could probably use a nap to help her recover from all the excitement. Isn't that right, dear?' He patted the dash and a loud purring sound came from under the cab's hood.
I had no idea Lazlo had a home. Given the way he always appears whenever I need him, I'd just assumed that he lived in his cab. After all, from what Devona tells me, the cab certainly smells like he lives in it. And I didn't want to think about what the cab might eat.
I thanked Lazlo for the lift, he gave me a parting wave, and the cab stood once more on its lizard legs and trotted off down the street. Varney's gaze tracked the departing vehicle, his cyborg cameraeye no doubt recording its departure.
'You know' he said, 'even for Nekropolis, that thing's weird.'
I didn't know if he was referring to Lazlo or the cab, but either way, I couldn't help but agree. We walked up to the front door of Papa's shack and I knocked. He didn't answer right away, but that wasn't unusual. Like a lot of magic-users, Papa's often conducting one experiment or another, and sometimes he's so engrossed in what he's doing that he doesn't hear people knocking. Or if he does hear, he chooses to ignore them. So I knocked again, louder this time, and called out, 'Papa, it's me – Matt!' A few more moments passed, but I still didn't worry. Papa tends to be something of a homebody – after all, he works out of his shack – but he regularly leaves to go shopping for supplies. Even the most skilled practitioner of voodoo magic has to run out to the store to pick up a bag of severed rooster claws now and again. And while Papa wasn't much for the Sprawl's party scene, I'd known him to hit a club or two in his time. So when he didn't answer, I merely chastised myself for not calling ahead first to see if he was home before we stopped by. I turned to Devona, about to ask her what she wanted to do now, when the door opened.
I expected to see Papa Chatha looking out at me: a dignified bald black man in his sixties with a blue butterfly tattoo spread across his smooth-shaven face. The person looking through the crack at me was black, but that's where the resemblance ended. She was a pretty girl of thirteen or so, medium height – which made her taller than Devona – with long straight hair that stretched almost down to her waist. She wore a purple pullover dress that reached to the ankles of her bare feet, and no makeup or jewelry. She gazed at me with startling eyes, the irises so dark blue they were almost black. They made her seem far older than her apparent years, which in Nekropolis is always a possibility.
'May I help you?' she said. Her voice held an almost musical quality, but her words were precisely enunciated and her tone formal, almost as if she were speaking a language foreign to her.
I almost said, And you are? but I remembered my manners. 'We're here to see Papa Chatha.'
She looked past me at Devona and Varney. She must've decided they didn't appear too suspicious because she then turned her attention back to me and asked, 'Are you clients of his?'
'We're friends. At least, she and I are,' I said, nodding toward Devona. 'Is Papa home?'
Her expression grew solemn. 'No,' she said, 'and that's the problem.'
We were gathered in Papa's workroom. Whenever I visited Papa, whether professionally or personally, the two of us usually hung out here, and it was where I felt most comfortable. Besides, for some reason it seemed like an invasion of Papa's privacy to use his living quarters when he wasn't home.
Papa's workroom contained everything a self-respecting houngan needed: chemical-filled vials, jars filled with ground herbs and preserved bits of animals – raven wings, rooster claws, and lizard tails – all sizes and colors of candles, rope of varying lengths twisted into complex patterns of knots, voodoo dolls made of horsehair and corn shucks, tambourines and rattles lying on tabletops next to piles of books and scrolls. To the untrained eye, it looked like things were placed haphazardly about the room, but I knew better. Papa keeps everything just where he wants it, and just because his system of organization isn't immediately apparent doesn't mean he doesn't have one.
I leaned against a workbench, arms folded over my chest, Devona standing next to me. Varney stood on the other side of the room in the corner, the better to film the entire room, I supposed. The girl, who'd introduced herself as Shamika, sat on a high stool, bare feet dangling several inches from the wooden floor.
I looked at Shamika. 'You're really Papa's niece?'
Devona elbowed me. 'She already told you she was.'
'Sorry. I don't mean to sound so skeptical, but Papa's never mentioned you before.'
I wasn't sure what bothered me more. The fact that Papa had never spoken about his family to me or that I'd never asked him about them. Maybe we weren't as close as I thought we were, and I wondered how much of that was my fault.
'Most of our family lives on Earth,' Shamika said. 'Our ancestors were pure Arcane, but many of their descendants married humans over the years, and not all of their children could work magic. Those that could moved to Nekropolis. The rest stayed on Earth.'
Unlike other Darkfolk, Arcane appear perfectly human, and this allows them to interbreed with humans, if for no other reason than humans don't find them automatically repulsive and run screaming in the other direction. Because of this, Arcane bloodlines have become greatly diluted over the centuries, resulting in fewer true Arcane being born, and those who are born with the ability to work magic aren't always very powerful. It's one of the reasons Talaith is fiercely protective of her people: she fears the eventual extinction of the Arcane race. Among the five Darklords, she was one of the strongest proponents for the creation of Nekropolis. She hoped that relocating her people to another dimension would limit their opportunities to breed with humans, forcing them to mate within their own race. She couldn't outright forbid intermarriage – that would go against the Blood Accords, the laws that govern all Nekropolitans, Darklords included – but she does everything she can to discourage it.
I glanced at Devona's slightly swollen belly. If what Galm had told us was true, our interbreeding was going to produce a truly special child. And while I suppose I understood the rationale behind Talaith's medieval mindset, I was glad neither Devona nor I shared it. What a great adventure we'd have missed out on.
'How long has it been since you heard from Papa?' Devona asked Shamika. Her tone was gentle, and through our link I could feel her concern for the girl.
'Three days. I stopped by for a visit, but he wasn't here, so I called his vox and left a message. He usually calls back within a couple hours, but when he didn't, I tried again. He didn't answer, so I left another message. I kept calling and leaving messages, but he never called me back. Finally, I got so worried that I came over here and…' She looked suddenly sheepish. 'I used my magic to let myself in.' She brightened a bit. 'I'm not as powerful as Uncle, but I can do a few tricks.'
'Don't be so modest,' Devona said. 'The security spells Papa has placed on his shack are top-notch, if a little… idiosyncratic. You have to know more than a 'few tricks' to get past them.'
Shamika looked suddenly uncomfortable. She gazed down at the floor and shrugged. 'I suppose.'
I pulled out my hand vox, flipped open the lid, and pressed Papa's number. I hated using the damned thing – the tiny ear you speak into is weird enough, but the small mouth you press your own ear against is just plain gross, especially when it gets a little sloppy with its tongue. I listened to Papa's phone ring several times, and then I got his voicemail. The voxmouth spoke in a perfect imitation of Papa's voice, and the effect was eerie as always, like Papa was whispering in my ear.
'If you called my number, you know who I am, and you know what to do.'
The vox-mouth made a tiny beep sound, and I started talking.
'Hey, Papa, it's Matt. Devona and I are at your place, sitting and talking with Shamika. She's worried about you and wonders why you haven't been returning her messages. Give her a call ASAP, and call me back too, while you're at it.'
I disconnected and put my vox away.
'So Papa's been gone for three days, and he's not answering his vox or returning messages.' I didn't like the way this was looking. Like most magicusers, Papa was highly disciplined – you need to be when working with chaotic and potentially lethal forces – and he lived by a regular routine. It simply wasn't like him to deviate from it. I'd never known him to leave his home for so long, and I had a hard time believing he would ignore his niece's messages. He was too considerate.
Devona looked at me, and though she didn't speak aloud, I heard her voice in my mind.
Do you think Papa's disappeared like those other magic-users who've vanished?
I understood why Devona was speaking telepathically. She didn't want to alarm Shamika unnecessarily.
It's possible, I answered. It's also possible that any number of awful things have happened to him. This is Nekropolis, you know. But Papa's a highly skilled magicuser and, more importantly, a smart man. He can protect
