The Last Smile in Sunder City

by Luke Arnold

  “No. None.”

  “So he could have left.”

  “Perhaps, but I don’t think so. New Marrowkin don’t move around a lot. Not till they get readjusted to the limitations. The one that came here, the one they killed in the teahouse, he was one of the first. He’d been that way for months. It took him a long time to start traveling.”

  “You’ve lost me, kid. What limitations?”

  He looked at me, slowly. He was putting something together in his head and decided he didn’t want to share the pieces.

  “I shouldn’t be talking to you,” he said, getting up.

  “Hey, Flyboy, wait! We can be a team on this. Maybe there’s something I’ve found out that you haven’t.”

  He didn’t even bother to answer. He’d found his own little kernel of hope and he wanted to act on it before it popped.

  “I’ve spoken too freely, Mr Phillips. Depending on how this plays out, my orders might be to keep you quiet. They have directed me to do such things before.” There was an unexpected coldness in his voice that made me believe him. “If you keep your mouth shut about this, to the police and anyone else, perhaps we can avoid such an unfortunate end to our relationship.”

  “Kid, come on! What limitations? If you know where he is you’ll need help taking him down!”

  He was walking out of my office. Arrogant little bastard.

  “Wait! One thing!”

  Flyboy stopped in the doorway. Looked back.

  “What?”

  “You’re not going to just walk out the front door, are you? Not dressed like that. Aren’t you gonna drop a smoke bomb or do a cartwheel?” He shook his head and left me there. “Come on! At least click your heels for me!”

  So that was it. I was tied up and confused and dying for a piss, stuck in my office while an overdressed assistant went out to finish the job on his own.

  The Marrowkin. Was nice old Professor Rye really out there biting into bones and sucking on them like straws? A week ago, I wouldn’t have believed it. But now? I knew what crazy things a man might do if he thought a bit of magic might come back into his life.

  I had nothing to do but stew on that thought as the sun came up. I struggled against the ropes and even knocked myself over but I was strapped in too tight to escape.

  Sometime around eight a.m., there was finally a knock on the door.

  31

  “Come in!” I yelled.

  There was an awkward pause.

  “Sorry?” said the voice.

  “I said, come in!”

  A touch of trepidation. Then the doorknob rattled.

  “It’s locked.”

  “Well, kick it.”

  “What?”

  “Kick it in!”

  He paused again. I was worried he was going to walk away.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!”

  “I don’t have the longest legs, sir. Kicking might not do it.”

  I slammed my head against the floor in frustration.

  “Then find a way!”

  Another painfully long pause.

  “This is your door, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes! Please get in here!”

  He laughed. “All right.”

  I heard footsteps. Walking away. I swore. Then, the footsteps came back, fast.

  BANG!

  The door cracked. Not enough to break it completely but it was splintering around the lock.

  “Not quite, sir! I’ll try again?”

  It was the most irritating savior I could imagine.

  “Yes. Please.”

  He took another run-up, charged back towards the door and hit it again. A hole opened up, large enough for a little hand to reach through and turn the knob. A moment later, there was a round-faced Gnome in a white suit standing in my office. The same one who had found my performance with the Cyclops so entertaining.

  He dusted the sawdust off his shoulder, looked at me and laughed.

  “Well, what kind of excitement has been happening here?”

  He found my knife and cut one of my hands loose, the whole time asking questions that I didn’t want to answer.

  “Look, buddy—”

  “Warren is my name, Mr Phillips.”

  I took the knife from him and cut the rest of the ropes myself.

  “Sure. Warren. This isn’t a great time.”

  “Oh, I disagree, Mr Phillips. From the look of your situation, I came at the perfect time.”

  I couldn’t exactly argue with that.

  “Yes. You’re right. Thank you, again, but—”

  “Again? I believe that is the first time you’ve said it.”

  Goddamn it.

  “I mean, whatever it is you’re after, finding your lost hat or cutting your lawn, it will have to wait. I need to… I need to get to…”

  Where did I need to go? Flyboy might have worked out his next move but I was lost. I refilled my pockets with Clayfields and sheathed my knife but I still didn’t know what I was planning.

  “Mr Phillips, you misunderstand. I have some information.”

  He was very pleased with himself.

  “Well then, let me get a pen and paper and we’ll write an encyclopedia.”

  He laughed. Very, very pleased with himself.

  “I have information,” he paused for dramatic effect, “about Vampires.”

  I stopped. His smile was a Dragon’s wingspan wide.

  “What kind of information?”

  “Where you might find them. That’s why I came to track you down. I knew it would be worth it. I was at the bar when you came asking questions. It was that place too where I heard them talking. Two Vampires. Talking about… changes.”

  Warren was pleased as punch. He took off his hat and twirled it in his fingers, playing coy.

  “I took great pains to find out where you live. I knew this information would be ever so helpful to you.”

  He placed his hat upside down on my desk. I grumbled, reached into my pocket, found a few coins and threw them in.

  He leaned over the brim, looked inside, then up at me with one eyebrow raised.

  “Okay,” I said, throwing my last bronze bill in the hat. “But only because you untied me.”

  He poured the cash into his pocket with practiced ease.

  “As I said, I was in Jimmy’s. It was late, very quiet, and I was in one of the booths. As you might suspect, I am easily overlooked in such situations. There were two gentlemen in the booth beside me. Vampires. And they did not know that I was there. They spoke in whispers. They spoke of a hunt. One Vampire was trying to convince the other to help him kill their own kind.”

  “Yeah, the Marrowkin. I know all about it. And if you don’t want some costumed assassin paying you a visit and tying you up, or worse, I should be the last person that you tell.”

  He frowned. He’d been so excited to tell me his story but I’d taken all the fun out of it.

  “You’re a couple of hours too late, Warren. I just got that information from someone else. So, unless you heard anything about limitations, you better scram so I can work out what comes next.”

  He practically jumped out of his brown, pointed shoes.

  “Limitations. Yes! I believe I do know something of that.”

  “Like what?”

  He took a moment to work out how to start off. He was more interested in hearing his voice than making the money.

  “Mr Phillips, I am a Gnome. A proud member of the Mud Race. We grew up in the dirt, away from the sun. For generations, we evolved to be perfectly suited for living in that darkness. Not any more. Where once I could see for miles in the pitch-black lairs of my people, now, at night, I need a candle to see my hand before my face. Vampires, they are the same. No more drinking blood, no more speed and strength, no more fear of sunlight. That is, until they feed from the bones.”

  His little hands gripped the desk, thrilled to deliver his
news.

  “The Marrowkin must stay in the shadows, Mr Phillips. If you want to find them, then you must look away from the light.”

  32

  I got the Gnome out of my office and started walking. Not too fast. The thoughts were still forming in my head. Thoughts that scared me.

  The phones were still down so I couldn’t call Eileen or Richie or anyone. Even going past the police station felt like it would waste too much time, and I’d wasted too much time already. All the pieces came rushing in. Too much, too late.

  Warren was right about the sunlight. That’s why there was a hole in the roof of the storeroom at the teahouse. The Vamps had opened it up to put the finishing hit on their old friend.

  The library was up on a hill and Rye’s bedroom was a light-trap that caught the sun on all sides. If Rye had turned, it was the last place he’d want to be. He’d want to be somewhere lower. Somewhere dark. Somewhere like a basement. The basement beneath the library where Deirdre Gladesmith hid when she was a girl. When the fires were raging in town and it was so hot that the water in the taps came out boiling.

  Then, I remembered Eileen, at the bar, saying that she was missing some of Rye’s favorite books.

  Now, I was running.

  Too slow. Always too damn slow.

  The slums were quiet for the very first time. The bustle was gone and the only movement left was hushed and scared. Every tent was full of the dead or dying but I didn’t stop. I just ran through the arch and up on to Main Street.

  The sun was going down but the lamplighters were nowhere to be seen. The bulbs were as dark as the eyes of the Ogre who lay prone across the street with his fingernails digging into his own skin.

  The gate to the Governor’s mansion was open and I found enough sparks in my engine to make it to the door. She was right there in front of me. On her knees. Everybody else must have fled the building or died up in their rooms. Her arms were wrapped around her stomach and her face was locked in a stony grimace with the same gritted teeth she’d always hated on me.

  Dragging guilt and insecurity and love and shame, I made tiny, careful steps towards her as if she were a wild animal that had wandered into my path. My heart was beating loud in my ears at an uneven rhythm and my feet left bloody prints on the polished floor. The only sound I could hear was the soft groan that came from her strained little body. She was fighting it. Her white knuckles gripped her sides and her eyes were wide and full of tears that splashed upon the floor.

  I got down on my knees. Her breath on my face became a little softer, a little shorter, a little colder every time.

  “What can I do?” I said.

  What a question.

  She forced her eyes to look at me and I could see the pattern of woodgrain creeping into her face. Dry flakes of bark curled out from what had once been the soft skin of her cheeks. The matte, gray timber that had replaced her long and powerful legs already looked old and immovable. She was a statue with living eyes and even they were leaving her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I said it over and over as if it could change any damn thing at all. “I love you. I’m sorry I did this. It’s my fault. Please. Don’t die. Not you. It should be me.”

  She shook her head and the dry bark cracked around her neck. I gasped and put my hands around her face to hold her still. Her tears had dried so mine hit the floor instead.

  “No,” she said. The tension went out of her cheeks and the lines around her eyes relaxed for just a moment. Between the contractions of pain, she locked her fading eyes to mine and the last real smile in Sunder City flashed across her face.

  “No. Stay,” she said. “Stay, and try to do some good, kid.”

  The smile cracked and I wanted to lean in and kiss her but I was too scared and too sad and too dumb, so I didn’t. Why didn’t I kiss her while the warmth was still on her lips and the light was still in her eyes and…

  And she was gone.

  33

  On that night when we invaded the mountain and started the end of everything, I took a mean hit to the heart from the woman at the top. She’d burned a deep scar into my chest that never quite went away. The pain usually sat somewhere between uncomfortable and agonizing but by the time I made it to Sir William’s statue, we’d gone all the way past debilitating and torturous and were closing in on unbearable. With every step towards the library, it thumped a little louder against my ribs, causing the muscles to tighten down the left side of my body.

  The handle didn’t move. I gave the library door a loud knock but I wasn’t going to wait for an answer. Instead, I found half a loose brick broken off from the path and brought it down on the doorknob till it came apart. I heaved the door open and was greeted by darkness, silence and the fear of being smart enough but too damn slow.

  “Eileen!”

  Nothing. I fell onto the counter and reached into my jacket, clumsily pulling out the Clayfields. The packet caught a button and it split open, spilling onto the floor. I cursed myself and leaned down to pick them up with fingers that shook like sardines kicked on to the sand. I grabbed three, jammed them between my teeth, and moved on.

  The sea of bookshelves I’d once admired became a diabolical maze. I weaved around each corner, searching the floor for the entrance to the basement; the shelter that once protected a young Deirdre Gladesmith when the fires rolled through town.

  It was the smell that tipped me off. In the back corner, behind the reading area, the scent of aging paper gave in to something sweet and sickly that I could taste in the back of my throat. There were drag marks on the floor where the table had been shifted away to keep the entrance to the trapdoor clear.

  I’d been in such a rush to get rid of that damn Gnome that I hadn’t thought this through. I had a knife in the back of my belt and the brass knuckles but no other weapons. The cast-iron handle groaned as I lifted back the door to the basement. As it opened, the stench of death erupted from beneath me.

  The hatch landed with a crash that announced my arrival to whoever might be dwelling below. Pure, untainted darkness filled the chasm. I flicked on my lighter and it illuminated the first few feet of a wooden ladder. With one hand on the rung, the other carrying the flame, I descended into the hole.

  The ground and walls were an intricate jigsaw of ancient stone. Once the narrow channel reached the bottom, I was relieved to see it open up to a much larger room. I held the light in front of my face and took a few steps forwards. Then, the darkness spoke.

  “Hello.”

  The voice was calm and far away but I reeled back as if someone had opened a furnace door in my face.

  “Hello?” I echoed, sounding strained from exhaustion and fear.

  From the infinite nothingness that stretched out before me, I heard laughter. Dry, sad chuckles that bounced across the floor like dropped coins.

  “Sorry,” it said. “This might help.”

  A small burst of flame flared up at the back of the room as an oil lamp came to life. Leaning over it was a tall, yellow-skinned figure. His shirt, now barely a rag, was stained with deep red splashes beneath a sickly crust. His hunched back was warped with sharp vertebrae that pushed against the skin, threatening to burst through if you even looked at them too long. He turned, and his neck cracked like kindling as he considered me with hollow eyes. It was Edmund Albert Rye, finally in front of me, but an altered version of the one I was hoping to find.

  The life had come back into him, along with something else. The lamp that brightened the room didn’t reach his eyes. They had no whites. No iris. Just pupils that could suck the light out of the sun.

  He sat down on a pile of books and dropped his face to the floor.

  “You know, I’d come to love the light,” he said; a warped, yellow skull with perfect articulation. “At first, yes, I missed that midnight horizon. When I could stand at the top of the tower and see over distances you mortals would never dream of. But when the sunrise that once brought death brought onl
y beauty, I wondered whether that was how it was always supposed to be.”

  He raised his head. For a moment, I thought his eyes were full of tears. No. They were bleeding. So were his fingernails and his dry, split lips. He’d fed on flesh but his body couldn’t hold the blood. Instead, it was seeping from the cracks in his skin.

  “Who are you?” he asked, all casual, like he wasn’t the first magic-filled monster I’d seen in six years.

  “My… my name is Fetch Phillips. Your friends hired me to find you.”

  “Friends?”

  His smile was full of irony, like he couldn’t believe I would suggest such a thing. His lips went wide enough for me to see his once mighty teeth crushed down to stumps: flat, cracked and shattered. There were two distinct gaps where his fangs had fallen out long ago. The dentist was right: Edmund didn’t miss them at all.

  “I was happy, you know. I really was. I had beaten the thirst. I was—” He smashed a fist against an old table, shattering it into pieces. There was a war going on inside him. One I recognized. “I was a good man, wasn’t I? For a while? Without the thirst, I had accepted that all of this must come to an end. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Yes. But it’s easy to accept your fate when you know you can’t change it. Things get harder when you have a little hope.”

  His smile faded, along with any pretense I had about being a hero. My mind was a hollow metal drum, echoing with one sound. Run. Run away. Run now.

  “You do understand, don’t you?” he asked, and there was such desperation and sadness in his voice that I could see past the monster into the man he once was.

  “I do,” I said. “I know what it’s like to try and be better. To set yourself a code to live by and to think that maybe you’ve succeeded. I also know what it’s like to have temptation waved in front of your face. To be tested. And to fail.”

  He nodded, and the bloody tears streamed from his eyes. When he wiped his hands it stained his cheeks and fingers.

  “Poor January,” he lamented, holding his fingertips to the lamplight. “She came in the heat of my struggle. I didn’t go looking for a way back but once I had been warned about the rumors, my old mind wouldn’t let them go.”