The Bride Wore Black Leather

TWO You’re Only Immortal as Long as You Don’t Die

Is there anything more fun than deliberately crashing a party where you know you’re not welcome, you’re not supposed to be there, and you can be absolutely sure that everyone is going to throw a major hissy fit over your very appearance? It’s little victories like this, against the rich and the mighty, that keep me going.

The Portable Timeslip inside my gold pocket-watch dropped me off at the entrance to the top (and most select and most expensive) floor of the MEC, the Mammon Emporium Centre. A meeting place and upscale watering hole for the Major Players of the Nightside, or at the very least those rich enough to act like they are. The MEC provides whole floors set apart for private gatherings, complete with uniformed staff, excellent food and drink, and heavily armed security staff, all at only mildly extortionate prices. (If you have to ask how much, you can’t afford it.)

The Ball of Forever is one of the oldest and most select get-togethers in the Nightside, which takes some doing. You have to be immortal to get an invitation, you have to be rich enough to pay the entrance fee and powerful enough to be able to defend yourself against the other guests. For hundreds of years the Ball of Forever was held at Strangefellows, the oldest bar in the world; but then Merlin Satanspawn came back from the dead, declared the bar to be his own private territory, and kicked them all out. (And perhaps only I knew he did this because it wasn’t only his body that was buried in the cellars under the bar but that of Arthur Pendragon, the once-and-future King, as well.)

The Ball of Forever moved through various venues over the next thousand years or so, before finally settling in what became the MEC. Which these days provides staff in uniforms of your own choosing, all of them guaranteed very discreet about what they might or might not see, along with every luxury you can think of, and some that would shock less-well-travelled souls rigid. The extremely long-lived have a tendency to develop strange and unusual tastes, and a morality that can best be described as flexible. So the MEC is always careful to provide staff with combat training, diplomatic skills, and a hell of a lot of danger money. In advance.

I stood outside the closed door to the top-floor ball-room, and looked it over thoughtfully. A large sign to one side proudly proclaimed THE MEC WELCOMES ALL IMMORTALS TO THE BALL OF FOREVER. AGAIN. A sign on the other side of the door presented coming attractions: THE JEKYLL & HYDE REUNION DINNER (for all those touched and affected by the Good Doctor’s special elixir) and THE GRAND ORDER OF GHOULS MANGES TOUTES EVENING. (No living staff will be provided.)

The personal ads at the back of the Unnatural Inquirer, the Nightside’s very own scabrous tabloid, are jam-packed with would like to meet similar messages.

I turned my attention to the tall and muscular butler standing to attention before the door, staring deliberately through me as though I weren’t there. He was wearing the full formal outfit—a tight powder blue frock coat, white tights, and a powdered wig, from the Court of Versailles of Louis XIV . . . and carrying it off with professional dignity. Presumably some of the immortals were feeling nostalgic. I moved to stand directly before the butler and gave him my best cheerful smile. In return, he gave me the butler’s professionally cool up and down, managing to imply (without speaking a single word) that not only was I not welcome, not invited, and not in any way the right sort, but also that I was improperly dressed and my flies were open. All in one glance. You had to admire the professionalism. I smiled a little more, and he sighed deeply, before reluctantly deigning to meet my impertinent gaze with his own.

“This is a private gathering, sir. May I see your invitation?”

“You know I haven’t got one,” I said. “I don’t need one. I’m Walker.”

“Not quite, sir,” said the butler. “Your title has yet to be officially validated, and thus your authority is still . . . in question. Also, you do not possess the Voice. Sir.”

“No,” I said. “But I’ve got other things. Want me to demonstrate them, in a sudden, violent, and utterly distressing way? Do you need me to remind you that the last butler who annoyed me got dragged down to Hell?”

“Please go right in, sir. Walk all over me. It’s what I’m here for.”

He stood to one side and opened the door. I started to walk past him, and then had to ask, “Do they pay you extra, to wear that outfit?”

“It’s traditional, sir. It is also ill-fitting, uncomfortable, and chafes in places I don’t even care to mention. Damn right they pay me extra. Would sir like me to take his coat? We could store it in the private cloak-room. We could also have it dry-cleaned and perhaps fumigated.”

“I don’t think I’ll leave the coat on its own,” I said. “I haven’t fed it recently. You may announce me, though.”

“Of course, sir. I live to grovel.”

The butler pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside. I strolled in past him, smiling easily in all directions, and the butler raised his voice to cut across the babble of many conversations, and the somewhat overbearing piped music.

“My lords, ladies, and others, may I present to you Mr. John Taylor, newly appointed Walker to the Nightside. The horror, the horror . . .”

“You get no tip,” I said as I walked forward into the Ball of Forever.

The ball-room stretched away before me, larger than a football pitch, and packed from wall to wall with all the most noted immortal beings still walking this Earth. So, of course, I ignored the lot of them and fixed my attention on the huge running buffet lining most of one wall. I strolled along the trestle tables, nodding to the various waitresses, all of them dressed in vaguely fetish French maid outfits. There were no waiters. Presumably because they wouldn’t look as good in the outfits. Knowledge of my presence spread quickly through the tightly packed immortals. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched them watching me as they gathered in little groups to discuss what the hell to do, look blankly at each other, hide behind each other, and stare openly at me from what they hoped was a safe distance. They all knew I was gate-crashing, but none of them felt confident enough to raise a fuss. They all knew I had killed an immortal in my time, or at the very last arranged for his death—the legendary Griffin. And made his children mortal again. Perhaps the worst threat of all.

I looked for something to take the edge off my thirst. There were any number of interesting vintages, including an open jug of a wine so deep red it looked like blood. In fact, given the predilections of some of those immortals present, it might very well be blood.

So I picked up a glass of complimentary champagne I wasn’t entitled to, leaned back against the buffet table, and looked around me under the cover of taking a long drink. For all the expensive and elegant setting, the rich and the mighty in all their finery, and the piped music playing Elizabethan airs with a lot of lute action (I suppose everyone has a special taste for the music of their youth), there was still a strange feeling to the gathering. Of a whole bunch of people from all kinds of backgrounds, who would normally have nothing to say to each other, brought together by the only thing they had in common. Not having died yet. After all, you’re only an immortal until someone manages to kill you. After that, you were just long-lived.

The huge ballroom was full of gods, superhumans, inhumans, posthumans, and a few things that wouldn’t pass for human during a complete black-out. All the products of super-science and the supernatural, come together in one place to talk about the things that only immortals could really understand and appreciate. To prove to everyone that they were still around, to swap useful survival tips, to show off new achievements and new fashions, to reminisce about the good old days . . . and whinge and moan about how no-one appreciates the important things any more. And, of course, to show off for the media. Immortals are, first and foremost, celebrities.

Reporters have always been allowed to attend the Ball of Forever, under sufferance, to write their glowing accounts of the most important ball of the season, but this year, for the first time, they’d allowed in a small camera crew from the Nightside Television Centre. Immortals do move with the times, but only slowly and very reluctantly. I recognised the reporter from the Night Times, a tall and bulky oriental fellow in a smart tuxedo. Brilliant Chang was an investigative reporter (not a recipe for long life in the Nightside), but fortunately he was also sharp and tricky and knew no fear. Plus, he could run like an Olympic sprinter when the occasion demanded it. He knew me, too, and nodded briefly in my direction. We’d worked some of the same cases, from different directions. On one side of his face, he still carried the dragon tattoo that marked him as a combat sorcerer. An old Dragon Clan enforcer, in fact, before he saw the error of his ways and abandoned gangsterism for the slightly more reputable trade of journalism. He made a point of casually wandering in my direction.

“Hello, Chang,” I said. “What are you doing here, covering this jumped-up bun-fight? I thought Julien Advent reserved you for the really important stories these days. Like hot celebrity action, and who’s having whom . . . When are you going to get a proper job?”

“When are you?” said Chang.

Honours even, we relaxed a bit.

“I’m surprised the immortals’ security people aren’t trying to throw you out,” said Chang.

“What security?” I said. “People who’ve lived as long as these scumbags take a pride in being able to look after themselves. Standing tall and laughing defiantly in the face of danger as a matter of principle, that sort of thing. Even if they’re not allowed to bring personal weapons to a supposedly civilised gathering like this. I’m here mainly because they can’t be bothered to exert themselves.”

“And because they’re scared of you,” said Brilliant Chang.

“That, too,” I said. “Really, what is an experienced crime and corruption writer like you doing here?”

“Julien Advent was very insistent that someone experienced should cover the Ball this year,” said Chang. “And he wanted it to be someone who wouldn’t be easily impressed or intimidated. I didn’t run for the door fast enough, so I got the job.”

I had to frown at that. “Why would he do that? What does he think is going to happen, this year?”

“Beats me. Normally, this whole do is nothing more than fodder for the society pages and the life-style supplements. Pick up a bit of gossip, get the prettier ones to pose for a few photos, then stuff your face with the free food. Maybe it’s something to do with the television people being allowed in for the first time.”

“No,” I said. “Julien knows something . . .”

“So do you,” said Chang. “Or you wouldn’t be here. Are you going to kill someone?”

I had to smile. “The night’s barely started . . .”

The Night Times photographer saw us both smiling together and stepped forward to take a photo. I gave him a cold look, and he quickly changed his mind and retreated.

“Don’t mind him,” said Chang. “He’s new. Somebody’s nephew, I think. I do hope he isn’t mine.”

The other journalist seized her chance to move in for a quick chat. I knew her, too—Bettie Divine, demon girl reporter for the Unnatural Inquirer. She slammed to a halt right in front of me and struck her best confrontational pose: tall and rangy and drop-dead gorgeous. Long jet-black hair fell down around her high-boned face as she fixed me with dark green eyes and a pouting scarlet mouth. Two cute little horns poked up through the dark bangs hanging across her forehead. Demon girl reporter, oh yes. Her last big assignment had been to follow me around the Nightside on one of my cases. She then spent a lot of time afterwards loudly claiming she was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. We hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms, but I gave her my best I’ll-be-nice-if-you-will smile.

“Don’t you smile at me, John Taylor,” said Bettie. “I’m not here for you. Didn’t even know you’d be here. I’m only here in case Elvis turns up. What are you doing here?”

“I already asked,” said Brilliant Chang. “But our new Walker is being very tight-lipped. Perhaps you have more . . . personal ways of persuading him to talk? I am right in believing that there is history between you two?”

“In his dreams,” said Bettie, tossing her long hair dramatically.

“Really? Because a little bird told me . . .”

“Oh fuck off, Chang darling; Bettie’s working.”

Chang laughed, not in the least affronted, and moved off into the crowd. I looked Bettie over carefully. She was wearing an ankle-length, off-the-shoulder jade-green gown, to match her eyes. It was split right up to the thigh and plunging at the front. Or, at least, that’s what she looked like to me. Bettie was half succubus, and her appearance changed constantly, according to whoever was looking at her. For all I knew, I’d never seen her real face, never mind her real outfit.

“What are you really wearing?” I asked, as a reasonably safe opening gambit.

She laughed briefly. “Like I’d ever tell you, darling. What are you doing here, that’s what my panting readers will want to know. I mean, you’re not immortal. Or has that changed? Have I missed a scoop? Say it isn’t so . . .”

“No,” I said. “I’m not immortal. I’m Walker.”

“Oh, I know all about that, darling. That’s old news. And, might I say, I saw it coming months ago. So who are you here for? What have they done?”

I grinned. “Like I’d ever tell you.”

“Oh poo.” She batted her fantastically long lashes at me. “Not even for old times’ sake? You can tell me, darling. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Are we? The last thing you said to me was, ‘I never want to see you again.’”

“That was personal. This is business.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “A little bird told me you’re getting married tomorrow. My invitation must have got lost in the post.”

“Sorry,” I said. “But we’re being very strict on no reporters. On the grounds that Suzie has this unfortunate tendency to shoot them on sight. So an ex of mine who’s also a reporter? They’d be fishing pieces of you out of the guttering for weeks.”

Bettie smiled. “I’m an ex? Did something happen that I didn’t notice?”

“Not for want of trying on your part,” I said.

“Not the way I remember it, darling,” said Bettie. “Some people simply don’t know how to flirt. Oh come on, sweetie, please . . . you have to give me something I can use or the editor won’t sign off on my expenses. Is there going to be trouble?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m here.”

Bettie stuck her cute little nose in the air and stalked off. The moment she was safely away, the television news crew moved in, scenting blood in the water. The Nightside has its very own television station, covering all the stories the outside world never gets to hear about. It broadcasts across the Nightside and reaches out to a whole bunch of other worlds, dimensions, and special-interest groups. Subscription only. Lots of people like to keep up with what’s happening in the Nightside—if only so they can have advance warning of which way to duck.

The female news reporter shoving a microphone right into my face was not unknown to me. I’d seen her stuck behind the news desk, on occasion, reporting the lighter stories with an unrelenting professional smile, but we’d never met. Charlotte ap Owen was short, blonde, and busty, currently kitted out in a skin-tight leopard-skin outfit, for that important streetwise slutty look. (It said so in a woman’s magazine I happened to be reading in my dentist’s waiting room.) She had a face so surgically perfect, it was almost characterless, and she pointed her mike at me like it was a weapon. To my knowledge, this was her first assignment outside the studio, and Charlotte was positively bursting with practised charm and barely restrained nervous energy.

“No, Elvis will not be making an appearance here, as far as I know,” I said solemnly, before she could get a word in. “Also, yes, I am the new Walker, and no, I’m not going to tell you what happened to the old one. If you’re expecting any scandal or excitement at the Ball of Forever, I’m afraid you’re going to be very disappointed. Nothing of any real interest will happen here because nothing ever does. Immortals are very private people and wouldn’t dream of doing anything that mattered where outsiders might see it. The real meetings, wheeler-dealings and love affairs will be conducted somewhere else, behind firmly closed doors, as always. Immortals do have their feuds and disagreements, their business deals and vendettas; but those tend to play out over centuries, one move at a time, because these people have all the time in the world to get even.”

“But something is bound to happen,” said Charlotte in her best hot and smoky voice. “You’re here! That has to mean something! Why would the freshly appointed Walker of the Nightside come to the Ball of Forever unless there were bad guys to pursue, villains to put down, and injustices to be avenged! I’ve followed your career for years, and I know what it means when you turn up somewhere unexpectedly. Blood and guts and entrails hanging from the chandelier! You’re news!”

“Not if I can help it,” I said.

“You must have a reason for being here,” Charlotte insisted, taking a deep breath to better show off her cleavage. “Can’t you even give me a hint?”

I leaned forward slightly, lowering my voice so she had to lean in close. She looked eagerly at me, her face straining to show some emotion through the Botox.

“If it all does kick off,” I said solemnly, “be first out the door. Avoid the rush. Those cameras are expensive.”

The man with the camera sniggered loudly. He was so anonymous behind his shoulder-mounted apparatus, I’d almost forgotten he was there. Charlotte glared at him, and he shut up immediately.

“Be sure to get my good side,” I said to the camera-man.

“You find it, chief, and I’ll get it,” he said.

Charlotte ap Owen made a point of turning her back on me and striding away. The camera-man lingered for a moment. “I’m Dave. Don’t mind her. She’s desperate to get out from behind a desk. She’d defenestrate her own granny for a good story. Bit desperate in other ways, too, if you catch my drift, chief. Never let her back you into a corner unless you like it rough and sudden. I’m not really a camera-man, you know.”

I looked at him. “Oh yes?”

“I’m an actor, really. I’m pointing this camera at things till something better comes along. Filling in between acting jobs, you know how it is. Sometimes I pretend I’m actually in some reality show, where I’m pretending to be a camera-man.”

“Does it help?” I said.

“Not really. Hello; she’s coming back. Little Miss Up Herself. Brace yourself; she’s got the light of battle in her contact lenses. She looks like she knows something. Would anyone here have an interest in dropping you right in it, chief?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Really. You have no idea how many.”

Charlotte ap Owen gestured airily for Dave to start filming, then stuck her microphone in my face again. “This is Charlotte ap Owen, reporting from the legendary Ball of Forever at the MEC. I’m here talking with the very recently appointed Walker, the infamous John Taylor. Mr. Taylor, I’ve been hearing some very interesting things about your connection with one of the most far-reaching disasters to hit the Nightside in recent times, namely, the destruction of the independent power plant, Prometheus Inc. Its sudden and unexpected loss plunged much of the Nightside into chaos and cost many lives. Would you care to comment on your involvement in this catastrophic event?”

I thought for a moment. “No,” I said.

“But you do know something, Mr. Taylor. I have my sources . . .”

“No, you don’t,” I said. “I can say that with complete confidence because I know for a fact there aren’t any sources remaining as to exactly what happened at Prometheus Inc., except me. I’ve no doubt someone here has been telling tales out of school and passing round the gossip, but they don’t know. Only I know. I could tell you what happened, but then I’d have to kill you, too.”

Charlotte opened her perfectly sculpted mouth to ask another question, caught the look in my eye, and thought better of it. She jerked her head at Dave the camera-man, and he stopped filming and trailed after her as she stalked off into the crowd, presumably in search of some less obviously dangerous exclusive. She might try to use the footage she’d already got to embarrass me, but her editor would only spike it. He knew better than to annoy Walker. Or worse still, my Suzie. Who once sent an over-enthusiastic gossip-columnist back to his editor in thirty-seven separate parcels. Gift-wrapped. Owing postage.

I watched Charlotte ap Owen, Bettie Divine, and Brilliant Chang as they made their rounds through the packed crowd of immortals, many of whom were happy to stand and smile for the cameras, but walked away if anyone tried to question them. That wasn’t what they were there for. Some immortals would always primp and preen for the media, and some simply wouldn’t. It was always surprising which dangerous and even infamous names could behave like real drama queens when someone recognised them. I moved off in the opposite direction, doing my best to mingle with the immortals. Most of them avoided my gaze, refusing to be interrupted in their conversations, or actually turned their backs on me. They stopped doing that after I goosed a few of them. It’s always amusing to see who’ll squeal like a little girl when you do that. I smiled and nodded in every direction, and a few familiar faces nodded coolly back. Some were friends, some were enemies, and some were both. It’s like that, in the Nightside.

I found Razor Eddie, Punk God of the Straight Razor, standing alone in a corner, observing the merry-making with a detached gaze. A tall, thin presence in a grubby grey coat, mostly held together by grime and filth. The light seemed a little bit darker where he stood, and the smell was really bad. Living on the streets and sleeping in shop doorways will do that to you. His face was hollowed and haunted, and he studied the immortals at their play with dark, dark eyes. He was holding a bottle of designer water but hadn’t bothered to open it. Flies buzzed around him, dropping dead out of the air when they ventured too close. Don’t ask me how they got in. He attracts them, that’s all.

“Hello, Eddie,” I said. “What’s a disturbing presence like you doing at a party like this? Are you immortal?”

“I’m a god,” said Razor Eddie in his thin, ghostly voice. “That’s even better.”

“Do you have business here?” I said. “Is there someone here who needs killing?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Eddie. “But nothing urgent. I was down on the Street of the Gods, visiting with an old friend. He told me he’d had a glimpse of the Future. Not uncommon, in those parts. Having so many gods, powers, and presences crammed together in one place does something very disturbing to linear Time. Anyway, Dagon told me he’d Seen something really dangerous coming to the Nightside.”

I waited, but that was all he had to say. “Well,” I said, “nothing too scary about that. It’s pretty much business as usual, in the Nightside.”

“Not this time. Dagon said that whatever it is that’s coming, it’s a threat to the Nightside itself. A final end to the longest night in the world.” Eddie looked at me unblinkingly, his lips twitching in what might have been a smile. “He also said he Saw you and me, going head to head, fighting to the death. That’s . . . interesting, isn’t it?”

I shuddered briefly, as though someone had danced on my grave. “There are many different potential futures,” I said carefully. “Nothing Seen is ever inevitable.”

“Yes,” said Razor Eddie. “I know. But it is interesting. I thought you ought to know. Haven’t you ever wondered whether I could take you in a fight?”

“I try very hard not to think about things like that,” I said. “Did your friend happen to mention the outcome of this fight he Saw?”

“No. See you later, John.”

I took the hint and moved away, leaving him to enjoy his corner. Eddie was a friend, sort of. That’s why he warned me. We’d been through a lot together, good and bad. But the Punk God of the Straight Razor went his own way, following his own unknowable purposes. Would he kill me if he thought he had cause? Yes. Razor Eddie was many things, but sentimental wasn’t one of them.

I went back to the buffet tables. I felt very much in need of a little light refreshment. Every immortal makes it a matter of pride to bring a bottle of something special to the Ball of Forever, and some of them have cellars that go back centuries. Vintages laid down when that was still a new thing to do. In fact, I think you have to be immortal to withstand what some of those wines can do to your taste buds. I found Dead Boy trying to get a glass of champagne from one of the French maid waitresses, only to have his dead hand slapped repeatedly away on the grounds that she wasn’t wasting a really impressive vintage on someone who didn’t even have taste buds any more. Dead Boy was good-natured about it.

“Hello, Dead Boy,” I said. “How are you?”

“Still dead,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make a fuss. I wouldn’t waste good booze on me either. I have no palate. Or if I have, it’s probably riddled with holes.”

I don’t know if even Dead Boy knows exactly how long he’s been dead. He was seventeen when he was mugged and murdered in the Nightside, long ago, for the spare change in his pockets. He made a deal he still won’t talk about to come back from the dead, to avenge his murder; only to discover afterwards that he should have read the small print. He was trapped in his dead body, possessing himself, unable to let go and move on. He’s more or less philosophical about it these days and does his best to live the good life despite being quite definitely deceased.

Dead Boy gave up on the champagne and gave his full attention to the assorted snacks and nibbles laid out before him. He crammed his mouth full of delicate culinary creations and filled his coat pockets, for later. Tall and forever adolescent thin, Dead Boy wore a long, deep, purple greatcoat, over black leather trousers and calf-skin boots. He sported a black rose on his coat lapel, and every now and again his coat would hang open to reveal the bare white torso beneath, marked with cuts, scars, bullet-holes and his Y-shaped autopsy scar. Dead Boy never could resist getting into trouble, and as a result was held together with heavy stitches, staples, and the odd length of black duct tape. His long, pale face had a weary, debauched Pre-Raphaelite look, with burning fever-bright eyes and a sulky mouth with no colour in it. He wore a large, battered, dark floppy hat, crammed down hard over a mess of thick, curly hair. Dead Boy did take a pride in his appearance, but it wasn’t a pride the living could understand.

“How did you get in?” I asked, honestly interested. “You’re not an immortal. You’re dead.”

“I got in the same way you did, by intimidating the staff. I come here every year; even after they put a fatwa on me. I don’t give a damn for these immortal arseholes; I’m here for the food and drink. The MEC really puts itself out for the Ball of Forever—nothing but the best for people who’ll come back for centuries. I mean, we are talking delicacies and specialities from all across history! A lot of it supplied by Rick’s Cafe Imaginaire; you know, the place that supplies meals made from extinct and legendary animals. I used to go there a lot, before I was banned. How was I to know it was a dog? It didn’t look like a dog. Anyway, they have all kinds of tasty treats here, including some so appallingly off-centre that most people wouldn’t try them even if you put a gun to their head. Look, larks’ tongues in peanut butter on Ritz crackers. Coneys—baby rabbits ripped from their mother’s breast and skewered. Stuffed baby Morlock . . .”

“Stuffed with what?” I asked, despite myself.

“Baby Eloi, probably. Those things over there are moebius mice; they stuff themselves. Crunchy . . . but they don’t half repeat on you. Hmmm . . . T. rex truffles and velociraptor pâté . . . really fast food. And Man’s final revenge on the dinosaurs, I suppose. Hello; what’s this?”

“Elephant, sir,” said the French maid.

We both looked at the richly steaming meat laid out across a very long plate. “Is that the trunk?” I said finally. “Please tell me that’s the trunk.”

“Not even close, sir. That is the elephant’s penis. Soaked in a dozen different herbs and spices, tenderised with meat hammers, and then char-grilled to bring out the flavour. Would sir like me to cut him a slice off the end?”

“Oh I couldn’t,” I said. “I’d wince with every bite.”

Dead Boy laughed in my face and had a really big slice, beaming happily. “One of the more annoying problems with being dead is that I can only experience the most extreme sensations. I’m only able to enjoy food and drink at all because of these marvellous little pills I have made for me, by this amazing little Obeah woman I know. You can’t beat graveyard voodoo when it comes to getting you things you’re not supposed to have. She’s called Mother Macabre; though whether that’s her name or her title, I’ve never been sure. Certainly there’s been a Mother Macabre in the Nightside Necropolis for more centuries than I can cope with.” He looked around the Ball. “She can’t be immortal or she’d be here . . . God, this is grand stuff . . . bit chewy, mind. I wonder if they do the balls, as well . . .”

“You ask,” I said. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“You on a case here?” he said easily. “I don’t mind helping out. I could use some pocket money. In fact, I could use quite a lot of it.”

“Never knew you when you couldn’t,” I said. “I’ll let you know.”

He shrugged, and went back to stuffing his face with elephant. I wandered off into the crowd again.

Where I met Mistress Mayhem, a tall, lithe, blue-skinned beauty, with a massive frizz of black hair that fell all the way down her back to her very slender waist. Descended, at a great many removes, from the Indian death goddess Kali, she was currently wearing an outfit from the film Avatar, cut to show off as much dark blue flesh as possible. She offered me some glowing green snuff from a chased silver snuff-box, and when I politely declined, she filled both her nostrils with enough of the stuff to blow a normal person’s head right off. She sneezed briefly, in a very ladylike way, and tucked the snuff-box back into her cleavage.

We’d worked a few cases together, and she’d tried to have me killed a few times. Business as usual, in the Nightside.

“Weren’t you going out with Jimmy Thunder, last time I saw you?” I said to make conversation.

“Oh, him! The Norse God for Hire,” said Mayhem. “We are currently not speaking. And anyway, he’s banned from the Ball of Forever for excessive smiting last year. Just as well; he can lower the tone of any gathering simply by being a part of it.”

My next encounter was with Hadleigh Oblivion. He appeared before me, emerging from the crowd with casual grace, smiling easily, as though he knew something I didn’t. Which, given who and what he was, was probably true. Hadleigh knew a great many things other people didn’t know and wouldn’t want to. He was perhaps the most powerful, and certainly the most influential, of the legendary Oblivion brothers. Tommy Oblivion was the Existential Detective, specialising in cases that may or may not have actually happened. Larry Oblivion was the Dead Detective, the Post-Mortem Private Eye. And Hadleigh . . . was a product of the Deep School, and the current Detective Inspectre, only called in on cases where reality itself was under threat. He was wearing his usual long, black leather coat, dark as a scrap of the night, all the better to show off his stark white face and his mane of jet-black hair. He also had sinister dark eyes and a downright unnerving smile. Hadleigh always gave the impression that wherever he was, that was where he was supposed to be.

I made a point of nodding easily to him, conspicuously unimpressed. You can’t let people like that know they’ve got to you, or they’ll walk all over you.

“Something’s going to happen here,” Hadleigh announced, quite casually. “I can feel it in the air, like a thunder-storm drawing closer. I take it you feel it, too?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Something like that.” I didn’t feel like mentioning the Anonymous Gentleman’s warning note. It’s important to keep up appearances. “But what could be so important, as to bring you, me, Dead Boy, and Razor Eddie to the same place? Can’t be a coincidence.”

“Coincidences are the universe’s way of arranging things neatly,” said Hadleigh.

“Are you immortal?” I said bluntly.

“Bit early to tell yet,” said Hadleigh. “Whatever this thing is, it had better get a move on. I can’t stop long; I’ve been called in to consult on a case with the London Knights. They actually requested my presence, which is unusual enough that I’ve agreed to go out into London Proper to give them a helping hand.” He fixed me with a cool, considering look. “You know the London Knights. Is it true that King Arthur has returned to them?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Is he everything the legends say?”

“That and more.”

“Interesting,” said Hadleigh. “I wonder what he wants with me . . . But consider this; if Arthur Pendragon is back, can Merlin Satanspawn be far behind?”

“Oh God, I hope not,” I said.

“Leave Her out of this,” Hadleigh said firmly. I can never tell when he’s joking.

“You’re Hadleigh Oblivion, aren’t you?” said Charlotte ap Owen excitedly, waving for her camera-man to catch up with her.

Hadleigh smiled, produced a pale blue rose from out of nowhere, and held it up before Charlotte. He then brought the rose up to his mouth and inhaled steadily. The colour faded out of the petals, and we all watched speechlessly as Hadleigh breathed in the life essence of the flower. One by one, the colourless petals cracked and fell apart, falling in grey sprinkles to the floor. Hadleigh smiled and let the dead stem fall from his hand.

“That’s nothing,” said Dead Boy, passing by. “You should see what I can do with a fart.”

Hadleigh smiled easily at Charlotte, who looked like she wanted to be sick. She backed away into the crowd, taking Dave the camera-man with her. I gave Hadleigh a hard look.

“Studying at the Deep School ruined you.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“Well, something did.”

I went back to mingling. I listened in on a great many conversations because the immortals were too proud to stop talking even though I was there, but I didn’t learn anything important. Most of it was about who was having whom, and what someone else would do when they found out. Typical party chatter. No-one even mentioned the immortality serum I was supposed to be looking for. Short of grabbing people by their lapels and slamming them up against a wall, I didn’t see how I was going to persuade anyone to talk about it. And I don’t do things like that. Not any more.

I bumped into the Lord Orlando, fresh from changing sex again. He’d come dressed in a chequered black-and-white Harlequin outfit, complete with a cute little domino mask and heavy stubble showing through his white face make-up. He was still boring for England, talking loudly and relentlessly at anyone who’d stand still long enough, and name-dropping all the famous people he claimed to have slept with, in one sex or another, down the ages. And still going on about how traumatised he was, from being kidnapped and briefly replaced by the Charnel Chimera, a few years back. I got the impression he was mostly upset that no-one could tell the difference between the bloodthirsty monster and the real thing. I could have said many things there, but didn’t. I must be mellowing.

I pointed him in Bettie Divine’s direction, thus annoying two birds with one stone, and headed towards a couple of people I was actually looking forward to meeting; the Bride, and her current paramour, the latest incarnation of Springheel Jack. The Bride towered over both of us, a good seven feet tall and well fleshed. The Baron Frankenstein had made all his early creations oversized, so he had enough room to fit all the bits in. The Bride’s face was pale and taut, as though stretched by too much plastic surgery, but she’d always looked that way. The Baron might be a creative genius when it came to Life and Death, but his sewing skills left a lot to be desired.

The Bride had huge dark eyes that didn’t blink often enough, a prominent nose, and lips red as sin itself. She would never be described as beautiful, but she was most definitely attractive, in a spooky, scary kind of way. She wore her long black hair piled up in an Amy Winehouse beehive, and she wasn’t bothering to dye out the white streaks any more. Or using make-up to cover the heavy stitching at her neck and wrists. She wore a flouncy white blouse, cut to show off her magnificent cleavage, midnight blue slacks, and knee-length riding boots with silver spurs. Up close, she smelled of attar of roses with a hint of formaldehyde.

She crushed my hand in a powerful grip and smiled broadly. We’d never actually met before, but with reputations like ours, we knew of each other. The Bride had a lot of personality and didn’t mind spreading it around.

“I’m here representing the Spawn of Frankenstein,” she said loudly. “All those dead but definitely not departed creations of the old Baron, bad cess to his soul. I did hear you’d killed him a while back, and I was going to send you a thank-you note; but it turned out to be another other-dimensional duplicate. I hate those. Still, thanks for the effort. It’s the thought that counts.”

“Happy to do it,” I said, flexing my numbed fingers surreptitiously. The Bride was a big girl and didn’t know her own strength. “One less god of the living scalpel has to be a good thing.”

“Do you know my new boy-friend?” said the Bride, draping a more than usually long arm across her companion’s shoulders. “He’s the current inheritor of the Springheel Jack inheritance; but don’t hold that against him.”

We shook hands briefly. I couldn’t help but remember the time when a more than usually virulent Springheel Jack meme had invaded the Nightside through a Timeslip, overwriting everyone it touched and turning them into Springheel Jacks with nothing but bloodshed and slaughter on their minds. Suzie and I had no choice but to go out into the streets, hunt down everyone afflicted, and kill them all. If this Jack knew, he had the grace not to mention it, so I didn’t either.

He was tall and slim, cool and calm, with a dignified bearing. He was handsome enough, in a sinister sort of way. He wore the traditional long black cape, which swept about him like bat-wings, and an old-fashioned top hat. The look came with the incarnation. He wore it well enough. He had a pale face and ice-cold blue eyes, that were a lot older than they should have been. It was the burden of every Springheel Jack to carry all the experiences of his predecessors.

“What brings the new Walker to the Ball of Forever?” he said, in a slightly detached voice. “Are we to take it that you’re immortal?”

“Hardly,” I said. “My title isn’t like yours; I’m just the latest to hold the position. I’m here following a lead in a case, to see where it goes.” I looked thoughtfully at Jack, then at the Bride. “Are either of you immortal, technically speaking?”

“I am both dead and alive!” the Bride said grandly. “Which means I outrank everyone here. Besides, I’d like to see anyone try to throw us out . . .”

“While I am an idea that manifests itself through possessing people,” said Springheel Jack. “So I suppose I am immortal, in a serial sort of way.”

And then everybody at the Ball of Forever stopped talking, and turned their heads to look as news of the latest arrival spread rapidly through the room. I looked around, too, impressed. Even I hadn’t made that much of an impression. A silence fell across the ballroom as King of Skin stood in the doorway, large as life and twice as nasty, swaying on his feet and sniggering to himself, wrapped in all his usual sleazy glory. King of Skin was the only immortal in the Authorities, that quiet background group who run the Nightside, inasmuch as any does or cares to. The group I supposedly now served and took my authority from. King of Skin was potent and powerful, a King in glory when he took his aspect upon him. He could disturb people he hadn’t even met yet. Rumour had it he’d spat on Heaven and Hell because he wouldn’t be bound by anything, even a philosophy. He had the power to undo possibilities and rewrite them in his favour. He could pick out your worst and most private nightmare, simply by looking at you, and make it real. King of Skin was a major-league scumbag, even by Nightside standards; but he could do things for you that no-one else could, or would. So people made a lot of allowances. Lot of that going on, in the Nightside.

Don’t ask what he really looked like; everyone saw what he wanted them to see. Mostly he projected a sleazy glamour of constantly shifting details, real enough to make you extremely uncomfortable on a very basic level. Everyone was always very polite, wherever he turned up, if they knew what was good for them, and gave him plenty of room. I’d known him for years, usually from a distance, and I still had no idea what he was about or what he wanted. Just another lost soul, more powerful than most, walking the dark streets in search of something even he probably couldn’t name. He was hard to kill though many had tried, and none of us knew the beginning of his story. Because he liked it that way.

He started forward into the ballroom, swaying and sniggering, grinning nastily in all directions, enjoying the effect he was having on the gathering. Even the most powerful immortals fell back, to give him plenty of room to move in. King of Skin reached out to touch the people he passed, in brusque and brutal inappropriate ways, trailing his fingertips across bare flesh, caressing a face here and a breast there, and no-one said or did anything. I had to wonder what he was doing at the Ball. Was he representing the Authorities? Had he heard about the serum? Or was he here to cause trouble because he could? There were gods here who would turn their gazes aside rather than upset King of Skin because even gods have nightmares, and King of Skin wouldn’t hesitate to use them as weapons.

He knew I was there but ignored me completely, working the crowd in his own nasty way. He would stop here and there, for a moment, to indulge in a few neatly tailored insults, dropping quick references to things no-one else was supposed to know about. He mocked and abused people and laughed in their faces; and they stood there and let him do it because they had no choice. Because the alternatives were worse. People cursed and swore under their breath after he’d moved on, and some even wept bitter tears of rage or affront. Because King of Skin knew things . . . and the best you could hope for was that he wouldn’t tell anyone else.

No-one ever disputed his right to do these things because he was King of Skin.

To my surprise, he actually sought out Razor Eddie in his corner. A lot of people started backing away. I mean, you don’t upset the Punk God of the Straight Razor. Not if you like having your organs on the inside. I’ve seen gods and powers come running out of the Street of the Gods, crying their eyes out, because Razor Eddie was on the rampage. But no; King of Skin walked right up to the thin grey presence and sniggered in his face.

“So, Eddie,” said King of Skin, “when are you going to tell everyone where you really got your pearl-handled straight razor?”

Razor Eddie looked at him, and the silence lengthened uncomfortably. King of Skin snarled and growled under his breath, and turned abruptly away. And I stopped holding a breath I hadn’t even realised was caught in my throat. It was as though two great racing cars had played chicken, and one had turned aside at the last moment. King of Skin strode up to Dead Boy, who was still making serious inroads on the buffet and sucking his dead fingers noisily. He straightened up as he sensed King of Skin approaching and turned unhurriedly round to face him.

“So, Dead Boy; how’s your girl-friend these days? Still changeable?”

“Fuck off, Skinny,” Dead Boy said flatly. “You can’t frighten me. I’m dead.”

“Even the dead have nightmares,” said King of Skin, the air rippling and puckering around his hands as he played with probabilities.

Dead Boy smiled suddenly, and it was a most unpleasant smile. “I made a deal with my worst nightmare. You invoke that, and it’ll rip the soul right out of you.”

And again, King of Skin turned suddenly away, faced with something even worse than he was. He snarled with frustration and turned on Mistress Mayhem, who started to back away, then made herself hold her ground. It was always worse if you made him chase after you.

“Love the blue skin,” said King of Skin. “Hope you don’t run out of dye. And you didn’t want the baby anyway. Don’t worry; I won’t tell the Thunder god what you did.”

A single tear ran down Mayhem’s blue cheek, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying anything. King of Skin sniggered loudly and turned his hot gaze on Lord Orlando before dismissing him as easy prey. The Lord Orlando almost fainted with relief. King of Skin looked around him, laughing breathily every time someone flinched, and finally advanced on the Bride. She glared down her nose at him and didn’t budge an inch. Springheel Jack stepped forward and stood between King of Skin and his prey.

“Wait your turn, boy,” said King of Skin. “I’ll get to you.”

“Leave the lady alone,” said Springheel Jack. “Or else.”

“Or else? You think you can threaten me, boy? I know all about you. Who you were before, what you really are now. Does the Bride know . . .”

“One more word, and I’ll open you up and let your lights see the light,” said Springheel Jack.

“You think you can hurt me, boy? I have made myself into a thing that cannot be harmed by mortal weapons!”

“My razors are no mortal weapons,” said Springheel Jack. “And there’s nothing left you can scare me with. Because I’ve already been through it.”

King of Skin looked at him, his hot gaze meeting cold, cold eyes; and again, he looked away. No-one could believe it.

“Come away, Jack,” said the Bride. “He’s not worth it.”

She led her beau away, one huge hand on his arm, and King of Skin whirled around, watching everyone watching him, and rage and frustrated malice filled his face. And while he stood there, undecided, Hadleigh Oblivion strolled out of the crowd to stand before him. He smiled easily at King of Skin, whose eyes narrowed as he drew himself up to his full height. The whole ballroom was utterly still, utterly silent, as everyone watched, fascinated, to see what would happen.

“When are people going to realise that your power is nothing more than skin-deep?” said Hadleigh.

King of Skin flinched as though he’d been hit. I didn’t know what Hadleigh meant, but his opponent clearly did.

“When are you going to tell your brothers about the price you paid to be allowed entrance to the Deep School?” said King of Skin.

“King . . . of what, exactly?” said Hadleigh, still smiling. “And . . . of Skin? Who’s skin, or skins? How deep does beauty go with you?”

And to everyone’s surprise, even shock, King of Skin broke first. He seemed to shrink in on himself as though some vital part of his confidence had been broken. He turned his back on Hadleigh, marched over to the buffet table, and made a big show of being interested in the delicacies on offer. Hadleigh looked after him, clearly considering whether he should continue the confrontation; but he smiled briefly and wandered off in the opposite direction. Quite clearly the winner. Of something. Many hands came out, to clap him on the back or the shoulder, though no-one actually said anything. King of Skin might have picked the wrong victims for one day . . . but no-one doubted there would be other days and other victims.

A slow buzz of confused, mystified conversation rose among the gathered immortals as they tried to work out what had just happened. After all, no-one defied King of Skin. Everyone present was very interested in working out the details, if only so they could use it themselves, in the future.

I went back to working the crowd, but even after what had just occurred, no-one was prepared to talk to me. A scary reputation only works when you aren’t surrounded by people even scarier than you. I passed by the Merlin Memorial Chair, standing on its own in a corner; much like Razor Eddie. The chair was a duplicate of Merlin’s old throne, made from dark ironwood and wrapped in fresh mistletoe. The immortals always give it a place of honour at their Ball because most of them are convinced he’s coming back. I was pretty sure he wasn’t, but I’ve been wrong about that before, so I didn’t say anything.

I sat down on the throne, casually crossing my legs, to make a point, and looked out over the crowd. I’d never seen so many immortals in one place, acting more or less politely. And then . . . a teenage boy caught my eye. A long, sulky streak of lukewarm water, wearing distressed jeans and battered knock-off sneakers, and a grubby T-shirt under a hooded grey jacket. He stood alone, scowling at everyone, his hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets, the archetypal teenage hoodie. I couldn’t make out what the hell he was doing at the Ball of Forever, among people who were probably ancient before his great-grandparents were born. I didn’t recognise him as anyone special, or important. No-one had actually challenged his right to be there, yet, but he was getting a number of glances, none of them good. So I got up off Merlin’s throne and went over to find out who he was. Because if there was going to be trouble at the Ball, I wanted to start it.

I walked right up to him and planted myself in front of him, so he couldn’t ignore me. “Hello!” I said cheerfully. “Isn’t the ambience awful? You probably know who I am; but who are you?”

He looked me straight in the eye, and like that he didn’t look like a teenager any more. His eyes were old, very old, and his slow smile had generations of experience behind it.

“Call me Rogue,” he said, and his voice was rich with contempt and soaked in pride. “I’m one of the few real immortals here, from the Family of Immortals.”

Everyone around us stopped talking, to stare at Rogue. We’d all heard of the Family of Immortals; the half-legendary, very long-lived family supposed to run the world from behind the scenes, for a thousand years and more . . . but no-one had ever met one, before now. Everyone at the Ball was an immortal of one kind or another, but none of them had families. They were all unique, unable to pass on what made them immortal. But the Family of Immortals had bred slow, but true, for hundreds of years.

Everyone here had heard the story, that the Family of Immortals had very recently been wiped out, slaughtered, by the equally as legendary Drood family, those very secret agents for the Good. I wasn’t the only one startled to discover that one of the few survivors of that massacre was this sulky-looking teenager.

“I did hear that the Family of Immortals is no more,” I said carefully. “The Droods are, after all, usually very thorough when it comes to wiping out threats to Humanity.”

“Some of us got away,” said Rogue. “Even Droods can’t be everywhere at once. A few of us grabbed some useful items from the Family Vaults, then escaped through the emergency teleport gates. Now those of us left are spread across the world, hiding behind new identities and keeping our heads down. And I came here because the Nightside is one of the few places in the world where Droods are forbidden to set foot, by ancient compact. One of the few places in this world or off it where I thought I could be safe.

“Of course, I hadn’t been here long before I heard that the Drood family had also been destroyed, repaid in their turn. The universe has a warped sense of humour.”

“Are you sure about this?” I said, hearing a new buzz of conversation start up behind me. “I’d heard stories, but no details . . .”

“Oh yes, I’m sure,” said Rogue, and again there was a very old, very adult unpleasantness in his voice. “I took a quick look, through a scrying glass. Drood Hall has been destroyed, blown up and burned down. They’re all dead. Such a marvellous sight: half-melted golden figures strewn across the rubble, like broken dolls. I wish I could have seen it happen . . . but you can’t have everything.”

“They’re all dead?” I said. “Every single Drood?”

“One got away,” said Rogue. “Because he wasn’t there when it happened. Only one left, out of all those self-righteous, murdering bullies. Eddie, the last Drood. I really must get around to killing him when I have a moment. There’d be no fun in doing it now, you understand, while he’s still grieving. Better to wait till he’s recovered and started rebuilding his life . . . and then there I’ll be, to put an end to the last Drood.”

“Who the hell could be powerful enough to wipe out the entire Drood family?” I said, because I felt someone should say it.

Rogue smiled and shrugged easily. “Haven’t a clue. Don’t know anyone who does. But I will find out, eventually, if only so I can shake him by the hand.”

“Okay,” I said. “So far, you’re everything your family was supposed to be. Where are the rest of you?”

“Oh, here and there,” said Rogue, deliberately vague. “All over the world, hidden in plain sight, making their plans for the return of the family.”

He grinned suddenly, the first youthful thing I’d seen him do.

“And we will be back. You can count on it. We are the real immortals, and we have ruled this world for longer than anyone in this room has been alive.” He looked disparagingly around him. “Call yourselves immortals? My family has walked this Earth for fifteen centuries!”

“So how old are you?” I said.

He scowled suddenly, sticking out his lower lip in a proper teenage pout. “I was cheated out of my inheritance by the Droods. I’ve had barely eighty years of playing with Humanity! I should have had centuries as part of the most important and powerful family there’s ever been, to walk up and down in the world and change the course of human history as the whim took me. I should have had a life of wealth and influence, dispensing Life and Death, success or failure, at my pleasure! But I’d barely got started . . . It isn’t fair!”

He broke off, startled, as I stuck my face right in close to his. I’d had enough. “That was then, Rogue, this is now. As far as I’m concerned, you’re only another refugee, on the run in the Nightside. My Nightside. So behave yourself here. You try to play with the lives of people under my protection, and I’ll drag you down to the Street of the Gods and feed you to something unknowable.”

“Of course, Walker,” said Rogue, his voice suddenly entirely reasonable. “I’m a guest in this wonderfully gaudy, tawdry city. I wouldn’t dream of making any trouble.”

“You’re overdoing it,” I said.

He smiled distantly, backed carefully away, not taking his eyes off me, and moved on. A lot of people were quite keen to talk to him, to make themselves known to a living legend.

I stood alone, thinking. I’d seen and heard a great many interesting things at the Ball of Forever, but none of it to do with what I was here for. No-one had so much as mentioned an immortality serum; either to discuss its possibilities, its price, or whether it should be destroyed. And somebody would have by now. Perhaps its owner was holding court in some hidden back room, unknown to any but the most select immortals. But I hadn’t seen anybody drifting away, or disappearing and reappearing . . . and it’s really hard to hide secret doors and rooms from me. I was beginning to wonder if the serum actually existed. A drug that could make everyone immortal would set off all kinds of alarms. The universe itself resents the existence of immortals, which is why there are so few of them. They mess things up, disrupt the natural order . . . and the universe has been known to react when it feels there are too many, in quite brutal and efficient ways. Trust me; you don’t want to know how.

I was still considering the implications of that when a great cry went up, followed by a number of screams. People were shouting, backing away, and pressing forward. I pushed my way through the crowd, following the screams, and there on the floor by the buffet, very quiet and very still and quite definitely dead, was King of Skin.