The Nekropolis Archives (83 page)

  It wasn't that I didn't want to have children. I just wasn't sure that Nekropolis was the best environment to raise them in. Four hundred years ago, Earth's Darkfolk – vampires, shapeshifters, magic-users, demons, and the like – had decided they'd had enough of humanity and emigrated to another dimension where they built a vast city called Nekropolis. Here they could live openly, without the need to remain concealed from the humans who were increasingly outnumbering them. But as you might imagine for a city filled with monsters, Nekropolis can be an extremely dangerous place, and the idea of bringing innocent new life into this world made me uncomfortable, to say the least. Devona and I weren't even sure
what
our child might be. She was half human, and I'd be all human when we conceived our baby. As best as Papa Chatha could figure, that meant there was an excellent chance our child would be completely human, or close enough to it. Some humans did live in Nekropolis. The Darkfolk maintained magical passageways that led back to Earth, mostly so they could continue to import goods and services, and a number of humans found their way here every year. That was how I'd originally come to the city, chasing a warlock who'd committed a series a murders in my hometown of Cleveland. According to the laws of the Darkfolk, it's forbidden to prey upon humans, but so many of the Darkfolk are predators by nature, and they consider that law more of a guideline than a firm rule. Add to this the fact that Darkfolk outnumber humans by at least ten to one, and the reality is that humans, for all intents and purposes, live as second-class citizens in Nekropolis.

  Zombies, intelligent or not, are considered to be lowest form of life in the supernatural food chain, and I knew firsthand how the Darkfolk treated those they viewed as lesser beings. Given all this, I wasn't sure bringing a child – and a potentially
human
child at that – into this world was the most responsible thing to do. So I'd been conflicted about using the coin. But now circumstance had forced my hand, and I was human again, but only for a single day. I didn't have any more time to wonder if having a child was a good idea. If we were going to try to get pregnant, we had to get started as soon as possible. I didn't want to disappoint Devona, and besides, even with the fertility charm, Papa Chatha had warned us there was no guarantee we'd conceive. So maybe my worries would turn out to be for nothing in the end. But either way, I decided I needed to get home to my love.

  That settled, I stepped back out onto the street.

  The Sprawl is the most urban of Nekropolis' five Dominions. Even at its best, it normally looks like something out of a Hieronymus Bosch fever dream, but Ruination Row is in a nightmarish class by itself. The streets look like they're made from the craggy gray hide of some rhinoceros-like creature, and the distorted buildings look like they're constructed from a bizarre mix of insect chitin, bleached bone, and pulsating discolored organs. The traffic roars by at lethal speeds, the vehicles ranging from mundane cars imported from Earth to more outré machines like meatrunners, carapacers, and ectoplasmonics. The sidewalk was crowded with pedestrians, most of them Darkfolk, in search of the foul, debased pleasures that can only found in Ruination Row.

  I'd originally come to Nekropolis as a living man, but I'd only been in the city a few days before I'd died and been resurrected as a zombie. That was several years ago, and in that time I'd forgotten how overwhelming the city can be on a sensory level. Standing there, my newly restored living senses were inundated with an ocean of sensation – sights, smells, and sounds – and the sheer amount of data was too much for me to process. All I could do was stand in the middle of the sidewalk, frozen in place, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised if I drooled a little. I swayed, dizzy, gray nibbling at the edges of my vision, my mind threatening to shut down to protect itself from the overwhelming sensory onslaught. I fought to hold onto consciousness. Passing out on the streets of Nekropolis is not an effective long-term survival strategy.

  A tall thin being – I couldn't tell if it was male or female – wrapped from head to toe in strips of moldy gray cloth came toward me. Perched on his or her shoulders was a large bird with multicolored plumage and a wickedly hooked beak. The mummy paid no attention to me as it walked past, but the pharaoh's eagle riding on its shoulders glared at me with disconcertingly intelligent eyes, let out an annoyed squawk, and snapped at me. That hooked beak came within an inch of slicing into the flesh of my cheek, but the eagle missed. The bird glared at me one last time, but it didn't leave its perch to attack, and eventually it turned around to face forward again as its owner continued walking down the street

  The eagle's near miss shocked me back to full awareness. As a zombie, I don't have to worry about getting hurt. Minor cuts and bruises mean nothing to me, and broken bones are merely annoyances to be tended to later. Even losing a limb or two or being decapitated isn't a major concern. All I need to do is gather up my pieces and pay Papa Chatha a visit. He always sews me back together.

  But I was alive again, and that meant not only could I be hurt, I could be killed. And though I wasn't one hundred percent certain how the magic of Charon's Coin worked, I had to assume that if I died during the next twenty-four hours, I'd stay dead. This meant I needed to do something I hadn't done in years: be careful. If I got cut, I'd bleed. And if a pissed-off monster tore my arm out of its socket, it would be more than an inconvenience. It would likely be the end of me. So the best thing I could do was head home, keep my mouth shut, and avoid making eye contact with anyone along the way.

  I put my hands in my pants pockets, lowered my gaze to the sidewalk, and started heading east, in the direction of the apartment I shared with Devona, but I only got a few yards before someone walked up to me and said, "Matthew Richter?"

  The voice was a smooth, warm baritone, and I felt a strange pull when I heard it. Even though I wanted to ignore whoever it was and keep going, I stopped and raised my head to look the man in the eye.

  He was a demon. His kind can vary widely in physical appearance and ability, but they all have several things in common. Their eyes contain multicolored flecks which rotate slowly around the pupils. All Demonkin, regardless of type, have those flecks, and they remain no matter what form a demon assumes. Another aspect they share is the almost hypnotic quality of their voices. As a zombie, demon voices have no effect on me, but as a human, I felt the power in this one's words. It was like I was compelled to listen to him, whether I wanted to or not. Demon voices can be resisted, but it takes effort, and I'd been out of practice for the last few years.

  This demon was humanoid for the most part, bald, with dusky red skin, pointed ears, serpent scales beneath his eyes, a thick black soul patch on his chin, and slightly pointed teeth that were so white they almost gleamed. Despite all this, he was handsome enough, though he probably didn't get too many gigs as a male model. He wore a black turtleneck, black slacks, black shoes, and – naturally enough – black socks. Normally, I would have made a smart-ass remark about his lack of sartorial imagination. I mean, wearing black in a city full of monsters where the sun never shines? How much more cliché can you possibly get? But I was still struggling to adjust to my newly restored senses. Everything was too bright, too loud, too
much
, and I felt almost as if I was drunk. I felt sick, too. My throat was dry and sore, there was an uncomfortable gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach, and I kept hearing a strange thrumming in my ears. After a moment, I realized that I was thirsty and hungry, and the thrumming I heard was nothing more than the beating of my now living heart.

  The demon spoke again, and this time he sounded annoyed. "Mr. Richter?"

  I did my best to ignore the powerful sensations I was experiencing. "That's me," I said. My voice sounded strange. The tone lighter, the words more clearly enunciated.

  The demon smiled, displaying his sharp white teeth. "I hear you've been looking for me."

  I was having trouble concentrating, and at first the demon's words didn't sink in. But then it hit me.

  "You're the Silversmith."

  "My real name is Gilmore, and as long as we're in public, I'd prefer you use it. And before you get any ideas…" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver metal rod about six inches in length. On the end of it was a clawed hand, and Gilmore raised the rod and pointed the claw at me. "It might not look like much, but believe me when I say it packs a hell of a wallop."

  It might've looked like nothing more than a backscratcher, but I had no doubt that the weapon Gilmore wielded was the Argentum Perditor. But I pretended not to recognize it. I'd made no mention that I was searching for the artifact during my inquiries around Ruination Row, so Gilmore had no reason to think I knew what his little toy could do. And I'd learned long ago that the more cards you keep concealed from an opponent, the better.

  But I wasn't in the mood to get into a pissing contest with a demon right then. As the saying goes, at that moment I had bigger and more important fish to fry.

  "I
was
looking for you, it's true. But something's come up, and I'm needed elsewhere. Tell you what, why don't you give me your card and maybe we can do business later."

  He arced one of his thick black eyebrows. "I suppose next you'll say, 'Have your people call my people and we'll do lunch.' I'm not an easy man to find, Mr. Richter, and once found, I'm ever harder to dismiss. So…" His lips drew away from his mouth in a predatory smile. "Why don't you tell me what you want with me?"

  What I most wanted was for him to get the hell out of my way so I could continue heading home. Instead, I said, "I use a lot of specialized equipment in my job. Holy water, silver bullets… I'm always on the lookout for new suppliers. Word on the street is that you're the go-to guy when it comes to silver, so I figured it was time I made your acquaintance."

  I carry a 9mm in a shoulder holster, and my bullets are coated with silver, dipped in a mixture of holy water and garlic juice, and both blessed and cursed by powerful magic-users. You never know who or what is going to try and kill you in Nekropolis, so it pays to be prepared.

  At that moment, I considered going for my gun. Normally, my zombie reflexes are so slow that I can't out-draw anyone, but since it doesn't matter if an opponent gets the first shot in, my lack of speed is never an issue. If an opponent manages to hit me, all that it means is that I'll eventually need to get Papa Chatha to repair the damage. Shooting second is more than good enough when bullets can't kill you. But now my reflexes were once more those of a living man, and that meant I might be able to draw my gun before Gilmore could activate the Argentum Perditor. Then again, I'd had trouble simply standing back in the alley, and I still didn't feel all that steady on my feet. I hadn't adjusted to my newly restored body yet, and that meant there was a good chance I'd fumble when I tried to draw my 9mm, giving Gilmore more than ample opportunity to turn me into a silver statue. And if I got silverfied before I could get home and was able to, uh, make my delivery to Devona, she'd kill me.

  So no gunplay for now.

  Gilmore leaned toward me and inhaled deeply then, and I felt suddenly paranoid. Demonkin senses aren't always as keen as those of Bloodborn or Lykes, but they're sharp enough, and I feared Gilmore might smell that I'd turned human. One of the things you want to avoid at all costs in Nekropolis is having someone consider you prey – especially
easy
prey. I had a couple things going in my favor, though. For one thing, Gilmore had no reason to suspect I'd been restored to a living state. For another, my transformation had only affected my body. My clothes were still the same, and not only did a pungent au de zombie still cling to them, they were stained from the gunk I'd landed in when I fell in the alley. With any lucky, my rancid-smelling clothes would help disguise my now human scent.

  Turns out I had nothing to worry about. He leaned back and his smile became more relaxed.

  "I can smell the silver on you, so perhaps your story is true. But I've heard rumors on the street as well, Mr. Richter. It seems that a number of powerful magical artifacts have been stolen from their owners over the last few weeks. The thefts have two important things in common. The owners are all, shall we say,
unconventional
business people like myself, and you were spotted in the vicinity around the time of each theft, Mr. Richter."

  I shrugged. "What can I say? I get around. Doesn't mean I had anything to do with the thefts." Inwardly, I cursed my luck. Gilmore might not be a genius, but it seemed that he was more than smart enough to put two and two together.

  "So this leads me to two possible conclusions. Either you were looking for me for the reason you claimed, in order to secure a new supplier of silver bullets, or you were looking for
this
." He wiggled the Argentum Perditor for emphasis. "The problem is how do I determine the truth?"

  If he knew I was currently human, he'd try to force me to confess using the persuasive power of his demon voice. If he did, I might be able to resist. Then again, I might not. Hopefully, he'd continue thinking I was still a zombie.

  I tried to speak more slowly and less distinctly as I replied to further the impression that I was still dead. "You could always take my word for it."

  He laughed. "Demons aren't known for being the trusting type." He thought for a moment. "I think I'll invite you to accompany me to my home. The public face of my operation is a small business called One Man's Trash. Perhaps you saw it during your inquiries? It's not far from here. I specialize in selling 'reclaimed treasures' imported from Earth. You'd be surprised what some Darkfolk are willing to pay for the junk I carry in my shop. My real business lies in the chambers underneath the shop, of course. I have a number of devices there that will allow me to extract the truth even from a zombie." A gleam came into his demon eyes, and he bared his teeth once more. "This is going to be a lot of fun."