The Nekropolis Archives (66 page)

  "It's not as bad as it sounds," she said, still not meeting my gaze. "The Cathedral's security procedures are routinely revised and updated, so everything I told the Dominari was no longer current. I think they knew this, but they were happy to get whatever inside information they could. I'm not sure what they think they can use the information for, but since it's old, it won't do them much good." She looked up then. "At least, that's what I've been telling myself."

  I reached across the table, took hold of Devona's hand, and gave it what I hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

  "I can't tell you how much I appreciate what you've done. The risk you've taken… If Galm ever finds out…"

  She smiled weakly. "If Father learns what I did I won't have to worry about being sentenced to Tenebrus. He'll hunt me down and kill me himself."

  It's one thing when a person tells you they love you. It's another when they stick it out with you even when times are tough. But it's what we're willing to do for one another – the chances we take, the sacrifices we make – that truly speak to the depth of our love. Before this I'd known that Devona loved me, but I realized I hadn't appreciated just how much, and I felt like a world class idiot for being jealous of Bogdan, for being jealous of anyone. At that moment I didn't feel worthy of Devona's love and I decided right then and there that I was going to spend the rest of my life trying to become worthy of it. Of course, to do that, I was going to have to get my name off Nekropolis's Most Wanted list somehow.

  Just then I saw coils of gray smoke drifting our way. They stopped next to our table, grew larger and thicker, and took on a human shape. An instant later a young – or at least young-appearing – Bloodborn male stood there, wearing a black leather jacket, white T-shirt, jeans and running shoes, a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his pale lips. He was also wearing a backpack and he slipped it off and handed it to Devona before pulling out a seat and joining us.

  "Tell me something, Shrike," I said, "I get how vampires' clothing transforms with you whenever you assume your travel forms, but how do you manage to take extra stuff like that backpack with you?"

  Shrike grinned. "Magic," he said simply, and I nodded. What else?

  "Thanks for coming," I said.

  "Devona filled me in on the basics of what happened when she called me," Shrike said. "I gotta tell you, you have some of the worst luck of anyone I know, living, dead, or in between."

  I sighed. "Wish I could argue with you on that."

  Devona opened the backpack and quickly checked the contents.

  "This looks good. Thanks." She looked up and met Shrike's gaze. "Did you have any trouble getting into our apartment?"

  "I didn't even try," Shrike said. He took a long drag on his cigarette, and while the end glowed, the cig didn't decrease in size. It never did, and as far as I know, Shrike always had the same endlessly burning butt in his mouth. When he exhaled smoke, his entire body grew faint until you could see through it, solidifying again a moment later. "There are Sentinels posted on the corner for blocks in all directions around your building. Real subtle, huh? But I managed to pick up some goodies here and there for you. Maybe not as good as your regular gear, but hopefully it'll do."

  Like Lazlo, Shrike's an old friend, and Devona knew we could count on him in a pinch, which was why she'd contacted him before heading for Tenebrus to break me out. She knew we'd need weapons and Shrike was the only one we knew who could move about the city undetected, given the nature of his travel form.

  Devona handed the backpack over to me and it was my turn to examine the contents. There were a number of minor magical items from Hop Frog's and I chose several and tucked them away in various pockets in my coat. That is, in
Bogdan's
coat. I left the remainder of the magic items for Devona to choose from. She usually doesn't carry weapons, preferring to rely on her formidable intelligence, supernatural strength and speed, as well as her psychic abilities. But considering our current situation, I figured she might want to stock up on some extra insurance.

  Best of all was the gun Shrike had found for me. It was a .45 instead of the 9mm I usually carry, but escaped convicts can't be choosers. A 9mm carries more ammo and the velocity is better, and there's less recoil, which makes it easier for me, with my slower zombie reflexes, to use. Still, the .45 has better stopping power, which makes it a decent weapon on the streets of Nekropolis. I removed the weapon from the backpack and tucked it into my jacket along with the box of ammo Shrike had brought along.

  "I don't suppose you managed to score silver bullets?"

  "Sorry," Shrike said, "just the regular."

  I nodded. It would have to do. I returned the pack to Devona and she took the rest of the contents for herself. My vox had been taken from me back at the Nightspire so Shrike gave me his and I slipped it into one of my pockets.

  "I know I don't have to ask if you were followed," I said to Shrike, "but as I'm more paranoid than usual right now, I'm going to anyway. Were you?"

  Shrike looked as if my question had deeply wounded him. "Matt, I'm surprised by your lack of faith in me. For Christ's sake–" He didn't get any farther, for upon speaking the holy name his mouth burst into flame.

  Shrike cursed as he attempted to beat out the flames with both hands. I sighed and handed him my mug of aqua sanguis. He downed the contents in a single gulp, extinguishing the flames but leaving his tongue and lips burnt and blackened. He took another long drag with his cigarette and this time when his body resolidified his mouth was healed.

  "You really need to learn how to watch your language," I told him for perhaps the hundredth time since we met. He just grinned at me like he always does and not for the first time I wondered if Shrike "accidentally" spoke holy names as simply another aspect of an eccentric street persona. After all, the man was nothing if not theatrical in his presentation.

  "Well, at least we're armed," I said. I'd felt naked without some sort of weaponry on my person, and even though what Shrike had procured for us wasn't top of the line by a long shot, it was a damn sight better than nothing, and I felt a lot better than I had upon first walking into Westerna's.

  "So what's the word on the street?" I asked Shrike. "Is anyone aware that I'm a wanted zombie?"

  Shrike shook his head. "I don't think so. You know how it works. When the Adjudicators pull someone off the street and toss them into Tenebrus, word may never get out. As far as their friends and family are concerned, they've just gone missing – and since there are any number of reasons why someone might end up with their face on a milk carton in this city–"

  "No one's ever sure what happened to them," I finished. Good. Bad enough that the Sentinels were looking for me, but as long as no one else was aware that I'd been sentenced to Tenebrus and escaped, I could–

  Westerna's Mind's Eye projectors were showing a video from a homegrown group called the Hunchback Forty, when all of a sudden they went black, taking the music with them. The club's patrons booed and hissed, and since more of them were vampires, they had hissing down to an art. But the bartender shouted for everyone to be quiet.

  "Acantha's just come on the Mind's Eye with a special broadcast," he said. "I'm going to switch over to it."

  There were murmurs of surprise and delight from the crowd, but Devona and I looked at each other and said the same thing: "Uh-oh."

  The Mind's Eyes activated once more, this time showing Acantha's transmission. As usual, since the image was captured by the cyberserpents on her head, Acantha herself wasn't visible, but the voice came through loud and clear. The person her cameras were trained on was very familiar to me, as it had been less than a day since I'd seen him.

  Quillion.

  The voice, however, was Acantha's.

  "Hello, Nekropolis! You're live on the scene with Acantha! I'm standing inside the Nightspire talking with Brother Quillion, the First Adjudicator. Thank you so much for granting me this exclusive interview, Quillion. I'm sure my viewers are aware of how rarely Adjudicators speak to the media."

  Implied in that was a big screw you to the city's other media outlets:
The Tome
, the
Daily Atrocity
, Bedlam 66.6 and others – as Acantha publicly gloated over her "exclusive."

  Quillion, looking stiff and uncomfortable on camera, nodded.

  "You're welcome, Acantha."

  "I know you're a busy man, so let's get right down to it. As I understand it, you have a message you wish to deliver to my viewers."

  "That's right." Quillion's gaze shifted slightly upward, and he was now speaking directly to Acantha's cyberserpents, and thus to everyone in the city who was watching Acantha's unscheduled broadcast which, given the gorgon's popularity, was doubtless one hell of a lot of people.

  I had a good idea what was coming next.

  "Citizens of Nekropolis," Quillion began. "Many of you are no doubt familiar with Matthew Richter, a self-willed zombie, who for several years has worked in the Sprawl as a private investigator. During that time he was reputed to have served his clients well. In fact, Acantha recently featured a brief interview with him on her program."

  "Yes, I did, Quillion," Acantha broke in, more because she loved being on a first name basis with an Adjudicator than out of any real need to confirm his statement.

  Quillion went on.

  "Whatever Mr. Richter's past deeds, he was recently found guilty of a very serious crime, the nature of which I am not at liberty to divulge at this time, and he was sentenced to Tenebrus. As impossible as it sounds, Mr. Richter somehow managed to escape and is believed to be at large. I've alerted every Sentinel in the city to be on the lookout for Mr. Richter, but I wish to bring him back into custody as swiftly as possible. For that reason, I'm offering a substantial reward to anyone who can capture Mr. Richter and bring to him the Nightspire…" He paused. "Relatively intact."

  "When you say substantial…" Acantha said.

  "Five hundred thousand darkgems," Quillion said, speaking the obscenely large number without so much as blinking.

  I was impressed by the size of the reward Quillion was offering. I hadn't realized I was so dangerous. Evidently Acantha was impressed too for she let out a low whistle and the image of Quillion started shaking. I guessed her cyberserpents had become overly excited by the Adjudicator's news. Acantha made a few soothing sounds to calm her pets and the image steadied.

  "You heard it here first, folks," the gorgon said, sounding far too pleased with herself. After the way I'd humiliated her at Sinsation she had to be absolutely loving this.

  "And for those of you who need a reminder of what Matthew Richter looks like…"

  Quillion's image faded from Westerna's Mind's Eyes to be replaced by a still image of me. It was one from my disastrous interview with Acantha, pulled from her memory, no doubt. She'd selected a moment toward the end of the interview, right before I'd hit her with Anansi's Web. I was scowling and my eyes blazed with anger. I looked like I was ready to kill her.

  Shrike turned to me. "I think you should probably avoid speaking to reporters in the future." He glanced back at the frozen image of my face. "Seriously."

  The picture changed again, this time to an image of Acantha herself. Off to the right the extended length of a cyberserpent curving away from her head was visible and I guessed one of her pets had stretched itself out in front of her face so it could film her.

  "Matthew Richter: once thought to be a hero, now a wanted fugitive," she said. "How long will he remain at large? With five hundred thousand darkgems as a reward for his capture, my guess is not very long." She gave her audience a cat-that-ate-thecanary smile. "This is Acantha, saying good night and good hunting."

  The image went to black and several seconds later the Hunchback Forty returned to Westerna's Mind's Eyes.

  Devona, Shrike and I sat for a moment, staring silently at the closest Mind's Eye. After a bit Devona turned to me, her normally pale complexion ashen.

  "This is bad," she said.

  "Extremely," Shrike added.

  I would've loved to disagree with them, but I couldn't.

  "Given the size of the reward Quillion is offering, every professional bounty hunter and mercenary in the city will be out looking for you," Devona said.

  "Not to mention all the amateurs who'll be tempted by that money," Shrike said. "Hell, if you weren't my friend, I'd try to collect the reward myself."

  "I appreciate your self restraint," I said drily. But I knew they were both right. The whole damned city would be trying to find me – which is exactly what Quillion wanted, and Keket too, mostly likely.

  "What are you going do?" Shrike asked.

  "Try to clear my name. What else can I do? Not that I have the faintest idea where to start. We don't have any solid suspects and I have no idea what the object stolen from Edrigu is, let alone why someone would want it."

  "It's obvious why they chose you," Devona said. "Or rather, why they chose your body. You carry the mark of Edrigu on your hand. Whoever stole your body and animated it knew that mark would not only gain you entrance into Edrigu's stronghold, but it would also allow you to enter his bedchamber – and more importantly, to leave it without being stopped by his guards."

  Clearing my name wasn't the only reason I had for wanting to discover who had stolen Edrigu's bone flute. The thief had used my body to commit the crime, with
used
being the operative word. One of the things about being a zombie is that, bereft of the full range of physical sensations you enjoyed while alive, you can become detached and remote if you're not careful. More than that, you can start feeling that you're a thing, no more alive than a brick wall or a piece of furniture. An object instead of a person. And that's exactly how the thief had treated me – as an object, a tool, a means to an end. But I wasn't an object. I was Matthew Fucking Richter and when I found the son of a bitch who'd stolen my body and used it like a remote control toy I intended to make damn sure he or she knew who I truly was.