“What can I do for you two fine people this glorious Descension Day?” Despite his appearance and physical mannerisms, Arvel’s voice was smooth and cultured, as if he’d OD’d on Masterpiece Theatre. Even so, he didn’t stop his gluttony to talk to us, but rather continued speaking his refined words through mouthfuls of meat and blood, spilling liberal amounts onto the drop cloth as he conversed.
I introduced us, and his lamprey mouth twisted into a delighted grin. “Your reputation proceeds you, Mr. Richter! I’ve heard quite a bit about your exploits, but I never thought I’d be fortunate enough to actually meet you!”
He clacked his teeth together twice, and a verman scurried up.
“Bring chairs for my friends,” he ordered, his tone cold, completely devoid of feeling. When the rat-man had scampered off, Arvel was once again the gracious host. “Carbuncle will be back momentarily. While we wait, would either of you care for a beverage?” He smiled sheepishly, suddenly embarrassed. “Forgive me, Mr. Richter, I forgot that you have no need of nourishment. But surely you won’t pass up a tankard, Ms. Kanti? We serve the best blood in Nekropolis. It’s the real thing, too. None of that horrid aqua sanguis for us here at Krimson Kiss.” His smile widened, and I could see bits of flesh caught between his tiny sharp teeth.
Devona didn’t say anything at first. I don’t know if it was because she was too disgusted to answer, or whether she was actually thinking it over. After all, she was a half vampire.
“No, thank you. I fed earlier.”
I hadn’t seen her drink any blood during the time we’d been together, and I wondered if she was lying, or if perhaps she’d managed to sneak a quick snack while we were separated at the Cathedral.
“Pity,” the ghoul said. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” A verman hurried up with a full tankard. Arvel opened his mouth and the rodent poured the gore straight down his gullet. The ghoul didn’t even have to swallow.
Carbuncle returned then, carrying a pair of the simple wooden chairs that everyone else in the place but Arvel was using. The rat-man set them down at the table, took a few steps back, and waited for more orders, his whiskers twitching nervously.
Devona looked at me and I nodded. I wasn’t feeling especially sociable, but my years as a cop taught me that sometimes it’s better to go along with the program if you want to loosen someone’s tongue. We sat.
Arvel was brought another mouthful of meat followed by a mug of blood. As he devoured them, I said, “This is certainly an…interesting place you have here.”
He belched loudly. “Pardon me. Yes, it’s quite nice, isn’t it? Though I dare say that has everything to do with my delectable Sweetmeat. Dr. Moreau over at the House of Pain created the dear thing for us, using a combination of vampire and shapeshifter DNA, mixed with a few special ingredients of his own, of course. The Sweetmeat’s wounds heal almost instantly, and it quickly replaces the flesh and blood it’s lost-as long as we keep it well fed with the special nutrient solution the good Doctor developed. For all intents and purposes, the Sweetmeat is immortal. It will live-and taste delectable-forever.” Arvel shook his head, or rather, wobbled it from side to side a fraction. “Whenever I take another delicious bite of the Sweetmeat, I wonder why some of the Darklords are so against importing human technology from Earth.”
I thought of the misbegotten thing trapped in Arvel’s pit, constantly being bled and cut for the ghoul’s patrons. And if what Arvel said was true, the creature was immortal and could conceivably suffer this treatment for eternity.
“I can think of a few reasons,” I said.
Arvel ignored the dig. “Tell me, Mr. Richter, is it true what they say? That you’re responsible for Lady Talaith’s recent ill fortune?”
“I’d really rather not discuss it, if it’s all the same to you.”
More meat, more drink. “Ah, but there is something else you wish to discuss, no?” He licked a smear of red from his lower worm-lip. “Quid quo pro, Mr. Richter. We ghouls have an ancient aphorism: You feed me, and I’ll feed you.” He smiled smugly. I wanted to punch him in the mouth, but I’d probably just have shredded my hand on those teeth of his.
“Yes, it’s true. But it was a couple years ago, when I first came to Nekropolis.”
“Please, go on.”
I sighed. “My partner and I were investigating a series of killings on Earth. There was no connection between the victims’ age, race, gender, economic status, or location. The only similarity was in the way they were killed. Each victim showed no signs of having been in a struggle. It was as if they’d all just dropped dead, despite the fact that all of them were healthy with no history of serious medical conditions. Autopsies revealed something else strange: a tiny segment of their frontal lobe was missing-despite the fact that their skulls had all been intact before their autopsy.”
“Sounds like quite a mystery,” Arvel said as he chewed another in his endless mouthfuls of meat.
“It was. To make a long story short, through dogged detective work and more than a little luck, my partner and I tracked the killer down to a park near the lake. But just as we were about to catch him, the killer disappeared through a strange shimmer in the air.”
“A portal,” Arvel said.
I nodded. “Varvara’s. My partner Dale and I followed, and found ourselves in the basement of the Demon Queen’s lair. The killer was gone. It took a bit for us to acclimate to Nekropolis-”
Arvel laughed. “I imagine it did!”
“But once we had our bearings, we continued to search for the killer. At first, we thought the warlock had ties to Varvara, but we learned Talaith had been using the Demon Queen’s portal because hers had been damaged in a previous struggle with Lord Edrigu. When we learned the truth, we headed to Glamere, determined to bring the killer back to Earth to face justice.”
“And what happened?” Arvel’s black eyes were shining; he was hanging on to my every word as if were a child being told a favorite bedtime story.
So I continued.
NINE
I stood with my back flattened against a smooth wooden wall, 9mm held easily at my side in my right hand, a small device gripped tightly in my left. The corridor was lit by a series of gently glowing blobs of yellowish light hovering near the ceiling, and the shadows they cast seemed to slither across the floor as if possessing a life of their own. From what I’d seen of this insane city so far, I knew it was quite possible that the shadows really were alive, and I reminded myself to keep an eye on them. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of my neck and across one of the many small wounds covering my body. It stung, and I started to take in a hissing breath of air out of reflex, but I forced myself to take a deep, calming breath instead.
You swore an oath to serve and protect, Matt. And even if you are a bit out of your jurisdiction, that’s exactly what you’re going to do.
My partner stood next to me, gun held ready as he peered around the corner.
“How many?” I whispered.
Dale pulled his head back and turned to face me. “Two,” he said, speaking softly. “Both male, big and tough-looking. The corridor stretches a long way-a couple hundred feet, easy-and they’re standing guard in front of a large wooden at the end of it. No obvious weapons that I could see.”
“They don’t need to carry physical weapons,” I reminded him. “Not in this place.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Dale Ramsey was a lean African-American man in his early fifties. His short black hair was starting to grey at the temples, and the lower half of his face was covered with thick stubble. People thought he did that to look stylish, but I knew it was because he often forgot to shave, sometimes for days. He wore a sharp-looking blue suit and, despite his slightly scruffy physical appearance, his outfit was dry-cleaned and neatly pressed as always. Dale had been my partner in the homicide division for the last five years, though I’d known him even longer, all the way back to when I’d started on the Cleveland force as a patrol cop and he was working Vice.