Dead Streets (10 page)

  My body wasn't the only thing in the Dumpster, though. Standing on my chest was a single carrion imp. The tiny creature ignored me as he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Hey, guys! You're not going to believe what I found!"

  "Call Lazlo," I told Devona. "We need to get the rest of me out of there, pronto."

  Devona shouted Lazlo's name and at the same time a pack of eager carrion imps came racing out of the alley.

  I hoped Lazlo was a fast runner.

 
 

 
Devona and Lazlo managed to get my body into the back seat of the cab and then we all climbed in. Devona gave my body a quick examination and confirmed that it hadn't suffered any significant damage. We also learned that whoever had stolen my body hadn't removed any of the tricks I carried in the pockets of my suit jacket and he or she had left my 9mm in the shoulder holster.

  Lazlo pulled away from the Tooth and Claw and Devona took out her handvox, called Papa Chatha, and then held the device to my face so I could talk with him. Handvoxes are the Nekropolis version of cell phones and they're yet another patented Victor Baron creation. They're made of flesh with an ear for you to speak into and a mouth that relays the voice of the person on the other end. If you hold a vox too close to your own ear you can sometimes feel the moving lips of the mouth against your skin, a sensation that, despite my dead nerve endings, never fails to make me a little queasy. Because of this, and so Devona could hear as well, I asked her to put Papa on speaker phone.

  I quickly filled Papa in on what had happened since we left, and while Lazlo drove around this section of the Sprawl, Papa told me he'd been doing some more thinking about my situation.

  "You know I'll do anything in my power to help you, Matt. You're not just one of my best customers, you're also my friend. But – and this is no false modesty on my part – while I can sew back on an ear or finger, even reattach an arm, there's no way in the Nine Hells that I'll be able to successfully reattach your head. You may be dead, but your nervous system still functions in its own fashion. I simply do not possess the necessary knowledge and skill to repair all the required connections between your brain and body. I'm sorry."

  Papa went on before I could reply.

  "Something else you need to be aware of is that an injury of this magnitude has severely damaged the integrity of your preservative spells. You'll need to get them reapplied as soon as possible. The longer your two… er, pieces remain separate, the more decay you'll experience. I can cast preservative spells on your head and body separately, but doing so will make it more difficult to rejoin them. It's hard to explain, but basically, by treating your two halves as separate objects, I'll be making them separate. So if at all possible, it would be better to wait until your head and body are reconnected before I apply any new preservative spells. No more than a couple days. Otherwise…"

  He didn't need to spell out the alternative for me. Without preservative spells I'd rot away to nothing within a short time. Normal voodoo zombies decay more slowly because they're tied to their master's lifeforce, and as for the brain-munching zombies – well, nobody's exactly sure where they came from, but they tend to decay more slowly too. Not me, though. I decay at a fairly constant rate and it usually takes me a couple weeks to go from looking almost human to looking like boiled chicken sliding off the bone. But injuries to my body, while they don't hurt, speed up the process of decay. The more damage I take, the faster I rot. So even though I don't have to avoid serious injury to preserve my life the same way I did when I was human, in many ways, my current condition isn't all that different. Instead of seeing a physician, I see a voodoo priest, and his magic – along with his admittedly clumsy sewing skills – has kept me in a state of undead health for years.

  "Well, if you can't put me back together, who can?"

  "You could try the physicians at the Fever House," Papa said.

  The Fever House is a hospital in Gothtown that provides the most advanced medical care in Nekropolis, in many ways more advanced than back on Earth. In order to preserve the quality of the human blood supply over the millennia vampires developed the medical arts and passed them along to human physicians. When the Darkfolk left Earth several centuries ago the Bloodborn established the Fever House and continued exporting medical knowledge to Earth – which is more than a little disturbing when you stop to consider that the flu shot you're getting is the result of a predator species wanting to keep its food supply healthy. But at any rate, the doctors at the Fever House might well possess the knowledge necessary to reassemble me.

  Devona spoke for the first time since I called Papa. "The Fever House takes in patients of all species," she said. "With one exception."

  I sighed. "Let me guess: zombies."

  She nodded. "You know Bloodborn view them as nothing more than reanimated corpses. Never mind that full-blooded vampires are too. It's the fact that zombies don't have any blood that disgusts them."

  "I hadn't thought of that," Papa said. "I suppose that leaves only one alternative."

  "And that would be?" I prompted.

  "Who else deals on a regular basis with stitching dead things together and bringing them back to life?" Papa asked. "Or at least a semblance of life."

  "Victor Baron," I said.

  I thanked Papa for the suggestion, he wished me luck and then he disconnected.

  I told Devona what Papa had said. She called Information, got the number for the Foundry, and called. It was close to three in the morning now but in a city of perpetual dusk the citizens keep odd hours, so it was worth a shot to give Victor Baron a call. If we had to wait until morning it would be no great hardship. I needed to be reconnected before Papa could reapply my preservative spells, but I wouldn't rot away to dust in the next few hours. Still, the sooner I was whole again the better.

  Devona had taken the vox off speaker phone and now held the device to her ear. I could hear a faint ringing from the other end and it went on long enough that I was beginning to think no one was going to answer, but then I heard a soft click followed by the sound of someone speaking, though I couldn't make out the words.

  "It's a voice menu," Devona said. She listened for a moment and then pressed a button on the vox. She listened a few more seconds, frowned slightly, and made another selection. This went on for several more moments and I thought she was going to end up having to leave a message. Evidently Devona did too because she gave a start when someone actually answered.

  "Oh, hello. Sorry to be calling so late but I'd like to make an appointment to see Mr. Baron. A friend of mine is a zombie and he, well, not to put too fine a point on it, someone cut off his head and–"

  She stopped and listened for a moment.

  "Yes, we have both his head and his body. No, the body isn't moving on its own." A pause as she listened again. "His name is Matthew Richter, and–"

  Another interruption, another pause. When Devona started speaking again, she sounded pleased and surprised in equal measure.

  "We're in the Sprawl right now, but we can come over right away. Thank you so much!"

  She disconnected, closed the vox, and slipped it back into her pocket.

  "Believe it or not, we have an appointment with Victor Baron. He'll be waiting for us whenever we get there."

  I was pleased, of course, but an inherently suspicious nature is a prerequisite for a PI, and I couldn't bring myself to believe it had really been that easy.

  "Who did you talk to?"

  Devona shrugged. "An assistant of some sort, I assume. He said his name was–"

  "Ygor," I guessed.

  She frowned. "No. Henry. He told me not to worry about calling late. 'We never close here at the Foundry,' he said. He sounded blandly professional at first. You know, doing his job but not really interested in who I was or what my problem might be. But he became very interested when I told him your name."

  "Why would that mean anything to him?"

  From the front seat Lazlo said, "You helped save the city last Descension Day. You're famous." He thought for a moment. "Then again maybe he caught you on Acantha's show tonight." He chuckled, a sound like splintering bones. "I didn't realize you were so funny. You were a real sport to go along with her gags."

  I sighed – which is a real trick when you're not attached to your lungs. "What can I say? You know how much I love a good joke."

  Had everyone in the city seen that stupid program? I was really starting to regret my lack of restraint earlier in the evening. I considered sending Acantha a few hundred roses as a down payment on an apology, but as angry as the gorgon was, she'd probably just turn them to stone.

  "All right, Lazlo," I said. "Let's head for the Foundry."

  Lazlo pulled his cab onto the Obsidian Way and soon we were crossing the Bridge of Forgotten Pleasures, leaving the Sprawl and entering the Wyldwood. Nekropolis is shaped like a gigantic pentagram, its five Dominions separated by Phlegethon, a river of green fire that burns the spirit instead of the flesh. The only way to pass between Dominions is to use one of the bridges that connect them and the only way to cross in relative safety was to travel the Obsidian Way. The smooth glossy black road offers no magical protections for travelers, but the laws of Nekropolis state that travel between Dominions is not to be impeded for any reason – provided travelers keep to the Obsidian Way. If you venture from the road you're fair game for whoever, or whatever, might find you. Of course, as with a lot of laws in Nekropolis, it's really more of a strong suggestion than anything else, so traveling the Way is still dangerous. You need to keep your guard up and move as fast as you can and hope you don't attract any undue attention. And if you do you'd better hope you're stronger, faster or smarter than whatever is trying to catch you. Preferably all three.

  The Wyldwood, as the name implies, is mostly forested, though there's a good amount of pastureland as well. There are villages located in the Dominion, though they tend to be few and far between. Those lykes who desire a more urban lifestyle tend to live in the Sprawl and while Lord Amon frowns on this, he doesn't forbid his subjects to leave the Wyldwood. Still, the vast majority of shapeshifters live there.

  I'd traveled through a bit of the Wyldwood before, on foot, which is precisely as dangerous as it sounds. During that time, I'd stuck close to the Obsidian Way, but supposedly the interior of the Wyldwood changes its shapes just as lykes do. One day it might be a dark European forest, the next African grasslands, and the day after that, arctic tundra. I don't know if it's true but I've met Lord Amon, King of the Shapeshifters, and since he can change his form into that of any creature he desires, I've no trouble believing his Dominion is as metamorphic as he is. Sometimes I wonder if the only reason the land bordering the Obsidian Way remains stable in the Wyldwood is because Father Dis wants it that way to promote greater ease of travel. Then again, nice thick woods are much easier for predators to hide in and maybe that's the real reason the land around the Obsidian Way never changes. It makes for better hunting that way.

  Whichever the case, the treeline on either side of the road varies little – huge, ancient trees with thick trunks and dense foliage kept us company as we drove. Although it wasn't long before we picked up new companions.

  A dozen or so lykes appeared out of the woods and began running alongside the Obsidian Way, easily keeping pace with Lazlo's cab despite how swiftly we were traveling. They darted in and out of the woods on either side of the road, lithe forms moving with eerie silent grace. Some wore full animal forms, others appeared as human-beast hybrids, while still others were mostly human with only slight feral touches: pointed ears, sharp teeth, yellow eyes… But all the lykes moved with supernatural speed that was at once both terrifying and beautiful to behold. They were all predators of one kind or another, canine and feline, primarily. No mixbloods, though. Once a lyke has visited Dr. Moreau at the House of Pain for a genetic makeover, he or she isn't welcome back in the Wyldwood. A lot of mixbloods are lower caste lykes who've chosen to leave the Wyldwood rather than continue serving the alphas. Can't say as I blame them. I've always had a bit of a problem with authority myself.

  The lykes pacing us on both sides of the road weren't simply out for a bit of exercise. The wrecked and abandoned vehicles we passed every few miles were testament to that. The lykes chased cars in the hope that they'd blow a tire or throw a rod and be forced to pull over, in which case it was snack time. Of course, few people are foolish enough to travel the Obsidian Way unless their vehicles are in tiptop shape and they're well armed. Which means that the lykes need to take matters in their own claws. The law forbids them from stepping onto the Obsidian Way to attack a vehicle, but if a driver just happens to encounter an obstacle…

  Lazlo gazed out the windshield. "Aw, dammit! I hate lykes!"

  "What's wrong?" I couldn't see, so Devona lifted me up and propped me on the back of Lazlo's seat so I could look over his shoulder and out the windshield.

  "Spike strip," Lazlo said. "A lyke just tossed one onto the road ahead of us. Hold on."

  I'd just managed to catch a glimpse of the gleaming metal of the spike strip illuminated in the wash of the cab's headlights when the vehicle suddenly lurched upward. I almost fell, but Devona grabbed hold of my head with both hands to steady me, though my body slumped over against her. We would've strapped my headless form in when we first put it in the cab but Lazlo doesn't believe in seatbelts. He says they show a serious lack of faith in a driver.

  I have no idea how something that at least outwardly resembled an earthly cab managed to jump into the air, but that's exactly what Lazlo's vehicle did, sailing over the spike strip and landing on the other side with a jarring impact. No damage was done, though – or at least, none the cab couldn't contend with – and we kept going. The lykes keeping pace with us snarled with frustration, eyes wild, tongues lolling, jaws flecked with froth, but they continued flanking us, no doubt looking forward to their next attempt to force us to stop.