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Queen Helena held my gaze longer than I’d thought she would, but in the end she looked away and stepped back a pace, her tech implants ducking back under her skin. I looked unhurriedly about me, and the Exiles fell back, too, powering down their weapons. Their followers stirred uneasily, looking at each other. Some of them were muttering my name.
Because I was John Taylor; and there was no telling what I might do. It was all I could do to keep from smiling.
And then, just when it was all going so well, Uptown Taffy Lewis came storming up the street from the other direction, at the head of his own small army of bully-boys, body-guards, and enforcers. All of them heavily armed. I turned my back on Queen Helena to face him. Bettie made a sound deep in her throat and stuck so close to me she was practically hiding inside my coat-pocket. Taffy stamped up to me, planted his expensively tailored bulk in front of me, paused a moment to get his breath back after his exertions, and then ignored me to scowl at Queen Helena and the Exiles.
“Why are you talking with these has-beens?” he growled to me. “You know where the real power is in the Nightside. Why didn’t you come and talk to me?”
“I don’t really want to talk to anyone,” I said wistfully. “I keep telling everyone I’m busy right now, but…”
“Whatever they’ve offered you, I’ll double it,” said Taffy. “And unlike them, you can be sure I’ll deliver. I want you on my side, Taylor, and I always get what I want.”
“I suggest you take this up with Helena,” I said. “She seems to believe she has exclusive rights to me. And you wouldn’t believe some of the nasty things she’s been saying about you.”
And then all I had to do was step quickly to one side, as Uptown Taffy Lewis lurched forward to confront Queen Helena, screaming insults into her cold and unyielding face. She hissed insults right back at him, then the Exiles got involved with Taffy’s lieutenants, and suddenly both armies were going for each other’s throats. I had already retreated to a safe distance, hauling Bettie along with me, and we watched fascinated as open warfare broke out right in front of us. The tourists loved it, watching it all from a safe distance, and even recording it so they could enjoy it again later.
Queen Helena had her implants, the Exiles, and her followers, but Taffy had the numbers. They swarmed all over Queen Helena and her people, dragging them down despite their elite weapons. I saw Zog thrown to the ground and trampled underfoot, and Tobermoret beaten down with his own staff till it broke. Xerxes was cut open with his own daggers. Helena and Artur stood back to back, killing everyone who came within reach until finally the odds were too great; and then the pair of them disappeared in a sudden blaze of light, leaving the two armies to fight it out in the street. The bodies piled up, and blood flowed thickly in the gutters.
Politics is never dull in the Nightside.
I started off down a side street, leaving the violence behind. Bettie trotted along beside me, still staring back over her shoulder.
“Is that it?” she said. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
“Haven’t I done enough?” I said. “By the time they’re finished with each other, the two most dangerous armed forces in the Nightside will have wiped each other out. What more do you want?”
“Well, I thought…I expected…”
“What?”
“I don’t know! Something more…dramatic! You’re the great John Taylor! I thought I was going to see you in action, at last.”
“Action is overrated,” I said. “Winning is all that matters. Aren’t you getting enough good material for your story?”
“Well, yes, but…it’s not quite what I expected. You’re not what I expected.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “You faced down Queen Helena and the Exiles, and their army. Told them to go to Hell and damned them to do their worst. And they all backed down. Were you bluffing?”
I grinned. “I’ll never tell.”
Bettie laughed out loud. “This story is going to make my name! My day on the streets with John Taylor!”
She grabbed me by the shoulders, turned me round, and kissed me hard on the lips. It was an impulse moment. A happy thing. Could have meant anything, or nothing. We stood together a moment, and then she pulled back a little and looked at me with wide, questioning eyes. I could have pushed her away. Could have defused the moment, with a smile or a joke. But I didn’t. I pulled her to me and kissed her. Because I wanted to. She filled my arms. We kissed the breath out of each other, while our hands moved up and down each other’s bodies. Finally, we broke off, and looked at each other again. Her face was very close, her hurried breath beating against my face. Her face was flushed, her eyes very bright. My head was full of her perfume, and of her. I could feel her heart racing, so close to mine. I could feel the whole length of her body, pressing insistently against mine.
“Well,” she said. “I didn’t expect that. Has it really been such a long time since you kissed anyone? Since you…?”
I pushed her gently away, and she let me. But her eyes still held mine.
“I can’t do this,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like mine. Didn’t sound like someone in control of himself.
“It’s true what they say about Suzie, then,” said Bettie. She sounded kind, not judgemental. “She can’t…The poor dear. And poor you, John. That’s no way to live. You can’t have a real relationship with someone if you can’t ever touch her.”
“I love her,” I said. “She loves me.”
“That’s not love,” said Bettie. “That’s one damaged soul clinging to another, for comfort. I could love you, John.”
“Of course you could,” I said. “You’re the daughter of a succubus. Love comes easy to you.”
“No,” she said. “Just the opposite. I laugh and smile and flutter my eye-lashes because that’s what’s expected of me. And because it does help, with the job. But that’s not me. Or at least, not all of me. I only show that to people I care about. I like you, John. Admire you. I could learn to love you. Could you…?”
“I can’t talk about this now,” I said.
“You’ll have to talk about it sometime. And sometimes…you can say things to a stranger that you couldn’t say to anyone else.”
“You’re not a stranger,” I said.
“Why thank you, John. That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me so far.”
She moved forward and leaned her head on my shoulder. We held each other gently. No passion, no pressure, only a man and a woman together, and it felt good, so good. It had been a long time since I’d held anyone. Since anyone had held me. It was like…part of me had been asleep. Finally, I pushed her away.
“We have to go see the Cardinal,” I said firmly. “Pen Donavon and his damned Recording are still out there, somewhere, and that means people like Taffy and Helena will be looking for it, hoping it will turn out to be something they can use to further their ambitions. I really don’t like the way they were willing to flaunt their armies openly in public.”
“Walker will do something,” said Bettie.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said.
Rick Aday’s directions finally brought us to a pokey little shop called The Pink Cockatoo, a single-windowed front, in the middle of a long terrace of shops, set between a Used Grimoires book-shop, and a Long Pig franchise. The window before us was full of fashionable fetish clothing that seemed to consist mostly of plastic and leather straps. A few corsets and basques, and some high-heeled boots that would have been too big even for me. Incense candles, fluffy handcuffs, and something with spikes that I preferred not to look at too closely. I tried the door, but it was locked. There was a rusty steel intercom set into the wooden frame. I hit the button with my fist and leaned in close.
“This is John Taylor, to see the Cardinal. Open up, or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your door right off its hinges.”
“This establishment is protected,” said a calm, cultured voice. “Even from people like the infamous John Taylor. Now go away, or I’ll set the hell-hounds on you.”
“We need to talk, Cardinal.”
“Convince me.”
“I’ve just been with the Collector,” I said. “Discussing the missing Afterlife Recording. He didn’t have it. Now either you agree to talk to me, or I’ll tell him you’ve got it and exactly where to find you. And you know how much he’s always wanted to make your collection part of his own.”
“Bully,” the voice said dispassionately. “All right; I suppose you’d better come in. Bring the demon floozy with you.”
There was the sound of several locks and bolts disengaging, and then the door slowly swung open before us. I marched straight in, followed by Bettie. There might have been booby-traps, trap-doors, or all kinds of unpleasantness ahead, but in the Nightside you can’t ever afford to look weak. Confidence is everything. The door shut and locked itself behind us. Not entirely to my surprise, the interior of the shop wasn’t at all what its exterior had suggested. For one thing, the interior was a hell of a lot bigger. It’s a common enough spell in the Nightside, sticking a large space inside a small one, given that living and business space are both in such short supply. The problem lies with the spell, often laid down in a hurry by dodgy backstreet sorcerers, the kind who deal strictly in cash. All it takes is one mistake in the set-up, one mispronunciation of a vital word; and then the whole spell can collapse at any time without any warning. The interior expands suddenly to its full size, shouldering everything else out of the way…and they’ll be pulling body parts out of the rubble that used to be a street for days on end.
The shop’s interior stretched away before me, warmly lit and widely spacious, with gleaming wood-panelled walls, and a spotless floor. The huge barnlike structure was filled with miles and miles of open glass shelving and stands, showing off hundreds of weird and wonderful treasures. Bettie made excited Ooh! and Aah! noises, and I had to physically prevent her from picking things up to examine them. The Cardinal had said his place was protected, and I believed him. Because if it wasn’t seriously protected, the Collector would have cleaned him out by now.
The Cardinal came strolling down the brightly lit central aisle to greet us. A tall and well-proportioned man in his late forties, with a high-boned face, an easy smile, and a hint of mascara round the eyes. He was wearing skintight white slacks, a red shirt open to the navel to show off his shaven chest, and a patterned silk scarf gathered loosely round his neck. He carried a martini in one hand and didn’t offer the other to be shaken.
“Wow,” I said. “When the Church defrocked you, they went all the way, didn’t they?”
The Cardinal smiled easily. “The Church has never approved of those of my…inclination. Even though we are responsible for most of the glorious works of art adorning their greatest churches and cathedrals. They only put up with me for so long because I was useful, and a respected academic, and…discreet. None of which did me any good when I was found out, and accused…It’s not as if I took anything important, or significant. I simply wanted a few pretty things for my own. Ah, well; at least I don’t have to wear those awful robes any more. So drab, and so very draughty round the nether regions.”
“Excuse me,” said Bettie, “But why is your shop called The Pink Cockatoo? What has that got to do with…well, anything?”
The Cardinal’s smile widened. “My little joke. It’s called that because I’ve had a cockatoo in my time.”
Bettie got the giggles. I gave the Cardinal my best Let’s try and stick to the subject look.
“Come to take a look at my collection, have you?” he said, apparently unmoved by the look. He sipped delicately at his martini, one finger elegantly extended. “By all means. Knock yourself out.”
I wandered down the shelves, just to be polite. And because I was a bit curious. I kept Bettie close beside me and made sure she maintained a respectful distance from the exhibits at all times. I was sure that the Cardinal believed in You broke it, you paid for it. He wandered along behind us, being obviously patient. I recognised some of the things on the shelves, by reputation if not always by sight. The Cardinal had helpfully labelled them in neat copperplate handwriting. There was a copy of the Gospel According to Mary Magdalene. (With illustrations. And I was pretty sure which kind, too.) Pope Joan’s robes of office. The rope Judas Iscariot used to hang himself. Half a dozen large canvasses by acknowledged Masters, all unknown to modern art history, depicting frankly pornographic scenes from some of the seamier tales in the Old Testament. Probably private commissions, from aristocratic patrons of the time. A Satanic Bible, bound in black goat’s skin, with an inverted crucifix stamped in bas-relief on the front cover.
“Now that’s a very limited edition,” said the Cardinal, leaning in close to peer over my shoulder. “Belonged to Giles de Rais, the old monster himself, before he met the Maid of Orleans. There are only seventeen copies of that particular edition, in the goat’s skin.”
“Why seventeen?” said Bettie. “Bit of an arbitrary number, isn’t it?”
“I said that,” said the Cardinal. “When I inquired further, I was told that seventeen is the most you can get out of one goat’s skin. Makes you wonder whether the last copy had a big floppy ear hanging off the back cover…And I hate to think what they used for the spine. Ah, Mr. Taylor, I see you’ve discovered my dice. I’m rather proud of those. The very dice the Roman soldiers used as they gambled for the Christ’s clothes, while he was still on the cross.”
“Do they have any…special properties?” I said, moving in close for a better look. They seemed very ordinary, two small wooden cubes, with any colour and all the dots worn away long ago.
“No,” said the Cardinal. “They’re just dice. Their value, which is incredible, lies in their history.”
“And what’s this?” said Bettie, wrinkling her nose as she studied a single, small, very old and apparently very ordinary fish, enclosed in a clear Lucite block.
“Ah, that,” said the Cardinal. “The only surviving example of the fish used to feed the five thousand…You wouldn’t believe how much money, political positions, and even sexual favours I’ve been offered, by certain extreme epicures, just for a taste…The philistines.”
“What brought you here, to the Nightside, Cardinal?” said Bettie, doing her best to sound pleasant and casual and not at all like a reporter. The Cardinal wasn’t fooled, but he smiled indulgently, and she hurried on. “And why collect only Christian artifacts? Are you still a believer, even after everything the Church has done to you?”
“Of course,” said the Cardinal. “The Catholic Church is not unlike the Mafia, in some ways—once in, never out. And as for the Nightside—why this is Hell, nor am I out of it. Ah, the old jokes are still the best. I damned myself to this appalling haven for the morally intransigent through the sin of greed, of acquisition. I was tempted, and I fell. Sometimes it feels like I’m still falling…but I have my collection to comfort me.” He drained the last of his martini, smacked his lips, put the glass down carefully next to a miniature golden calf, and looked at me steadily. “Why are you here, Mr. Taylor? What do you want with me? You must know I can’t trust you. Not after you worked for the Vatican, finding the Unholy Grail for them.”
“I worked for a particular individual,” I said carefully. “Not the Vatican, as such.”
“You really did find it, didn’t you?” said the Cardinal, looking at me almost wistfully. I could all but sense his collector’s fingers twitching. “The Sombre Cup…What was it like?”
“There aren’t the words,” I said. “But don’t bother trying to track it down. It’s been…defused. It’s only a cup now.”
“It’s still history,” said the Cardinal.
Bettie stooped suddenly, to pick up an open paperback from a chair. “The Da Vinci Code? Are you actually reading this, Cardinal?”
“Oh, yes…I love a good laugh.”
“Put it down, Bettie,” I said. “It’ll probably turn out to be some exotic misprinting, and he’ll charge us for getting fingerprints all over it. Cardinal, we’re here about the Afterlife Recording. I take it you have heard of Pen Donavon’s DVD?”
“Of course. But…I have decided I’m not interested in pursuing it. I don’t want it. Because I know myself. I know it wouldn’t be enough for me simply to possess the DVD. I’d have to watch it…And I don’t think I’m ready to see what’s on it.”
“You think it might test your faith?” I said.
“Perhaps…”
“Aren’t you curious?” said Bettie.
“Of course…But it’s one thing to believe, another to know. I do try to hope for the best, but when the Holy Father himself has told you to your face that you’re damned for all time, just for being what God made you…Hope is all I have left. It’s not much of a substitute for faith, but even cold comfort is better than none.”
“I believe God has more mercy than that,” I said. “I don’t think God sweats the small stuff.”
“Yes, well,” said the Cardinal dryly, “you’d have to believe that, wouldn’t you?”
“If you learn anything, let me know,” I said. “As long as the Afterlife Recording is out there, loose in the wind, more people will be trying to get their hands on it, for all the wrong reasons. There’s even a chance the Removal Man is interested in it.”
All the colour dropped out of the Cardinal’s face, his brittle amiability replaced by stark terror. “He can’t come here! He can’t! Have you seen him? You could have led him here! To me! No, no, no…You have to leave. Right now. I can’t take the risk!”
And he pushed both Bettie and me towards the door. He wasn’t big enough to budge either of us if we didn’t want to be budged, but I didn’t see any point in making a scene. He didn’t know anything useful. So I let him shove and propel us back to the door and push us through it. Once we were back on the street, the door slammed shut behind us, and a whole series of locks and bolts snapped into place. It seemed the Cardinal believed in traditional ways of protecting himself, too. I adjusted my trench coat. It had been a long time since I’d been given the bum’s rush. And then from behind the door came a scream, loud and piercing, a harsh shrill sound full of abject terror. I beat on the door, and yelled into the intercom, but the scream went on and on and on, long after human lungs should have been unable to sustain it. The pain and horror in the sound was almost unbearable. And then it stopped, abruptly, and that was worse.
The locks and the bolts slowly opened, one at a time, and the door swung inwards. I made Bettie stand behind me and pushed the door all the way open. Beyond it, I could see the huge display room. No sign of anyone, anywhere. No sound at all. I moved slowly, and very cautiously forward, refusing to allow Bettie to hurry me. There was no sign of the Cardinal anywhere. And every single piece of his collection was gone, too. Nothing left but empty shelves, stretching away.
“The Removal Man,” I said. My voice echoed on the quiet, saying the name over and over again.
“Did we lead him here, do you think?” said Bettie, her voice hushed. The echo turned her words into disturbing whispers.
“No,” I said. “I’d have known if anyone was following us. I’m sure I’d have known.”
“Even the Removal Man? Even him?”
“Especially him,” I said.
SEVEN -
The Good, the Bad, and the Ungodly
“So,” said Bettie Divine, sitting perched on one of the empty wooden shelves with her long legs dangling, “what do we do now? I mean, the Removal Man has just removed our last real lead. Though I have to say…I never thought I’d get this close to him. The Removal Man is a real urban legend. Even more than you, darling. We’re talking about someone who actually does move in mysterious ways! Maybe I should forget this story and concentrate on him. If I could bring in an exclusive interview with the Removal Man…”
“You mean you’re giving up on me?” I said, more amused than anything.
Bettie shrugged easily. She was now wearing a pale blue cat-suit, with a long silver zip running from collar to crotch. Her hair was bobbed, and her horns peeped out from under a smart peaked cap. “Well, I am half demon, darling; you have to expect the odd moment of heartlessness.”
“If you stick with me, at least there’s a reasonable chance you’ll survive to file your story,” I said.
“Who’d want to hurt a poor sweet defenceless little girlie like me?” said Bettie, pouting provocatively. “And besides, we half demons are notoriously hard to kill. That’s why the Editor paired me up with you for this story. Which, you have to admit, does seem to have petered out rather. I mean to say, if the Collector doesn’t have the Afterlife Recording, and the Cardinal doesn’t have it, who does that leave?”
“There are others,” I said. “Strange Harald, the junkman. Flotsam Inc.; their motto: We buy and sell anything that isn’t actually nailed down and guarded by hell-hounds. And there’s always Bishop Beastly…But admittedly they’re all fairly minor players. Far too small to think they could handle a prize like the Afterlife Recording. They’d have sold it on immediately; and I would have heard. You know, it’s always possible Pen Donavon could have realised how much trouble he’d let himself in for and destroyed the DVD.”
“He’d better not have!” said Bettie, her eyes flashing dangerously. “The paper owns that DVD, no matter what’s on it.”
I looked at her thoughtfully. “If it is real…are you curious to see what’s on it?”
“Of course,” she said immediately. “I want to know. I always want to know.”
“So you’ll stick with me? Until we find it?”
“Of course, darling! Forget about the Removal Man. It was just an impulse. No; we’re on the trail of something that could shake the whole Nightside if it is real. And you know what that means? I could end up covering a real story at last! Do you know how long I’ve dreamed about covering a real story, about something that actually matters? We can’t let this end here! You’re the private eye, you’re the legendary John Taylor; do something!”
“I’m open to suggestions,” I said.
My mobile phone rang. I answered and was immediately assaulted by the acerbic voice of Alex Morrisey, calling from Strangefellows. As always, Alex did not sound at all happy with the world, the universe, and everything.
“Taylor, get your arse over here at warp factor ten. A certain Pen Donavon has just turned up in my bar, looking like death warmed over and allowed to congeal. He’s clutching a DVD case like it’s his last life-line, hyperventilating, and crying his eyes out because he thinks the Removal Man is after him. He appears to be suffering from the sad delusion that you can protect him. He says you’re the only person he can trust, which only goes to show he doesn’t know you very well. So will you please come and get him because he is scaring off all my customers! Most of whom have understandably decided that they don’t want to get caught in the inevitable cross-fire. Did I mention that I am not at all happy about this? You are costing me a whole night’s profits!”
“Put it on my tab,” I said. “I can cover it; I’m on expenses. Sit on Donavon till I get there. No-one talks to him but me.”
I put the phone away and smiled at Bettie. “We’re back in the game. Pen Donavon has turned up at Strangefellows.”
Bettie clapped her hands together, kicked her heels, and jumped down from the wooden shelf. “I knew you’d find him, John! Never doubted you for a moment! And we’re finally going to Strangefellows! Super cool!”
“You’ll probably be disappointed,” I said. “It’s only a bar.”
“The oldest bar in the world! Where all the customers are myths and legends, and the fate of the whole world gets decided on a regular basis!”
“Only sometimes,” I said.
“Is it far from here?”
“Right on the other side of town. Fortunately, I know a short cut.”
I took out my Strangefellows club membership card. Alex handed out a dozen or so, in a rare generous moment, and he’s been trying to get them back ever since. Not that any of us are ever likely to give them up. They’re far too useful. The card itself isn’t much to look at. Just simple embossed pasteboard, with the name of the bar in dark Gothic script, and below that the words You Are Here, in blood-red lettering. I pulled Bettie in close beside me, and she snuggled up companionably. I still wasn’t used to that. It had been a long time since I’d let anybody get this close to me. This casual. I liked it. I pressed my thumb firmly against the crimson lettering on the card, and it activated at once, throbbing and pulsing with stored energy. It leapt out of my hand to hang on the air before me, turning end over end and crackling with arcane activity. Bright lights flared and sputtered all around it. Alex had paid for the full bells and whistles package. The card expanded suddenly to the size of a door, which opened before us. Together, Bettie and I stepped through into Strangefellows, and the door slammed shut behind us.
I put the card back in my coat-pocket and looked around. The place was unnaturally still and quiet, empty apart from a single drunk sleeping one off, slumped forward across his table. I knew him vaguely. Thallassa, a wizened old sorcerer who claimed to be responsible for the sinking of Atlantis. He said he drank to forget, but it was amazing how many stories he could remember, as long as you were dumb enough to keep buying him drinks. Everyone else had clearly decided that discretion was the better part of running for the hills, and that the combination of Pen Donavon, his DVD, and me in one place was just too dangerous to be around. Even the kind of people who habitually drink at a place like Strangefellows have their limit; and I’m often it.
Donavon was easy to spot. He was sitting slumped on a stool at the bar. No-one else could look that miserable, beaten down, and shit scared from the back. He peered round as Bettie and I approached, and almost collapsed off his stool before he recognised me. He was just a small, ordinary-looking man, no-one you’d look at twice in the street, clearly in way over his head and going down for the third time. Up close, he looked in pretty bad shape. He was shaking and shivering, his face drawn and ashen, with dark circles under his eyes as though he hadn’t slept in days. Perhaps because he didn’t dare. He couldn’t have been half-way through his twenties, but now he looked twice that. Something had aged him and hadn’t been kind about it. He clutched a long, shabby coat around him, as though to keep out a chill only he could feel.
He looked like a man who’d seen Hell. Or Heaven.
Alex Morrisey glared at me, and then went back to half-coaxing, half-bullying Donavon into putting aside his brandy glass and trying some freshly made hot soup. Donavon remained unconvinced. He watched, wide-eyed, until Bettie and I were right there with him. Then he sighed deeply, and some of the tension seemed to go out of him. He emptied his glass with a gulp and signalled for another. Alex put aside the soup bowl, sniffed loudly, and reluctantly opened a new bottle.
Alex owns and runs Strangefellows, and possibly as a result, has a mad on for the whole world. He loathes his customers, despises tourists, and never gives the right change on principle. He also had his thirtieth birthday just the other day, which hadn’t helped. He always wore black, because, he said, he was in mourning for his sex life. (Gone, but not forgotten.) His permanent scowl had etched a deep notch between his eyebrows, right above the designer shades he always affected. He also wore a snazzy black beret, perched far back on his head to hide his spreading bald patch. I have known clinically depressed lepers with haemorrhoids who smiled more often than Alex Morrisey. Though at least he doesn’t have to worry when he sneezes. I leaned against the bar and looked at him reproachfully.
“You never made me hot soup, Alex.”
He sniffed loudly. “My home-made soup is full of things that are good for you, including a few that are downright healthful, all of which would be wasted on a body as ruined and ravaged as yours.”
“Just because I don’t like vegetables…”
“You’re the only man I know who makes the sign of the cross when confronted with broccoli. And don’t change the subject! Once again I am left clearing up the mess from one of your cases. Like I don’t have enough troubles of my own. Bloody eels have got into the beer barrels again, the pixies have been at the bar snacks, which they will live to regret, the poor fools, and my pet vulture is pregnant! Someone’s going to pay for this…”
He broke off as Pen Donavon suddenly reached out and grabbed my arm. There was so little strength left in him it felt like a ghost tugging at my sleeve. His mouth worked for a moment before easing into something like a smile, and there were real tears of gratitude in his eyes.
“Thank God you’re here, Mr. Taylor. I’ve been so afraid…They’re after me. Everyone’s after me. You have to protect me!”
“Of course, of course I will,” I said soothingly. “You’re safe now. No-one’s going to get to you here.”
“Just keep them away,” he said pathetically. “Keep them all away. I can’t think…I’ve been running from everyone. Either they want to pressure me into selling the Recording, or they want to kill me and take it. I can’t trust anyone any more. I thought I’d be safe, once I’d made my deal with the Unnatural Inquirer, but I was ambushed on my way there. I’ve been running and hiding ever since.”
He let go of me and looked back at the full glass of brandy before him. He gulped half of it down in one go, and Alex winced visibly. Must have been the really good stuff, then. I looked at Bettie.
“Could someone in your offices have put the word out on Donavon coming in with the DVD?”
“For a percentage? Wouldn’t surprise me. None of us are exactly overpaid at the Inquirer. And our Reception phones are always being tapped. We debug them at the start of every working day, but there’s always someone listening in, hoping for an advantage. After all, we hear everything first. We’re noted for it.”
“I should never have recorded the broadcast,” said Donavon. He was sitting hunched over his brandy glass, as though afraid someone would snatch it away. “It was all a ghastly mistake. I was trying to contact the other side, yes, but I never thought…My life hasn’t been my own since. And I’d certainly never have tried to sell the Recording if I’d known it would destroy my whole life.”
“You saw the broadcast,” said Bettie, leaning in close with her best engaging smile. “What did you see?”
Donavon started shaking again. He tried to speak, and couldn’t. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears ran down his trembling cheeks. Alex sighed heavily and topped up the brandy glass again. He smiled nastily at me.
“All these drinks are going on your tab, Taylor.”
I smiled right back at him. “Do your worst. Expenses, remember?”
“Well,” said Bettie. “You will get expenses if we deliver the DVD.”
I looked at her. “What? What do you mean if? Nothing was ever said about my expenses being conditional!”
“This is the newspaper game, sweetie. Everything’s conditional.”
I scowled, and then had to stop because it was upsetting Donavon even more. I moved away down the bar and gestured for Alex to lean in close. “You can bet some of your recent customers will be out on the streets now, spilling the beans about who and what can be found in Strangefellows. Which means we can expect unfriendly visitors at any moment. Better lock the doors and slam down the shutters. Where are the Coltranes?”
“Out the back, doing exactly that,” said Alex. “I can think for myself, thank you. My defences will keep out all but the most determined; but if anyone does get in, the resulting damage will also be going on your tab. I’d insure against you, but apparently you’re classed along with Acts of Gods and other unavoidable nuisances.”
“Call Suzie,” I said. “I think we’re going to need her help on this one.”
“Damn,” said Alex. “And I just had the place redecorated.”
Bettie slipped her arm through mine and turned me round to face her. “I hate to sound disappointed,” she said, “but I am, maybe a bit. I mean, darling, this isn’t at all what I expected. It all looks so…ordinary. Well, ordinary for the Nightside. I was hoping for something more…extreme.”
I refrained from pointing out the disembodied hand scuttling up and down the bar top. (Alex accepted it in payment for a bad debt.) The hand was busy polishing the bar top and refilling the snack bowls. Yet another good reason not to eat them, as far as I was concerned. Alex objected on principle to giving away anything, and it showed in his choice of snacks. Does anyone actually eat honeyed locusts any more? The vulture’s perch was empty, of course, but there were other things to look at. Lightning, crackling inside a bottle. Bit hard on the ship, I thought. A small featureless furry thing, that sat on the bar top purring happily to itself, and occasionally farting. Until the hand grabbed it up and used it as a rag to polish the bar top. A small cuspidor of tanna leaves, with the brand-name Mummy’s favourite. All nice homey touches.
“I want a drink,” Bettie announced loudly. “I want one of those special drinkies you can only get here. Do you have a Maiden’s Bloody Ruin? Dragons’ Breath? Angel’s Tears?”
“The first two aren’t cocktails,” I said. “And that last one is actually called Angel’s Urine.”
“Which was selling quite well,” said Alex. “Until word got around it wasn’t so much a trade name as an accurate description.”
Bettie laughed and snuggled cosily up against me. “You choose, darling.”
“Give the lady a wormwood brandy,” I said.
Alex gave me a look, and then fished about under the bar for the really good stuff he keeps set aside for special customers.
“I do like this place, after all,” Bettie decided. “It’s cosy, and comfortable. It’d probably even have atmosphere if there was anybody else here but us. Ah, sweetie, you take me to the nicest places!”
She kissed me. As though it was the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it was, for other people. I took her in my arms, and her whole body surged forward, pressing against me. When we broke apart, Alex was there, pushing a glass of wormwood brandy towards Bettie. She snatched it up with an excited squeak, sipped the brandy, and made appreciative noises. Alex looked at me. I looked at him. Neither of us mentioned Suzie, but we were both thinking about her.
And then we all looked round sharply at the sound of heavy footsteps in the entrance lobby upstairs. They were heading our way, and they didn’t sound like customers. Alex cursed dispassionately.
“My defences are telling me that a bunch of combat sorcerers just walked right through them, without even hesitating. Really powerful combat sorcerers.”
“How can you tell?” said Bettie
“Because only really powerful combat sorcerers could get through this bar’s defences,” I said.
Thirteen very dangerous men came clattering down the metal stairs into the bar proper, making a hell of a racket in the process. They moved smoothly, in close formation, and spread out at the bottom of the steps to cut us off from all the exits. They stood tall and proud, radiating professionalism and confidence. They were all dressed in black leather cowboy outfits, complete with Stetsons, chaps, boots, and silver spurs. Surprisingly, and a bit worryingly, they weren’t wearing holsters. They all possessed various charms, amulets, fetishes, and grisgris, displayed openly around their necks or on their chests for all to see, and despair. These were major league power sources, for strength and speed, transformations and elemental commands. A bit generic but no less dangerous for that.
They all looked to be big men and in their prime. They all had that lazy arrogance that comes from having beaten down anyone and anything that ever dared to stand against them. You don’t get to be a combat sorcerer without killing an awful lot of people in the process. There was an ideogram tattooed on all their foreheads, right over the third eye, showing their Clan affiliation. Combat sorcerers are too dangerous to be allowed to run around unsupervised. You either joined a Clan, or they joined together to wipe you out. This particular bunch belonged to Clan Buckaroo.
Their leader stepped forward to face me. He was a good head taller than me, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist. Probably ate his vegetables every day, and did a hundred and fifty sit-ups before breakfast. He had three different charms hanging from rolled silver chains around his neck and an amulet round his waist I didn’t like to look at. This cowboy was packing some serious firepower. He fixed me with his cold blue eyes and started to say something that would only have been an insult or a demand, and I wasn’t in the mood for either; so I got my retaliation in first.
“Those are seriously tacky outfits,” I said. “What are you planning to do, line dance us to death?”
The leader hesitated. This wasn’t going according to plan. He wasn’t used to defiance, let alone open ridicule. He squared his shoulders and tried again.
“We are Clan Buckaroo. We work for Kid Cthulhu. And you’ve got something we want.”
“Like what?” I asked. “Fashion sense?”
The leader’s hand dropped to where his holster should have been. The twelve other combat sorcerers all did the same. Some suddenly had guns of light in their hands, sparking and shimmering. Like the ghosts of guns steeped in slaughter. And a few, including the leader, just pointed their index fingers at me, like a child miming a gun. I looked at the leader and raised an eyebrow.
“Conceptual guns,” he said. “Creations of the mind, powered by murder magic. They never miss, they never run out of ammunition, they can punch a hole through anything; and they kill whatever they hit. Allow me to demonstrate.”
He pointed his finger at the bottles ranked behind the bar. I grabbed Bettie and Donavon and dragged them out of the way. One by one the bottles exploded, showering glass fragments and hissing liquids all over the bar. Alex stood his ground and didn’t move an inch, even as liquors soaked his shirt, and flying glass cut his cheek. The leader raised his finger to his lips and blew away imaginary smoke. The disembodied hand flipped him the finger, and then disappeared under the bar. The watching cowboys were all grinning broadly. Alex glared right back at them.
“You needn’t be so smug. You only got the stuff I keep for tourists. The good stuff can look after itself.”
The leader looked at him for a moment. He’d used his favourite trick, and no-one was looking the least bit intimidated. He stuck out his chin and tried again.
“I’ve come for the Afterlife Recording.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” said Bettie. “I’m sure you were just a bit over-excited.”
I stepped forward, putting myself between her and the leader. I looked him square in the eye. “You don’t want to be here,” I said. “These aren’t the people you’re looking for.”
I held his gaze with mine, and he stood very still. Behind him, the other combat sorcerers stirred restlessly. And then the leader smiled coldly right back at me.
“I’ve heard about your evil eye, Taylor. Won’t work on any of us. We’re protected.”
He was right. I couldn’t stare him down, couldn’t even reach him. While I was still working out what to do next, Bettie stepped past me and put herself between me and the leader.
“Trevor!” she said. “I thought it was you, sweetie! Didn’t recognise you at first, all tricked out in the Village People outfit. You never told me you were a combat sorcerer.”
The other cowboys looked at their leader, and I could practically see them mouthing the word Trevor? at each other. The leader glared at Bettie.
“That is my old name,” he said harshly. “I don’t use it any more. My name is Ace now, Bettie, leader of Clan Buckaroo. I haven’t gone by…that other name in ages.”
“You were Trevor when I knew you,” Bettie said briskly. “I did wonder why you insisted on wearing those black boots and spurs to bed, but I thought you were being kinky. Even though you went all bashful when I got out the fluffy handcuffs. What are you doing here, sweetie, dressed up as Black Bart and leading this bunch of overdressed thugs?”
“The money’s good,” said Ace.
“It would have to be,” said Bettie.
“Don’t get in the way,” said Ace, giving her his best fierce glare. “We’re here to do a job, and we’re going to do it. I can’t cut you any slack just because we used to be an item.”
“You and he were an item?” I said to Bettie.
She shrugged. “He didn’t last long.”
There was some quiet sniggering from the other combat sorcerers that died quickly away as Ace glared around him.
“What exactly are you here for?” I said. “Maybe there’s room for negotiation.”
“We want Donavon, and we want the Afterlife Recording,” said Ace, fixing me with his cold stare again. “No negotiations, no discussion. We work for Kid Cthulhu, and he wants sole ownership of the Recording.”
“Now wait just a minute!” Bettie strode forward to glare right into Ace’s face, and he was so startled he actually fell back a pace. “The Unnatural Inquirer has already purchased exclusive rights to all the material on that DVD! We have a binding contract! We own it!”
“Not any more you don’t,” said Ace. “Possession is everything, in the Nightside.”
“Kid Cthulhu…” Alex said thoughtfully. “Thought I’d heard something about his having cash liquidity problems with his undersea-farming interests. And, of course, the bottom’s dropped right out of the calamari market. He must be thinking he can make enough money out of the Afterlife Recording to bail him out. So to speak.”
“You can’t have the Afterlife Recording!” Bettie said firmly to Ace. “We got there first.”
Ace looked at the cowboy next to him. “If she speaks again, kill her.”
Bettie’s mouth opened wide, outraged, and I clapped a hand across it and hauled her back. Ace didn’t look like he was kidding to me. Thirteen combat sorcerers in one room can do pretty much whatever they feel like doing. But, on the other hand, I had a reputation to maintain…So I looked Alex in the eye and gave him my best disapproving stare.
“Now that was just plain rude,” I said. “And if you threaten to kill me…I will smite the lot of you. Right here and now.”
There was a pause, and the thirteen combat sorcerers looked at me uncertainly. With anyone else, they’d have dismissed it immediately as just talk. But I was John Taylor…
“Bettie Divine is under my protection,” I said. “Along with everyone else in this bar. Very definitely including Pen Donavon. So you can all get your redneck wannabe big bad selves out of here, before I decide to do something quite appallingly nasty to you.”
Because I was John Taylor; and there was no telling what I might do. It was all I could do to keep from smiling.
And then, just when it was all going so well, Uptown Taffy Lewis came storming up the street from the other direction, at the head of his own small army of bully-boys, body-guards, and enforcers. All of them heavily armed. I turned my back on Queen Helena to face him. Bettie made a sound deep in her throat and stuck so close to me she was practically hiding inside my coat-pocket. Taffy stamped up to me, planted his expensively tailored bulk in front of me, paused a moment to get his breath back after his exertions, and then ignored me to scowl at Queen Helena and the Exiles.
“Why are you talking with these has-beens?” he growled to me. “You know where the real power is in the Nightside. Why didn’t you come and talk to me?”
“I don’t really want to talk to anyone,” I said wistfully. “I keep telling everyone I’m busy right now, but…”
“Whatever they’ve offered you, I’ll double it,” said Taffy. “And unlike them, you can be sure I’ll deliver. I want you on my side, Taylor, and I always get what I want.”
“I suggest you take this up with Helena,” I said. “She seems to believe she has exclusive rights to me. And you wouldn’t believe some of the nasty things she’s been saying about you.”
And then all I had to do was step quickly to one side, as Uptown Taffy Lewis lurched forward to confront Queen Helena, screaming insults into her cold and unyielding face. She hissed insults right back at him, then the Exiles got involved with Taffy’s lieutenants, and suddenly both armies were going for each other’s throats. I had already retreated to a safe distance, hauling Bettie along with me, and we watched fascinated as open warfare broke out right in front of us. The tourists loved it, watching it all from a safe distance, and even recording it so they could enjoy it again later.
Queen Helena had her implants, the Exiles, and her followers, but Taffy had the numbers. They swarmed all over Queen Helena and her people, dragging them down despite their elite weapons. I saw Zog thrown to the ground and trampled underfoot, and Tobermoret beaten down with his own staff till it broke. Xerxes was cut open with his own daggers. Helena and Artur stood back to back, killing everyone who came within reach until finally the odds were too great; and then the pair of them disappeared in a sudden blaze of light, leaving the two armies to fight it out in the street. The bodies piled up, and blood flowed thickly in the gutters.
Politics is never dull in the Nightside.
I started off down a side street, leaving the violence behind. Bettie trotted along beside me, still staring back over her shoulder.
“Is that it?” she said. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
“Haven’t I done enough?” I said. “By the time they’re finished with each other, the two most dangerous armed forces in the Nightside will have wiped each other out. What more do you want?”
“Well, I thought…I expected…”
“What?”
“I don’t know! Something more…dramatic! You’re the great John Taylor! I thought I was going to see you in action, at last.”
“Action is overrated,” I said. “Winning is all that matters. Aren’t you getting enough good material for your story?”
“Well, yes, but…it’s not quite what I expected. You’re not what I expected.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “You faced down Queen Helena and the Exiles, and their army. Told them to go to Hell and damned them to do their worst. And they all backed down. Were you bluffing?”
I grinned. “I’ll never tell.”
Bettie laughed out loud. “This story is going to make my name! My day on the streets with John Taylor!”
She grabbed me by the shoulders, turned me round, and kissed me hard on the lips. It was an impulse moment. A happy thing. Could have meant anything, or nothing. We stood together a moment, and then she pulled back a little and looked at me with wide, questioning eyes. I could have pushed her away. Could have defused the moment, with a smile or a joke. But I didn’t. I pulled her to me and kissed her. Because I wanted to. She filled my arms. We kissed the breath out of each other, while our hands moved up and down each other’s bodies. Finally, we broke off, and looked at each other again. Her face was very close, her hurried breath beating against my face. Her face was flushed, her eyes very bright. My head was full of her perfume, and of her. I could feel her heart racing, so close to mine. I could feel the whole length of her body, pressing insistently against mine.
“Well,” she said. “I didn’t expect that. Has it really been such a long time since you kissed anyone? Since you…?”
I pushed her gently away, and she let me. But her eyes still held mine.
“I can’t do this,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like mine. Didn’t sound like someone in control of himself.
“It’s true what they say about Suzie, then,” said Bettie. She sounded kind, not judgemental. “She can’t…The poor dear. And poor you, John. That’s no way to live. You can’t have a real relationship with someone if you can’t ever touch her.”
“I love her,” I said. “She loves me.”
“That’s not love,” said Bettie. “That’s one damaged soul clinging to another, for comfort. I could love you, John.”
“Of course you could,” I said. “You’re the daughter of a succubus. Love comes easy to you.”
“No,” she said. “Just the opposite. I laugh and smile and flutter my eye-lashes because that’s what’s expected of me. And because it does help, with the job. But that’s not me. Or at least, not all of me. I only show that to people I care about. I like you, John. Admire you. I could learn to love you. Could you…?”
“I can’t talk about this now,” I said.
“You’ll have to talk about it sometime. And sometimes…you can say things to a stranger that you couldn’t say to anyone else.”
“You’re not a stranger,” I said.
“Why thank you, John. That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me so far.”
She moved forward and leaned her head on my shoulder. We held each other gently. No passion, no pressure, only a man and a woman together, and it felt good, so good. It had been a long time since I’d held anyone. Since anyone had held me. It was like…part of me had been asleep. Finally, I pushed her away.
“We have to go see the Cardinal,” I said firmly. “Pen Donavon and his damned Recording are still out there, somewhere, and that means people like Taffy and Helena will be looking for it, hoping it will turn out to be something they can use to further their ambitions. I really don’t like the way they were willing to flaunt their armies openly in public.”
“Walker will do something,” said Bettie.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said.
Rick Aday’s directions finally brought us to a pokey little shop called The Pink Cockatoo, a single-windowed front, in the middle of a long terrace of shops, set between a Used Grimoires book-shop, and a Long Pig franchise. The window before us was full of fashionable fetish clothing that seemed to consist mostly of plastic and leather straps. A few corsets and basques, and some high-heeled boots that would have been too big even for me. Incense candles, fluffy handcuffs, and something with spikes that I preferred not to look at too closely. I tried the door, but it was locked. There was a rusty steel intercom set into the wooden frame. I hit the button with my fist and leaned in close.
“This is John Taylor, to see the Cardinal. Open up, or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your door right off its hinges.”
“This establishment is protected,” said a calm, cultured voice. “Even from people like the infamous John Taylor. Now go away, or I’ll set the hell-hounds on you.”
“We need to talk, Cardinal.”
“Convince me.”
“I’ve just been with the Collector,” I said. “Discussing the missing Afterlife Recording. He didn’t have it. Now either you agree to talk to me, or I’ll tell him you’ve got it and exactly where to find you. And you know how much he’s always wanted to make your collection part of his own.”
“Bully,” the voice said dispassionately. “All right; I suppose you’d better come in. Bring the demon floozy with you.”
There was the sound of several locks and bolts disengaging, and then the door slowly swung open before us. I marched straight in, followed by Bettie. There might have been booby-traps, trap-doors, or all kinds of unpleasantness ahead, but in the Nightside you can’t ever afford to look weak. Confidence is everything. The door shut and locked itself behind us. Not entirely to my surprise, the interior of the shop wasn’t at all what its exterior had suggested. For one thing, the interior was a hell of a lot bigger. It’s a common enough spell in the Nightside, sticking a large space inside a small one, given that living and business space are both in such short supply. The problem lies with the spell, often laid down in a hurry by dodgy backstreet sorcerers, the kind who deal strictly in cash. All it takes is one mistake in the set-up, one mispronunciation of a vital word; and then the whole spell can collapse at any time without any warning. The interior expands suddenly to its full size, shouldering everything else out of the way…and they’ll be pulling body parts out of the rubble that used to be a street for days on end.
The shop’s interior stretched away before me, warmly lit and widely spacious, with gleaming wood-panelled walls, and a spotless floor. The huge barnlike structure was filled with miles and miles of open glass shelving and stands, showing off hundreds of weird and wonderful treasures. Bettie made excited Ooh! and Aah! noises, and I had to physically prevent her from picking things up to examine them. The Cardinal had said his place was protected, and I believed him. Because if it wasn’t seriously protected, the Collector would have cleaned him out by now.
The Cardinal came strolling down the brightly lit central aisle to greet us. A tall and well-proportioned man in his late forties, with a high-boned face, an easy smile, and a hint of mascara round the eyes. He was wearing skintight white slacks, a red shirt open to the navel to show off his shaven chest, and a patterned silk scarf gathered loosely round his neck. He carried a martini in one hand and didn’t offer the other to be shaken.
“Wow,” I said. “When the Church defrocked you, they went all the way, didn’t they?”
The Cardinal smiled easily. “The Church has never approved of those of my…inclination. Even though we are responsible for most of the glorious works of art adorning their greatest churches and cathedrals. They only put up with me for so long because I was useful, and a respected academic, and…discreet. None of which did me any good when I was found out, and accused…It’s not as if I took anything important, or significant. I simply wanted a few pretty things for my own. Ah, well; at least I don’t have to wear those awful robes any more. So drab, and so very draughty round the nether regions.”
“Excuse me,” said Bettie, “But why is your shop called The Pink Cockatoo? What has that got to do with…well, anything?”
The Cardinal’s smile widened. “My little joke. It’s called that because I’ve had a cockatoo in my time.”
Bettie got the giggles. I gave the Cardinal my best Let’s try and stick to the subject look.
“Come to take a look at my collection, have you?” he said, apparently unmoved by the look. He sipped delicately at his martini, one finger elegantly extended. “By all means. Knock yourself out.”
I wandered down the shelves, just to be polite. And because I was a bit curious. I kept Bettie close beside me and made sure she maintained a respectful distance from the exhibits at all times. I was sure that the Cardinal believed in You broke it, you paid for it. He wandered along behind us, being obviously patient. I recognised some of the things on the shelves, by reputation if not always by sight. The Cardinal had helpfully labelled them in neat copperplate handwriting. There was a copy of the Gospel According to Mary Magdalene. (With illustrations. And I was pretty sure which kind, too.) Pope Joan’s robes of office. The rope Judas Iscariot used to hang himself. Half a dozen large canvasses by acknowledged Masters, all unknown to modern art history, depicting frankly pornographic scenes from some of the seamier tales in the Old Testament. Probably private commissions, from aristocratic patrons of the time. A Satanic Bible, bound in black goat’s skin, with an inverted crucifix stamped in bas-relief on the front cover.
“Now that’s a very limited edition,” said the Cardinal, leaning in close to peer over my shoulder. “Belonged to Giles de Rais, the old monster himself, before he met the Maid of Orleans. There are only seventeen copies of that particular edition, in the goat’s skin.”
“Why seventeen?” said Bettie. “Bit of an arbitrary number, isn’t it?”
“I said that,” said the Cardinal. “When I inquired further, I was told that seventeen is the most you can get out of one goat’s skin. Makes you wonder whether the last copy had a big floppy ear hanging off the back cover…And I hate to think what they used for the spine. Ah, Mr. Taylor, I see you’ve discovered my dice. I’m rather proud of those. The very dice the Roman soldiers used as they gambled for the Christ’s clothes, while he was still on the cross.”
“Do they have any…special properties?” I said, moving in close for a better look. They seemed very ordinary, two small wooden cubes, with any colour and all the dots worn away long ago.
“No,” said the Cardinal. “They’re just dice. Their value, which is incredible, lies in their history.”
“And what’s this?” said Bettie, wrinkling her nose as she studied a single, small, very old and apparently very ordinary fish, enclosed in a clear Lucite block.
“Ah, that,” said the Cardinal. “The only surviving example of the fish used to feed the five thousand…You wouldn’t believe how much money, political positions, and even sexual favours I’ve been offered, by certain extreme epicures, just for a taste…The philistines.”
“What brought you here, to the Nightside, Cardinal?” said Bettie, doing her best to sound pleasant and casual and not at all like a reporter. The Cardinal wasn’t fooled, but he smiled indulgently, and she hurried on. “And why collect only Christian artifacts? Are you still a believer, even after everything the Church has done to you?”
“Of course,” said the Cardinal. “The Catholic Church is not unlike the Mafia, in some ways—once in, never out. And as for the Nightside—why this is Hell, nor am I out of it. Ah, the old jokes are still the best. I damned myself to this appalling haven for the morally intransigent through the sin of greed, of acquisition. I was tempted, and I fell. Sometimes it feels like I’m still falling…but I have my collection to comfort me.” He drained the last of his martini, smacked his lips, put the glass down carefully next to a miniature golden calf, and looked at me steadily. “Why are you here, Mr. Taylor? What do you want with me? You must know I can’t trust you. Not after you worked for the Vatican, finding the Unholy Grail for them.”
“I worked for a particular individual,” I said carefully. “Not the Vatican, as such.”
“You really did find it, didn’t you?” said the Cardinal, looking at me almost wistfully. I could all but sense his collector’s fingers twitching. “The Sombre Cup…What was it like?”
“There aren’t the words,” I said. “But don’t bother trying to track it down. It’s been…defused. It’s only a cup now.”
“It’s still history,” said the Cardinal.
Bettie stooped suddenly, to pick up an open paperback from a chair. “The Da Vinci Code? Are you actually reading this, Cardinal?”
“Oh, yes…I love a good laugh.”
“Put it down, Bettie,” I said. “It’ll probably turn out to be some exotic misprinting, and he’ll charge us for getting fingerprints all over it. Cardinal, we’re here about the Afterlife Recording. I take it you have heard of Pen Donavon’s DVD?”
“Of course. But…I have decided I’m not interested in pursuing it. I don’t want it. Because I know myself. I know it wouldn’t be enough for me simply to possess the DVD. I’d have to watch it…And I don’t think I’m ready to see what’s on it.”
“You think it might test your faith?” I said.
“Perhaps…”
“Aren’t you curious?” said Bettie.
“Of course…But it’s one thing to believe, another to know. I do try to hope for the best, but when the Holy Father himself has told you to your face that you’re damned for all time, just for being what God made you…Hope is all I have left. It’s not much of a substitute for faith, but even cold comfort is better than none.”
“I believe God has more mercy than that,” I said. “I don’t think God sweats the small stuff.”
“Yes, well,” said the Cardinal dryly, “you’d have to believe that, wouldn’t you?”
“If you learn anything, let me know,” I said. “As long as the Afterlife Recording is out there, loose in the wind, more people will be trying to get their hands on it, for all the wrong reasons. There’s even a chance the Removal Man is interested in it.”
All the colour dropped out of the Cardinal’s face, his brittle amiability replaced by stark terror. “He can’t come here! He can’t! Have you seen him? You could have led him here! To me! No, no, no…You have to leave. Right now. I can’t take the risk!”
And he pushed both Bettie and me towards the door. He wasn’t big enough to budge either of us if we didn’t want to be budged, but I didn’t see any point in making a scene. He didn’t know anything useful. So I let him shove and propel us back to the door and push us through it. Once we were back on the street, the door slammed shut behind us, and a whole series of locks and bolts snapped into place. It seemed the Cardinal believed in traditional ways of protecting himself, too. I adjusted my trench coat. It had been a long time since I’d been given the bum’s rush. And then from behind the door came a scream, loud and piercing, a harsh shrill sound full of abject terror. I beat on the door, and yelled into the intercom, but the scream went on and on and on, long after human lungs should have been unable to sustain it. The pain and horror in the sound was almost unbearable. And then it stopped, abruptly, and that was worse.
The locks and the bolts slowly opened, one at a time, and the door swung inwards. I made Bettie stand behind me and pushed the door all the way open. Beyond it, I could see the huge display room. No sign of anyone, anywhere. No sound at all. I moved slowly, and very cautiously forward, refusing to allow Bettie to hurry me. There was no sign of the Cardinal anywhere. And every single piece of his collection was gone, too. Nothing left but empty shelves, stretching away.
“The Removal Man,” I said. My voice echoed on the quiet, saying the name over and over again.
“Did we lead him here, do you think?” said Bettie, her voice hushed. The echo turned her words into disturbing whispers.
“No,” I said. “I’d have known if anyone was following us. I’m sure I’d have known.”
“Even the Removal Man? Even him?”
“Especially him,” I said.
SEVEN -
The Good, the Bad, and the Ungodly
“So,” said Bettie Divine, sitting perched on one of the empty wooden shelves with her long legs dangling, “what do we do now? I mean, the Removal Man has just removed our last real lead. Though I have to say…I never thought I’d get this close to him. The Removal Man is a real urban legend. Even more than you, darling. We’re talking about someone who actually does move in mysterious ways! Maybe I should forget this story and concentrate on him. If I could bring in an exclusive interview with the Removal Man…”
“You mean you’re giving up on me?” I said, more amused than anything.
Bettie shrugged easily. She was now wearing a pale blue cat-suit, with a long silver zip running from collar to crotch. Her hair was bobbed, and her horns peeped out from under a smart peaked cap. “Well, I am half demon, darling; you have to expect the odd moment of heartlessness.”
“If you stick with me, at least there’s a reasonable chance you’ll survive to file your story,” I said.
“Who’d want to hurt a poor sweet defenceless little girlie like me?” said Bettie, pouting provocatively. “And besides, we half demons are notoriously hard to kill. That’s why the Editor paired me up with you for this story. Which, you have to admit, does seem to have petered out rather. I mean to say, if the Collector doesn’t have the Afterlife Recording, and the Cardinal doesn’t have it, who does that leave?”
“There are others,” I said. “Strange Harald, the junkman. Flotsam Inc.; their motto: We buy and sell anything that isn’t actually nailed down and guarded by hell-hounds. And there’s always Bishop Beastly…But admittedly they’re all fairly minor players. Far too small to think they could handle a prize like the Afterlife Recording. They’d have sold it on immediately; and I would have heard. You know, it’s always possible Pen Donavon could have realised how much trouble he’d let himself in for and destroyed the DVD.”
“He’d better not have!” said Bettie, her eyes flashing dangerously. “The paper owns that DVD, no matter what’s on it.”
I looked at her thoughtfully. “If it is real…are you curious to see what’s on it?”
“Of course,” she said immediately. “I want to know. I always want to know.”
“So you’ll stick with me? Until we find it?”
“Of course, darling! Forget about the Removal Man. It was just an impulse. No; we’re on the trail of something that could shake the whole Nightside if it is real. And you know what that means? I could end up covering a real story at last! Do you know how long I’ve dreamed about covering a real story, about something that actually matters? We can’t let this end here! You’re the private eye, you’re the legendary John Taylor; do something!”
“I’m open to suggestions,” I said.
My mobile phone rang. I answered and was immediately assaulted by the acerbic voice of Alex Morrisey, calling from Strangefellows. As always, Alex did not sound at all happy with the world, the universe, and everything.
“Taylor, get your arse over here at warp factor ten. A certain Pen Donavon has just turned up in my bar, looking like death warmed over and allowed to congeal. He’s clutching a DVD case like it’s his last life-line, hyperventilating, and crying his eyes out because he thinks the Removal Man is after him. He appears to be suffering from the sad delusion that you can protect him. He says you’re the only person he can trust, which only goes to show he doesn’t know you very well. So will you please come and get him because he is scaring off all my customers! Most of whom have understandably decided that they don’t want to get caught in the inevitable cross-fire. Did I mention that I am not at all happy about this? You are costing me a whole night’s profits!”
“Put it on my tab,” I said. “I can cover it; I’m on expenses. Sit on Donavon till I get there. No-one talks to him but me.”
I put the phone away and smiled at Bettie. “We’re back in the game. Pen Donavon has turned up at Strangefellows.”
Bettie clapped her hands together, kicked her heels, and jumped down from the wooden shelf. “I knew you’d find him, John! Never doubted you for a moment! And we’re finally going to Strangefellows! Super cool!”
“You’ll probably be disappointed,” I said. “It’s only a bar.”
“The oldest bar in the world! Where all the customers are myths and legends, and the fate of the whole world gets decided on a regular basis!”
“Only sometimes,” I said.
“Is it far from here?”
“Right on the other side of town. Fortunately, I know a short cut.”
I took out my Strangefellows club membership card. Alex handed out a dozen or so, in a rare generous moment, and he’s been trying to get them back ever since. Not that any of us are ever likely to give them up. They’re far too useful. The card itself isn’t much to look at. Just simple embossed pasteboard, with the name of the bar in dark Gothic script, and below that the words You Are Here, in blood-red lettering. I pulled Bettie in close beside me, and she snuggled up companionably. I still wasn’t used to that. It had been a long time since I’d let anybody get this close to me. This casual. I liked it. I pressed my thumb firmly against the crimson lettering on the card, and it activated at once, throbbing and pulsing with stored energy. It leapt out of my hand to hang on the air before me, turning end over end and crackling with arcane activity. Bright lights flared and sputtered all around it. Alex had paid for the full bells and whistles package. The card expanded suddenly to the size of a door, which opened before us. Together, Bettie and I stepped through into Strangefellows, and the door slammed shut behind us.
I put the card back in my coat-pocket and looked around. The place was unnaturally still and quiet, empty apart from a single drunk sleeping one off, slumped forward across his table. I knew him vaguely. Thallassa, a wizened old sorcerer who claimed to be responsible for the sinking of Atlantis. He said he drank to forget, but it was amazing how many stories he could remember, as long as you were dumb enough to keep buying him drinks. Everyone else had clearly decided that discretion was the better part of running for the hills, and that the combination of Pen Donavon, his DVD, and me in one place was just too dangerous to be around. Even the kind of people who habitually drink at a place like Strangefellows have their limit; and I’m often it.
Donavon was easy to spot. He was sitting slumped on a stool at the bar. No-one else could look that miserable, beaten down, and shit scared from the back. He peered round as Bettie and I approached, and almost collapsed off his stool before he recognised me. He was just a small, ordinary-looking man, no-one you’d look at twice in the street, clearly in way over his head and going down for the third time. Up close, he looked in pretty bad shape. He was shaking and shivering, his face drawn and ashen, with dark circles under his eyes as though he hadn’t slept in days. Perhaps because he didn’t dare. He couldn’t have been half-way through his twenties, but now he looked twice that. Something had aged him and hadn’t been kind about it. He clutched a long, shabby coat around him, as though to keep out a chill only he could feel.
He looked like a man who’d seen Hell. Or Heaven.
Alex Morrisey glared at me, and then went back to half-coaxing, half-bullying Donavon into putting aside his brandy glass and trying some freshly made hot soup. Donavon remained unconvinced. He watched, wide-eyed, until Bettie and I were right there with him. Then he sighed deeply, and some of the tension seemed to go out of him. He emptied his glass with a gulp and signalled for another. Alex put aside the soup bowl, sniffed loudly, and reluctantly opened a new bottle.
Alex owns and runs Strangefellows, and possibly as a result, has a mad on for the whole world. He loathes his customers, despises tourists, and never gives the right change on principle. He also had his thirtieth birthday just the other day, which hadn’t helped. He always wore black, because, he said, he was in mourning for his sex life. (Gone, but not forgotten.) His permanent scowl had etched a deep notch between his eyebrows, right above the designer shades he always affected. He also wore a snazzy black beret, perched far back on his head to hide his spreading bald patch. I have known clinically depressed lepers with haemorrhoids who smiled more often than Alex Morrisey. Though at least he doesn’t have to worry when he sneezes. I leaned against the bar and looked at him reproachfully.
“You never made me hot soup, Alex.”
He sniffed loudly. “My home-made soup is full of things that are good for you, including a few that are downright healthful, all of which would be wasted on a body as ruined and ravaged as yours.”
“Just because I don’t like vegetables…”
“You’re the only man I know who makes the sign of the cross when confronted with broccoli. And don’t change the subject! Once again I am left clearing up the mess from one of your cases. Like I don’t have enough troubles of my own. Bloody eels have got into the beer barrels again, the pixies have been at the bar snacks, which they will live to regret, the poor fools, and my pet vulture is pregnant! Someone’s going to pay for this…”
He broke off as Pen Donavon suddenly reached out and grabbed my arm. There was so little strength left in him it felt like a ghost tugging at my sleeve. His mouth worked for a moment before easing into something like a smile, and there were real tears of gratitude in his eyes.
“Thank God you’re here, Mr. Taylor. I’ve been so afraid…They’re after me. Everyone’s after me. You have to protect me!”
“Of course, of course I will,” I said soothingly. “You’re safe now. No-one’s going to get to you here.”
“Just keep them away,” he said pathetically. “Keep them all away. I can’t think…I’ve been running from everyone. Either they want to pressure me into selling the Recording, or they want to kill me and take it. I can’t trust anyone any more. I thought I’d be safe, once I’d made my deal with the Unnatural Inquirer, but I was ambushed on my way there. I’ve been running and hiding ever since.”
He let go of me and looked back at the full glass of brandy before him. He gulped half of it down in one go, and Alex winced visibly. Must have been the really good stuff, then. I looked at Bettie.
“Could someone in your offices have put the word out on Donavon coming in with the DVD?”
“For a percentage? Wouldn’t surprise me. None of us are exactly overpaid at the Inquirer. And our Reception phones are always being tapped. We debug them at the start of every working day, but there’s always someone listening in, hoping for an advantage. After all, we hear everything first. We’re noted for it.”
“I should never have recorded the broadcast,” said Donavon. He was sitting hunched over his brandy glass, as though afraid someone would snatch it away. “It was all a ghastly mistake. I was trying to contact the other side, yes, but I never thought…My life hasn’t been my own since. And I’d certainly never have tried to sell the Recording if I’d known it would destroy my whole life.”
“You saw the broadcast,” said Bettie, leaning in close with her best engaging smile. “What did you see?”
Donavon started shaking again. He tried to speak, and couldn’t. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears ran down his trembling cheeks. Alex sighed heavily and topped up the brandy glass again. He smiled nastily at me.
“All these drinks are going on your tab, Taylor.”
I smiled right back at him. “Do your worst. Expenses, remember?”
“Well,” said Bettie. “You will get expenses if we deliver the DVD.”
I looked at her. “What? What do you mean if? Nothing was ever said about my expenses being conditional!”
“This is the newspaper game, sweetie. Everything’s conditional.”
I scowled, and then had to stop because it was upsetting Donavon even more. I moved away down the bar and gestured for Alex to lean in close. “You can bet some of your recent customers will be out on the streets now, spilling the beans about who and what can be found in Strangefellows. Which means we can expect unfriendly visitors at any moment. Better lock the doors and slam down the shutters. Where are the Coltranes?”
“Out the back, doing exactly that,” said Alex. “I can think for myself, thank you. My defences will keep out all but the most determined; but if anyone does get in, the resulting damage will also be going on your tab. I’d insure against you, but apparently you’re classed along with Acts of Gods and other unavoidable nuisances.”
“Call Suzie,” I said. “I think we’re going to need her help on this one.”
“Damn,” said Alex. “And I just had the place redecorated.”
Bettie slipped her arm through mine and turned me round to face her. “I hate to sound disappointed,” she said, “but I am, maybe a bit. I mean, darling, this isn’t at all what I expected. It all looks so…ordinary. Well, ordinary for the Nightside. I was hoping for something more…extreme.”
I refrained from pointing out the disembodied hand scuttling up and down the bar top. (Alex accepted it in payment for a bad debt.) The hand was busy polishing the bar top and refilling the snack bowls. Yet another good reason not to eat them, as far as I was concerned. Alex objected on principle to giving away anything, and it showed in his choice of snacks. Does anyone actually eat honeyed locusts any more? The vulture’s perch was empty, of course, but there were other things to look at. Lightning, crackling inside a bottle. Bit hard on the ship, I thought. A small featureless furry thing, that sat on the bar top purring happily to itself, and occasionally farting. Until the hand grabbed it up and used it as a rag to polish the bar top. A small cuspidor of tanna leaves, with the brand-name Mummy’s favourite. All nice homey touches.
“I want a drink,” Bettie announced loudly. “I want one of those special drinkies you can only get here. Do you have a Maiden’s Bloody Ruin? Dragons’ Breath? Angel’s Tears?”
“The first two aren’t cocktails,” I said. “And that last one is actually called Angel’s Urine.”
“Which was selling quite well,” said Alex. “Until word got around it wasn’t so much a trade name as an accurate description.”
Bettie laughed and snuggled cosily up against me. “You choose, darling.”
“Give the lady a wormwood brandy,” I said.
Alex gave me a look, and then fished about under the bar for the really good stuff he keeps set aside for special customers.
“I do like this place, after all,” Bettie decided. “It’s cosy, and comfortable. It’d probably even have atmosphere if there was anybody else here but us. Ah, sweetie, you take me to the nicest places!”
She kissed me. As though it was the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it was, for other people. I took her in my arms, and her whole body surged forward, pressing against me. When we broke apart, Alex was there, pushing a glass of wormwood brandy towards Bettie. She snatched it up with an excited squeak, sipped the brandy, and made appreciative noises. Alex looked at me. I looked at him. Neither of us mentioned Suzie, but we were both thinking about her.
And then we all looked round sharply at the sound of heavy footsteps in the entrance lobby upstairs. They were heading our way, and they didn’t sound like customers. Alex cursed dispassionately.
“My defences are telling me that a bunch of combat sorcerers just walked right through them, without even hesitating. Really powerful combat sorcerers.”
“How can you tell?” said Bettie
“Because only really powerful combat sorcerers could get through this bar’s defences,” I said.
Thirteen very dangerous men came clattering down the metal stairs into the bar proper, making a hell of a racket in the process. They moved smoothly, in close formation, and spread out at the bottom of the steps to cut us off from all the exits. They stood tall and proud, radiating professionalism and confidence. They were all dressed in black leather cowboy outfits, complete with Stetsons, chaps, boots, and silver spurs. Surprisingly, and a bit worryingly, they weren’t wearing holsters. They all possessed various charms, amulets, fetishes, and grisgris, displayed openly around their necks or on their chests for all to see, and despair. These were major league power sources, for strength and speed, transformations and elemental commands. A bit generic but no less dangerous for that.
They all looked to be big men and in their prime. They all had that lazy arrogance that comes from having beaten down anyone and anything that ever dared to stand against them. You don’t get to be a combat sorcerer without killing an awful lot of people in the process. There was an ideogram tattooed on all their foreheads, right over the third eye, showing their Clan affiliation. Combat sorcerers are too dangerous to be allowed to run around unsupervised. You either joined a Clan, or they joined together to wipe you out. This particular bunch belonged to Clan Buckaroo.
Their leader stepped forward to face me. He was a good head taller than me, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist. Probably ate his vegetables every day, and did a hundred and fifty sit-ups before breakfast. He had three different charms hanging from rolled silver chains around his neck and an amulet round his waist I didn’t like to look at. This cowboy was packing some serious firepower. He fixed me with his cold blue eyes and started to say something that would only have been an insult or a demand, and I wasn’t in the mood for either; so I got my retaliation in first.
“Those are seriously tacky outfits,” I said. “What are you planning to do, line dance us to death?”
The leader hesitated. This wasn’t going according to plan. He wasn’t used to defiance, let alone open ridicule. He squared his shoulders and tried again.
“We are Clan Buckaroo. We work for Kid Cthulhu. And you’ve got something we want.”
“Like what?” I asked. “Fashion sense?”
The leader’s hand dropped to where his holster should have been. The twelve other combat sorcerers all did the same. Some suddenly had guns of light in their hands, sparking and shimmering. Like the ghosts of guns steeped in slaughter. And a few, including the leader, just pointed their index fingers at me, like a child miming a gun. I looked at the leader and raised an eyebrow.
“Conceptual guns,” he said. “Creations of the mind, powered by murder magic. They never miss, they never run out of ammunition, they can punch a hole through anything; and they kill whatever they hit. Allow me to demonstrate.”
He pointed his finger at the bottles ranked behind the bar. I grabbed Bettie and Donavon and dragged them out of the way. One by one the bottles exploded, showering glass fragments and hissing liquids all over the bar. Alex stood his ground and didn’t move an inch, even as liquors soaked his shirt, and flying glass cut his cheek. The leader raised his finger to his lips and blew away imaginary smoke. The disembodied hand flipped him the finger, and then disappeared under the bar. The watching cowboys were all grinning broadly. Alex glared right back at them.
“You needn’t be so smug. You only got the stuff I keep for tourists. The good stuff can look after itself.”
The leader looked at him for a moment. He’d used his favourite trick, and no-one was looking the least bit intimidated. He stuck out his chin and tried again.
“I’ve come for the Afterlife Recording.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” said Bettie. “I’m sure you were just a bit over-excited.”
I stepped forward, putting myself between her and the leader. I looked him square in the eye. “You don’t want to be here,” I said. “These aren’t the people you’re looking for.”
I held his gaze with mine, and he stood very still. Behind him, the other combat sorcerers stirred restlessly. And then the leader smiled coldly right back at me.
“I’ve heard about your evil eye, Taylor. Won’t work on any of us. We’re protected.”
He was right. I couldn’t stare him down, couldn’t even reach him. While I was still working out what to do next, Bettie stepped past me and put herself between me and the leader.
“Trevor!” she said. “I thought it was you, sweetie! Didn’t recognise you at first, all tricked out in the Village People outfit. You never told me you were a combat sorcerer.”
The other cowboys looked at their leader, and I could practically see them mouthing the word Trevor? at each other. The leader glared at Bettie.
“That is my old name,” he said harshly. “I don’t use it any more. My name is Ace now, Bettie, leader of Clan Buckaroo. I haven’t gone by…that other name in ages.”
“You were Trevor when I knew you,” Bettie said briskly. “I did wonder why you insisted on wearing those black boots and spurs to bed, but I thought you were being kinky. Even though you went all bashful when I got out the fluffy handcuffs. What are you doing here, sweetie, dressed up as Black Bart and leading this bunch of overdressed thugs?”
“The money’s good,” said Ace.
“It would have to be,” said Bettie.
“Don’t get in the way,” said Ace, giving her his best fierce glare. “We’re here to do a job, and we’re going to do it. I can’t cut you any slack just because we used to be an item.”
“You and he were an item?” I said to Bettie.
She shrugged. “He didn’t last long.”
There was some quiet sniggering from the other combat sorcerers that died quickly away as Ace glared around him.
“What exactly are you here for?” I said. “Maybe there’s room for negotiation.”
“We want Donavon, and we want the Afterlife Recording,” said Ace, fixing me with his cold stare again. “No negotiations, no discussion. We work for Kid Cthulhu, and he wants sole ownership of the Recording.”
“Now wait just a minute!” Bettie strode forward to glare right into Ace’s face, and he was so startled he actually fell back a pace. “The Unnatural Inquirer has already purchased exclusive rights to all the material on that DVD! We have a binding contract! We own it!”
“Not any more you don’t,” said Ace. “Possession is everything, in the Nightside.”
“Kid Cthulhu…” Alex said thoughtfully. “Thought I’d heard something about his having cash liquidity problems with his undersea-farming interests. And, of course, the bottom’s dropped right out of the calamari market. He must be thinking he can make enough money out of the Afterlife Recording to bail him out. So to speak.”
“You can’t have the Afterlife Recording!” Bettie said firmly to Ace. “We got there first.”
Ace looked at the cowboy next to him. “If she speaks again, kill her.”
Bettie’s mouth opened wide, outraged, and I clapped a hand across it and hauled her back. Ace didn’t look like he was kidding to me. Thirteen combat sorcerers in one room can do pretty much whatever they feel like doing. But, on the other hand, I had a reputation to maintain…So I looked Alex in the eye and gave him my best disapproving stare.
“Now that was just plain rude,” I said. “And if you threaten to kill me…I will smite the lot of you. Right here and now.”
There was a pause, and the thirteen combat sorcerers looked at me uncertainly. With anyone else, they’d have dismissed it immediately as just talk. But I was John Taylor…
“Bettie Divine is under my protection,” I said. “Along with everyone else in this bar. Very definitely including Pen Donavon. So you can all get your redneck wannabe big bad selves out of here, before I decide to do something quite appallingly nasty to you.”