The Last Smile in Sunder City (The Fetch Phillips Archives #1) - Luke Arnold Page 0,9

world to convince other lands of Sunder City’s importance, but they were so vehemently mocked that production was stopped almost instantly.

Only a handful were displayed in local establishments, probably as a joke. One night, when the other dartboards were busy, a few drunken patrons got creative.

Sunder City, fudged to be the artificial center of Archetellos, is worth fifty points. Elven hubs like the Opus Headquarters or their home in Gaila are thirty. The eastern city of Perimoor and western cliffs of Vera are both twenty-five. The Dwarven Mountains that border the north are worth twenty but they guard the way to the Ragged Plains and if you land in those you lose five points.

Islands are ten points apiece, including Ember (where the Faeries come from) and Keats (where Wizards are trained). There’s no punishment for landing in the water but there are house rules, depending on where you play. In The Ditch, out of respect to Boris, the Banshee home of Skiros is worth thirty-five.

Human cities are worth zero. Weatherly, Mira and the old Humanitarian Army Base are all a wasted throw. In some bars, you even forfeit the game.

The drunk Elves were still landing most of their shots in the ocean when Richie arrived.

He’d put on a pound a week since joining the force a few years earlier. Ogres can be an unpredictable bunch, but Richie was a Half-Ogre raised in the city since birth.

Around his left wrist he had a single tattoo that matched one of mine: the intricate pattern that flashed green under firelight. Like me, he’d spent a few years of his youth working for the Opus. Back then, there wasn’t a problem his battering-ram hands couldn’t manage. Now he prayed in the church of paperwork. I tended to tiptoe on the boundaries of our friendship. Professional custom made us enemies but he could occasionally be counted on as my ear inside the establishment.

“Milkwood? You still drinking that sugary shit?”

I gulped down the last mouthful of my cocktail and gave Boris the signal to send over another round.

“Ale for me,” Richie called out as he sat down opposite, “because I happen to know I’m not a teenage girl. Now, what’s your big problem?”

Without mentioning any specifics, I asked Richie what he’d heard about the Blood Race.

“Vampires? Fetch, if you insist on digging around where you don’t belong, at least stay out of the cemetery.” Boris delivered our drinks. Richie took a long sip from the metal tankard and licked the foam from his lips.

“How many are still around?”

He shrugged. “Not a lot. Most of them are still living up in that castle in Norgari like they did during the days of the League. They call it The Chamber. I wouldn’t imagine there’re more than a hundred of ’em up there. In this city, maybe a dozen. They tend to hang out at an old teahouse off the piazza. The Crooked Tooth.”

I’d never heard of it. The piazza was the kind of a tourist trap I tried to avoid.

“You sound fairly well informed. Does that mean the cops keep tabs on the Vampire community?”

Richie looked at me out of one bloodshot eye. He knew he had to think twice before letting anything loose around my ears. He’d spoken too freely more than once and it always came back to bite both of us.

“Fetch, there’s been no reason to worry about the Blood Race in decades. They’re old. They’re harmless.”

I made a grunt of non-commitment and Richie took a sip of his drink.

“How do they die?”

Richie stopped mid gulp and put down his pint.

“In pain,” he growled. “They’re hollow shells. Vessels that can’t be filled. They dry out like old fruit and crumble into dust. In the old days, the sun would do it to them in seconds. Now it takes a few years, if they’re lucky.”

“So, they’re mortal. Do they still need a stake through the heart or could they just fall over, hit their head, and kick it like the rest of us?”

Richie chewed his lip. These conversations never got any easier. Everybody felt bad about the Coda. It even broke Richie’s bowling-ball of a heart.

“They’re less than mortal,” he said. “I don’t know what it is that keeps them going but it’s running out. One day soon, a breeze’ll blow them all away and we’ll never see their kind again.”

With that, he finished his drink, slid out of the booth and left me with the bill. He didn’t say goodbye. He must have known he’d