Down These Strange Streets

HUNGRY HEART by Simon R. Green

New York Times bestseller Simon R. Green is the author of the eleven-volume Nightside paranormal series, which takes an intrepid PI to “the dark heart of London, where it’s always three A.M.” and monsters and creatures from myth and legend meet and mingle—and sometimes hire you to take on a dangerous job. The Nightside books include Something from the Nightside, Agents of Light and Darkness, Hex and the City, Hell to Pay, and seven others. Green has also written fantasy series such as the seven-volume Hawk and Fisher sequence (No Haven for the Guilty, Devil Take the Hindmost, The God Killer, and four others) and the three-volume Forest Kingdom sequence (Blue Moon Rising, Blood and Honor, Down Among the Dead Men), science fiction series such as the five-volume Deathstalker sequence (Deathstalker: Being the First Part of the Life and Times of Owen Deathstalker, Deathstalker War, and three others) and the related three-volume Deathstalker Legacy sequence (Deathstalker Legacy, Deathstalker Return, and Deathstalker Coda), and fantasy/spy story series such as the five-volume Secret Histories sequence (The Man with the Golden Torc, Daemons Are Forever, The Spy Who Haunted Me, From Hell With Love, and For Heaven’s Eyes Only). He also has written stand-alone novels such as Shadows Fall and Drinking Midnight Wine, and he has started a new paranormal series, Ghost Finders, with Ghost of a Chance and his most recent book, Ghost of a Smile.

Here private detective John Taylor, long accustomed to dealing with ghosts and wizards and ghouls in the Nightside, takes on his strangest case, that of a witch who lost her heart—and wants it back.

THE CITY OF LONDON HAS A HIDDEN HEART; A DARK AND SECRET PLACE where gods and monsters go fist-fighting through alleyways, where wonders and marvels are two a penny, where everything and everyone is up for sale, and all your dreams can come true. Especially the ones where you wake up screaming. In London’s Nightside it’s always dark, always three o’clock in the morning, the hour that tries men’s souls . . . and finds them wanting.

I WAS DRINKING WORMWOOD BRANDY IN THE OLDEST BAR IN THE WORLD when the femme fatale walked in. The bar was quiet, or at least as quiet as it ever gets. A bunch of female ghouls out on a hen night were getting tipsy on Mother’s Ruin and complaining about the quality of the finger buffet. Ghouls just want to have fun. A pair of Neanderthals who’d put away so many smart drinks they were practically evolving before my eyes. And four Emissaries from the Outer Dark were playing cutthroat bridge and cheating each other blind. Just another night at Strangefellows—until she walked in.

She came striding between the tables with her head held high, as though she owned the place, or at the very least was planning a hostile takeover. She slammed to a halt before my table, gave me a big smile, and let me look her over. A tall, slender platinum blonde, late teens, Little Black Dress . . . big eyes, big smile, industrial-strength makeup. Attractive enough, in an intimidating sort of way. An English rose with more than her fair share of thorns. She introduced herself in a light breathy voice and sat down opposite me without waiting to be asked. She tried her smile on me again. On anyone else, it would probably have worked.

“You’re John Taylor, private investigator,” she said briskly. “I’m Holly Wylde, and I’m a witch. My ex stole my heart. I want you to find it, and get it back for me.”

Not the strangest thing I’ve ever been asked to find, but I felt obliged to raise an eyebrow.

“I’m being quite literal,” she said. “All witches learn how to remove their hearts, and keep them safe and secure in some private place, so that no one can ever fully kill us. As long as the heart stays safe, we always come back. Hardly sporting, I know, but if I believed in things like fair play I’d never have become a witch in the first place. My ex, bad cess to his diseased soul, used to be my mentor. Taught me all I know about magic, and rogered me breathless every evening at no extra cost. Gideon Brooks; perhaps you know the name?”

“No,” I said. “Which is unusual. I know all the Major Players in the Nightside, all the real movers and shakers on the magical scene; but I don’t know him.”

She shrugged prettily. “When it comes to forbidden knowledge, Gideon is the reason why a lot of it is forbidden. A very powerful, very dangerous man, on the quiet. Anyway, I thought we were getting on splendidly. But when I decided I’d learned enough to leave Gideon and strike out on my own, he suddenly got all possessive on me. I thought we were just mentor and student, with benefits, but now he’s all over me, declaring his undying love and how he can’t live without me! Well. I was shocked, Mister Taylor. I don’t do emotional entanglements. Not at this stage in my career. I tried to be graceful about it, but there’s only so many ways a girl can say ‘No!’ in a loud and carrying voice. So. After a while he calmed down, apologized, and said he was just worried about me. Which was fair enough. But then he persuaded me to hand over my heart, so he could place some heavy-duty protections on it, to keep me safe once I was out on my own. And like a fool, I believed him. He has my heart, Mister Taylor, and he won’t give it back! And whoever owns a witch’s heart will always have power over her. I’ll never be free of him.”

She finally stopped for breath and gave me the big smile again, accompanied by the big, big eyes and a deep breath to show off her bosoms. I gave her a smile of my own, no more sincere than hers. For all her artless honesty and finishing-school accent, Holly was as phony as a banker’s principles. All the time she’d been talking to me, her gaze had been darting all around the bar, hardly ever looking at me, and never making eye contact for more than a few seconds. Which is a pretty reliable sign that someone is lying to you. But that was okay; I’m used to clients lying to me, or at the very least being economical with the truth. My job is to find what the client asks for. The truth makes the job easier, but I can work around it if I have to.

“What kind of a witch are you, Holly?” I said. “Black, white, Wiccan, or gingerbread house?”

She bestowed a happy wink on me. “I never allow myself to be limited by other people’s perceptions. I’m just a free spirit, Mister Taylor; or at least I was, until I met Gideon Brooks. Nasty man. Say you’ll help me. Pretty please.”

“I’ll help you,” I said. “For one thousand pounds a day, plus expenses. And don’t plead poverty. That dress you’re wearing costs more than I make in a year. And don’t get me started on the shoes.”

She didn’t even blink. Just slapped an envelope down on the table before me. When I opened it, a thousand pounds in cash stared back. I gave Holly my best professional smile and made the envelope disappear about my person. Never put temptation in other people’s way, especially in a bar like Strangefellows, where they’ll steal your gold fillings if you fall asleep with your mouth open. Holly leaned forward across the table to fix me with what she thought was a serious look.

“They say you have a special gift for finding things, Mister Taylor; a magical inner eye that can See where everything is. But that won’t help you find my heart. Gideon placed it inside a special protective rosewood box, called Heart’s Ease. No one can pierce the magics surrounding that box—and only Gideon can open it. And you won’t be able to find him or his house, either. Gideon lives inside his own private pocket dimension that only connects with our world when he feels like it. I only saw him when he let his house appear, at various places throughout the Nightside. And I haven’t seen him since he stole my heart.” She looked me right in the eye while she told me this, so I accepted most of it as provisionally true.

She leaned back in her chair and gave me her big smile again. It really was quite impressive. She must have spent a lot of time practicing it in front of a mirror.

“I know: Find a missing heart, and a missing man, in a missing house. But if finding them were easy I wouldn’t need you, would I, Mister Taylor?”

She got up to leave. As entirely calm and composed as when she’d entered, despite her fascinating sob story.

“How will I find you?” I said.

“You won’t, Mister Taylor. I’ll find you. Toodles.”

She waggled her fingers at me in a genteel good-bye, and was off, striding away with a straight back, ignoring her surroundings as though they were unworthy of her. Which they probably were. Strangefellows isn’t exactly elite, and you couldn’t drive it upmarket with a whip and a chair. I sipped thoughtfully at my wormwood brandy for a while, and then strolled over to the long mahogany bar to have a quiet word with Strangefellows’ owner, bartender, and long-time pain in the neck, Alex Morrisey. Alex only wears black because no one has come up with a darker color, and he could gloom for the Olympics, with an honorable mention in existential angst. He started losing his hair while he was still in his early twenties, and I can’t help feeling there’s a connection. He was currently prodding the bar snacks with a stick, to see if they had any life left in them.

A bunch of spirits were hanging round the bar: shifting semitransparent shapes that blended in and out of each other as they drained the memories of old wines from long-empty bottles. Only Alex could sell the same bottle of wine several times over. I made the sign of the extremely cross at the spirits, and they drifted sulkily off down the bar so Alex and I could talk privately.

“Gideon Brooks,” Alex said thoughtfully, after I’d filled him in on the necessary details. He cleaned a dirty glass with the same towel he used to mop up spills from the bartop, to give him time to think. “Not one of the big Names, but you know that as well as I do. Of course, the really powerful ones like to stay out of sight and under the radar. But the rosewood box, Heart’s Ease . . . that name rings a bell. Some sort of priceless collectible; the kind that’s worth so much it’s rarely bought or sold, but more often prized from the dead fingers of its previous owner.”

“Collectibles,” I said. “Always more trouble than they’re worth. And the Nightside is littered with those magic little shops that sell absolutely anything, no questions asked, and certainly no guarantees. Where the hell am I supposed to start?”

Alex smirked and slapped a cheap flyer down before me. ONCE AND FUTURE COLLECTIBLES, announced the ugly block lettering. I should have known. All kinds of rare and strange items turn up in the Nightside, from the past, the future, and any number of alternate earths. The jetsam and flotsam of the invisible world. And, this being the Nightside, there’s always someone ready to make a profit out of it. The Once and Future Collectibles traveling show offered the largest selection of magical memorabilia and general weird shit to be found anywhere. Someone would know about the rosewood box. I made a note of the current address and looked up to find Alex grinning at me.

“You know who you need to talk to,” he said. “The Queen of Hearts. She’s bound to be there, and she knows everything there is to be known about heart-related collectibles. Big Bad Betty herself... I’m sure she’ll be only too happy to renew your acquaintance . . .”

“Don’t,” I said. “The only good thing that woman ever taught me was to avoid mixing my drinks.”

“I thought you made a lovely couple.”

“You want a slap?”

I LEFT STRANGEFELLOWS AND HEADED OUT INTO THE NARROW RAIN-SLICK streets of the Nightside. The night was bustling with people, and some things very definitely not people, all in hot-eyed pursuit of things that were bad for them. Hot neon burned to every side, and cool music wafted out of the open doors of the kind of clubs that never close; where you can put on the red shoes and dance till you bleed. Exotic smells from a hundred different cuisines, barkers at open doors shilling thrills so exotic they don’t even have a name in polite company, and, of course, the twilight daughters, patrolling every street corner; love for sale, or something very like it. You’re never far from heaven or hell in the Nightside, though they’re often the same place, under new management.

I was heading for the old Market Hall, where the Once and Future Collectibles were currently set up, when someone eased up alongside and made himself known to me. He was got up like a 1950s biker: all gleaming black leathers, polished steel chains, peaked leather cap, and an almost convincing Brando swagger. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, seventeen, with a corpse-pale face and thin colorless lips. His eyes were dark, his gaze hooded and malignant. He matched my pace exactly, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.

“The name’s Gunboy,” he said, in a calm, easy monotone, not even looking at me. “Mister Sweetman wants to talk with you. Now.”

“All lines busy,” I said. “Call back later.”

“When Mister Sweetman wants to talk to someone, they talk to him.”

“How nice for Mister Sweetman. But when I don’t want to talk to people, I have a tendency to push them off the pavement and let them go play with the traffic.”

Gunboy took one hand out of his jacket pocket and pointed it at me, the fingers shaped like a child’s imaginary gun. He let me have a good look at it, and then pointed the single extended finger at a row of blazing neon bulbs set above the door to a Long Pigge franchise. His hand barely moved, but one by one the bulbs exploded, sparks flying wildly on the night air. A large man in a blood-soaked white overall came hurrying out to complain, took one look at Gunboy, and went straight back in again. Gunboy blew imaginary smoke from his finger and then stuck it casually in my ribs. He wasn’t smiling, and his dark gaze was hot and compelling.

“Conceptual guns,” he said, his lips barely moving. “Conceptual bullets. Real, because I believe they are. The power comes from me, and so do the dead bodies. Come with me, or I’ll make real holes in you.”

I considered him thoughtfully. Down the years, I’ve acquired several useful and really quite underhanded tricks for dealing with guns aimed in my direction, but they all depended on there being some kind of actual gun to deal with. So I gave Gunboy my best I’m not in the least intimidated smile, and allowed him to take me to his master. Gunboy was kind enough to put his hand back in his pocket as we walked along together. I’m not sure my pride would have survived otherwise.

MISTER SWEETMAN TURNED OUT TO BE STAYING AT THE HOTEL DES HEURES: a very upmarket, very pricey establishment, where all the rooms were individually time-coded. Stay as long as you like in your room, and not one moment will have passed when you step outside again. The ultimate in assured privacy—as long as you keep your door locked. You could spend your whole life in one of those rooms—though don’t ask me how they manage room service.

Gunboy guided me to the right room, performed a special knock on the door, waited for it to open, and then pushed me inside. The single finger prodding me in my back was enough to keep me moving. Mister Sweetman was waiting for us. A very large Greek gentleman in a spotless white kaftan, he rose ponderously from an overstuffed chair and nodded easily to me. His head was shaved, he wore dark eye makeup, and he smiled only briefly as he gestured for me to take the chair opposite. We both sat down, looking each other over with open curiosity. Gunboy stayed by the door, his hands back in his jacket pockets, looking at nothing in particular.

“Mister Taylor!” said Sweetman, in a rich, happy voice. “An honor, my dear sir, I do assure you! One bumps into so many living legends in the Nightside that it is a positive treat to encounter the real thing! I am Elias Sweetman, a man of large appetites, always hungry for more. You and I, sir, have business to discuss. To our mutual benefit, I hope. You may talk candidly here, Mister Taylor; dear Gunboy will ensure that we are not interrupted.”

Gunboy gave me a brief look, to indicate that I’d better behave myself, and then leaned back against the door. His eyes were immediately elsewhere, as he thought about whatever teenage thrill-killers think about. I was going to have to do something about Gunboy, for my pride’s sake. I smiled easily at Sweetman while he arranged the folds of his kaftan for maximum comfort. He looked like a man who liked his comforts. He smiled on me like some favorite uncle who might bestow all manner of treats if he felt so inclined.

“Your reputation precedes you, Mister Taylor, indeed it does, so let us not beat about the bush. You are currently in pursuit of a certain prize that I have a special interest in; the box, Mister Taylor, the rosewood box. It has gone by many names, of course, inevitable for a treasure that has passed through so many hands down the centuries, but I believe you might know it as Heart’s Ease.”

“I know the name,” I said, carefully noncommittal.

He let out a sharp bark of laughter. “I do admire a man who plays his cards close to his chest, indeed I do, Mister Taylor! But there’s no need to be bashful here. I have pursued the rosewood box for many years, through many lands in many worlds, disputing with equally serious collectors along the way, but now . . . the box has come to the Nightside. So here we all are. Yes . . . I must ask you, Mister Taylor: what, precisely, is your interest in the box?”

I didn’t see any good reason to conceal the truth, so I gave him the reader’s-notes version of what Holly told me, concealing only her name. When I was finished, Sweetman gave his short bark of laughter again.

“Whatever the rosewood box may turn out to contain, Mister Taylor, I can assure you it is most definitely not the heart of some unimportant little witch. No, no . . . the box contains a source of great power. A great man’s heart, perhaps even a god’s . . . Some say the box contains the preserved heart of the great old god Lud, the original foundation stone for London. Others say the box contains the missing heart of that terrible old sorcerer, Merlin Satanspawn. Or perhaps the heart of Nikola Tesla, the broken and bitter saint of twentieth-century science. No one knows for sure; only that the box contains a power worth dying for. Or killing for . . . Certainly, the box has become so famous in its own right it has become a collectible in itself, whatever it might eventually prove to contain.”

“So,” I said, “a source of wealth, and possibly power. No wonder so many people want it.”

“Passed from hand to hand down the years, acquiring blood and legends along the way, Mister Taylor. Priceless because there isn’t enough money in the world to buy it. You have to be man enough to take it, and hold on to it.”

He was leaning forward now, licking his lips, his eyes gleaming. He was so close to what he’d chased for so long he could almost taste it, and only his need to be sure that he knew everything I knew kept him from harsher methods of interrogation. And since he had no way of knowing how little I did know, I made a point of leaning back in my chair and stretching easily.

“What do you think is in the rosewood box?” I said.

He leaned back in his chair and studied me thoughtfully, taking his time before answering. “I have been given good reason to believe that the box contains the heart of William Shakespeare, Mister Taylor. The heart of England itself, some say.”

“And what would you do with such a thing, once you got hold of it?”

Sweetman smiled widely. “I mean to eat it, Mister Taylor! Only the rarest and most exquisite gastronomic experiences can arouse my jaded palate these days, and this particular delicacy should prove most satisfying . . . You have a gift for finding things, Mister Taylor. Find the box for me. However much the little witch is paying you, I will double her offer.”

“Sorry,” I said. “But I have to be true to my clients.”

“Even when they lie to you?”

“Perhaps especially then.”

I got up to leave, and Sweetman immediately gestured to Gunboy at the door. He straightened up as I approached and brought one hand out of his leather jacket. I brought one hand out of my trench coat pocket, ripped open the sachet of coarse pepper I always keep with me, and threw the whole lot in his face. His head snapped back, startled, but it was already too late. He sneezed explosively, again and again, while shocked tears ran down his face from squeezed-shut eyes. He waved his finger back and forth, but it didn’t worry me. With his nose and eyes full of pepper, there was no way Gunboy could concentrate enough to manifest his conceptual guns. Never leave home without condiments. Condiments are our friends. I easily sidestepped the weeping Gunboy and opened the door. I risked a quick look back, just in case Sweetman had his own hidden weapons, but he had lost all interest in me. He had his arm around Gunboy’s shaking shoulders and was comforting him like a child. Or almost like a child.

I shut the door quietly behind me and left the Hotel des Heures. At least I hadn’t wasted any time.

THE OLD MARKET HALL IS A GREAT OPEN BARN OF A PLACE, AND THE ONCE and Future Collectibles traveling show filled it from wall to wall with hundreds of stalls, large and small, offering more rare and unusual memorabilia in one place than the human mind could comfortably accommodate. I strolled up and down the aisles, glancing casually at this stall and that, carefully not showing too much interest in anything. Not that there was anything particularly exceptional on offer . . . An old Betamax video of Elvis starring as Captain Marvel, in some other world’s 1969 movie Shazam! One of Dracula’s coffins, complete with original grave dirt and a certificate of authenticity. The mummified head of Alfredo Garcia, smelling strongly of Mexican spices. And the mirror of Dorian Gray.

I finally wandered over to the Queen of Hearts’ stall, as though I just happened to be heading in her general direction. Big Bad Betty was running the whole thing on her own, as usual: large as life and twice as imposing. A good six feet tall and strongly built, she wore a stylized gypsy outfit, complete with an obviously fake wig of long dark curls and a hell of a lot of clanking bracelets up and down her meaty arms. The fingers of her large hands were covered in enough heavy metal rings to qualify as knuckle-dusters, and she looked like she’d have no hesitation in using them. She was attractive enough, in a large, dark, and even swarthy kind of way. I gave her my best ingratiating smile, and her baleful glare didn’t alter one iota.

I pretended to look over the contents of her stall, to give her time to realize the scowl wasn’t going to be enough to scare me off. Big Bad Betty liked to style herself the Queen of Hearts because she specialized in heart-related collectibles. She was currently offering the carefully preserved heart of Giacomo Casanova (bigger than you’d think), a phial of heart’s blood from Varney the Vampyre, and a pack of playing cards that once belonged to Lewis Carroll, with all the hearts painted in dried blood. Nothing special . . .

“You’ve got some nerve showing your face here, John Taylor,” Betty said finally.

“Just looking,” I said easily. “I do like a good browse.”

“I hired you to find my missing husband!”

“I did find him. Not my fault he’d had his memory wiped and didn’t remember you anymore. And not in any way my fault that he’d had his memory wiped to make sure he wouldn’t be able to remember you. Maybe you should have tried counseling . . .”

She scowled at me. “You never called me afterward. Not once.”

“That wasn’t what you hired me for.”

“What do you want here, Taylor? On the grounds that the sooner you’re out of my sight, the better.”

“What can you tell me about the rosewood box, called by some Heart’s Ease?”

She couldn’t resist telling me. She does so love to show off what she knows, and no one knows more about hearts than the Queen of Hearts.

“The box is centuries old, supposedly first put together in pre-Revolutionary France, designed to contain the suffering of a brokenhearted lover. He put it all in the box, so he could be free of it. Hence the name, Heart’s Ease. How very French. Though there are other stories . . . that what the box contains has become something else, down the centuries. Something . . . darker. Hungrier. Making the box the perfect container for all kinds of magical and significant hearts. Which is why the box has had so many other names. Heartbreaker, the Hungry Heart, the Dark Heart; you pays your money, and you believes what you chooses. Far as I know, no one’s dared open the box for years. Any collector with two working brain cells to bang together stays well clear of it.

“Now: Buy something, or get lost.”

I nodded politely and moved away from her stall as quickly as possible without actually running. I’d gotten everything I needed from Betty, but I was still going to need a little specialized help if I was to find Gideon Brooks, his traveling house, and the rosewood box. So I concentrated and raised my special gift. My inner eye slowly opened, my third eye, my private eye; and I looked round the Market Hall with my raised Sight, searching for what I needed. A key that would unlock a traveling dimensional door. Something blazed up brightly, not too far away, glowing white-hot with mystical significance. I strode quickly down the aisles and finally stopped before a stall that offered nothing but keys, in all shapes and sizes. Skeleton keys to unlock any door, blessed silver keys to reveal hidden secrets, solid iron keys to undo chastity spells. Keys are very old symbols and can undo any number of symbolic magics.

One key stood out among all the ranks and rows of hanging keys, shining very brightly for my inner eye only. A simple brass key, marked with prehuman glyphs. I’d seen its kind before, in certain very restricted books. This was a summoning key, which could not only open any door, but actually bring the door to you. Just what I needed. Unfortunately, the key didn’t have a price tag on it. And in a place like this, that could only mean that if you had to ask the price, you couldn’t afford it. So, I used my gift to find the one moment when the stall-holder’s attention was somewhere else, and I just reached out, took the key, and walked away.

I could always give it back later, when I was finished with it. When I found the time. The stall-holder really should have invested in some half-decent security spells.

I WAS HEADING CASUALLY FOR THE NEAREST EXIT, THE KEY TUCKED SAFELY away in an inside pocket, when Holly Wylde appeared suddenly out of the crowd to block my way. She smiled at me winningly.

“I had a feeling you’d be here. And so you are! Aren’t you glad to see me again?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I do prefer my clients to tell me the truth, whenever possible.”

“I didn’t exactly lie,” she said, pouting. “All right, yes, there’s a lot about the rosewood box I didn’t tell you, but I was pretty sure you’d find that out on your own, once you started looking. I didn’t want to scare you off, after all; and I do so want my heart back! I just don’t know what I’ll do without it.”

I sighed. It was hard to stay mad at her. Though probably worth the effort.

“Why would Gideon Brooks put your heart in such a precious and important box?”

“Because it was the only thing he had that he knew I couldn’t get into,” she said artlessly.

“And all you want is your heart back?” I said. “You don’t care about the priceless and important box?”

“Well,” she said, “if it should happen to fall into our hands, that would be a nice bonus. Wouldn’t it?”

“You’re batting your eyelashes at me again,” I said. “Stop it.”

“Sorry. Force of habit.”

“Other people are looking for the box,” I said, shifting onto what I hoped was safer ground. I told her about Sweetman and Gunboy, and she stamped her little foot and said a few baby swear words.

“The fat man and his toy boy; I knew they were sniffing around, but I didn’t know they were this close. We have to get to Gideon before they do! All they care about is that box. They wouldn’t care about my poor little heart.”

“Sweetman seemed very sure the box holds some famous or important heart,” I said.

“Might do. Who knows?” said Holly, shrugging easily. “Who knows how many hearts have ended up inside that box, down the years? I only care about mine. What are you doing here, anyway? Such a tacky place, all full of tat and kitsch. I can feel my street cred slipping away just for being here.”

“I have acquired a useful little toy that will bring Gideon’s door right to us,” I said.

She squeaked excitedly and did a happy dance right in front of me. “Yes! Yes! I knew you wouldn’t let me down!”

“I tell my clients everything,” I said pointedly. “Are you sure there isn’t something more you should be telling me?”

“I don’t think so,” said Holly Wylde, her wide eyes full of an entirely unconvincing innocence.

WE LEFT THE MARKET HALL TOGETHER, AND I FOUND A REASONABLY CALM and quiet place to raise my gift again. I sent my Sight shooting up out of my head into the night sky, speckled with more stars than the outside world ever dreams of, and then looked down at the Nightside streets turning slowly beneath me. All around I could See the subtle flashes and occasional flareups of magical workings, and the more openly dramatic radiations and detonations of mad scientists at play. Giant wispy forms marched up and down the streets, passing through buildings as though they weren’t even there; just the ancient Awful Folk, going about their unknowable business. All kinds of traffic thundered through the streets, carrying all kinds of goods and people, and never ever stopping. And some buildings just disappeared from view, coming and going, replaced by other buildings following their own inscrutable journeys.

Everyone knows a moving target is hardest to hit.

Down in my own person, I held the summoning key firmly in my hand and focused my gift through it; and immediately one particular building jumped out at me with extra significance, as the key locked on to the one special door I needed to find. The building hopped and skipped around the Nightside, appearing and disappearing apparently at random; but more like a fish on the end of a line now I had the summoning key. I chased Gideon Brooks up and down the Nightside, sticking close no matter how many times he tried to throw me off, my mind soaring impossibly fast from one location to another, invisible and undetectable, until finally Gideon Brooks just gave up, and his home settled down in one place and stayed put. It materialized right before me, presenting a quite unremarkable door, and squeezed into place between two perfectly respectable establishments, which rather grudgingly budged up to make room for it. I dropped back inside my head and released my hold on the summoning key. The door before me looked entirely unthreatening, but I checked it over with my Sight anyway, just in case. Heavy-duty protective magics crawled all over the door, and spat and sparkled on the air round the building.

I held up the key, muttered the proper activating Words, and unlocked all the protections, one by one. It took quite a while. Holly squeaked excitedly and clapped her little hands together.

And that was when Sweetman and Gunboy turned up. They were just suddenly there, strolling down the street toward us, Sweetman in his great white kaftan rolling along like a ship under full sail, Gunboy swaggering at his side like an attack dog on a short leash. Holly actually hissed at the sight of them, like an affronted cat, and moved quickly to stand behind me. I carefully shut down my Sight so I could concentrate on the matter at hand.

“My dear Mister Taylor,” said Sweetman, as he crashed to a halt before me. “Well done, sir, well done indeed! I knew I could rely on you to chase Gideon Brooks down, but I have to say, I never thought you’d be able to run his very special house to ground too. You shouldn’t look so surprised to see me, my good fellow, really you shouldn’t. Dear Gunboy and I have been following you ever since you left the hotel.”

“No you haven’t,” I said flatly. “I’d have noticed.”

“Well, not personally following, as such,” Sweetman agreed. “I took the liberty of slipping a small but very powerful tracking device into your coat pocket while you were preoccupied with poor Gunboy. The dear boy does make for such marvelous misdirection.”

I looked at Gunboy. “And how do you feel, being used like that?”

He took one hand out of his pocket and pointed it at me. “I do what Mister Sweetman says. And so will you.”

“Are you going to let him talk to you like that?” said Holly, from behind me.

“As long as he’s pointing that conceptual gun at me, yes,” I said. “Mister Sweetman, as I understand it, and I’m perfectly prepared to be told I don’t, it’s been that kind of a case . . . You want the rosewood box, and the very important heart you believe it contains. You are not, I take it, interested in this young lady’s heart, also inside the box?”

Sweetman inclined his large head judiciously. “No offense, young lady, but I would have no interest in your heart under any conditions.”

“For someone who didn’t want to offend,” said Holly, “I’d have to say you came pretty damned close.”

“The point being,” I said quickly, “that since we all want different things from Gideon Brooks, we don’t have to be at each other’s throat. We can work together to acquire the box, and then each take what we want from it.”

“Are you crazy?” said Holly, hurrying out from behind me so she could glare at me properly. “Give up on the box?”

“You hired me to find your stolen heart,” I said. “Or are you now saying the box is more important?”

“No,” said Holly. “It’s all about the heart.” She looked at Gunboy. “We could use some serious firepower, if we’re going up against Gideon Brooks.”

Gunboy looked at Sweetman, and then put his hand back in his pocket.

“Don’t sulk, boy,” said Sweetman. “It’s very unattractive.”

I smiled around me. “I love it when a compromise comes together.”

AND THEN WE ALL LOOKED ROUND SHARPLY, AS THE DOOR BEFORE US opened on its own. I felt a little disappointed that I wouldn’t get to show off what I could do with my gift and the summoning key. We all stood looking at the open door for a long moment, but nothing menacing emerged, and there was only an impenetrable gloom beyond. We looked at each other, and then I led the way forward—if only because I didn’t trust any of the others to react responsibly to anything unexpected. Sweetman and Gunboy fell in behind me, and Holly brought up the rear.

Beyond the door lay a simple, dimly lit hallway, with no obvious magical trappings. It could have been any house, anywhere. The door closed quietly behind us, once we’d all entered. The four of us pretty much filled the narrow hallway. A door to our left swung slowly open, and I led the way into the adjoining room. When in doubt, act confident. The room was open and warmly lit, with no furnishings or fittings; just bare wooden floorboards, and one very ordinary-looking, casually dressed middle-aged man, sitting on a chair surrounded by a great pentacle burned right into the floorboards. He was holding a simple wooden box in his hands; perhaps a foot long and half as wide.

The lines of the pentacle flared up abruptly as Sweetman approached them, and he stopped short. The lines shone with a fierce blue-white light, blazing with supernatural energies. Sweetman stepped carefully back and gestured to Gunboy, who smiled slowly as he took both hands out of his jacket pockets. And then he stopped, looked almost abjectly at Sweetman, and put his hands away again. Apparently conceptual guns were no match for older and more established magics.

I looked at Holly. She was staring unblinkingly at Gideon, but I couldn’t read the expression on her face. She didn’t look angry, or scared; just utterly focused on the box in his hands.

“You’re a witch,” I said to her quietly. “Can’t you do anything?”

She scowled suddenly as she looked at Gideon. It might just have been the scowl, but she didn’t look pretty anymore. “If I could break his protections, I wouldn’t have needed your help.”

“You never did like having to depend on other people,” the man on the chair said pleasantly. “And you really couldn’t stand someone else having power over you, even when you came to them to learn the ways of magic. You were the best student I ever had, my dear—until you grew impatient, and tried to steal my secrets. And when that failed, you had to go looking for power in all sorts of unsuitable places.” He looked at me. “Whatever she’s told you, you can’t trust it. She’ll say anything, do anything, to get what she wants. She slept with demons so they’d teach her the magics I wouldn’t, she stole grimoires and objects of power, and she would have stolen my heart . . . if I hadn’t taken precautions.”

“No one tells me what to do,” said Holly. “With your heart in my hands, you’d have taught me everything I wanted. And as for the demons, every single one of them was better in the sack than you.”

Women always fight dirty.

“I kept my place moving so you couldn’t find me,” said Gideon. “I should have known you’d go to the infamous John Taylor, the man who can find anything. What did she tell you, Mister Taylor? When she wasn’t smiling her pretty smile at you?”

“She said you stole her heart,” I said. “And put it in the rosewood box.”

“Oh, Holly,” said Gideon, and he actually laughed briefly. “It’s my heart in the box, Mister Taylor. I put it there after she tried to steal it. Because she couldn’t stand the idea of anyone having a hold over her.”

“So . . . you don’t have any feelings for her?” I said, just to be sure.

“Ah,” said Gideon. “I should have known that would be the heart of the matter, so to speak. Is that why you’re here, Holly?”

“You never loved me!” said Holly. She stood directly before him, just outside the pentacle, both her small hands clenched into fists. “I did everything right, and you still never loved me!”

“You never loved anyone,” Gideon said calmly. “You always loved power more. I was just your mentor.”

Holly turned suddenly to me. “You believe me, don’t you, John? You’ll get the box for me. And then we can make him do anything we want!”

“Sorry,” I said. “But I never believed you, Holly. You hired me to find the rosewood box. Well, there it is.”

“She was the one who let word get out that I had the box,” said Gideon. “So that avaricious men from all over would come looking for it, and she could set them against me. Just in case you didn’t work out, Mister Taylor. How does it feel, being used?”

I shrugged. “Comes with the job.”

Gideon Brooks turned his attention to Sweetman and Gunboy. “It’s really nothing more than a simple storage box, you know. Perhaps a little more famous than most. It may have contained any number of important or significant items, in its time, but the only heart it contains now is mine. Where Holly can’t get at it.”

Sweetman’s brief bark of laughter held even less real humor than usual. “My dear sir, you don’t really expect me to believe that? I have followed the box through unknown cities and blood-soaked streets, and I will have it. Gunboy, point those marvelous hands of yours at Mister Taylor and the little witch. Now, Mister Brooks. Give up the box, or everything my enthusiastic young associate does to these two young people will be your responsibility.”

Holly looked at Gunboy, and then at Gideon. “You wouldn’t really let him hurt me, would you, sweetie? You did say I was the best student you ever had . . .”

“I had students before you,” said Gideon. “And there will be others after you. Though hopefully I’ll choose a little more wisely next time. I am still quite fond of you, Holly, against all my better judgment. But not enough to put my heart at risk.”

“What about me?” I said.

“What about you?” said Gideon.

“Fair enough,” I said.

“Ah well,” Holly said brightly. “Plan B.” She turned her most charming smile on Gunboy and took a deep breath.

Sweetman chuckled. “Trust me, young lady; you have absolutely nothing that dear Gunboy desires.”

“But he has something I want,” said Holly. “I want his heart.”

She made a sudden grasping gesture with one outstretched hand, and Gunboy screamed shrilly as his back arched and his chest exploded. His black leather jacket burst apart and the bare flesh beneath tore open, as his heart ripped itself from its bony setting and flew across the air to nestle into Holly’s waiting hand. Blood ran thickly between her fingers as the heart continued to beat. Holly’s pretty pink mouth moved in a brief moue of distaste, and then she closed her hand with sudden vicious strength, crushing the heart. Gunboy fell to the floor and lay still, eyes still staring in horror, his chest a bloody ruin. Sweetman let out a single cry of absolute pain and loss and knelt down beside Gunboy to cradle the dead body in his huge arms. Blood soaked his white kaftan as he rocked Gunboy back and forth, like a sleeping child. Silent tears ran down Sweetman’s face.

“So,” I said to Holly. “That’s the kind of witch you are.”

She dropped the crushed heart to the floor and flicked blood from her pale fingers. She smiled at me sweetly. “I’m the kind of witch you don’t want to disappoint. I did tell you Gideon dealt in forbidden knowledge, and I was such a good listener. Now be a good boy, and go get the box for me. You can find a way past Gideon’s defenses. It’s what you do.”

“Yes,” I said. “But there’s a limit to what I’ll do.”

She gave me a cold measuring look, and I met her gaze unflinchingly. Never let them see fear in your eyes.

“I bought your services, for a thousand pounds a day,” Holly said finally. “And the day isn’t over yet.”

“I found the box for you,” I said. “Not my fault your heart isn’t in it. Still, after all my investigations, I probably know more about the box than you do. It was originally made to contain all the pain and horror of a man’s broken heart; and it’s still in there. Trapped inside the box for centuries, growing stronger and more frustrated. It’s been alone so long, it must be very hungry for company by now. You may know the box as Heart’s Ease, and perhaps it was, originally; but it has another name now. The Hungry Heart.”

I raised my gift, found my way past Gideon’s protections, and used my gift and the key to unlock the rosewood box. The lid snapped open, and the Hungry Heart within reached out and grabbed Holly and pulled her inside, all in a moment. It might have taken me too, if Gideon hadn’t immediately forced the lid closed again. We looked at each other, in the suddenly quiet room.

“She wanted my heart,” said Gideon. “Now she can keep it company . . . forever.”

Sweetman looked up, still cradling the dead Gunboy. “What is that . . . What’s really inside the box?”

“The stuff that screams are made of,” I said.