Thin lines of blood trickled from tiny wounds peppering Dale’s forehead, and he bent his head forward and used his tie to wipe away the blood so it wouldn’t run into his eyes. He’d used his tie instead of the back of his hand because his hands-like mine-were covered with similar wounds and were bleeding too. Not a lot, certainly not enough to be life-threatening, but definitely inconvenient.
Dale looked at the new smear of blood on his tie and grimaced. He hated getting his clothes dirty. “Who uses a barrier of animated thorn bushes as security? I mean, really.”
“Just be glad we got through without being sliced to bits.”
“I think that little lizard you picked up the Sprawl helped some,” he said.
“Salamander. They’re amphibians.” At least, I thought the creature I’d used to clear a path through Talaith’s thorn barrier was an amphibian. The dealer who’d sold it to me had said the small bright-red animal was a salamander in the mythological sense, meaning that it blazed with intense magical fire when threatened. I didn’t care what species it was, just as long as it worked as advertised. When Dale and I approached the thorn barrier surrounding Woodhome, and I’d had to do was removed the little guy from my pocket, and toss him into the thorns. The instant one pricked him, he opened his tiny mouth and let loose a blast of flame that would’ve done Godzilla proud. The salamander’s fire-blast cut a swatch through the thorns, and Dale and I had to run like hell to reach the entrance to Woodhome before the barrier closed up again. We’d made it, but not without getting pricked, scratched, and slashed in the process. I didn’t know what had happened to the salamander, but I wasn’t worried. As the little guy had so amply demonstrated, he could take care of himself.
I was only sorry that the creature’s magical fire hadn’t been strong enough to set Woodhome itself ablaze. But from what I understood, Talaith wasn’t only a witch, she was a Dark Lord-one of the most powerful beings in Nekropolis. And that meant her stronghold was protected by some serious magic, and since it was basically a gigantic tree-really a living mass formed from dozens of huge ancient trees inter-twined-she’d been smart enough to fireproof it. But not, it seemed, smart enough to do the same to her thorn barrier. Or maybe she simply hadn’t wanted to waste the magic on her thorns. I didn’t know from magic, and I had no intention of learning. Dale and I had come to Woodhome for one reason: to track down the warlock who’d been killing people in Cleveland and bring him to justice. After that, Dale and I would head home and this place would be nothing more than a nightmare that both of us would work damned hard to forget.
Inside, the corridors and chambers of Woodhome looked as if they’d been grown instead of built. The ceiling, walls, and floors were smooth but somewhat uneven, and instead of running straight, the corridors had a tendency to curve right or left, up or down. There were no signs to help us tell which way to go, but I’d picked up a few other items in the Sprawl besides the salamander, and one of them was the object I held in my left hand.
“You sure this is it?” he asked.
In response I held up the compass. Beneath the glass was the tiny figure of a skeleton lying flat, right arm stretched over its head, index finger pointing toward the wall-or rather, toward the chamber on the other side of the wall.
“How are we supposed to know if that thing’s working right? Or if it is working, it’s functioning as advertised?”
I shrugged and tucked the compass into one of my jacket pockets. “It’s supposed to locate sources of powerful magic. And if what the seer in the Sprawl told us is true, what we’re looking for should be the most powerful device in this place. Besides, I can’t think of any other way to find this Overmind thing. Can you?”
Dale made a face as if he’d just taken a bite of what he thought was prime rib only to discover someone had snuck a turd onto his plate when he wasn’t looking. “I hate this place. I like to keep things simple: good guys, bad guys, witnesses, and evidence. I could do without all this hocus pocus.”
“You and me both, partner,” I said. “But when in Rome…”
“I’ve never been to Rome, but I’m confident it’s nothing like this shithole.” He sighed. We’d worked together for so long that I knew Dale’s quirks and mannerisms as well as my own. Better, in fact. That sigh was Dale expelling the last bits of tension from his body as he geared up for action. He raised his gun and fixed me with his soft brown eyes. “You ready?”
I reached into one of my pockets with my left hand and took out a small mirror.
“Let’s do it.”
Without another word, we turned the corner and started running down the corridor.
The guards were exactly as Dale had described-big and mean-looking, but then they were guards: that was how they were supposed to look. They were two of a kind, Literally, they were twins. Both wore their black hair pulled back in pony-tails, both sported Vandyke beards, and both wore black tunics, black pants, and high black boots. I’d only been in Nekropolis a couple days, but I’d already learned that in this city, black was the new black. The warlocks looked surprised at first to see us, but they only hesitated a few seconds before raising their hands and gesturing wildly as they prepared to throw some very nasty magic our way.
The twins’ hands began to glow with silver-tinted energy, and Dale and I poured on the speed.
“That damned mirror better work!” Dale shouted.
“Look on the bright side,” I yelled. “If it doesn’t, we’ll be dead before we find out!”
Before Dale could come back with a witty rejoinder, the twins thrust their hands forward, sending a pair of lightning bolts crackling down the corridor toward us. Still running, I held out the mirror in front of me, and it drew the lightning toward its glossy surface and swallowed it whole. The glass vibrated and grew hot in my hand as it struggled to absorb the mystical power of the twins’ strike.
“How many spells is that thing good for?” Dale shouted.
“Three,” I said, “so we have two-” My words cut off as the mirror exploded in my hand, glass shards piercing the soft flesh of my palm.
“Fuck!” I shouted. My hand was bleeding like crazy and hurt like a sonofabitch. I lost momentarily lost my concentration and started to stumble, but Dale caught hold of my elbow and steadied me. “Make that one,” I said through gritted teeth. Whether on Earth or in Nekropolis, it seemed you couldn’t trust a goddamned street vendor.
Dale and I had covered half the distance to the chamber at the end of the corridor, but the twins started gesturing and chanting once more, both of them grinning with dark anticipation. They had us and they knew it.
Still running, Dale and I raised our guns and started firing. One thing about spellcasters: it’s hard for them to shift gears when they’re in the middle of working an enchantment. Our aim wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough, and several 9mm slugs slammed into the warlocks, and while their black tunics might’ve been the latest in magical guard chic, the cloth didn’t do a damned thing to stop bullets. By the time Dale and I reached the wooden door, the twins had slumped to the floor, bleeding from their wounds. Dale had gotten his twin twice-once in the shoulder, once in the gut-and I’d hit mine in the chest. Both were still alive, but they were in too much pain to concentrate on working any hoodoo on us.
If we’d been on Earth, Dale and I would’ve cuffed the two warlocks and called for an ambulance. But this was Nekropolis, and even if it wasn’t we didn’t have time to do things by the book. Dale and I slammed our gun butts into the twins’ heads, and they fell onto their sides, unconscious. I knew there was a chance one or both of them might die from their injuries, but they were warlocks. There was an equally good chance they’d find a way to heal themselves soon. At least, that’s what I told myself to assuage my conscience.