“You told me you didn’t want your father to know about the Dawnstone being missing before we had a chance to at least find out what happened to it.”
“That was before you said he might be in danger. Now let me go!” She tried to pull away from me, but I tightened my grip, praying her exertions wouldn’t snap off my fingers.
“Listen to me for a minute: if someone does intend to kill Lord Galm, whoever it is won’t try now. Think. You told me the Darklords conserve their power for months before the Renewal Ceremony-right?”
“Right.”
“So who would be foolish enough to attack Galm at the height of his strength? No, the best time to kill him would be during the Ceremony, when he’s distracted and expending his power to help recharge Umbriel. He’s safe until then.”
Devona didn’t look completely convinced, but she stopped trying to tear away from me, which was good, because as strong as she was, she probably would’ve taken my arm with her when she left.
I pressed on. “Even if you did try to warn him, as busy as he is right now, would he even talk to you?”
“Perhaps not.”
“And don’t forget that there’s a good chance your father is angry with you right now for bringing a zombie to his pre-Ceremony celebration. Besides, what do you really have to tell him, other than vague suspicions? The more we can learn, the greater the chance we can make him listen to us. Make him believe us. Look, how long do we have before the ceremony starts?”
She shrugged. “Hours, at least. We’ll know it’s near when the Deathknell of the Nightspire sounds.”
“So we have time to try to find Varma.”
She sighed. “I suppose.”
“All right, then let’s quit talking and start walking.”
She nodded, but she didn’t look happy about it.
We started in the direction of the bridge again, but immediately stopped. There before us was a midnight black coach hitched to two large ebony horses. And perched in the seat on top sat a man in a top hat and cloak which looked as if they’d been fashioned out of solid darkness, a horsewhip cradled in his lap. He turned his face toward us, but I couldn’t make out his shadowy, indistinct features. He inclined his head and touched the brim of his hat in greeting, but said nothing.
The coach had made no noise whatsoever pulling up, but either Devona hadn’t noticed or it didn’t bother her.
“Look, Matthew, perhaps we won’t have to fight our way through the crowds after all.” She stepped toward the coach, but I grabbed her elbow and pulled her back.
“That’s the Black Rig, Silent Jack’s coach,” I said harshly. “You don’t want to ride with him.”
She frowned at me. “Why not?”
“That’s right; you said you didn’t get out of Gothtown much. Let’s just say that Jack has a thing for the ladies. And his fares are quite steep.”
Jack’s shadow-shrouded face remained pointed at us a moment more, then he turned forward, raised his whip, and cracked it soundlessly over his horses, Malice and Misery. The animals whinnied silently, displaying teeth as black as their hides, and then the rig vanished, winking out of existence as if it had never been.
“You know,” Devona said in a shaky voice, “Suddenly walking doesn’t seem so bad after all.”
Bars, nightclubs, strip joints, and bad theatre are as common in the Sprawl as scales on a Gill-man. But the hottest, trendiest, most debauched entertainments can be found in only one place: Sybarite Street. It’s jam-packed with pleasure-seekers at the best of times, but during the Descension celebration, you couldn’t cut your way through the throngs with a high-precision laser. Still, if Varma were anywhere in Nekropolis, he was probably here, so Devona and I made our way the best we could.
According to Devona, Varma frequented quite a few establishments on Sybarite Street, so we decided to start with the first one we came to: the Krimson Kiss. I’d never been inside before, but I’d heard a few things about it. I wasn’t looking forward to finding out if they were true.
Outside, the Krimson Kiss wasn’t much to look at. A large blocky stone building with two large neon K’s on the roof, blazing-what else?-crimson light into the darkness. Like everywhere else on the street tonight, there was a long line of less-than-patient would-be patrons standing outside. But I figured there was a good chance I would rot away to a pile of zombie dust before the line budged a foot, so I took hold of Devona’s hand and pulled her along with me to the front. A tall, broadshouldered satyr was working the Krimson Kiss’s door that night, and he stood behind a velvet rope barrier, well-muscled arms crossed over his body-builder chest, grinning at the crowd through his curly reddish-brown beard. He was naked, as was customary for his kind, but since he was covered with thick fur from beneath his washboard abs down to his cloven-hoofed feet, he didn’t really need any clothing.
I started to say something to the satyr, but before I could get a word out, I felt pressure as a hand gripped my shoulder. I turned around to see a petite woman dressed in a 1920’s flapper outfit glaring at me. Her skin was covered with pulsating lesions, and when she opened her mouth to yell at me, I saw that her tongue was covered with blood-fattened ticks.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she said, her words made mushy by all those ticks. “I’ve waited hours in this line, and now that I’m next, I’m not about to let some chewed-up deader and his leather-clad slut cut in front of me!” She bobbled her head as she spoke, making the locks of her page-boy hair cut swish back and forth and causing the ostrich feather tucked into her headband to jerk about spasmodically. Her lesions began to throb violently, presumably as a result of her anger.
“Surely those aren’t those real ticks.” I leaned close to the flapper and squinted my eyes, while at the same time reaching into one of my pockets and palming one of the objects I found there.
“Of course they’re real!” she said indignantly. “They’re the very latest thing. Take a look if you don’t believe me.”
The flapper stuck out her parasite-infested tongue for my inspection, and that’s when I flicked my lighter and touched the flame to the insects. The blood-gorged bugs popped and sizzled and leaped off the flapper’s tongue like…well, like dying ticks leaping off a burning tongue. The woman shrieked and batted her blazing tongue with both hands, while tears streamed down her face. “My babies!” she shouted. “What have you done to my babies?!”
At least, I think that’s what she said. It was kind of hard to tell with that flash-fried tongue of hers.
I then turned to glare at the rest of the people at the head of the line, and in my best gruff cop voice said, “Anybody else got something to say?”
A tall man dressed like a mortician with an insideout face stepped forward, but before I could do anything, Devona bared her fangs at him and hissed like a cougar on crack. The tall man swallowed-a very disturbing sight considering the state of his face-and quickly stepped back in line.
I looked to Devona. She kept her fangs bared, but I could see the satisfied twinkle in her eyes.
A hearty laughed boomed out, and Devona and I turned to face the satyr.
His teeth were perfectly white, perfectly straight. “Thanks for that-it was the most fun I’ve had all night! But even though I’m a great fan of street theatre, I’m afraid the two of you will just have to wait in line like everyone else.”
There was some half-hearted applause from the people behind us, but it cut off when Devona whirled around and hissed again.
I sighed. It had been a long day, and I’d never had much tolerance for people who thought they were God’s gift-on in this case, Dis’s gift-to the world. “We’re going into the club to look for someone, and you’re going to let us in. Now.”
The satyr’s left eyebrow climbed toward one of his horns. “Really?” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm. “And just how is this miraculous event going to take place?”
The asshole was really getting up my nose, but even though I was no longer a cop, I had a cop’s training, and I knew that it’s best to negotiate whenever possible. And I did have a few darkgems on me to offer as a poor excuse for a bribe.
“It depends,” I said. “What would it take for you to help make it happen?”
The satyr ran his fingers thoughtfully through his shaggy beard. “Oh, I don’t know.” Then he looked at Devona. A smoldering lust came into his gaze and a sly smile spread across his face. “She’s not bad-looking, and even better, she’s feisty. Fifteen minutes alone with her in the back alley, and I’ll let you both in. What do you
