by Tim Waggoner
If the warlock was surprised to see us, he didn't show it. He stepped toward us with a casual confidence that said he was used to having his evil rituals interrupted by a pair of out-of-town cops. Very out-of-town.
"I'm afraid I'm unacquainted with you two gentlemen, but I'm impressed that you made it this far." He looked us over. "Though I must say that you both appear somewhat the worse for wear."
Despite the fact his weapon was out of ammunition, Dale drew it and leveled it at the warlock's head. "You can cut the 'It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bond' crap. Just tell me if you're the person responsible for the death of seven men and women in Cleveland."
Amusement flickered in the warlock's eyes, and I wondered if he could somehow sense that Dale's gun was empty. "I am. Though as you can see, they've been reborn." He gestured toward the Overmind. "So technically, I suppose I'm not a killer. I'm more of a…" a slow smile spread across his face. "A recycler, I suppose you could say."
Despite ourselves, Dale and I turned to regard the Overmind once more.
"The coroner's report said the people you killed died without outward signs of violence," I said. "We've already figured out that you used some kind of spell to stop their hearts. But the coroner also said that portions of their brains were missing, even though each of their skulls was intact."
The warlock bowed his head in mock-humility. "I must confess to possessing a certain modicum of skill at psychic surgery."
I ignored the arrogant bastard and went on. "So you're telling us that you used the brain matter you stole from those people to build the Overmind?"
The warlock stepped closer to the giant brain and laid his hand on it as if stroking a beloved pet. "Precisely. Those seven people were all extremely gifted psychically, but none of them knew it. Moreover, they'd never even used their preternatural abilities, which meant their brain matter was completely unspoiled. Pristine minds – virgin minds, if you will – are almost impossible to find in Nekropolis. They need to be… imported."
Up to this point, Talaith hadn't said anything, but now she stepped toward the warlock, grabbed his shoulder none-toogently, and spun him around to face her. "We don't have time for this foolishness, Yberio. We need to finish powering up the Overmind and use it strike against Edrigu before he becomes aware of what we're trying to do! The fool may be Lord of the Dead, but doesn't mean he's as slow-witted as his mindless subjects. We only have moments before he senses what we're up to."
She glanced past Yberio at Dale and me, and I could feel the hatred blazing in her eyes as if it were a physical force. "Kill them while I continue the ritual."
Yberio's jaw muscles tensed, telling me that he didn't appreciate being spoken to as one of the help. "Yes, my love," he answered through gritted teeth.
"Forget the 'my love' shit and just do it!" she snapped. She turned to face the Overmind, raising her hands over her head and chanting harsh, guttural words in a language I didn't recognize, but which hurt to hear. It felt like someone was jamming rusty metal spikes into my ears.
Dale and I exchanged a quick look. Understanding the emotional stressors on your opponents is just as important as knowing what weapons they have – sometimes more so. It was obvious that Yberio was Talaith's lover and that he thought that relationship made them equals. It was just as obvious to Dale and me that Talaith thought differently.
Yberio glared at Talaith for a moment, but she ignored him as she continued working whatever magic was necessary to get the Overmind to do its thing. Yberio turned back to face us, and from the dark expression on his face, it was clear he intended to take out his anger toward Talaith on us.
Dale kept his empty gun trained on the warlock, and with his free hand he gestured to me behind his back. Get ready.
My left hand still had fragments of glass in it – and still hurt like hell – but my gun-hand was free and uninjured, and I took a half-step behind Dale to cover my motion from Yberio as I reached into my jacket pocket and removed the last device we'd managed to acquire in the Sprawl. It looked like a simple pocket watch, old and badly in need of polishing, but otherwise unremarkable. Lady Varvara – who was very displeased that Talaith had made use of her dimension portal in her latest scheme to attack Lord Edrigu – had given the device to us before we left the Sprawl. She'd said it was called the Death Watch and that all we would have to do was push the switch to activate it when the right time came. After that, we'd know what to do.
I hoped like hell she was right – and that she was telling the truth. She was a demon, after all, and her kind had a reputation for being somewhat lacking in the truth-telling department.
If Yberio had seen me take hold of the Death Watch, he gave no sign. Perhaps he simply thought he was too powerful to worry about whatever meager magics Dale and I might have acquired during our brief stay in Nekropolis.
"You gentlemen were quite correct in your earlier surmise," the warlock said. "I did use magic to kill those people. The spell is a quite simple one, really." He smiled coldly. "Allow me to demonstrate it to you."
That sure as hell sounded like a cue to me. I thumbed the switch atop the Death Watch, and the black hands on the clock face began spinning wildly. Dark energy spread outward from the watch, so cold that it felt as if I'd plunged my hand into ice water. I wanted to drop the damned thing, but I forced myself to hold on to it.
Talaith continued chanting, but she shot me a quick look, and her eyes widened in shock when she saw what I held. Yberio stared at the Death Watch and the spreading ebon energy that surrounded it, his jaw hanging open in a way that might've been comical in other circumstances.
"You can't possibly have that!" Yberio shouted. "There's no way you could've gained possession of a token of such power!
Talaith broke off her chanting to yell at him. "Don't be an idiot! That bitch Varvara must've have given it to them! But it doesn't matter how those poor excuses for mortals came by it, just kill the morons before they can use it!"
Yberio's head jerked as if she'd just physically slapped him, and he blinked several times before raising his hand and pointing his index finger at me. I understood then what was going to happen to me: Yberio was going to use his magic to stop my heart, just as he had done with the seven men and women he'd killed on Earth. By this time the dark energy emanating from the Death Watch had formed a black sphere around my hand about the size of a soccer ball. My hand felt frozen, and I could sense tremendous power building up within the sphere, but I still had no idea what to do with it.
C'mon, Varvara… you said I'd know what to do when the time came…
Yberio spoke a word and a thin beam of white light shot forth from his finger and headed straight toward me. But Dale threw himself between me and the warlock, and the light speared him straight through the heart instead. He made no sound, but his entire body stiffened as if a massive electric current passed through him, and then he simply collapsed to the floor. No final words, no last look passing between us. It was like Yberio had reached inside my partner, found his life switch, and flipped it off.
Yberio grinned as he looked down at Dale's corpse, then he raised his head to look at me.
"That's eight," he said. "And you'll make nine." He lifted his hand and aimed his index finger at me.
And then, just as Varvara had promised, I understood what I had to do.
"Fuck you –" I looked to Talaith – "both." And then I turned to the Overmind and thrust the hand holding the Death Watch into the pulpy mass of the gigantic brain. I heard Talaith shout "No!" followed by the sharp sensation of Yberio's magic beam cutting through me. And then I heard the Overmind's voice in my mind – a chorus of six voices combined, actually, and it whispered two words:
Thank you.
And then a darkness blacker, deeper, and colder than anything I had ever imagined rushed in to fill me, and I knew nothing more.
"When I woke up, the Overmind was nothing but a pool of necrotized tissue on the floor on the metal chamber, the cables that had attac
hed it to the walls dangling useless in the air. I crawled over to Dale – my limbs were stiff and uncooperative, and at the time I thought it was just due to the aftershock of the Overmind's destruction – and I checked his pulse. I wasn't surprised to find he no longer had one. Yberio and Talaith were both lying on the floor as well. I assumed they'd been hit by some kind of psychic or magical backlash when the Overmind exploded, but I had no idea if it would cause them any permanent damage. After all, I was still alive. Or so I thought.
"I checked their pulses. Yberio didn't have one. Talaith did, but hers was weak. I was a cop – supposedly one of the good guys – but I confess at that moment, I seriously considering wrapping my hands around Talaith's throat and finishing what the destruction of the Overmind had started. Instead, I turned away and did a quick search for the Death Watch. I'd lost my grip on the device when I blacked out, I couldn't find it in the mess of what remained of the Overmind. For all I know the Death Watch was destroyed, but if not, I suppose Talaith has it. I really don't know, and to tell you the truth, I don't care. I gave up looking for the watch, picked up Dale's body, and carried him out of the chamber."
Devona, who'd been listening to my story as raptly as Arvel, if not more so, put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed hard enough so I'd be sure to feel it. "I'm sorry for your loss, Matt."
I nodded my thanks for her sympathy. Dale was a good man, a good partner, and a good friend. I don't know how I would've made it through my divorce if he hadn't been there for me. He saved my life more than once on the streets of Cleveland, and in the end he'd given his own life so that I could live a few moments longer to finish the last case we'd ever work together.
"He was a hell of a cop, and he died in the line of duty." It was all the epitaph I could bring myself to say aloud, but maybe it was enough.
"Yberio was a Demilord," Arvel said, "one of the high-ranking Darkfolk who, while extremely strong, weren't quite powerful enough to be chosen by Dis to help him create Nekropolis. There's been no mention of him on the streets for the last couple years." The ghoul smiled with his blood-stained lamprey mouth. "Now I know why."
"What happened to Talaith?" Devona asked.
"She's a Darklord," I said. "I assume her powers enabled her to withstand the blast, but considerably weakened. She's recovered some since then, but she's still not up to her full strength. Needless to say, I haven't been to Glamere many times since. And I make sure to watch my back when any Arcane are around."
Arvel smacked his lips. "A most… delicious story, Mr. Richter. But you left out one salient detail: how you became a zombie."
"Remember how I said the murder victims showed no sign of external injuries? It's because Yberio threw a deathspell at them and stopped their hearts instantly. That's how Dale died, and Yberio did the same to me – just as I released the power of the Death Watch into the Overmind. Somehow, Yberio's spell, the Death Watch's magic, and the release of psychic energy when the Overmind died all combined and when I awoke, I was dead, but in a way still alive, too." I shrugged. "That's Papa Chatha's theory, anyway."
"Fascinating!" Arvel gushed. "I knew some of the details, of course, but I've never heard the full story. Tell me, what arrangements did you make for the disposal of Mr. Ramsey's remains?"
I felt a wave of anger and disgust. Ghouls had an unhealthy preoccupation with dead bodies, and I wasn't about to tell Arvel where and how I'd laid Dale to rest, just in case the gluttonous monster decided to go in search of my dear, departed partner.
"Not to be rude," I said, not caring if I was or not, "but my associate and I are in something of a hurry."
"Ah, another case full of danger and intrigue! You must let me know how it turns out!"
"I will," I said. It was an easy promise to make, since I knew there was a chance I might not be around to keep it. "Now if you could quid quo pro us right back?"
"I'll be happy to answer your questions; once I've finished attending to nature's call, that is."
I was about to ask if he needed any help getting up, but then I noticed the large metal washtub beneath his chair. Arvel clicked his teeth and Carbuncle scuttled over and pulled a lever on the side of the ghoul's chair, releasing a trap door in the seat.
As the next few moments passed – along with a number of other things – I was more grateful than ever that I had no sense of smell.
TEN
As we left the Krimson Kiss, Devona looked like she was suffering from shell shock.
"My father is anything but a saint, and during my time at the Cathedral I've seen some terrible things. But I have never experienced anything as sickening as that ghoul!"
"He's disgusting, no doubt about it. But he did give us some useful information."
Devona snorted, but whether because she didn't agree with me or because she was trying to get the stink out of her nostrils, I don't know.
"All he told us was that while Varma used to frequent the Krimson Kiss, he hasn't been around in the last few weeks."
"You're forgetting what he said about Varma being a heavy drug user."
"That's no surprise; I told you he was a hedonist. Besides, drugs don't affect Bloodborn physiology the same way they do the human body. Varma would need to take large doses to get even mild effects."
Nekropolis has all the drugs you'd find on the streets of any city on Earth – marijuana, coke, crack, heroin, crystal meth – as well as quite a few locally produced specialties, such as tangleglow and mind dust.
"But that gives Varma a motive for stealing the Dawnstone beyond mere lust for power" I said. "He wouldn't be the first junkie to steal to support his habit. And don't forget the traces of powder we found in the Collection room. They could very well be drug residue of some sort."
Devona shook her head. "I told you, Bloodborn handle drugs differently than humans. We don't get addicted. I suppose it's because the need for blood supersedes all other needs."
"Maybe," I allowed. "We'll just have to ask Varma when we find him, won't we?"
We continued walking down Sybarite Street and checked a couple more places, including the Freakatorium and, as Father Dis is my witness, a country vampire bar named Westerna's. I'll never forget the sight of vampires in cowboy hats, jeans, and boots line dancing – though I intend to spend the rest of my existence trying like hell.
Finally, we'd penetrated to the heart of the Sprawl, and one of the hottest of its hot spots: the Broken Cross. From the outside, it looks like any trendy Earth night club: all chrome, glass, and glitter. The only difference is the day-glo neon sign above the entrance; it looks like the sixties' peace symbol, only without the circle. An upside down and broken cross.
The street outside the club was completely jammed with people who wanted in. Half a block away was the closest we could get. I steered us toward a fluorescent street light, and we took up a position alongside it.
"Now what?" Devona asked. "Are you planning to introduce the Broken Cross's doorman to the wonders of instant hair loss or do you have yet another surprise in those pockets of yours?"
"As a matter of fact, I do." I reached into one of my jacket pockets and brought forth two of the most dangerous weapons in my entire arsenal – a string of firecrackers and my trusty lighter.
"Would you like to do the honors?" I offered.
She frowned, unsure of what I was up to, but she took the lighter and lit the firecrackers.
"Throw them as close to the entrance as you can," I instructed.
She heaved the firecrackers over the heads of the crowd and, thanks to her half-vampire strength, they fell within five feet of the entrance.
I cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted, "The Hidden Light! They're attacking!"
And the pop-pop-pop of firecrackers exploding began. The sound wasn't very impressive, but then it didn't have to be, given what I'd just yelled. People screamed, shrieked, bellowed, and howled in fear, probably believing incendiary grenades were going off in their midst, or perhaps a hail of silver bullets rained do
wn upon them. Whatever they thought, they had a single common desire: escape.
"Grab hold of the pole and don't let go!" I told Devona. We held tight as a panicking mass of Darkfolk and humans rushed past, nearly sweeping us away. We got battered pretty good, but we managed to hold on, if only barely.
Several minutes later, the street was clear.
Devona looked at me. "That wasn't very nice."
"Tell you what, you find me a blackboard, and I'll write, 'I'll never fake a terrorist attack again' a thousand times – after we find the Dawnstone." I started across the empty street and Devona followed, looking like she was trying hard not to laugh.
Inside, the party was going strong. Either word of the faux Hidden Light assault hadn't filtered into the club, or everyone was too high or drunk to care. I suspected the latter.
Techno-rave music throbbed and pulsed, the jams cranked out by Nekropolis's most sought-after DJ, the Phantom of the Paradise, and laser lights flashed in time with the beat. Beings of all sorts gyrated wildly on the dance floor, looking more like they were engaging in foreplay or ritualistic warfare – perhaps both – rather than dancing. Above their heads played out a holoshow depicting various scenes of torture. It looked as if MTV had produced a special on the Inquisition.