Human for a Day (9781101552391) (21 page)

But I wasn't in the mood to get into a pissing contest with a demon right then. As the saying goes, at that moment I had bigger and more important fish to fry.

“I
was
looking for you, it's true. But something's come up, and I'm needed elsewhere. Tell you what, why don't you give me your card and maybe we can do business later?”

He arced one of his thick black eyebrows. “I suppose next you'll say, ‘Have your people call my people and we'll do lunch?' I'm not an easy man to find, Mr. Richter, and once found, I'm ever harder to dismiss. So . . .” His lips drew away from his mouth in a predatory smile. “Why don't you tell me what you want with me?”

What I most wanted was for him to get the hell out of my way so I could continue heading home. Instead, I said, “I use a lot of specialized equipment in my job. Holy water, silver bullets . . . I'm always on the lookout for new suppliers. Word on the street is that you're the go-to guy when it comes to silver, so I figured it was time I made your acquaintance.”

I carry a 9mm pistol in a shoulder holster, and my bullets are coated with silver, dipped in a mixture of holy water and garlic juice, and both blessed and cursed by powerful magic-users. You never know who or what is going to try and kill you in Nekropolis, so it pays to be prepared.

At that moment, I considered going for my gun. Normally, my zombie reflexes are so slow that I can't out-draw anyone, but since it doesn't matter if an opponent gets the first shot in, my lack of speed is never an issue. If an opponent manages to hit me, all that it means is that I'll eventually need to get Papa Chatha to repair the damage. Shooting second is more than good enough when bullets can't kill you. But now my reflexes were once more those of a living man, and that meant I might be able to draw my gun before Gilmore could activate the Argentum Perditor. Then again, I'd had trouble simply standing back in the alley, and I still didn't feel all that steady on my feet. I hadn't adjusted to my newly restored body yet, and that meant there was a good chance I'd fumble when I tried to draw my 9mm, giving Gilmore more than ample opportunity to turn me into a silver statue. And if I got silverfied before I could get home and was able to, uh, make my delivery to Devona, she'd kill me.

So no gunplay for now.

Gilmore leaned toward me and inhaled deeply then, and I felt suddenly paranoid. Demonkin senses aren't always as keen as those of Bloodborn or Lykes, but they're sharp enough, and I feared Gilmore might smell that I'd turned human. One of the things you want to avoid at all costs in Nekropolis is having someone consider you prey—especially
easy
prey. I had a couple things going in my favor, though. For one thing, Gilmore had no reason to suspect I'd been restored to a living state. For another, my transformation had only affected my body. My clothes were still the same, and not only did a pungent eau de zombie still cling to them, they were stained from the gunk I'd landed in when I fell in the alley. With any lucky, my rancid-smelling clothes would help disguise my now human scent.

Turns out I had nothing to worry about. He leaned back and his smile became more relaxed.

“I can smell the silver on you, so perhaps your story is true. But I've heard rumors on the street as well, Mr. Richter. It seems that a number of powerful magical artifacts have been stolen from their owners over the last few weeks. The thefts have two important things in common. The owners are all, shall we say,
unconventional
business people like myself, and
you
were spotted in the vicinity around the time of each theft, Mr. Richter.”

I shrugged. “What can I say? I get around. Doesn't mean I had anything to do with the thefts.” Inwardly, I cursed my luck. Gilmore might not be a genius, but it seemed that he was more than smart enough to put two and two together.

“So this leads me to two possible conclusions. Either you were looking for me for the reason you claimed, in order to secure a new supplier of silver bullets, or you were looking for
this
.” He wiggled the Argentum Perditor for emphasis. “The problem is, how do I determine the truth?”

If he knew I was currently human, he'd try to force me to confess using the persuasive power of his demon voice. If he did, I might be able to resist. Then again, I might not. Hopefully, he'd continue thinking I was still a zombie.

I tried to speak more slowly and less distinctly as I replied to further the impression that I was still dead. “You could always take my word for it.”

He laughed. “Demons aren't known for being the trusting type.” He thought for a moment. “I think I'll invite you to accompany me to my home. The public face of my operation is a small business called One Man's Trash. Perhaps you saw it during your inquiries? It's not far from here. I specialize in selling ‘reclaimed treasures' imported from Earth. You'd be surprised what some Darkfolk are willing to pay for the junk I carry in my shop. My real business lies in the chambers underneath the shop, of course. I have a number of devices there that will allow me to extract the truth even from a zombie.” A gleam came into his demon eyes, and he bared his teeth once more. “This is going to be a lot of fun.”

He jabbed the Argentum Perditor into my side, and the metal claw hurt like a bitch. I had to grit my teeth to keep from reacting.

“Let's go. That way.” He nodded eastward, in the direction I'd just come from. Seeing no other recourse for the time being, I nodded, turned around, and started walking down the sidewalk, Gilmore at my side, the Argentum Perditor aimed at me.

We walked for several minutes in silence after that. I kept a close eye on the pedestrians we passed, hoping to spot a familiar face. I have a lot of friends in the city, and even more enemies, and any one of them might provide a way to distract Gilmore. But I didn't see anyone I knew, friend or foe. And I couldn't rely on Devona to come to my rescue. The voicemail I'd left for her said only that I was on my way home, and once she heard it, she'd have no reason to suspect I was in trouble and come racing to Ruination Row to help me. It looked like I was on my own.

We'd just passed High Stakes, an extreme piercing parlor run by a descendent of Vlad Tepes, and were approaching a Sawney B's, a fast-food joint for cannibals on the go, offering such delectable treats as lady fingers, marrow shakes, and homunculus nuggets. A trio of Bloodborn stood on the sidewalk in front of Sawney B's, sipping plasma shakes. Given that Bloodborn are for all intents and purposes immortal, it's difficult to tell their ages by looking at them, but I knew these there were young as vampires went. Older Bloodborn feel uncomfortable around technology, if they don't disdain it completely. But younger ones tend to embrace it, often to the point of getting themselves cybernetically augmented. Genetic and technological alteration wasn't uncommon for the Darkfolk, considering that their supernaturally strong constitutions allowed them to withstand medical procedures that would kill a human being.

These three vampires—two male, one female—were almost completely clad in metal, making them seem as if they were wearing suits of armor. Wires, cables, and gears were visible at their joints, and their eyes had been replaced by small holoprojectors that glowed with internal green light. Their heads had been shaved, the woman's too, and their left incisors had been painted a bright ruby red. The latter was the calling card of the Red Tide, a vampire street gang that was one of the most deadly in Nekropolis. Even for their kind, they were considered vicious killers, and they had one other important quality: they were notoriously sensitive about their cyber implants.

As we drew closer, I called out, “What are you guys drinking? Motor oil?”

Gilmore jabbed the Argentum Perditor into my side, and I couldn't keep from wincing. I hoped he hadn't noticed.

One of the males, this one of Asian descent, turned to look at me, his green eyes shading red.

“Shut up, smart-ass, or we'll stick our straws in your carotid and see how you taste,” he snarled.

The woman, who was black, let out a high-pitched laugh that had an electronic edge to it, as if she had a synthesizer unit attached to her vocal cords.

“I'm not afraid of you junk-heaps,” I said. “Looks to me like your warranties are about up.”

Gilmore leaned over to whisper in my ear. “I know what you're trying to do, and it won't work. Keep walking.”

But we weren't able to do that. The three cyber-vampires dropped their shakes and, traveling so swiftly they were little more than blurs, they moved into the street to block our way. All of their eyes glowed red now.

The second male, who was white, looked me up and down, then wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Where the hell have you been, man? Smells like you just swam a few laps in a sewer.”

His companions laughed.

“I'm surprised your nose still works,” I said. “I figured you'd have an air filter or something stuck in there.”

The cybervamp snarled, grabbed a handful of my shirt, and pulled me close to him. Around us, pedestrians had either stopped to watch the incipient mayhem or they were giving us plenty of room as they moved quickly to get out of our way. The attention was just what I wanted. I hoped Gilmore would be reluctant to use the Argentum Perditor in front of an audience in order to avoid anyone suspecting he was the Silversmith.

Of course, now that I'd pissed off a trio of vampires, I had to find a way to keep them from killing me.

“You need to show more respect for the Red Tide,” the cybervamp said in a low and deadly voice. His breath smelled foul, like rotten meat, and I had to fight to keep from gagging.

“Maybe a brainwipe would teach him some manners,” the girl said, grinning.

The Asian vamp nodded eagerly. “Do it!”

The Bloodborn who had hold of me smiled, and his holo-eyes glowed a darker red. “This is going to hurt. A lot. On the plus side, once I'm finished, you won't remember it. But that's only because you won't remember
anything
.”

He opened his mouth and extended his tongue. The end split bloodlessly in two to reveal a thin black wire with a silver needle on the tip. I understood what he planned to do with me. The wire was going to shoot forward like a striking serpent and the needle would imbed itself in my skull. The cybervamp would then send a jolt of energy into my brain, scrambling it and erasing my memories. When he was finished, not only wouldn't I know my name, I wouldn't even remember that there were such things
as
names.

I had only a split second to do something, but I had no idea what. I'd grown so used to relying on my zombie state to get me out of trouble that I couldn't think of any way to avoid getting mindwiped. It looked like my attempt to get away from Gilmore had backfired, and while I'd still be alive when it was over, I'd no longer be
me
.

“Enough of this foolishness,” Gilmore said. He pointed the Argentum Perditor at the three Red Tide vampires and the claw on the end glowed with a bright silvery light. All three of the gang members turned to look at the claw, transfixed by its glow, and as I watched, the metal of the cyber-implants transformed into silver—and silver is highly poisonous to Bloodborn.

The flesh connected to their implants instantly began to smolder and blacken, and the cybervamps shrieked in agony. The one that had been just about to mindwipe me released me, and all three of them began to tear at their implants, as if desperate to remove the silver that was poisoning them. They fell to the ground, shrieking and clawing at their bodies, and Gilmore looked down at them, smiling with satisfaction.

“I do
so
enjoy my work,” he said. Then he looked at me and jabbed the Argentum Perditor into my side once more. “No more tricks. Understand?”

I nodded, and we stepped around the screaming vampires and continued heading eastward.

Evidently, I'd been wrong about Gilmore. He wasn't worried about revealing his true identity. Then again, it wasn't as if the existence of the Argentum Perditor was common knowledge. Maybe he was counting on no one being able to associate the three silverfied Red Tide vamps with the Silversmith. Or maybe he just didn't give a damn. Demons can be like that.

We'd gone less than half a block before coming to a bar I'd passed earlier called Born of Man and Woman. It was a humans-only place, one of the few in the city, and a number of its patrons were standing on the sidewalk, watching us as we approached.

“I'm warning you,” Gilmore said as we drew closer. “Don't say a word.”

The half dozen men and women weren't exactly the shy, retiring type. They were well muscled, heavily tattooed and pierced, and clad in denim, leather, and steel-toed boots. Humans need to be tough to survive in Nekropolis, and only the toughest can hope to hold their own in Ruination Row. It looked to me like these men and women were right at home here.

The tallest of them was a middle-aged man with long brown hair and a full beard. He had a wicked-looking scar on his right cheek, and wore an Apocalyp-tica T-shirt beneath a leather vest, and in his right hand he gripped the rubber-coated handle of an aluminum bat. He stepped forward to meet us as we approached.

“We heard there was trouble on the street with some Redfangs,” he said in voice roughened by too much booze and too many cigarettes. “We came outside to see what was up. That was some mighty powerful magic you used to deal with them, demon.”

“Just a little spell to overload their circuits,” Gilmore lied smoothly. “Nothing special about it. Now if you'll excuse us . . .”

Gilmore made to step around the man, but he raised his bat to block the demon's way.