The Good, the Bad, and the Uncanny

ONE Into the Dragon’s Mouth

I was out and about that night, taking my trench coat for a walk, when a sudden fog came rolling down the street towards me like a grim grey tidal wave. I stopped, and studied its progress cautiously. We don’t get many fogs, in the Nightside. We get lots of rain, and thunder-storms, and the occasional hail of frogs, but we don’t really do weather, as such. Weather and seasons are part of the natural order of the world, and we don’t really do natural either. So a sudden fog always means trouble for someone.

People on the street were already running ahead of the fog, or disappearing into sheltering doorways, as the thick pearl grey wall rolled relentlessly on, enveloping clubs and shops and soaking up the neon light, till only the merest Technicolor glints showed through, like so many half-blinded eyes. A growing silence moved with the fog as it ate up all the life and laughter in the street. I could see dim shapes moving, caught in the thick mists, struggling slowly like insects caught in hardening amber. The fog smeared itself across shop-windows, filling the night and hanging heavily on the air, surging forward in sudden, billowing clouds. Up close, the pearly grey mists were full of shimmering sparks and uncertain shapes that came and went in a moment. I seriously considered running.

This had all the makings of a flux fog.

Such things are dangerous. A flux fog means the corners of the world aren’t properly nailed down any more, and reality is up for grabs. Inside a flux fog, all certainties are thrown into question, and all the possibilities that ever were are suddenly made equal. Take the wrong turning, in a grey world where every turn looks just like every other, and you could end up walking out of the fog into a whole new place. With no guarantee you’ll ever find a way home again. Everything looks blurred and out of focus in a flux fog because you’re seeing a dozen different dimensions, a hundred possibilities, for every object or person or direction. People and places can change subtly even as you approach them; familiar faces can become strangers, and in the blink of an eye you’re trapped in a world that never knew you. The only real defence against a flux fog is not to be there when one manifests.

I should have known better than to be out and about on such a night. The weather forecast had been Changeable, with a side order of On your own head be it. But I felt the need to go out, to walk up and down the Nightside, to see what there was to be seen and think a few very private thoughts. Some thoughts can only be properly considered when you’ve removed yourself from your comfort zone. A melancholy had come upon me over a period of weeks, and I wasn’t sure why. Things were actually going well, for a change. I was wealthy enough that I could pick and choose my cases, pursuing only those that interested me; and I was respected enough that no-one had tried to kill me in weeks. And Suzie and I were ... closer than ever.

I had everything I’d ever dreamed of So why was I so restless ? Why was I waiting... for the hammer to fall?

Suzie was out pursuing a case of her own, hunting down some poor bastard for the bounty on his head, and the house had seemed very still and quiet without her in it. I’d felt strangely agitated, disturbed, uneasy ... as though someone, somewhere, had me in his gun-sight. So I left the house and went out for a walk, to think and brood, and hopefully tempt any possible enemy out into the open, where I could get at him.

And what I got, for my trouble, was a flux fog.

The mists really were getting quite close now. People stepped out of the grey wall before me, vague and indistinct, their details only firming up as they left the fog behind them. A giant teddy bear in a World War I British Army uniform looked confusedly about him, clutching his rifle with his furry paws. A scientific person in a pristine white lab coat stalked right past me, gabbling to himself in low Coptic. And a gaggle of Russian tourists in Chernobyl Health Spa T-shirts started to take photographs of me, before they realised who I was and decided to take a sudden interest in something else instead.

Nothing out of the ordinary, for the Nightside, where some days you can’t trust anyone or anything to stay the same for ten minutes in a row. All the people here have some nasty little secrets, something cold and unpleasant clutched greedily to their bosoms, some special need or fascination that could only be revealed and satisfied in the neon-lit streets of the Nightside. A private face behind every public mask, a hidden meaning peeking through whatever words they choose to share with you. Even I had turned out to be ... not who I thought I was.

Lilith’s son ...

The flux fog surged forward, filling the street, and I opened my arms to it, embracing the bitter, tingling mists as they rolled over me. A reckless, stupid thing to do; but the restlessness was so great in me, I felt a desperate need to do something, anything, out of character, just to prove to myself that I was still in charge of my life. That I was still making the decisions. The mists felt hot and clammy, like the steam in a sick-room, where the fever burns like madness and inspiration all at once. Shadowy shapes skittered all around me, like sharks circling a body in the water; and somewhere far away a great bell made of ice tolled the hours before dawn.

And then, just like that, the fog was gone. The street was back, in all its wild and gaudy details, the clubs and bars and private establishments as loud and raucous as ever. The bright primary colours of the neon signs blazed as sleazily as ever, and the huge oversized Moon shone coldly in the clear night sky. People spilled back out onto the pavements, once again intent only on tracking down their own particular heavens and hells, their very own private rewards and damnations. Nothing had changed, least of all me. I lowered my arms, feeling faintly foolish and obscurely disappointed. The flux fog hadn’t touched me. Perhaps because of my not-altogether-human nature; perhaps because it was afraid of me. Or perhaps because it wouldn’t deign to touch anyone who wanted it...

Why was I so restless, that night of all nights? Why did I want so badly for my life to change? Was it because I’d finally got everything I ever wanted, and all I could think was ... Is this it?

Perhaps fortunately, my mobile phone rang, playing Mike Oldfield’s “Tubular Bells.” I finally got rid of the Twilight Zone theme; you can run some jokes into the ground. I took out my phone, hit the exorcism function to keep out the really determined ad mail, and did my best to speak cheerfully and normally.

“Hi, there! You have reached John Taylor, private investigator, hero for hire, and female impersonator for private functions. This may or may not be a recording. Speak now.”

“Oh God, you’re in one of your moods again, aren’t you?” said my secretary, Cathy. “I don’t know why you ever try to sound cheerful; you know you’re no good at it. I, on the other hand, am always bright and cheerful and charming because I am young and fresh and still relatively unsullied.”

She had a point. Cathy was so unrelentingly cheerful I used to think she dosed herself morning, noon, and night with every drug known to man, but no, it was just her. There ought to be a law.

“What do you want, Cathy?” I said patiently. “You’re interrupting my quality time.”

“Oh, you’re not going to believe this one, boss.”

“What have you done this time?”

“Nothing! Or at least nothing you need to worry about. But you won’t believe who just phoned the office, looking to hire you... An elf! Really! You could have knocked me down with a French tickler. Not only has an elf lord come to the Nightside, which is weird and scary and disturbing enough in itself, but he wants you to solve a case for him! How cool is that?”

“Which particular elf lord are we talking about here?” I said, since one of us had to be practical and professional in this conversation, and it clearly wasn’t going to be Cathy.

“Says he’s the Lord Screech; but you can bet good money that’s not his real name. Elves lie like they breathe. They only come into our world to mess us over.”

“Of course,” I said. “It’s all they’ve got left. What exactly does this putative Lord Screech want me to find for him?”

“Wouldn’t say,” sniffed Cathy. “Too far up himself to discuss details with a mere underling. Says he’ll be at the Dragon’s Mouth for the next two hours if you’d care to drop by for a little chat. No mention of money. But... he’s an elf! When did you last hear of one of them lowering himself to ask a mere human for help?”

“Never,” I said. “Which would suggest that not only is this case going to be impossible, unethical, and quite mind bogglingly dangerous, but I’ll probably end up stabbed in the back by my own client.”

“Well, of course,” said Cathy. “I thought that was all understood when I said, Your client is an elf. But come on, boss, we are talking major bragging rights here! You could dine out on this for months! John Taylor, the private investigator so special that even the high-and-mighty elves come to him to solve their problems! We could have new cards made!”

“Still,” I said, “why the Dragon’s Mouth? That’s a seriously unpleasant place, even for the Nightside. What would an elf be doing there? Or does he know... that I know the Dragon’s Mouth? That once upon a time, I knew it very well.”

“You used to frequent the Dragon’s Mouth, boss?” said Cathy, somehow managing to sound scandalized and delighted at the same time. “But it’s...”

“The Nightside’s premiere drug den,” I said. “You never knew me in my dog days, Cathy; when I was down-and-out and on the run from everyone, including myself. I swore I’d never go back... but if that’s where the elf is, then that’s where I’m going. If only because I can’t have our crafty and underhanded elf lord thinking he has an advantage over me. No-one tells me there’s somewhere I can’t go, not even me.”

“You’re weird, boss.”

I shut down the phone and put it away. I’d gone out into the night looking for changes, and it seemed I’d found some. I’d been thinking about my future, but it seemed my past wasn’t finished with me yet. I thrust both hands deep into the pockets of my trench coat, took a deep breath, and headed for the Dragon’s Mouth, and the deepest, darkest part of the night.

Never trust elves. They always have their own agenda.

There are places you just don’t go in the Nightside. Either because they’re so dangerous you know you’re going to have to fight your way in, and probably out, or because they’re so extreme, so shameful, and so damned sickening that no-one with any sense would have anything to do with them. There are bad places, dangerous places, and unhealthy places; and then there’s the Dragon’s Mouth.

Tucked away casually in a shadowy side street not far from the old main drag, the club’s exterior really is a huge dragon’s head, some thirty feet tall and twenty wide, its huge gaping jaws forming the entrance. Rumour had it the dragon had been petrified centuries ago by the gorgon Medusa herself. In which case, I hated to think what they were using for the back door. The wide stone head was a smooth dull grey, untouched by time or weather. The eyes were deep, dark hollows. Great jagged teeth pointed up and down, like stalagmites and stalactites. There were no exterior guards; just walk in, whenever you please. All are welcome, for as long as their money or credit holds out. Anything goes, any need satisfied, enter at your own risk, and abandon hope all ye ... Well, I’m sure you know the rest.

I strolled unhurriedly between the two long rows of teeth and descended the winding stone stairs into the belly of the beast, the huge stone chamber spread out beneath the street. It was years since I’d last been here, a lifetime. It was yesterday. Sometimes you do things to yourself so bad that the memories have barbs and never let you go. I’d known what the place was, all those years ago, and what it could do to me, but I’d descended into hell anyway. I had come here because what it offered ... was what I wanted. The slow, sweet suicide of addiction.

I was so much younger then, and beset on all sides by threats and questions and destinies I couldn’t face any more. So I ran away, from friends and enemies alike, buried myself in the delightful depths of the Dragon’s Mouth, and gave myself to a very harsh and demanding mistress. I’d still be there, if Razor Eddie hadn’t come and got me out. No-one says no to the Punk God of the Straight Razor. I stayed with him a while, with all the other homeless who washed up in Rats’ Alley. I’d thought I couldn’t fall any further. Until Suzie Shooter came looking for me, for the price on my head; and I ran headlong from the Nightside and everything in it, with Suzie’s bullet burning in my back.

I thought I was done with the Nightside forever, but destiny called me home, where I belonged, with all the other monsters.

I descended the smooth stone steps into the great cavern below, and it all looked just as I remembered. As though I’d merely stepped out for a moment, and all the last years of my life had been only another smoke dream. I stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked about me, fighting to keep my face calm and unconcerned. The stone chamber was packed with people, standing and sitting and lying down, but the whole buzz of conversation was little more than a susurrus of whispers. You didn’t come to the Dragon’s Mouth to talk.

The air was thick with a hundred kinds of narcotic smoke, and already my lips and nostrils were going numb. You could experience a dozen different highs just strolling round the room, and long-buried parts of me stirred slowly, awakening, remembering. I took a deep breath. The smoky air smelled of sour milk and brimstone. I smiled slowly, and I knew it wasn’t a pleasant smile.

Some of the people there recognised me. They smiled and nodded, or scowled and made the sign against the evil eye; and some crept further back into the concealing shadows. But nobody said anything, and nobody did anything. Held tightly in the jealous arms of their own particular mistresses, they trusted the club’s staff to see that they remained undisturbed. There was never any trouble in the Dragon’s Mouth because on the few occasions anyone was stupid enough to start anything, old Mother Connell would take measures. Very extreme and unpleasant measures.

She sat where she always sat, behind an ornately carved Restoration desk, right at the bottom of the entrance steps. You couldn’t see the top of the desk for all the piled-up currency, gold, jewels, and credit cards. Mother Connell sat at her ease in a frighteningly huge padded chair; four hundred pounds of overwhelming femininity wrapped in a purple toga topped off with a long, pink feather boa, draped loosely around her huge, wattled neck. Sometimes the boa stirred, as though it were alive, or dreaming. Mother Connell dominated anywhere she was, just by being there, through the sheer force of her appalling personality. And her complete willingness to make use of her mallet-sized fists at the first hint of any unpleasantness.

Harsh and sweaty under an obviously fake curly blonde wig, her wide red face was marked by heavily mascaraed eyes and a scarlet gash of a mouth, along with heavy jowls that disappeared into the pink feather boa. I always thought she looked like she’d just eaten half a dozen drag queens for breakfast. She had a smile for everyone because a smile cost nothing; but it wasn’t a pretty sight. Her huge hands moved restlessly over the piled-up wealth before her, endlessly counting and sorting and rearranging it. In a rare moment of companionship, she’d once told me that when the cash really came rolling in, there was so much that she didn’t have time to count it; so she weighed it.

She looked up and caught my eye. Mother Connell never forgot a face and never took any good-bye as final. Her scarlet lips pulled back to reveal yellow teeth, and she beckoned me over with one meaty hand. Her voice was deep and harsh, like a dog growling.

“Hello again, Mr. T. Been a while. Still looking for your Shanghai Lil?”

“That was long ago, in another land, and besides, the wench is dead,” I said. “I understand you’re letting in elves these days?”

Her smile disappeared in a moment. “Hard times, Mr. T. Decadence and debauchery isn’t what it was. I blame television.”

“Tell me at least you didn’t let him pay you with faerie gold.”

She cackled briefly. “Not likely, Mr. T. He had a Master-Card.”

“How very appropriate,” I murmured. “Where can I find this elf, Mother Connell?”

She stabbed a meaty finger at the back of the room, her heavy underarm swinging ponderously. “In the smoking section, Mr. T. Do us all a favour; get him the hell out of here. He’s lowering the bleeding tone something awful.”

“Well, naturally,” I said.

I waggled my fingers in a good-bye, and she grinned back at me like a shark scenting blood in the water. I turned away, with a certain sense of relief, and moved off into the cavern, drifting deeper into the depths of the Dragon’s Mouth. No-one paid me any attention, as they all were sunk deep in their own personal heavens and hells. But one man saw me, and knew me, and came striding daintily out of the smoky mists with his professional smile of greeting fixed firmly in place. No-one knew precisely how old the Host was, or even if he was, technically speaking, human; he’d been with the Dragon’s Mouth since it opened, over a century and a half ago. The Host was there to make you feel welcome, to see to your every need, and to see that you got everything that was coming to you. He’d find you somewhere comfortable, help you with the pipe or the pills, or the needle and the tourniquet, whisper suggestions in your ear when you looked to be hesitating, and encourage you to try things you’d never even contemplated before. He’d cuddle you when the shakes were bad, hold your hair back as you vomited, and take you for every penny you had. And when you died in the Dragon’s Mouth, his would be the last face you ever saw. Still smiling.

Do I really need to tell you why?

He was currently wearing the very best suit Savile Row had to offer, complete with an old-school tie I was pretty sure he wasn’t entitled to wear. He’d painted his face stark white with arsenic; his smiling mouth was crimson with heavy lipstick, and his dark shining eyes never blinked once. His jet-black hair had been slicked down so fiercely it looked painted on, and a small silver ankh hung from his left ear-lobe. His every movement and gesture were elegance personified, and he moved through the world as though everyone in it was merely a supporting player to his star turn.

The Host could get you anything, anything at all. And the worse it was for you, the wider he smiled. The Host was always delighted to be of service. He’d been only too happy to supply me with what I thought I needed, all those years ago. He drifted to a halt before me, bowed ever so politely, and clasped his pale, long-fingered hands together across his sunken chest.

“Well, well,” he said, in a happy, breathy voice positively brimming with artificial bonhomie and fake sincerity. “Back again, Mr. Taylor? How nice. We’re always happy to welcome back one of our straying sons. What can I get you, Mr. Taylor ? Your usual?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not here for that. I’m here to meet someone.”

His dark red smile widened, just a little. “That’s what they all say. Don’t be shy, Mr. Taylor; you’re amongst friends here. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in the Dragon’s Mouth. Indulge yourself. It’s what we’re here for.”

“It’s not what I’m here for,” I said steadily. “I’m here on business. So stand aside.”

He didn’t move, his unblinking eyes fixed on mine, his gaze full of a malign intensity. “No-one ever leaves the Dragon’s Mouth, Mr. Taylor. Not really. They only pop out for a while, then they come back. Who else knows you as well as us; who else can provide you with what you really need? You belong here, Mr. Taylor; you know you do. Come with me. Let me lead you to your old cubicle. It’s still here. Nothing’s changed. Let me prepare the needle for you and pop up a vein. You never really left; the world outside was just a cruel dream. You’ve always been here, where you belong.”

I laughed right in his face, and he actually fell back a step. “Dream on,” I said. “I’m a lot more than I used to be.”

The Host rallied almost immediately. “Are you sure I can’t offer you a little taste, Mr. Taylor? On the house, of course.”

“Don’t tempt me,” I said.

The Host stepped gracefully to one side, bowing his head, admitting defeat. For the moment.

“Be seeing you, Mr. Taylor.”

“Not if I see you first,” I said to his elegantly retreating back.

I looked around the chamber, and various significant details loomed up out of the slowly swirling smoke. The old place hadn’t changed since I was here last. Hiding from a world that had broken and defeated me, in pretty much every way there was. I hadn’t so much lost hope, as thrown it away; because hope hurt too much. The sheer weight of my life had become too much to carry, and I couldn’t stand to see my reflection in the eyes of my friends. I’d failed; at everything that mattered and a few things that didn’t. So I came here, to the Dragon’s Mouth, asking only for pain’s ease and forgetfulness. For the one thing drugs could give you that was better than pleasure—the cold, quiet comfort of feeling nothing at all.

There were hanging silk curtains and embroidered standing screens, to provide privacy for those who still cared about such things. Tables and chairs and camp beds, scattered in little clusters. Shadowy grottos and cells cut deep into the dark stone walls. Blood and piss and vomit on the floor. And all around me, men and women and other things, lost in dreams and might-have-beens. Dying, by inches ... but I couldn’t find it in myself to feel much for any of them. No-one comes to the Dragon’s Mouth by chance. Everyone knows what happens here. You have to want it, and choose it, in the same way you’d choose a gun or a noose or the razor’s blade.

And I had wanted it so very badly once upon a time.

I shook my head hard. I’m not normally one for dwelling in the past or regretting old mistakes. The tainted smoke curling on the still air was getting to me. I moved forward, making my way carefully between the packed tables and chairs, and stepping over the occasional dim shape on the floor; looking about me for the elf. A few people turned their backs as I passed them. Either they knew me, or they didn’t want to know me. I didn’t recognise any faces.

Two Hydes were fighting in a pit gouged raggedly from the stone floor. Overmuscled forms, with taut skin and bulging veins, they slammed together again and again, tearing at each other with clawed hands and bared teeth. Blood and sweat coursed down their distorted forms, and they grunted and snarled like beasts, while a few languid spectators roused themselves to lay bets on which Hyde would survive. The dead Hyde would be recycled, so as not to waste any of the drug. Junkies know everything there is to know about making a drug go further.

A cyborg from some future time-line was main-lining a fierce and nasty future drug called Blood. Tech implants protruded from his grey flesh, discharging sudden bursts of static. His eyes glowed golden as they rolled up into his head, and his slack mouth was full of metal teeth. You can fill the future with all the high tech you want, but people will still be people.

A long row of camp beds had been pushed up against one wall, and a dozen or so pretty young things stared sightlessly up into the smoky air, enjoying the complete out-of-the-body experience, courtesy of the banned African drug taduku. Blasted loose from the chains of their bodies, their minds were free to drift into the past or the future or any number of alternate dimensions or realities. Sometimes they came back, and sometimes they didn’t. You can probably imagine what happens to the bodies of those who don’t come back.

Brother Frank was experimenting with Angel Breath again, the old deep fix, trying to separate out the various levels of his consciousness so he could have conversations with himself. You had to be careful around Brother Frank. He did so love to spike a drink, so to speak.

A huge cage with reinforced iron bars held those who had chosen to indulge in the ancient alien drug known as Revert. A sly and deceitful drug that could throw your evolution into reverse, transforming you into the Neanderthal state, or even further, if you could stand it. In the cage, amongst the heavy, low-browed figures, there were other, even more disturbing shapes.

And, finally, a small and rather furtive group were smoking Martian red weed from hookah pipes. Devotees claim it helps you think in whole new ways. Smoke enough of the stuff, and you can think like a Martian. Smoke too much, and your body will actually turn into a Martian. And then everyone around you will rise up and club you to death because even the Nightside has its standards.

A couple of soft ghosts wandered through the thick air, hand in hand, looking for anything familiar. They were vague, indistinct, half-transparent, their very existence worn down and eroded by too much travelling in other dimensions. Human once, they had gone too far and seen too much, and now they could no longer remember how to find their way home, or even what home had been like. The details of their faces had grown smooth and doubtful, like the statues of cemetery angels worn down by time and the elements. The smoke ghosts drifted here and there, desperate for a familiar face or an accent, asking in their soft, distant voices of cities and peoples and worlds that no-one had ever heard of.

The patrons of the Dragon’s Mouth flapped them away with heavy hands, or ignored them completely. The soft ghosts should have known better than to look for help here, but they were attracted to the altered states of consciousness like moths to a flame. One of them tugged gently at my sleeve, trying to attract my attention, but I shrugged it off. I’d spotted my elf.

I was heading straight for him when someone moved abruptly forward to block my way. I stopped short, because it was either that or walk right over him, then paused to consider the man before me. I knew who he was almost at once, though the years had not been kind. Carnaby Jones, the Wide-Eyed Boy, infamous dandy and free spirit of the old King’s Road, had fallen far from what he once was. His T-shirt and jeans were clean enough, but he looked as if someone else had dressed him. His old muscular frame was gone, the flesh sunk right back to the bone, and his skin was a dull, unhealthy yellow. The skull showed clearly behind the taut skin of his face, his deep-set eyes were lost and murky, and his thin-lipped smile held all the malice in the world. He smelled bad.

I could still remember when the Wide-Eyed Boy had been the best and bravest.

“What do you want, Carnaby?” I asked politely.

He sniggered loudly. “No time for old friends, John? Nothing to say to the old friend you abandoned and left behind? The one who brought you here, and taught you the ropes, and introduced you to pleasures you never knew existed?”

“I forgave you for that long ago,” I said. “We’re both different people now. Is that a tinge of purple I see in your eye-balls, Carnaby? Been injecting through the tear ducts because you’ve run out of veins? How could you have fallen so far?”

“Practice,” he said, his grin widening to show rotten teeth. “You’re looking good, John. Really. Very ... healthy. What made you think you could just walk back in here and stroll amongst us with your nose in the air? You owe me, John. You know you do.”

“You want me to take you out of here, I’ll do it,” I said. “You want help, I’ll get you the best there is.”

“I don’t want anything from you! Except to see you pay for what you did.”

“What did I do, Carnaby?” I said patiently. “You broke the rules, John! You got out! No-one’s supposed to get out of here. That’s the point.”

“I had help,” I said. “Take my hand, Carnaby. Really. I mean it. The only one keeping you here is you.”

He looked at me sideways, still smiling his unpleasant smile. “You got out, and now you’re a big man in the Nightside. Oh yes, the news trickles down, even to places like this. Word is you’re a rich man, too. So how about a little something, for an old friend? How about a hand-out, how about the shirt off your back, how about everything you’ve got!”

He was spitting the words out now, his whole wrecked body shaking with years of pent-up, carefully rehearsed spite and hatred. I sensed old Mother Connell stirring behind her table, and raised one hand to stop her. Because once upon a time the Wide-Eyed Boy really had been a friend of mine, had really had it in him to be the very best of us. Drugs don’t just destroy who you are; they destroy all the people you might have been.

So I stepped forward, grabbed his bony head firmly with both hands, and held his gaze with my own. He tried to break away, but there was no strength left in him. He tried to look away, but I had him. I concentrated, and he cried out miserably as all the old scabs on his forearms broke open, and dark liquids oozed out and trickled down his arms. Everything he’d ever taken, every last nasty drop of it, ran out of him, and he cried like a baby at the loss of it. When I was finished I let him go, and he fell in a heap before me.

“There,” I said. “You’re clean. Free as a bird. So you can leave, or you can stay; it’s all up to you. And don’t say I never did anything for you.”

I left him there and headed for the elf.

He was sitting alone at a small table, smoking opium through a hollowed-out human thigh-bone. Just because he could. There was a circle of open space around him, despite the crowded conditions of the Dragon’s Mouth, because even the kind of people who habituated a place like this didn’t want anything to do with an elf.

Long and long ago, humans and elves lived together on the Earth, sharing its wonders and resources. But we never got on. There were battles and wars and horrible slaughters, and in the end we won by cheating; we outbred the pointy eared bastards. They gave up and left our world, walking sideways from the sun, moving their whole race to another world, another reality. The Sundered Lands. The few elves you see walking the world today are rogues, outlaws, remittance men. They live to screw us over because that’s all they’ve got.

This particular elf watched me approach and lazily blew a perfect smoke ring at me. Followed by half a dozen increasingly complex smoke shapes, culminating in a great ship perched on a rising wave, complete with billowing sails and shaking rigging. But he was only showing off, so I ignored it. I pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him, careful to keep the whole of the table between us.

“So,” said the elf, in a voice like a cat drowning in cream and loving every minute of it, “here you are. Lilith’s son.”

“Actually,” I said, “I take more after my father. I’m John Taylor.”

“Of course. And you can address me as Lord Screech, Pale Prince of Owls.”

“But that’s not your real name.”

“Of course not. To know the true name of a thing is to have power over it. But for the purpose of this transaction, Lord Screech will do.”

“Because the owls are not what they seem?”

“Quite.”

I looked him over. Screech was inhumanly tall and almost impossibly slender, with the usual slit-pupilled cat’s eyes and sharp, pointed ears. His skin glowed like fine porcelain, so pale as to be almost colourless, and his quick smile showed pointed teeth behind the rose pink lips. He wore long oriental robes of a shimmering metallic green, complete with a stiff high collar that rose behind his head, and his long white hair had been swept up in tufts on either side of his elongated skull, like an owl’s. I was tempted to make a Flock of Seagulls joke, but he wouldn’t have got it.

And besides, it would have dated me.

“Why ask for me?” I said, directly.

“You have a reputation for arrogance, style, and occasional viciousness,” said Screech. “You might almost have been an elf.”

“Now you’re just being nasty,” I said. “And why meet here, of all places?”

“Because I do so love to watch humans degrade themselves,” Screech said easily. “Throwing their lives away for such pitiful rewards. No elf would ever lower himself to anything as small as this; even our sins have to be magnificent.”

“Tell me what you want,” I said. “Or I’m out of here.”

“Always so impatient,” said Screech, laying aside his bone pipe. “Always in such a hurry. Comes of being mortal, I suppose. Very well, Mr. Taylor, I shall talk, and you will listen, which is of course the proper state of affairs between elf and human. I am presently passing through the Nightside on a matter of importance. It is imperative I complete my journey without being stopped or in any way detained along the way. I am an emissary between the two warring factions of Faerie.”

“Hold everything,” I said, leaning forward despite myself. “Go back, go previous; run that by me again. The Fae are at war with each other? When did that happen? And why haven’t we heard about it?”

“Because it’s none of your business.”

“It is now,” I said. “Or you wouldn’t need my help.”

“Life is imperfect,” said Screech.

“All right; why pass through the Nightside at all?”

“Because this appalling locality is the nearest thing we have to neutral territory. I can see I’m going to have to fill you in on a few of the background details. How very tedious. In the beginning, long before human history began and we were all myths and legends... Queen Mab ruled over the Fae, and she was mighty and magnificent and terrible to behold in her glory. Under her rule we spread and prospered; but it didn’t last. How could someone of such a magnitude as Mab have foreseen the rise of the vermin called Man? She underestimated you, and lost the war, and was deposed, by Oberon and Titania.

“They dragged her off her Throne and threw her down into Hell; and there she stayed for many centuries, while Oberon and Titania ruled the Fae in her place, in the Sundered Lands. But Mab got out; and after so long in the Houses of Pain, her vengeance was terrible to behold. She cast Oberon and Titania down, to take her place in Hell, and re-established herself as the one true rightful ruler of the Fae. Or as many of us as were left after she’d finished purging the unfaithful.

“But then Oberon and Titania fought their way out of Hell and took up residence in Shadows Fall, in the land under the hill, and have since amassed a mighty power of rebellious elves, determined to take back the Sundered Lands by force of arms. Aren’t families embarrassing when you have to explain them to strangers?

“Anyway, civil wars are always costly, in all too many ways, and both sides have been persuaded to step back from the brink. For the moment. I have been acting as emissary between the two rival Courts, and after much ... discussion, we have a Peace Treaty. It won’t last—such things never do—but hopefully it will buy us time for more reasonable voices to make themselves heard. Or perhaps some public-spirited person will assassinate one or other of the Courts. I need you, John Taylor, to find me a safe way across the Nightside, from this distressing location to the furthest boundary, and the Osterman Gate. Where I might finally take my leave of this ... human world, in favour of some more civilised reality.

“You must understand, Mr. Taylor, there are many here who would like nothing better than to see me dead, and the Treaty destroyed, for a whole variety of reasons. These unprincipled villains include certain elves on both sides who want war for personal and political reasons, who can’t or won’t forgive past slights... and then there are all those people who hate elves and would delight in the spectacle of our slaughtering each other. This very definitely includes the Nightside’s current Overseer, Walker; who has set his people to harrying and threatening my progress. Apparently he has decided it is in Humanity’s best interests that the elves remain divided and, preferably, destroy each other. A very ... practical man, your Walker.”

The elf stopped talking and looked at me. I considered the matter, taking my time. My first impulse was to get up and leave. Well, actually, get up and sprint for the exit. Getting involved with elves is never a good idea, and getting caught between two warring factions struck me as only marginally less dangerous than playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun. There’s just no way you can win. And on top of all that ...

Never trust an elf.

I’d heard rumours about Queen Mab’s return, and everything Screech had said had a dreadful plausibility to it, but he had to be lying about something, even if only by omission. Because that’s what elves do.

“Why should I help you?” I said bluntly. “You and your kind have always been the enemies of Humanity. Maybe Walker’s right. Maybe elf killing elf is in our best interests.”

“What makes you think our war would take place in the Sundered Lands?” said Screech, smiling pleasantly. “No; we’d fight our battles in your world, where the extensive collateral damage wouldn’t bother us in the least.”

“Good point,” I conceded. “All right; suppose I do take this on. How do you propose to pay me?”

“Not with any of the usual means of payment,” said Screech. “You wouldn’t trust any of them, and quite rightly.

“I propose to pay you... with information. I know something you don’t know. Something that you definitely need to know. Because it involves a real and present danger to the whole of the Nightside and because it involves you personally. Something very old and very powerful and quite appallingly terrible has come to the Nightside. You’ll know the name when I say it; though it isn’t what you think it is. Get me safely across the Nightside to the Osterman Gate, and I’ll give you its name. Believe me, John Taylor; you need to find this thing before anyone else does.”

I looked at him thoughtfully, saying nothing. Never trust an elf...

“If you wanted to pass unnoticed through the Nightside,” I said, finally, “why come as an elf and draw attention to yourself ? Why not hide your true nature behind a glamour and pass yourself off as just another tourist?”

“Appear as a human?” said Lord Screech, looking down his nose at me. “I wouldn’t lower myself. I have standards. Do we have a deal, Mr. Taylor?”

“You’re almost certainly not who you say you are,” I said. “You’re probably not even what you claim to be. And you’re proposing to pay for my services with a secret that may or may not turn out to be of any practical use. Have I left out anything important?”

“Only that any number of truly unpleasant individuals will quite definitely try to kill the both of us all the way to the Osterman Gate,” the elf said cheerfully. “But then, that situation’s normal for you, isn’t it?”

“What the hell,” I said. “I’ve got nothing else interesting on at the moment. But if your precious secret turns out to be a crock of shit, I will quite definitely rip both your pointy ears off and use them as can openers.”

“Oh, it’s a wonderful secret,” said the elf, smiling. “Vitally important and damnably significant. You’re really going to hate it.”

I got up from the table, and Screech rose to his feet in one long, graceful movement. He was still smiling, which is always a disturbing thing in an elf.

One of the Hydes from the pit came storming towards us, sweeping tables and chairs and their occupants out of his way with great blows from his muscular, blood-soaked arms. He’d taken a hell of a beating from the other Hyde, but already the old drug was closing his wounds for him. His fierce gaze was fixed on the elf. Carnaby Jones was right behind him, urging him on. And a dozen or so inhabitants of the Revert cage brought up the rear, carrying improvised weapons. Carnaby sneered at me.

“Did you think I’d be grateful?” he said flatly.

I glanced quickly about me. Mother Connell was already out from behind her table, her massive hands closing into impressive fists, but by the time she’d forced her way through the packed crowds, it would probably all be over, one way or the other. The Hyde loomed up before us, a great wedge of bone and muscle with blood on his breath and gleeful murder in his eyes. Screech took a graceful step forward, and punched the Hyde in the throat. The sheer impact of the blow sent the Hyde staggering backwards, and the crunching sound of shattering trachea was horribly loud in the sudden quiet. Screech watched interestedly as the Hyde sank to his knees, clawing desperately at his destroyed throat, dying by inches. Carnaby let out a wordless cry of rage and waved the Reverted men forward. I stepped up and stared the head Revert right in the eyes, stopping him in his tracks. Huge and brutal, only half-way human, he couldn’t meet my gaze. He backed away, swinging his low-browed head from side to side, then he turned and lumbered back to the safety of the cage. The others followed him. And Carnaby Jones was left standing all alone.

“Shall I kill him for you?” said Screech.

“No,” I said. “I’m not feeling merciful. Let’s get out of this shit hole. And this information of yours had better be worth it.”

“Get me to where I need to be, and I promise I’ll tell you something to your disadvantage,” said Lord Screech.

Some nights you just shouldn’t get out of bed.