The Bride Wore Black Leather

EIGHT Old Friends and Enemies

And I went running, with horror at my heels.

Everywhere I went, people stopped to scream abuse at me. They threw stones and worse things. Some had guns, some had spells. I ran and dodged and ducked, trying desperately to work out where best to go, to hide from the whole damned Nightside. The word was out, to this side and that and sometimes even ahead of me. I’d been on the run before, back in my younger days, for various reasons, good and bad, but never anything like this. Julien Advent was a much loved and admired figure in the Nightside, far more than I ever was. I’d always thought it more important to be feared; and now my reputation was catching up with me, big-time.

I didn’t dare use my Portable Timeslip. Far too easy to track something that powerful. So I ran.

Why the hell had Benway called me a murderer? She was right there, she saw what was happening, she had to know why I did it. Unless . . . the Sun King was messing with her head. Making her see what he wanted her to see. I grinned savagely as I ran, a humourless snarl that had people falling back before me and hurrying to get out of my way. Things were finally starting to make sense. The Sun King was responsible for everything that was happening to me now, to keep me occupied, too busy trying to stay alive to stop him doing what he planned. That was why everyone was so ready to abuse and attack and pursue me, when normally most of them would have kept their heads down and concentrated on their own business. I laughed briefly as I ran, the sound like the bark of some dangerous animal, and people hid in doorways or hurried down side streets, rather than confront me.

I spent a lot of my early years running and hiding from people who wanted to kill me, from all the usual villains and scumbags, and from the Harrowing. Those faceless homunculi sent back through Time by my Enemies in the Future, to punish me for something I hadn’t even done yet. What doesn’t kill you makes you very light on your feet and very hard to find; and as I raced through the Nightside, old skills and knowledge swiftly came back to me. I raced through the busy streets, taking this turn and that, charging through the front door of a big store, slipping through the crowds, then darting out the back door. Raised voices fell away behind me, caught up in new and unexpected quarrels with people who didn’t take kindly to being shoved. I scrambled over low walls, doubled back and forth, always keeping to the darkest shadows, taking all kinds of short cuts and connections that most people didn’t even know existed.

And, finally, I ended up in a garbage-strewn back alley, somewhere downwind of the old theatre district; leaning heavily against a wall covered with overlapping yellowing posters, advertising old shows and faded triumphs. Breathing so hard my chest ached, and trying to persuade my racing heart to return to something like normal behaviour before it burst right out of me. My head pounded, my face was wet with sweat, and my hands were shaking so bad I couldn’t even haul a handkerchief out of my pocket to mop my face. Getting far too old for this on-the-run shit.

I comforted myself with the memory of the Sun King’s face as I threw black pepper in his eyes; and again, when Julien booted him in the ’nads. Thinking he could impress me with all that living-god crap. I’ve fought my way up and down the Street of the Gods more than once. And I looked forward to seeing his face again, when I finally tracked him down and took my own sweet time killing him. It had been a long long time since I’d felt this angry, and I hugged that cold comfort to my heart. I would see the Sun King die in agony and horror for what he’d made me do to Julien. Not that Julien would have approved or even wanted such a revenge taken, on his behalf; but then, he always was a better man than me.

Revenge is simply justice with teeth.

I slowly straightened up and looked around me. I still couldn’t breathe without hurting, but my vision had cleared, and my thoughts were finally racing faster than my heart. I couldn’t stay here. It was enough out of the way to give me time to consider what to do next, but with so many on my trail, someone would find me soon, if only by accident. So I raised my gift and used it to find a way into the cemetery dimension attached to the Necropolis. We bury our dead in a very separate pocket dimension, only loosely attached to the Nightside. Because when we put our dead to rest, we prefer them to stay that way and not come back and bother us. It seemed to me that the cemetery’s many protections and defensive magics might well be enough to hide my presence. And, of course, most people have enough sense to stay out of the cemetery. It’s not a good place; it’s meant for the dead, not visitors.

I focused my gift, found one of the drifting places where the cemetery dimension occasionally overlaps with the Nightside, and concentrated hard. A door that hadn’t been there before, and never would be again, appeared in the alley wall opposite me. I held the door in place with my gift and pushed it open with an effort of will. Beyond the door was only darkness. I walked gratefully forward into it, and the door closed behind me.

The cold got to me first, hitting me hard and cutting me like a knife. It rattled in my lungs like razor blades, and sucked all the warmth right out of me. I hugged myself tightly and stamped my feet hard. The graveyard stretched endlessly away before me, a whole world of the dead. The Nightside has been burying its reluctantly departed in this very private place for centuries. Row upon row, rank upon rank, graves and their headstones, for as far as the eye could see in any direction.

It was a different kind of night from the Nightside, darker, with an almost palpable gloom. A thick pearlescent ground fog curled slowly around my ankles, almost deliberately. Like some great grey cat making itself known, not necessarily affectionately. Up in the black black sky, there was no moon, only a few long smears of multi-coloured stars, gaudy as a cheap ring on a tart’s finger.

Headstones everywhere, of stone and marble, steel and porcelain, according to the fashion of the day, with lengthy inscriptions or none at all. Catafalques and mausoleums, simple or ornate, decadent or utilitarian. Some with cold neon, some without. Statues of weeping angels and shifty-looking cherubs, while crouching gargoyles leered down from the tops of monuments, guarding family repositories. And everywhere you looked, all kinds of religious symbols. Ancient and modern, sacred and profane; and some from religions no-one even remembers any more.

I moved slowly forward, careful to keep to the officially designated gravel paths, laid out for those stubborn few who insisted on visiting people who wouldn’t have been buried here if they’d wanted visitors. One of the main reasons for being interred in this very isolated location is to make sure your grave won’t be disturbed or interfered with. So outside the gravel paths, you wander at your own peril. In our cemetery, the helpless dead are defended: by land mines, booby-traps, invisible floating curses, and other less obvious but even nastier forms of security and preservation.

The cemetery was full of shadows and a grim silence. Enforced peace and solitude hung heavily over the still scene. Even the crunching of my feet on gravel seemed strangely subdued and muffled. I stopped and sat down on a nearby headstone, so I could think. Then I thought to get up and take a look at the stone’s inscription. It read NOT DEAD ONLY SLEEPING. And since this was still the Nightside, I moved along and sat down on another stone with a less worrying inscription. Because you can’t be too careful.

No-one had followed me; no-one had found me. I was alone.

I got out my mobile phone and called Alex Morrisey at Strangefellows. While reflecting that it was a good thing I’d recently upgraded my service, to cover all the pocket dimensions and hidden worlds of the Nightside. Alex answered the phone immediately, as though he’d been waiting for my call. His voice came through clearly, and there didn’t seem to be any noise in the background. Which was odd, for Strangefellows.

“John!” said Alex. “Where are you?”

“Think I’ll keep that to myself, for the moment,” I said. “Does sound rather quiet, at your end. Would I be right in thinking my stag do is over?”

“Are you kidding?” said Alex. “Most of the people who were here are now out on the streets looking for you, and not in a good way. Turned out a lot of them were great admirers of Julien Advent, on the quiet. And the reward money the Authorities have put up for you is the biggest anyone’s ever heard of! They want your head, John, preferably in a box.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised the news is out,” I said. “Nothing travels faster in the Nightside than bad news.”

“Did you really murder the Great Victorian Adventurer?” said Alex. “Tell me you didn’t, John; tell me this is all some terrible mistake.”

“It’s all some terrible mistake,” I said. “Really. I did kill him, but . . .”

“John! How could you?”

“He asked me to do it! He was dying anyway; and it was the only way to save a whole hospital full of innocents.”

“You killed Julien Advent!”

“It wasn’t like that!”

I did my best to explain about the Sun King, and what he meant to do, and the power he put into Julien . . . but I could tell it sounded unlikely, even for the kind of cases I usually get involved in. I could tell Alex was having trouble believing it. I wanted to say You had to be there . . . “The official story is that you murdered Julien Advent in cold blood,” said Alex. “Though no-one seems too sure why. I know you were always jealous of him, John, but . . .”

“You really think I’m capable of something like that?” I said.

“You’ve done worse,” said Alex. And I had no answer to that.

“It’s like the whole Nightside wants you dead,” said Alex. “The Authorities, or what’s left of them, are really mad at you. First, you let King of Skin die, right in front of you; and now you’ve murdered Julien Advent? They think you’ve gone rogue, and possibly feral . . .”

“How big a reward have they put on my head?” I asked, honestly curious.

“Big enough to tempt anyone,” said Alex. “If I didn’t have a bar to run . . .”

“I can’t believe I chose you as my best man,” I said.

“You don’t really think you’re still getting married tomorrow, do you?” said Alex, incredulously. “The only church service you’re likely to be attending in the near future involves a big hole in the ground and a priest trying to find something positive to say about you.”

“Alex,” I said. “What am I going to do?”

“You can’t come here,” Alex said immediately. “It’s the first place they’d look. And I’ve only just got the place cleared up after the last fight you started. Maybe . . . you should leave the Nightside. Go hide out in London Proper, until things calm down a bit. You could always claim sanctuary at Castle Inconnu, with the London Knights. They owe you, after that business with Excalibur. And they’re far enough outside the Nightside they might not be tainted by the Sun King’s influence. If that really is what’s behind all this . . .”

And then his voice dropped away suddenly, as someone else snatched the phone from him. A cold ghostly voice came clearly to me, more than usually animated with furious emotions.

“Julien Advent was my friend!” said Razor Eddie. “And a better man than you or I will ever be. And you killed him. I know where you are, Taylor. I’m coming for you. And I will soak my razor in your blood.”

His voice cut off as Alex wrestled the phone away from him. I could hear them shouting at each other, then Alex’s voice returned.

“Get the hell out of my bar, Eddie, or I will have Betty and Lucy frog-march you out, then hose you down with something seriously disinfectant! God, you stink . . . You still there, John? He’s gone. Disappeared right in front of me, leaving only his stench behind. A smell so strong it feels like it wants to make friends with you and follow you home. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry before . . . It seems like a lot more people admire Julien Advent dead than were ever prepared to say so while he was still alive. John, have you talked to Suzie yet?”

“I don’t want her involved,” I said immediately. “She’d kill anyone to protect me.”

“Yeah,” said Alex. “But would she kill everyone?”

“Probably,” I said.

“Suddenly, I have cold chills all over me.”

“I have to find the Sun King,” I said. “Stop him, kill him . . . But how the hell am I supposed to do that when it seems like all my old friends and enemies are out on the streets looking to stop and kill me?”

“I suppose you could hide out here, for a while,” said Alex. “In the cellars under the bar. Given that both Merlin Satanspawn and Arthur Pendragon were both buried down there for centuries, undetected, it seems likely there’s enough power left behind to hide you . . .”

“Thanks, Alex,” I said, and I meant it. “But the way the Sun King’s got everyone stirred up, I don’t think all of Strangefellows’ protections put together could keep them out if they did track me there. The whole world could turn up at your door, baying for my blood. I wouldn’t want to bring that down on you.”

“Does this mean I’m reinvested as best man?” said Alex.

“Don’t lose the ring,” I said.

I broke the connection and sat on my tombstone for a while, hefting the phone in one hand while my mind chased in all directions at once. The phone rang. It was Suzie. Her voice sounded cool and calm as always.

“I’ve heard,” she said. “Did you really kill Julien Advent in cold blood?”

“Of course not!” I said. “How could you even think that of me?”

“It didn’t sound like you,” said Suzie.

“I killed him at his own request, to save a whole bunch of innocents from being killed.”

“That sounds like Advent,” said Suzie. “Where are you, John?”

“You’d better stay out of this, Suzie. I can handle it.”

“Of course you can. Where are you, John?”

It was the second time she’d asked, and something in her voice made all the hackles rise up on the back of my neck. “Why do you want to know, Suzie?”

“Because the Authorities have hired me to track you down,” said Shotgun Suzie. “My biggest bounty ever.”

“And you said yes?”

“It’s a really big reward,” said Suzie. “Biggest I’ve ever been offered. And it is what I do best. It’s a matter of professional pride, John. I can’t let anyone else get to you first.”

“And you never bring your bounties back alive,” I said.

I cut her off and shut down the phone, just in case. It wasn’t like I wanted to talk to anyone anyway. I simply sat there, staring at nothing, trying not to think, trying not to feel. Because it felt like someone had punched my heart out. I’d never felt so alone.

I rocked back and forth, hugging myself tightly to keep from falling apart. Tears burned my eyes, but I was damned if I’d give in to them. Instead, I clung to the rage within me, warming my heart on its heat. I had to stop the Sun King. To save the Nightside and avenge Julien Advent. I would stop him, then put him down, in the worst and messiest way I could think of. And after that, the whole damned Nightside and everyone in it could go straight to Hell, for all I cared.

I looked up sharply. There was a new presence on the air, a new power forcing its way into the cemetery dimension. Something was coming my way, cutting its way through Space and Time to get to me, and I knew who it was, who it had to be. Light burst suddenly into the cemetery gloom, bright neon glare from the Nightside, falling through a narrow gap that split the air before me from top to bottom. The gap stretched wide, forced apart by one man’s unstoppable will; and through that hole came Razor Eddie, the Punk God of the Straight Razor. His feet crunched loudly on the gravel before me, and the gap slammed shut behind him, cutting off the light. Razor Eddie, a grey presence in a filthy coat, with dark eyes and a haunted face, holding his pearl-handled straight razor out before him. The steel blade shone supernaturally bright. Eddie moved slowly towards me, cold and implacable as an avenging angel, and it seemed to me I’d never seen him look so angry, so . . . emotional, before. I never knew he had it in him.

I got up from the headstone, unhurriedly, and waited for him to come to me. I can honestly say it never even occurred to me to run, to use my gift to get away, even though that would have been the sane thing to do. He stopped at the very edge of the gravel path and stared at me as though he’d never seen me before. He hefted the shining razor; and it occurred to me that the razor’s magics shouldn’t work here, in the face of so many defensive magics. Instead, it glared more fiercely than I’d ever seen before. Fuelled by the rage of the god who held it. Eddie held it up, so I could get a good look at the killing thing.

“I am a god,” he said, in his ghostly whispering voice. “People tend to forget that the Punk God of the Straight Razor isn’t just a title. I take my power with me, wherever I go. I exist to protect the innocent and punish the guilty. I have never allowed anything to get in my way.”

“You won’t even give an old friend the benefit of the doubt?” I said, standing very still.

“The friend I thought I had, the man I thought I knew, would never have murdered Julien Advent in cold blood.”

“I didn’t!”

“Liar.” Razor Eddie smiled at me slowly. “What a long, strange road it’s been, John. Sometimes friends, sometimes allies, sometimes enemies. Typical enough, I suppose, for the Nightside. And now here we are, ready to go head to head, like in the prophecy . . . You should have listened, John. Dagon is never wrong about these things.” His smile slowly widened into a cold and remorseless thing. “All these years we’ve danced the dance, circling around each other . . . You must have known it would come to this, eventually. You must have wondered, which one of us would win, in a fight to the death?”

“No,” I said. “I can honestly say, the thought never crossed my mind.”

“Liar,” said Eddie, almost fondly.

“Eddie,” I said. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” he said. “For Julien Advent. Who never once approved of me, and quite right, too.”

He launched himself at me while he was still speaking, an old trick, but I was ready for that; and we went fighting up and down the gravel path, through the cold grey silence of the cemetery. And the fog swirled around us like the disturbed waters where sharks are circling with bad intent.

I knew I couldn’t face his razor, so I kept falling back before it, dodging and ducking where necessary. The brightly shining blade sliced clean through the top of a headstone, when I put it between myself and Eddie; and the blade hacked off the top corner in a moment, cutting through solid stone like it was paper. I kept moving, darting this way and that, trying to stay alive long enough to come up with some kind of strategy. He wasn’t even trying, yet. He was playing with me. So, when in doubt, raise the stakes. I stepped deliberately off the gravel path, into and among the graves, daring Eddie to follow. I could See the hidden dangers, but he couldn’t, for all his Punk Godness. He didn’t even hesitate. He stepped off the gravel path and straight onto a land mine.

The explosion was deafeningly loud on the quiet, and a great cloud of pulverised stone and earth filled the air. Bits of gravel rained down like shrapnel. And Razor Eddie came walking forward out of the dust cloud, like a wolf out of hiding. Untouched and unscathed, like the murderous force he was. I kept backing away, and he kept coming after me; and the ground between us erupted, as a rock golem, a clumsy, misshapen thing, twelve feet tall and more, with a featureless face and huge fists like mauls, rose out of the dark earth between us to confront him. It went for Razor Eddie, and he moved so quickly he was only a blur. His razor flashed like lightning, sparking on the air, everywhere at once. And when Razor Eddie stopped moving, the rock golem was gone, leaving only piles of scattered rock pieces to show where it had been. Very small, finely cut rock pieces. Razor Eddie smiled at me, and a cold hand clutched my heart.

I retreated further into the cemetery, being very careful where I put my feet, hiding among the looming mausoleums and family crypts. Razor Eddie came after me, cutting his way through a forest of tombstones and carving the sad faces off sculpted angels because they got in his way. I was still thinking furiously. I could have killed him. I’m pretty sure I could have found a way to kill him. Eddie had his razor, but I had all kinds of weapons, and a lifetime’s supply of dirty tricks. But he was still my friend, in his own strange, cold way, and I didn’t want to kill him. So I did what I always do, when I’m backed into a corner—improvise with extreme prejudice.

I goaded him into rushing me. “Getting old, Eddie! Getting soft and slow. Getting past it!”

He rushed forward as I finally stood my ground. And at the last moment I whipped off my white trench coat and threw it over Razor Eddie. It wrapped itself around him as he crashed to a halt, blinded and confused, fighting the coat’s enveloping folds and getting nowhere. Now, my coat has enough nasty magics and awful protections built into it that it could probably have won the fight on its own; but to be on the safe side, I picked up a chunk of stone that Eddie had sliced off a tombstone, and hit him over the head with it.

Eddie slumped to his knees, but he didn’t stop struggling, so I hit him again, putting all my strength and weight into it. The impact jarred my hand and arm painfully, and Eddie fell forward onto the ground between the graves and lay still. I took my coat back off him, and put it back on again.

“Don’t try and kid me you’re dead,” I said finally. “I might have rattled your brains a bit, Mr. high-and-mighty Punk God of the knife with attachment for getting stones out of horses’ hooves, but you don’t get taken out of the game that easily.”

I kicked his straight razor away from him, and his head came up immediately, to fix me with a cold dark glare. Blood ran thickly down the side of his face.

“Leave that alone!” he said. “Damn you, John. You only won by cheating, and you know it!”

“You always were a bad loser, Eddie,” I said. “The operative word is won. So I suggest you take a nice little rest until you’ve got all your marbles together again. Don’t try and follow me. Or I might have to do something more permanent to you.”

“I will find you!”

“No you won’t,” I said. “Good-bye, Eddie.”

I used my gift to find the tear he’d made in Space and Time with his razor, to let himself into the cemetery dimension. It was still there. I could See it clearly, hanging on the air over the gravel path. The wounds Razor Eddie makes in the world take time to heal. I moved quickly back between the graves and onto the path, pushed the sides of the gap apart, and squeezed up my eyes against the bright flare of light that fell through into the grey cemetery world. I looked back, just in time to see Razor Eddie stretch out one hand and the straight razor fly through the air to slap into his palm. Definitely time to be going. I stepped through the gap and back into the Nightside, letting the tear close behind me. I used my gift to find a way to close and seal it permanently, so he couldn’t come straight after me, and only then looked around to see where I’d ended up. I was pretty much where I’d expected, in the street outside the Necropolis itself. Ugly great building; a hulking brick monument to our continuing fascination with death.

I didn’t hear the car coming, but long years of experience surviving in the Nightside made me look round suddenly. And there, coming straight at me at speed, was the great shining silver bullet of Dead Boy’s futuristic car. I didn’t hear it approach because it had no wheels, floating serenely on super-scientific energy fields, and an engine that barely murmured at the best of times. I threw myself out of its way, and the car’s front bumper hit me a glancing blow as it shot past. The impact sent me sprawling, rolling over and over. I hit hard and took my time coming to a stop; afterwards I lay there, gasping for breath. My hip hurt like hell, but I didn’t think it was broken. And while I lay there, trying to get my thoughts back together again, the car swung smoothly round at the end of the street, moved unhurriedly back towards me, and stopped a respectful distance away. The driver’s door swung smoothly open, and Dead Boy lurched out, resplendent in his purple greatcoat with a black rose at the lapel. He sauntered down the street towards me, his face completely relaxed and utterly remorseless.

“My car has the best tracking systems in the world,” he said easily. “She knew where you were going to reappear before you did. I’ve been parked at the end of this street for ages, waiting for you to turn up. Killer.”

“It wasn’t like that!” I said, forcing myself up onto one knee, and checking myself over for damages.

“Oh please,” said Dead Boy. “Don’t embarrass yourself. I’ve heard the story of how Advent died too many times, from people I have every reason to trust. Julien Advent was a good man. He taught me about honour. He believed in me even though I was dead. He was always there for me . . . Even when you ran away from the Nightside and hid out in London Proper for all those years. He never abandoned me! He taught me how to live again!”

“I didn’t murder him,” I said, somehow clambering up onto my feet again. It had been a long day. I stood swaying before him, meeting his unwavering gaze with my own. “After all we’ve been through, after all the things we’ve faced together; can’t you trust me?”

“You?” said Dead Boy, and tired as I was, I had to admit he had a point.

He moved suddenly forward, crossing the intervening space between us in a moment. He took two good handfuls of my coat lapels and held me easily in the air with his unnatural strength. My feet kicked helplessly a good yard above the ground. I grabbed his wrists with my hands, but it was like gripping cold steel. I wrestled against his grip, but couldn’t break it. I let go, and punched him in the side of the head, with as much strength as the awkward angle would allow. I hurt my hand, but I didn’t hurt him.

He laughed at me. “Come on, John; you know better than that. I don’t feel pain. I don’t feel anything unless I take my special pills. But I think I will feel something when I kill you. I will feel something when I avenge Julien Advent.”

“He never could stand you,” I said.

He threw my against the wall behind me, on the other side of the street. I hit hard; and the world went away for a while. When it came back, I was lying in the middle of the road. My face hurt like hell, and blood was dripping from my mouth and nose. Dead Boy had been busy while I was away. I looked carefully around me, without raising my head. Dead Boy was standing over me, looking down the street towards his futuristic car. I was already recovering, but he didn’t know that. He didn’t know about the werewolf blood. He couldn’t know how quickly I could put myself back together again. Dead Boy laughed softly and looked down at me.

“You can stop playing dead, John. I know you’re awake. I heard your breathing change. You always were a tough little bastard. But after the way I bounced you off that wall and slapped you around, you won’t be getting up anytime soon. So I think I’ll run you over with my car. Over and over and over again.”

He called to his marvellous futuristic car, and the engine murmured into life. The car headed straight for me, taking its time. Dead Boy stayed right where he was, so he could see it all in close-up and savour it. His smile vanished as I sat up, spat out a mouthful of blood, and grinned at him.

“Have to do better than that, you brain-dead animated corpse.”

Dead Boy leaned slowly towards me, not allowing himself to be hurried, his dead hands clenched into fists and his dark eyes fixed on me. The car was still coming, building speed, aimed right at me. I waited till Dead Boy was bending right over me, then I used my gift to find all the stitches, staples, and yards of duct tape that held his much-abused dead body together. And once I had them, it was the easiest thing in the world to find all their weak spots. The stitches broke, the duct tape ruptured, and rusting staples flew out of him like tiny shrapnel.

It was an old weakness of Dead Boy’s. I’d seen someone else do it to him before. And I never forget a weakness I might need to make use of someday.

Dead Boy cried out as he fell helplessly to his knees, clutching at his opening wounds to stop his internal organs from falling out. The car was almost on top of us, slamming on its brakes as it worked out what was happening . . . too late, too late. I rolled casually to one side, and the car ran right over Dead Boy as he lay broken and helpless on the ground. When the futuristic car finally lurched to a halt, it had run over Dead Boy, its back wheels resting right on top of him, pinning him firmly to the ground. And before it could decide whether to move on or back away, I sauntered over and placed one heavy foot on the back bumper.

“Back off now, and you’ll tear him apart,” I said to the car. I was pretty sure it could understand me. “And if you try to go forward, I’ll do something even more unpleasant to him. And you.” The car didn’t move, so I looked down at Dead Boy’s strained face, glaring up at me. “You can treat a mule with kindness,” I said. “But first you have to hit it over the head with a two-by-four, to get its attention. I am not guilty of murdering Julien Advent, you idiot. And to prove it, I’m not going to kill you.”

“You can’t kill me,” Dead Boy said craftily. “The clue’s in the name.”

“All right then, I won’t damage or destroy your body, or shove it in the furnace and dance around singing Hallelujah.”

Dead Boy considered this for a while, looking up at me thoughtfully. “You could find a way to get rid of me, couldn’t you? Typical John bloody Taylor. All right, let’s talk. If we must. I got a call to go to the Hospice. Anonymous, but you get used to those, in the Nightside. It told me Julien Advent was dead. I didn’t want to believe it, so of course I had to go. When I got there, he was lying there, stretched out on the floor. I didn’t see any blood, so for a moment I hoped, but . . . Some doctor was weeping over him. Nurses and patients, too. I knelt and looked Julien over, but he was definitely gone. The dead know death when they see it. The doctor said you’d killed him, for no reason. I always knew you’d go rogue someday.”

“I find my friends’ lack of faith in me disturbing,” I said.

“Go on! Kill me, if you can! Find a way to destroy my body! But you’d better make a really good job of it; because it’s the only way you’ll stop me from avenging Julien Advent!”

“Why is everyone so keen to avenge him?” I said. “None of you ever had much time for him when he was alive.”

“I couldn’t help him, then,” said Dead Boy. “What could someone like me do for someone like him? But I can do this!”

“I’m not going to kill, destroy, or disassemble you,” I said patiently.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re my friend.”

“All right,” said Dead Boy, slowly. “One of us has definitely mellowed; and it sure as hell isn’t me. Something is very wrong here. You never killed anyone that you weren’t prepared to boast about afterwards; and you never showed mercy to anyone who threatened your life. Are you sure you didn’t kill Julien Advent? Because . . . as much as I want to believe you, something is yelling in my head that you did it.”

“I only ever killed people who needed killing,” I said.

“Good point,” said Dead Boy. “I’ll think about it. But you’d better run, John, while you can. Because once I get out from under this car, if I’ve thought about it and made up my mind that you are guilty . . . I will come after you. Because I can’t let Julien Advent’s murderer get away with it.”

“Of course,” I said. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

I walked away. Behind me I could hear the futuristic car reversing very slowly off Dead Boy, while he yelled Careful, dammit! and Don’t worry, baby; it wasn’t your fault.

I found a short cut that took me straight to the H. P. Lovecraft Memorial Library, only to find it wasn’t there. It was only then that I remembered hearing that the Library had recently vanished and been replaced by a doppelganger from some alternate dimension. The Linda Lovecraft Library of Spiritual Erotica. Takes all sorts . . . A large crowd of extremely interested observers had gathered before the front doors, at what they hoped was a safe distance, watching while men in heavy-duty protective clothing checked the place out first. Because some kinds of forbidden knowledge are more dangerous than others. Everyone there was so interested in what might be going on inside that no-one even noticed my arrival.

I stood as deep in the shadows of a side alley as I could get and frowned thoughtfully. The Linda Lovecraft Library was no use to me. I had one particular book in mind, and for that I needed the original building back again. So I raised my gift, reached out with my mind in a direction I could sense but not point at, grabbed hold of the missing Library, and brought it back again. It took up its old position quite comfortably, nudging the intruder back to its own world. No explosions, no earthquakes, not even any bright lights. It helped that I was only reversing an existing transfer; someone had taken our Library and replaced it with theirs. And later on, if I was still alive, I would have to find out why.

Loud cries of shock, outrage, and deep disappointment came from the watching crowd. They’d really been looking forward to discovering exactly what kind of informative books the new Library might contain. The men in protective clothing came stumbling out of the front door, shaking their heads. One of them was heard to state, quite loudly, that he wished some people would make up their minds. The crowd began to disperse.

I couldn’t move. I was so tired I had to lean against the alley wall and wait for my strength to come back to me. I was using my gift too much, again. Not that I had any choice. But I’d been through a lot in a short time, and even werewolf blood and Alex’s pick-me-up could only do so much. They could heal my body, but abusing my gift was doing serious damage to my mind and my soul.

Someday, I’d go too far, and not come back.

After a while, the pain in my head began to subside, and I wiped my nose on the back of my hand. I stared at the long streak of blood I left there, then took out a handkerchief and wiped it away. I moved to the entrance of the alley and looked across at the front entrance to the Library. Most of the crowd was gone. The H. P. Lovecraft Memorial Library was strictly for those interested and discerning minds concerned with ancient knowledge and secrets preserved in forbidden books . . . the kind of thing that could only be dug out through hard work and harder research. Strictly for only the most hardened scholars. And who had time for that, in the Nightside, when so many other more immediate pleasures were to be had, on every side? Only the most dedicated students of the strange and unnatural came to this Library, men who had no time for anything else. Each to their own . . . The scholarly boys would be heading back the moment they heard the old place had returned, so I had to get in and out quickly if I didn’t want to be noticed. Fortunately, I knew of a very secret side entrance to the Library, shown to me by the last Head Librarian but one, who owed me a favour for finding a rather important book that had gone walkabout. (Apparently it was mostly bored. The Head Librarian made arrangements for it to be read continuously, in shifts, and that took care of that.) I drifted carefully and very inconspicuously down the side of the Library and used the key that I’d taken in part payment for my work. (Not only for finding the book but for keeping quiet about what it was about.)

Inside, the Library was still and quiet. I moved quickly through the deserted stacks, in pursuit of the one book I was increasingly sure I needed to take a good look at. No-one else had got in yet, not even the very dedicated and more than a little unhinged scholars of the weird and appalling who normally have to be beaten off with big sticks or hosed down with Ritalin and thrown out bodily, when they got too attached to a particular volume and wouldn’t give it up to anyone else. Hell, some of them would sleep in the stacks if they were allowed. But the Library’s security would keep the scholars at bay until they’d had a chance to do a full sweep of the building and make sure everything was where it should be. And that the stacks hadn’t picked up any dangerous hitch-hikers from where it had recently been. I kept a careful eye out but didn’t see anything unusual. Or at least, no more unusual than usual.

I finally found my way to the Really Restricted Section, where they keep the kind of books most scholars aren’t even supposed to know exist. I knocked on the closed door, said the proper passwords, and the door opened before me. I walked in, and the ghost of the Head Librarian, a thin, dusty presence, with dark eyes and a disapproving look, appeared before me, blocking my way. (He had been eaten by a book, then brought back by the other books, apparently because they approved of him. Because even though he didn’t have much time for people, he loved books.) I was forced to acknowledge his presence or walk right through him.

“John Taylor,” said the Ghost Librarian, in a voice of spiritual accusation. “I might have known.”

“Don’t get snotty,” I said. “I brought this place back from wherever it’s been. Where did you go, anyway?”

“I don’t like to think about it,” said the Ghost Librarian, sounding distinctly embarrassed. “Some alternate worlds are more alternate than others. A very . . . uninhibited culture, indeed. Thank you for bringing us back. Would it have killed you to wait a few days? Anyway, what are you doing here? You don’t have access to the Really Restricted Section.”

I pulled a card out of thin air and showed it to him. “Oh yes I do. See? I have special clearance. Courtesy of Ebeneezer Scrivener, the last Head Librarian but one. And, no, you don’t get to ask why. But I have full clearance, for everything, cannot be refused or revoked.”

The Ghost Librarian sniffed dustily. “They’ll let anyone in these days. Oh, very well. If you must. But treat the books properly; if I find one dog-eared page after you’ve gone, I’ll have you indexed. And make sure you put everything back where you found it.”

I left him muttering to himself in a spectral way and pressed on into the gloomy depths of the Really Restricted Section. The Library could provide perfectly good lighting, like everywhere else, if it wanted; I think they do it here for atmosphere. All the reading desks have their own lights, complete with a large red panic button. This particular section holds more ancient tomes of forbidden lore, and spiritually dangerous books, than the human mind can comfortably cope with. Not even my special-access card could keep me safe from all the threats and dangers in this Section. Some books were padlocked inside cold iron cases, to keep their extreme energies from leaking out and contaminating the area. Or rewriting the other books. Some were chained to the shelves, not to keep them from being stolen but to keep them from attacking people. And some had their very own illuminated warning signs because in the H. P. Lovecraft Memorial Library, some books read people.

There are books bound in dragon skin, black goatskin, and human skin; and I could hear them muttering and stirring on the shelves as I walked by. A few actually silently vanished away, rather than have me read them, which I felt was a bit harsh. But then, books can be terrible snobs.

I was also hoping the Library’s many layers of protective spells and privacy enforcements (built up over the centuries, to protect the books and keep them under control, and prevent anyone from getting in without paying the proper fee), would be enough to conceal my presence from all those looking for me. But I still couldn’t afford to waste any time. I wasn’t just on the run; I had a target nailed to my back. By the Sun King. I had to wonder where he was, right now, and what he was doing; but I couldn’t let myself get distracted. I hurried through the stacks, while some books whispered seductively Read me! and others snorted Don’t even touch my binding, unworthy one! One book bound in very pale elf skin glowed unhealthily in the gloom, poisoning the air with its aetheric radiations. I gave it plenty of room. Elves have always been big on revenge, even when they’re dead. Especially when they’re dead.

It took me a while to find the particular book I wanted. I couldn’t use my gift, not in a place like this. I had to do it the old-fashioned way, checking the index and working my way up and down the shelves. The book was exactly where it was supposed to be, for which I gave quiet thanks to the Ghost Librarian. He might be fond of books, but he didn’t take any shit from any volume on his watch.

You’re welcome.

I pretended I hadn’t heard that and eased the book carefully off the shelf. The books on either side immediately shuffled closer together to take up the intervening space. The shelf was very tightly packed. I took the book over to the nearest reading desk, and the green-shielded light turned itself on. I thought I heard a faint sigh of relief from the other books, that I wasn’t interested in them; but that could have been my imagination.

The book I’d wanted was a lengthy and exhaustive history of the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille, in life and in death, so to speak. Written by Julien Advent, in 1977. I paused for a moment as I looked at his name on the title page and let my fingertips drift over the printed letters. I had my own signed copy at home. He gave it to me years ago. Hadn’t looked at it in ages. So much to do . . . But this was the full, unexpurgated version. I leafed quickly through the pages, looking for . . . something. Something to jog my memory. Because something about the Hawk Wind’s sudden disappearance was bugging me. I’d missed something, forgotten something, but I was damned if I could think what. But I knew it was something significant. I flicked quickly through the chapters, letting words and phrases flow past my eyes, but nothing jumped out at me. I already knew all this . . . And then I looked up sharply. Footsteps were heading my way. Two sets, heavy but unhurried, apparently completely unconcerned that I might hear them. I closed the book, tucked it carefully into the large shoplifting pocket inside my trench coat, got up, and turned around, to meet whoever it was who’d been clever and fast enough to find me here. I could probably have got away, given that I knew the layout of this Library better than anyone who didn’t actually work here, but I was curious to know who it might be. And to take care of them here and now, so they wouldn’t follow me any further.

They came walking through the stacks towards me, and very dangerous books shuddered back on their shelves to get away from them. From Tommy and Larry, the Oblivion brothers. They both caught sight of me waiting for them at the same moment, and they came to a sudden halt, side by side. We stared at each other for a long moment.

“Of course,” I said. “The existential private eye and the Dead Detective. I should have known. It always takes one PI to find another.”

“Or in this case two PIs,” Tommy said brightly.

“Shut up, Tommy,” said Larry. “This is business. Serious business. It’s always trouble when one of us goes bad.”

Tommy nodded and gave me his best disappointed look. Larry looked at me as though this was what he’d always expected of me.

“How did you find me so quickly?” I said.

“We are detectives,” said Larry.

“Good song,” said Tommy.

“Shut up, Tommy!”

“Is Hadleigh with you?” I said.

“The Detective Inspectre is apparently busy,” said Larry, trying to keep the distaste out of his voice, and not even coming close.

“Oh good,” I said. “I thought I might be in trouble, for a moment.”

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

Larry stared coldly at me. “Put up a fight, Taylor. Go on. Give me an excuse to stamp your arrogant murderous face into the floor.”

“I always wondered how a good man like Julien Advent could survive in a place like this,” said Tommy. “But I never thought you’d be the one to finish him off, John.”

“I can explain,” I said, but they were already shaking their heads.

“Don’t,” said Tommy. “Please, John. Don’t lower yourself.”

“You’d say anything,” said Larry. “And we don’t care enough to listen. This is for the Great Victorian Adventurer; you bastard.”

He brought up his hand, and suddenly there was an elven wand pointing right at me. Larry Oblivion stabbed the wand at me, then frowned, when nothing happened. He stabbed the wand at me again, a little less confidently, and slowly lowered the wand as I smiled at him.

“I took precautions to protect myself against that thing the moment I discovered you had it,” I said. “I always knew you’d find a reason to turn on me, someday. And I always knew a lot more about elves than you ever did.”

Larry said something quietly obscene and made the wand disappear again. Tommy seized the moment and stepped forward. He smiled engagingly at me.

“Come, let us reason together . . .”

“Let’s not,” I said, very firmly. “Because you are the existential private eye, who can persuade anyone of anything. Who could talk the hind leg off a donkey, then use it to club the poor beast’s head in. I have extensive mental training, from when I was a young man learning my craft with old Carnacki; but even so, I don’t feel I want to test that training against your unnatural gift. So don’t try it on with me, Tommy Oblivion, or I will punch you right in the throat.”

And all the time I was speaking my mind, and the Oblivion brothers were listening to me, I was edging closer to the nearest bookshelf. I couldn’t hide my movements from them, but as long as I was still talking and not running, they stayed where they were. Confident that they were blocking the way to the exit. But I wasn’t thinking about running. Not yet. I grabbed the nearest book, feeling it squirm in my hand, and threw it at Larry. He flinched away as the book swooped angrily about his head, flapping its leather covers like stiff wings. Tommy cried out piteously and put both hands up to protect his head. He’d always had a thing about anything getting in his hair.

Larry grabbed the book out of mid air, holding it firmly with both hands. The book fought him, struggling fiercely, strange energies sparking and spitting on the air around it; but Larry was dead, and the book couldn’t hurt him. He forced the book closed with his dead strength and pushed it firmly back into its proper gap on the shelf. He then backed quickly away, while all the books on that shelf vied to make the loudest and most obscene noises of defiance. Larry smiled briefly.

“I may be dead, but I still have my reflexes. Tommy, will you please put your hands down! The danger, what there was of it, has quite definitely passed.”

And while they were both distracted by all of that, I slipped behind the bookshelf, put my shoulder to the wooden frame, and threw all my strength and weight against it. The bookshelf resisted, but I insisted, and with a lurch and a groan the whole bookshelf tilted to one side, then fell onto Tommy and Larry Oblivion. They both looked round to see it coming, but not in time to do anything about it. The heavy weight of the packed bookshelves slammed down onto both of them, throwing them to the floor and pinning them there. Tommy cried out piteously again. Larry didn’t. He had his pride. And besides, unlike Tommy, he was dead and therefore felt no pain.

When I was sure they were both safely pinned to the floor, I moved forward to smile down at them.

“You bastard,” said Larry.

“Takes one to know one,” I said. “Now, will you listen to me?”

Larry turned his head slowly to look at Tommy. “Can you move?”

“Not in the least. Haven’t got any leverage to work with. You?”

“No.” Larry looked up at me. “All right. What have you got to say for yourself, you murderous little shit?”

I explained the circumstances of Julien Advent’s death in some detail, making sure they understood about the Sun King, and what he was planning to do while everyone was distracted running after me. When I was finished, Larry looked at Tommy.

“Do you believe him?”

“Stranger things have happened,” said Tommy.

“Our enemies have always profited by turning us against each other,” said Larry.

“And if the Sun King is the one responsible for Julien’s death, I want his heart’s blood,” said Tommy.

“You always were the vicious one in the family,” Larry said fondly.

I looked at them both thoughtfully. “You’re both being very reasonable. Don’t you feel the Sun King’s power, pressing on you not to believe me?”

“No,” said Larry. “I have to say . . . I don’t feel as utterly convinced of your guilt as I did before. Could be the Library’s defences, protecting us from the Sun King’s influence. And, of course, we are more resistant than most. Tommy being existential, and me being dead.”

“It affected Dead Boy,” I said.

Larry sniffed loudly. “That boy’s brains have been leaking out his ears for years. I’m amazed he can still put one foot in front of the other without consulting a manual. All right, say we do believe in you. That you were framed by the Sun King. How do we find the bastard?”

“My gift can’t find him anywhere,” I said. “He’s either protected by his power or by that of the Entities.”

“That leaves simple deduction,” said Larry. “We are supposed to be detectives, after all. Where would he go, in the Nightside? What would he see as a weak spot? What would he most easily recognise, or be drawn to, in the Nightside?”

“The Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille!” Tommy said immediately. “The Sun King is a child of the sixties, right? And what’s most representative of that period here? The Bar! And being a ghost of its former self would make it a weak spot in reality! God I’m good.”

“The Hawk’s Wind disappeared recently,” said Larry. “I can’t believe that’s a coincidence. Get this thing off us, Taylor. We’re going with you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “But no, you’re not. You could fall under the Sun King’s influence the moment you leave the Library and attack me again. But I think you’re right about the Bar. Too many unanswered questions there. How did he make it disappear? Where has he sent it? Why is it so important to him? I thought it must be because the sixties incarnation of Julien Advent was in there at the time . . .”

“He is?” said Tommy.

“Call yourself a detective?” I said, not unkindly. “There has to be a connection, between the Sun King and Julien Advent and the Hawk’s Wind; but I’m not seeing it yet. I’m afraid you two are going to have to work your own way out while I get on with the job. Once you are out, if you can fight off the Sun King’s influence, it would be a help if you could intercept Razor Eddie and Dead Boy and keep them busy while I work.”

I walked back through the stacks, which seemed to edge back from me a little. Behind me, I could hear Larry and Tommy arguing.

“Can you shift your end?” said Larry.

“What do you think? You’re nearer the edge than I am, you must have some leverage,” said Tommy.

“I’m deceased, not a contortionist. Look, one of us is going to have to use all his strength and worry about the damage afterwards.”

“Good idea,” said Tommy. “Doesn’t matter if you take any damage, so you first.”

“Just because I’m dead . . .”

“Come, let us reason together . . .”

“Don’t you dare!”