by Tim Waggoner
Like Lazlo, Shrike's an old friend, and Devona knew we could count on him in a pinch, which was why she'd contacted him before heading for Tenebrus to break me out. She knew we'd need weapons and Shrike was the only one we knew who could move about the city undetected, given the nature of his travel form.
Devona handed the backpack over to me and it was my turn to examine the contents. There were a number of minor magical items from Hop Frog's and I chose several and tucked them away in various pockets in my coat. That is, in Bogdan's coat. I left the remainder of the magic items for Devona to choose from. She usually doesn't carry weapons, preferring to rely on her formidable intelligence, supernatural strength and speed, as well as her psychic abilities. But considering our current situation, I figured she might want to stock up on some extra insurance.
Best of all was the gun Shrike had found for me. It was a .45 instead of the 9mm I usually carry, but escaped convicts can't be choosers. A 9mm carries more ammo and the velocity is better, and there's less recoil, which makes it easier for me, with my slower zombie reflexes, to use. Still, the .45 has better stopping power, which makes it a decent weapon on the streets of Nekropolis. I removed the weapon from the backpack and tucked it into my jacket along with the box of ammo Shrike had brought along.
"I don't suppose you managed to score silver bullets?"
"Sorry," Shrike said, "just the regular."
I nodded. It would have to do. I returned the pack to Devona and she took the rest of the contents for herself. My vox had been taken from me back at the Nightspire so Shrike gave me his and I slipped it into one of my pockets.
"I know I don't have to ask if you were followed," I said to Shrike, "but as I'm more paranoid than usual right now, I'm going to anyway. Were you?"
Shrike looked as if my question had deeply wounded him. "Matt, I'm surprised by your lack of faith in me. For Christ's sake–" He didn't get any farther, for upon speaking the holy name his mouth burst into flame.
Shrike cursed as he attempted to beat out the flames with both hands. I sighed and handed him my mug of aqua sanguis. He downed the contents in a single gulp, extinguishing the flames but leaving his tongue and lips burnt and blackened. He took another long drag with his cigarette and this time when his body resolidified his mouth was healed.
"You really need to learn how to watch your language," I told him for perhaps the hundredth time since we met. He just grinned at me like he always does and not for the first time I wondered if Shrike "accidentally" spoke holy names as simply another aspect of an eccentric street persona. After all, the man was nothing if not theatrical in his presentation.
"Well, at least we're armed," I said. I'd felt naked without some sort of weaponry on my person, and even though what Shrike had procured for us wasn't top of the line by a long shot, it was a damn sight better than nothing, and I felt a lot better than I had upon first walking into Westerna's.
"So what's the word on the street?" I asked Shrike. "Is anyone aware that I'm a wanted zombie?"
Shrike shook his head. "I don't think so. You know how it works. When the Adjudicators pull someone off the street and toss them into Tenebrus, word may never get out. As far as their friends and family are concerned, they've just gone missing – and since there are any number of reasons why someone might end up with their face on a milk carton in this city–"
"No one's ever sure what happened to them," I finished. Good. Bad enough that the Sentinels were looking for me, but as long as no one else was aware that I'd been sentenced to Tenebrus and escaped, I could–
Westerna's Mind's Eye projectors were showing a video from a homegrown group called the Hunchback Forty, when all of a sudden they went black, taking the music with them. The club's patrons booed and hissed, and since more of them were vampires, they had hissing down to an art. But the bartender shouted for everyone to be quiet.
"Acantha's just come on the Mind's Eye with a special broadcast," he said. "I'm going to switch over to it."
There were murmurs of surprise and delight from the crowd, but Devona and I looked at each other and said the same thing: "Uh-oh."
The Mind's Eyes activated once more, this time showing Acantha's transmission. As usual, since the image was captured by the cyberserpents on her head, Acantha herself wasn't visible, but the voice came through loud and clear. The person her cameras were trained on was very familiar to me, as it had been less than a day since I'd seen him.
Quillion.
The voice, however, was Acantha's.
"Hello, Nekropolis! You're live on the scene with Acantha! I'm standing inside the Nightspire talking with Brother Quillion, the First Adjudicator. Thank you so much for granting me this exclusive interview, Quillion. I'm sure my viewers are aware of how rarely Adjudicators speak to the media."
Implied in that was a big screw you to the city's other media outlets: The Tome, the Daily Atrocity, Bedlam 66.6 and others – as Acantha publicly gloated over her "exclusive."
Quillion, looking stiff and uncomfortable on camera, nodded.
"You're welcome, Acantha."
"I know you're a busy man, so let's get right down to it. As I understand it, you have a message you wish to deliver to my viewers."
"That's right." Quillion's gaze shifted slightly upward, and he was now speaking directly to Acantha's cyberserpents, and thus to everyone in the city who was watching Acantha's unscheduled broadcast which, given the gorgon's popularity, was doubtless one hell of a lot of people.
I had a good idea what was coming next.
"Citizens of Nekropolis," Quillion began. "Many of you are no doubt familiar with Matthew Richter, a self-willed zombie, who for several years has worked in the Sprawl as a private investigator. During that time he was reputed to have served his clients well. In fact, Acantha recently featured a brief interview with him on her program."
"Yes, I did, Quillion," Acantha broke in, more because she loved being on a first name basis with an Adjudicator than out of any real need to confirm his statement.
Quillion went on.
"Whatever Mr. Richter's past deeds, he was recently found guilty of a very serious crime, the nature of which I am not at liberty to divulge at this time, and he was sentenced to Tenebrus. As impossible as it sounds, Mr. Richter somehow managed to escape and is believed to be at large. I've alerted every Sentinel in the city to be on the lookout for Mr. Richter, but I wish to bring him back into custody as swiftly as possible. For that reason, I'm offering a substantial reward to anyone who can capture Mr. Richter and bring to him the Nightspire…" He paused. "Relatively intact."
"When you say substantial…" Acantha said.
"Five hundred thousand darkgems," Quillion said, speaking the obscenely large number without so much as blinking.
I was impressed by the size of the reward Quillion was offering. I hadn't realized I was so dangerous. Evidently Acantha was impressed too for she let out a low whistle and the image of Quillion started shaking. I guessed her cyberserpents had become overly excited by the Adjudicator's news. Acantha made a few soothing sounds to calm her pets and the image steadied.
"You heard it here first, folks," the gorgon said, sounding far too pleased with herself. After the way I'd humiliated her at Sinsation she had to be absolutely loving this.
"And for those of you who need a reminder of what Matthew Richter looks like…"
Quillion's image faded from Westerna's Mind's Eyes to be replaced by a still image of me. It was one from my disastrous interview with Acantha, pulled from her memory, no doubt. She'd selected a moment toward the end of the interview, right before I'd hit her with Anansi's Web. I was scowling and my eyes blazed with anger. I looked like I was ready to kill her.
Shrike turned to me. "I think you should probably avoid speaking to reporters in the future." He glanced back at the frozen image of my face. "Seriously."
The picture changed again, this time to an image of Acantha herself. Off to the right the extended length of a cyberserpent curving awa
y from her head was visible and I guessed one of her pets had stretched itself out in front of her face so it could film her.
"Matthew Richter: once thought to be a hero, now a wanted fugitive," she said. "How long will he remain at large? With five hundred thousand darkgems as a reward for his capture, my guess is not very long." She gave her audience a cat-that-ate-thecanary smile. "This is Acantha, saying good night and good hunting."
The image went to black and several seconds later the Hunchback Forty returned to Westerna's Mind's Eyes.
Devona, Shrike and I sat for a moment, staring silently at the closest Mind's Eye. After a bit Devona turned to me, her normally pale complexion ashen.
"This is bad," she said.
"Extremely," Shrike added.
I would've loved to disagree with them, but I couldn't.
"Given the size of the reward Quillion is offering, every professional bounty hunter and mercenary in the city will be out looking for you," Devona said.
"Not to mention all the amateurs who'll be tempted by that money," Shrike said. "Hell, if you weren't my friend, I'd try to collect the reward myself."
"I appreciate your self restraint," I said drily. But I knew they were both right. The whole damned city would be trying to find me – which is exactly what Quillion wanted, and Keket too, mostly likely.
"What are you going do?" Shrike asked.
"Try to clear my name. What else can I do? Not that I have the faintest idea where to start. We don't have any solid suspects and I have no idea what the object stolen from Edrigu is, let alone why someone would want it."
"It's obvious why they chose you," Devona said. "Or rather, why they chose your body. You carry the mark of Edrigu on your hand. Whoever stole your body and animated it knew that mark would not only gain you entrance into Edrigu's stronghold, but it would also allow you to enter his bedchamber – and more importantly, to leave it without being stopped by his guards."
Clearing my name wasn't the only reason I had for wanting to discover who had stolen Edrigu's bone flute. The thief had used my body to commit the crime, with used being the operative word. One of the things about being a zombie is that, bereft of the full range of physical sensations you enjoyed while alive, you can become detached and remote if you're not careful. More than that, you can start feeling that you're a thing, no more alive than a brick wall or a piece of furniture. An object instead of a person. And that's exactly how the thief had treated me – as an object, a tool, a means to an end. But I wasn't an object. I was Matthew Fucking Richter and when I found the son of a bitch who'd stolen my body and used it like a remote control toy I intended to make damn sure he or she knew who I truly was.
"The solution to all this seems simple enough to me," Shrike said. "You find yourself a good forensic sorcerer, someone skilled enough to use their magic to discover the identity of whoever hijacked your body. I mean, there have to be some magical traces of them clinging to your body, right? Then you…" He trailed off. "Never mind. It's a stupid idea. The bounty on your head is so large, any sorcerer you contact would likely just cast a stasis spell on you and hand you over to Quillion."
"Yep," I said. "And because so many bounty hunters will be out looking for me, I can't consult my usual sources." Waldemar at the Great Library, Skully, Arvel the ghoul restaurant owner and a dozen lesser but still valuable contacts – all of them would be watched by Sentinels and bounty hunters alike. If I went anywhere near them, I'd be captured for sure.
Thinking about bounty hunters reminded me about Overkill. Acantha hadn't been the only person I'd humiliated at Sinsation and – assuming she hadn't had anything to do with the theft of my body, something I hadn't entirely ruled out – she'd be after me like the rest of her mercenary minded brothers and sisters. If Acantha had taken great delight in delivering news of Quillion's reward, Overkill would be ecstatic at the thought of getting a rematch with me, especially one that held the extra incentive of such a large paycheck. She'd no doubt be disappointed by Quillion's desire I be delivered to him 'relatively intact', but for five hundred thousand darkgems I'm sure she'd find a way to live with it.
Given the seriousness of my dilemma I would've considered asking Varvara for help. The Demon Queen isn't exactly a friend of mine but she finds me amusing, which is more valuable in her mind than friendship anyway. She's been something of a patroness to me since I arrived in Nekropolis, but even so, I'm careful not to ask too many favors of her. It's never a good idea to become too indebted to a demon, let alone their queen. But I wouldn't get a chance to appeal to Varvara's generosity this time. If what Quillion had told me was true, Varvara – like the other four Darklords – was still sleeping, recharging her energy after the last Renewal Ceremony. So no help there.
I was starting to feel hopeless and Devona, likely sensing my emotions through our psychic link, reached over and gave my arm a squeeze. "You're a detective, Matt, and a damned good one. You'll figure something out."
"I wish I shared your confidence in me." Truth was I relied on my network of contacts far more than I liked to admit, even to myself. Without them I wasn't sure I'd be able to discover the identity of the thief who'd stolen Edrigu's bone flute and framed me for the crime – not with the entire city out hunting for me, that is.
I was so stuck on where to turn for help that I considered trying to contact the Dominari, but I didn't consider it for very long. For one thing I wanted as little to do with the mobsters as possible, and for another I didn't want to think about what sort of price they might charge for their assistance this time. But in the end the reason I decided against contacting the Dominari was a purely practical one: they'd be just as likely to want to collect the bounty on me as anyone else in the city. As I'd learned from Gnasher the Dominari was nothing if not all business and five hundred thousand darkgems would make a nice profit for simply – pardon the expression – ratting me out to Quillion.
What I needed was someone who not only was tuned in to what was happening in Nekropolis on a daily basis but who wasn't someone I consulted very often. Someone who kept a low profile – so low that no one would even realize he was an information source.
Then it came to me and a slow grin spread across my face. Maybe – just maybe – I wasn't beaten yet.
I grabbed Shrike's hand and gave it a quick shake.
"Thanks again for everything, but Devona and I have to get moving."
"You've got an idea," Devona said with a smile. It wasn't a question and she didn't seem surprised in the least. Is it any wonder I love her?
"I do. I think it's time we paid a visit to the House of Mysterious Secrets."
"This is some kind of joke, right?"
Devona stood on the sidewalk, hands on her hips, head cocked at an appraising angle. I stood next to her, hands in the pockets of my new (Bogdan's old) coat. When Devona had procured my disguise she'd had no idea what crime I'd been arrested for, so she hadn't brought me any gloves. But since Edrigu's mark on my hand was what we used to call a 'distinguishing feature' back when I was a cop, I figured I should keep that hand concealed as often as possible.
We stood outside a large manor house surrounded by a high wrought iron fence with nasty looking spikes on the tips of the bars. We were still in the Sprawl, not far from the Grotesquerie, and the gamey smell of zoo animals hung thick in the air. I could tell because Devona kept wrinkling her nose.
The manor was constructed entirely out of black wood and brick and its grounds were overgrown with weeds and decorative shrubs that had long ago been left to grow wild. The shutters – black, of course – hung askew on their hinges, the windows were dirt-smeared and cracked and the entire structure listed slightly to the right, as if the manor were perpetually on the verge of collapse. Ravens perched everywhere – on the chimney, the roof, the fence… twenty-nine at my count. A low lying fog-like mist clung to the ground, the whitish vapors roiling slowly as if they possessed some sort of sinister life.
"The only thing missing is a miniatur
e storm cloud hanging overhead discharging the occasional lightning bolt," Devona added. "It's the stereotypical haunted house. It's more than a cliché – it's a cliché of a cliché!"
"That's the whole point," I said. "In Nekropolis a place like this is as unremarkable as a ranch house in a suburban neighborhood back on Earth. It's the perfect disguise."
"Disguise for what?" Devona asked suspiciously.
I just smiled. "You'll see."
I walked up to the main gate. It wasn't locked and it swung open easily at my touch. But even though the gate's motion was as smooth as if it had just been oiled, a creaking groan that sounded almost human filled the air. Once the gate was all open I turned to Devona and gave her a courtly bow, or at least a reasonable version thereof.
"After you, milady."
Devona gave me a look that said she wasn't in the mood to play and walked through. I followed and the gate swung shut behind us of its own accord. Devona didn't even bother looking back over her shoulder at it.