Nekropolis n-1

by Tim Waggoner

  “If anyone takes note of your pallor, and the way you walk, they’ll just think you’re another Shadow.” She smiled, almost shyly. “My Shadow.”

  I frowned. “What’s wrong with the way I walk?”

  “Never mind.” She took my elbow, the strength of her grip surprising me even though it shouldn’t have, and led me across the cobblestone street toward the Cathedral. I tried very hard not to feel self-conscious about my slightly stiff-legged zombie gait.

  A crimson carpet, appropriately enough, had been laid out for the occasion, and we walked across it, up the steps, and toward the open doorway. Above the entrance perched a clutch of snarling stone gargoyles, and as we came closer, I could have sworn that one of them moved the slightest bit. I tried to tell myself that it was my imagination, but I wasn’t very convincing.

  Whether they were just statues or something else, the gargoyles remained motionless after that, and then we were in.

  Before us stretched a long stone corridor with torches burning in wall sconces. The flames were green-tinted-the same fire as that which burned in Phlegethon? I didn’t know. But whatever the nature of the flame, it produced no smoke. No heat, either, as near as my dead nerves could tell. Still, I didn’t want to get too close. No sense taking a chance on becoming zombie barbecue.

  “We’ll just take the corridor to the ballroom, and then keep on going,” Devona whispered.

  I nodded slightly. We were on her turf; all I could do was follow her lead.

  As we continued, the mingled sounds of merriment-tinkling glasses, the buzz of conversation punctuatedby an occasional burst of laughter, the soft lyrical sound of a string quartet-grew louder. The couple before us, who were garbed in Roman togas as white as their alabaster skin, were greeted enthusiastically at the ballroom entrance by a large burly vampire dressed like a Scottish highlander.

  The highlander said something I didn’t catch, and the three of them broke into peals of laughter. But their merriment had a dark edge to it, and I was glad I hadn’t overheard what had sparked it.

  We reached the ballroom and kept going, passing the Romans and the highlander, who were still chuckling over whatever black joke had amused them. And although I shouldn’t have done it, was risking drawing attention to ourselves-or specifically to my non-vam-piric, non-human, not-invited-to-the-party self-I couldn’t resist taking a quick look into the ballroom. What can I say? A curious nature was one of the things which led me to become a cop in the first place.

  The ballroom was gigantic, four stories high at least. The floor and walls were completely covered by a smooth, mirrored surface that reflected the greenish light from the wall sconces, a scattering of people whom I took to be human, and nothing else-despite the fact that the room was packed with men and woman garbed in all manner of historical dress. Among those whose reflections were visible, however, were strolling human musicians who wandered through the room, along with equally mortal singers, comedians, jugglers, acrobats, and stage magicians. When the humans’ performances met with the Bloodborn’s approval, they received polite applause, and if the vampires were particularly amused, they might slip a performer a few darkgems as well. But when the performers didn’t quite measure up…well, the humans had more to offer than their meager talents, and the Bloodborn weren’t shy about taking their entertainment in liquid form.

  I tried to catch a glimpse of myself in the wall mirror, but there was so many people milling about I couldn’t. I did, however, see a hazy ghost image of a petite blonde for just a moment. Devona was half human. It only made sense she would cast half a reflection.

  But as impressive as the gathering of Bloodborn royalty was in and of itself, one thing was more impressive still. In the center of the room stood a great marble fountain, and bubbling forth from it a thick shower of reddish-black liquid. I told myself the viscous fluid couldn’t really be what it seemed; that it was either aqua sanguis, the synthetic blood substitute produced in the Sprawl, or a decorative effect of some sort achieved through Lord Galm’s dark arts. I almost believed it, too.

  And then Devona and I were past the ballroom and continuing down the corridor.

  “I don’t think anyone noticed us,” Devona said, relieved.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  After a few dozen more feet we came to a winding stone staircase. Devona removed a torch from a sconce on the wall and started up the stairs. I held back a little. Maybe the torch wasn’t lit with real fire, but zombie-flesh is dry, bloodless, and very flammable. I wasn’t about to take any chances.

  Devona led the way up: two, four, seven floors. I don’t tire as I did when alive, but just to break the silence, I said, “I wonder if Lord Galm has ever considered installing an elevator.”

  “Most Bloodborn don’t need to rely on stairs,” she answered. “They have their travel forms. Besides, Father won’t have anything to do with technology. He thinks it a decadence which promotes laziness of the mind and spirit.”

  I wondered what Galm thought of those Bloodborn who’d arrived in limousines that night. I thought of asking Devona, but I decided to stick to business instead. “I didn’t notice Lord Galm in the ballroom.”

  “He’s probably still meditating, marshaling his power for the Renewal Ceremony.”

  I thought I might take the opportunity to find out more about the ceremony-it struck me as awfully coincidental that one of Lord Galm’s most powerful mystic objects should just happen to vanish so close to the Renewal Ceremony. But then we reached the ninth floor and Devona gestured that we should stop.

  Devona stuck her head into the corridor, looked both ways, and then motioned for me to follow. I did, but to the right I saw a window, and I couldn’t resist stepping over to it and taking a quick peek outside.

  The window was covered with thick iron bars, but that wasn’t the only protection. I could hear, or rather almost hear, a hum in the air, like the ultrasonic whine of an alarm system.

  “Don’t stand too close,” Devona said. “The wardspell on the window is a particularly deadly one.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  The borders of Nekropolis form a perfect pentagram, and the points of the pentagram-connected by the flaming barrier of Phlegethon-are the strongholds of the five Darklords. This window faced outward from Nekropolis and toward the Null Plains: a flat black featureless expanse which stretched to the horizon. A whole hell of a lot of Nothing.

  I’d only seen the Null Plains a couple times before, but viewing them always gave me the creeps. There was something about the blackness that the human (or zombie) eye couldn’t quite deal with, a subtle movement, nearly undetectable, like glacially slow tides of solid darkness sliding and swirling against one another.

  I thought of crazy Carl and the headline of his idiotic “newspaper”-WATCHERS FROM OUTSIDE PLOT CITY’S DESTRUCTION-and I couldn’t help shuddering. Looking out at the endless darkness, I could almost believe something was out there, watching, waiting…

  “Not much to see,” Devona said.

  “Not much,” I agreed, turning away from the window. There was nothing out there, certainly not any Watchers. Carl was a loon, and that was the end of it.

  We continued down the corridor past a series of solid-looking wooden doors, each of which appeared to be exactly like the one before it, until we came to a door which didn’t seem particularly special, but evidently was, for Devona stopped.

  “This is it. The entrance to the Collection.” She unzipped her leather jacket halfway to her waist to reveal an iron key hanging on a chain between her partially exposed breasts.

  As she detached the key from the chain, I asked, “Is this the only key to the chamber?”

  She nodded. “Not even Lord Galm has one. But then, he doesn’t need a key. The door is spelled to open at his touch.” She moved to insert the key in the lock-not having bothered to zip up her jacket (like I said, I pay attention to details)-but I grabbed her wrist before she could.

  “Let me have a look
first.” I let go of her wrist and knelt down to examine the lock.

  There aren’t too many good things about being a zombie, but one of them is that, while my thought processes sometime take a little longer than they used to, I’m able to focus my attention and concentrate like crazy. The dead aren’t easily distracted.

  The lock appeared to be made of the same iron as the key. The door handle rested directly above it. I looked closely for scratches, nicks, or dents-anything which might indicate the lock had been picked or forced. There were none.

  I straightened. “Let’s go in.” I stepped aside, and Devona inserted the key. The lock turned with a metallic clack, she pushed open the door, and Lord Galm’s great Collection was laid bare before us.

  FOUR

  And most impressive it was.

  The stone walls were covered with weapons, from simple wooden spears and bows to highly polished swords and ornate jewel-encrusted daggers. There were broadaxes far too large for anyone possessed of merely human strength to wield, and a series of maces and morningstars, each covered with larger and crueler spikes than the last.

  The floor was taken up by stone tables, daises, and columns upon which rested a variety of non-military objects: a tiny golden skull which glowed with a soft, gentle yellow light; an Egyptian scarab carved from jade, but which nevertheless moved, scratching away at the inner surface of the glass globe which imprisoned it; a stereopticon constructed entirely of what appeared to be spider silk, a stack of picture cards next to it, displaying what looked like Tarot images; and on and on. There were no placards, no labels to name the objects, but after nearly thirty years of tending the Collection, I doubted Devona needed any.

  The Collection communicated an almost tangible sensation of antiquity, and for the first time I had an inkling of what it truly meant to be immortal.

  “I’m surprised everything’s out in the open like this,” I said.

  “They’re protected by wardspells placed by Lord Galm himself.”

  “I don’t much know about magic, but as I understand, certain spells have to be renewed from time to time.” Like the preservative spells which, up until that point anyway, had kept me from crumbling into a pile of rotten hamburger. “Maybe some of these, specifically the one protecting the Dawnstone, are due for a recharge.”

  She shook her head. “My job is to oversee the Collection, which means that I primarily monitor the wardspells. Lord Galm saw to it that I was taught just enough spellcraft to check the wards, but not enough to actually tamper with them. The wardspells Lord Galm employs are powerful and intricate. It takes me over six hours to check them all. And the first thing I did when I realized the Dawnstone was missing was examine the ward which protected it. The spell was intact and not due to be recharged by Lord Galm for some time.”

  “Is it possible for someone with enough magical know-how to circumvent the wardspell?”

  Devona thought about that for a minute.

  “I suppose, but it’s highly unlikely. Another Darklord might be able to do it, but then a Darklord could never enter the Cathedral without Lord Galm knowing.”

  It was my turn to think. “How about any of the visitors from Earth? Do any of them possess enough power and skill?”

  “There are some who are almost as ancient as my father, and certainly as cunning,” she admitted. “But Father keeps a very close eye on them when they’re in Nekropolis.”

  “Might he have brought one of them up here to show off his Collection and-”

  “No,” she interrupted. “Father is a private man, and not given to bragging.”

  “I see. It strikes me as odd that someone-” I couldn’t bring myself to call Lord Galm a man-“who is so secretive and possessive about his Collection should entrust its care to another, no matter how worthy of that trust she might be.”

  “Father is very, very old, and his mind…” She paused. “After millennia of existence, time doesn’t mean the same thing to him as it does to you and me. Not only would the constant examination of the wardspells waste hours which he could be spending on more important matters, quite frankly, months, perhaps years, might go by before he remembered to check the wards.”

  “So you got your job because your dad has a lousy memory.”

  She smiled ruefully. “Something like that.”

  I nodded. It was looking more and more like Lord Galm-despite Devona’s assurance that he would never do so-had removed the Dawnstone for reasons of his own, reasons he had elected not to share with the guardian of his Collection. But I decided to continue my examination of the room anyway. After all, that’s what she was paying me for.

  “Show me where the Dawnstone was.”

  Devona led me through the maze of clutter that was Lord Galm’s Collection until we came to a narrow stone column with nothing on it.

  “It was here. Don’t get closer than a foot or so,” she warned. “The wardspell’s still active.”

  “And we don’t want to alert Lord Galm that we’re here. Right.” I stood as close as I could and took a look at the spot where the Dawnstone had rested. I didn’t know what I thought I might see, but then I never do; that’s why you look.

  At first glance there appeared to be nothing special about the flat surface of the column. Just smooth gray stone, no cracks, no sign of age. The column might have been chiseled yesterday for all I could tell. Part of the wardspell’s protective qualities?

  Another thing about being dead: my patience has increased. When I was alive, I would’ve given the column a quick look or two, and then moved on. But now I scanned each inch thoroughly, and then I did it again. It was on my second pass over the column that I saw, in what from my vantage was the far righthand corner, a couple tiny specks of white powder.

  I smiled. Score one for the dead man.

  I pointed the specks out to Devona. “Know any vampires with dandruff?”

  She ignored the joke and instead leaned forward and looked closely at the white grains.

  After a bit, she straightened and said, “I have no idea what that is. Do you?”

  “Maybe,” I said, declining to elaborate. “There’s no way we can reach it, is there? Not without setting off the wardspell’s alarm.”

  She nodded.

  “Figures. Well, if there are two specks, maybe there’s more.” I asked Devona to stand back, and then got down on my hands and knees-my zombie joints creaking in protest-and did my best impersonation of a bloodhound, crawling slowly across the floor, face only inches above the stone and searched. I had the patience, the ability to hyper-focus my attention, and I didn’t breathe, so I didn’t have to worry about accidentally blowing any specks away before I could find them.

  It took some time, but I located five more grains, all of which I collected with a pair of tweezers and slipped into a small white envelope. I never was a Boy Scout, but I know enough to be prepared all the same. And the gods of evidence collection were in a beneficent mood that day, for I also stumbled across a hair.

  I gripped it in my tweezers, stood, and showed it to Devona. It wasn’t especially long, but longer than mine (which doesn’t grow anymore; another of the few fringe benefits being a zombie: no trips to the barber). It was difficult to tell the color in the greenish light of the torch, but it appeared to be-

  “Red,” Devona pronounced.

  “I think you’re right. Lord Galm’s?”

  “He has brown hair; and his is much longer than this.”

  “Well, it’s not yours. That is, unless you’re not a natural blonde.”

  She smiled. “As half Bloodborn, I suppose I qualify as an unnatural blonde. But no, I don’t color my hair.”

  I took another envelope out of my jacket and carefully placed the hair within. I didn’t bother to seal it-no saliva, you see-and tucked the envelope and tweezers away in a pocket.

  “Know anyone with red hair who might somehow gain access?”

  “Well…There’s Varma, I suppose. But I don’t see how he could possibly get
in here.”

  “Who’s Varma?”

  “One of Lord Galm’s bloodchildren-a human that’s been fully transformed. He’s one of Father’s favorites, though why, I don’t know. He’s an irresponsible hedonist.”

  “That’s a fine way to talk about your own brother.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew they were the wrong thing to say: Devona’s jaw tensed and her eyes flashed. Literally.

  “He’s not my brother!” she snapped. It might have been my imagination, but her canines seemed longer, sharper. “In Bloodborn terms, we’re considered the equivalent of cousins. Distant cousins at that.”

  I held up my hands in what I hoped was a placating gesture. “Okay. I’m not here to untangle the roots of your family tree. I’m here to help you find out what happened to the Dawnstone.”

  She glared at me for a moment longer, and then, with a sigh, relaxed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that half-humans like me are looked down upon by the fully Bloodborn. To put it mildly. I’m not sure Father would ever have given me my position if I hadn’t displayed a talent for magic. It’s one of the few advantages of being half human: we tend to possess more aptitude for magic and psychic feats than the fully Bloodborn.”

  I understood then why her position and its attendant duties meant so much to her. It was a way for her to feel important, to be something more than just a mere half-breed in the eyes of the fully Bloodborn-and most significantly, in the eyes of her father.

  I understood how she felt, at least a little. I was a zombie-not human anymore, not even alive. I’d seen the looks of disgust, heard the jokes and taunts, especially when my latest batch of preservative spells started to wear off and I didn’t look my best. I knew what it was like to feel less than everyone around you.

  If she couldn’t get the Dawnstone back, she’d consider herself a failure to the Bloodborn, to her father, and especially to herself.

  I was determined to do my best to see that didn’t happen, whether I kept my body from crumbling to dust or not.