had no sense of smell.
TEN
As we left the Krimson Kiss, Devona looked like she was suffering from shellshock.
“My father is anything but a saint, and during my time at the Cathedral I’ve seen some terrible things. But I have never experienced anything as sickening as that ghoul!”
“He’s disgusting, no doubt about it. But he did give us some useful information.”
Devona snorted, but whether because she didn’t agree with me or because she was trying to get the stink out of her nostrils, I don’t know.
“All he told us was that while Varma used to frequent the Krimson Kiss, he hasn’t been around in the last few weeks.”
“You’re forgetting what he said about Varma being a heavy drug user.”
“That’s no surprise; I told you he was a hedonist. Besides, drugs don’t affect Bloodborn physiology the same way they do the human body. Varma would need to take large doses to get even mild effects.”
Nekropolis has all the drugs you’d find on the streets of any city on Earth-marijuana, coke, crack, heroin, crystal meth-as well as quite a few locally produced specialties, such as tangleglow and mind dust.
“But that gives Varma a motive for stealing the Dawnstone beyond mere lust for power” I said. “He wouldn’t be the first junkie to steal to support his habit. And don’t forget the traces of powder we found in the Collection room. They could very well be drug residue of some sort.”
Devona shook her head. “I told you, Bloodborn handle drugs differently than humans. We don’t get addicted. I suppose it’s because the need for blood supersedes all other needs.”
“Maybe,” I allowed. “We’ll just have to ask Varma when we find him, won’t we?”
We continued walking down Sybarite Street and checked a couple more places, including the Freakatorium and, as Father Dis is my witness, a country vampire bar named Westerna’s. I’ll never forget the sight of vampires in cowboy hats, jeans, and boots line dancing-though I intend to spend the rest of my existence trying like hell.
Finally, we’d penetrated to the heart of the Sprawl, and one of the hottest of its hot spots: the Broken Cross. From the outside, it looks like any trendy Earth night club: all chrome, glass, and glitter. The only difference is the day-glow neon sign above the entrance; it looks like the sixties’ peace symbol, only without the circle. An upside down and broken cross.
The street outside the club was completely jammed with people who wanted in. Half a block away was the closest we could get. I steered us toward a fluorescent street light, and we took up a position alongside it.
“Now what?” Devona asked. “Are you planning to introduce the Broken Cross’s doorman to the wonders of instant hairloss or do you have yet another surprise in those pockets of yours?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” I reached into one of my jacket pockets and brought forth two of the most dangerous weapons in my entire arsenal-a string of firecrackers and my trusty lighter.
“Would you like to do the honors?” I offered.
She frowned, unsure of what I was up to, but she took the lighter and lit the firecrackers.
“Throw them as close to the entrance as you can,” I instructed.
She heaved the firecrackers over the heads of the crowd and, thanks to her half-vampire strength, they fell within five feet of the entrance.
I cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted, “The Hidden Light! They’re attacking!”
And the pop-pop-pop of firecrackers exploding began. The sound wasn’t very impressive, but then it didn’t have to be, given what I’d just yelled. People screamed, shrieked, bellowed, and howled in fear, probably believing incendiary grenades were going off in their midst, or perhaps a hail of silver bullets rained down upon them. Whatever they thought, they had a single common desire: escape.
“Grab hold of the pole and don’t let go!” I told Devona. We held tight as a panicking mass of Darkfolk and humans rushed past, nearly sweeping us away. We got battered pretty good, but we managed to hold on, if only barely.
Several minutes later, the street was clear.
Devona looked at me. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“Tell you what, you find me a blackboard, and I’ll write, ‘I’ll never fake a terrorist attack again’ a thousand times-after we find the Dawnstone.” I started across the empty street and Devona followed, looking like she was trying hard not to laugh.
Inside, the party was going strong. Either word of the faux Hidden Light assault hadn’t filtered into the club, or everyone was too high or drunk to care. I suspected the latter.
Techno-rave music throbbed and pulsed, the jams cranked out by Nekropolis’s most sought-after DJ, the Phantom of the Paradise, and laser lights flashed in time with the beat. Beings of all sorts gyrated wildly on the dance floor, looking more like they were engaging in foreplay or ritualistic warfare-perhaps both-rather than dancing. Above their heads played out a holoshow depicting various scenes of torture. It looked as if MTV had produced a special on the Inquisition.
Though all of Nekropolis’s many and varied types of Darkfolk were represented in the Broken Cross, the club was a favorite with Bloodborn, and they predominated tonight. One of the things about vampires, especially the younger ones, is that because of their supernatural healing abilities, they go in for the most extreme forms of entertainment. Not so much because they enjoy pain more than anyone else, but because of how much physical punishment they can take. For example, in one corner of the Broken Cross, a vampire who called himself Anklebiter-appropriately enough, since he appeared to be no more than three years old-was taking on all comers in a one-on-one, no-holds-barred mixed martial arts battle. Whoever was dumb enough to accept Anklebiter’s challenge got to make the first move. Anklebiter then got the second, which was also usually the last. In another corner, a vampire wearing only a pair of black shorts stood with his back against the wall, while a group of enthusiastic knife throwers used him for target practice (no silver blades allowed, though).
Perhaps most disturbing of all was Mimi the Conflagration Artist. She danced naked in an iron cage that hung down from the ceiling above the middle of the dance floor, just below the holographic torture scenes. She thrashed and writhed along to the music while flames licked at her pale undead flesh. Before performing, she slathered her body with a chemical that kept the fire from burning too fast or too hot, so it wouldn’t devour the flesh before her Bloodborn physiology could repair the damage. I’d had occasion to speak with her a time or two, and I’d once asked her if she enjoyed her work. She’d shrugged and replied, “At the risk of making a terrible pun, it’s a living.”
Devona leaned close to my ear and shouted in order to be heard over the racket. “How are we supposed to find Varma in this chaos?”
“The same way we’ve been doing: we start asking around.”
I caught sight of Patchwork the Living Voodoo Doll on the dance floor, and I took Devona by the hand and led her over to him. Patchwork was gyrating bonelessly to the throbbing dance-club beat, arms and legs flopping about wildly. As his name implies, Patchwork is made up of cast-off scraps of cloth, all different sizes, patterns, and colors, and he has two large black buttons for eyes. I have no idea how he sees with those things, but then I also can’t figure out how he can stand upright with no skeletal system.
Patchwork is a hair under six feet tall, and while he normally had dozens of hat pins sticking out of his body, he’d thoughtfully removed them before starting to dance. That, or he’d lost them all doing his whirling dervish act and they were scattered across the floor, or had become embedded in his fellow dancers.
The music was so loud that I had to lean close to Patchwork’s ear-or at least where an ear would’ve been if he’d had one sewn on-and shout.
“Hey, Patch! I’m looking for a vampire named Varma!”
Patchwork shook his head. “Never heard of him, but you want me to put a hurt on him for you?” Patch’s voice sounded like rustling cloth and came from a small flap of a mouth sewn into the bottom of his face. “Free of charge for you, Matt!”
Despite his somewhat whimsical appearance, Patchwork was one of the deadliest beings in Nekropolis. All he needed was a personal token of a target-a photo, a piece of clothing, or better yet a lock of hair or a nail clipping- and wherever he stabbed himself with his pins, his target felt the pain. Depending on his clients’ wishes, Patchwork
