The Nekropolis Archives by Tim Waggoner

caught, like Honani's, and implanted into a second body?"
      "Perhaps," Papa allowed. "If you are willing to steal another's form."
      So much for that. After what he'd done to Lyra, Honani deserved to be evicted from his body. But I couldn't do that to someone else just to save my own life. If I did, in effect I'd be a killer, no better than Honani.
      I stood there, trying to come to terms with what Papa had told me. I wasn't going to die. I couldn't; I was already dead. But my body was going to… what? Collapse into a puddle of putrefaction? Or just flake away to dust? And when it was gone, what would happen to me? Would I end up wandering Nekropolis, a disembodied spirit like Lyra? Or would my soul depart for some manner of afterlife? Assuming, of course, that there was any beyond Nekropolis. Or would I just cease to be, my spirit rotting away to nothing along with my body?
      As much as I hated my mockery of a life, it was the only mockery I had, and I didn't particularly want to lose it. There had to be a way for me to continue existing, a way that wouldn't result in my having to steal another's body. I'd just have to find it within the next couple days.
      I shook Papa's hand. "I appreciate everything you've done for me." I reached into my pocket, intending to hand over the soul jar containing Honani's spirit to pay for Papa's services.
      "Keep it, Matt." He smiled sadly. "This one's on the house, okay?"
      I didn't know what I'd do with Honani's soul, but Papa refused to take it, so in the end I walked out with the jar still in my pocket. I had two souls now, when what I needed was another body. Life – and death – is full of little ironies, isn't it?
     
    Devona was waiting for me outside, leaning up against the wooden wall of Papa's shack, arms crossed, surveying the Descension Day celebrants in the street with a wary, nervous gaze. The crowd was thinner this far from the center of the Sprawl, but there were still a lot of loud, drunken monsters about, and they bore watching.
      Devona's leather outfit clung to her like a second skin, and even though I no longer had any libido to speak of, I couldn't help appreciating how good she looked in it.
      I had my own problem now, and no time for hers. But I thought I could at least hear her out. Maybe her problem would turn out to be something simple. And I could use the darkgems; I would need them if I was going to find someone else – someone more powerful than Papa – to extend my unlife.
      "All done. I'm ready to talk." I didn't feel a need to mention the bad news I'd received. After all, Devona and I had just met.
      "Not here. We need someplace private."
      Like I'd told her, I wasn't a detective, no matter what she'd heard from them, whoever the hell they were, and I didn't have an office. But my apartment wasn't far from Papa Chatha's.
      "How about my place?"
      She nodded.
      A few more blocks of negotiating our way through the chaotic riot of partiers – which for Devona meant slapping more than a few males of various species and states of life and death who decided to grab her shapely leather-clad posterior – and we were there.
      My neighborhood is actually one of the more mundane sections of the Sprawl, a street of urban townhouses, which, except for the fact that the bricks appear to be made of gristle, looks perfectly ordinary.
      We went up the front steps, inside, and up more steps to my apartment. I had unlocked the door and was just about to grip the knob when a voice behind us said, "Hey, Matt!"
      "Hell," I muttered, and turned around to greet my neighbor. "Hi, Carl," I said without enthusiasm. "What's up?"
      Carl was a grizzled old fart in a rumpled seersucker suit which had probably once been white but was now mostly yellow.
      He grabbed a sheet of paper from the stack under his arm and thrust it into my hand.
      "Just finished printing out the latest edition of the Night Stalker News . I'm