by Tim Waggoner
Maybe there was a reason she'd chosen the form of a young girl beyond trying to pose as Papa Chatha's niece, I thought. The more I got to know Shamika, the more childlike she seemed. Maybe in a sense she was a child. The Watchers might be ancient as a race, but the personality that called itself Shamika had only recently emerged. And like a child, she was eager for an adult's approval.
"You did great," I said, and she beamed.
We headed upstairs and entered the bar proper.
Skully doesn't believe in wasting money on décor. The nine foothigh front door is solid iron, and there are no windows for customers to break – not because Skully cares about his patrons' safety, but because it's a pain in the ass to keep replacing glass all the time. The walls are brick and the floor concrete, which makes mopping up bloodstains less of a chore. The solid oak tables are bolted to the floor, and the wooden chairs are cheap and easy to replace. Darkfolk tend to get more than a little rowdy when they overindulge, and Skully has learned from experience that the best way to protect his place is to make it hard to destroy.
Beyond beating the shit out of your fellow bar-goers, the only entertainment at Skully's comes from a jukebox sitting in the corner. As we entered, the three heads bolted to the top of the machine saw me and started singing a rendition of Oingo Boingo's "Dead Man's Party." The scars, fresh cuts, and bruises on the singing heads showed that Skully's customers enjoyed their potential as targets more than they appreciated their musical offerings.
Skully's clientele glanced our way as we entered, either out of curiosity or to size us up as possible threats. I recognized a few of them – Suicide King, Patchwork the Living Voodoo Doll, and Sally O'Sorrows – and nodded a curt greeting, but I didn't head over to anyone's table to chat. I was looking for someone who might be able to tell me what I needed to know, and I found him sitting at the bar, talking with a young woman I also knew.
Before we could start toward them, the front door opened and a teenage boy with mussed hair and a pouty expression walked in. He had the elongated canines of the Bloodborn, but his skin gave off a glimmering sheen.
A couple of bald, overly muscled, heavily tattooed vampires clad in scuffed leather snarled at the sight of the luminous teen. They rose from their chairs, stalked toward him, flanked him on either side, grabbed hold of his arms, lifted him off the floor, and started escorting him back toward the door.
"Hey, take it easy, guys!" the teen whined. "It's not my fault I sparkle!"
The biker vampires laughed as they left the bar, and the iron door slammed shut ominously behind them.
The three of us then headed over to the bar, and I took the empty seat next to Carl, leaving Varney and Shamika to stand. The seat on the other side of me was occupied by a gill man wearing a diving helmet with rubber hoses attached to a humming machine he wore like a backpack. The helmet was filled with murkish, vaguely luminescent water, and I knew the gill man's H2O was laced with tangleglow, a Darkfolk-created drug too strong for human consumption. The gill man looked a little wobbly on his chair, and I knew if he didn't dial back the amount of tangleglow his device was pumping out, he'd end up in a coma before the night was over.
I ignored the gill man and turned to the older man sitting on the other side of me. His thinning reddish hair was covered by a straw porkpie hat, and he wore an ancient wrinkled seersucker suit that he claimed was white but was really more on the yellowish side.
"Hey, Carl. How are things?"
Carl didn't look from his beer. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket, removed a small folded newspaper, and tossed it down on the counter in front of me. I unfolded and smoothed it out. It was the latest edition of the Night Stalker News, the alternative paper of which Carl is the sole owner, reporter, photographer, printer, and distributor. Today's headline read: RICHTER AND KANTI STOP HYDE PLAGUE. Accompanying the story were photos of Devona, Darius, and me battling Hydes as we fought to reach the House of Dark Delights.
I turned to Carl, impressed despite myself. "How did you get these? We were in a another dimension, you know."
The young woman seated on the opposite side of Carl laughed. "You should know better than to expect Carl to reveal his sources!"
Fade is a petite woman in her early twenties with long brunette hair that hangs past her waist. She usually dresses in dance club chic, and tonight she was wearing a ripped Sisters of Mercy Tshirt, thigh-high black boots, and a skirt so mini it was barely there. Her earrings were shaped like silver cobras, and they swayed back and forth from her earlobes, tiny tongues flicking the air, serpent eyes narrowed as they gazed upon the world with cold disinterest.
Varney looked over my shoulder at Carl's paper.
"Dude, when my producer sees those photos, he's going to be even madder at me for not getting to go along on that trip!"
Now that we were in public, it seemed Varney had assumed his cover persona again.
Carl looked at Varney with more than a little disdain. "You Mind's Eye reporters are too used to letting your technology do the work for you. You need to rely less on cybernetic implants and more on good old-fashioned journalistic know-how."
There was something about the way he said this, though, an almost mocking tone that made me wonder if Carl knew Varney's hippy cameraman act was a lie. I wouldn't have been surprised. Back on Earth, Carl had been an investigative reporter who'd uncovered the existence of the Darkfolk and worked to expose them. His stories were ridiculed by the mainstream media, though, and eventually he found his way to Nekropolis, and he's lived here ever since, producing his own newspaper and exposing truths that more than a few rich and powerful citizens wish he would keep his damn mouth shut about.
Carl turned to Fade. "And you, my dear, should quit wasting your time with that silly gossip column of yours and start reporting some real news for a change." He finished the last swallow of his beer and slammed the mug down on the counter as if to emphasize his point.
Fade didn't seem the least bothered by Carl's criticism. "Not all of us are cut out to be crusaders, you know. Gossip sells papers, love, and in my case, the more readers I have, the happier I am."
Fade isn't a shallow fame-seeker. For her, having a large readership – and being a well-known personality about town – is literally a matter of life and death. She's reality-challenged. For reasons she's never shared, her existence is so uncertain that if she doesn't constantly reinforce her own reality, she's in danger of vanishing. Hence her name. That's why she spends so much of her time club-hopping, and why she writes the gossip column for the Daily Atrocity, Nekropolis' sleaziest and therefore best-read tabloid. I myself rarely read it, and when I do, it's only in the interest of professional research – I swear.
I introduced Varney in case Fade didn't know him, and then I introduced Shamika as Papa Chatha's niece. I saw no reason to tell Carl and Fade the truth about who Shamika was, partly because we were in a hurry and the truth was too complicated to easily explain, but also because if they knew who Shamika was, they'd learn that Gregor was back. And it was safer for Carl and Fade not to know about Gregor. If they knew, Gregor might decide they were a threat to him, and if that happened, he might get it in his head to do something painful and permanent to get rid of them. Sometimes ignorance isn't just bliss, it's also necessary to one's long-term survival, especially in this town.
"So what are you two fine members of Nekropolis' journalistic establishment doing hanging out in a bar?" I asked. "Don't you know there's a war going on?"
Fade frowned. "Tell me about it. Half the clubs in the Sprawl are empty. People don't feel safe to go out. Personally, I feel that wartime is the perfect opportunity for partying. The chance that the club you're in might become a bombed-out crater any second adds a little zing to the festivities, don't you think?"
That was bad news for Fade. The more people she interacted with on a daily basis, the firmer reality's grip on her was. I hadn't noticed, but her colors seemed muted, a bit less intense and washed-out, as if she wasn't
as there as she should be. If the war continued and escalated, fewer and fewer people would go out and the Sprawl's clubs, bars, and restaurants would become deserted. And if that happened, Fade wouldn't be able to find enough people to talk to, and there was a good chance she'd live up to her name.
I saw Fade's glass was empty, and since Carl had finished off his beer, I offered to buy the two of them another round. Skully was at the other end of the bar talking to the Jade Enigma, and I motioned to catch his attention. He looked at me, and I pointed to Fade and Carl and held up two fingers. He nodded, made them another pair of drinks, and brought them over. Carl got another mug of beer, and Fade got a bubbling blue concoction called a Miasmic Overload whose chief ingredient was poison: tree frog toxin. It should have been deadly to humans, but Fade sipped it without ill effect. Who knows? Maybe the attention she received from ordering such a deadly drink shored up her reality and neutralized the poison. At any rate, she didn't instantly keel over dead, and her color did seem sharper and brighter.
"Hey, Matt," Skully said. "I'm surprised to see you here. Word on the street is that Varvara's put out a warrant for your arrest."
"You know what I always say: it's nice to be wanted."
Skully laughed which, given the ways he looks, is an unsettling sight. From the neck down, Skully resembles a stocky, broadshouldered man. But from the neck up, he's a skull. No hair, no skin, nothing but bone. Skully usually wears a white shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and a black leather apron designed to protect his clothes from being eaten away in case he gets a little sloppy with any of the more dangerous chemicals he uses to mix his customers' drinks. Despite his appearance, Skully comes across as a good-humored barkeep, but the enchanted silver broad axe he keeps behind the bar in case of trouble tells a different story, as does the fact that his place is a Dominari-owned establishment. For years I'd been unaware of Skully's ties to the Dominari, and when I learned about them, it put a strain on our friendship. I'm still not entirely comfortable with Skully's business dealings with the Dominari, but I try not to think about them too much. Skully's helped me with a lot of cases over the years, and in Nekropolis, a friend is defined as someone you can trust not to devour you when your back is turned or steal your soul when you're not looking. By that standard, Skully is my friend, and as for the rest, I figure in the end it'll all come out in the wash.
Carl narrowed his eyes as he peered at my acid-scarred face. "A little mortician's wax would fix that right up."
I said, "Reptilikan hocked a loogie at me."
"And you look a little loose in the joints," Carl added. "If you were a Frankenstein monster, I'd advise you to get your bolts tightened."
"That sounds vaguely naughty," Fade said, grinning. She then nodded at my wrist stump. "Looks like you lost a hand somewhere along the way too."
"Occupational hazard," I said.
Fade raised an eyebrow. "You don't really expect Carl and I to let it go at that, do you? We're reporters. Do tell us all the details, the gorier the better."
"I'm a reporter," Carl said. "What you write is entertainment." He sipped his beer. "Not that either of us is getting to do much writing at the moment."
"Why's that?" I asked.
"Demon's Roost has instituted a complete information blackout," Carl answered. Then he made a sour face. "Or rather, the great General Klamm has. None of the Demonkin are allowed to talk to the media, and we're forbidden from writing or broadcasting any information related to the war. Why else do you think my charming companion and I are sitting around this dump drinking?" He looked at Skully. "No offense."
"None taken," Skully said, but the tiny pinpricks of light that momentarily glowed within his empty sockets told a different story. If Carl noticed Skully's reaction, he ignored it.
"You know it's sad when reporters are reduced to interviewing each other," Fade added. "That's why we're so glad to see you, Matt. You're usually in the thick of things. Why don't you let me pump you for information? Who knows? You might even enjoy it."
I didn't take Fade's flirting seriously. It was just another way for her to draw attention to herself.
"I don't have time to chat," I said, with more of an edge in my voice than I wanted. "I have a problem, and I need help."
"Something's happened to Devona," Carl said. Before I could ask, he added, "I don't know anything. I'm merely making an educated guess based on your obviously agitated state."
"And there's the fact that Devona's not here," Fade put in.
"That too," Carl agreed.
"Look, I promise that I'll sit down with both of you for an exclusive joint interview once the current situation is resolved." Varney gave me an offended look. "Oh, don't bother pretending to be upset," I snapped. I didn't care about helping Varney maintain his cover just then. "But right now I need to get in touch with the Hidden Light, and I don't have time to go through the usual channels."
Carl raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think any of us know how to get hold of them? The location of their headquarters is the most carefully guarded secret in the city. I ought to know. I've tried for years to get an interview with their leadership."
"Me too," Fade said wistfully. "Can you imagine how many hits my blog would get if I could? It'd be enough attention to keep me solid for an entire month!"
At the mention of the Hidden Light, the drugged-out gill man seated next to me got up and staggered away at a good clip, wobbling as he headed for the door and made his exit. Just speaking the Hidden Light's name can be enough to clear a room in Nekropolis, if you say it loudly enough.
Carl wasn't joking about the Hidden Light's location being secret. When I'd first decided I needed the Hidden Light's help, I asked Shamika if she knew where their HQ was. But she had no idea, and she assured me that Gregor didn't either. How the Hidden Light managed to hide themselves from the Watchers, I didn't know, but I wasn't surprised. The Hidden Light is one of the most powerful organizations in the city, and the only way they survive among the Darkfolk is to keep their identities and location, like their name says, hidden.
I knew how to get hold of Magdalene Holstrom, my contact in the Hidden Light, but the process took some time. First I leave a message for her taped beneath a specific table at the Ghost of Meals Past, a restaurant that serves ectoplasmic recreations of the best meals you've ever enjoyed. The food's emotionally satisfying, though not very filling. After dropping off the note, I wait, anywhere from a couple days to as much as a week, before I get a call on my vox. The caller is always someone different, and I never recognize the voice. I'm given instructions on where and when to meet Maggie, and if I'm so much as a minute late, she's gone when I get there. She always comes in disguise, wearing a different body each time – or at least appearing to. I'm not sure if she cloaks herself in some kind of illusion spell, if she's a shapechanger of some kind, or if she's a bodyswitcher. But her voice is always the same, which is how I recognize Maggie. She never spends longer than ten minutes with me, we conduct our business – which usually consists of her giving me a few items I can't get anywhere else, such as holy water and blessed religious tokens. After that, she leaves, and that's the last I hear from her until the next time I need to get in touch with her.
I tapped Carl's paper with my left index finger. "You knew about my extra-dimensional exploits," I told him. "Is it such a stretch to think you might know where the Hidden Light is located?"
"Getting information from other dimensions is easy if you know how," Carl said, a bit smugly. "But finding out anything to do with the Hidden Light? Well, that's damn near impossible."
"Rumor has it that even the Darklords don't know how to find them," Fade said.
Skully had been quiet since I'd first mentioned the Hidden Light, but now he said, "You think the Hidden Light will be able to help you get Devona back?"
"That's what I'm hoping," I said.
"She's a good woman," Skully said. Then his fleshless mouth seemed to stretch wider, as if he were grinning. "Better tha
n you deserve."
I smiled back. "Don't I know it."
He thought for a moment more before, finally coming to a decision. "I can tell you what you need to know." Before Carl or Fade could say anything, Skully looked at the two reporters. "And no, I'm not going to tell you two, and if either of you ask me a single question about it, I'm going to bring out Silverado and lop both your heads off." He said this as calmly as if he were making a comment on the weather, but I knew he wasn't joking.