The Bride Wore Black Leather

THREE Time, See What’s Become of Me

I moved in quickly to kneel down beside the motionless body, to check for signs of life; but there was no pulse at wrist or neck. The skin under my fingertips felt cold and clammy, and strangely slack . . . It moved too easily and too freely under my touch, as though it wasn’t properly attached. I checked that King of Skin wasn’t breathing, then stood up and looked coldly around me. The immortals stood huddled together in little groups, for comfort and support, staring at me silently with wide, fascinated eyes, like traumatised children. None of them were strangers to death, even sudden and violent death; but a murder, of one of their own kind, in a place where they should have been safe . . . that was something else. No personal weapons were allowed for anyone at the Ball of Forever, supposedly to prevent things like this.

I caught Hadleigh Oblivion’s eye and beckoned him forward. He slipped easily through the crowd and moved forward to join me. He looked at the body, then looked at me expectantly.

“You’re the Detective Inspectre,” I said. “Do you want to take over the case?”

“You’re Walker,” said Hadleigh. “This is your jurisdiction.”

“Then do me a favour. Go stand by the door, laugh in anyone’s face if they try to leave. No-one gets in or out until I’ve finished my investigation.”

“I’ll stand guard,” said Hadleigh. “It should be . . . amusing.”

He shot me a quick smile and strode through the crowd to the far door, without always waiting for everyone to get out of his way. The immortals were finding their voices now, the clatter of questions and demands becoming louder by the moment. I was going to have to make a stand—be Walker, and take charge of the situation. Or none of them would talk to me. I raised my voice and addressed the gathered immortals, and they reluctantly quietened down and looked at me.

“All right!” I said. “Pay attention! King of Skin has been murdered. That makes this ball-room a crime scene, and you’re all suspects. So none of you are going anywhere soon. Get used to it. Now, I’m going to need your help and cooperation to find the killer. He’s still here, hiding; and the sooner I find him, the sooner you can all feel safe again. I’m going to have to ask all of you some questions. None of you should take it personally . . .”

“We don’t answer to you!” snapped a man wrapped in a purple Roman toga, to which he might or might not have been entitled. “Jumped-up functionary! We are leaving; all of us! Before the murderer strikes again!”

“No you’re not,” I said, fixing him with my best hard glare. “No-one leaves until I’ve found the killer.”

Jasmine de Loir stepped forward, cocking her oversized head back, the better to sneer down her aristocratic nose at me. She was dressed as Elizabeth I, complete with red hair and a very high forehead. “You can’t keep us here! You’re only a mortal. You have no authority over us!”

“He isn’t even really a Walker!” said another voice from somewhere safe in the back of the crowd. “He doesn’t have the Voice!”

“I’m John Taylor!” I said loudly, and the crowd fell quiet again. I smiled nastily around me, and a few actually shivered. “You’ve all heard of me. The man with a gift for finding things. Now be quiet, and behave yourselves, or . . .”

“Or what?” said Jasmine.

“Or I’ll find your missing husband,” I said.

Jasmine hesitated and was lost. She slipped back into the crowd. I looked unhurriedly around me, nodding to faces I recognised.

“You there, I could find where the missing funds from your company went. Or you. I could find where you buried the bodies. And as for you, sweetie, I could find your old nose and put it back where it used to be.”

They were all very quiet now, looking at each for support and not finding it. They all had secrets, and none of them wanted me looking at them too closely. Of course, I was mostly bluffing, throwing out a few educated guesses based on the latest gossip; but they didn’t know that. I turned my back on them all and knelt beside what was left of King of Skin.

He was lying face-down, half-curled into a ball. There was a single bloody wound in the small of his back and more blood soaking his tattered coat. He’d died quickly, bleeding out in seconds. With his glamour gone, without his usual spooky aspect, he looked much smaller and very ordinary. I turned the head carefully, so I could see the face. His real face, at last. Not particularly handsome, or ugly; nothing more than another face in the crowd. His clothes were old and comfortable, and not in the least stylish. Very worn, very lived-in. And then, as I looked at the face, it suddenly shrivelled up into a mass of wrinkles. As though all the years of his considerable age had caught up with him at once. The wrinkles kept appearing, criss-crossing each other, sinking deep into the flesh, until I was looking at the face of a man who’d lived at least a hundred years, and most of them hard ones. The few immortals who’d edged in for a closer look let out horrified gasps and hurriedly retreated. Time’s catching up was an immortal’s greatest fear.

I checked the rest of the body thoroughly. Just as old, but no more wounds. The stab wound in his back was wide and deep, and it had been made with something with a jagged edge. Not a knife, or any other bladed weapon. Whatever it was, it had irregular, serrated edges . . . I went through King of Skin’s pockets and found nothing. Not even a wallet or a handkerchief or a ring of keys. The killer couldn’t have had time to rob his victim; which suggested King of Skin had arrived with empty pockets. Perhaps because he relied on his glamour to get him what he needed. Didn’t rule out robbery as a motive, though . . . I stood up, straightened my aching back, took out my mobile phone and put in a call to the Nightside CSI. Alistair Hoob; nice guy, multiple personalities, a whole department in one head. Crowded, but efficient. He took a long time to answer his phone.

“Yes? What is it? (I’m busy!) Oh, hello, John. (You call him Walker now.) I know! (He knows, he knows.) Someday I swear I’m going to buy a spirit gun and shoot all you other voices in my head.”

“I’ve got a murder at the Ball of Forever,” I said loudly. “Nasty business, with nasty implications. How soon can you get here?”

“Ah well,” he said. “That’s the problem. I’m already working another murder, at the Old Haymarket Theatre. That’s right on the other side of the city. (Bad business. Actors. Very touchy people.) (Who knew the old fellow had so much poison in him?) I’ll get to you as soon as I can (blood), but it’ll take me a while. (I want a pony.)”

“Do your best,” I said. “Got a feeling I’m going to need all the help I can get on this one.”

“Do you want me to alert the Authorities? (Who’s been messing with my DNA kit again?)”

“Tell them,” I said. “And then tell them to stay out of it. It happened on my watch, right in front of me, so it’s my murder, my case. Tell them I’ll be in touch when I’ve found the killer; and not before.”

“Your funeral, Walker. (Ooh, can I come? I love funerals!) See you in a while.”

I put my phone away and looked down at the body again. A stab wound in the back meant he never saw it coming. The assassin had struck from behind . . . but who would King of Skin turn his back on, in a place like this? He would have known better. So, had the murderer sneaked up on him? Without being noticed, in a crowded room? I glared at the watching immortals.

“Who found the body? Come on; somebody screamed.”

A tall, gangly fellow dressed in Puritan blacks raised a hesitant hand. “I was startled, that’s all. You don’t expect something as vulgar as common murder in a select gathering like this. I saw him lying there, and the blood, and I let out . . . an involuntary noise, that’s all.”

“You saw the body lying on the floor?” I said. “You didn’t see the actual murder?”

“No! No! Just the body. Isn’t that enough?”

“Don’t go anywhere,” I said because you have to say things like that. And I went back to looking at King of Skin.

The three reporters finally fought their way through the tightly packed crowd and stared at the dead body with fascinated, eager eyes. Brilliant Chang seemed as calm and serene as ever. He’d seen his share of bodies before, in his time as an enforcer. Bettie Divine’s face was flushed, and she was breathing heavily at the prospect of covering a real story. She didn’t get many of those, working for the Unnatural Inquirer. And Charlotte ap Owen’s face was an open book, for all her many nips and tucks. This story was her passport to the big time, and she was damned if anything was going to get in her way. She snarled for Dave the camera-man to get good coverage of the crime scene, and I let her. I could always commandeer the coverage later if I needed it. I nodded for Brilliant Chang to step forward. I could use a cool head to talk with.

“Am I not a suspect, then?” he said amiably.

“You’re a combat sorcerer,” I said. “If you’d wanted him dead, you could have killed him in a dozen ways and never left a mark.”

“True.”

“Why are you standing around, Taylor?” snapped Charlotte. “Why don’t you use your gift and find the killer!”

“Because it doesn’t work that way,” I said. “I have to ask my gift a specific question to get a specific answer.”

“A question occurs to me,” said Chang. “King of Skin was not a well-liked man. He knew things, and wasn’t loath to let people know it. So, which of his many secrets was a step too far? Which one was important enough to be worth killing over, to keep it secret?”

“Good point,” I said. “But he’s been hoarding secrets for years. He always knew how far he could push things . . . Wait. Hold everything. Something’s happening to the body.”

Chang and I both knelt beside King of Skin, while Charlotte shrieked for Dave to get a close-up. King of Skin’s deeply wrinkled face was twitching, rising and falling, as though something was moving underneath it. And then, as we all watched, his entire face peeled off and dropped away, revealing another face beneath it. A second, completely different set of features. And then it aged, too, shrivelling into a mess of wrinkles, before dropping off to reveal yet another face beneath. The process went on and on, face giving way to face, skin to skin, aging and slipping away to reveal another, like those Russian dolls that nest inside one another. As each face fell to the floor, it rotted quickly, decaying and falling to dust in a matter of seconds. Skin under skin, face under face, until the process finally stopped, with a face I recognised. I’d seen it once before, on the future King of Skin, who’d been a member of my Enemies, in the terrible possible future I’d visited. And then that face aged, too, and fell in upon itself, a mask of far too many years.

“It’s stopped,” said Chang. “Do you suppose that last one was his real face? His original face?”

“I think so,” I said. “Remember what Hadleigh said to him? He said King of Skin’s power was skin deep. He knew about this.”

“You think you can get Hadleigh to talk?” said Chang.

“Probably not,” I said. “It’s his job to know things like this, but he never talks about his job. Hell, I’m not even sure exactly what his job is. Stick to the point. Is this how King of Skin became immortal, by wrapping himself in other people’s skin? Stealing their skins, their lives, their life energies, to bolster and prolong his own?”

“I have heard of such measures,” said Chang. “But I never knew . . . His name! King of Skin! He was taunting us all with his name. His own greatest secret, right there in the open for everyone to see.”

He carried on talking, but I wasn’t listening. A thought had struck me. A very personal, very selfish thought. With King of Skin dead, the group of Enemies I’d seen in that potential future couldn’t happen. Which meant . . . that future couldn’t happen. Did this mean that, finally, the Nightside was safe from the terrible destiny I’d seen? The end of the world that I was supposed to bring about? Oh please God, let it be so. I could do with one less burden to carry. I realised Chang had stopped talking and was looking at me quizzically.

“Sorry,” I said. “King of Skin’s death has many repercussions, and I’m only starting to see some of them.”

“I was wondering . . . what’s become of the murder weapon?” said Brilliant Chang. “It isn’t in the victim, or anywhere near the body.”

I got down on my hands and knees and looked back and forth underneath the buffet tables. Dust bunnies, dropped food, and what looked very like rat turds, but nothing that could have killed King of Skin. I got back to my feet, brushing dust from my knees.

“The murderer must still have it on him,” I said.

“Do you have the authority to search everyone here?” said Chang.

“I could try,” I said. “But I think that might be a step too far for most of them. They’d see it as an affront to their dignity. Some of them would rather fight a duel or defy the Authorities than be physically man-handled in front of their peers. And anyway, the murderer’s had plenty of time to dispose of the weapon by now. It could be anywhere.”

“Anywhere inside this room,” said Charlotte ap Owen, chipping in to remind us she was still there and not being left out of anything.

“Excuse me! Hello, excuse me! I’ve got an idea!”

I looked round to see Bettie Divine bouncing on her feet and waving her hand in the air excitedly, like a child in class who knows the answer.

“What have you got, Bettie?” I said patiently.

“We all saw the different faces King of Skin was hiding behind. If they are the faces of people he killed, to take their life energies for his own. well, mightn’t they have friends or family who’d want to avenge their deaths? If someone had found out King of Skin was a serial killer, that could be your motive right there!”

“Good point,” I said. “Well done. Unfortunately, all the faces have rotted away to dust. I’ll see if the CSI guy can dig out some evidence from what’s left, when he finally gets here; but I’m not hopeful.”

“I got all the faces on camera,” said Dave. “Close-ups of each, before they rotted.”

“Good man,” I said. “We can study the coverage later.”

“For a price,” Charlotte said quickly.

“Don’t push it,” I said. I looked round at the crowd of assembled immortals, and sighed deeply. No easy fixes here. I was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way, by asking a lot of people a lot of questions they didn’t want to answer and trying to sort the truth from a pack of lies.

I said as much, and Bettie grinned. “You mean, establishing alibis! Where were you when the lights went out, and all that sort of thing! Can we watch?”

“No. Chang, you keep an eye on the body and make sure no-one interferes with it. Bettie, Charlotte, Dave . . . You can interview anyone you can get to talk to you but don’t get in my way, or I’ll have you arrested for something I may or may not make up on the spur of the moment.”

“You’re going to make a fine Walker,” Chang said solemnly.

“Now you’re just being nasty,” I said.

I went off to have a private word with Razor Eddie. He was still standing in his corner, quietly observing the drama. He nodded briefly to me.

“You’re right. I’m a suspect. No secret that King of Skin and I were enemies. But he was never powerful enough to take me on, or annoying enough to be worth my time.”

“He knew something about you,” I said. “What did he mean when he asked where you got your straight razor?”

Razor Eddie looked at me for a long moment with his cold cold eyes. “He knew things. But not enough to be worth killing over. My secrets . . . remain my secrets. You know too much about me as it is, John.”

“Then how can I be sure you didn’t kill him?”

Razor Eddie smiled slowly, showing ruined grey teeth. “Because if I had killed him, I’d have been a lot more thorough. You’d have found pieces of him all over the room.”

I had to nod. I’d seen the Punk God of the Straight Razor’s handiwork before, and it was always messy. He didn’t simply kill people; he made a statement.

“Don’t go anywhere,” I said. “Please.”

“Ah well,” said Razor Eddie. “As long as you’re saying please . . .”

I left him, and went over to join Dead Boy, who was still hovering at the other end of the buffet table and still eating. He looked at me a little guiltily, put down the plate of mushroom vol-au-vents, and wiped his fingers on the front of his greatcoat.

“Sorry. Bad timing, I know. Should show respect for the dead, and all that. But I’m already dead, and I get no respect. I want to enjoy as much of this as I can before the pills wear off.”

“Where does all the food . . . No, I don’t want to know.”

“Very wise,” said Dead Boy. “Why aren’t you questioning the butler? It’s always the butler who did it, on occasions like these. You saw him when we came in, very shifty-looking fellow.”

“It’s not him,” I said patiently. “On the grounds that he was on the other side of the door when the murder occurred.”

“Ah,” Dead Boy said wisely. “But that’s how they do it! It’s always the least likely suspect!”

“No,” I said.

He sulked. “It was the butler last time. With the Griffin.”

“We are changing the subject,” I said firmly. “What did King of Skin know about you? He said something about your girl-friend.”

Dead Boy scowled. “It’s not easy having a sex life when you’re dead. Most of the kinds of girls who do come looking aren’t the sort you want to encourage. So when I do find someone special, someone who can . . . reach me, she’s going to be very special. So I’m not going to talk about her. But, if I had wanted King of Skin dead, which I didn’t, because basically he was only an annoying little tit . . . If I had wanted to kill him, I’ve got more sense than to do it in front of a roomful of witnesses, and you. I’m dead, not stupid.”

“True,” I said.

Dead Boy looked at me thoughtfully, choosing his words carefully. “You do know it’s almost certainly Hadleigh Oblivion who did it?”

“What?”

“It’s common sense. Think about it. Who else here is powerful enough to kill King of Skin, in front of all these people, and not be noticed?”

“But . . . why would he want to?” I said. “He’s the Detective Inspectre; why would he lower himself to common murder?”

“Because King of Skin knew something about him. And he knew more about King of Skin than any of us. Maybe . . . King finally stumbled on a secret he should have kept quiet about.” Dead Boy looked over to the door, where Hadleigh was standing guard. “If it is him, can you arrest him?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m Walker. I can do anything. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s part of the job description.”

“Well, yes,” said Dead Boy. “Obviously. But this is Hadleigh Oblivion we’re talking about. The Detective Inspectre, whatever the hell that is.”

“I’ll have a word with him,” I said. “But for now, he’s just another suspect.”

“Along with me and Razor Eddie?” said Dead Boy.

“Very definitely including both of you,” I said.

“Ah,” said Dead Boy. “But what if it was both of us, working together? What would you do then?”

“Improvise,” I said. “And phone Suzie Shooter for backup.”

“The horror, the horror,” said Dead Boy. And went back to his vol-au-vents.

I was heading for Mistress Mayhem when I was interrupted by Bettie Divine. She planted herself right in front of me, hands on hips, and glared at me.

“You don’t really see me as a suspect, do you, sweetie? After all we nearly meant to each other? I’m not guilty of anything!”

“No?” I said. “What about the Schalcken affair?”

“A clear case of mistaken identity,” Bettie said briskly.

“The Lovett pie-shop fiasco?”

“I was misinformed. Anyone can make a mistake.”

“Big John . . .”

“They never proved anything! Look, the point I’m making is I’m not the kind to go around killing people! I’m not capable of it!”

“Anyone is capable of anything,” I said. “Given sufficient motivation. Now, if you want to make yourself useful, try turning that devastating charm on the assembled immortals and see if you can get someone to admit to something. If anyone can, you can. I have work to do.”

I passed her by and nodded politely to Mistress Mayhem. She was hugging herself tightly, as though against some chill, and she looked a lot younger than she had before. Almost like a teenager playing dress-up at her first adult party. She fixed me with a defiant gaze.

“I didn’t kill him. Didn’t even know the man. I never even met him before tonight.”

“He still knew things about you,” I said. “He knew you touched up your skin with dye to maintain that dreaded Kali connection. And he knew about the baby you would have had.”

She was shaking her head all through this, but the truth showed in her face. When I said the word baby, all the strength seemed to go right out of her. When she finally spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper.

“I never told anyone. How did he know? I was never even going to tell Jimmy. It would have upset him too much. But I am a descendent of Kali! I am! I could have killed that slimy bastard with a touch! If I’d wanted. Withered him like a flower, like Hadleigh did . . . They’re saying someone stuck a knife in him. Is that right?”

“He was stabbed in the back,” I said carefully.

“Well, I haven’t got a knife! Look at me! Where would I hide one in this outfit?”

She had a point.

“I’m talking to everyone,” I said. “Don’t take it personally. Did you come here with anyone?”

“No.”

“Then go talk with Dead Boy. He’s appalling company, and his conversation rarely ventures far from the inappropriate, but he’s got a good heart. He’ll look after you and make sure no-one bothers you.”

I steered her in Dead Boy’s direction, then stopped abruptly as a Neanderthal man came rolling through the crowd towards me. He was barely five feet tall, hunched right over but powerfully built. His heavy face was all bone and gristle, with massive lowering eye-brow ridges and hardly any chin. His knees splayed out, and his knuckles barely cleared the floor. He was wearing a shining white seventies disco outfit, complete with a big gold medallion on a chain hanging over his extremely hairy chest. He nodded amiably to me.

“Greetings, Walker. I am Tomias Squarefoot.”

“I know,” I said. “We met once before. Long ago.”

He shrugged calmly. “It is entirely possible. I am the oldest of the immortals. I have met pretty much everyone, at one time or another; but my memory is not what it was. I do not claim to speak for the immortals, but as the oldest here, I think I can represent them. And I think I can speak for all of us when I say it is clear that there is an obvious suspect.”

“Is there really?” I said. “News to me. Who did you have in mind?

“The young man who calls himself Rogue, of course,” said Squarefoot. “He appears out of nowhere, with no invitation, claiming to be part of the notorious Family of Immortals. A group famed for their duplicity, treachery, and general back-stabbing. Either he isn’t who he says he is, in which case what is he doing here, in this company? Or he is who he says he is, in which case, what is he doing here? What secret purpose has brought him to a Ball no other member of his family has ever graced with their presence? On top of that, do I really need to point out that we never had a death here, at any of our meetings, until he showed up?”

I turned to look thoughtfully at Rogue, standing on his own, some way off. He had a drink in his hand and looked far-away, lost in his own thoughts.

“All right,” I said to the Neanderthal. “You have a point. I’ll have a word. But only because you helped save my life, that time.”

Squarefoot shrugged his massive shoulders. “It is possible. I meet so many people; you must forgive me if you don’t stand out. All you mortals look the same to me.”

I nodded and moved away. He was right. It had been almost two thousand years since he helped save me from the Wild Hunt of the old god Herne. But I hadn’t forgotten.

Rogue saw me coming and took a long drink from his champagne flute before facing me, apparently completely unconcerned. I slapped the glass out of his hand, grabbed him, and turned him around and slammed him up against the wall. He hit hard enough to knock the breath out of him, but he didn’t complain or struggle. He simply stood there, entirely relaxed, as I frisked him from top to bottom, making a thorough job of it. I found all kinds of interesting objects in his pockets, the accumulated flotsam and jetsam of a very long life, but nothing that could have been used as a weapon. I stepped back, and he turned around, adjusting his clothing here and there, with neat fussy movements that were completely at odds with his teenage appearance.

“Typical mortal manners,” he murmured. “No respect for your elders. Be careful, young Walker, be very careful, lest I decide to teach you some manners. I could break and cripple you in a dozen awful ways, and there would be nothing you could do to stop me.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised what John Taylor can do,” said Dead Boy, moving in on one side of me, while Razor Eddie slipped into position on the other. Dead Boy sneered at Rogue. “Walker can look after himself. But he doesn’t have to; not while we’re around. You behave yourself, young immortal, or I will knock you down and stamp on your head, and Razor Eddie here will make origami out of your insides.”

Rogue looked from Dead Boy to Razor Eddie, then back to me. He smiled charmingly.

“It’s always good to have friends you can depend on. Rest assured I will do everything in my power to cooperate with the Walker’s investigation.”

“Thanks for the support, guys,” I said. “But I think he might speak more freely without an audience.”

Dead Boy and Razor Eddie drifted away, talking quietly together. I would have given a lot to hear what those two very different souls might have in common, but I had a job to do.

“I didn’t know King of Skin, except by reputation,” said Rogue. “So what possible reason could I have for killing him?”

“I was hoping you might tell me,” I said. “Why did you come here tonight, for the first time?”

“Every time is someone’s first time,” said Rogue. “My family has been destroyed. Murdered. I was looking for something new to belong to. One must make a family where one can, these days. But it is very hard to make new friends when nobody trusts you.”

“Lot of that going around,” I said. “Don’t go anywhere; I may have more questions.”

Rogue smiled sweetly. “I come and go as I please.”

I gave him a hard look. “Even if you could get past Hadleigh at the door, which you can’t, there’s nowhere you can go that I couldn’t find you.”

“Ah yes,” murmured Rogue. “Your famous gift. I have a gift too, courtesy of my family.”

And right before my eyes, the flesh shifted suddenly on his face, slipping back and forth, until my own face looked back at me, complete in every detail.

“I can be anyone,” said Rogue, with my lips but his voice. A really very disturbing effect.

“Ah yes,” I said, carefully casual. “Flesh-dancing. I had heard the stories . . . that everyone in your family could change their face or body, to hide in plain sight. That’s what made you all such marvellous traitors and back-stabbers.”

“Well, quite,” said Rogue, changing back to his own face.

I gave him my best sneer and left him to it. Something about Rogue’s supercilious manners and quiet contempt got on my nerves, but not enough for me to peg him as a major suspect. He was right; he had no motive. Never been here before, never even met King of Skin, wasn’t even here long enough to be insulted by him. But there were no murders until he turned up. Something to think about.

I found the Bride and Springheel Jack arguing quietly but fiercely with Hadleigh Oblivion. They wanted to leave, and he was having none of it. They all looked round as I approached. Springheel Jack took a step towards me, but the Bride stopped him immediately with a large hand on his arm.

“Sorry,” I said. “But the Detective Inspectre is following my orders. Nobody leaves till we’ve sorted this out. Do you have somewhere you need to be?”

“An unseen murderer, with an unknown weapon, hiding among the immortals?” said Jack. “I want the Bride out of here. It’s not safe.”

“Your concern is touching, Jack, but if you don’t cut this condescending crap right now, I will slap you a good one,” said the Bride. “I am old enough to be your great-grandmother, and I know how to look after myself.”

“King of Skin almost certainly felt the same,” said Springheel Jack. He looked around the crowded ball-room. “Something isn’t right here. I can feel it. Like a premonition . . . Someone else is going to die here. There’s a wolf hiding among the sheep, and oh his teeth are sharp . . .”

He seemed almost to be in a trance. I looked at the Bride.

“Does he have the Sight?”

“I don’t know,” said the Bride. “Being Springheel Jack makes him more aware of the horrors of the world, but the state doesn’t exactly come with a user’s manual. If he says someone’s going to die, I’d put money on it . . . Jack. Jack!”

He looked at her blankly for a moment, then shuddered suddenly, as though someone had tripped over his grave.

“We need to get out of here, lover. Something bad is coming.”

“Then help me find the killer,” I said. “You can start by answering some questions.”

“Go ahead,” said the Bride.

“King of Skin spoke with you,” I said to Springheel Jack. “He said he knew what you really are. He also said he couldn’t be harmed by mortal weapons, and you said your razors were more than mortal.”

“That’s right,” said Springheel Jack. “They are. But you don’t stab someone with a cut-throat razor. I’ve seen the wound in his back; you’re looking for a large jagged-edged weapon. Doesn’t sound like a straight razor, does it?”

“I would quite certainly have smacked him round the head a few times for what he said,” said the Bride. “But he wasn’t worth it. King of Skin is part of the entertainment at these dos. We all turn up to see what he’ll say about other people. We expect him to have a go at us. It’s part of the game. You have to be able to take some, to hear some. Look, Jack and I both vouch for each other. We were together, when we heard King of Skin had been murdered. Haven’t left each other’s side since we got here. So we are each other’s alibi.”

“Yes,” I said. “But as a wise woman once said, ‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’”

“I’m cold,” said Springheel Jack. “I’m so cold . . . It’s close, and it’s getting closer.”

His eyes had gone fey again. The Bride looked at him worriedly.

“Come with me, dear, and I’ll find you a nice large brandy to warm you up.”

She led him away, into the crowd. I looked at Hadleigh.

“Could you really have kept them in if they’d wanted out?” I said.

“Oh, I think so,” said Hadleigh. “Is it my turn now? I can’t vouch for my whereabouts as I have no idea where I was when King of Skin was murdered. I have no alibi. But you must know; I wouldn’t need a weapon to kill someone. Or I could have made him disappear. Sent him somewhere awful, to suffer for his many sins, and no-one would ever have known a thing about it.”

“Do you do that a lot?” I said, somewhat creeped out.

“When necessary,” said Hadleigh Oblivion.

“You’re really not helping your case,” I said. “What better way to hide your intent than a deliberately clumsy attack?”

“I have no weapons on me,” Hadleigh said easily. “I don’t feel the need for such things. Search me if you like. You won’t find anything. I guarantee it.”

But I was still thinking about the rose he had withered by breathing it in. And how King of Skin’s faces had withered away . . . “You knew about King of Skin’s other skins,” I said. “No-one else did. And he said he knew the price you paid, to gain access to the Deep School. What kind of price was that? What did you do, that you couldn’t tell your brothers? Did King of Skin know something that you couldn’t afford anyone else to know?”

“He knew nothing,” said Hadleigh. “The only people who know anything about the Deep School are those who’ve been there. And we never talk.”

I was getting ready to pursue the point when another great cry went up. A man, crying out in shock and horror. The immortals were already falling back, scattering like panicked birds, from something that had happened on the other side of the room. I forced my way through them, to find Springheel Jack kneeling by the still-and-lifeless body of the Bride. He was holding her in his arms, rocking her back and forth like a sleeping child, his face gaunt with horror and loss. The Bride’s eyes were wide open and staring. She looked like a broken doll. I could see a jagged wound in her side, soaked with blood. Jack looked at me.

“Why didn’t you listen to me? Why didn’t you let us go? None of this would have happened if you’d let us go!”

I looked quickly around. No-one had a knife or any other weapon in hand, and no-one looked particularly guilty. Most of them looked shocked, unable to believe that a second murder of an immortal could have happened in a place where they should have felt safe. I could see the same thought start to appear in several faces—the need to get out of this dangerous place.

“Everyone please move to the back of the ballroom!” I said loudly. “Back up to the door. Hadleigh is there; the Detective Inspectre. He’ll keep you safe. And, no, it couldn’t have been him because I was talking with him when the murder happened. Now move back, keep an eye on whom you’re with, and leave me to get on with the investigation. Shut up and move!”

They moved. I turned my back on them, to concentrate on Springheel Jack and the Bride. He was crying now, great racking sobs that shook his whole body. The Bride looked large and ungainly, the way she never had in life, her long body sprawled across the floor. I knelt beside her and checked her neck and wrist for a pulse, but there was nothing. I never thought there would be. I was going through the motions while my mind worked frantically. I looked at Springheel Jack.

“I’m sorry. She’s gone.”

“No,” he said, forcing the words out between sobs. “She can’t be gone. She was born from the dead, a triumph of the Baron’s skill. He put her together using the finest parts of a hundred women, that she should have all their strength. She was born of the lightning . . .”

He stopped abruptly, and his tears stopped, and his head came up as a great inspiration filled his face. He pushed the Bride’s body away from him and scrambled to his feet. The body slammed back against the floor, and he didn’t even notice in his excitement.

“Born of the lightning! Of course! You can’t kill the Bride of Frankenstein just by stabbing her! He made her better than that!”

He grabbed an ornamental lamp from the buffet table, and ripped the lamp free from its cable. Sparks sputtered from the ragged metal ends. Springheel Jack laughed breathlessly, grabbed the cable, and sank down beside the body of his Bride. He pressed the bare wires against her wounded side, and her whole body convulsed. He hit her with the electricity again, and the Bride sat bolt upright, drawing in a great ragged breath of air. Springheel Jack threw the sparking cable aside and held her in his arms, burying his face in her neck. She patted him absently with one oversized hand and looked dazedly around her.

“What the hell happened? And why does my side hurt?”

She looked down at the bloody wound in her side and swore briefly. She checked it out carefully with her fingertips, then sniffed loudly.

“Nasty business. But nothing that won’t heal itself. It’s already stopped bleeding . . . Jack. Jack, sweetie, it’s all right! I’m all right. I’m fine.”

They helped each other to their feet. Springheel Jack got hold of himself with an effort but wouldn’t let go of her.

“All right,” I said. “What happened here?”

Springheel Jack glared at me. “Someone tried to kill her! I warned you! I told you this was coming, but you wouldn’t listen!”

“Hush, dear,” the Bride said firmly. “No-one ever listens to prophecy; it’s the only reason the universe allows it.” She looked down at her side. “Someone stabbed me from behind. I never saw anyone. I’d seen that awful Lord Orlando heading towards me, so I moved off the other way. Next thing I know, there’s a great stabbing pain in my side, then I’m riding the lightning and I’m back again! Well done, Jack. Quick thinking. Usually I wake up in a morgue somewhere, giving some poor doctor a heart attack.” She smiled briefly. “Much as I hate to admit it, the Baron did good work. He made his creations to last.”

“You saw the Lord Orlando?” I said.

“Wasn’t him,” Mistress Mayhem said immediately. “He was right here, boring me rigid, when we both heard the scream.”

“Well really,” said the Lord Orlando.

Springheel Jack took the Bride away to one side for some mutual support and comfort. The immortals stuck together, on the far side of the room, looking at me with wide, frightened eyes. Expecting me to put everything right. Charlotte ap Owen hauled Dave the camera-man over to interview the Bride and Springheel Jack on their ordeal. Jack gave them one look, and they both ran for their lives. I spotted Bettie Divine over by the doorway, doing her best to vamp Hadleigh Oblivion, presumably to find out what he and I had been talking about. Brilliant Chang was hovering nearby, so I summoned him over with a jerk of the head.

“Any nearer spotting the killer?” he said bluntly.

“No,” I said. “I’ve questioned the most obvious suspects and got nowhere. They all seemed plausible enough . . . Any number of people had any number of motives for killing King of Skin, but I don’t have a weapon, and I can’t put anyone at the scene of the crime at the right time. No-one here saw anything. How is that possible?”

“Don’t look at me,” said Chang. “I’m a crime reporter, not Agatha Christie. You’re the detective.”

“I was never a detective! I was a private investigator, and I relied on my gift far more than most people ever realised. I always said I wouldn’t know a clue if I fell over one, and it’s starting to look like I was right.”

“Giving up?” said Chang.

“No. This is my last case as a private investigator, and I’m damned if I’m going to let it beat me. I need to think . . . Okay, wait a minute. Chang, have you heard anything about an immortality serum? Possibly for sale?”

“No,” said Chang. “Hasn’t even been a whisper, and it would be hard to keep news of something like that quiet.”

I nodded slowly. “Okay. Thanks. Go and rescue Hadleigh from Bettie, would you? I don’t want him distracted, in case someone tries to make a break for it.”

He laughed and wandered away on his mission of mercy. And I moved off among the packed immortals, hitting them all with the same questions, over and over again. Where were they when the murders happened? Who were they with? What did they see? Most had alibis, or said they did, and no-one had seen anything. Most of them were too shocked and upset even to think of giving me attitude, but a few still refused to talk to me, on principle. I let them get away with it. The more I thought about the killings, the more convinced I became that I was missing something.

I even questioned the waitresses in their French maid outfits, huddled together for security behind the buffet tables. But all they’d had eyes for was Dead Boy making a pig of himself. None of them had seen anyone near King of Skin. None of them had wanted to get anywhere near him. Which was understandable. One of them said she thought she’d seen the Lord Orlando somewhere at the buffet, not far from King of Skin, but couldn’t be sure when. That was enough to point me back in his direction. The Bride had said she’d seen him approaching her not long before she was attacked.

I did my best to question the Lord Orlando, and he did his best not to burst into tears at the very indignity of it all. Mistress Mayhem and another immortal called Polly Pariah insisted that he’d been boring their arses off right when Springheel Jack screamed, some distance away. I couldn’t see why either of them should lie.

I ended up back at the buffet table, chewing on a barely warm pig in a blanket, and thinking hard. If I had to point a finger at anyone, it would be Rogue, but why would he want to kill King of Skin? He didn’t know him; and given that this was the first time Rogue had ever been to the Ball of Forever, the odds were he didn’t know anyone. He came to make friends, or so he said. Though his family didn’t exactly have a good track record in that regard.

All right. Since I wasn’t getting anywhere with the suspects, maybe I could do better with the murder weapon. I couldn’t use my gift to find it without discovering something unique about it, something my gift could lock on to . . . But I did have something! With this second attack on the Bride, the weapon was the only thing common to both attacks, which meant I could find it! I raised my gift and concentrated, and immediately my head snapped round, to look down the length of the buffet table. I strode down it, following the tug of my instincts, until my gift brought me to a large open jug of dark red wine. The one I’d suspected was full of blood. It stood there, in the middle of a great many other bottles and jugs and flasks donated by various immortals, apparently innocent, looking no different than any of the others; but my gift was telling me otherwise. I leaned over the jug and studied its contents carefully. There was a definite dark shadow, deep in the dark red contents. I reached in, with a thumb and forefinger, gripped on to something hard and unyielding, and pulled it out.

I held it up before me. It took me a moment to realise what it was—a jagged-edged piece of mirror glass, dripping red wine. Not a knife after all, then, though the edges were certainly sharp enough to do real damage. In fact, the whole shard was so sharp everywhere, I was hard put to see how you could hold on to the thing without lacerating your own hand. And no-one in the room had shown any damaged hands . . . I jumped a little as I realised Bettie Divine was standing beside me, smiling brightly.

“I sensed you using your gift all the way across the room, so I came over to see what was happening. What is happening? What have you found?”

“You sensed . . .”

“Half demon, darling, remember? These horns aren’t just for show. Now be a dear and tell me what that is you’re holding! Is it important?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the murder weapon,” I said.

Bettie squealed excitedly. “Wonderful! I knew you’d solve the case, sweetie! Never doubted you for a moment! Where was it?”

“In that jug of wine. That’s why both murders took place next to the buffet table. He smuggled the shard in easily enough, then dropped it surreptitiously into the jug . . . where it waited till he had a need for it. He took it out, stabbed his victim, then dropped it back in again. The wine would even wash the blood away though I think I can see traces of dried blood, trapped in the jagged edges . . .”

Bettie leaned in as close as she could get without actually touching the mirror shard with her nose. “Definitely part of a mirror, darling. But why make a weapon out of it? And what does it have to do with the way King of Skin . . . shrivelled up?”

“Good question,” I said. I held the shard up close to my face, so I could see my reflection in it. There was something . . . odd, something off, about the image; but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

“There’s magic hovering all about that piece of mirror,” said Bettie. “Old, bad magic. I can See it, but . . . You’ve got better Sight than me, sweetie. What do you See?”

I concentrated, raising my gift again, using it to study the reality of the thing before me, opening up my inner eye, my private eye, to See the world as it really is. And then I almost dropped the shard as I realised what it was I was holding.

“What?” Bettie said excitedly. “What did you See?”

“Temporal energies,” I said. “This mirror shard is soaked in Time, in Time magic. I can actually see inverted tachyons, shooting up and down the broken edges.”

Bettie gave me a hard look, only slightly spoiled by her pouting mouth. “Yes, very nice, darling, very dramatic. But what does that mean?”

“It means, I know what mirror this came from,” I said, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket and carefully wrapping up the vicious-edged shard before tucking it very carefully into my coat pocket. “This is a sliver of glass from the infamous Mirror of Dorian Gray. You must have heard of it. It was up for sale at an auction-house here in the Nightside, not so long ago. Think of it: the mirror that reflected a man soaked in temporal magic. If a crazy magical man stares into you long enough, you become crazy and magical, too. This mirror soaked up Time, leaching the life from anyone who looked into it, and stored it. The perfect murder weapon because who’d ever suspect a mirror. The last I heard, the Mirror of Dorian Gray belonged to the Family of Immortals . . .”

We both turned to look at Rogue, standing on his own, glaring at anyone who even glanced in his direction.

“He said . . . he and his fellow surviving immortals grabbed a few things of value from the Family Vaults, before they escaped,” I said slowly. “I suppose in the haste of getting away from the Droods, they must have dropped the mirror. All Rogue got away with, was a single shard. Still powerful enough to steal someone’s years if you thrust it right into them.”

“A weapon that eats Time,” said Bettie. “The perfect weapon for killing immortals, darling, if you wanted to steal all their years and keep them for yourself. But why would Rogue need more years? He’s already immortal!”

“Good question,” I said. “I must be sure to ask him.”

“Are you sure it’s him?” said Bettie anxiously. “To accuse an immortal, among a gathering of his fellow immortals, you need to be really sure.”

“Good point,” I said. “But now I’ve got the weapon, I can use it to focus my gift and get it to show me exactly what happened. Make sure no-one interrupts me.”

“You got it, sweetie.”

I concentrated hard, and my gift manifested again. My head ached, resenting the strain. Time fled backwards before me, right back to the moment of the murder. I could See King of Skin standing before me, a thin and wispy artefact of Time Past, pawing through the snacks with grubby fingers and a disdainful sneer. I Saw the Lord Orlando approach King of Skin, with his usual simpering smile. King of Skin growled at him and deliberately turned his back on Orlando. And that was when the Lord Orlando’s face slipped and changed as he became the Rogue Immortal. He took the mirror shard out of the wine jug and stabbed King of Skin in the back. King tried to cry out and couldn’t. I could See the temporal energies swirling and spiralling around him as the shard sucked his future right out of him—all the years, all the life he would have had. And then King of Skin collapsed, measuring his length on the floor. Rogue tugged the weapon out of his back, flicked a few drops of blood away, and slipped the shard neatly back into the wine jug. The whole thing had only taken a few moments. Rogue became Orlando again and wandered off.

And no-one noticed his movements because no-one cared where he went. He was the only person the immortals would turn their backs on because no-one ever wanted to talk to him.

I followed him until he turned back into Rogue, unnoticed in the crush of bodies. His face was calm and unconcerned, untouched by what he’d done. No trace of anger or regret. Only the hint of someone who’d performed a distasteful but necessary task—a small smile, typical of a teenager who has got away with something. I shut down my gift and looked at the expectant Bettie Divine, all but dancing with impatience before me.

“Well?” she said squeakily. “Well?”

“Got him,” I said. “Rogue killed King of Skin.”

“And the Bride?”

“I didn’t hang around long enough to See it; but since they were both killed with the same weapon, it had to be him again.”

Bettie frowned. “Then why didn’t the mirror shard shrivel her up the way it did King of Skin?”

I thought about it. “Because . . . the Bride was made of dead parts, then brought to life. She only has a human lifetime; but when she dies, she can be brought back again, for another life. Thanks to the Baron’s handiwork, she’s basically . . . rechargeable. Technically immortal, but only one life at a time.”

“Gosh, you are clever, John darling,” said Bettie.

“Flattery . . . will get you an exclusive interview. Later. For now, do me a favour and round up Dead Boy and Razor Eddie. Have them stand by in case it all goes pear-shaped when I accuse Rogue . . .”

“On it, sweetie.”

She blew me a quick kiss and disappeared into the crowd. I moved over to join Rogue, taking my time. I didn’t want to spook him. Chases are so undignified. I was almost upon him when he turned suddenly and smiled coldly at me.

“So,” he said, “you worked it out. You really are as good as some people say you are.”

“Only some ?” I said. “I must be slipping. So you admit to the murders?”

“Admit to them? I’m proud of them!” Rogue laughed softly. “I am of the Family of Immortals, the only true immortal here!”

His voice rose loudly across a growing silence as everyone in the ballroom realised what was happening and shushed each other. By the time he’d stopped speaking, everyone was looking at us, drinking in every word. I kept my gaze fixed on Rogue. I couldn’t afford to give him the slightest advantage.

“I killed King of Skin and loved it,” said Rogue. “I gloried in it! Spreading a little fear and horror in the night . . . is what my family have always done best. I killed the Bride, too; but unfortunately, she got over it. I’ll have to try harder next time.” He smiled around him, and hardened immortals actually flinched back from him. “You call yourselves immortals; you’re nothing but food to me.”

“I know how you did it,” I said. “I even have the weapon, which explains what happened to King of Skin’s body. Now tell me why you did it. Come on; you know you want to.”

“King of Skin was an offspring of my family,” said Rogue, apparently entirely at his ease. “A half-caste. Only potentially immortal. He found a way to extend his life by killing people and wrapping himself in their skins, their lives. Harvesting their stolen years. He’s been at it for well over a century, to my certain knowledge. You saw all those skins . . . And you had no idea what he really was, did you? No idea at all that you had a serial killer as part of your precious Authorities.”

“You knew about him; but you never did anything about him, till now,” I said. “Why now?”

“I didn’t care what he did. He only killed mortals; and that’s what they’re for. I only killed him now because I had a use for him. You should be grateful, Walker. I’ve done you a positive favour. He would have had to come after you eventually, you and all the other Authorities. He couldn’t risk your finding out the truth about him. And then . . . he would have been the Authorities and ruled the Nightside. The wolf in charge of the sheep.”

“You still haven’t said why you killed him.”

“I killed him first because he was so full of life. And I wanted it.”

“And the Bride?” I said.

Rogue sniffed. “I shouldn’t have, but I never could resist temptation. She wasn’t really suitable for what I was after, but . . . she led the Spawn of Frankenstein when they fought alongside the Droods to invade my family estate! The Spawn live there now, in what used to be my home! She wasn’t on my list; but when I saw her standing there, I couldn’t hold back. She deserved to die for what she did to my family.”

“You weren’t going to stop with King of Skin,” I said. “He was only the first . . . You said you had a list?”

“Of course,” said Rogue. “I only came here to make my mark, with these so-called immortals. I came here to identify them all, so I could track them down afterwards and steal their lives. It’s not like they were doing anything important with them. I would have used the mirror shard to take their future years, store them, then use them to create a new Family of Immortals! We don’t breed true, you see. Never have; or the world would be hip-deep in immortals by now. We breed slow and rarely, and the offspring are only ever long-lived. But with so many stolen years at my disposal, what a family I could have made! We would have moved into all the important places and positions, here in the Nightside, and taken control. And then we would have used the Nightside as a base, from which to re-establish the family’s power in the world! Become what we once were, what we were meant to be! Then, let all the peoples of the world tremble and despair!”

“You had it all thought out,” I said.

He looked at me sharply, annoyed at having his ranting interrupted. “Thought out in every detail. When you’re an immortal, you get used to planning for the long term. King of Skin was just the beginning. I had a reign of terror planned for all the Nightside immortals, and it isn’t over yet. But I hadn’t expected Hadleigh Oblivion to be here, guarding the door, preventing me from making my escape. He would have seen though any face I took on. He shouldn’t have been here. You shouldn’t have been here. What were you doing here, tonight of all nights? Well . . . It doesn’t matter. I will do what I will do, and none of you can stop me.”

He laughed in my face, then turned and plunged into the watching crowd. They shrank back with loud cries of alarm, but he was already in among them, his face changing as he flesh-danced. In the space of a moment, he was someone else, and in all the confusion no-one was able to say who he’d changed into. There was a general rush to the door, to get out of the ballroom. Hadleigh stood his ground, and raised one hand. Bolts of lightning stabbed down out of nowhere, striking again and again inside the ballroom, making a barrier between him and everyone else. The light was blinding, and the air stank of ozone. The rush to the door was over as soon as it had begun. Everyone stood very still, looking nervously around them, trying to spot the danger in their midst; but wherever they looked, only familiar faces looked back. Razor Eddie and Dead Boy forced their way through the crowd to join me. I looked at them both carefully.

“Oh come on,” said Dead Boy. “Who’d look like me if they didn’t have to?”

“Tell me something only you could know,” I said.

“All right,” said Dead Boy. “You’re a dick.”

We both laughed. Razor Eddie looked at me strangely.

“We both loved the X-Men movies,” I explained.

Razor Eddie nodded and produced his pearl-handled straight razor. The steel blade shone supernaturally bright, and everyone felt a sudden strong desire to be somewhere else. I nodded, and Eddie put his razor away again. Some things you can’t fake. We all looked out over the watching crowd.

“How do you want to do this?” Dead Boy said quietly.

“I use my gift,” I said, just as quietly. “He can’t hide from that. I’ll pick him out, and then you two help me slam him to the floor and stamp on his head until we’re sure he can’t concentrate enough to shape-change again.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Razor Eddie.

I raised my gift again. It was getting to be hard work now; the more I used my gift, the more it took out of me. I felt a quick runnel of blood spurt out of one nostril, and a sharp fierce pain filled my forehead. I’d pay for this later; but right now there was work to be done. I forced my way past the pain and concentrated; and immediately a single figure stood out in the crowd. I plunged forward, with Dead Boy and Razor Eddie right behind me, and the crowd scattered before us like startled pigeons. I ignored all the cries of shock and protest, fixed on the figure before me. He didn’t try to run. He stood still and regarded me with a single raised eyebrow.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” said Hadleigh Oblivion.

“Nice try,” I said. “But Hadleigh’s still at the door, where I told him to be.”

“I was standing at the door,” said Hadleigh, “until Bettie Divine came over and said you needed help, so I came forward. Whoever’s at the door now, that isn’t me.”

I didn’t even look at the door. “Nice try, Rogue,” I said. “But Hadleigh wouldn’t leave his position unless I personally put someone there to relieve him. My gift found you here. And my gift is never wrong.”

Hadleigh’s face slumped suddenly, and his shape changed in a moment. Where Hadleigh had been standing there was now an eight-foot-tall centipede, black as night with a nightmare head, striking out with dozens of clawed legs. It reared up so that its flat head banged against the ceiling, its complex mouth parts clacking loudly. The immortals climbed all over each other, trying to get away. Dead Boy waded in, slamming powerful punches into its heaving thorax, while Razor Eddie darted and whirled around it, severing one clawed leg after another with his straight razor.

The centipede disappeared, replaced by a huge, muscular man I didn’t recognise. A great brute of a man, with a flat, characterless face as though all the detail of his creation had gone into his massive muscles. He lashed out at Dead Boy, and the unstoppable blow picked Dead Boy up and set him flying a dozen feet away. He crashed to the floor hard and didn’t move. He couldn’t feel pain, but he could still take damage. Razor Eddie cut at the brute again and again, moving so fast now he was only a blur; but no matter how deep his blades cut into the brute’s flesh, it healed again immediately. (That was how he could handle the mirror shard without obviously damaging his hand, I thought.) Dead Boy lurched to his feet again and charged the brute, slamming into it from behind. The brute staggered, but didn’t go down. Dead Boy hit him hard, while Razor Eddie cut at the brute’s throat again and again, trying to keep the wound open long enough to do some damage.

I stood back and watched. I can fight if I have to, but it’s never been what I do best. I wiped blood from my face with the back of my hand, and raised my gift one last time. My head was throbbing sickly now, but I have always been in control of my gift and never the other way round. I concentrated, reaching out, and found the switch inside Rogue’s head, the one he used every time he decided to make a change. And then it was the easiest thing in the world for me to push the switch all the way back. The brute disappeared, replaced by a very surprised-looking Rogue. He opened his mouth to say something, and I stepped forward and kneed him briskly in the nuts. Rogue folded over, and Dead Boy and Razor Eddie beat him to the ground with great thoroughness. Rogue raised his head and looked up at Razor Eddie with my face as though that might slow him down. Eddie kicked him in my face, and by the time Rogue crashed unconscious to the floor, he looked like himself again.

The watching immortals applauded loudly. Razor Eddie and Dead Boy checked to make sure that Rogue wasn’t faking by kicking him a few times somewhere painful, then looked at me.

“What will you do with him now?” said Dead Boy.

“He goes to Shadow Deep,” I said. “Deep down under the Nightside, in the endless dark, nailed into his cell until he dies there. He can change shape all he wants in his cell; it’ll be company for him.” I looked at Eddie. “At the end there, when he looked like me, do you suppose that’s the fight between us that your friend saw?”

“Oh no,” said Eddie. “That’s still to come.”

“You can’t send him to Shadow Deep,” said Hadleigh Oblivion.

We all looked round sharply. None of us had heard him arrive, but then no-one ever does.

“Why not?” I said politely.

“Because he’s a flesh-dancer,” said Hadleigh. “He has control over every part of his body. He could probably ooze out of his cell through the cracks around the door. He’s far too dangerous to be allowed to run loose in the Nightside.”

He leaned over the unconscious immortal, grabbed his shirt front, and pulled Rogue’s face close to his own. Hadleigh inhaled deeply, and all the colour went out of Rogue’s face. Hadleigh continued to inhale, and the immortal’s face cracked and fell apart; and then every part of him collapsed into dust. Hadleigh straightened up, brushing dust from his hands. Several of the watching immortals were noisily sick. Dead Boy whooped loudly.

“You have got to teach me how to do that!”

Razor Eddie sighed. “Can’t take him anywhere.”

And that was my last case as a private investigator. Not a bad one to go out on. I caught the murderer, stopped a plan to take over the Nightside, and made the front pages of the Night Times and the Unnatural Inquirer. I even made the television news. There never was any immortality serum; someone had wanted me to attend the Ball of Forever. Someone . . . who’d known what was in the wind. And I had a pretty good idea who.