The Bride Wore Black Leather

by Simon R. Green

  He started forward into the ballroom, swaying and sniggering, grinning nastily in all directions, enjoying the effect he was having on the gathering. Even the most powerful immortals fell back, to give him plenty of room to move in. King of Skin reached out to touch the people he passed, in brusque and brutal inappropriate ways, trailing his fingertips across bare flesh, caressing a face here and a breast there, and no-one said or did anything. I had to wonder what he was doing at the Ball. Was he representing the Authorities? Had he heard about the serum? Or was he here to cause trouble because he could? There were gods here who would turn their gazes aside rather than upset King of Skin because even gods have nightmares, and King of Skin wouldn’t hesitate to use them as weapons.

  He knew I was there but ignored me completely, working the crowd in his own nasty way. He would stop here and there, for a moment, to indulge in a few neatly tailored insults, dropping quick references to things no-one else was supposed to know about. He mocked and abused people and laughed in their faces; and they stood there and let him do it because they had no choice. Because the alternatives were worse. People cursed and swore under their breath after he’d moved on, and some even wept bitter tears of rage or affront. Because King of Skin knew things . . . and the best you could hope for was that he wouldn’t tell anyone else.

  No-one ever disputed his right to do these things because he was King of Skin.

  To my surprise, he actually sought out Razor Eddie in his corner. A lot of people started backing away. I mean, you don’t upset the Punk God of the Straight Razor. Not if you like having your organs on the inside. I’ve seen gods and powers come running out of the Street of the Gods, crying their eyes out, because Razor Eddie was on the rampage. But no; King of Skin walked right up to the thin grey presence and sniggered in his face.

  “So, Eddie,” said King of Skin, “when are you going to tell everyone where you really got your pearl-handled straight razor?”

  Razor Eddie looked at him, and the silence lengthened uncomfortably. King of Skin snarled and growled under his breath, and turned abruptly away. And I stopped holding a breath I hadn’t even realised was caught in my throat. It was as though two great racing cars had played chicken, and one had turned aside at the last moment. King of Skin strode up to Dead Boy, who was still making serious inroads on the buffet and sucking his dead fingers noisily. He straightened up as he sensed King of Skin approaching and turned unhurriedly round to face him.

  “So, Dead Boy; how’s your girl-friend these days? Still changeable?”

  “Fuck off, Skinny,” Dead Boy said flatly. “You can’t frighten me. I’m dead.”

  “Even the dead have nightmares,” said King of Skin, the air rippling and puckering around his hands as he played with probabilities.

  Dead Boy smiled suddenly, and it was a most unpleasant smile. “I made a deal with my worst nightmare. You invoke that, and it’ll rip the soul right out of you.”

  And again, King of Skin turned suddenly away, faced with something even worse than he was. He snarled with frustration and turned on Mistress Mayhem, who started to back away, then made herself hold her ground. It was always worse if you made him chase after you.

  “Love the blue skin,” said King of Skin. “Hope you don’t run out of dye. And you didn’t want the baby anyway. Don’t worry; I won’t tell the Thunder god what you did.”

  A single tear ran down Mayhem’s blue cheek, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying anything. King of Skin sniggered loudly and turned his hot gaze on Lord Orlando before dismissing him as easy prey. The Lord Orlando almost fainted with relief. King of Skin looked around him, laughing breathily every time someone flinched, and finally advanced on the Bride. She glared down her nose at him and didn’t budge an inch. Springheel Jack stepped forward and stood between King of Skin and his prey.

  “Wait your turn, boy,” said King of Skin. “I’ll get to you.”

  “Leave the lady alone,” said Springheel Jack. “Or else.”

  “Or else? You think you can threaten me, boy? I know all about you. Who you were before, what you really are now. Does the Bride know . . .”

  “One more word, and I’ll open you up and let your lights see the light,” said Springheel Jack.

  “You think you can hurt me, boy? I have made myself into a thing that cannot be harmed by mortal weapons!”

  “My razors are no mortal weapons,” said Springheel Jack. “And there’s nothing left you can scare me with. Because I’ve already been through it.”

  King of Skin looked at him, his hot gaze meeting cold, cold eyes; and again, he looked away. No-one could believe it.

  “Come away, Jack,” said the Bride. “He’s not worth it.”

  She led her beau away, one huge hand on his arm, and King of Skin whirled around, watching everyone watching him, and rage and frustrated malice filled his face. And while he stood there, undecided, Hadleigh Oblivion strolled out of the crowd to stand before him. He smiled easily at King of Skin, whose eyes narrowed as he drew himself up to his full height. The whole ballroom was utterly still, utterly silent, as everyone watched, fascinated, to see what would happen.

  “When are people going to realise that your power is nothing more than skin-deep?” said Hadleigh.

  King of Skin flinched as though he’d been hit. I didn’t know what Hadleigh meant, but his opponent clearly did.

  “When are you going to tell your brothers about the price you paid to be allowed entrance to the Deep School?” said King of Skin.

  “King . . . of what, exactly?” said Hadleigh, still smiling. “And . . . of Skin? Who’s skin, or skins? How deep does beauty go with you?”

  And to everyone’s surprise, even shock, King of Skin broke first. He seemed to shrink in on himself as though some vital part of his confidence had been broken. He turned his back on Hadleigh, marched over to the buffet table, and made a big show of being interested in the delicacies on offer. Hadleigh looked after him, clearly considering whether he should continue the confrontation; but he smiled briefly and wandered off in the opposite direction. Quite clearly the winner. Of something. Many hands came out, to clap him on the back or the shoulder, though no-one actually said anything. King of Skin might have picked the wrong victims for one day . . . but no-one doubted there would be other days and other victims.

  A slow buzz of confused, mystified conversation rose among the gathered immortals as they tried to work out what had just happened. After all, no-one defied King of Skin. Everyone present was very interested in working out the details, if only so they could use it themselves, in the future.

  I went back to working the crowd, but even after what had just occurred, no-one was prepared to talk to me. A scary reputation only works when you aren’t surrounded by people even scarier than you. I passed by the Merlin Memorial Chair, standing on its own in a corner; much like Razor Eddie. The chair was a duplicate of Merlin’s old throne, made from dark ironwood and wrapped in fresh mistletoe. The immortals always give it a place of honour at their Ball because most of them are convinced he’s coming back. I was pretty sure he wasn’t, but I’ve been wrong about that before, so I didn’t say anything.

  I sat down on the throne, casually crossing my legs, to make a point, and looked out over the crowd. I’d never seen so many immortals in one place, acting more or less politely. And then . . . a teenage boy caught my eye. A long, sulky streak of lukewarm water, wearing distressed jeans and battered knock-off sneakers, and a grubby T-shirt under a hooded grey jacket. He stood alone, scowling at everyone, his hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets, the archetypal teenage hoodie. I couldn’t make out what the hell he was doing at the Ball of Forever, among people who were probably ancient before his great-grandparents were born. I didn’t recognise him as anyone special, or important. No-one had actually challenged his right to be there, yet, but he was getting a number of glances, none of them good. So I got up off Merlin’s throne and went over to find out who he was. Because if there was go
ing to be trouble at the Ball, I wanted to start it.

  I walked right up to him and planted myself in front of him, so he couldn’t ignore me. “Hello!” I said cheerfully. “Isn’t the ambience awful? You probably know who I am; but who are you?”

  He looked me straight in the eye, and like that he didn’t look like a teenager any more. His eyes were old, very old, and his slow smile had generations of experience behind it.

  “Call me Rogue,” he said, and his voice was rich with contempt and soaked in pride. “I’m one of the few real immortals here, from the Family of Immortals.”

  Everyone around us stopped talking, to stare at Rogue. We’d all heard of the Family of Immortals; the half-legendary, very long-lived family supposed to run the world from behind the scenes, for a thousand years and more . . . but no-one had ever met one, before now. Everyone at the Ball was an immortal of one kind or another, but none of them had families. They were all unique, unable to pass on what made them immortal. But the Family of Immortals had bred slow, but true, for hundreds of years.

  Everyone here had heard the story, that the Family of Immortals had very recently been wiped out, slaughtered, by the equally as legendary Drood family, those very secret agents for the Good. I wasn’t the only one startled to discover that one of the few survivors of that massacre was this sulky-looking teenager.

  “I did hear that the Family of Immortals is no more,” I said carefully. “The Droods are, after all, usually very thorough when it comes to wiping out threats to Humanity.”

  “Some of us got away,” said Rogue. “Even Droods can’t be everywhere at once. A few of us grabbed some useful items from the Family Vaults, then escaped through the emergency teleport gates. Now those of us left are spread across the world, hiding behind new identities and keeping our heads down. And I came here because the Nightside is one of the few places in the world where Droods are forbidden to set foot, by ancient compact. One of the few places in this world or off it where I thought I could be safe.

  “Of course, I hadn’t been here long before I heard that the Drood family had also been destroyed, repaid in their turn. The universe has a warped sense of humour.”

  “Are you sure about this?” I said, hearing a new buzz of conversation start up behind me. “I’d heard stories, but no details . . .”

  “Oh yes, I’m sure,” said Rogue, and again there was a very old, very adult unpleasantness in his voice. “I took a quick look, through a scrying glass. Drood Hall has been destroyed, blown up and burned down. They’re all dead. Such a marvellous sight: half-melted golden figures strewn across the rubble, like broken dolls. I wish I could have seen it happen . . . but you can’t have everything.”

  “They’re all dead?” I said. “Every single Drood?”

  “One got away,” said Rogue. “Because he wasn’t there when it happened. Only one left, out of all those self-righteous, murdering bullies. Eddie, the last Drood. I really must get around to killing him when I have a moment. There’d be no fun in doing it now, you understand, while he’s still grieving. Better to wait till he’s recovered and started rebuilding his life . . . and then there I’ll be, to put an end to the last Drood.”

  “Who the hell could be powerful enough to wipe out the entire Drood family?” I said, because I felt someone should say it.

  Rogue smiled and shrugged easily. “Haven’t a clue. Don’t know anyone who does. But I will find out, eventually, if only so I can shake him by the hand.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So far, you’re everything your family was supposed to be. Where are the rest of you?”

  “Oh, here and there,” said Rogue, deliberately vague. “All over the world, hidden in plain sight, making their plans for the return of the family.”

  He grinned suddenly, the first youthful thing I’d seen him do.

  “And we will be back. You can count on it. We are the real immortals, and we have ruled this world for longer than anyone in this room has been alive.” He looked disparagingly around him. “Call yourselves immortals? My family has walked this Earth for fifteen centuries!”

  “So how old are you?” I said.

  He scowled suddenly, sticking out his lower lip in a proper teenage pout. “I was cheated out of my inheritance by the Droods. I’ve had barely eighty years of playing with Humanity! I should have had centuries as part of the most important and powerful family there’s ever been, to walk up and down in the world and change the course of human history as the whim took me. I should have had a life of wealth and influence, dispensing Life and Death, success or failure, at my pleasure! But I’d barely got started . . . It isn’t fair!”

  He broke off, startled, as I stuck my face right in close to his. I’d had enough. “That was then, Rogue, this is now. As far as I’m concerned, you’re only another refugee, on the run in the Nightside. My Nightside. So behave yourself here. You try to play with the lives of people under my protection, and I’ll drag you down to the Street of the Gods and feed you to something unknowable.”

  “Of course, Walker,” said Rogue, his voice suddenly entirely reasonable. “I’m a guest in this wonderfully gaudy, tawdry city. I wouldn’t dream of making any trouble.”

  “You’re overdoing it,” I said.

  He smiled distantly, backed carefully away, not taking his eyes off me, and moved on. A lot of people were quite keen to talk to him, to make themselves known to a living legend.

  I stood alone, thinking. I’d seen and heard a great many interesting things at the Ball of Forever, but none of it to do with what I was here for. No-one had so much as mentioned an immortality serum; either to discuss its possibilities, its price, or whether it should be destroyed. And somebody would have by now. Perhaps its owner was holding court in some hidden back room, unknown to any but the most select immortals. But I hadn’t seen anybody drifting away, or disappearing and reappearing . . . and it’s really hard to hide secret doors and rooms from me. I was beginning to wonder if the serum actually existed. A drug that could make everyone immortal would set off all kinds of alarms. The universe itself resents the existence of immortals, which is why there are so few of them. They mess things up, disrupt the natural order . . . and the universe has been known to react when it feels there are too many, in quite brutal and efficient ways. Trust me; you don’t want to know how.

  I was still considering the implications of that when a great cry went up, followed by a number of screams. People were shouting, backing away, and pressing forward. I pushed my way through the crowd, following the screams, and there on the floor by the buffet, very quiet and very still and quite definitely dead, was King of Skin.

  THREE

  Time, See What’s Become of Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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