The Nekropolis Archives by Tim Waggoner Page A

celebration wafting from the ballroom, stared at the opposite wall, and let one part of my mind wander, while another kept watch for Devona's return.
      I don't know how much time passed, but eventually I became aware of someone approaching. I turned, expecting to see Devona, hopefully with Varma in tow, but instead a middle-aged woman in an elaborate pre-French Revolution gown and a towering white wig staggered down the corridor toward me. Her skin was ivory white, and I doubted it was because she powdered it. She wore a fake beauty mark in the shape of a tiny bat on her left cheek. Cute.
      "Pardon, Monsieur, could you direct me to the–" That was as far as she got before doubling over and vomiting a gout of redblack liquid all over the corridor floor.
      I was sympathetic vomiter when alive; all I had to do was hear someone retch and my own gorge would start to rise. My zombiefication had cured me of that, but I was still uncomfortably aware of the booze I had drank at Skully's while waiting for Honani to show up, still sitting undigested in my stomach. I knew I had to get rid of it soon, before it pickled my dead innards.
      When she was finished, she straightened and wiped her mouth with a dainty hand. Her wig had gone slightly askew, but she didn't bother to right it. She smiled shyly at me.
      "Forgive me, but I have such trouble resisting the temptation to overindulge at these affairs."
      I was hoping that would be the end of it, and she would return to the party. But she stood looking at me expectantly, so I said, "No apologies necessary."
      She looked into my eyes and I noticed a thin red line dimpling the flesh of her neck. From an encounter with Monsieur Guillotine? "Well, aren't you a gallant one?" She reached out and drew a long, blood red fingernail lightly down my cheek. "And you're rather handsome, in a consumptive sort of way."
      Some compliment. But I didn't say anything.
      She smiled lopsidedly. "Did you know that the Bloodborn do not cast shadows? It's true. And I miss mine something awful. Perhaps you would be a gentleman and take its place for a while?"
      Before I could answer, she linked her arm in mine, and started pulling me forward. Despite appearing middle-aged and being inebriated, she was still a vampire and strong as hell. I couldn't resist, not unless I wanted an arm torn off for the second time that day.
      "I'd be honored," I said as she dragged me toward the ballroom. At least she'd mistaken me for a Shadow. I could only hope Lord Galm's other guests would do the same.
     
    "Matthew, allow me to present the honored Amadeo Karolek. Amadeo, this is my new Shadow, Matthew."
      The male vampire, who was dressed in a coat of gold brocade, didn't bother to hide his disgust. "Charmed," he said in a voice which let me know he was anything but.
      I almost offered my hand to shake, just to irritate him, but the way he glared at me, he'd most likely have crushed it, and then torn it off.
      "Excuse me, Calandre, but I see someone I really must say hello to." And then Amadeo collapsed into a pool of black water and flowed away across the floor.
      Calandre – which meant lark, she'd told me – still had a death grip on my arm. But after introducing me to more than a dozen vampires, all of whom acted like I was some new species of giant maggot, I was considering sacrificing the limb, like an animal caught in a leg-hold trap, desperate to escape. But I'd already had an arm reattached once that day, so I resisted the urge.
      I knew next to nothing about Bloodborn etiquette, but from what I was able to observe as Calandre hauled me about the ballroom, Shadows were supposed to walk or stand at least three feet behind the vampires they belonged to, keep their heads down, and remain quiet. But Calandre, still drunk – or whatever the vampiric equivalent was of gorging on too much blood – was parading me around like I was her new lover. And the other vampires