The Nekropolis Archives (35 page)

  "Won't they punish Skully anyway?" Devona asked.

  "I doubt it.
Skully's
place has been a fixture in the Sprawl for years, and I bet the Dominari get too much use out of it – and its owner – to get rid of either." I turned to Skully. "If your bosses ask why I didn't turn you in to the Adjudicators, tell them you bribed me to keep my mouth shut."

  "You'd do all that for me?" Skully asked.

  I smiled. "Hey, what are friends for?"

  Just then a solemn, sonorous tone sounded off in the distance. Several seconds later another sounded, and then another. They kept coming every ten seconds, soft and low, reminding me a bit of the lonely, mournful sound a foghorn makes.

  "What's that noise?" I asked.

  "Father Dis!" Devona swore. "It's the Deathknell summoning the Darklords to the Nightspire – the Renewal Ceremony will start soon!"

  It was my turn to swear. We were too late. I was certain whoever had the Dawnstone planned to use it during the ceremony to kill Lord Galm, or maybe even Dis himself, if such a thing were possible. And there was nothing we could do about it. Unless…

  I grabbed Devona's hand and pulled her toward the door. "I'm afraid you'll have to hit yourself over the head, Skully. Devona and I have to go." I shoved past him, and Devona and I stepped over the late and very much unlamented Yberio. We hurried down the stairs, taking them as fast as my bum leg would allow.

  "Where are you going?" Skully called after us.

  I shouted over my shoulder. "To crash a party!"

TWENTY-ONE

From the outside, Lady Varvara's stronghold is a glass and steel building ten stories tall, which wouldn't be out of place in the business district of any midsize city on Earth. Inside, Demon's Roost is a paean to pleasure, a twenty-four-hour-a-day bacchanalia that makes Las Vegas look like a kindergarten playground. It's an adults-only amusement park which contains such a dazzling scope and variety of decadence and perversity that it might give Caligula himself pause.

  Beside the mass of partiers, getting inside wasn't a problem. Varvara doesn't believe in locking doors or posting guards. Anyone can come in and play, from the lowliest street beggar to any of the Demon Queen's fellow Darklords – but once inside, you're on your own and good luck to you. Just remember: there are no guarantees you'll ever make it out again. Devona and I made out way into the Atrium by squeezing through a mass of beings drinking, drugging, gambling, screwing, eating, talking, laughing, yelling, fighting – often, it seemed, all at the same time.

  Any number of Nekropolitan luminaries were in attendance. After all, Demon's Roost is
the
place to be on Descension Day. The Scream Queen and her band Kakophonie provided the musical entertainment – if you could call the banshees' dissonant wailing music – and I spotted Marley's Ghost rattling his chains in time to the beat. Fade, who had made her way over from the Broken Cross, had gotten herself cornered by the Else, who was obviously trying to convince her to do a feature story on him, while the Jade Enigma looked on in cynical amusement, Antwerp the Psychotic Clown was stabbing himself over and over with a butcher knife and laughing uproariously, much to the annoyance of those unfortunate enough to be in range of his blood spatter. The Suicide King stood nearly, watching Antwerp's gory display with a critical eye and shaking his head. As Devona and I passed by, I heard him mutter, "That's not how you do it."

  I noticed a trio of Demilords standing off to the side and keeping to themselves. Baron Samedi seemed to be enjoying himself well enough, if his broad grin was any indication, but Slitheria the Serpent Goddess watched the revelry with a reptilian gaze of cold disapproval. Molog, Demon Lord of Insects, stood with his arms crossed over his chest, the millions of six-legged creatures that formed his body scuttling about restlessly, making it look as if he might fall apart any second.

  I'd seen them – and other Demilords – around the city before, but after our recent encounter with Yberio I now viewed them in a different light. Maybe they weren't quite as powerful as the Darklords, but they weren't saddled with the responsibilities of the five Lords, either. The Demilords were incredibly powerful beings free to do as they pleased, and they had no need to conserve their strength to help renew Umbriel once a year. In that sense, they were more powerful than the Darklords, and I wondered if – like Yberio – they resented being passed over by Dis during his Wanderyear in favor of the five current Darklords, and what they might intend to do to even the score one day.

  The party wasn't confined to the ground, though. The Atrium extended several stories upward, and numerous beings flew or levitated above our heads, some swooping and darting about, while others merely circled slowly – perhaps hoping to spot prey of one sort or another below. Ichorus was there, no doubt having accompanied Fade. I wondered if they were an item. If so, I bet that would be one tidbit of gossip that would never appear in Fade's tabloid column. A number of ghostly figures were ballroom dancing in the air, their graceful moves somehow perfectly complementing Kakophonie's thunderously strident melodies.

  Devona kept swiveling her head this way and that, trying to take it all in and failing dismally. It was like trying to hold the ocean in your arms. No matter how hard you work at it, it's just not going to happen.

  "Varvara has a one-word philosophy," I shouted to be heard over the Scream Queen and her band. "More!"

  "She certainly appears to live by it!" Devona said.

  The atrium of Demon's Roost looks as if it had been ground zero during the explosion of an atomic kitsch bomb. Gaudy pastel-colored carpeting, black velvet paintings in neon-tube frames, mirrored disco balls spinning above… We passed a wall collage formed from thousands of tiny cheap toys from fast-food kids' meals, and soon after that, my favorite piece, a thirty foot-tall pewter statue of Elvis gazing benevolently down on a flock of plastic pink flamingos.

  "Oh, my," was all Devona could manage to say.

  "Quite a change from the Cathedral, isn't it?"

  We stood for a moment and regarded each other. Neither of us looked our best right then. I was a broken, decaying mess, and Devona was covered with Yberio's drying blood. Neither of us had commented on what had taken place in the veinburn lab, partially because we didn't have time to talk about it, but also I suspect because neither of us was exactly sure what to say. I was touched that Devona had felt the need to avenge Dale's death for me, but I was also once more painfully aware that we might have only a couple days, maybe even only a few more hours, together if Lord Galm wouldn't or couldn't use his magic to preserve my body. We'd come to mean so much to each other in such a short time, and I didn't want to face the very real possibility that what was growing between us would die before it had a chance to be fully born. So we looked at each other and didn't speak, but Devona took my hand and gave it a squeeze and that was enough.

  Even with all the tumult in Demon's Roost, the tolling of the Deathknell could be heard, the sound muted and distant, but unmistakable. None of Varvara's guests seemed to notice, or more likely they just didn't care. After all, the Renewal Ceremony had been taking place every year for over three centuries. It was nothing special to them. They were far more concerned with obtaining their next drink and/or lover. But then, none of them knew about the Dawnstone and the use to which it would soon be put – unless Devona and I could stop it.

  We continued on pushing, shoving, elbowing, and in a few cases kneeing our way through the crowd until we came to a bank of elevators. There were five, all the same, except the last on the left. That one had a red button, while the others had white buttons. And standing in front of the red-button elevator was an eight-foot-tall muscular creature with blue skin, shaggy black hair and a wild, unkempt beard. Its red-tinged eyes were the size of saucers, and huge incisors jutted down from behind its upper lip and curved outward like tusks. The thing wore only two items of clothing: a loincloth made from tanned human hide, and a necklace of tiny human heads.

  "What is he?" Devona asked.

  "His name is Jambha – it means
jaws
in Hindi – and he's a rakshasa, a demon from Hindu mythology. That's Varvara's private elevator he's guarding. If anyone tries to use it without permission, he eats them."

  Devona looked at me. "You're joking, right?"

  "Well, he doesn't eat them right away. Among other things, back on Earth rakshasa were known for devouring the dead on battlefields. They like their food to age somewhat, say a week or two." I put a hand up to block my mouth so Jambha couldn't read my lips. "Watch out for his breath. I don't have a working olfactory system, and even I can't stand the stink of it."

  Without another word, I led Devona over to Jambha. As we drew closer, we could see that the heads on the necklace were replicas of ours, little Matt-heads alternating with little Devonaheads, one after the other, all the way around. The neck stumps were ragged, as if the heads had been torn off by force, and they were fresh. Tiny drops of blood fell in continuous patters from the torn necks and onto Jambha's blue chest.

  "How–" Devona began.

  "Rakshasa are masters of illusions," I told her. "So don't believe everything you see."

  When we came within three feet of the demon, I stopped us. Any closer, and we'd be instant demon chow.

  "Hey, Jambha," I greeted him. "It's been a while."

  The rakshasa looked me over from head to toe, and I felt like a piece of rotting meat in a demonic butcher's display case. A line of drool rolled down from his left tusk.

  "You smell absolutely
appalling
," Jamba said, and licked his lips with a forked tongue.

  "If that's a compliment, I guess I should say thank you, but keep your distance: no free samples, remember?" Since rakshasa love dead, rotting meat, in my current state I was like a walking ten course meal to Jambha, dessert included.

  Jambha looked disappointed, but he recovered quickly. "No sample, no elevator ride."

  I had a detached rotting ear I could give him somewhere in one of my pockets, and I started to fish around for it, but then I caught a glimpse of Devona's watching me with disapproval. I remembered what she'd said about the price I'd paid Waldemar – a page out of my memory. What kind of man thinks so little of his own experiences that he's willing to sell them for a few darkgems? So while giving Jambha the ear would've been the easy thing to do, in the end I decided not to.

  'Listen, Jambha, we need to see Varvara right now. It's vital we catch her before she heads to the Spire for the Renewal Ceremony. Let us through."

  "And I told you: no sample, no ride." He looked at me, his saucer eyes filled with carrion-lust.

  The Deathknell sounded again, reminding me we didn't have time for playing around.

  "Don't make me do it, Jambha."

  The rakshasa scowled. "Do what?" he said warily.

  "I have a pair of true-sight glasses in my pocket. If you don't let my friend and I use Varvara's elevator right now, I'll hand them to her and tell her to take a good look at you."

  Jambha's scowl eased into a worried frown. "You're bluffing."

  I shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

  The rakshasa and I stared each other down for a moment, but in the end Jambha sighed, pressed the button for us, and then stepped aside.

  "Go on," he said miserably.

  The door slid open and Devona and I stepped onto the elevator, both of us trying to ignore the disconcerting way the tiny Matt and Devona heads on Jambha's necklace all grinned as we walked by. Inside, there was only one button and I pushed it. As the door slowly closed, Jambha hurriedly said, "If anything
does
fall off, and you don't happen to have need of it, I'd appreciate it if you'd save it for me."

  "I'll see what I can do." Then thankfully the door shut and the elevator began a smooth ascent. We rode upward to the lilting strains of a Muzak version of Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper." Varvara's odd sense of humor seemed appropriate given what had brought us here.

  "This will take us straight up to the penthouse," I told Devona, "which is probably where Varvara's at right now, getting ready for the ceremony."

  "Do you really have true-sight glasses?" Devona asked.

  "No. I don't know if such things exist. I just made them up to bluff Jambha."

  "Why would a rakshasa care if I looked at him with true-sight glasses – assuming any existed – or not? He certainly didn't seem overly concerned about his appearance before."

  "Remember when I told you rakshasa were masters of illusion? In Jambha's case, he uses his abilities to hide his true body from everyone's eyes: in reality he stands a little under three feet tall and has arms like pipe cleaners. Not exactly the best look for a Darklord's guard. If word get out about his true appearance, Jambha would not only be embarrassed as hell, he'd never be able to work security in this town again."

  "I'm just glad he let us get on," Devona said, "and I'm impressed that Varvara lets you use her private elevator. How do you rate? No, let me guess: you did her a favor once."

  "Not quite." I didn't want to go on, but Devona was looking at me expectantly. "She finds me… amusing."

  "Oh. In a good way or a bad way?"

  "Honestly, I'm not sure."

  "Do you think she'll listen to us?"

  "There's no telling with Varvara. She might hear us out, or she might have us executed for bothering her before the Renewal Ceremony."

  Devona looked suddenly alarmed.

  "Relax; I was joking about the last part." At least, I hoped I was joking. It all depended on what sort of mood Varvara was in.

  The elevator glided to a stop and the door opened to reveal a boudoir of silks, satins, and a thousand overstuffed pillows scattered everywhere. Every possible shade of red and pink was represented, and I later learned from Devona that the air was thick with the mingled scents of a dozen different cloying perfumes mingled with a truckload of potpourri. The whole place was like a romance writer's wet dream.