by Tim Waggoner
"The doctor advised you to avoid exposure to magic until you deliver your baby. In the Cathedral, I can arrange for the construction of a completely magic-free chamber for you. Not only would you be protected from mystical energies there, you could avoid some of the more, ah, hazardous aspects of your profession. You could still manage your business from the Cathedral, of course. I'd make certain you had whatever technology you require for your work: voxes, Aethernet access…"
"That's… very generous of you, Father," Devona said. "But I assure you, I'll be fine. Won't I, Matt?"
When I didn't answer right away, Devona scowled. "Won't I?" she repeated in a tone that said I'd better hurry up and agree with her if I knew what was good for me.
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but maybe you should give some thought to Galm's proposal." I hurried on before she could interrupt. "I know you hate the idea of being shut away from the world like some too-delicate thing that can't take care of herself. And I know that Galm and I sound like a couple of sexist Neanderthals for suggesting it." I glanced at Galm. "Although as old as he is, he probably can't help acting like a caveman since he literally was one once."
Galm frowned at me but said nothing, so I went on.
"Back on Earth, when a woman has a high-risk pregnancy, doctors often advise her to avoid strenuous activity and remain at home on bed rest. Not because they're patronizing her, but because they truly believe that's what's best for her health and the health of her baby. I'll support whatever decision you make – you know that – but I think you should make your decision based on logic, not emotion."
Devona looked at me for a long moment. Not only was her expression unreadable, but I couldn't sense anything through our link, and I knew she was shutting me out, psychically speaking.
"That's good advice," she said to me at last, and then turned to her father. "That's how you always make decisions, isn't it? Logically. I'd almost started to believe that there might have been some scrap of emotion motivating your offer to have me stay in the Cathedral, but you never do anything unless it's in your best interest or that of the Bloodborn – and as far as you're concerned, they amount to the same thing, don't they? You created me because you hoped I'd possess psychic abilities you'd find useful. And while those abilities have grown and strengthened over the last few months, they aren't so powerful or irreplaceable that you'd rescind my exile just to get them back. No, there has to be another reason behind your offer, and since you don't want me or my powers, it must be my baby that you want."
I felt a surge of anger upon hearing Devona's words, and I felt like kicking myself for being dumb enough to think that Galm might've actually cared about his daughter's health.
For his part, Galm gave no response to Devona, but while his face remained as impassive and cold as an ice sculpture, there was something in his gaze that told me Devona had hit upon the truth.
"What makes my baby so special?" she asked.
Galm didn't answer right away, but Devona just glared at him, and eventually he let out a surprisingly human-sounding sigh.
"I don't know," he said. "But there has never been a child like it before in the history of the Darkfolk. It will be a blend of human, Bloodborn, and–" he glanced at me with obvious distaste, "zombie."
"But I was human when we conceived the child," I pointed out.
"True, but that was only a temporary condition, brought about by a powerful token of death magic given to you by Edrigu. In a sense, the spell's effect was primarily cosmetic, and thus didn't alter your fundamental nature. It's why the change could not be a permanent one for you. Your child shall belong to three realms: the living, the dead, and the in-between. It is impossible to predict what such a child will be like – and what sort of power, if any, it might wield."
"But if the baby does possess powerful magic, you want to be the one to control it," I said.
"Yes, and why not?" Galm said. "Edrigu may have given you the token that made conceiving the child possible, but I will be its grandfather. I have more right to the child than anyone."
"You seem to be forgetting about the two of us," Devona said. Her eyes glimmered with crimson light and her canine teeth had grown more pronounced. More, I could once again feel her through our link, and I could sense her anger building.
"You are my daughter and one of the Bloodborn," Galm said. "Your child's magic must be made to serve your people's needs. It is your duty."
"I'm not one of the Bloodborn," I said, "and my child isn't going to serve anyone. Ever." I reached into my jacket pocket and took hold of my squirt gun. The mixture of holy water, garlic, and other chemicals inside would prove little more than an irritant to a vampire of Galm's power, but right then I felt like giving the sonofabitch a face full of the stuff. But I didn't draw the gun, though I was sorely tempted.
"I want you to go, Father," Devona said. "Now."
Galm regarded her for a moment, and then inclined his head slightly. "As you wish. But regardless of what transpires between the two of us from this point forward, I pledge that I shall never again turn my back upon you. You will always remain a member of the Bloodborn, and you shall always be welcome in the Cathedral."
Then without saying goodbye, Galm's body burst into several dozen shadowy fragments shaped like bats. This was his travel form, and the shadow-bats darted and swirled around the room for a moment before flying toward the door and slipping through the cracks. Galm was gone.
I turned to Devona to ask her how she was doing, but before I could speak, she buried her face in her hands and began to cry. I put my arms around her and held her tight and regretted not blasting her father in the face with holy water when I'd had the chance.
"But why do we need to fill out more forms?" I asked. "We already filled out a bunch when we checked in!"
The vampire behind the registration desk gazed at me with a blank, lifeless expression that would've done the most burnt-out office worker back on Earth proud. In fact, the resemblance was so uncanny I wondered if most drone jobs back home were staffed by vampires. It would explain a lot.
"Standard procedure, sir," she said in monotone as she pushed a sheaf of papers on a clipboard across the desktop toward us. She wore a spotless white uniform with a stylized red FH over her left breast. She had the usual vampiric ivory complexion, and her short black hair was practically a buzz cut. With the exception of the doctors, all of the staff I'd seen at the Fever House wore their hair similarly short, and I wondered if it was a hospital regulation.
Devona sat in a wheelchair next to me, and Varney stood behind us, presumably recording the whole banal scene. Just like in hospitals back on Earth, Devona was required to ride in a wheelchair until she was outside the building, and she didn't like it one bit. She was still upset about the lessthan-pleasant reunion with her father, and I could feel her mounting frustration with having to jump one more bureaucratic hurdle before we could check out. If we didn't get out of here soon, I was afraid she might leap out of her chair, grab the registration clerk by the throat, and show her precisely what she thought of her "standard procedure."
"You already have our information in your system," Devona said, nodding toward the computer terminal on the woman's desk. "Can't you just copy it electronically?"
The woman looked at Devona as if her body had just made a socially awkward noise. "Computers have their place, of course, but electronic files are no substitute for handwritten records."
The vampires who live in Gothtown tend to be centuries old, and while they aren't above using technology when it suits their purpose, they tend to view it with suspicion and keep it at arm's length. Younger Bloodborn – those only a century or so old – have an easier time adapting to technology, and they usually end up living in the Sprawl where most of the high-tech in Nekropolis is found. Varvara is the only Darklord who openly embraces technology, but then as the Demon Queen, she'll embrace anything and everything – and anyone – as long as it amuses her.
Devona bared her fa
ngs at the woman, and I quickly snatched up the clipboard, tucked it under my arm, and wheeled Devona over to a empty seat in the waiting room. I parked her next to the chair, then I handed Varney the clipboard.
"Were you filming when we checked in?" I asked him.
"Yeah."
"Good. Then if you were paying attention, you should be able to fill these out." I handed the clipboard to him before sitting down next to Devona. He looked at me, and I added, "Consider it a chance to get some close-up action footage."
He looked less than thrilled, but he wandered off to find an open seat – by some astounding coincidence I'd chosen the only available one on this side of the waiting area – and I turned to Devona.
"That was mean," she said, though she smiled. "You should treat him more nicely. When the documentary's finished, it'll be a good publicity tool for us."
"I'll see what I can do."
The Emergency reception area was even more crowded than when we'd checked in, and I recognized some of the Darkfolk waiting for treatment. Legion is a human who regularly rents himself out to several dozen spirits who take turns controlling his body, and he was covered with cuts and contusions. It looked like one or more of his tenants had indulged in a little too much fun again. Unfortunately, such injuries are an occupational hazard for him, making him a regular at the Fever House. Antwerp the Psychotic Clown sat next to Legion, giggling softly to himself. At least, I think it was Antwerp. It was hard to tell since whoever it was had somehow managed to get turned inside out. I wasn't surprised at Antwerp's bizarre condition, nor was I surprised that he seemed to be in no apparent pain. I was, however, surprised that he'd come to the Fever House to seek treatment. I would've thought Antwerp liked having his insides on the outside. On the other side of Antwerp sat a were-thylacine named Jerboa. The poor thing was suffering from a nasty case of silver rot in her pouch, and from the way she was whining, I figured it must've hurt like a bitch.
I turned to Devona. "How are you doing?"
"I feel fine."
"I'm not talking physically. I mean emotionally. That wasn't exactly the most tender of reunions between you and Galm."
She reached out and squeezed my hand. "I'm all right. Angry at myself a little, I guess. I know he can't change, but I allowed myself to hope he had anyway. When someone becomes Bloodborn, they don't just stop aging. Their personalities freeze, and they stop developing mentally and emotionally. They become like living portraits that can move and talk but never change. I should've known that the only interest he'd have in our baby is in how it might increase his own power."
"I'm not denying that Galm wants to use our child for his own purposes, but – and I can't believe I'm sticking up for him – it seemed like his offer was motivated by more than self-interest. He seemed to genuinely care about your health too."
Devona scowled at me, and I could feel a flash of anger through our link. "Are you going to tell me you've changed your mind and think we should move into the Cathedral?"
"Nope. As far as I'm concerned, your father can take his offer and shove it where Umbriel doesn't shine. I'm just saying that maybe it's possible that even a being who's millennia old can change, if only a little."
Devona scrunched her face at me, but she didn't reply. A nurse summoned the patient sitting next to me – a squat little bald man in a shapeless black coat who seemed to have a glowing light bulb stuck in his mouth – and he got up and followed her to an examining room. The seat next to me didn't remain vacant for long. A tall male vampire with a pair of huge ebon wings sprouting from his shoulder blades took it. His wing feathers were made of lightweight metal, with razor-sharp edges, and I had no idea if they were technological, magical, or some combination. He wore no shirt so as not to constrain his wings, only a pair of black pants. His chest was covered with scars, but they were old and long healed – or at least as healed as they were ever going to get – and I knew they hadn't brought him to the Fever House. What had was obvious: one of his wings hung significantly lower than the other, and a good half of its feathers looked loose, as if they might fall out any moment, and they were blackened, as if they'd suffered fire damage.
"Hey, Matt. Hey, Devona. What are you guys doing here?"
"Hey, Ichorus," Devona said. "We just came for a routine check-up." She patted her slightly swollen belly and smiled at him. Ichorus was an acquaintance more than a friend, and I guess that Devona didn't feel comfortable telling him about what had really brought us here. Or maybe she just figured it was too complicated to bother going into. Either way suited me. I tend to be a private person, and I'd rather ask people questions than answer them.
"Let me guess: you had a flying accident," I said.
He grinned. "What else?"
Ichorus lived to violate the "no-flying" law in Nekropolis, which was why he carried so many scars. The Darklords defended their Dominions' airspace quite aggressively, and the fact that Ichorus' vampiric healing abilities hadn't been able to completely deal with all the injuries he'd received during his illegal flights was testament to how serious the Darklords were about the sanctity of their airspace.
"Still trying to see how close you can come to the Darklords' strongholds without getting killed?" I asked. "Or were you flying low over Phlegethon and dodging the Lesk again?"
"Neither," Ichorus said. "I have a new passion these days. I've been searching for Ulterion."
"Seriously? Don't tell me you fell for that fairy tale!"
Devona frowned. "What's Ulterion?"
Devona had lived most of her life sheltered in the Cathedral, rarely venturing outside its walls. Because of this, there were lots of things she didn't know about Nekropolis, things that I – a relative newcomer – often had to fill her in about.
"The moon," I said. "Umbriel is the Shadowsun, and Ulterion is the Hidden Moon." I glanced sideways at Ichorus. "Or so the stories go. I don't know anyone who takes them seriously."
Ichorus grinned again. "You do now! I've been looking for Ulterion for the last couple weeks, flying as high as I can, testing the upper limits of the city's atmosphere. I figure Ulterion has to be within Nekropolis' atmospheric bubble. After all, Umbriel is."
"Why would we need a moon?" Devona asked. "Umbriel provides the power that keeps the city stabilized in this dimension, as well as providing the energy for Phlegethon. What would Ulterion do?"
"That's the mystery," Ichorus said. "When I find it, I'll figure out what its purpose is."
"You can't find it because it doesn't exist," I said. "Dis and the Darklords created Nekropolis and Umbriel. Why would they create a moon only to hide it and conceal its existence?"
"I don't know," Ichorus said. "That's–"
"– the mystery," I finished for him. "I get that."
"Besides, I have proof that Ulterion exists." He paused. "Well, maybe it's proof. On this last flight, I went higher than I ever had before, and I thought I saw something in the sky. No, saw is the wrong word. Even vampire eyesight can't make out anything in the starless void over the city. But I sensed something… something big, and I headed toward it. I kept on flying, getting closer and closer, and then… Well, I don't know what happened next, but something happened, because I woke up on the ground – specifically, in the middle of a fair-sized crater I made in one of the Wyldwood forests. My left wing had been damaged by some kind of blast attack, and the rest of me was extra crispy, as if I'd been severely burned. I lay there awhile, letting myself heal, until I heard a group of lykes approaching, no doubt coming to investigate what had crashed in their forest. I hadn't healed enough to fly, but I could move, so I climbed out of the crater and started running. I managed to heal the worst of the burns as I ran, but my wing didn't heal all the way. But it got good enough to allow me to leap into the air and glide for decent distances, which is how I avoided becoming lyke chow. Once I got out of the Wyldwood, I came straight here. The doctors should be able to help my wing heal the rest of the way. At least, I hope they can. The idea of being groun
ded…" He shuddered as he trailed off.
"So you have no memory of being attacked?" Devona asked.
"None whatsoever. I don't know if I blocked it out or if it just happened too fast. But I figure I got too close to Ulterion and triggered some sort of defense mechanism. A spell or some kind of tech. There's got to be a reason it's called the Hidden Moon, right? Maybe somebody wants to make sure it stays hidden."
"Or maybe you just ran into another of the Darklords' air defenses," I said. "A kind you've never encountered before."
Ichorus tried to shrug, but the shoulder with the damaged wing refused to move. "Maybe." He grinned once more. "When my wing is healed, I'll go back and find out for sure."
"You'll go back and get yourself incinerated if you're not careful," I muttered.
"Maybe," he said. "But you know my motto: 'Fly free or die.'"
Varney came over to us then. "I finished the forms and returned them to the registration desk. Can we go do something interesting now? Please? My producer will kill me if I don't keep delivering good footage." He paused as if reconsidering. "Actually, since my producer is a demon, killing me is probably the least of what he'll do to me."
"I suppose we can't have you suffering the tortures of the damned just because we're boring," I said. "Let's go." I stood and began pushing Devona's wheelchair toward the exit. "Good luck with the wing," I said to Ichorus as we left.