“The veinburn in his mouth. You said a vampire’s blood is poisoned, he has to get rid of it. I assume it would be vomited out.”
Devona’s expression became steely, and she wiped away the last of her tears. “Primarily.”
“Then why is there veinburn left in his mouth? Wouldn’t the blood have washed it away?”
Devona glared at me. She was obviously upset with me, but I still didn’t know why. “Perhaps it had been in his stomach and became lodged there, perhaps after he fell forward onto his face.”
“Maybe, but then why is it still partially white? With the all the blood Varma brought up, the veinburn should be completely soaked. And there are these.” I turned Varma’s forearm so Devona could see the five tiny puckered marks arranged in a half circle.
“They look like needle marks,” she said.
“They sure do, don’t they?”
“So perhaps Varma injected the veinburn.”
“Then why is there some caked in his mouth? And where’s the needle? There isn’t one lying around, and spidermesh is skin tight; no room for pockets. Not that Varma needed them. I assume that as the bloodchild of a Darklord, he could charge whatever he wanted to Galm’s account-when he just didn’t get things handed to him free, that is. “In my experience, addicts don’t usually vary how they ingest drugs. There’s more than one reason they’re called drug habits.” I ran a finger over one of the marks. Why, I don’t know; it wasn’t like I could feel it. “And these marks are fresh. All of them.”
“That merely means that Varma died before they could begin to heal.”
“Which means he died fast. And that he injected quite a bit of veinburn into himself at one time. Literally one time, for if he’d given himself five shots with one needle, the first mark would’ve started to heal before the last was made.”
Devona’s eyes widened in comprehension. “Unless it had been some time since Varma had fed, the first mark would’ve fully healed before he made the fifth.”
I glanced at the pool of blood surrounding us. “I think it’s safe to say it hasn’t been that long since his last meal.”
Devona’s lips tightened, but she didn’t respond.
“So if the first mark is as fresh as the last, that means Varma was injected by five different needles at the same time. And I doubt even the bloodchild of a Darklord is talented enough to do that-and then make the needles disappear the instant before he dies. No, Varma was killed. Probably to keep him from revealing what happened to the Dawnstone.” I looked up and down the alley. “No tracks. Whoever injected Varma took off before he started puking.” Too bad; I could have used an easy-to-follow set of bloody footprints just then.
I stood. “Damn it!” I swore in frustration. With Varma dead, and no clues as to who killed him, I didn’t know what to do next.
And then I saw a tiny black shape I hadn’t noticed before scuttle quickly away along the surface of the alley wall. A roach. Or something so close to a roach as to make no difference.
I knew then what we could do-if I was willing to risk it, that is. But given Papa Chatha’s prognosis for my survival, what choice did I have?
Time to pay Gregor a visit.
“C’mon, Devona. We need to talk to someone.”
“Talk-Matthew, Varma’s dead. We have to take care of him.”
“Take care…what are you talking about? He’s dead; for real this time. There’s nothing we can do for him now.”
“We can not leave him lying in an alley like discarded refuse,” she said tightly.
“Well, we can’t very well take him with us. Even in Nekropolis, carrying a bloody corpse around attracts attention. Besides, you didn’t seem to care very much for him when I made the mistake of calling him your brother. In fact, you seemed quite offended.”
“Varma was not especially kind to me, it’s true. But he was related to me, after a fashion. He was family. And besides, you just don’t leave a person to rot in an alley when he dies-it just isn’t right!”
“Now I know you don’t get out of the Cathedral much. Most of the people in this city would do just that and not think twice about it. Hell, I doubt they’d even think once about it.”
“I’m not most people. But I guess you are, eh?”
“What are you insinuating?”
“I can’t believe how cold you’re being, Matt. The way you didn’t blink an eye when we found Varma… examined him as if he were just a piece a meat. He was alive and now he’s dead. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Doesn’t it do anything to you?”
“I’m a zombie, Devona. And zombies don’t feel emotions, at least not the same way-”
“Normal zombies don’t think, either; they only do what their masters tell them too. But you think just fine. If you don’t feel anything, perhaps it doesn’t have anything to do with your being a zombie. Perhaps that’s who Matthew Richter really is-a man who was dead inside long before he died on the outside.”
She pushed past me and ran out of the alley. I just stood and watched her go, her words having hurt me in a way I didn’t think I could be hurt anymore. I told myself I’d only been doing my job, had been focused on trying to help Devona and prevent my final end.
Maybe she was right, maybe I should have, could have, felt more. But Christ, I was a cop for twenty years, and in that time I saw more cruelty, despair, and death than I can remember. You had to become numb eventually to survive, to get through the day without losing it, climbing up a water tower, and taking potshots at pedestrians. All cops knew it; it was part of the price you paid when you signed on to serve and protect.
But human beings aren’t machines: they can’t turn off their emotions at work and then turn them on once they get home. So they get into the habit of leaving them off all the time. That’s why so many cops are divorced, like me. Or end up substance abusers or suicides.
Maybe Devona was right; maybe I had been a zombie long before I came to Nekropolis.
I looked down at Varma, and tried to feel something-sadness, pity, disgust. But I didn’t feel anything. I hadn’t known Varma. But I did know Devona.
I bent down and, as best I could with my bum right arm, I lifted him over my shoulder and carried him out of the alley.
Devona didn’t say anything when I caught up with her. We walked in silence, making our way through the crowds in the street as best we could. I had been wrong about one thing: no one paid any attention to us. Since it was the Descension celebration, I guess everyone assumed that we were escorting a friend who’d ingested a little too much fun. That, or they had ingested a little too much of their own and didn’t give a damn about anything except remaining upright.
I didn’t know what Devona expected us to do with the body. If we took Varma back to the Cathedral-to Lord Galm-that would be the end of our investigation. Galm would learn of the Dawnstone’s theft, punish Devona (and perhaps blame her for not informing him about the Dawnstone earlier so that he could have taken steps to prevent his son’s death), and in a day or two I’d be a pile of Kellogg’s Zombie Flakes. Unless Lord Galm in his anger decided to destroy Devona and me on the spot.
Preoccupied with these cheery thoughts, I almost didn’t notice when Devona held up a hand for me to stop. She pointed to a hulking gray figure stomping unimpeded down the street as if the crowd didn’t exist.
“Sentinel!” she called out.
The faceless-and for that matter earless-golem stopped, and then turned in our direction. It regarded us for several seconds before heading toward us with its stiff-legged gait, parting the crowd before it like the Moses of ambulatory clay.
It stopped and regarded us with whatever sensory apparatus it possessed. It looked like every other Sentinel I’d ever seen, save that this one had faint line about nine inches long down the middle of its chest. Probably a souvenir left by one of Nekropolis’s more powerful-and foolish-denizens resisting arrest.
“My friend and I found this man,” she indicated Varma, “in the alley behind the Broken Cross. We believe he died of a drug overdose.”
The Sentinel stood impassively for a moment and then pointed with a thick finger at the ground. The message was clear; I set Varma down. The Sentinel bent forward from the waist as if hinged, and examined the body. At least, I assumed it examined the body. I had no real way of telling for certain.
