The Bride Wore Black Leather (5 page)

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?”