Tim Waggoner: Nekropolis

“You ever see one of those sites? No? Well, if you get curious, take my advice and don’t eat for a week or two before logging on.”

I removed the soul jar from my pocket, and placed it on the desk next to my computer. I then walked over to the closet and removed my torn jacket, tie, and shirt. I opened the closet door, dropped my ruined garments on the floor next to my footlocker, and scanned my pitifully small collection of clothes for replacements. If Devona felt any disgust upon seeing so much of my bare zombie skin with its slight grayish cast revealed, she showed no sign.

“You said you don’t think vampires experience fear,” Devona said, picking up the thread of our earlier conversation. “But they do. They just don’t like to show it. But you were right about me; I’m only half Bloodborn. My mother was human.”

From my closet’s meager offerings, I chose a brown shirt, yellow paisley tie, and a brown jacket. I could wear whatever I want, I suppose. I’m not a cop anymore, and besides, I’m dead. Who cares how I dress? But old habits-and old cops like me-die hard, I guess. And besides, wearing the sort of clothes I wore in life makes me feel more…well, human.

I dressed and stood before the cracked mirror hanging on the wall and adjusted my tie. Thanks to Papa Chatha’s latest round of spells, I didn’t look too much different than I had in life, grayish skin aside. Black hair, brown eyes, features on the ordinary side of handsome (or so I’d been told by my ex-wife; I’m no judge of such things). Face a bit thinner than when I’d been alive. Death is a great diet plan.

I put the soul jar in the pocket of my new jacket. I’m not really sure why; it just didn’t seem like the sort of thing a person should leave lying around, and then I turned to face my guest. “And who’s your father?”

She hesitated a moment before answering. “Lord Galm.”

If my heart had been functional, it would’ve skipped a beat or two right then.

“I think you’d better leave now,” I said.

Confusion spread across her face. “Why?”

“It’s nothing personal; I just make it a policy never to get involved with Darklords if I can avoid it. And that includes getting involved with their relatives.”

Lord Galm is an ancient, powerful vampire, ruler of the Bloodborn, and of Gothtown, the Dominion where the vampires live, or rather, exist. And like any Darklord, he’s dangerous as hell. I’d rather run up to a Mafia don in his favorite restaurant, dump his spaghetti marinara in his lap, and accuse him of diddling his grandchildren than I would mess with a Darklord.

“Please, at least let me-”

I held up a hand to cut her off. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. But getting involved with a Darklord is what got me killed and resurrected as a zombie. I hate to think what might happen to me the next time. Being dead isn’t all that much fun, but I’ve lived in Nekropolis long enough to know it could be worse. A lot worse.”

She cocked her head to one side and looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Which Darklord was it?”

“I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind. And I don’t want to talk about your problem either, not if it involves Lord Galm.”

She crossed her arms and gave me a calculating look. It didn’t appear as if she were in a hurry to leave.

“I don’t know a lot about zombies, but I know they need to have preservative spells regularly applied to keep them from rotting.” She smiled. “And as I’ve seen, they occasionally need limbs reattached. Spells like that cost money.”

“I can get darkgems somewhere else,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. And besides, I wasn’t worried about mere preservative spells now. I needed to find a way to keep my body from rotting away to nothing. I imagined I could already feel the slight itch of decay-one of the few sensations I can feel.

“One hundred? Two? Three hundred?” she countered. “Three hundred darkgems would pay for quite a lot of spells.”

“They would at that,” I was forced to admit. That would be roughly the equivalent of several thousand dollars back home in Cleveland. But would even three hundred darkgems be enough to buy the kind of magic I would need to keep my body intact?

And then it hit me. I needed the kind of power few beings in Nekropolis possessed: the power of a Darklord. If I helped Devona, perhaps she would intercede with her father on my behalf-and Lord Galm could use his magic to “cure” me.

I cautioned myself not too get excited, that it was a long shot, that even if Devona asked, Lord Galm might not help me. But right then it looked like the best-and only-shot I had. Besides, if I did have only a few days left in my existence, I’d rather spend them working than sitting around my place staring at the walls.

“All right, Devona, tell me about your problem.”

“I’m seventy-three years old,” she said. “Surprised?”

“Not really,” I said. “Seventy-three is young for a vampire.”

We were sitting in the living room. Devona was on the couch, and I’d taken the chair. The sounds of the Descension celebration out in the street-blaring music, laughter, shouting, and the occasional scream-served as a muted background to our conversation.

“Although,” I added, “you’re the best looking seventy-three year-old I’ve ever seen.”

She blushed slightly. Another sign that she was half human. A full-blooded vampire can’t blush.

“Lord Galm didn’t exactly love my mother. But he came as close to it as a being like him can, and when I was born, he brought me from Earth to Nekropolis.”

“And your mother?”

“Died delivering me,” she said softly. “Human women usually do when giving birth to a half-Bloodborn child.” She looked down at her lap, where the thin, fine fingers of her delicate hands played nervously with each other. “We have our teeth early, you see, and we’re born hungry…”

The resultant images in my mind might’ve nauseated me if I still had a working digestive system. “I understand. Go on.”

“I was raised in the Cathedral. I didn’t see my father very often-he was usually busy ruling Gothtown or engaging in power struggles with the other Lords. I was cared for and taught by Father’s staff, and I grew and learned.”

“I thought vampires didn’t age.”

“Those that were originally human and transformed into Bloodborn do not. But those like me, who are half human, do age, only very, very slowly.”

“So you’ll die one day?”

She nodded. “And afterward, I may rise as one completely Bloodborn. Or I may not. No one can say.”

“Could your father transform you, make you a full vampire?”

“He could try. But there’s no guarantee I would survive the process and be reborn. At this point, I’d rather wait and take my chances.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“When I reached my forty-fifth birthday, Father called me in to his study and told me that he wished me to join the staff of the Cathedral and serve him. It was a great honor, and I accepted thankfully.”

“What did he want you to do?”

“I was given charge of his Collection, and I have taken care of it for the last twenty-eight years.”

I noticed a black spot on the far wall-a spot which hadn’t been there when we’d started talking. It was a roach-like insect. Gregor, or rather one of his little informants. I nearly waved hello, but I didn’t want Devona to think I wasn’t listening to her. Besides, the bug didn’t care if I acknowledged its presence or not. All it wanted to do was observe.

“His…Collection?” I said, returning to the conversation.

“Father is incredibly ancient; how old, even he isn’t certain. Thousands and thousands of years, at least. And in all that time, he has acquired quite a number of items. Some are merely mementos of lives lived, countries and cities long dead; others are trophies: of triumphs, conquests, battles won, enemies defeated. Still others are tokens of magic, mystical objects of great power-any of which the other Darklords would dearly love to get their hands on in order to increase their own strength.