The first rule of survival in Curitiba used to be "carry an umbrella." The new rule was "don't stare at the tube bus stations."

  We passed one of the city's famous tubular bus stops. The futuristic glass and metal were still there, but the interior was filled with a phosphorescent green liquid. Inside, floating in suspended animation, dozens of Ghouls slept like pickled cucumbers.

  "Public hibernation transport," I theorized, noting it in my mental notebook. "Efficient. Reduces fresh meat consumption during the day."

  "It's disgusting, is what it is," Luna commented, her nose pressed against the van window. "Arthur, there's a skeleton walking a dog. No, wait... the dog is a skeleton too. How does the dog bark without vocal cords?"

  "Acoustic illusion magic or bone resonance," Valéria replied from the driver's seat, tense. "We're reaching the Gate. Get ready. If they ask for papers, we shoot."

  The old tourist portal of the Santa Felicidade neighborhood blocked the road. But the wood and colonial tiles had been reinforced with dragon ribs and ash mortar.

  A boom barrier made of a giant spine barred the way.

  Beside the guard booth, there wasn't a police officer.

  There was an empty suit of armor, floating half a meter off the ground, holding a clipboard.

  "A Dullahan (Headless Horseman)," I identified. "Class B. Usually aggressive, but this one seems... bored."

  Valéria braked the van. The Dullahan floated to the driver's window. It had no head to speak with, but a spectral voice emanated from the breastplate, sounding like scraping metal.

  "Reason for visit?"

  Valéria placed her hand on the shotgun hidden in her lap.

  "Tourism," she lied, with the subtlety of a brick.

  "Tourism in the Necropolis?" The armor "sighed" (a sound of escaping steam). "Humans are prohibited without safe conduct from the Shadow Council. Turn around or I will be forced to confiscate your souls for the toll."

  "Try your luck, scrap metal," Valéria unlocked the safety.

  "Wait." I placed my hand over her gun. "Let me talk."

  I opened the door and stepped out. The cold cut my face immediately.

  I walked up to the Dullahan. Behind him, in the booth, I noticed movement. A tall figure, dressed in purple velvet rags and wearing a rusty iron crown, was watching.

  A Lich. An undead of high intelligence and magical capability.

  He floated out of the shadows. His skin was parchment stretched over a skull, and blue flames burned in his eye sockets.

  "Pardon my doorman's rudeness," the Lich's voice was dry and cultured, like a tired university professor. "I am Magistrate Ossian, auditor of the Northern Border. You smell of life. And life is a bureaucracy I prefer not to process today."

  He raised a skeletal hand. The air around him began to crackle with necrotic magic.

  "Die quickly, please. I have a report to finish."

  Gristle and Valéria stepped out of the van, weapons drawn.

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  But I didn't look at his magic hand. I looked at his wrist.

  There was a greenish stain on the Lich's ulna bone. A subtle discoloration most would dismiss as dirt. But I knew that texture.

  "You have Mana Mold on your left arm," I said loudly.

  The Lich paused. The fire in his eyes flickered.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Mana Mold. Fungus Arcanus." I pointed to his bone. "Starts as a phantom itch you can't scratch because you have no skin. Then it corrodes the magical calcium matrix. If untreated, your arm falls off in three weeks. And considering you're left-handed..." I pointed to the writing quill floating beside him, "...that will end your career as an auditor."

  Magistrate Ossian looked at his own arm. Then he looked at me. The murderous aura diminished.

  "I... have felt a certain fragility in the joint. I tried polishing it with grave wax, but it didn't solve it."

  "Wax seals in moisture, which feeds the fungus." I shook my head disapprovingly, assuming my doctor tone. "Rookie mistake. You need an alkaline scraping and an application of Solar Salt Flower ointment."

  The Lich recoiled, protecting his arm.

  "Solar Salt? That is anathema to the undead. It would burn."

  "It burns the fungus, not the enchanted bone. It's like chemotherapy. It hurts, but it cures." I crossed my arms. "I can perform the procedure right now. In exchange, you give us four 'Special Visitor' visas and toll exemption."

  Luna whispered behind me:

  "Arthur, you're going to heal the monster that wants to kill us?"

  "It's medical diplomacy, Luna."

  The Lich pondered. Eternity is long, and losing an arm is an eternal inconvenience.

  "You have five minutes, human. If my arm falls off, your heads go on my shelf."

  The surgery happened right there, on the hood of the van, under the headlights and the full moon.

  I used a silver curette (which made the Lich hiss in discomfort) to scrape the green layer off the bone. The magical fungal dust fell into the snow, dissolving.

  "Gristle, pass the vinegar. Valéria, hold his arm, he's shaking."

  "I'm holding a corpse's magic arm," Valéria grumbled. "My mother wanted me to be a dentist. I guess I got close."

  I applied the paste of salt and herbs.

  The Lich let out a psychic scream that cracked the van windows a little more.

  "AAAAARGH! BY THE TOMB OF NAGASH! THAT BURNS!"

  "It burns because it's killing the parasite." I bandaged the bone with gauze soaked in lavender oil (for the smell) and neutral mana. "Done. Keep it dry for two centuries and avoid gesturing too much next week."

  Magistrate Ossian looked at the bandaged arm. He flexed his skeletal fingers. The movement was fluid, without the clicking from before.

  He sighed in relief.

  "Impressive. Most clerics would just try to exorcise me." He snapped his fingers. The Dullahan at the gate opened the way.

  The Lich pulled four black iron passports from his robe and stamped them with a green fire seal.

  "Technical Consultant Visas. Valid for 72 hours. Avoid the Meat District; the Ghouls are in mating season and are territorial. And if you seek shelter, the Three-Headed Dog Inn at the Civic Center is neutral."

  He handed me the passports.

  "Welcome to Curitiba, Doctor. Try not to die. Good orthopedists are rare."

  We got back in the van and drove through the barrier.

  The city opened up before us.

  It wasn't an abandoned ruin. It was an adapted metropolis.

  The streets were clean (probably thanks to Sanitation Slimes). The lights in the buildings came from bioluminescent moss cultivated on the facades.

  There were "people" on the streets. Zombies in torn suits carrying briefcases, Vampires chatting under dark awnings, Skeletons sweeping the sidewalk.

  It was a parody of human life, frozen in time and distorted by death.

  "It's... organized," Luna said, shocked. "They even have traffic lights."

  "Monster societies tend to be meritocratic," I explained, watching an Ogre delivering newspapers. "The strong rule, the useful live."

  "And where are we going?" asked Valéria.

  I pulled out the map from the Gospel of Flesh.

  "We need to find the 'Crypt of Genesis.' According to legends, it's in the basement of the old Wire Opera House. But we can't go in there without a local guide. Someone who knows the tunnels."

  I pointed to a taxi stand ahead. The cars were funeral carriages pulled by Nightmares (black fire horses).

  But leaning against a black '78 Opala, smoking a cigar, was a Werewolf. He wore sunglasses, a leather jacket, and a taxi driver's cap.

  "There's our ride," I smiled. "Werewolves have the best natural GPS in the world: scent."

  The van stopped next to the Opala.

  The werewolf sniffed the air, turned his furry head, and growled:

  "I don't do runs to the South Zone after midnight. And if you vomit on the seat, I eat your liver."

  "Good evening to you too." I rolled down the window. "We want to go to the Opera House. And we pay in prime meat."

  I showed him a piece of the Ogre steak Gristle had in the cooler.

  The werewolf's ears perked up. His tail wagged involuntarily inside the car.

  "Get in, boss. Meter's running."

  The Necropolis wasn't the end of the world. It was just a new ecosystem. And we were the most dangerous invasive species in the city.