shoulders slumped. “Maybe I should just go ahead and turn myself in to the Adjudicators. Spending the rest of eternity locked away in Tenebrus would be a far gentler fate than what the Dominari will do to me when they learn I’ve failed.”
Tenebrus was Nekropolis’s prison, located deep beneath the Nightspire. Run by the ancient Egyptian sorceress Keket and her jackal-headed Warders, even in a city built from terror and darkness, it was among the most feared of places.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “We can make it look like you tried to kill us. Yberio is dead, and the lab’s already trashed from our fight with him. We’ll clonk you on the head again, this time with your own axe. We’ll take off and you can just lie here unconscious until someone comes looking for you-or your customers downstairs steal all your booze, whichever comes first. With any luck, when the Dominari investigate, they’ll believe you when you say you tried, but how could be you expected to stop of pair of dangerous characters like us who killed a former Demilord? ”
“Won’t they punish Skully anyway?” Devona asked.
“I doubt it. Skully’s place has been a fixture in the Sprawl for years, and I bet the Dominari get too much use out of it-and its owner-to get rid of either.” I turned to Skully. “If your bosses ask why I didn’t turn you in to the Adjudicators, tell them you bribed me to keep my mouth shut.”
“You’d do all that for me?” Skully asked.
I smiled. “Hey, what are friends for?”
Just then a solemn, sonorous tone sounded off in the distance. Several seconds later another sounded, and then another. They kept coming every ten seconds, soft and low, reminding me a bit of the lonely, mournful sound a foghorn makes.
“What’s that noise?” I asked.
“Father Dis!” Devona swore. “It’s the Deathknell summoning the Darklords to the Nightspire-the Renewal Ceremony will start soon!”
It was my turn to swear. We were too late. I was certain whoever had the Dawnstone planned to use it during the ceremony to kill Lord Galm, or maybe even Dis himself, if such a thing were possible. And there was nothing we could do about it. Unless…
I grabbed Devona’s hand and pulled her toward the door. “I’m afraid you’ll have to hit yourself over the head, Skully. Devona and I have to go.” I shoved past him, and Devona and I stepped over the late and very much unlamented Yberio. We hurried down the stairs, taking them as fast as my bum leg would allow.
“Where are you going?” Skully called after us.
I shouted over my shoulder. “To crash a party!”
TWENTY-ONE
From the outside, Lady Varvara’s stronghold is a glass and steel building ten stories tall, which wouldn’t be out of place in the business district of any midsize city on Earth. Inside, Demon’s Roost is a paean to pleasure, a twenty-four-hour-a-day bacchanalia that makes Las Vegas look like a kindergarten playground. It’s an adults-only amusement park which contains such a dazzling scope and variety of decadence and perversity that it might give Caligula himself pause.
Beside the mass of partiers, getting inside wasn’t a problem. Varvara doesn’t believe in locking doors or posting guards. Anyone can come in and play, from the lowliest street beggar to any of the Demon Queen’s fellow Darklords-but once inside, you’re on your own and good luck to you. Just remember: there are no guarantees you’ll ever make it out again. Devona and I made out way into the Atrium by squeezing through a mass of beings drinking, drugging, gambling, screwing, eating, talking, laughing, yelling, fighting-often, it seemed, all at the same time.
Any number of Nekropolitan luminaries were in attendance. After all, Demon’s Roost is the place to be on Descension Day. The Scream Queen and her band Kakophanie provided the musical entertainment-if you could call the banshees’ dissonant wailing music-and I spotted Marley’s Ghost rattling his chains in time to the beat. Fade, who had made her way over from the Broken Cross, had gotten herself cornered by the Else, who was obviously trying to convince her to do a feature story on him, while the Jade Enigma looked on in cynical amusement, Antwerp the Psychotic Clown was stabbing himself over and over with a butcher knife and laughing uproariously, much to the annoyance of those unfortunate enough to be in range of his blood spatter. The Suicide King stood nearly, watching Antwerp’s gory display with a critical eye and shaking his head. As Devona and I passed by, I heard him mutter, “That’s not how you do it.”
I noticed a trio of Demilords standing off to the side and keeping to themselves. Baron Samedi seemed to be enjoying himself well enough, if his broad grin was any indication, but Slitheria the Serpent Goddess watched the revelry with a reptilian gaze of cold disapproval. Molog, Demon Lord of Insects, stood with his arms crossed over his chest, the millions of sixlegged creatures that formed his body scuttling about restlessly, making it look as if he might fall apart any second.
I’d seen them-and other Demilords-around the city before, but after our recent encounter with Yberio I now viewed them in a different light. Maybe they weren’t quite as powerful as the Darklords, but they weren’t saddled with the responsibilities of the five Lords, either. The Demilords were incredibly powerful beings free to do as they pleased, and they had no need to conserve their strength to help renew Umbriel once a year. In that sense, they were more powerful than the Darklords, and I wondered if-like Yberio-they resented being passed over by Dis during his Wanderyear in favor of the five current Darklords, and what they might intend to do to even the score one day.
The party wasn’t confined to the ground, though. The Atrium extended several stories upward, and numerous beings flew or levitated above our heads, some swooping and darting about, while others merely circled slowly- perhaps hoping to spot prey of one sort or another below. Ichorus was there, no doubt having accompanied Fade. I wondered if they were an item. If so, I bet that would be one tidbit of gossip that would never appear in Fade’s tabloid column. A number of ghostly figures were ballroom dancing in the air, their graceful moves somehow perfectly complementing Kakaphonie’s thunderously strident melodies.
Devona kept swiveling her head this way and that, trying to take it all in and failing dismally. It was like trying to hold the ocean in your arms. No matter how hard you work at it, it’s just not going to happen.
“Varvara has a one-word philosophy,” I shouted to be heard over the Scream Queen and her band. “More!”
“She certainly appears to live by it!” Devona said.
The Atrium of Demon’s Roost looks as if it had been ground zero during the explosion of an atomic kitsch bomb. Gaudy pastel-colored carpeting, black velvet paintings in neon-tube frames, mirrored disco balls spinning above…We passed a wall collage formed from thousands of tiny cheap toys from fast-food kids’ meals, and soon after that, my favorite piece, a thirty foot-tall pewter statue of Elvis gazing benevolently down on a flock of plastic pink flamingos.
“Oh, my,” was all Devona could manage to say.
“Quite a change from the Cathedral, isn’t it?”
We stood for a moment and regarded at each other. Neither of us looked our best right then. I was a broken, decaying mess, and Devona was covered with Yberio’s drying blood. Neither of us had commented on what had taken place in the veinburn lab, partially because we didn’t have time to talk about it, but also I suspect because neither of us was exactly sure what to say. I was touched that Devona had felt the need to avenge Dale’s death for me, but I was also once more painfully aware that we might have only a couple days, maybe even only a few more hours, together if Lord Galm wouldn’t or couldn’t use his magic to preserve my body. We’d come to mean so much to each other in such a short time, and I didn’t want to face the very real possibility that what was growing between us would die before it had a chance to be fully born. So we looked at each other and didn’t speak, but Devona took my hand and gave it a squeeze and that was enough.
Even with all the tumult in Demon’s Roost, the tolling of the Deathknell could be heard, the sound muted and distant, but unmistakable. None of Varvara’s guests seemed to notice, or more likely they just didn’t care. After all, the Renewal Ceremony had been taking place every year for over three centuries. It was nothing special to them.
