The Nekropolis Archives (117 page)

  These three weren't the only ones come to greet us, however. A half-dozen men and women stood behind them, armed with everything from automatic machine guns to gleaming broadswords, and from the grim looks of determination on their faces, they were more than ready and willing to use their weapons if necessary.

  Maggie looked us over for a moment more before lowering her serpent's tooth. Then she looked over her shoulder.

  "Stand down. I'll take responsibility for these three."

  One by one, the men and women lowered their weapons and moved off.

  The armadillo kept his crossbow trained on us a moment longer, but in the end he lowered it as well. The man with the scanner continued pointing it at Shamika and fussing with the controls, as if he were determined to wring some kind of reading out of it.

  Maggie tucked her serpent's tooth into a leather holster on her belt, then came forward and shook my left hand. She showed no distaste upon touching my undead flesh, and my estimation of her went up a notch. Many people say they don't have a prejudice against zombies, but ask them to touch one, and you'll find out differently. Not Maggie, though.

  "So this is what you really look like, I take it."

  She was in her sixties and shorter than me, though not by much.

  Her silver hair was cut short, and she wore jeans and a white Tshirt displaying a cartoon image of Christ holding a razor, his beard covered with white foam, below it the words JESUS SHAVES!

  "In the flesh," she said. "No need for disguises here." Maggie turned toward her two companions. "The big guy in the leathery shell is Houston. He's a weremadillo."

  "I never would've guessed," I said.

  Houston gave me a hard look. "Don't mess with Texas," he growled.

  "Duly noted," I said.

  "And this trim fellow here is Arthur Van Helsing. He's one of our best researchers."

  Arthur wore wire frame glasses that made his eyes look larger than they really were. His unruly brown hair was badly in need of trimming, and from the pallor of his skin, it looked like he could use a few days in a tanning bed. He wore a white lab coat that was marred by several stains and scorch marks. His T-shirt said VAMPIRES SUCK! Varney's lip curled in a silent snarl when he saw it, but the Bloodborn said nothing.

  "I take it you've decided not to destroy us," I said.

  "For the moment," Maggie said. "Come on in, and try not to look around too much. This
is
supposed to be a secret headquarters, you know." She turned and walked away. Arthur followed her, casting backward glances at Shamika as if he was still trying to figure out what she was. Houston waited for us to follow, the big lyke clearly intending to bring up the rear and keep an eye on us. I was certain his crossbow bolts weren't merely silver-tipped; they were probably dipped in all kinds of nasty poisons and blessed seven ways to Sunday. They'd prove deadly to Varney, probably to me, and maybe even to Shamika – or at least this particular component of the Watchers' group mind calling itself Shamika. It was a strong incentive to remain on our best behavior.

  The Hidden Light's HQ was located in a hollowed-out cavern, fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling and power cables stretching along the floor near the walls. Workstations were set up throughout the cavern, and while some contained books, scrolls, and parchments, just as many held high-tech computers and shimmering holo displays. Most of the men and women at the workstations were human, but there were a fair number of Darkfolk scattered among them. Maggie must've noticed me looking at them, for she said, "Just because someone's a monster doesn't mean they don't have spiritual needs." She paused, then added, "Sometimes they need the Light even more."

  "Traitors," Varney muttered.

  Arthur turned around to look at him as if he intended to comment, but when Varney saw the holy objects around the man's neck, he hissed and averted his gaze.

  "Sorry about that," Arthur said, sounding embarrassed. Arthur tucked the scanner he'd been holding into a pocket of his lab coat, rummaged around in there, then brought out a pair of dark glasses which he held out to Varney. "Put these on. They won't take away the pain entirely, but they should make it bearable."

  Varney hesitated, but he took the glasses from Arthur and donned them. He looked at Arthur, then at Maggie, then back to Arthur.

  "It is better," Varney said. "Thank you." He sounded as if it took some effort for him to express his gratitude, and Arthur seemed equally uncomfortable accepting it.

  "You're, ah, welcome. We call them diffusers. They're made from solidified shadow caught in a highly focused time-dilation field." He became more enthusiastic as he went on. "We have more call for them than you might think. We actually have Bloodborn in our organization, some of them quite high up in your people's hierarchy, and–"

  Maggie cut in. "The less we tell them the better, Arthur."

  He looked chastened. "You're right, of course. Sorry."

  The men and women around us represented a number of different ethnicities and religions, and while many were dressed in normal street clothes, more than a few wore clothing that indicated their religious tradition. I saw Catholic priests and nuns, Moslem clerics, Hasidic Jews, Buddhist monks, Shinto monks, and Hindu swamis. They worked side by side in apparent harmony, without any obvious conflict due to their different backgrounds and philosophies.

  Well,
harmony
might be overstating the case. Right then the men and women of the Hidden Light were more than a bit agitated, moving quickly from one workstation to another, consulting with each other in front of computer monitors and holo displays, or talking loudly into voxes and microphone headsets. The atmosphere reminded me of Varvara's war room, and I assumed it was for the same reasons.

  "I assume it's not always this lively down here," I said to Maggie.

  She said, "Hardly. Right now, we have a Situation with a capital S to deal with – as you well know."

  "You mean the war?" Shamika asked.

  Maggie laughed. "Goodness, no, child! What do we care if the Darkfolk want to go around slaughtering each other? More than usual, that is. Nekropolis is their city, and if they want to war with each other, that's their business, regrettable though it may be."

  "That attitude seems a little more 'eye for an eye' than 'turn the other cheek,'" I said.

  Maggie led us through the maze of workstations and people, and stopped before a rectangular glass structure that resembled a coffin – probably because sealed inside was the perfectly preserved body of a man wearing brown robes, a rope belt, and sandals. His hair was cut in a tonsure, making him look like a slimmed-down version of Robin Hood's Friar Tuck.

  Maggie turned to look at me. "The Hidden Light has a clearly defined mission, Matthew, and keeping peace between the Darklords isn't part of it."

  "What
is
your purpose?" Varney said. "Besides harassing us Darkfolk, that is."

  Houston prodded Varney in the back with his crossbow. "Watch it, Fangboy! No one speaks to Sister Holstrom like that! If you knew who she
really
was…"

  Maggie shut the weremadillo up with a stern glare. "All they need to know is that I speak for the Hidden Light. That's enough."

  Houston lowered his gaze. "I'm sorry, Sister."

  Maggie accepted his apology with a nod and then gestured to the monk under glass. "This is Saint Bartelmeu the Recondite. He's been deceased for a millennium, but like you, Matthew, he doesn't let a little thing like death slow him down."

  As soon as Varney heard the word
Saint
, he stepped back from the glass coffin. The diffusers might help him gaze upon holy objects, but it seemed there was only so much they could do when it came to an honest-to-God saint.

  Tendrils of ectoplasm curled up from the coffin to coalesce into a ghostly image of the monk hovering in the air. The ghost was typical of its kind, looking as if it were formed of shaped white mist, and when it was complete, Bartelmeu opened his eyes and smiled at us.

  "Visitors?" he said in a cheery voice. "I
love
visitors! Who are they, Joan?"

  Maggie sighed. "I go by Magdalene these days, Bartelmeu. Remember?"

  The monk made a dismissive gesture. "Yes, yes. A rose by any other name. Now tell me who these fine people are."

  Maggie introduced the three of us, and Bartelmeu grinned at each of us in turn, not seeming put off in the slightest by the fact we weren't human.

  "It's a pleasure to meet you all!" he said. "Nothing against my fellow champions of the Light, but it gets somewhat dull having the same people to talk to day in, day out." He lowered his voice. "And just between you and me, our people can be a bit on the stuffy side."

  Arthur seemed a bit offended by this last comment, but Maggie took it in her stride.

  "Bartelmeu is better than a dozen computers," she said. "Not only is his knowledge encyclopedic and his recall perfect, his clairvoyant and precognitive abilities are legendary."

  Bartelmeu grinned. "If my cheeks weren't formed of ectoplasm, they'd be blushing right now."

  Arthur picked up the conversation's thread then. "It was Bartelmeu that first informed us of what was happening – and who told us you three would be arriving soon."

  Bartelmeu looked startled. "You mean
these
three are
those
three? Why didn't you tell me?" He turned to us and grinned even wider than he had before. "It's even more of a pleasure to meet you then!"

  I looked at Maggie. "Perfect recall?"

  She shrugged. "Cut him some slack. He
is
over a thousand years old, you know."

  I looked at the ghostly saint and felt a surge of hope. "So you know what's going on? You can tell me where my wife is?" I wasn't really sure when I'd begun thinking of Devona as my wife, but I was aware I'd been doing it for a while now. It didn't matter that we weren't officially married. We were married in our hearts, and that was what counted the most.

  Bartelmeu looked a bit chagrined. "Not as such, no."

  Maggie explained. "It's not that he doesn't know. He has to be careful of how much he tells us."

  "He has to avoid temporal paradox," Arthur said. "By giving us information about the future, he risks changing that future, thereby rendering the information he gives us useless."

  "And perhaps making things even worse in the process," Maggie added.

  Despite his lack of physical lungs, Bartelmeu sighed. "It's true. Sometimes I think God has a warped sense of humor."

  I struggled to contain the frustration I felt. This man – well, this
ghost
– knew everything I needed to know in order to stop Gregor and save Devona. Only he couldn't tell me.

  As if reading my mind, and perhaps he did, Bartelmeu hurriedly added, "But that doesn't mean I can't help! You came here to obtain weapons that will help you get through Varvara's army and reach Demon's Roost. That was your own idea, and I won't be interfering with the natural course of events by telling you that we plan to supply you with such weapons."

  "You'll have to go on your own, though," Maggie said. "Just the three of you, the way you'd planned to before coming here."

  Arthur gave us an excited smile. "Since we knew you were coming, I had time to prepare some real good ones for you!" As quickly as it had come, his smile faded. "I just wish I could go along and watch you use them. One of the problems with being a techie is that I hardly ever get out into the field."

  Maggie gave him a consolatory pat on the back. "Maybe next time."

  Behind his diffusers, Varney frowned. "But
why
will you loan us weapons? Why help us at all, for that matter? You said you don't care about the war."

  "Because helping you supports our mission," Maggie said. "Bartelmeu has confirmed that someone is attempting to move Nekropolis to Earth. Not just part of it, not just a single Dominion, but the entire city. The Hidden Light has been around in one form or another since the Darkfolk first appeared, trying to protect humanity from being preyed on by the monsters that dwelled in the dark. As you might imagine, we were quite happy to see the Darkfolk leave Earth for Nekropolis. In fact, you might say that we helped you move. As powerful as Dis and the Darklords are, opening a portal to another dimension, building a city there, and transporting an entire race of people to live in it was a task they couldn't quite accomplish on their own. They needed our aid, and we were glad to provide it. But once they settled in Nekropolis, not every member of the Darkfolk was thrilled to be cut off from the pleasures Earth had to offer, and some attempted to return. The Darklords tried to stop them, but some got through."

  "And that's where we came in," Arthur said. "We set up shop here in Nekropolis to make sure the Darkfolk
stay
here. We don't want to hurt you, especially, but we want to make certain that you never return to Earth and begin preying on humanity again."

  "We intend to stop whoever and whatever is attempting to transport Nekropolis to Earth," Maggie said. She glanced at Bartelmeu. "And according to our resident psychic saint, arming you three is our best shot at doing so."

  Bartelmeu smiled. "And I predict a solid fifty-fifty chance of success! You can't ask for better odds than that!" He frowned. "Well, I suppose you could, but you're not going to get them."

  "So either we'll win or we won't." I sighed. "How comforting."

  You know something? Sometimes I really hate my job.

SEVENTEEN

Arthur was giving Varney and Shamika some last-minute instructions on how their weapons worked, and since he'd already checked me out on mine, I pulled Maggie aside to talk with her.

  "Thanks for the assist," I told her. "We'll try to bring your toys back unbroken if we can."

  She smiled. "Don't make promises you can't keep. Besides, it'll be worth the loss of our equipment if you manage to prevent Nekropolis from being transported to Earth."