As we continued, the mingled sounds of merriment-tinkling glasses, the buzz of conversation punctuatedby an occasional burst of laughter, the soft lyrical sound of a string quartet-grew louder. The couple before us, who were garbed in Roman togas as white as their alabaster skin, were greeted enthusiastically at the ballroom entrance by a large burly vampire dressed like a Scottish highlander.
The highlander said something I didn’t catch, and the three of them broke into peals of laughter. But their merriment had a dark edge to it, and I was glad I hadn’t overheard what had sparked it.
We reached the ballroom and kept going, passing the Romans and the highlander, who were still chuckling over whatever black joke had amused them. And although I shouldn’t have done it, was risking drawing attention to ourselves-or specifically to my non-vam-piric, non-human, not-invited-to-the-party self-I couldn’t resist taking a quick look into the ballroom. What can I say? A curious nature was one of the things which led me to become a cop in the first place.
The ballroom was gigantic, four stories high at least. The floor and walls were completely covered by a smooth, mirrored surface that reflected the greenish light from the wall sconces, a scattering of people whom I took to be human, and nothing else-despite the fact that the room was packed with men and woman garbed in all manner of historical dress. Among those whose reflections were visible, however, were strolling human musicians who wandered through the room, along with equally mortal singers, comedians, jugglers, acrobats, and stage magicians. When the humans’ performances met with the Bloodborn’s approval, they received polite applause, and if the vampires were particularly amused, they might slip a performer a few darkgems as well. But when the performers didn’t quite measure up…well, the humans had more to offer than their meager talents, and the Bloodborn weren’t shy about taking their entertainment in liquid form.
I tried to catch a glimpse of myself in the wall mirror, but there was so many people milling about I couldn’t. I did, however, see a hazy ghost image of a petite blonde for just a moment. Devona was half human. It only made sense she would cast half a reflection.
But as impressive as the gathering of Bloodborn royalty was in and of itself, one thing was more impressive still. In the center of the room stood a great marble fountain, and bubbling forth from it a thick shower of reddish- black liquid. I told myself the viscous fluid couldn’t really be what it seemed; that it was either aqua sanguis, the synthetic blood substitute produced in the Sprawl, or a decorative effect of some sort achieved through Lord Galm’s dark arts. I almost believed it, too.
And then Devona and I were past the ballroom and continuing down the corridor.
“I don’t think anyone noticed us,” Devona said, relieved.
“I hope you’re right.”
After a few dozen more feet we came to a winding stone staircase. Devona removed a torch from a sconce on the wall and started up the stairs. I held back a little. Maybe the torch wasn’t lit with real fire, but zombie-flesh is dry, bloodless, and very flammable. I wasn’t about to take any chances.
Devona led the way up: two, four, seven floors. I don’t tire as I did when alive, but just to break the silence, I said, “I wonder if Lord Galm has ever considered installing an elevator.”
“Most Bloodborn don’t need to rely on stairs,” she answered. “They have their travel forms. Besides, Father won’t have anything to do with technology. He thinks it a decadence which promotes laziness of the mind and spirit.”
I wondered what Galm thought of those Bloodborn who’d arrived in limousines that night. I thought of asking Devona, but I decided to stick to business instead. “I didn’t notice Lord Galm in the ballroom.”
“He’s probably still meditating, marshaling his power for the Renewal Ceremony.”
I thought I might take the opportunity to find out more about the ceremony-it struck me as awfully coincidental that one of Lord Galm’s most powerful mystic objects should just happen to vanish so close to the Renewal Ceremony. But then we reached the ninth floor and Devona gestured that we should stop.
Devona stuck her head into the corridor, looked both ways, and then motioned for me to follow. I did, but to the right I saw a window, and I couldn’t resist stepping over to it and taking a quick peek outside.
The window was covered with thick iron bars, but that wasn’t the only protection. I could hear, or rather almost hear, a hum in the air, like the ultrasonic whine of an alarm system.
“Don’t stand too close,” Devona said. “The wardspell on the window is a particularly deadly one.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
The borders of Nekropolis form a perfect pentagram, and the points of the pentagram-connected by the flaming barrier of Phlegethon-are the strongholds of the five Darklords. This window faced outward from Nekropolis and toward the Null Plains: a flat black featureless expanse which stretched to the horizon. A whole hell of a lot of Nothing.
I’d only seen the Null Plains a couple times before, but viewing them always gave me the creeps. There was something about the blackness that the human (or zombie) eye couldn’t quite deal with, a subtle movement, nearly undetectable, like glacially slow tides of solid darkness sliding and swirling against one another.
I thought of crazy Carl and the headline of his idiotic “newspaper”-WATCHERS FROM OUTSIDE PLOT CITY’S DESTRUCTION-and I couldn’t help shuddering. Looking out at the endless darkness, I could almost believe something was out there, watching, waiting…
“Not much to see,” Devona said.
“Not much,” I agreed, turning away from the window. There was nothing out there, certainly not any Watchers. Carl was a loon, and that was the end of it.
We continued down the corridor past a series of solid-looking wooden doors, each of which appeared to be exactly like the one before it, until we came to a door which didn’t seem particularly special, but evidently was, for Devona stopped.
“This is it. The entrance to the Collection.” She unzipped her leather jacket halfway to her waist to reveal an iron key hanging on a chain between her partially exposed breasts.
As she detached the key from the chain, I asked, “Is this the only key to the chamber?”
She nodded. “Not even Lord Galm has one. But then, he doesn’t need a key. The door is spelled to open at his touch.” She moved to insert the key in the lock-not having bothered to zip up her jacket (like I said, I pay attention to details)-but I grabbed her wrist before she could.
“Let me have a look first.” I let go of her wrist and knelt down to examine the lock.
There aren’t too many good things about being a zombie, but one of them is that, while my thought processes sometime take a little longer than they used to, I’m able to focus my attention and concentrate like crazy. The dead aren’t easily distracted.
The lock appeared to be made of the same iron as the key. The door handle rested directly above it. I looked closely for scratches, nicks, or dents-anything which might indicate the lock had been picked or forced. There were none.
I straightened. “Let’s go in.” I stepped aside, and Devona inserted the key. The lock turned with a metallic clack, she pushed open the door, and Lord Galm’s great Collection was laid bare before us.
FOUR
And most impressive it was.
The stone walls were covered with weapons, from simple wooden spears and bows to highly polished swords and ornate jewel-encrusted daggers. There were broadaxes far too large for anyone possessed of merely human strength to wield, and a series of maces and morningstars, each covered with larger and crueler spikes than the last.
The floor was taken up by stone tables, daises, and columns upon which rested a variety of non-military objects: a tiny golden skull which glowed with a soft, gentle yellow light; an Egyptian scarab carved from jade, but which nevertheless moved, scratching away at the inner surface of the glass globe which imprisoned it; a stereopticon constructed entirely of what appeared to be spider silk, a stack of picture cards next to it, displaying what looked like Tarot images; and on and on. There were no placards, no labels to name the objects, but after nearly thirty years of tending the Collection, I doubted Devona needed any.
The Collection communicated an almost tangible sensation of antiquity, and for the first time I had an inkling
