Nightingale`s lament

Eight - Divas!

Like most cities, there's never anywhere to park in the Nightside when you need it. There are high- and low-rise tesseract car parks and protected areas, but they're never anywhere useful. And cars left unattended on Nightside streets tend to be suddenly stolen, or eaten, or even evolve into something else entirely while your back's turned. But Dead Boy pulled his car of the fu­ture in to the curb, just down the street from Caliban's Cavern, got out, and walked away without even a back­ward glance. I went with him, but couldn't help look­ing back uncertainly. The shining silver car looked distinctly out of place in the steaming sleazy streets of Uptown. Already certain eyes were studying it with thoughtful intent.

"It will take more than automatic locks to protect your car here," I pointed out.

"My car can take care of itself," Dead Boy said eas­ily. "The onboard computers have access to all kinds of defensive weaponry, together with an exceedingly nasty sense of humour and no conscience at all."

We strolled up the rain-slick street, and the crowds parted in front of us to let us pass. The blazing neon was as sharp and sleazy as ever, and hot saxophone music and heavy bass beats drifted out of the clubs we passed. A small group were sacrificing a street mime to some lesser god, while tourists clustered round with camcorders. A teddy bear with his eyes and mouth sewn shut was handing out flyers protesting animal ex­perimentation. Cooking smells from a dozen different cultures wafted across the still night air. And more than one person saw Dead Boy coming and chose to walk in another direction entirely.

We finally stopped and studied Caliban's Cavern from a discreet distance. The exterior of the nightclub had been thoroughly trashed during the riot, and a team of specialist restorers were on the scene, clearing up the mess and making good with style and speed and un­canny precision. The Nightside has always had a ten­dency to mayhem and mass destruction, so there's never any shortage of firms ready and willing to under­take quick repairs and restoration, for the usual exorbi­tant prices. Most of the big concerns were still busy dealing with the chaos and devastation left behind after the recent Angel War, but it seemed the Cavendishes had been able to raise enough cash-in-hand to get some firm on the job straight away. Three builder magicians were using unification spells to put the facia back together. It was quite fun watching the broken and shat­tered pieces leaping up from the pavement to fit them­selves neatly together again like a complex jigsaw. Some other poor sod had the unenviable task of putting the front door back on its hinges, while the simulacrum in the wood cursed him steadily as an unfeeling incom­petent, in between lengthy crying jags.

A crowd had gathered to watch, Nightsiders always being interested in free entertainment, and other people had arrived to sell the crowd things it didn't need, like T-shirts, free passes to clubs no-one in their right mind would visit anyway, and various forms of hot food. This usually consisted of something nasty and over­priced in a bun, that only the most newly arrived tourists would be dumb enough actually to eat.

Dead Boy sniffed loudly as some fool in a grubby dressing gown handed over good money in return for something allegedly meat-based in a tortilla. "Proof if proof were needed," he said loudly, "that tourists will eat absolutely anything. Truth in advertising, that's what's needed here. See how well that stuff would sell if the vendors were obliged to shout the truth. Some­thing wriggling on a stick! Pies containing creatures whose name you couldn't even spell! Food so fast it will be out your backside before you know it!"

"Buyer beware," I said easily. "That should be the Nightside's motto. Nothing's ever what it seems . . ."

We watched interestedly as one of the builder magi­cians used a temporal reverse spell to restore some damaged woodwork, then joined in the general jeering as he let the spell get away from him, and time sped back too far, so that the wood started sprouting branches and leaves again. Dead Boy looked the night­club over with his professionally deceased eyes.

"There are new and really nasty magical wards all over the place," he said quietly. "They're well disguised, but there's not much you can hide from the dead. It's mostly shaped curses and proximity hexes, an awful lot of them keyed specifically to your presence, John. We're only just out of range here. The Cavendishes really don't want you anywhere near their club again."

"How nasty are we talking?" I said.

"Put it this way - if you were to trigger even one of these quite appalling little bear-traps, they'll be scraping your remains off the surroundings with a palette knife."

"Ouch," I said. "I still have to get in to see Rossignol. Any ideas?"

Dead Boy considered the matter. People saw him frowning and moved even further away, just in case. "I could walk in," he said finally. "Those defences are only dangerous to the living."

"No," I said. "First, Rossignol wouldn't talk to you, only me. And second, you'd be bound to set off all kinds of alarms. I really don't want to attract the Cavendishes' attention if I can help it. They've got a Power on their side. The Jonah."

"Ah yes, young Billy. Nasty piece of work. If he ever grew a pair, he could be really dangerous."

"The odds are, Rossignol is still in her room over the club, guarded by a couple of heavy-duty combat magi­cians. I bluffed them once, but twice would definitely be pushing it. And who knows what other surprises they've got set up in there . . ."

"So what do you want to do, John?" said Dead Boy, just a little impatiently. "We can't just stand around out there. Word will get around. How are we going to get to your deadly little songbird? Come on, think devious. It'swhat you do best."

"If we can't get in to her," I said slowly, "she'll have to come out to us. We'll send her a message. Most of theclub's staff will be kicking their heels somewhere close at hand, keeping out of the way and waiting for therepairs to be finished. All we have to do is track themdown and find someone we can bribe, convince, or intimidate into passing Rossignol our message."

"They could be anywhere," Dead Boy said doubt­fully. "What are you going to do, use your gift to locate them?"

"No," I said. "I don't think so. I've been using my gift too much, too often, lately. And every time I open up my mind, my thoughts blaze like a beacon in the night. My enemies can use that to find me. And you know some of the things they've sent after me. No, I've pushed my luck as far as I dare. It's time to be sensible and stick to simple deduction. All we have to do is check out the local bars, cafes, and diners, and we'll find the club. Theatricals never can go for long without their creature comforts."

We found them all just a short walk further up the street, at the Honey Bee, an overly lit but very clean theme coffee bar, where all the waitresses were obliged to wear puffy black-and-yellow-striped bee outfits, to­gether with bobbly antennae and spiked heel stilettos. They didn't look too happy about it as they tottered unsteadily between the tables, reeling off the specials through practiced smiles. The chorus girls from Cal­iban's Cavern had wedged themselves into a corner, nursing their cups of distressed coffee, chattering loudly and smoking up a storm. Also present was one Ian Auger, roadie and musician, and the only one who seemed at all pleased to see me as Dead Boy and I ap­proached their table.

"Oh it's you again, is it?" said the platinum blonde backing singer, flicking her ash disdainfully onto the floor. "Trouble on legs and twice as unfortunate. Everything was fine until you turned up. Then you show your face, and we get a suicide in the front row and a riot in the house. The Authorities should ban you, on general principles."

"It's been tried," I said calmly. "And I'm still here. I need someone to take a message to Rossignol." 1 looked around, hoping for a sympathetic smile, but it was all glowering faces and curled lips. I couldn't really blame them. One of the problems of having a carefully cultivated bad reputation like mine is that I tend to get the blame for everything that goes wrong around me.

"Who's your pale friend with no fashion sense?" said the blonde.

"This is Dead Boy," I said, and the whole coffee­house went suddenly quiet. Ian Auger pushed back his chair and stood up.

"Let's talk outside," he said resignedly. "You mustn't mind the girls. They're never keen on anything that might put their jobs at risk." We moved over to stand in the doorway, while the other customers and staff stud­ied us warily. Ian Auger looked at me, frowning. "I'm worried about Ross. The Cavendishes have been all over her since the suicide, telling her what to do, what to say, what to think. All they seem to care about is what spin they can put on the suicide for the music media. Ross is practically a prisoner at the moment, under armed guard. Are you still interested in helping her?"

"Of course," I said. "Can you get a message to her?"

"Maybe," said Ian. "At least, one of me might be able to."

"Which one of them are you?" I said.

"All of them," Ian Auger said cheerfully. "I'm a temporal triplet. One soul, three bodies, no waiting. Close-part harmonies a speciality. Me mum always said Destiny stuttered when I was born. Right now my other two selves are busy inside the club, putting the stage set back together again. They're listening to you through me. What's the message?"

"Nothing good," I said. "The Cavendishes tried to make one of their singers into a superstar before. They had a young girl called Sylvia Sin magically aug­mented, to make her even more popular, and it turned her into a monster. Quite literally. I've seen what they did to her, what she became, and I don't want anything likethat to happen to Ross. I need her to sneak out of the club and join me somewhere safe, so we can work out what to do for the best. I don't trust the Caven­dishes to have her best interests at heart. It shouldn't be too difficult for Ross to get out. Bodyguards are usually more interested in watching for people trying to sneak in."

Ian scowled fiercely. "Sylvia Sin. There's a name I haven't thought of in a while. Always wondered what

happened to her. All right, one of me will talk to Ross. She might listen, now the Cavendishes have left the club. She always seems brighter and more independent when they're not around."

"They do seem to have an unhealthy hold over her," I said. "Could they already have done something to her?"

"I don't know," said Ian. "No-one's allowed to get too close when the Cavendishes are in private conference with Ross. And there's no denying she's not been acting like herself since she came to live in that room over the club. You think if the Cavendishes have done something, that's what's causing the suicides?"

"Could be," I said.

"All right," said Ian. "If I can get a message to her, and if I can get her out of the club, where do you want to meet? It has to be somewhere secure, somewhere she can feel safe, and somewhere she won't be noticed. She has got a pretty famous face now, you know."

"I know the perfect place to hide a famous face," said Dead Boy. "Hide her in a whole crowd of famous faces. Tell Rossignol to meet us at Divas!"

Divas! is one of the more famous, or possibly infa­mous, nightclubs in Uptown, where you can go to see and hear all the most famous female singers in the his­tory of entertainment. Of course, none of them are real. They're not even female. The famous faces are in fact transvestites, men dressed up as the women they adore. But dressed in style and made up to the nines, the illu­sion is more than perfect, for these trannies have taken their obsession one step further than most - they have learned to channel the talents and sometimes the per­sonalities of the divas concerned. Dead or alive, the greatest stars of show business all come to Divas!, in proxy at least.

Dead Boy had clearly been there before. The door­man held the door to the club open and bowed very low, and no-one asked us if we were members, or even to pay the cover charge. The hatcheck girl was a 1960s Cilia Black in a black bustier, and from the wink she dropped Dead Boy it was clear he was a regular. Cilia did her best to ignore me, but I'm used to that. Dead Boy is one of the Nightside's celebrities. I'm more of an anti-celebrity. We made our way into the club itself, which was all silks and flowers and bright colours. The furniture was all art deco, and everywhere you looked was every kind of kitsh fashion you ever shuddered at in disbelief. Chandeliers and disco balls hung side by side from the ceiling.

The main floor was crowded, and the noise level was appalling. The night is always jumping at Divas! Dead Boy and I edged between the tightly packed ta­bles, following a waitress. All the waitresses were channeling Liza Minnelli tonight, dressed in her Cabaret outfit. We ended up at a table tucked away in a corner and ordered over-priced drinks from the Liza. I asked for a glass of Coke, and then had to go through my usual routine of No, I don't want a Diet Coke! I want a real Coke! A man's Coke! And I don't want a bloody straw either! Dead Boy ordered a bottle of gin and the best cigar they had. I made a note of the prices for my expenses sheet. You have to keep track of things like that, or you can go broke on some cases.

"What if Rossignol doesn't turn up?" said Dead Boy, raising his voice to be heard over the general clamour. "What if she can't get away?"

"Then we'll think of something else," I said. "Relax. Enjoy the show. It's costing us enough."

"What do you mean us, white man?"

Up on the stage at the far end of the room, an Elaine and a Barbara were dueting on a pretty accurate rendi­tion of "I Know Him So Well." The channelling must be going well tonight. Other famous faces paraded across the floor of the club, there to see and be seen, stopping at tables to chat and gossip and show them­selves off. Marilyn and Dolly, Barbra and Dusty. Elaine and Barbara were replaced on stage by a Nico, who favoured us with her mournful voice and presence as she husked "It Took More Than One Man to Change My Name to Shanghai Lily" into the microphone, ac­companying herself on the accordion. I just hoped she wouldn't do the Doors's "The End." There's only so much existential angst I can take before my ears start bleeding.

A few tables away, two Judys were having a vicious wig-pulling fight. Spectators cheered them on and laid bets.

And then Ian Auger came in, with Rossignol on his arm, and no-one in Divas! paid her any attention, because everyone assumed she was another trannie, per­haps a little more convincing than some. Ian escorted her over to our table, pulled out her chair for her, intro­duced her to Dead Boy, and politely but firmly refused to sit down himself.

"I can't hang about here. I've got to get back. There's still a lot of work to do in the club, and I don't want to be missed."

"Any trouble getting Ross here?" I asked.

"Surprisingly, no. I just told the bodyguards that John Taylor was somewhere on the loose in the build­ing, and they all went running off to look for you. We strolled right out. Look, I really do have to go. Ross, remember you're due to go on again in just under an hour."

Rossignol let him kiss her on the cheek, and he hur­ried away, his hunchback giving him a weird rolling gait. The waitress Liza came back to take Rossignol's order. I looked Rossignol over as she studied the wine list. She looked different. Same pale face, dark hair, lit­tle black dress. But she seemed somehow sharper, brighter, more focused. She looked up, caught me watching, and smiled broadly.

"Ah, John, it is so good to be out and about for a change. You know what I want? I want five whiskey sours. I want them all at once, all lined up in front of me so I can look at them while I'm drinking them. I'm never allowed to drink in Caliban's Cavern, by order of the Cavendishes, though strangely, mostly I don't want to. I stick to the healthy diet they provide, and I never complain, both of which are also very unlike me. Cake! I want cake! Bring me the biggest, gooiest chocolate gateau you have, and a big spoon! I want everything that's bad for me, and I want it right now!"

The waitress whooped with glee. "You go, girl!"

I indicated for the waitress to bring Rossignol what she wanted, and the Liza tottered away on her high heels. Rossignol beamed happily.

"The Cavendishes are always very strict about what I'm allowed to have, and do. They act more like my mother than my managers."

"I notice they didn't stop you smoking," I said.

She snorted loudly. "I'd like to see them try." She stopped smiling suddenly and gave me a hard look. "Ian tells me that you've been out and about on my behalf, speaking to people. And that you found out something concerning my predecessor with the Cavendishes. I re­member her face being on all the magazine covers, then . . . nothing. What did happen to her, John? What did the Cavendishes do to her?"

I told her enough of the story to scare her, without dwelling on some of the nastier details. Dead Boy shot me the occasional glance as he realised what I was doing, but he kept his peace. He'd already drunk half his bottle of gin and had started eating his cigar. When I finally finished, Ross let out a long sigh.

"I had no idea. The poor thing. And the Cavendishes did that to her?"

"More likely had it done," I said. "Have they ever offered to ... do anything for you?"

"No. Never." Rossignol's voice was firm and sharp. "I'd have told them where they could stick their magic. I don't need any of that shit to be a success. I'm a singer, and all I've ever needed are my songs and my voice." And then she stopped and frowned suddenly. "And yet, having said that. . . things have changed since I came to live in my little room over the club. My songs are always sad songs now. And there are some odd gaps in my memory. I feel cold, and tired, all of the time. And the way I act when the Cavendishes are around . . . doesn't feel like me at all. Could they have worked a magic on me, without my knowing?"

"It's possible," I said carefully. "They could have done something, then made you forget it. The Cavendishes don't strike me as being particularly bur­dened with professional ethics."

The waitress arrived with the five whiskey sours on a tray. Rossignol cooed happily as they were lined up in front of her, then knocked back the first two, one after the other. She breathed heavily for a moment, then giggled happily, like a small child who's just done something naughty and doesn't give a damn. "Yes! Oh yes! That hit the spot!" She smiled charmingly at me, then at Dead Boy. "So, what's it like, being dead?"

"Don't tell her!" I said sharply, then looked apolo­getically at the startled singer. "Sorry about that, but some questions are best left unanswered. Especially when it concerns him."

"Like why he's eating that cigar instead of smoking it?"

"Very probably."

She smiled at me again, a warm and embracing mo­ment quite at odds with her earlier, somewhat distanced personality. "You've been known to avoid answering questions yourself on occasion, monsieur mystery man." Her French accent had become slightly more pronounced after the third whiskey sour. I couldn't get over how alive she seemed. She looked at me thought­fully. "You don't really think the Cavendishes would do anything to harm me, do you? I mean, they're rely­ing on me to make them a great deal of money."

"Maybe they thought they were helping Sylvia," I said. "But there's the suicides, Ross. The Cavendishes have to be connected to that somehow. I don't trust them, and you shouldn't either. You say the word, and Dead Boy and I will take you away from them right now. We'll find you somewhere safe to lie low while

we get some lawyers in to check out your contract, and maybe a few experts to make sure you haven't been messed about with magically. You don't have to worry. I can guarantee your safety. I know any number of peo­ple who'd be only too happy to bodyguard you. Not very nice people, perhaps, but. . ."

"No," said Rossignol, kindly but firmly. "It's a very generous offer, John, and I do appreciate you're only trying to help, but..."

"But?"

"But this is my big break. My chance to be a star. No-one has connections like the Cavendishes. They really can get me a contract with a major recording studio. I have to do this. I have to sing. It's all I've ever wanted, all I've ever cared about. I can't back out now. I won't back out over what could be just a case of nerves. You don't have any proof they've done anything wrong, do you?"

"No," I said. "But the suicides . . ."

She grimaced. "Trust me, I haven't forgotten. I'll never forget the look on that poor man's face as he pulled the trigger right in front of me. He looked right into my eyes, and he was smiling ... I can't let that go on. My singing was always supposed to make people feel good! I wanted to lift their hearts and comfort them, send them back out to face the world feeling re­newed ... If the Cavendishes really have done some­thing to corrupt my songs, my voice .. ." She shook her head sharply. "Oh, I don't know! I don't know what to do!" She picked up the fourth whiskey sour and stared at it moodily.

We all sat and considered the matter for a while. Up on the stage, a Whitney was singing "I Will Always Love You." Rossignol sniffed loudly.

"Never cared for that. Far too strident."

"I prefer the Dolly Parton version," said Dead Boy, unexpectedly. "More warmth."

I looked at him. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

"You have no idea," said Dead Boy.

Rossignol put the fourth whiskey sour to one side as the chocolate gateau arrived. It really was very big, with scrapings of dark and white chocolate sprinkled on the top. Rossignol made ooh- and aah-ing noises, and her eyes went very wide. She grabbed the spoon and stuck it in, and soon there were chocolate smears all round her mouth. I considered her thoughtfully. An unpleasant idea had suggested itself. Perhaps the rea­son why this Rossignol seemed so different from the one I'd encountered at Caliban's Cavern, was because this was an entirely different Rossignol. Another dupli­cate, like the tulpa who'd wrecked the Night Times's offices. It would explain a lot, including how she'd been able to get out of the club so easily.

"I think I need to go to the little boy's room," I said loudly, giving Dead Boy a meaningful look.

"Fine," he said. "Thanks for sharing that with us, John."

"This is the first time I've been to this club," I said pointedly. "Why don't you show me where the Gents is?"

"I've never had to use it," said Dead Boy. "One of the few advantages of being dead."

I glared at him and made furious eyebrow gestures while Rossignol was busy making ecstatic chocolate-

eating noises, and he finally got the point. We got to our feet, excused ourselves, and headed for the nearby door marked Stand Up. Once inside, the shiny-tiled ex­panse was empty apart from a Kylie standing at the uri­nal with his skirt hiked up. Dead Boy and I waited until he'd finished, taking a keen interest in the vending ma­chines, and once the Kylie was gone, Dead Boy gave me a hard look.

"This had better be important, John. Just being in here alone with you is undoubtedly doing my reputa­tion no good at all."

"Shut up and listen. The Cavendishes have already sent one duplicate Rossignol after me - a tulpa with supernatural strength and a really bad attitude. Is there any way you can tell whether that's the real Rossignol or not? You're always saying nothing can be hidden from the dead."

"Oh sure. I've already checked her out."

"And?"

"She is the original. And she's dead."

I looked at him for a long moment. "She's what?"

"She doesn't have an aura. It was the first thing I no­ticed about her."

"Well, why didn't you say anything?"

"It's none of my business if she's mortally chal­lenged. You need to be more open-minded, John."

"You mean, she's dead, like you?"

"Oh no. I'm a special case. And she's far too bright and bubbly to be a zombie. But you can't be alive with­out an aura. Everyone has one."

"Really?" I said, momentarily distracted. "What does mine look like?"

"Lots of purple."

"How can she be dead and not know it?" I said, al­most as angry as I was exasperated. "She's out there right now giving every indication of being very much alive. Dead people don't have orgasms over chocolate gateau."

"Denial isn't just a river in Egypt. Or perhaps it's something to do with the Cavendishes and their hold over her. Do you want me to break the news to her?"

"No, I think it should come from someone who's at least heard of tact. And she did say she wanted the truth, whatever it was." I scowled at the immaculately shining white tiles. "How do you tell someone they're dead?"

"With your mouth. After all, it could be worse."

"How?"

Dead Boy gave me one of his looks. "Trust me, John.You really don't want to know."

"Oh shut up."

By the time we got back to our table, Rossignol had de­molished fully half of the gateau and drunk the other twowhiskey sours. She waved happily at us the mo­ment we reappeared and stopped to suck the chocolate smears off her fingers. Her face was flushed, and she keptlapsing into fits of the giggles. Dead Boy and I sat down facing her.

"I want more drinks!" she said cheerfully. "Every­body should have lots more drinks! Do you want some cake? I can ask them for another spoon. No? You don't know what you're missing. Some days, chocolate is hotter than sex! Well, some sex, anyway. What are you both looking so dour for? Did you find your phone number on a wall in there?"

I took a deep breath and told Rossignol what Dead Boy had discovered about her, and what it meant. I said it as simply and straightforwardly as I could, and then I sat there, waiting to see how she'd take it. All the bounce went out of her, but her face was set and calm. Her gaze was far away and thoughtful, as she slowly licked chocolate off the back of her spoon. She might have been considering a business proposition, or the loss of a distant relative. When she finally looked at me, her gaze was entirely steady, and when she spoke, her voice seemed more resigned than anything else.

"It would explain a lot," she said. "The gaps in my memory, why I'm always so cold, why I'm always so docile when the Cavendishes are around. They did this to me. The old me, the true me, would never have put up with the way they've been treating me. Being here, away from them, is like waking up from some dark, listless nightmare. Only I'm not going to wake up from this dream, am I? I'm dead."

I wanted to take her in my arms and comfort her, tell her everything was going to be all right, but I'd promised her I'd never lie to her. She worried her lower lip between her teeth for a while, then she looked from me to Dead Boy and back again.

"Is there anything you can do to help me? Or at least find out what these cochons did to me?"

"I can try," said Dead Boy, surprisingly gently. "I have learned to See all kinds of things that are hidden from the living. It helps that you and I are both dead. It gives me a link I can use." He took her hand in his and gestured for me to take his other hand. I did so, a little

hesitantly. I still remembered what he'd done to Grey. Dead Boy smiled briefly. "Don't wet yourself, John. I'm just going to look into Rossignol's mind and call up a vision of her last moments alive. Her memory is probably blocked by the trauma of what happened. As long as both of you are linked to me, you'll be able to seewhat I See. But remember, it's just a vision of the past. We can't interfere or intervene. The past cannot be changed, no matter how much we might wish to."

His grip tightened on my hand, and suddenly we were somewhere else. No incantations, no objects of power - just the will of a man .who'd been dead for thirty years and still wouldn't lie down. We were in the Cavendishes' inner office, the place to which I had I beendragged, broken and bleeding. Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish were smiling at a preoccupied and scowling Rossignol. She was trying to tell them something, but theyweren't listening. Mrs. Cavendish poured Rossig­nol a glass of champagne and said something soothing. Rossignol snatched the glass out of her hand, knocked it back in one, and threw the glass aside. Then she fell heavily to the floor, as her legs betrayed her. She lay there, convulsing and frothing at the mouth, while Mr. andMrs. Cavendish looked on, smiling. Until, finally, she lay still. Then the Cavendishes looked at someone standing in the shadows, but I couldn't make out who the third person was.

We were suddenly back at our table again. Dead Boy had let go of our hands. Rossignol was trembling, but her mouth was a firm, flat line. She made herself be still with an effort of will.

"The Cavendishes poisoned me?" said Rossignol. Why would they want to murder their meal ticket?"

"A good question," I said. "And one I think we should ask them, in a pointed and forcible manner."

"You could also ask them what they did to her afterwards," said Dead Boy. He looked at Rossignol speculatively. "You don't act like any kind of zombie I'm familiar with. You're quite definitely deceased, but there are still traces of life about you."

"Could the Cavendishes have made a deal like yours?" I said. "Presumably on her behalf, as her management."

"No," Dead Boy said firmly. "Such compacts can only be entered into willingly. That's the point. You can't just lose your soul - you have to sell it."

"Still," I said, "any kind of magic that can raise the dead is by definition the work of a major player. There was someone else in that office, even if we couldn't make out who it was. The only Power the Cavendishes have on their side that I know of is the Jonah. And while he may become a Power and a Domination even­tually, like his father, he's no necromancer."

"How does any of this tie in to the people killing themselves after they've heard me sing?" said Rossignol. Her face was still calm and controlled, but her voice was becoming increasingly brittle.

"You went into the dark," said Dead Boy. "And when you came back, you brought some of it with you It comes out in your songs, when you sing. That's what's killing people."

"How could they?" said Rossignol. "How could the Cavendishes do something like that? My songs were always about life and being positive, even when I wrote about sad things. My voice was meant to raise people up, not destroy them! The Cavendishes have ruined the one thing that gave my life meaning!" Her voice threat­ened to crack then, but still she held on with iron self-control. Her hands were clenched into fists on top of the table. "I won't let this go on. No more people dead because of me. I want my old voice back. I want my life back!" She glared at Dead Boy, then at me. "Can you help me? Either of you?"

"I can't even help myself," Dead Boy said quietly.

"Let's not give up all hope just yet," I said quickly. "Dead Boy, you said yourself she's not like any other revenant you've ever met. Let's find out exactly what was done to her. Some magical deaths can be reversed."

"You think the Cavendishes will agree to that?" said Dead Boy.

"I don't plan to give them any choice," I said, and my voice was so cold that even Dead Boy had to look away.

And that was when a wave of quiet swept across the club. The music and the singing cut off abruptly in mid number, and the chatter from the surrounding tables died swiftly away to nothing. We all looked around and found every diva in the place staring straight at us. Every trannie, every celebrity by proxy, was up on their feet and staring at us with dark, malignant eyes. Their painted faces were suddenly strange, twisted, shaped by new and deadly emotions. It was like being sud­denly surrounded by a pack of wolves. Rossignol and Dead Boy and I rose slowly to our feet, and a frisson of anticipation moved through the menacing crowd. They all smiled at the same moment, a grimace that was all teeth and no humour. One of the Marilyns produced a knife from out of his puffed sleeve. As though that was

a signal, dozens of other divas suddenly had weapons in their hands, everything from knives to razor blades to the occasional derringer. Several of them smashed bottles and glasses against tables to make jagged-edged weapons.

"They've been possessed," Dead Boy said quietly. "I know the signs. Their auras have changed. They were channelling the talents and even some of the per­sonalities of their heroines, but that channel has been overridden by a stronger signal, imposed from outside. There's something new and a whole lot nastier in those bodies now."

"Could it be The Primal?" I said. "Back for another crack at us?"

"No," said Dead Boy. "The signs are still human."

A Dusty lurched suddenly forward to stare at Rossignol with unblinking eyes. "We are your greatest fans. We worship you. We adore you. We would die for you. You shouldn't be here. We have come to take you back where you belong."

"Bloody hell," I said. "It's that bunch of Goths and geeks the Cavendishes let hang around their outer office. The fan club from Hell. The Cavendishes must have put them in the divas' heads and sent them to bring Ross back."

"You can't stay here," the Dusty said to Rossignol, ignoring me. "These people are no good for you. You must come with us, back to the Cavendishes. They will make you the star you were born to be. Come with us, now."

"And if she doesn't?" I said.

Without any change of expression, the Dusty slashed at my throat with his knife. I jerked my head

back, and he only just missed. The other divas surged forward, raising the weapons in their hands. All the Judys, Kylies, Marilyns, Nicos, and Blondies. Famous faces, marred and twisted by second-hand rage and envy. Someone was threatening to take their goddess away from them, and they would die or kill to prevent that. In their minds, they were rescuing their heroine. Dusty cut at me again. I caught his wrist, twisted it till the fingers reluctantly opened, dropping the knife, then I punched him out. Dead Boy was picking divas up and throwing them around like rag dolls. But there were al­ways more, pressing remorselessly closer, some with improvised weapons like spiked stiletto heels, long hairpins, and clawed fingernails. A Kate Bush came at me shrieking, with a long dagger in his hand. I grabbed Dead Boy and pulled him between us, using his dead body as a shield. The knife slammed into his chest up to the hilt.

"You bastard, Taylor!" said Dead Boy, and then rather spoiled the effect by giggling. I heaved his dead body this way and that, deflecting attacks. It soaked up the punishment, and Dead Boy didn't object. I think he was getting a weird kind of kick out of it. Rossignol was beside me, fighting dirty, pulling trannies' wigs down over their eyes and kicking them in the nuts when she could get a clear target. My back slammed up against the wall behind me, and I yelled past Dead Boy's shoulder for Rossignol to overturn our table and make it a barricade. She broke away from shoulder-charging a Nico and pulled the table over, and soon all three of us were sheltering behind it.

"I'm bored with this," said Dead Boy. "I know a curse that will boil their brains in their heads."

"No!" I said quickly. "We can't kill any of them! The divas aren't responsible for this. They're the vic­tims here."

"Oh hell," said Dead Boy. "It's good deeds time again, is it?"

The divas, all of them eerily silent, swarmed around us, trying to reach us with their weapons and clawed hands. We were safe for the moment, but we were trapped in our corner. There was nowhere left for us to go, and soon enough the divas would work together to pull the table away; and then ... I swore regretfully, and reluctantly did what I do best. I concentrated and opened up my inner eye, my third eye, and used my gift to find the channel the fans were using to drive the divas. It was like suddenly seeing a shimmering lat­ticework of silver strings, rising up from the divas' heads and sailing off into infinity. And having seen it, it was the easiest thing in the world to locate the single thread they all connected to, the focus for the overlay­ing signal. It turned out to be a single diva, a Whitney, standing watching from the stage. All I had to do was point the Whitney out to Dead Boy, and he made a swift crushing motion with his fist. The Whitney crum­pled unconscious to the stage, and all of the silver lines snapped off.

The spell was broken in a moment, and the attacking divas were suddenly nothing more than disoriented men in frocks and make-up. They stopped where they were, shocked and confused, some clinging to each other for mutual support and comfort. Possession is a kind of violation, of the mind and the soul. For a mo­ment, it actually seemed the danger was over. I should have known better.

The trannies suddenly screamed and scattered as a dozen dark and dangerous figures appeared out of nowhere. Tall menacing figures, with smart suits and no faces. I had used my gift once too often, burned too brightly in the night, and now my enemies had found me again. They had sent the Harrowing for me. The trannies quickly cleared the floor and disappeared out the exits. It had all been too much for them. I would have run, too, if I could. The Harrowing advanced slowly towards us, unstoppable figures of death and horror. They had human shapes, but they didn't move like people did, and the faces under their wide-brimmed hats were only stretches of blank skin. They had no eyes, but they could see. One of them raised its hand, showing me the hypodermic needles where its fingernails should have been. Thick green drops pulsed from the tips of the needles, and I shuddered. Rossignol was clutching my arm so hard it hurt. Dead Boy was frowning for the first time.

"Would I be right in thinking events have just taken a distinct turn for the worse?"

"Oh yes," I said. "They're the Harrowing. The hounds my enemies send after me. You can't hurt or kill them because they're not real. Just constructs. And there's nothing you or I can do to stop them."

"How do you normally deal with them?" said Rossignol.

"I run like hell. I've spent a lot of my life running from the Harrowing." I raised my gift again, desper­ately trying to find a way out, but there wasn't one. There was no exit close enough to reach, and the over­turned table wouldn't slow them down for a second. The dozen vicious figures moved towards us, relentless

as cancer, implacable as destiny. And then a female fig­ure came howling out of nowhere and launched itself at one of the Harrowing. The attacker had been a Kylie once, but all traces of glamour and femininity had been torn away by recent traumas. All that mattered to the Kylie now was that there was a target for his rage. He stabbed the Harrowing in the chest, and its pliant body just absorbed the blow, taking no damage and trapping both the knife and the hand inside its unnatural flesh. The Harrowing made a brief slashing gesture with one hand, and the Kylie just fell apart into a hundred pieces, blood spurting and gushing all over the floor.

"Damn," said Dead Boy. "That is seriously nasty. You know, I have to wonder . . . how many pieces could you cut me into, and I'd still be able to put my­self back together again?"

"Well, unless you fancy life as a jigsaw, stop won­dering about it and bloody well do something," I said, stridently.

"Boys," said Rossignol. "They really are getting ter­ribly close. Please tell me one of you has something re­sembling a plan."

"When you get right down to it," said Dead Boy, "I'm just a walking corpse who's picked up a few un­pleasant strategems along the way. There's nothing in my bag of tricks that could even slow those bastards down. You have really powerful enemies, John."

"Okay," I said, my mouth almost painfully dry. "That's it. Dead Boy, grab Ross and run like hell. As long as you're not a threat, they might not bother with you. They're only here for me."

"What will they do to you?" said Rossignol.

"If I'm lucky, they'll kill me quickly," I said. "But I've never been that lucky. The Harrowing are horror and despair. Please, get out of here."

"I can't leave you," said Dead Boy. "Good deeds, re­member? Abandoning you now would set me back years."

"And I won't leave you," said Rossignol. "If only because you're my only hope of breaking free from the Cavendishes."

"Please," I said. "You don't understand. If you stay, they'll do ... horrible things to you. I've seen it hap­pen before."

"You'll think of something, John," said Rossignol. "I know you will."

But I didn't. I'd never been able to face the Harrow­ing, only run from them. My very own pursuing demons. The first of the Harrowing grabbed one edge of our barricading table with a puffy corpse-pale hand and threw it aside as though it were nothing. Dead Boy braced himself, and I pushed Rossignol behind me, sheltering her with my body. And then all the Harrowing stopped and turned their featureless faces, as though listening to something only they could hear. They started to shake and shudder, and then one by one they fell apart into rot and slime, slumping shapelessly to the floor. One moment a dozen menacing figures were closing in on us, and the next there was nothing but thick puddles of reeking ooze, spreading slowly. Dead Boy and I looked at each other, and then we both glared round sharply at the sound of soft, mocking laughter. And there, standing on the stage at the end of the room was Billy Lathem, the Jonah, in his smart, smart suit. He looked very pleased with himself. Standing on either side of him in their undertakers' clothes were Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish.

"I told you, John," said the Jonah. "I am far more powerful than you ever realised. I am entropy, the end of all things, and not even sendings like those ugly bas­tards can stand against me. Now, you have something that doesn't belong to you. And I have come to repos­sess it."

"Come along, dear Rossignol," said Mr. Cavendish. "You'll be late for your show."

"You don't want to be late for your show, do you?" said Mrs. Cavendish.

Rossignol was still gripping my arm tightly. "I won't go with them. Don't let them take me, John. I can't go back to being the half-asleep thing I was, nodding and smiling and agreeing to everything they said. I'd rather die."

"You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to," I said, but it didn't sound convincing, even to me. I was still stunned at how easily the Jonah had destroyed the Harrowing. He had become a Power and a Domination, like his late father, Count Entropy, and I was just a man with a gift. And a bad reputation ... I raised my head and gave Billy Lathem one of my best enigmatic looks.

"We've done this dance before, Billy. Back off, or I'll use my gift..."

"You don't dare," said the Jonah, grinning nastily. "Not now your enemies know where you are. What do you think they'll send next, if you're dumb enough to open up your mind again? Something so appalling even I might not be able to deal with it. No, your only option now is to hand over the girl and skulk off out of here, before your enemies track you down anyway." He laughed suddenly. "You'll never be able to bluff any­one ever again, John. Not after I tell everyone how I saw you cringing and helpless, and hiding behind a table. And all from things I turned to rot and slime with just a wave of my hand. Now, you back off, John. Or I'll use my power to find the one piece of bad luck that will break you forever."