The Bride Wore Black Leather

FOUR One Last Night of Freedom

Under pressure, I agreed to hold my stag night at Strangefellows, on the grounds that whatever mess we made there, it wouldn’t show, and also that whenever the trouble inevitably broke out . . . no-one would notice. It’s that kind of bar and has been for centuries. The party was already well underway by the time I got there, thanks to my little visit to the Ball of Forever overrunning, and joy and merriment were already unconfined, not to mention pissed out of their skulls. The bar was packed wall to wall with disreputable customers as I clattered down the heavy metal stairway into the great stone pit that makes up the bar proper. I couldn’t believe I knew that many people. Or at least, so many people who didn’t want to kill me. There were friends, and enemies, and a great many people who’d been one or the other or both at various times in my life. That’s the Nightside for you. Everyone seemed to be getting on quite amiably together. Cheap booze and no closing time will do that for you.

People smiled and nodded and even waved as I made my way through the crowd, but no-one actually interrupted their drinking or carousing to talk to me, which was fine by me. I’ve never been the demonstrative kind, and casual acquaintances hug or air-kiss me at their peril. Besides, I was still feeling distinctly fragile, from overusing my gift. My right nostril stopped bleeding after I shoved half an ice cube up it, but my head still ached fiercely, and my bones creaked and protested with every movement. Sometimes I wonder whose side my gift is on.

I reached the long wooden bar and leaned heavily on it, and the bartender gave me a stern look. Even at my farewell party and pre-nuptial send-off, Alex Morrisey was still dressed all in black, complete with dark glasses and a stylish beret. (Pulled well forward to conceal a receding hair-line. Even though it fooled absolutely nobody.) Alex wasn’t going to let a small thing like general celebration and goodwill all round get in the way of his being a full-time gloomy bugger and first-class pain in the arse. Alex could brood for the Olympics and still take a bronze in feeling hard done by. He looked me over and sniffed loudly.

“Buddha on a bike, look at the state of you. People usually wait till the end of their stag do to look that bad. Only you could walk into your last night of freedom looking like something the cat threw up.”

“Never mind the words of welcome, Alex,” I growled. “I am much in need of an industrial-strength pick-me-up.”

“Never knew you when you weren’t.” Alex produced a dusty bottle from underneath the counter and slammed it on the bartop a few times, in a vain attempt to get the contents to settle. He then poured a couple of fingers of thick pink liquor into a glass and pushed it towards me. “Try this. I keep it handy for really apocalyptic hangovers. It’s called Angel’s Breath.”

I looked at the drink suspiciously. “Is it really . . .”

“No of course it isn’t. Truth in advertising never did catch on in the Nightside. This stuff is only called Angel’s Breath because if you knew what really went into it, you wouldn’t touch it even if someone put a gun to your head. In fact, that’s usually the best way to take it. Now hurry up and knock it back, before it starts scouring out the inside of the glass, and you can have a nice sweetie afterwards to take the taste away.”

I knocked it back in one, doing my best to sneak it past my tongue. There was a brief taste of something very like orange, followed by the most vile and awful taste I have ever encountered. And I’ve been around. My taste buds exploded with fear and loathing, the whole of my mouth shrivelled up in panic, and tears of pure affront leapt from my eye-balls before the lids squeezed shut in self-defence. I grabbed on to the bar with both hands, making loud noises of distress. When I have really bad nightmares, I can still almost remember that taste. When I was finally able to force my eyes open again, Alex was waiting politely before me with a glass of Lourdes Coke. I snatched it from him and drank it thirstily. It helped. When I finally put the glass down, I was surprised to find that I actually felt human again, with no more aches or pains. I wasn’t entirely sure that was worth what I’d just been through . . . “There,” said Alex, smugly. “Wasn’t that a fuss to make over a nasty taste?”

I thought about it. “No,” I said, very firmly. “Half my taste buds are still crying their eyes out, and the other half are threatening to sue for post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Alex cackled happily. “Big girl’s blouse. Come on; you’ve got some serious drinking to do if we’re to get you into a suitable state for your stag do. This is going to be a night to remember! People will speak of it for years to come, in hushed and respectful whispers, saying You should be glad you weren’t there.”

I gave him a hard look. “I told you—no strippers.”

Alex grinned and leaned forward across the bar. “I can’t believe you chose me to be best man at your wedding. I’m going to have to make a speech, aren’t I? Oh, the possibilities for embarrassment and revenge . . .”

“Suzie will be sitting right next to you,” I pointed out. “And yes, she will most definitely have a gun somewhere about her person.”

“Duly noted,” said Alex. “I won’t mention Deirdre Birchwood then.”

“Best not to,” I agreed.

I looked down to the end of the bar, where Alex’s pet vulture Agatha was no longer crouched brooding on her post. She’d finally laid her egg. It was a great deal bigger than any vulture’s egg had a right to be, and it was a deep black in colour. The vulture was sitting on the egg, with a certain amount of support from two side cushions, and was cooing contentedly. Alex sniggered.

“When she finally laid that thing, you could hear the outraged sounds she was making out in London Proper. She was really quite indignant about the whole affair.”

“I’ve never seen a black egg before,” I said. “And certainly not an egg as dark as that . . .”

Alex nodded slowly. “If you look close enough, it’s full of stars.”

“Any idea yet what the father was, that was actually brave enough to have sex with that vulture?” I said.

“I have been giving the matter a great deal of thought,” said Alex. “There is a betting pool if you’re interested. After some consideration, I would have to say my money is on my own appalling ancestor, Merlin Satanspawn. A lot of the legends have him down as a shape-shifter.”

“But . . . he’s been dead for centuries!”

“Didn’t stop him from sleeping with my ex-wife.”

“All these years in the Nightside, and I still can’t believe where some of my conversations end up,” I said.

Alex regarded me thoughtfully, pulling down his stylish shades so he could peer at me over the top of them. “Seriously though, John. Why me? Why choose me to be best man?”

“You’re my oldest friend,” I said. “And, on occasion, my oldest enemy. And everything in between. Who else has suffered all the things we’ve been through? Who else has seen the things we’ve seen? We have heard the chimes at midnight, and laughed in the face of gods and monsters. Nobody knows the trouble we’ve known . . . And isn’t that what being best man is all about? Plus, I was best man at your wedding.”

“And look how well that turned out,” said Alex. “I’d sue you if I had a sue. But you’re right; it does fall to me as your oldest friend and foe and occasional legal advisor to guide you through the horrors to come as you embark on the stormy seas of matrimony.”

“You are so good to me, Alex.”

“Did you get a pre-nup? Tell me you got a pre-nup!”

I had to smile. “We did have some good times together in this place, didn’t we, Alex?”

He glared at me. “If you start getting maudlin this early in the party, I will slap you a good one, and it will hurt.”

“You’re quite right,” I said. “Don’t know what came over me.”

I put my back against the wooden bar and looked out over the crowded room. Up on the small elevated stage, the band was really getting into it. Leo Morn and his band were providing live music (or at least something very like it). I’d agreed to let them play for sentimental reasons, and was already regretting it. Leo prowled back and forth across the stage, striking a series of rock poses as he belted out the lyrics. A skinny wild-eyed presence in purple jeans, with a very hairy torso, he was currently singing Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London.” Down in front of the stage, Betty and Lucy Coltrane, Alex’s body-building lady bouncers, were tangoing wildly, giving it lots of erotic action and passing the rose stem back and forth between their teeth. An Ann-Margret channeller from Divas! Las Vegas, looking very glamorous, was dancing up a storm on a table-top, along with Ms. Fate, the Nightside’s very own transvestite costumed adventurer. They danced well together, arms waving and legs slamming in unison, while their stiletto heels made a real mess of the wooden table-top.

Leo Morn crashed to the end of his song, his musicians stopped playing at pretty much the same time, and there was actually some perfunctory applause. Or perhaps they were showing how pleased they were that it had stopped. Leo showed his teeth in a few defiant snarls, jumped down from the stage, and slouched over to join me at the bar. He’d been sweating up a cloud on stage, and carried with him the smell of a large dog that has recently been exercised. Alex had a vodka and mistletoe waiting for him, and Leo drank it thirstily.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll bite. What are you calling the band this week?”

“Odin’s Other Eye,” he said proudly. “We’ve gone prog rock. Sort of.”

“Only because all the other genres wouldn’t have you,” said Alex.

“We’re doing a lot better!” said Leo. “I don’t have to change the band’s name nearly as often now to make sure they’ll book us again. We opened for the ClanDestined just the other week, and they said they’d almost certainly want us back. Sometime.” He rapped his empty glass on the bar, to indicate he was ready for a refill, and grinned easily at me. “So! The knight in a tarnished trench coat is now the Man! Didn’t see that one coming. Am I going to have to change my wicked ways, or at the very least be very careful about what I admit to in front of you?”

“I’ve always been more concerned with justice than the law,” I said.

“That’s what they all say,” said Leo. “All I know is, if I ever see you heading my way while wearing a suit and a bowler hat and carrying an umbrella, I will leg it for the nearest horizon at a speed that will amaze you.”

“Never happen,” I said. “I might be Walker now, but I’ll never be that Walker.”

“That’s what they all say,” said Leo, heading back to his band. One of them had made the mistake of asking for requests, and the packed room was obliging him with some very basic answers. The crowd at Strangefellows has never been strong on witty repartee.

“I did try to get Rossignol for the music,” I said to Alex. “She’s the leading torch singer in France these days, and I was hoping she might say yes, for old times’ sake. But it seem she has a regular spot at the Crazy Horse Salon in Paris, and she couldn’t get away. Probably for the best. She was never actually an ex of mine, technically speaking, but . . .”

“Yes, but,” said Alex. “Suzie’s never been one for letting technicalities get in the way of venting her emotions. Preferably with a large gun.”

“Rossignol did send me a card, with a view of Paris,” I said. “Which was nice of her. Would have been nicer if she’d remembered to sign it, but . . .”

“Change the subject,” Alex said wisely.

“All right. How is it you’re tending the bar on your own, on what promises to be a very busy night? I thought you’d be hiring extra staff, to help you cope with the madness and mayhem to come?”

“Mostly, I’m letting people help themselves,” said Alex. “I’ve hired a tame poltergeist to keep a check on the stock, take care of trouble-makers, and clean up afterwards. The bar bill for tonight will be my wedding gift, to you and Suzie. Oh, and Cathy’s bought you a foot spa. Don’t ask me why.”

I looked at the dusty and deceptively innocent-looking bottles crowded together at the back of the bar. “I thought you had some pretty dangerous stuff back there.”

Alex smiled. “Oh, I do, I do. It’s all carefully marked OFF LIMITS, along with a sign saying TRESPASSERS WILL BE TRANSMOGRIFIED. If anyone’s dumb enough to ignore the warning signs, they deserve everything that happens to them. I was sort of hoping Cathy would be free to help out, but it seems she’s organising Suzie’s hen do. Probably involving obscenely named cocktails and unsafe humping and grinding with improperly dressed Chippendales. The poor bastards. And no, before you ask, I don’t know where it’s being held, and we’re almost certainly better off not knowing. We can listen for the sound of excessive gunfire and explosions.”

He moved away, to put out small bowls of bar snacks that no-one in their right mind would touch, and I went back to looking over the crowded room. Dead Boy and Razor Eddie had turned up. Dead Boy was loudly talking up the murder case at the Ball of Forever and greatly exaggerating his own part in it. He already had his arms around two female ghouls dressed in rotting Playboy Bunny outfits. Razor Eddie stood a little to one side, sipping his designer water and nodding in agreement, now and again. The girl ghouls eyed him uncertainly, and manoeuvred Dead Boy to make sure they maintained a respectful distance. Because there are some smells even ghouls have trouble with.

Dead Boy swaggered over to the bar to order two Really Bloody Marys for his new ghoul-friends, and nodded easily to me. He reached inside his long greatcoat to scratch fitfully at his autopsy scar, his usual sign that he had something embarrassing he needed to discuss.

“There are rumours going around,” he said carefully. “Foul and vicious exaggerations, no doubt, that there’s a fight brewing between you and Razor Eddie. He won’t talk to me about it, but then he rarely talks to me about anything. Never was much of a one for the talking, our Razor Eddie. Tell me it’s not true, John. Tell me you have enough sense not to pick a fight with the legendarily dangerous Punk God of the Straight Razor.”

“It’s some prophecy,” I said. “A glimpse of a future that might or might not happen. Certainly I’ve no intention of letting things get that far.”

“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 his 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.”

“Oh, hell,” sad Alex. “Speak of the devil, and up he pops.”

I looked around, and sure enough there he was. Julien Advent the Great Victorian Adventurer, standing at the bottom of the stairs and looking around the bar as though he couldn’t decide whom to disapprove of first. A very moral and upright person, Julien Advent, despite having lived in the Nightside all these years. He still looked like the English Gentleman and Hero of the Empire he used to be before being pushed through a Timeslip and ending up here in the 1960s. He hadn’t aged or changed a bit in all that time and still dressed in the grand old style, complete with red-lined black opera cape; and standing quietly there, entirely at his ease, he looked every inch the hero and adventurer he still was.

The whole room was going quiet. People had noticed he’d arrived. Some people were pleased to see him, some averted their eyes, and some hid under their tables, hoping he hadn’t noticed them. Even the band stopped playing though the mike was picking up a low, angry growl from Leo Morn. Julien nodded politely to the assembled company, with his usual impeccable manners, then he turned his head and looked straight at me. I sighed inwardly. I knew what that meant. It meant he was determined to talk to me in private, about a matter of some importance, and that I really wasn’t going to like anything he had to tell me.

I led him to one of the few empty booths, at the rear of the bar, and we sat down facing each other. Well, I sat down; he took a few moments to remove his cape and fold it carefully before sitting down. He didn’t look at me once while doing this, which meant he wasn’t at all comfortable about what he had to say and was putting it off. We’ve known each other a long time, and we can always read each other’s tells. He eventually sat down, leaned forward, laced his hands together, and leaned them on the table-top before finally fixing me with a calm, resolute gaze.

Oh hell, I thought. This is going to be really bad.

“I need you to take on a very important, very urgent case. Right now,” said Julien Advent. “And before you ask, yes, it really is that urgent, no it can’t wait until after your wedding tomorrow, and I am not prepared to take No, Absolutely Not, or even Go to Hell as an answer. You’ve had your last case as a private investigator; this will be your first official case as the new Walker. And yes, John, I know all about what happened with King of Skin. I know every detail. I am editor of the Night Times as well as a member of the Authorities. I know everything.”

“You didn’t know that King of Skin was an immortal serial killer,” I said. “Or that he was planning to murder you all, wrap himself in your skins, and rule the Nightside as his own private kingdom.”

“I’m only human,” said Julien. “I don’t care what the rumours say.” He sighed, separated his hands to make a point, started to say something, then broke off, and finally settled for drumming his fingers on the table before looking me square in the eyes again. “If you will agree to take on this case, immediately, I have been authorised by the remaining Authorities to offer you an . . . inducement. We will cover all the expenses for security at your wedding. We guarantee to keep all your many enemies at bay and ensure that everything goes smoothly and quietly at the ceremony. The fact that I am willing to go along with such a blatant attempt at bribery should give you some indication of how seriously I take this case.”

I thought about it. Covering the expenses would be a weight off my shoulders. I’d already had to hire Hell’s Neanderthals to set up a defence barrier for half a mile around St. Jude’s; and those cloned barbarians don’t come cheap.

“What’s so important about this case?” I said resignedly.

“Someone is determined to put an end to the long night,” said Julien Advent. “To raise the sun at long last and bring the dawn to the Nightside. To bring an end to the longest night this world has ever known and destroy the Nightside forever.”

I nodded slowly. After all the hints and warnings I’d had this evening, I wasn’t surprised. I never thought I’d hear such a thing for real again in my lifetime. After all the wars I’d been through, defending the Nightside, I thought we’d earned some time off for bad behaviour. And I couldn’t help flashing back to the warning phrase I’d already encountered twice this evening; Let the sun shine in.

“Who the hell’s got enough power to do that?” I said.

And to my surprise Julien looked away, avoiding the question. As though he knew the answer, knew the name, even, but didn’t want to say it. And that wasn’t like Julien Advent at all.

“You have to take this case, John,” he said finally. “The other members of the Authorities are divided as to whether to keep you on as Walker after this unfortunate business with King of Skin. He died on your watch, right in front of you. Yes, you caught his killer, but you didn’t keep him from being killed. Some of them are worried as to whether you deliberately allowed him to die, so that the Authorities could never become your future Enemies. And yes, of course we knew.”

“If the Authorities are debating my future as Walker, why aren’t you there defending me?” I said.

“Because I’ve already cast my vote, in your favour. This is more important. I have to ask, though. Did you let him die, John?”

“No,” I said steadily. “I’m not that subtle.”

“That’s true,” he said. “But I felt a responsibility to ask. Now, answer the question. Will you take the case?”

“Of course,” I said. “I take my responsibilities as Walker seriously. Where do we start?”

“With a crime scene. The Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille is gone. Vanished.”

I looked at him for a long moment. This was turning out to be one hell of an evening for surprises. “What do you mean—gone? How can the ghost of a building be gone? You mean—stolen? Destroyed? Kidnapped? Exorcised?”

“Unknown,” said Julien. “There’s a bloody big hole in the ground where it used to be and not a trace of the Bar & Grille anywhere. Or, for that matter, any of the important and significant people who were inside it at the time . . .”

“Ah,” I said. “Tricky . . . But how does the Bar & Grille’s disappearance tie in with this threat to bring the dawn to the Nightside?”

“Come with me and find out,” said Julien Advent, rising to his feet and pulling on his cape. “We’ll be working this case together.”

I took my own sweet time in getting to my feet, to show I wasn’t going to be hurried. “This was supposed to be my stag do. My last night of freedom.”

“If we don’t put a stop to what’s coming our way, this could be everyone’s last night of freedom,” said Julien.

“Why do you always have to have the last word?” I said.

“Because I’m an editor,” said Julien.

“Let’s go,” I said.

Everyone else couldn’t believe I was actually leaving my own stag party, to go to work. But secretly, I was pleased to be leaving early, before it inevitably degenerated into “surprise” strippers, karaoke, demolition drinking games, and general puking. But could I really solve a case this important, in one night, and still make it to my wedding on time tomorrow? I’d better, or Suzie would kill me. I did consider calling her in, but I already had the Great Victorian Adventurer at my side, and besides . . . it was probably best not to disturb her. I looked at Julien, as we headed for the stairs.

“Whatever happens, if you value your life, get me to the church on time.”