Nekropolis

TWENTY-TWO

Of all the ways I might have imagined traveling to the Nightspire in pursuit of a thief and murderer, riding in the back of a hot pink limousine (with matching interior) wasn’t one of them. Behind us was a line of far less striking vehicles bearing Varvara’s retinue, primarily demons, but a few humans-mostly music industry and Hollywood types-who served her as well.

Varvara sipped a frozen daiquiri whipped up from the tiny wet bar by her personal bartender, a creature which resembled a levitating sea urchin, and waved through the open widow at the cheering crowds lining the street. Psychographers captured mental impressions for live Mind’s Eye coverage of the Renewal Ceremony as we passed, while reporters from both the Tome and the Daily Atrocity shouted out questions to Varvara, all of which she cheerfully ignored.

“It’s so nice to receive the adulation of the masses, don’t you think?” Varvara said. She downed the rest of her daiquiri and told the urchin to mix her another.

Varvara is probably the most popular Darklord, considering she lets her subjects-and anyone who visits the Sprawl, for that matter-pretty much do as they please. I can’t say near-anarchy is my idea of effective social policy, but then Varvara’s never asked for my opinion. And I must admit, the Sprawl is the most interesting place in Nekropolis, which is why I suppose I make my home there.

The driver, who I would’ve taken for just another pretty muscle-boy if it hadn’t been for the ram’s horns jutting out of his head, spoke over the intercom.

“I have to slow down, Milady. Several Sentinels are coming up behind us.”

Varvara pushed a button on her armrest. “No problem, love, but when they’re past, speed up a tad. We’re running a wee bit late.”

I turned around, and through the rear window I saw three Sentinels walking in a row down the middle of the street. They weren’t running-I wasn’t sure if they could-but they were walking faster than I’d ever seen any of the golems move before.

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “They’re going to arrest us for assault with an exceptionally tacky paint job.”

“Remember what I said about you making me laugh?” Varvara asked. “I take it back.”

The Sentinels tromped around us and continued down the street, accompanied by boos and hisses from the drunk and drugged-up crowd. Father Dis’s police force wasn’t exactly beloved by the denizens of the Sprawl.

“Where are they going in such a hurry?” I asked.

“They’ve been recalled to the Nightspire for the Renewal Ceremony,” Devona explained.

Varvara frowned at me. “How long have you been in Nekropolis now, two years?”

“Just about.”

“And you didn’t know the Sentinels are part of the ceremony?”

I shrugged. “This is only my second Descension celebration, and I spent the first helping a pregnant witch escape her abusive warlock husband. At one point, he actually switched my personality with that of the fetus, and I-well, suffice it to say the situation took some straightening out, and I missed a good part of the celebration, including the Renewal Ceremony.”

“You have to tell about that one some time, Matt,” Varvara said. “So many mortals wish to return to the womb, but you’re the only one I know who’s managed to do it!” And she laughed the rest the way to the Nightspire.

As we approached the slender black needle that was the

Nightspire, I noticed something strange.

“Umbriel seems larger than usual.”

“That’s because it’s descending for the Ceremony,” Varvara said impatiently. “Really, Matt, are you going to be this tiresome the whole time?”

“More, if I can manage it.”

The crowd was thickest as we neared the bridge that led from the Sprawl to the Nightspire. Varvara continued playing the gracious queen parading before her adoring subjects, when a grizzled old man in a yellowed seersucker suit and carrying a sheaf of paper broke out of the crowd and came running toward the limo, and Varvara’s open window.

“Oh, no,” I moaned. “Not now, Carl.”

Carl thrust one of his homemade papers through the window and into Varvara’s face.

“Beware the Watchers, Lady!” he shouted wildly, “Beware-” But that’s as far as he got before Varvara hit a button and the window slid up. Carl barely retracted his arm in time. He released his “paper,” however, and it fell onto Varvara’s lap. With a grimace of distaste, she brushed it onto the floor.

“Usually I find Carl’s rants diverting, but I’m not in the mood tonight.”

“I’m surprised he was able to approach the car at all,” Devona said. “I’d think a Darlord would have better security.”

“If Carl had any ill intent toward us, the wardspells on my car would’ve fried him as soon as he came within three feet.” Varvara smiled. “Secure enough for you?”

Devona didn’t reply.

The ram’s-horn hunk drove us onto the bridge. The winds of the Furies didn’t rise, but then we were expected. As soon as we reached the dull, gray, grassless earth of the island on the other side, the sonorous tolling of the Deathknell stopped.

I looked at Varvara, but she said, “That merely means that all five Darklords have now reached the Nightspire. I’m usually the last.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

The driver pulled up to the Nightspire and parked behind a double row of coaches and wagons-the other Darklords’ vehicles, I presumed. The chauffeur came around and opened Varvara’s door, and she slid out, taking his proffered hand and allowing him to help her, though she was doubtless the far stronger of the two. Devona and I had to haul our butts out unassisted, of course.

The other cars in Varvara’s entourage parked behind us, and their occupants disembarked, more than a few of them giving Devona and me dirty looks, obviously wondering who we were and how we rated riding in the front of the procession with their queen-especially when they didn’t.

The green flames of Phlegethon which surrounded the small island flared higher than usual. Because of the coming ceremony? I wondered. The air seemed charged with barely contained energy, and I looked up. Directly over the tip of the Nightspire, Umbriel, looking bloated and heavy, continued its slow descent.

Varvara started toward the rectangular entrance of the Nightspire, and gestured for Devona and me to follow. I heard a few mutterings from Varvara’s other guests. It appeared we’d usurped yet another honor. My heart would’ve bled for them-if I’d had any blood.

As we walked, I saw Silent Jack atop his Black Rig, a pale woman in a blood-stained dress sitting next him. Jack had brought his wife, Bloody Mary, along with him for this special occasion. The ghostly coachman touched his finger to the brim of his hat as we walked by, but Mary just looked at us with the crimson hollows where her eyes had once been. I thought of the E on my palm, and a chill ran down my back regardless of the fact I had no working nerves.

As we entered, I thought that if Gregor had wanted Devona to carry one of his children so that he might finally get a look-see inside a Darklord’s stronghold, how much more excited he would be to actually learn about the interior of the Nightspire itself. Inside was the same as the outside: featureless black, as if the Nightspire had been shaped from solidified shadow. We walked down a long narrow corridor lit by torches of green fire. Varvara’s outrageously high heels clacked hollowly as she walked, echoing up and down the hall. She looked like someone who was trying to appear as if she wasn’t hurrying, when in fact she was. I had a feeling we were running more than a “wee bit late,” as she’d earlier told our driver.

A mural was painted on the corridor’s wall showing scenes depicting key events in the history of the Darkfolk leading up to the founding of Nekropolis. The first scene was of a primordial swamp, like the kind you’d see in any Earth museum showing primitive lifeforms leaving the water to take their first tentative steps on land. But instead of amphibians, the creatures emerging from this swamp were shapeless sinuous shadows. I learned later that this event was known as Darkrise and the creatures were called Shadowings.

The second scene was more sinister, showing creatures that were obviously forerunners of vampires and lykes preying on primitive humans. The Darkfolk in the next scene were more developed-looking much as they do today-and they sat on thrones made from human bones while mortal men and woman bowed down to them, worshipping them as dark gods. The fourth scene showed the tables turning, as humans with crude swords, spears, and axes attacked Darkfolk, driving them away from human settlements and into the shadowy wilderness. The next scene skipped a couple thousand years and picked up the visual narrative with the Inquisition, showing Darkfolk being tortured by humans-vampires staked, lykes skinned, witches and warlocks burned alive.

The Wanderyear came next, showing a robed figure I assumed to be Dis traveling the length and breadth of the world in search of other Darkfolk powerful enough to help him create Nekropolis. Good thing Yberio was dead; he’d certainly have felt slighted to learn he wasn’t among those portrayed in this scene. The Darksome Council came after that, when Dis met with the five current Darklords atop a wind-blasted mountain peak where the barriers between dimensions were thinnest. Here Dis showed the Lords the Null Plains, the new home where the Darkfolk would build their great city. After that was the Bedarkening-the creation of Umbriel above the Null Plans-followed by the construction of Nekropolis, and then the Descension, when Earth’s Darkfolk finally emigrated to their new home. The second-to-last scene showed the city in flames, blood running red in the streets while the Darklords’ armies fought with no quarter given and none asked: the Blood Wars. The last image was of Nekropolis as it looks today: the five Dominions at relative peace, the Nightspire rising above all, as if to keep a close eye on things.

The corridor let us out into a vast circular chamber which sloped inward the farther up it rose, and I realized that the Nightspire was hollow. But while the inside walls of the Nightspire were the same unchanging black as the exterior, white marble columns ringed the chamber, and the floor was made of tiled mosaics. Dis had once been the Roman god of the dead, and it seemed his taste in interior decorating hadn’t changed since the Empire’s fall.

In the middle of the chamber was a large, raised marble dais in the shape of a pentagram. Sentinels surrounded the dais, face out, as if they were guarding it. At a quick estimate, I figured there were maybe thirty Sentinels altogether. I hadn’t realized the city had that many. I thought I recognized one, a Sentinel with a faint scar running down its chest, as the one who had taken Varma’s body off our hands. I wondered if the golem had delivered Varma to the Cathedral, and if so, what Galm’s reaction had been. I supposed I’d find out soon.

The Sentinels were far from the chamber’s only occupants, though. Vampires, lykes, Arcane, and half-visible spirits stood in small groups, talking and sampling hors d’oeuvres and imbibing drinks brought to them by bald, red-robed men and women. That is, the living ate and drank. The dead merely watched them do so. Between two columns on the far side of the chamber, a tuxedo-clad pianist with four arms played soft, unobtrusive background music.

“I can’t believe it,” I said. “After everything I’ve heard about it, the vaunted Renewal Ceremony turns out to be nothing more than a cocktail party?”

“These are merely the preliminaries to the ceremony,” Varvara said quietly. “The ceremony itself will begin shortly.”

“Who are the baldies in red?” I asked.

“The Cabal,” Varvara said quietly. “Dis’s personal attendants. And it would be a good idea to avoid calling them ‘baldies.’”

“They look like waiters to me,” I said.

“They are whatever Dis says they are,” Varvara replied. “Don’t bother trying to talk to them; they only respond to their master.”

“We must find my father and tell him of the threat,” Devona said, and without waiting for either of us to reply, she set off for a group of nearby vampires nibbling on what appeared to be small animal hearts. Varvara and I hurried after her.

She asked the vampires-who were dressed in overdone Bela Lugosi drag-where Lord Galm was. The vampires, who I took to be out-of-towners from Earth by the way they dressed, pointed to the base of the pentagram dais, where Galm was standing talking to Amon in his English hunter guise, Talaith, and a thin man with the gaunt face of a mortician. I assumed the latter was Edrigu. Devona made a beeline, or in her case a batline, toward them. There was one dignitary in attendance I’d never seen but heard a great deal about. Wrapped in ancient cerements, a crimson cape draped over her slender shoulders, a mask of wrought gold concealing her face stood Keket, Overseer of Tenebrus, flanked by a pair of her jackal-headed Warders. Keket held such a powerful position in the city, she sometimes was referred to as the Sixth Lord, though she had no official standing as such. She stood off to the side, ignoring everyone else, and being ignored right back in turn. Prison wardens are never among the most popular of party guests, no matter what dimension you’re in.

I half-expected to see Waldemar there too, but supposedly he never leaves the Great Library. Sometimes I think he is the library, body and soul.

Varvara caught up to Devona and grabbed her arm to slow her down. “I think it would be best if I led the way, dear.” From her tone, and the way her eyes flashed, it was clear Varvara wasn’t making a request.

Devona looked like she was going to argue, but then thought better of it and nodded. We continued with Varvara in the lead, and as we approached the other Lords, the Demon Queen opened her arms and said, “Darlings! So nice to see you all!”

“And for us to see so much of you,” Talaith said cattily as she eyed Varvara’s outfit. “Why didn’t you just come naked this year?”

“Is that a criticism, or are you voicing a regret?” Varvara shot back.

Talaith reddened but didn’t reply. She looked smaller than the avatar which had attacked us in Glamere, older and more tired too. Physically, she appeared to be in her late sixties, with short gray hair, baggy eyes, and sagging skin. She’d looked better before the destruction of the Overmind: one more reason for her to hate me. In diametric opposition to Varvara’s skimpy outfit, Talaith wore a simple black and white dress reminiscent of Puritan garb. I wondered if anyone had ever attempted to burn her at the stake. If so, I was sorry they’d failed.

Talaith turned to Devona and me, and her upper lip curled in disgust. “I knew your standards were low, Varvara, but really.”

“Watch your tongue, witch,” Galm growled. “The woman is one of my birth daughters.” Maybe Devona, as a half human, didn’t rate as high in the vampire hierarchy as the fully Bloodborn, but it seemed she was high enough for Galm to object to anyone insulting her.

“I was referring to the zombie,” Talaith covered smoothly. She looked to the thin-faced man. “Really, Edrigu, isn’t there something you can do about this…thing? After all, as one of the undead, he falls under your purview.”

The corners of Edrigu’s thin lips raised a fraction in what I assumed was meant to be a smile. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties and was bald save for a fine layer of black hair along the sides and back of his head. He wore a tattered white shroud covered with grave mold, and through the ragged cloth glimpses of not flesh but bone were visible.

“What would you have me do, precisely, Talaith?” His voice was a hollow monotone, a lonely echo in a deserted mausoleum.

“Oh, I don’t know. Wave your hand and make him collapse into dust, something along those lines.”

Edrigu gave me a look and I felt the mark on my palm itch. He knew he didn’t have to do anything to me; I was due to turn to dust soon enough as it was.

“Sour grapes, Talaith,” Amon said. “You’re still bitter Mr. Richter and his late partner disrupted one of your little schemes a while back.”

“Not much of a scheme, as I recall,” Varvara said. “Even if Matt hadn’t happened along, I doubt it would’ve worked.”

Talaith glared at them both, but otherwise did nothing. The bantering Darklords reminded me of wary jungle predators facing each other over a water hole. They hated each other and weren’t afraid to show it, but this wasn’t the time or place to do anything about it. But I could see in Talaith’s eyes that she was keeping track of every insult and adding it to her list of grievances against her fellow Lords.

Edrigu stepped closer to me and reached out to shake my hand. When our flesh touched, the E on my palm burned like fire, and I took in a hissing breath. It was the first pain I’d felt since I died.

“Hello, Mr. Richter,” Edrigu said in that eerie voice of his. “It’s nice to finally make your acquaintance. You are, after all, a unique specimen among my charges.” He smiled with cold amusement. “By the way, my driver says you taste absolutely delicious.”

I withdrew my hand. Edrigu’s comment had rattled me-not to mention the burning sensation-and I quickly tried to cover. “You’re a Darklord, Edrigu. You’d think you’d be able to afford some skin to cover those ribs.”

Edrigu just smiled, his eyes cold as a tomb in deep winter. I turned away, unable to meet that awful gaze. The burning in my hand was mostly gone, but a distant echo of its pain lingered.

Devona went up to Galm and hesitantly touched his bare ivory arm. “Father, we must talk. It’s urgent!

Up to now, Galm had been brooding and not paying attention to the conversation. But when Devona spoke, he looked up, startled, as if he’d forgotten she were here. “Not now, child. We received bad news at the Cathedral while you were out. Varma died the final death earlier today.”

“I know, father,” Devona said softly. “Matt and I found his body.”

The other Lords fell silent and awaited Galm’s reaction. Keket seemed especially interested, which only made sense since she represented what passed for the law in Nekropolis. I half expected Galm to destroy Devona and me where we stood, but instead the ancient vampire spoke softly in a voice thick with restrained anger. “Tell me what you know.”

Devona hesitated, and then launched into a concise summary of everything that had happened since she’d discovered the Dawnstone was missing.

After she was done, the ice on Lord Galm’s glacially impassive face broke and his features contorted in fury. “Varma was a weak, immature man who existed only for pleasure. If the Dominari hadn’t introduced him to veinburn, he would have tried it on his own eventually. But if had you come to me immediately, child, I might have been able to locate Varma and use my magics to burn the addiction out of him, quite possibly preventing his assassination.” He shot Varvara a meaningful look, and I imagined the two of them were going to have a few conversations about the drug trade in Varvara’s Dominion not long after the ceremony.

“But you let your pride as keeper of my Collection interfere with your duty to your cousin-who was fully Bloodborn, I might add.”

Devona hung her head in shame. “Yes, my Lord.”

I wanted to shout at Galm, to tell him he was being unnecessarily cruel-not to mention just plain wrongheaded-to talk to Devona like he had. But I knew that despite my watering hole analogy, the Darklords’ truce didn’t extend to me, and I had to watch what I said.

“My Lord,” I said, nearly choking on the words, “what about the Dawnstone?” I hoped this would distract him from berating Devona and also turn his attention to the most important aspect of her story: that whoever stole the Dawnstone likely planned to attack with it during the Renewal Ceremony.

But I was surprised by his response.

“It is of no consequence.”

“No consequence!” I said. “I thought it was an object of great power!”

“It is,” Galm admitted, “but one which takes much mystic knowledge and skill to operate. Such attributes are possessed only by my fellow Lords.”

“And we would never use such a device,” Edrigu said. “Not during the Renewal Ceremony.”

“Edrigu’s right,” Amon said. “It would be one thing to employ the Dawnstone against each other outside of the Nightspire, but to use it here and risk Dis’s wrath? Never.”

“Not to mention what the effect of using an object of power would have on the ceremony itself,” Talaith said. “We need Dis, and all five of us, to maintain Nekropolis. If the ceremony were interrupted before completion, Umbriel would fail to be renewed.”

“And Nekropolis, and all its denizens, would be no more,” Edrigu finished. “There’d be nothing left to rule over.”

“Besides,” Talaith pointed out, “there’s no way anyone could sneak such a powerful artifact into the Nightspire, not with the powerful wardspells Father Dis has placed on the entrances.”

“It’s far more likely the Dominari have different-but no less nasty-plans for it,” Amon said. “But that need not concern us at the moment.”

I looked to Varvara for confirmation. “They’ve got a good point,” she told me. “Several, in fact.”

It sounded as if the other Lords had managed to convince Varvara. And truth to tell, what they said did seem reasonable. But that didn’t mean I bought it. My undead gut told me that despite all the Darklords’ arguments to the contrary, whoever had the Dawnstone would use it here, soon. But if the Darklords didn’t believe us, I didn’t know what we’d be able to do about it.

Evidently, Devona felt the same, too, for she said, “Father, please, you must-”

“Forget the Dawnstone,” Galm said, icy reserve in place once more. “It is no longer any of your concern, for you are no longer keeper of my Collection.”

Devona stared at her father in stunned disbelief.

“You have failed me and failed Varma. From now on you are cast out from the Bloodborn; you are no longer my daughter. Do not return to the Cathedral. If you do, I shall kill you.” And with that, Galm turned and strode away.

Devona’s eyes filled with tears which she fought desperately. Her hands clamped into fists so tight, her nails punctured the flesh of her palms and blood dripped from her wounds. She was shaking in both sorrow and anger. She opened her mouth-to call after Galm, I presume-but no words came. No matter what she might have said, I knew it wouldn’t have helped. Lord Galm had rendered his judgment, and I doubted even Father Dis could get him to reverse it.

I put what I hoped was a comforting hand on her shoulder. I wanted to say something to console her, but it was my turn to be unable to find the right words. Everything that had defined her existence and her very identity for her entire life-seventy-three years-had been stripped away from her in mere moments.

I suppose I should have also been concerned that I’d lost my chance to gain Lord Galm’s aid in staving off my final decay. But you know something? The thought didn’t even occur to me.

Edrigu, Amon, and Talaith wandered off, the latter looking quite pleased with the way things had turned out. Keket-who, I’d noticed, had stayed out of the debate over the Dawnstone-gave us a last look before trailing after the four Darklords, her dog-headed servants in tow. Varvara remained with us, though I wasn’t sure why.

And that’s when a gong sounded, though there was none in the room to be seen, and through a doorway on the other side of the room entered a handsome man dressed in a dark purple toga.

Father Dis.