The Bride Wore Black Leather n-12

by Simon R. Green

  He leaned over the unconscious immortal, grabbed his shirt front, and pulled Rogue’s face close to his own. Hadleigh inhaled deeply, and all the colour went out of Rogue’s face. Hadleigh continued to inhale, and the immortal’s face cracked and fell apart; and then every part of him collapsed into dust. Hadleigh straightened up, brushing dust from his hands. Several of the watching immortals were noisily sick. Dead Boy whooped loudly.

  “You have got to teach me how to do that!”

  Razor Eddie sighed. “Can’t take him anywhere.”

  * * *

  And that was my last case as a private investigator. Not a bad one to go out on. I caught the murderer, stopped a plan to take over the Nightside, and made the front pages of the Night Times and the Unnatural Inquirer. I even made the television news. There never was any immortality serum; someone had wanted me to attend the Ball of Forever. Someone . . . who’d known what was in the wind. And I had a pretty good idea who.

  FOUR

  One Last Night of Freedom

  Under pressure, I agreed to hold my stag night at Strangefellows, on the grounds that whatever mess we made there, it wouldn’t show, and also that whenever the trouble inevitably broke out . . . no-one would notice. It’s that kind of bar and has been for centuries. The party was already well underway by the time I got there, thanks to my little visit to the Ball of Forever overrunning, and joy and merriment were already unconfined, not to mention pissed out of their skulls. The bar was packed wall to wall with disreputable customers as I clattered down the heavy metal stairway into the great stone pit that makes up the bar proper. I couldn’t believe I knew that many people. Or at least, so many people who didn’t want to kill me. There were friends, and enemies, and a great many people who’d been one or the other or both at various times in my life. That’s the Nightside for you. Everyone seemed to be getting on quite amiably together. Cheap booze and no closing time will do that for you.

  People smiled and nodded and even waved as I made my way through the crowd, but no-one actually interrupted their drinking or carousing to talk to me, which was fine by me. I’ve never been the demonstrative kind, and casual acquaintances hug or air-kiss me at their peril. Besides, I was still feeling distinctly fragile, from overusing my gift. My right nostril stopped bleeding after I shoved half an ice cube up it, but my head still ached fiercely, and my bones creaked and protested with every movement. Sometimes I wonder whose side my gift is on.

  I reached the long wooden bar and leaned heavily on it, and the bartender gave me a stern look. Even at my farewell party and pre-nuptial send-off, Alex Morrisey was still dressed all in black, complete with dark glasses and a stylish beret. (Pulled well forward to conceal a receding hair-line. Even though it fooled absolutely nobody.) Alex wasn’t going to let a small thing like general celebration and goodwill all round get in the way of his being a full-time gloomy bugger and first-class pain in the arse. Alex could brood for the Olympics and still take a bronze in feeling hard done by. He looked me over and sniffed loudly.

  “Buddha on a bike, look at the state of you. People usually wait till the end of their stag do to look that bad. Only you could walk into your last night of freedom looking like something the cat threw up.”

  “Never mind the words of welcome, Alex,” I growled. “I am much in need of an industrial-strength pick-me-up.”

  “Never knew you when you weren’t.” Alex produced a dusty bottle from underneath the counter and slammed it on the bartop a few times, in a vain attempt to get the contents to settle. He then poured a couple of fingers of thick pink liquor into a glass and pushed it towards me. “Try this. I keep it handy for really apocalyptic hangovers. It’s called Angel’s Breath.”

  I looked at the drink suspiciously. “Is it really . . .”

  “No of course it isn’t. Truth in advertising never did catch on in the Nightside. This stuff is only called Angel’s Breath because if you knew what really went into it, you wouldn’t touch it even if someone put a gun to your head. In fact, that’s usually the best way to take it. Now hurry up and knock it back, before it starts scouring out the inside of the glass, and you can have a nice sweetie afterwards to take the taste away.”

  I knocked it back in one, doing my best to sneak it past my tongue. There was a brief taste of something very like orange, followed by the most vile and awful taste I have ever encountered. And I’ve been around. My taste buds exploded with fear and loathing, the whole of my mouth shrivelled up in panic, and tears of pure affront leapt from my eye-balls before the lids squeezed shut in self-defence. I grabbed on to the bar with both hands, making loud noises of distress. When I have really bad nightmares, I can still almost remember that taste. When I was finally able to force my eyes open again, Alex was waiting politely before me with a glass of Lourdes Coke. I snatched it from him and drank it thirstily. It helped. When I finally put the glass down, I was surprised to find that I actually felt human again, with no more aches or pains. I wasn’t entirely sure that was worth what I’d just been through . . . “There,” said Alex, smugly. “Wasn’t that a fuss to make over a nasty taste?”

  I thought about it. “No,” I said, very firmly. “Half my taste buds are still crying their eyes out, and the other half are threatening to sue for post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  Alex cackled happily. “Big girl’s blouse. Come on; you’ve got some serious drinking to do if we’re to get you into a suitable state for your stag do. This is going to be a night to remember! People will speak of it for years to come, in hushed and respectful whispers, saying You should be glad you weren’t there.”

  I gave him a hard look. “I told you—no strippers.”

  Alex grinned and leaned forward across the bar. “I can’t believe you chose me to be best man at your wedding. I’m going to have to make a speech, aren’t I? Oh, the possibilities for embarrassment and revenge . . .”

  “Suzie will be sitting right next to you,” I pointed out. “And yes, she will most definitely have a gun somewhere about her person.”

  “Duly noted,” said Alex. “I won’t mention Deirdre Birchwood then.”

  “Best not to,” I agreed.

  I looked down to the end of the bar, where Alex’s pet vulture Agatha was no longer crouched brooding on her post. She’d finally laid her egg. It was a great deal bigger than any vulture’s egg had a right to be, and it was a deep black in colour. The vulture was sitting on the egg, with a certain amount of support from two side cushions, and was cooing contentedly. Alex sniggered.

  “When she finally laid that thing, you could hear the outraged sounds she was making out in London Proper. She was really quite indignant about the whole affair.”

  “I’ve never seen a black egg before,” I said. “And certainly not an egg as dark as that . . .”

  Alex nodded slowly. “If you look close enough, it’s full of stars.”

  “Any idea yet what the father was, that was actually brave enough to have sex with that vulture?” I said.

  “I have been giving the matter a great deal of thought,” said Alex. “There is a betting pool if you’re interested. After some consideration, I would have to say my money is on my own appalling ancestor, Merlin Satanspawn. A lot of the legends have him down as a shape-shifter.”

  “But . . . he’s been dead for centuries!”

  “Didn’t stop him from sleeping with my ex-wife.”

  “All these years in the Nightside, and I still can’t believe where some of my conversations end up,” I said.

  Alex regarded me thoughtfully, pulling down his stylish shades so he could peer at me over the top of them. “Seriously though, John. Why me? Why choose me to be best man?”

  “You’re my oldest friend,” I said. “And, on occasion, my oldest enemy. And everything in between. Who else has suffered all the things we’ve been through? Who else has seen the things we’ve seen? We have heard the chimes at midnight, and laughed in the face of gods and monsters. Nobody knows the trouble we’ve known . . .
And isn’t that what being best man is all about? Plus, I was best man at your wedding.”

  “And look how well that turned out,” said Alex. “I’d sue you if I had a sue. But you’re right; it does fall to me as your oldest friend and foe and occasional legal advisor to guide you through the horrors to come as you embark on the stormy seas of matrimony.”

  “You are so good to me, Alex.”

  “Did you get a pre-nup? Tell me you got a pre-nup!”

  I had to smile. “We did have some good times together in this place, didn’t we, Alex?”

  He glared at me. “If you start getting maudlin this early in the party, I will slap you a good one, and it will hurt.”

  “You’re quite right,” I said. “Don’t know what came over me.”

  I put my back against the wooden bar and looked out over the crowded room. Up on the small elevated stage, the band was really getting into it. Leo Morn and his band were providing live music (or at least something very like it). I’d agreed to let them play for sentimental reasons, and was already regretting it. Leo prowled back and forth across the stage, striking a series of rock poses as he belted out the lyrics. A skinny wild-eyed presence in purple jeans, with a very hairy torso, he was currently singing Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London.” Down in front of the stage, Betty and Lucy Coltrane, Alex’s body-building lady bouncers, were tangoing wildly, giving it lots of erotic action and passing the rose stem back and forth between their teeth. An Ann-Margret channeller from Divas! Las Vegas, looking very glamorous, was dancing up a storm on a table-top, along with Ms. Fate, the Nightside’s very own transvestite costumed adventurer. They danced well together, arms waving and legs slamming in unison, while their stiletto heels made a real mess of the wooden table-top.

  Leo Morn crashed to the end of his song, his musicians stopped playing at pretty much the same time, and there was actually some perfunctory applause. Or perhaps they were showing how pleased they were that it had stopped. Leo showed his teeth in a few defiant snarls, jumped down from the stage, and slouched over to join me at the bar. He’d been sweating up a cloud on stage, and carried with him the smell of a large dog that has recently been exercised. Alex had a vodka and mistletoe waiting for him, and Leo drank it thirstily.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll bite. What are you calling the band this week?”

  “Odin’s Other Eye,” he said proudly. “We’ve gone prog rock. Sort of.”

  “Only because all the other genres wouldn’t have you,” said Alex.

  “We’re doing a lot better!” said Leo. “I don’t have to change the band’s name nearly as often now to make sure they’ll book us again. We opened for the ClanDestined just the other week, and they said they’d almost certainly want us back. Sometime.” He rapped his empty glass on the bar, to indicate he was ready for a refill, and grinned easily at me. “So! The knight in a tarnished trench coat is now the Man! Didn’t see that one coming. Am I going to have to change my wicked ways, or at the very least be very careful about what I admit to in front of you?”

  “I’ve always been more concerned with justice than the law,” I said.

  “That’s what they all say,” said Leo. “All I know is, if I ever see you heading my way while wearing a suit and a bowler hat and carrying an umbrella, I will leg it for the nearest horizon at a speed that will amaze you.”

  “Never happen,” I said. “I might be Walker now, but I’ll never be that Walker.”

  “That’s what they all say,” said Leo, heading back to his band. One of them had made the mistake of asking for requests, and the packed room was obliging him with some very basic answers. The crowd at Strangefellows has never been strong on witty repartee.

  “I did try to get Rossignol for the music,” I said to Alex. “She’s the leading torch singer in France these days, and I was hoping she might say yes, for old times’ sake. But it seem she has a regular spot at the Crazy Horse Salon in Paris, and she couldn’t get away. Probably for the best. She was never actually an ex of mine, technically speaking, but . . .”

  “Yes, but,” said Alex. “Suzie’s never been one for letting technicalities get in the way of venting her emotions. Preferably with a large gun.”

  “Rossignol did send me a card, with a view of Paris,” I said. “Which was nice of her. Would have been nicer if she’d remembered to sign it, but . . .”

  “Change the subject,” Alex said wisely.

  “All right. How is it you’re tending the bar on your own, on what promises to be a very busy night? I thought you’d be hiring extra staff, to help you cope with the madness and mayhem to come?”

  “Mostly, I’m letting people help themselves,” said Alex. “I’ve hired a tame poltergeist to keep a check on the stock, take care of trouble-makers, and clean up afterwards. The bar bill for tonight will be my wedding gift, to you and Suzie. Oh, and Cathy’s bought you a foot spa. Don’t ask me why.”

  I looked at the dusty and deceptively innocent-looking bottles crowded together at the back of the bar. “I thought you had some pretty dangerous stuff back there.”

  Alex smiled. “Oh, I do, I do. It’s all carefully marked OFF LIMITS, along with a sign saying TRESPASSERS WILL BE TRANSMOGRIFIED. If anyone’s dumb enough to ignore the warning signs, they deserve everything that happens to them. I was sort of hoping Cathy would be free to help out, but it seems she’s organising Suzie’s hen do. Probably involving obscenely named cocktails and unsafe humping and grinding with improperly dressed Chippendales. The poor bastards. And no, before you ask, I don’t know where it’s being held, and we’re almost certainly better off not knowing. We can listen for the sound of excessive gunfire and explosions.”

  He moved away, to put out small bowls of bar snacks that no-one in their right mind would touch, and I went back to looking over the crowded room. Dead Boy and Razor Eddie had turned up. Dead Boy was loudly talking up the murder case at the Ball of Forever and greatly exaggerating his own part in it. He already had his arms around two female ghouls dressed in rotting Playboy Bunny outfits. Razor Eddie stood a little to one side, sipping his designer water and nodding in agreement, now and again. The girl ghouls eyed him uncertainly, and manoeuvred Dead Boy to make sure they maintained a respectful distance. Because there are some smells even ghouls have trouble with.

  Dead Boy swaggered over to the bar to order two Really Bloody Marys for his new ghoul-friends, and nodded easily to me. He reached inside his long greatcoat to scratch fitfully at his autopsy scar, his usual sign that he had something embarrassing he needed to discuss.

  “There are rumours going around,” he said carefully. “Foul and vicious exaggerations, no doubt, that there’s a fight brewing between you and Razor Eddie. He won’t talk to me about it, but then he rarely talks to me about anything. Never was much of a one for the talking, our Razor Eddie. Tell me it’s not true, John. Tell me you have enough sense not to pick a fight with the legendarily dangerous Punk God of the Straight Razor.”

  “It’s some prophecy,” I said. “A glimpse of a future that might or might not happen. Certainly I’ve no intention of letting things get that far.”

  “You do know,” said Dead Boy, not quite looking in my direction, “if it does all kick off, you can always rely on me.”

  I looked at him thoughtfully. “You’d take on the dreaded and justly feared Razor Eddie, for me?”

  “Well,” he said. “Not necessarily for you, John, or at least, not just for you. But, come on; you must have wondered at some time or another whether you could take Razor Eddie. I know I have.”

  “Testosterone is a terrible thing,” observed Alex.

  Razor Eddie turned his head suddenly to look at us as he settled into his private booth at the back of the bar, with his usual calm and unconcerned face—as though he knew we were talking about him. Even though there was no way he could have heard us through the general bedlam of raised voices. Except . . . he was Razor Eddie. We all nodded to each other, as though our gazes had happened t
o meet, in a friendly enough way; and then he went back to staring at nothing, and Dead Boy and I looked at each other.

  “He really is a spooky bugger,” said Dead Boy, nodding to Alex as he collected his two Really Bloody Marys with real blood, and a Valhalla Venom for himself. He gave me a sideways look. “I’ve never known what you see in him.”

  “Lot of people say the same to me about you,” I said.

  “Really?” said Dead Boy. “Can’t think why. Life and soul of the party, that’s me, even though I’m dead. You’ll have to excuse me now; my new ghoul-friends are waiting, and I don’t know how long they’ll last.”

  He took his drinks away, and, after a moment’s thought, I made my way through the tightly packed crowd to join Razor Eddie in his private booth. I sat down opposite him, and he nodded to me gravely. There was plenty of room at the table; no-one else was going to sit with him. And not only because of the smell. I leaned forward and made a point of meeting his cold, cold gaze.

  “It seems a lot of people have heard about this prophecy of yours, Eddie,” I said. “ How accurate is it likely to be?”

  “You said it yourself, John,” murmured Razor Eddie. “There are any number of possible futures. And people will always talk.”

  “They’re not only talking; they’re laying bets!”

  “Well, of course they are.” The ghost of a smile passed briefly across his pale lips. “Do you want to know the latest odds?”

  I sat back in my chair and looked at him thoughtfully. “Would you really kill me, after everything we’ve been through together?”

  “Oh, I think so,” said Razor Eddie. “Perhaps because of all the things we’ve been through together. I will say this—it would have to be for a very good reason.” He considered me for a long moment. “You always were too soft-hearted for your own good. They should have made me Walker. I would have brought real justice to the Nightside.”