could simply annoy a target, make life miserable for him or her, temporarily or permanently disable them or-if he jabbed a long enough, sharp enough needle into the right place on his artificial body-kill them.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m trying to locate Varma, not perforate him!” I shouted.
“Suit yourself! Let me know if you change your mind! You might ask Fade, though. I saw her over at the bar not too long ago!”
Then Patchwork spun away like a cloth top and lost himself in the pounding beat once more.
I turned to Devona. She was watching Patch’s performance and bobbing her head from side to side in time with the music. Earlier, she told me she didn’t get out of the Gothtown much. I wondered if what she’d really been saying was she didn’t get out of the Cathedral often. It was quite possible she’d never been to a nightclub before. I felt the urge to start dancing with her, but I checked it. I knew we didn’t have time to waste on such foolishness… plus I’d never been the greatest dancer when I was alive, and my damaged and swiftly rotting zombie body wasn’t going to help that situation any.
I led Devona off the dance floor and we wended our way through the crowd and headed toward the bar. We found Fade deep in half-drunken conversation with a vampire named Ichorus. Outwardly Fade looked like a normal club-crawler-early twenties, petite, purple lipstick, dark green eyeshadow, long brunette hair past her waist, black combat boots, little black dress that fit her in all the right places, and a pair of barbed-wire hoop earrings that were almost as large as her head. Fade has a problem, however. She’s reality-challenged. For reasons she keeps to herself, her existence is so tenuous that if she isn’t careful to constantly reinforce her own reality, she’s in danger of vanishing into nothingness, hence her nickname. So in order to ensure her survival she had to make sure to see and be seen, which was why she spent almost all her time club-hopping. The more time she spent alone, without anyone around to validate her existence, the more she risked fading away completely. That’s also the reason she took a job as gossip columnist for the Daily Atrocity. Knowing everyone, whether they liked it or not, made her perfect for the job, and the more people that read her byline, the more anchored she was in reality.
She looked pretty solid right then. Descension Day was always a good time of year for her. Tons of people for her to interact with-and right now she was interacting with Ichorus.
One of the Accords that came out of the Blood Wars set limits on air travel in Nekropolis in order to make it more difficult for the Dark Lords to attempt sneak attacks across Dominion borders. No one is permitted to travel by air over Phlegethon, for example, and everyone-whether possessing the power of flight or not-has to use one of the Five Bridges to travel from one Dominion to another. Ichorus doesn’t just hate the restriction imposed on air travel; he utterly loathes it and does everything he can to fight it.
He’s a stereotypical vampire type: tall, lean, darkhaired, handsome. But what makes him stand out is the pair of huge ebon wings growing out of his back. The feathers are made of lightweight super-strong metal, and their edges are razor-sharp. Whether they’re magical or some kind of technological augmentation, I don’t know. Ichorus goes shirtless because he refuses to constrain his wings, so he wears only a pair of black pants. No shoes either, but I don’t know if that’s because it helps him fly or he just doesn’t like shoes. His chest is covered with dozens of criss-crossing scars, the result of numerous less-than-welcome receptions he gets from flying throughout the Dominions in defiance of the Accords. Since he’s a vampire and can heal any injury, his scars are a testament to how seriously the Darklords take anyone transgressing on their airspace-and how strongly they and their servants will fight tostop him. But Ichorus still flies on, undeterred in his endless quest to defy authority.
We approached the pair and asked them about Varma. Ichorus didn’t know him, but of course Fade did; she knew everyone, as a matter of self-preserva-tion, if nothing else. But she hadn’t seen him tonight.
“Go check with Shrike,” she said. “I was talking to him earlier over by the VR booths.” She gestured vaguely toward the other side of the club. I thanked her and reached out and briefly patted her arm. She smiled gratefully. Talking with people helps her maintain reality, but I knew that being touched helped her more.
Before Devona and I could walk away, Ichorus said, “I’ve got a big flight planned next week, Matt! I’ve heard rumors of an invisible moon that orbits around Umbriel, and I’m going off in search of it! Should be quite an adventure!”
Fade grinned at him. “Should make quite an article for the Atrocity.”
Devona looked at me and raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Don’t look at me. I’ve never heard anything about a moon in Nekropolis, invisible or otherwise.” I turned back to Ichorus, shook his hand, wished him luck, and then Devona and I went off in search of Shrike. True to Fade’s word, we found him by the Mind’s Eye virtual reality booths.
Despite Shrike’s chronological age, which I had no way of knowing, he resembled a skinny boy in his teens. His hair was a wild tangle of black the same shade as his deliberately ragged t-shirt and pre-torn jeans. He was talking on his handvox, ever-present cigarette in his mouth. As he exhaled, he became transparent, solidifying again only when he took his next puff. Handvoxes have the same basic design as Earth cellphones, except they’re made- or maybe grown-from flesh. There’s an ear for you to speak into, and a mouth that relays the words of whoever is on the other end, and which speaks in their voice, too. I find the damned things more than a little disconcerting, especially when the person on the other end tries to make the vox’s mouth kiss, lick, or even bite you. That’s why I hardly ever use mine.
Shrike saw us approaching, shut his handvox, and tucked it into his pants pocket. He grinned, displaying his elongated canines.
“Matt!” He had to shout to be heard over the din. “What the hell are you doing here? This isn’t exactly your kind of scene.” Then he looked at Devona, ran his gaze along her body from foot to head, and back again. “Wow. Your taste in friends is definitely improving, my man.”
“Shrike, this is Devona Kanti. Devona, this is Shrike.”
“Lord Galm’s kid? Cool.” He took a battered pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and held it out to Devona. “Want one?”
Devona shook her head. “No thanks.”
I noticed the brand: Coffin Nails.
I nodded toward the pack. “The name’s a cute touch.”
He grinned again. “I like to think so,” and put the pack back in his pocket.
I don’t know why he carries the pack around. In all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never seen his cigarette burn down, no matter how many drags he takes on it.
“What’s up, Matt? You’ve got to be working a case. I can’t imagine any other reason why you’d be here.” He leaned toward Devona as if about to confide a secret. “The man’s sense of fun is as dead as the rest of him.” Then he looked at me and frowned. “Say, you all right, Matt? You’re not looking too fresh, if you know what I mean.” He pointed to the wounds on my face.
If I was alive, I could’ve run my fingers over my cuts to check their condition. As it was, I’d just have to wait until I came across a mirror. But from Shrike’s comment, I doubted they looked very good. Injuries don’t hurt zombies, but they do tend to start rotting before the rest of the body.
“You’re not looking all that hot yourself, kid,” I said. “Maybe you should think about trying the nicotine patch.”
Shrike grinned. He always gets a huge kick out of my calling him kid. Probably because he’s a hell of a lot older than he looks.
He put an arm around my shoulder and addressed Devona. “If it wasn’t for this guy, I wouldn’t be here today. Hell, I wouldn’t be anywhere today! I love this guy!” and then he planted a loud, wet kiss on my cheek, despite its less-than-attractive condition.
“Get off of me, you lunatic!” I said good-naturedly as I shoved him away.
Devona laughed. “Another favor?” she asked me.
I nodded. “Shrike got himself into trouble over at the House of Dark Delights a while back.”
“One of their girls accused me of making her Bloodborn without her permission. I was innocent, but it took Matthew to prove it. Good thing, too. Madam Benedetta was so mad, she’d sicced a Soulsucker on me.” He frowned. “Or was it Master Benedict who did it? Whichever. I still get nervous when I think about it.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, his hand shaking slightly.
Me too. Defeating a Soulsucker isn’t easy. I still have a few psychic scars left over from that battle.
“So what can I do you for, Matt?” Shrike said, cheerful again. “You name it, you got it.”
I removed one of the evidence envelopes from my jacket and handed it to him. “Know what this stuff is?”
