Night Fall

by Simon R. Green

  “We’re not,” Eddie said quickly. “We were both hired by the same patron, to find out what the hell’s going on with the Nightside’s boundaries.”

  “That’s all anyone wants to talk about,” said Alex, “but nobody knows anything. There’s some serious betting going on as to who’s behind it. First choice was the Droods because they’re behind most things, but that idea went belly-up after one of them appeared on Blaiston Street looking for answers.”

  “I thought Droods came here to drink all the time?” said Eddie, carefully casual.

  “Oh sure,” said Alex. “The old Armourer, and the current Sarjeant-at-Arms, and a few others. As long as they’re discreet, and keep their armour to themselves, no one gives a damn. We’ll let anyone in here. Worse things than Droods drink here every night.” He glared down the bar at the Tribe of the Gay Barbarians. “Get off my bar! Those boots are ruining the finish!”

  And that was when a half-breed succubus wearing a communion dress spotted with unspeakable stains, and gnarled horns curling up from her forehead, appeared suddenly out of the crowd to grab Roxie by the shoulder and spin her around. She pushed her face right into Roxie’s, took a good look, and stepped back grinning triumphantly.

  “This is Molly Metcalf!” she said loudly. “I can See right through her glamour. And if she’s here, Eddie Drood can’t be far away! Who wants to split the reward money with me? All we have to do is make the witch talk, and we’ll all be rich!”

  Roxie punched the succubus out, and she crashed to the floor. A Neanderthal in a biker’s jacket went to grab Roxie, and Eddie kicked him square in the nuts. The Neanderthal folded up with a low, anguished moan.

  “Fight!” Dead Boy said happily. He picked up a table and broke it over the Neanderthal’s back. Silicon Lily zapped an approaching ghoul with the Taser built into her left hand; and just like that, everyone was hitting everyone else. In a bar like Strangefellows, old grudges and long-time feuds were never far from the surface, and everyone was always ready to seize the opportunity to get their retaliation in first. Fists flew, heads butted, and every bit of furniture that wasn’t nailed down was put to good use in hand-to-hand combat.

  Eddie turned to Roxie. “Time we were leaving.”

  “Well past time,” said Roxie, knocking back what remained of her drink.

  “Can you use your magics to get us out of here?”

  “The bar has anti-magic protections,” said Roxie. “Which is the only reason it’s still standing. We’ll have to get out of here the hard way.”

  “Suits me,” said Eddie.

  He concentrated, and thin tendrils of strange matter shot down his arms from his torc, to form golden knuckle-dusters on his fists. He set off towards the exit, knocking down anyone who tried to stop him or even looked as though they might be about to. Roxie protected his rear with the occasional vicious back-elbow or savage kick.

  Alex yelled for his muscular bouncers to restore order. Betty and Lucy Coltrane immediately waded in, smashing through the heaving crowd with practiced brutality. Bodies went flying in all directions. Alex produced a glowing baseball bat, vaulted over the bartop, and set about him with grim impartiality. He didn’t mind the occasional brawl, it helped to clear the air, but he did object to the cost of replacing all the broken furniture.

  Eddie had almost reached the metal stairs when Roxie called out sharply. He looked back to see a were-bear squeezing Roxie in a bear-hug, pinning her arms to her sides. She struggled frantically but couldn’t break the hold. The bear laughed.

  “Die, witch!”

  “Really shouldn’t have said that,” said Eddie.

  He drew his Colt Repeater from his pocket dimension, called for a silver bullet, and shot the bear through his left eye. The bear’s head snapped back, his arms relaxed their hold, and the bear’s body was human again by the time it hit the floor. Over by the bar, Dead Boy stopped strangling a really big snake just long enough to punch the air with one fist.

  “Hardcore, Shaman!”

  Roxie glared at Eddie. “I do not need saving!”

  “Of course not,” said Eddie. “It’s just that we’re in a bit of a hurry. You can save me next time.”

  “Damn right,” said Roxie.

  They headed up the stairs, side by side.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Much Ado About Droods

  There is only one church in the Nightside, and you won’t find it anywhere near the Street of the Gods. St Jude’s is tucked away in a quiet corner of the long night, shadowed and obscured, no part of the Nightside’s usual gaudy riot. It doesn’t advertise, it doesn’t reach out, and it doesn’t care if you pass by on the other side. The church is old, older even than Christianity itself. It has had many names down the centuries and is currently dedicated to the patron saint of lost causes. The bare stone walls are grey and featureless, with only narrow slits for windows, and the slanting roof has never even heard of gargoyles. Or guttering. Inside, a slab of ancient stone serves as an altar, facing rows of blocky, wooden pews. There are no services, no regular meetings, and no clergy. St Jude’s isn’t there for comfort or contemplation; it’s just your final chance for sanctuary, salvation, and one last desperate word with your God.

  It’s not a church to enter lightly. Prayers are heard in St Jude’s, and sometimes answered.

  * * *

  • • •

  John Taylor went walking through the Nightside, taking his time because he wasn’t in any hurry to get where he was going. He passed by store windows full of wonders, night-clubs full of temptations, and women on street-corners with hungry eyes . . . and had no interest in any of them. John was thinking about what good, if any, his visit to Drood Hall had actually accomplished. He hadn’t expected much, so he couldn’t say he was disappointed, but even so . . . He only went because the Authorities told him to, and he always did what they said. Except for when he didn’t. He might be Walker now, but he was still his own man. Or so he liked to think.

  He’d been sent because with the Nightside’s boundaries apparently out-of-control, the Authorities were worried they might be seen as weak. And the Drood throwing his weight around in his armour had been a definite provocation. John had to make his report to the Authorities now, and he really wasn’t looking forward to it. Despite everything he and the Matriarch had said, or possibly even because of it, the Droods and the Nightside were currently on a collision course. When the unstoppable force meets the immovable object, someone’s going to get hurt. John couldn’t help feeling the whole thing had been a waste of time that could have been more profitably spent trying to identify whoever was behind whatever was going on.

  He also didn’t like the fact that he’d been summoned to meet the Authorities at St Jude’s, instead of their usual luxurious headquarters in Uptown. The ancient church was not the kind of place anyone went by choice. Of course, it was famously neutral ground . . . or perhaps the Authorities just didn’t want to be interrupted until they’d finished deciding what the hell they were going to do.

  John slowed his pace as he approached the low, squat building. It stood alone, as though too good or too scary to mix with its neighbours, and dirty yellow candlelight seeped out the slit windows like warning lights on a ship carrying dangerous cargo. John’s business had brought him to St Jude’s on several occasions before, and it had always led to a major change in his life. The last time had been when he married Suzie Shooter. He headed resignedly for the only door, a heavy slab of stained oak with absolutely nothing inviting about it; and at the last moment it swung open to reveal the Lord of Thorns, standing stiff and stern in the doorway to block his way.

  Unnaturally bright light surrounded the Lord of Thorns, not in any way like a halo. Tall and imposing, he had a face as solid and weathered as a block of granite, and with his grey hair, beard, and robes he looked like some Old Testament prophet who’d just come down from the mountain wit
h some really bad news about the real relationship between God and Man. Originally set in place to be the Nightside’s Overseer and Judge of Last Resort, he’d served his office faithfully for centuries before being sabotaged by the previous Walker. Undermined and side-lined, he was now largely forgotten and irrelevant. He spent all his time in St Jude’s, looking after the place; as a form of penance for what he saw as his failings.

  Once the most powerful force in the Nightside, he now kept himself busy sweeping out an old church and keeping the candles lit. Those figures in the long night with a working memory and a sense of history were all waiting for the other shoe to drop. The Lord of Thorns stood before John Taylor, and John had to admit the old man still looked pretty damned scary. So, of course, he just nodded casually and smiled easily.

  “Hello, Thorns. Still working as the janitor? I keep hoping you’ll do something about the ambience. Maybe put down some traps.”

  “Something bad is coming to the Nightside,” said the Lord of Thorns, in his harsh gravelly voice.

  “So people keep telling me,” said John. “I don’t suppose you’d know who, or what?”

  “I don’t get involved any more,” said the Lord of Thorns. “I remain separate, like St Jude’s. This is a matter for men.”

  “I suppose I’m glad you’re still here,” said John. “I half expected to find you’d run for the hills, along with everyone on the Street of the Gods.”

  The Lord of Thorns showed his grey teeth in something that might have been meant as a smile. “I am not a god. I have a greater purpose. And, I still have my chores to perform.” He turned his head briefly, to look back into the church. “They’re waiting for you.”

  “The Authorities?” said John.

  “If they weren’t, I’d have kicked them out long ago,” said the Lord of Thorns. “They don’t have the right attitude.”

  “Of course not,” said John. “This is the Nightside. We don’t really do the respect thing.”

  The Lord of Thorns stepped out into the night, to allow John to enter the church. “Tell them to put something in the poor-box before they leave. Or I’ll turn them upside down and shake them till their pockets are empty.”

  He might have been joking or he might not. John nodded politely and went inside.

  * * *

  • • •

  The interior of St Jude’s was brightly illuminated by row upon row of candles, set in niches along the inside of the walls. The candle-flames never wavered, and the light never faltered, as though determined to push the shadows back into the corners and keep them there. The Authorities were gathered together down at the far end, before the stone altar, talking animatedly while still keeping their voices low. Not out of respect, but because St Jude’s had the power to intimidate even the greatest movers and shakers in the long night.

  St Jude’s was not a place for loose talk or loose thoughts. Because this was a place where everything you said and thought mattered.

  The Authorities broke off from their discussions and looked around sharply as John strolled down the narrow central aisle to join them. His footsteps sounded loudly on the bare flagstones, as though announcing him. None of the Authorities looked particularly pleased to see him, but then, they never did. So he gave them all his best casual smile and nod, just to show he didn’t give a damn. And to remind them he only served the Authorities because he’d chosen to do so, and that could change at any time.

  Julien Advent, the legendary Victorian Adventurer, managed a brief smile in return. He was the only one John had any time for. Julien had created his own version of the Hyde formula, back in the Eighteen Eighties, designed to release men’s better angels instead of their worst. He took the potion himself and became the greatest hero of his age. Until he fell (or more properly was pushed) through a Timeslip and ended up in the Nightside in the Nineteen Sixties. Talk about culture shock. But Julien quickly decided he’d found a new world in even more need of someone like him and set about the impossible task of raising the tone of the place. He did this by setting a good example, protecting those in need, and beating the crap out of anyone who made the mistake of not taking him seriously. Julien Advent was an old-school hero and adventurer, and therefore dealt with the long night’s many moral ambiguities in the same way Alexander the Great dealt with the Gordian knot.

  He still dressed in the old Victorian fashion, a stark black and white style that echoed his values, complete with a sweeping crimson-lined opera-cloak. Tall, dark, and handsome, he hadn’t aged a day since he first appeared in the Nightside. As editor of the long night’s very own crusading newspaper, the Night Times, he fought for truth and justice in a new way. John often wondered why Julien stayed in the Nightside, and the only time he asked, the answer was simply: Because they need me.

  Julien Advent led the Authorities, inasmuch as anyone did, or could.

  On the other hand, the woman standing beside him was one of the most frightening things in the Nightside. Jessica Sorrow the Unbeliever could look at anyone or anything and make them disappear forever, through the sheer force of her unbelief. Which meant everyone and everything around her only continued to exist for as long as she believed in them.

  Jessica wore a grubby white shift and nothing else. Unhealthily pale and slender, she burned with a terrible energy that would have consumed anyone else. Long dirty hair fell around her bony face in ragged strands, and her wide, staring eyes were yellow as urine and feral as a cat’s. She clutched a battered old teddy bear to her, as though it were the most precious thing in the world. John had found that old childhood friend for her, and it helped ground her in reality. John always thought of Jessica as a defused bomb that might not stay defused. She stared at him unblinkingly and seemed to recognise him, which was as much as he could hope for. Because for Jessica Sorrow, sanity was always going to be a sometime thing.

  She held the power that backed up the Authorities’ decisions.

  Annie Abattoir was six-foot-two, muscular, and attractive in an exotic sort of way. She struck a grand pose and looked challengingly at John, as though daring him to justify taking up her time. John wasn’t impressed. She did that with everyone. Annie was a fabled assassin and seductress, secret agent and confidence trickster, feared and respected in a dozen countries. She’d never explained why she’d found it necessary to retreat to the Nightside; she might be looking for someone, or hiding out . . . or she might be playing a really long game. Annie wasn’t the kind to answer questions. Wise men treated her politely and watched their backs at all times. She was invited to join the Authorities only because that made it easier for them to keep an eye on her. And she did come in handy when someone needed intimidating. For everything else, they had Jessica Sorrow.

  Annie was wearing a long crimson evening dress, with matching elbow-length gloves, and John didn’t need to see the dress’ cut-away back to know she had protective mystical sigils carved into the flesh between her shoulder-blades. Annie had always been very hard to kill, but that hadn’t stopped an awful lot of people from trying.

  She gave the Authorities style.

  Larry Oblivion just nodded curtly to John. They’d worked a few cases together, but they’d never been friends. Even before Larry was killed. One of the famous Oblivion Brothers, Larry had been murdered, then brought back from the dead. Now known as the dead detective, the post-mortem private eye, he was pale of skin, hard of face, uncompromising in his beliefs, and not noted for his sense of humour. Larry didn’t eat or drink or sleep because he didn’t need to. And because he saw no point in pretending to be something he wasn’t.

  Always sharp and slick, with never a hair out of place, Larry wore his Gucci suit with impeccable style. Just because he was a zombie, he didn’t see any reason to let himself go. Not many people suspected it, but John knew for a fact that Larry packed a wand. Given to him by Queen Mab of the Fae, Larry could use it to stop Time for a while. Just enough
to give him the advantage.

  He was the cutting edge of the Authorities.

  The newest addition to the group leaned casually against the stone altar and looked down his nose at John. Brilliant Chang started out as an enforcer for the Dragon Clan, and one side of his face was still covered with the tattoo that marked him as a combat sorcerer. He stayed with the Dragons just long enough to pay off his family’s debts, then killed every member of the Clan in one bloody evening. He never did explain why, and no one had ever felt like pressing him.

  These days Brilliant was an investigative reporter for the Night Times, which was probably an even more dangerous occupation. He specialised in uncovering truths that the wealthy and powerful would much rather remain hidden, and made a point of pursuing the really nasty people no one else could touch. He collected death threats the way other people collected compliments, and for much the same reason. Large and blocky in his white linen suit, Brilliant was always calm and collected, even when he was killing people. Perhaps especially then.

  He was the Authorities’ enforcer. Even if no one ever admitted it.

  John waited patiently as they all looked at each other, none of them wanting to be the first to speak. In the end, Julien Advent cleared his throat politely.

  “Good to see you, John. Might I enquire where Suzie is?”

  “Hunting down some outstanding bounties,” said John. “She’ll be back as soon as she’s made arrangements for transporting the bodies.”

  Julien stirred uncomfortably. “Should she be doing that? I mean, in her current condition?”

  “Don’t be so Victorian, Julien,” said Annie. “She’s pregnant, not incapacitated. And even if she were, I’d still back Shotgun Suzie against anyone dumb enough to give her a hard time.”

  “Suzie can look after herself,” said John. “That’s one of the few things in this world you can always depend on.”