She was shaking her head all through this, but the truth showed in her face. When I said the word baby, all the strength seemed to go right out of her. When she finally spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper.
“I never told anyone. How did he know? I was never even going to tell Jimmy. It would have upset him too much. But I am a descendent of Kali! I am! I could have killed that slimy bastard with a touch! If I’d wanted. Withered him like a flower, like Hadleigh did . . . They’re saying someone stuck a knife in him. Is that right?”
“He was stabbed in the back,” I said carefully.
“Well, I haven’t got a knife! Look at me! Where would I hide one in this outfit?”
She had a point.
“I’m talking to everyone,” I said. “Don’t take it personally. Did you come here with anyone?”
“No.”
“Then go talk with Dead Boy. He’s appalling company, and his conversation rarely ventures far from the inappropriate, but he’s got a good heart. He’ll look after you and make sure no-one bothers you.”
I steered her in Dead Boy’s direction, then stopped abruptly as a Neanderthal man came rolling through the crowd towards me. He was barely five feet tall, hunched right over but powerfully built. His heavy face was all bone and gristle, with massive lowering eye-brow ridges and hardly any chin. His knees splayed out, and his knuckles barely cleared the floor. He was wearing a shining white seventies disco outfit, complete with a big gold medallion on a chain hanging over his extremely hairy chest. He nodded amiably to me.
“Greetings, Walker. I am Tomias Squarefoot.”
“I know,” I said. “We met once before. Long ago.”
He shrugged calmly. “It is entirely possible. I am the oldest of the immortals. I have met pretty much everyone, at one time or another; but my memory is not what it was. I do not claim to speak for the immortals, but as the oldest here, I think I can represent them. And I think I can speak for all of us when I say it is clear that there is an obvious suspect.”
“Is there really?” I said. “News to me. Who did you have in mind?
“The young man who calls himself Rogue, of course,” said Squarefoot. “He appears out of nowhere, with no invitation, claiming to be part of the notorious Family of Immortals. A group famed for their duplicity, treachery, and general back-stabbing. Either he isn’t who he says he is, in which case what is he doing here, in this company? Or he is who he says he is, in which case, what is he doing here? What secret purpose has brought him to a Ball no other member of his family has ever graced with their presence? On top of that, do I really need to point out that we never had a death here, at any of our meetings, until he showed up?”
I turned to look thoughtfully at Rogue, standing on his own, some way off. He had a drink in his hand and looked far-away, lost in his own thoughts.
“All right,” I said to the Neanderthal. “You have a point. I’ll have a word. But only because you helped save my life, that time.”
Squarefoot shrugged his massive shoulders. “It is possible. I meet so many people; you must forgive me if you don’t stand out. All you mortals look the same to me.”
I nodded and moved away. He was right. It had been almost two thousand years since he helped save me from the Wild Hunt of the old god Herne. But I hadn’t forgotten.
Rogue saw me coming and took a long drink from his champagne flute before facing me, apparently completely unconcerned. I slapped the glass out of his hand, grabbed him, and turned him around and slammed him up against the wall. He hit hard enough to knock the breath out of him, but he didn’t complain or struggle. He simply stood there, entirely relaxed, as I frisked him from top to bottom, making a thorough job of it. I found all kinds of interesting objects in his pockets, the accumulated flotsam and jetsam of a very long life, but nothing that could have been used as a weapon. I stepped back, and he turned around, adjusting his clothing here and there, with neat fussy movements that were completely at odds with his teenage appearance.
“Typical mortal manners,” he murmured. “No respect for your elders. Be careful, young Walker, be very careful, lest I decide to teach you some manners. I could break and cripple you in a dozen awful ways, and there would be nothing you could do to stop me.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised what John Taylor can do,” said Dead Boy, moving in on one side of me, while Razor Eddie slipped into position on the other. Dead Boy sneered at Rogue. “Walker can look after himself. But he doesn’t have to; not while we’re around. You behave yourself, young immortal, or I will knock you down and stamp on your head, and Razor Eddie here will make origami out of your insides.”
Rogue looked from Dead Boy to Razor Eddie, then back to me. He smiled charmingly.
“It’s always good to have friends you can depend on. Rest assured I will do everything in my power to cooperate with the Walker’s investigation.”
“Thanks for the support, guys,” I said. “But I think he might speak more freely without an audience.”
Dead Boy and Razor Eddie drifted away, talking quietly together. I would have given a lot to hear what those two very different souls might have in common, but I had a job to do.
“I didn’t know King of Skin, except by reputation,” said Rogue. “So what possible reason could I have for killing him?”
“I was hoping you might tell me,” I said. “Why did you come here tonight, for the first time?”
“Every time is someone’s first time,” said Rogue. “My family has been destroyed. Murdered. I was looking for something new to belong to. One must make a family where one can, these days. But it is very hard to make new friends when nobody trusts you.”
“Lot of that going around,” I said. “Don’t go anywhere; I may have more questions.”
Rogue smiled sweetly. “I come and go as I please.”
I gave him a hard look. “Even if you could get past Hadleigh at the door, which you can’t, there’s nowhere you can go that I couldn’t find you.”
“Ah yes,” murmured Rogue. “Your famous gift. I have a gift too, courtesy of my family.”
And right before my eyes, the flesh shifted suddenly on his face, slipping back and forth, until my own face looked back at me, complete in every detail.
“I can be anyone,” said Rogue, with my lips but his voice. A really very disturbing effect.
“Ah yes,” I said, carefully casual. “Flesh-dancing. I had heard the stories . . . that everyone in your family could change their face or body, to hide in plain sight. That’s what made you all such marvellous traitors and back-stabbers.”
“Well, quite,” said Rogue, changing back to his own face.
I gave him my best sneer and left him to it. Something about Rogue’s supercilious manners and quiet contempt got on my nerves, but not enough for me to peg him as a major suspect. He was right; he had no motive. Never been here before, never even met King of Skin, wasn’t even here long enough to be insulted by him. But there were no murders until he turned up. Something to think about.
I found the Bride and Springheel Jack arguing quietly but fiercely with Hadleigh Oblivion. They wanted to leave, and he was having none of it. They all looked round as I approached. Springheel Jack took a step towards me, but the Bride stopped him immediately with a large hand on his arm.
“Sorry,” I said. “But the Detective Inspectre is following my orders. Nobody leaves till we’ve sorted this out. Do you have somewhere you need to be?”
“An unseen murderer, with an unknown weapon, hiding among the immortals?” said Jack. “I want the Bride out of here. It’s not safe.”
“Your concern is touching, Jack, but if you don’t cut this condescending crap right now, I will slap you a good one,” said the Bride. “I am old enough to be your great-grandmother, and I know how to look after myself.”
“King of Skin almost certainly felt the same,” said Springheel Jack. He looked around the crowded ball-room. “Something isn’t right here. I can feel it. Like a premonition
. . . Someone else is going to die here. There’s a wolf hiding among the sheep, and oh his teeth are sharp . . .”
He seemed almost to be in a trance. I looked at the Bride.
“Does he have the Sight?”
“I don’t know,” said the Bride. “Being Springheel Jack makes him more aware of the horrors of the world, but the state doesn’t exactly come with a user’s manual. If he says someone’s going to die, I’d put money on it . . . Jack. Jack!”
He looked at her blankly for a moment, then shuddered suddenly, as though someone had tripped over his grave.
“We need to get out of here, lover. Something bad is coming.”
“Then help me find the killer,” I said. “You can start by answering some questions.”
“Go ahead,” said the Bride.
“King of Skin spoke with you,” I said to Springheel Jack. “He said he knew what you really are. He also said he couldn’t be harmed by mortal weapons, and you said your razors were more than mortal.”
“That’s right,” said Springheel Jack. “They are. But you don’t stab someone with a cut-throat razor. I’ve seen the wound in his back; you’re looking for a large jagged-edged weapon. Doesn’t sound like a straight razor, does it?”
“I would quite certainly have smacked him round the head a few times for what he said,” said the Bride. “But he wasn’t worth it. King of Skin is part of the entertainment at these dos. We all turn up to see what he’ll say about other people. We expect him to have a go at us. It’s part of the game. You have to be able to take some, to hear some. Look, Jack and I both vouch for each other. We were together, when we heard King of Skin had been murdered. Haven’t left each other’s side since we got here. So we are each other’s alibi.”
“Yes,” I said. “But as a wise woman once said, ‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’”
“I’m cold,” said Springheel Jack. “I’m so cold . . . It’s close, and it’s getting closer.”
His eyes had gone fey again. The Bride looked at him worriedly.
“Come with me, dear, and I’ll find you a nice large brandy to warm you up.”
She led him away, into the crowd. I looked at Hadleigh.
“Could you really have kept them in if they’d wanted out?” I said.
“Oh, I think so,” said Hadleigh. “Is it my turn now? I can’t vouch for my whereabouts as I have no idea where I was when King of Skin was murdered. I have no alibi. But you must know; I wouldn’t need a weapon to kill someone. Or I could have made him disappear. Sent him somewhere awful, to suffer for his many sins, and no-one would ever have known a thing about it.”
“Do you do that a lot?” I said, somewhat creeped out.
“When necessary,” said Hadleigh Oblivion.
“You’re really not helping your case,” I said. “What better way to hide your intent than a deliberately clumsy attack?”
“I have no weapons on me,” Hadleigh said easily. “I don’t feel the need for such things. Search me if you like. You won’t find anything. I guarantee it.”
But I was still thinking about the rose he had withered by breathing it in. And how King of Skin’s faces had withered away . . . “You knew about King of Skin’s other skins,” I said. “No-one else did. And he said he knew the price you paid, to gain access to the Deep School. What kind of price was that? What did you do, that you couldn’t tell your brothers? Did King of Skin know something that you couldn’t afford anyone else to know?”
“He knew nothing,” said Hadleigh. “The only people who know anything about the Deep School are those who’ve been there. And we never talk.”
I was getting ready to pursue the point when another great cry went up. A man, crying out in shock and horror. The immortals were already falling back, scattering like panicked birds, from something that had happened on the other side of the room. I forced my way through them, to find Springheel Jack kneeling by the still-and-lifeless body of the Bride. He was holding her in his arms, rocking her back and forth like a sleeping child, his face gaunt with horror and loss. The Bride’s eyes were wide open and staring. She looked like a broken doll. I could see a jagged wound in her side, soaked with blood. Jack looked at me.
“Why didn’t you listen to me? Why didn’t you let us go? None of this would have happened if you’d let us go!”
I looked quickly around. No-one had a knife or any other weapon in hand, and no-one looked particularly guilty. Most of them looked shocked, unable to believe that a second murder of an immortal could have happened in a place where they should have felt safe. I could see the same thought start to appear in several faces—the need to get out of this dangerous place.
“Everyone please move to the back of the ballroom!” I said loudly. “Back up to the door. Hadleigh is there; the Detective Inspectre. He’ll keep you safe. And, no, it couldn’t have been him because I was talking with him when the murder happened. Now move back, keep an eye on whom you’re with, and leave me to get on with the investigation. Shut up and move!”
They moved. I turned my back on them, to concentrate on Springheel Jack and the Bride. He was crying now, great racking sobs that shook his whole body. The Bride looked large and ungainly, the way she never had in life, her long body sprawled across the floor. I knelt beside her and checked her neck and wrist for a pulse, but there was nothing. I never thought there would be. I was going through the motions while my mind worked frantically. I looked at Springheel Jack.
“I’m sorry. She’s gone.”
“No,” he said, forcing the words out between sobs. “She can’t be gone. She was born from the dead, a triumph of the Baron’s skill. He put her together using the finest parts of a hundred women, that she should have all their strength. She was born of the lightning . . .”
He stopped abruptly, and his tears stopped, and his head came up as a great inspiration filled his face. He pushed the Bride’s body away from him and scrambled to his feet. The body slammed back against the floor, and he didn’t even notice in his excitement.
“Born of the lightning! Of course! You can’t kill the Bride of Frankenstein just by stabbing her! He made her better than that!”
He grabbed an ornamental lamp from the buffet table, and ripped the lamp free from its cable. Sparks sputtered from the ragged metal ends. Springheel Jack laughed breathlessly, grabbed the cable, and sank down beside the body of his Bride. He pressed the bare wires against her wounded side, and her whole body convulsed. He hit her with the electricity again, and the Bride sat bolt upright, drawing in a great ragged breath of air. Springheel Jack threw the sparking cable aside and held her in his arms, burying his face in her neck. She patted him absently with one oversized hand and looked dazedly around her.
“What the hell happened? And why does my side hurt?”
She looked down at the bloody wound in her side and swore briefly. She checked it out carefully with her fingertips, then sniffed loudly.
“Nasty business. But nothing that won’t heal itself. It’s already stopped bleeding . . . Jack. Jack, sweetie, it’s all right! I’m all right. I’m fine.”
They helped each other to their feet. Springheel Jack got hold of himself with an effort but wouldn’t let go of her.
“All right,” I said. “What happened here?”
Springheel Jack glared at me. “Someone tried to kill her! I warned you! I told you this was coming, but you wouldn’t listen!”
“Hush, dear,” the Bride said firmly. “No-one ever listens to prophecy; it’s the only reason the universe allows it.” She looked down at her side. “Someone stabbed me from behind. I never saw anyone. I’d seen that awful Lord Orlando heading towards me, so I moved off the other way. Next thing I know, there’s a great stabbing pain in my side, then I’m riding the lightning and I’m back again! Well done, Jack. Quick thinking. Usually I wake up in a morgue somewhere, giving some poor doctor a heart attack.” She smiled briefly. “Much as I hate to admit it, the Baron did good work. He made his creations to last.”
“You saw the Lord Orlando?” I said.
“Wasn’t him,” Mistress Mayhem said immediately. “He was right here, boring me rigid, when we both heard the scream.”
“Well really,” said the Lord Orlando.
Springheel Jack took the Bride away to one side for some mutual support and comfort. The immortals stuck together, on the far side of the room, looking at me with wide, frightened eyes. Expecting me to put everything right. Charlotte ap Owen hauled Dave the camera-man over to interview the Bride and Springheel Jack on their ordeal. Jack gave them one look, and they both ran for their lives. I spotted Bettie Divine over by the doorway, doing her best to vamp Hadleigh Oblivion, presumably to find out what he and I had been talking about. Brilliant Chang was hovering nearby, so I summoned him over with a jerk of the head.
“Any nearer spotting the killer?” he said bluntly.
“No,” I said. “I’ve questioned the most obvious suspects and got nowhere. They all seemed plausible enough . . . Any number of people had any number of motives for killing King of Skin, but I don’t have a weapon, and I can’t put anyone at the scene of the crime at the right time. No-one here saw anything. How is that possible?”
“Don’t look at me,” said Chang. “I’m a crime reporter, not Agatha Christie. You’re the detective.”
“I was never a detective! I was a private investigator, and I relied on my gift far more than most people ever realised. I always said I wouldn’t know a clue if I fell over one, and it’s starting to look like I was right.”
“Giving up?” said Chang.
“No. This is my last case as a private investigator, and I’m damned if I’m going to let it beat me. I need to think . . . Okay, wait a minute. Chang, have you heard anything about an immortality serum? Possibly for sale?”
“No,” said Chang. “Hasn’t even been a whisper, and it would be hard to keep news of something like that quiet.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay. Thanks. Go and rescue Hadleigh from Bettie, would you? I don’t want him distracted, in case someone tries to make a break for it.”
The Bride Wore Black Leather Page 8
