“And now my undead body’s preparing to betray me, getting ready to fall apart like so much overcooked chicken slipping off the bone. And despite my hope that Lord Galm might have the power to restore me and that he might deign to do so if I can help Devona recover the Dawnstone before I rot away completely, I’m still scared that none of it’s going to matter, my body will cease to be and my spirit-” I showed the E on my palm to Gregor. “I suppose Lord Edrigu will get that.”
I lowered my hand. “You want to know how it feels to be me, Gregor? Right now, it well and truly sucks. Satisfied?”
Gregor slumped against the wall, legs curled across his abdomen and stroking it slowly with a faint rustling sound as of a mass of dry twigs being rubbed together. His attitude was that of a someone who has just had a very large and very good meal. Or great sex.
“Extremely. Thank you, Matthew. And good luck on your dual quests to locate the Dawnstone and discover a way to avoid your impending dissolution. I truly hope you succeed. Nekropolis is a far more interesting place with you inhabiting it.”
I felt humiliated at having been forced to bare my soul for Gregor’s amusement, and that Devona had been a witness. “I hope your next visitor is a very big can of sentient bug spray.”
I turned to go, and Devona followed. Together, we walked up the temporarily insect-free stairs, Gregor’s chittering laughter following us all the way.
We walked through the dilapidated streets of the Boneyard in silence for a time after that. The wraith images of the domain’s inhabitants seemed to be sharper now, maybe because we’d moved further into the Boneyard, or maybe we were just getting used to them. A few tried to talk with us, but they made no sound, at least none we could hear, and after several moments of attempting to communicate by gesture, they gave up and drifted away.
When Devona finally spoke, she said, “What do we do now?” No mention of my embarrassing little scene back in Gregor’s basement, for which I was quite grateful.
“We have several possible avenues of investigation at this point. We could try to find Morfran, the demon veinburn dealer; we could try to locate the drug lab the Arcane and the Dominari have set up in the Sprawl; or we could try to learn who hired the Red Tide vampires that killed Varma and tried to kill us.”
As if on cue, a crimson mist rolled forth from a nearby sewer grate.
“No need to bust your rotting ass looking for us, zombie,” Narda’s voice drifted forth from the vermilion cloud. “We’re right here.”
The fog dissipated to reveal Narda, Enan, and the Giggler.
Enan raised his right hand. The fingers blurred and shifted, becoming five large hypodermic needles, the points glistening with liquid veinburn. He grinned. “Time to plug and play, Deadboy.”
The vampiric trio looked the worse for wear since last I’d seen them, but not as much as I’d expected. There were still traces of burns on their faces and hands, but the worst injuries had been covered by patches of what appeared to be blue rubber that seemed to have bonded to their skin. Narda’s missing eye hadn’t regenerated; rather, in its place was a camera lens which protruded several inches from the socket. Their tech bodysuits, which had been short-circuiting as they fled from us in Gothtown, had been repaired, but sloppily-exposed wires, mismatched parts, metallic glops from hurried soldering. The suits sparked here and there, and the power hum was overloud and sounded a bit strained. I imagined the air contained the faint hot metal and plastic smell of machinery working too hard.
“The Boneyard isn’t exactly your normal stomping grounds,” I said. “How’d you find us?”
“We want to find someone, they’re good as found,” Narda said.
“You can’t hide from the Tide,” Enan added.
The Giggler giggled. Big surprise.
“What’s with the blue gunk?” I asked. “New fashion statement?”
“Plaskin,” Enan said. “Helps burns heal faster-even for Bloodborn-but they still hurt like a bitch.” He gnashed his fangs, and his eyes blazed with anger. “But not as much as you’re going to hurt before we finish you.”
The Giggler lived up to his nickname once again, and I decided now was not the time to point out that my body was incapable of feeling any sensation, including pain. It would just make them more determined-and inventive.
“I’d have thought you’d be used to burns by now,” I said. “After all, don’t the crosses embedded in your foreheads burn your flesh?”
“Sure they do,” Narda said. “They show the Red Tide’s hardcore, and that we’re not afraid of anything.”
The Giggler let forth another peal of his high-pitched, girlish laughter. I was really getting tired of that sonofabitch. I bent down and picked up a broken brick from the worn and cracked street.
The Red Tide vampires laughed.
“What do you think you’re gonna do with that?” Enan asked.
“This.” Throwing isn’t easy as slow as I am, but I’ve had plenty of practice. With a wind-up and then a halfthrow, half-lurch, I hurled the makeshift missile as hard as I could at the Giggler’s forehead. It struck the cross set into his flesh, driving it inward. The Giggler screamed and clawed at his forehead, but it was no good. The cross’s corrosive effect on vampire flesh and bone, aided by the impact of my brick, had buried the holy object in his brain. Steam curled forth from the wound, and then rays of pure white light shot out of his eyes, ears, nostrils, and mouth. The light winked out and Giggler now had nothing but open ruins where his sensory organs had been. He stiffened and fell forward onto the broken pavement. I was confident he was dead, but I half expected him to start giggling again anyway.
“You worm-eaten motherfucker!” Narda shrieked.
For a moment, all Narda and Enan could do was stared in stunned amazement at the body of their fallen comrade-long enough to allow me to pull out my garlic and holy water squirt gun, which was mostly empty. But before I could start pumping the plastic trigger, Narda pointed and tendrils of wire shot forth to wrap themselves around Devona’s arm.
“Put the gun down, Deadboy, or little Miss Leather here’ll get a few million volts. Enough to fry her up good.”
Vampires, for all their strengths, have a surprising number of weaknesses. Beyond the ones everyone knows about-sunlight, holy objects, wooden stakes- are others such as silver and fire. Vampires aren’t as flammable as zombies by any means, but fire can kill them.
I dropped the squirt gun to the ground with a plastic clatter.
“Kick it away.”
I did.
Enan grinned. “Now we’re going to have ourselves a little fun. Put your hands above your head, zombie, and step toward me slowly. Make any funny moves, and Narda turns your friend into charcoal. Got it?”
I nodded and did as he ordered.
“Stick out your arm,” he commanded.
I did; I knew what was coming. “Veinburn won’t work on me. I’m dead. All the way dead, not like you overgrown mosquitoes.”
“Then you won’t mind if I do this!” Enan plunged his needle fingers into the unfeeling flesh of my forearm. After a few moments, Enan yanked his hand away-tearing five ragged holes in my gray skin in the process-and the needles thickened into fingers once more.
“Well?” he asked. “How’s it feel, deader?”
“I told you, I’m not-” I broke off, my body beginning to shake all over. I collapsed to the pavement not far from the Giggler’s corpse, flipping and flopping like a fish tossed live into a frying pan.
“I’ll be damned again!” Narda crowed. “This shit’s even stronger than they said it is! Look at him go!”
“I bet that’s the best he’s felt in a loooooong time!” Enan laughed.
My exertions became so severe that I rolled over onto my stomach, and when I came around on my back again, I’d drawn my 9mm and leveled it at Narda’s head. If I’d still been a cop, I’d have given her a warning. But I wasn’t a cop anymore.