“You do know,” said Dead Boy, not quite looking in my direction, “if it does all kick off, you can always rely on me.”
I looked at him thoughtfully. “You’d take on the dreaded and justly feared Razor Eddie, for me?”
“Well,” he said. “Not necessarily for you, John, or at least, not just for you. But, come on; you must have wondered at some time or another whether you could take Razor Eddie. I know I have.”
“Testosterone is a terrible thing,” observed Alex.
Razor Eddie turned his head suddenly to look at us as he settled into his private booth at the back of the bar, with his usual calm and unconcerned face—as though he knew we were talking about him. Even though there was no way he could have heard us through the general bedlam of raised voices. Except . . . he was Razor Eddie. We all nodded to each other, as though our gazes had happened to meet, in a friendly enough way; and then he went back to staring at nothing, and Dead Boy and I looked at each other.
“He really is a spooky bugger,” said Dead Boy, nodding to Alex as he collected his two Really Bloody Marys with real blood, and a Valhalla Venom for himself. He gave me a sideways look. “I’ve never known what you see in him.”
“Lot of people say the same to me about you,” I said.
“Really?” said Dead Boy. “Can’t think why. Life and soul of the party, that’s me, even though I’m dead. You’ll have to excuse me now; my new ghoul-friends are waiting, and I don’t know how long they’ll last.”
He took his drinks away, and, after a moment’s thought, I made my way through the tightly packed crowd to join Razor Eddie in his private booth. I sat down opposite him, and he nodded to me gravely. There was plenty of room at the table; no-one else was going to sit with him. And not only because of the smell. I leaned forward and made a point of meeting his cold, cold gaze.
“It seems a lot of people have heard about this prophecy of yours, Eddie,” I said. “ How accurate is it likely to be?”
“You said it yourself, John,” murmured Razor Eddie. “There are any number of possible futures. And people will always talk.”
“They’re not only talking; they’re laying bets!”
“Well, of course they are.” The ghost of a smile passed briefly across his pale lips. “Do you want to know the latest odds?”
I sat back in my chair and looked at him thoughtfully. “Would you really kill me, after everything we’ve been through together?”
“Oh, I think so,” said Razor Eddie. “Perhaps because of all the things we’ve been through together. I will say this—it would have to be for a very good reason.” He considered me for a long moment. “You always were too soft-hearted for your own good. They should have made me Walker. I would have brought real justice to the Nightside.”
“Well, yes, possibly,” I said. “But I have to wonder how many would still be left alive after you’d finished. Besides, you’ve seen where that kind of single-minded self-righteousness leads. You remember the Walking Man.”
“Yes,” said Razor Eddie. “I remember the Walking Man. The Wrath of God in the world of Men, he said. And you faced him down when I couldn’t. I haven’t forgotten that, John.”
“Do you want to end up like him?” I said steadily.
Razor Eddie actually took some time to think about that one. “I admired his arrogance,” he said finally. “His cold certainty. But he turned out to be soft, too, in the end. I suppose I am . . . fond of you, John, in my way. But it would be a relief to know you wouldn’t be around any more. To get in my way, to stop me doing things that need doing. So be careful, John. Never give me a reason to go up against you. You know it makes sense, Walker.”
“Well,” I said, getting to my feet, “I’m glad we had this little chat. We really should do this less.”
On my way back to the bar, I nodded to Springheel Jack and the Bride. Even being dead, again, wasn’t enough to keep the Bride from a party. Jack was sitting on the Bride’s lap as they fed each other pieces of bread soaked in gooey stringy cheese, using the fondue set that had arrived as an early wedding present. From someone who didn’t really know Suzie and me all that well. I’d donated it to the party, in the hope someone would break it or steal it. Back at the bar, Alex had a large wormwood brandy waiting for me.
“Who did give you that fondue set, anyway?”
“Julien Advent,” I said. “He never really got over the seventies. I suppose we should be grateful he didn’t give us a Soda Stream.”
Alex winced. “Can you still get those things?”
“This is the Nightside,” I said. “You can get all kinds of abominations in the Nightside.”
“I haven’t seen the Lord of Thorns yet,” said Alex. “Imagine my relief.”
“I did ask him,” I said. “Because you sort of have to when he’s performing your wedding; but luckily, he’s busy preparing for the ceremony at St. Jude’s. Just as well. He didn’t strike me as a party animal.”
“I’ll tell you who is here, large as life and twice as stuck-up,” said Alex, not even bothering to lower his voice. “Two-thirds of everyone’s favourite disturbing brothers: Tommy and Larry Oblivion. At least Hadleigh isn’t with them. I don’t know if this place could stand being pushed that far up-market.”
I looked where he indicated. I’d sent invitations to all the Oblivion Brothers but never actually expected them to turn up. Larry was sitting perfectly upright at his table, a tall pale sight with flat yellow hair, dressed in the very best Armani. Larry was dead and looked it, but he had made a concession to the party atmosphere by loosening the knot on his tie. He wasn’t drinking or eating anything, (because he was very firm about being dead, and having no illusions about the state), but he did seem to be picking up something of a contact high from his surroundings.
Tommy Oblivion slumped bonelessly in his seat, grinning happily in all directions, a tall and terribly effete person in brightly coloured New Romantics silks. Unlike most of us, the existential private eye had enjoyed a pretty good eighties. No doubt being so utterly existential helped. I could hear him loudly boasting to one and all that he was so existential he couldn’t even be sure of exactly what he was drinking. It might be sparkling water from the River Ganges, and therefore good for his karma. Or it might be still water from the Reichenbach Falls. Or possibly even shimmering water from Chernobyl, the only isotonic energy drink that glowed in the dark. And if you drank enough of it, so would you. Already people around him could be heard asking if he couldn’t tune his existentialism down a bloody bit, so they could be sure where they’d left their tables?
I was rather more interested in Old Father Time, who’d come in specially from Shadows Fall (that quiet backwater town where legends go to die when the world stops believing in them, an elephants’ graveyard for the supernatural). He was holding court at one of the larger tables and being avuncular to one and all. A wiry but imposing figure with a sharp-featured face and a great mane of pure white hair, he dressed to the very height of Victorian fashion. He stood straight-backed at the head of his table, both hands clutching firmly at his lapels, dispensing wisdom for all those with the wit to hear. There wasn’t anything he didn’t know about Time, so I wandered over to have a quiet word with him. He nodded happily at me and moved away from his table to grasp my hand in both of his.
“John Taylor, my dear boy! Come, talk with me. I’ve been expecting you. And congratulations, on becoming Walker! About time you settled down and stopped making trouble for everyone, eh? Eh?”
“I’m not retiring,” I said. “I’m . . . changing direction.”
“Quite so, dear boy, quite so.”
“Who’s running the Time Tower, while you’re enjoying yourself here?” I said.
“Oh, I’m there, too,” said Old Father Time. “And I’m back at Shadows Fall, in the Gallery of Bone. Being in more than one place at the same time is one of the first things you learn in the Time business.” He let go of his lapels long enough to beckon me in close, lowering h
is voice as much as he could and still be heard. “There’s something I haven’t been meaning to tell you, until you were ready, and now I fear I may have left it too late. Now what was it, what was it? Hmm? My memory isn’t what it used to be, if it ever was. Ah yes! We, that is to say all of us here in the Nightside, we are approaching . . . a moment of decision. You know the sort of thing, one of those focal moments in Time, where everything depends on the decision one vital person will make. Which may or may not be you. The moment is very near. Oh yes. And whatever it is that’s about to happen . . . it could see the sun finally rise over the Nightside, an end to the longest night the world has ever known; and then nothing would ever be the same again.”
“And it had to happen the night before my wedding,” I said heavily.
“Well,” said Old Father Time, “that’s Time.”
He went back to his table, his eyes far away, looking at the things only he could see.
“Don’t mind him,” said Time’s usual companion, the young woman called Mad. “You should never take him too seriously. I don’t.”
Mad was a punk, and proud of it. All leathers and chains and uncomfortable-looking piercings, with the word HATE tattooed on both sets of knuckles. I was pretty sure I hadn’t noticed her at Time’s table, but then Mad had a gift for turning up where she wasn’t wanted. (There were those who said Mad was short for Madeleine; but I’ve never been convinced.) She looked at me with her angry, fey eyes.
“He’s been going on about the End of All Things for as long as I’ve known him,” she said carelessly. “And we’re all still here. Hey, want to see a really upsetting party trick I can do with two flick-knives and an unwilling volunteer?”
“Not right now,” I said.
Harry Fabulous was on the prowl and on the prod, moving easily from one group to another, smiling his professional smile and working his professional charm, happy and eager to supply everyone with anything that was bad for them, at very reasonable prices. I hadn’t actually invited him, but trying to keep Harry Fabulous out of a convivial gathering was like trying to keep ants out of a picnic. Always sharply dressed, always smiling a smile that never reached his eyes, Harry used to be the best go-to man in the Nightside. He could get you absolutely anything if you could meet his price. But then something happened, in the back room of some very private members-only club, and he was never the same afterwards. These days he does his best to Do Good Things, while he can, to save his soul from certain damnation. He seemed cheerful enough, but I noticed he never liked anyone to get behind him, and he had a tendency to jump at his own shadow. Or anyone else’s. I strolled over to join him. He saw me coming, thought about running, thought better of it, and greeted me with his best smile.
“Mr. Taylor! Hello! How’s it going?”
“Hello, Harry,” I said. “Are you being a good boy?”
“Always, Mr. Taylor; you know that!” His smile switched on and off as though he couldn’t quite see the point in working the thing when the person before him was never going to believe it anyway. “I’m here to see that everyone has what they need, to have a good time on your stag night. In a good way, of course. Is there anything I might have on me that would tempt you, Mr. Taylor? Got some very nice black centipede meat, very spicy. Or how about a little snuff, made from the crushed and ground-up bodies of Egyptian mummies? Black Lotus Smoothie?”
“And this is you, being good?” I said.
“Good?” said Harry Fabulous. “At these prices I’m practically martyring myself!”
I left him to it. William and Eleanor Griffin, no longer immortal and looking much happier for it (especially after the Devil himself turned up in person to drag their father down to Hell), were bellying up to the bar and ordering the very best champagne Alex had to offer. Which would make him very happy. No-one ever notices they’re being overcharged when ordering the very best champagne. William and Eleanor nodded benignly to everyone and did their best to fit in before blowing it completely by asking if anyone could recommend a truly trustworthy butler?
Percival Smyth-Herriot had also turned up, all the way from the Museum of Unnatural History, with a miniature T. rex on a leash. A tall spindly figure in a shiny suit, with breakfast stains on his waistcoat that might have been fresh, or might not. He was a lot happier now the Collector was dead, and no longer blackmailing him. I had persuaded the Authorities to donate all of the late Collector’s public assets to the Museum of Unnatural History, for public display, and now Percival couldn’t do enough for the Authorities in general, and me personally. It’s always good to have a tame expert you can rely on, for when you need to know something really important in a hurry. Percival was currently on his second G&T and feeling very daring. He waggled his fingers at me, and I nodded back. Percival didn’t get out much. Dead Boy collared Percival and dragged him over to meet one of the female ghouls. I decided not to get involved.
Chandra Singh and Augusta Moon had also turned up, surprisingly arm in arm, two great monster hunters representing the Adventurers Club. They were sharing their table with a great hulking yeti (with any number of cute pink ribbons in its shaggy grey fur), a talking mongoose called Cliff, and Klatu the Thing from Dimension X. I would have given a lot to listen in on that conversation, but I was distracted by a polite but imperious cough from the next table.
The Rogue Vicar Tamsin MacReady sat elegantly upright in her chair, drinking beer from a straight glass with her little finger extended. A tiny little thing, the vicar was barely five feet tall and slender with it. She had kind eyes and a winning smile, and a backbone of tempered steel. She wore a simple grey suit with a vicar’s white collar. She didn’t look like a fire-breathing zealot, but then the real ones seldom do. Sitting beside her was her close companion, Sharon Pilkington-Smythe. A healthy-looking young lady, wearing a baggy grey jumper over thoroughly worn-in riding britches. She had shaggy red hair and fierce green eyes, and a smile that took no prisoners. She was drinking snakebite from a brandy glass, and fooling no-one. I sighed inwardly and sat down with them. A vicar will always catch you, no matter how fast you run.
“I have to say, sweetie, that I am a bit put-out that you didn’t want my Tamsin to officiate at your wedding,” said Sharon immediately.
“Oh hush, dear,” said the rogue vicar. “I’m not one to put myself forward, you know that.”
“Of course not, sweetie; that’s what I’m here for.”
“The Lord of Thorns will be performing the ceremony,” I said. “At the Church of St. Jude’s.”
“There, you see?” said the vicar, waggling a finger in remonstration at Sharon. “Definitely outclassed. I just represent God in the Nightside; the Lord of Thorns has personal chats with Him on a regular basis.”
“Well, yes, but you do real heart-to-heart stuff at your weddings,” Sharon said stubbornly. “Really makes a person feel married.”
But Tamsin MacReady was already looking thoughtfully at Razor Eddie, in his private booth at the back. She said something very un-vicar-like, under her breath, and looked sharply at me.
“I have heard talk . . . that Razor Eddie might be getting above himself. You’re Walker now; you don’t have to deal personally with every threat that comes your way. If you wish, I could set Sharon on him.”
“Does everyone here know about the prophecy?” I said, a bit miffed.
“Pretty much,” said the rogue vicar. “Any news about Razor Eddie tends to do the rounds fairly quickly, if only so the rest of us know which way to jump when the trouble starts.”
“Grubby little upstart,” said Sharon. “I could take him.” She studied Razor Eddie with her hungry eyes, and I remembered the brief glimpse I’d once got of her true, hidden nature, a brief vision of huge teeth and ragged claws, of something indescribably vile and vicious.
“Sharon, sweetie, I could take him,” Tamsin MacReady said firmly. “He’s only another god from the Street of the Gods. I serve the true God, and His strength is mine.”
“No-one’s
taking anyone,” I said, just as firmly. “Let us all play nicely together, if only for one night. Thanks for the offer, though, Vicar. But I solve my own problems. That’s how you get to be Walker.”
“We like what you’ve done with Suzie Shooter,” said Sharon. “We’re all very impressed with how you’ve calmed her down. We were worried we might have to do something about her.”
I had to smile. “I haven’t calmed her down in the least. I’ve helped her channel her anger more productively.”
“Love conquers all,” said Tamsin, smiling fondly at Sharon. “That’s what it’s for.”
I moved on again. It was my party, my stag night, but I couldn’t seem to settle. As though I were looking for the one person who wasn’t there, but should have been. I went back to the bar.
“It’s early yet,” said Alex. “People will be arriving for ages yet whether we want them to or not. Oh, don’t tell me you invited the Authorities?”
“I sort of had to,” I said. “But it was kind of understood on both sides that I was being polite. Julien Advent’s okay; but most of the others could stop a party at twenty paces. And anyway, right now they’ve got more pressing worries. You have heard of King of Skin’s murder . . . of course you have. Anyway, they’ve got to choose a worthy replacement, and quickly, or risk looking weak and indecisive.”
“I don’t mind Julien Advent,” said Alex. “He only drinks the good stuff, pays his bar bill on time, and hardly ever starts a fight. But I’ve never been too sure how you and he get on. I wouldn’t have thought you’d have anything in common. Some days you’re the best of partners in crime, and the next he’s offering a reward for your arrest and writing nasty editorials about you in the Night Times.”
“We’re friends, sort of,” I said. “But he’s never approved of the way I get things done. He’s got principles. He’s always been a hero, the real deal, whereas I have always taken a more pragmatic approach to things. We get along. Most of the time. We know where we stand with each other.”