She hesitated, but finally agreed. “I may have to hold my nose the whole trip, though.”
“Go right ahead.” I didn’t tell her it wouldn’t help. She’d find out soon enough.
We got into the cab; Lazlo closed the door, hopped behind the driver’s seat, and put the car in gear.
“Surprise me, Lazlo,” I said, “and try not to drive like a maniac for a ch-” That’s as far as I got before Lazlo slammed on the gas and I was thrown back against the seat.
He hung half out of his open window, shouting, “Out of the way, morons!”
Most of the celebrants scattered, but despite what had happened to Tri-bod a few moments ago, a massive bullheaded man wearing an I’M HORNY T-shirt wasn’t-pardon the expression-cowed so easily. He planted his feet firmly on the ground and braced himself for impact.
“Look at the size of him!” Devona cried. “Swerve!”
But there was no point shouting at Lazlo. He never listened to passengers’ suggestions. “After all,” he once told me, “ I’m the professional.”
“Hold on!” I warned Devona, and then there was a loud crash and the cab shuddered and jerked; but it kept moving. Behind us, falling quickly away in the distance, came the wounded bellow of one very unhappy-but lucky to be alive-minotaur.
“Hah!” Lazlo barked in triumph. “That’ll teach that udder-sucker to play chicken with me!” He turned around to look at us, and grinned. “So where we headed, folks?”
“Put your eyes back on the road, and I’ll tell you,” I said nervously. The last time Lazlo turned around to talk to me, we almost ended up taking a flame bath in Phlegethon.
Lazlo laughed, but did as I asked, so I said, “The Cathedral. And we’d like to get there in as close to one piece as possible.”
“Gotcha. You two just sit back and enjoy the ride.” He pointed his cab in the general direction of the Bridge of Nine Sorrows-the crossing point between the Sprawl and Gothtown-and pressed down on the accelerator.
“Enjoy the ride?” Devona said, her nails digging into the greasy fabric of the seat. “Not until it’s over!”
I had to agree.
A few blocks from my townhouse, Lazlo was forced to stop when a fight erupted between a group of lykes and several vampires. Even Lazlo wouldn’t try to drive through that mess. Things got pretty bloody for a bit, until a Sentinel came charging through the crowd, knocking aside those who didn’t get out of its way fast enough, and broke the conflict up, basically by breaking the combatants up. The Sentinels are Father Dis’s police force: eight feet tall, massive, gray-fleshed, featureless golems that are strong as hell and, as far as I know, completely invulnerable. The lykes and vamps tried to fight back, but they never had a chance. When it was over, the Sentinel tossed their bloody, broken bodies into an alley and stomped off. The fighters would heal, eventually, but in the meantime, they wouldn’t be bothering anyone.
As Lazlo pulled away from the scene, I said, “Every time I see a Sentinel in action, I can’t help thinking we could’ve used a few during my days on the force in Cleveland. Sure would’ve made life a lot easier.”
“For the cops, maybe,” Lazlo said. “But the morticians would’ve been a hell of a lot busier.”
“I’ve never seen a Sentinel before,” Devona said quietly.
I looked at her, surprised. “You’re kidding.”
She gave a small shrug. “I don’t get out of Gothtown, much.”
From her tone, I knew she wanted that to be the end of it, so I leaned forward and said to Lazlo, “Hear anything interesting on the street lately?”
We’d reached the Obsidian Way, the only road that passes through all five of the Darklords’ Dominions. There was a Hemlocks next to the on-ramp, and a skeletal being in a sombrero who looked like a picture on a Mexican Day of the Dead postcard came out of the coffee shop, carrying a grande-sized drink of one sort or another. The bone-man made the mistake of stepping into the street just as Lazlo came barrel-assing along, and the demon barely yanked the steering wheel to the right in time to avoid turning El Hombre Muerte into a pile of bleached- white pick-up sticks.
Lalzo flipped off the bone-man as the cab roared onto the Obsidian Way. The road’s glossy black surface is hard as diamond, though it’s not slick, and there’s never a crack or chip in it. Despite how crowded the streets of the Sprawl were, the Way was empty of anything save other vehicles. The road was constructed by Father Dis two hundred years ago, at the end of the Blood Wars, when the Darklords fought each other for control over Nekropolis. One of the Accords that resulted from the war states that travel throughout the city on the Obsidian Way, including across the Five Bridges, is not to be impeded for any reason, not even by the Darklords themselves. Once travelers leave the Way, however, all bets are off and they go at their own not inconsiderable risk.
Of course, just because that was the law didn’t mean that everyone always followed it-Darklords included. So it paid to keep an eye out for trouble when traveling on the Obsidian Way. Traffic was lighter than usual because of Descension Day, but there were still a fair number of vehicles sharing the road with us. Some were ordinary- seeming vehicles imported from Earth-sensible fuel-efficient cars, sports cars built for speed and status, family- sized vans and gas-guzzling SUV’s. But this was Nekropolis, which meant most of the vehicles rolling along the Obsidian Way were of a rather more exotic nature.
I saw an Agony DeLite, a car made out of a dozen masochistic humans-their hands and feet providing the motive force instead of wheels. Such vehicles are powered by their components’ suffering. They moan at idle, yell when moving, and scream when the vehicle is traveling at high speed. The humans that form the car love the pain, and they’re enchanted so that all of their wounds heal instantly. But from what I understand, the drivers have to work damned hard to hurt the vehicles in just the right ways to coax maximum performance out of them, and in addition the upkeep is a real bitch. You can spend a small fortune buying new and ever more deviant S amp;M equipment.
There were several Carapacers on the road as well, hollowed-out giant insect husks animated to serve as vehicles, scuttling along at high speeds, and something I’d never seen before: a gigantic chrome-covered flatworm which undulated past us so swiftly I barely got a good look at it. Lazlo’s cab growled as the thing flew by, but the demon shushed it softly and patted the dashboard to keep the vehicle calm.
Once the cab had settled into a groove, Lazlo responded to my question. “I hear lots of things, Matt. Rumor has it that the Conglomeration tried to absorb one too many bodies and ended up in the Fever House, where it’s being treated for separation anxiety. I also heard there was a riot at Sinsation last night when they ran out of aqua sanguis and tried to replace it by draining water out of the toilet tanks and adding red food coloring.”
“Fascinating,” I said, “but I was thinking more along the lines of crime-related activity. For example, hear about any big thefts recently?”
Devona frowned, but she didn’t object to my asking.
“Big thefts? How big?”
“Big. We’re talking about an object of power, Lazlo. A lot of power.”
“Can’t say as I have, Matt. But I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”
“Just so long as you keep your wheels on the ground, Lazlo.”
The demon guffawed as turned on the cab’s radio and turned it to Bedlam 66.6, the most popular station in the city.
A song ended and the DJ’s fake-enthusiastic voice came through the cab’s tinny speakers. “That was the latest from Midnight Syndicate’s new album, The Dead Matter. Happy Descension Day, Nekropolis! Eat, drink, and be scary! And now, by request, let’s give a listen to the music of Erich Zann.”
Unearthly sounds that bore only the faintest resemblance to music filtered forth from the speakers, and Lazlo hummed along in voice that sounded like a rabid weasel slitting its own throat. The demon kept the gas pedal jammed to the floor as he continued the insane kamikaze death-race he called driving, and Devona and I held on for dear life, or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof.
Once we crossed the Bridge of Nine Sorrows and entered Gothtown, Lalzo pulled off the Obsidian Way, and we drove through the Dominion’s narrow streets. I really could’ve done without the cobblestones, though, especially at the speed at which Lazlo drove over them. Before long, even my dead kidneys were starting to ache from the abuse.
The Sprawl is to Nekropolis what the French Quarter is to New Orleans-which is exactly the way Lady Varvara likes it-and thus the majority of the Descension celebration was taking place there. But that didn’t mean Gothtown was deserted. Lazlo passed a number of horse-drawn carriages clip-clopping along, as well as midnight- black stretch limos silently cruising the streets, all likely bearing their occupants to various private parties. The older
