go. It's my problem we're trying to solve, after all. And I've never been to Glamere or the Boneyard. Besides," – she paused – "I think we make a good team."

  I smiled. "I think you're right."

  We didn't say much more after that, just sat, gripped the armrests, and prayed that Lazlo wouldn't swerve off the Obsidian Way and slam us into a building. After a time, we drew near the Bridge of Shattered Dreams, the entrance to Glamere. As we drove across, I hoped the bridge's name wouldn't turn out to an omen of things to come.

Glamere – the Dominion of the Arcane, the magic workers of Nekropolis – is a series of medieval villages nestled in a bucolic countryside. The buildings range from simple huts and shacks to wood-and-stone houses with thatched roofs. Nearly every house has a garden full of herbs, flowers, and plants, some recognizable, most not… and some which sway and undulate as if more than just exotic-looking vegetables. Emblazoned on the outside of each building, sometimes in crude soot-drawn lines, sometimes in elaborately painted colors, are an infinite array of hex signs. I couldn't decipher any of them, so I asked Devona.

  "I only recognize those that serve as wardspells," she said. "As to the rest, your guess is as good as mine."

  The roads in Glamere are little more than unpaved wagon routes for the most part, but since we were traveling on the Obsidian Way, our ride was smooth and we made good time. We often saw fires in the distance, probably surrounded by chanting witches and warlocks celebrating the Descension in their own pagan way. Besides producing most of the city's spells, potions, and magic devices, Glamere was also the primary farming center, and on a normal day we might have run into (literally, with Lazlo driving) ox-drawn carts full of produce or herds of animals being brought in from pasture. But this was Descension Day. No one was working and aside from Lazlo's cab, the Obsidian Way was thankfully deserted.

  If I'd been alive I would have been holding my breath ever since we'd crossed over into Talaith's Dominion. But we were halfway across Glamere – or at least I thought we were; it's hard to judge distance since there are no road markers or prominent landmarks – and nothing had happened yet. I actually allowed myself to start thinking this was going to be the easiest part of the case yet.

  Stupid of me.

  Lightning flashed across the sky, startling me. Not because I'm afraid of storms, but because Nekropolis normally doesn't have weather. No sun, only Umbriel's eternal shadowlight, no heat, no rain, no snow – nothing except wind, and never very strong at that. No, this lightning wasn't natural. And that could only mean one thing.

  "Talaith's aware of us," I said. Thunder rumbled from somewhere off in the distance, probably originating from Woodhome.