Night Fall

by Simon R. Green

  “Who is Vivienne de Tourney?” said Suzie.

  “Major-league telepath, or witch, depending on how you look at these things,” said John. “Currently affiliated with the London Knights. She hasn’t any love for the Nightside, but she really doesn’t like Droods. And she has a connection with Alex. Not a particularly nice one, but . . .”

  “Story of my life . . .” said Alex. “Viv, it’s Alex! I need a favour.”

  An image suddenly appeared, standing before them: Vivienne de Tourney, dressed in a black leather dominatrix outfit, complete with domino mask. She was carrying a cat-o’-nine-tails and glared at all three of them impartially.

  “What is it? I’m busy!”

  “So I see,” said Alex.

  He quickly explained the situation, and Vivienne swore harshly. “The Droods have entered the Nightside? After we told them not to? They’ve got some nerve. And putting Ammonia Vom Acht onto the front line; that’s really pushing your luck. She never was that stable. I mean, have you seen who she married? Still, give me one good reason why I should get involved and risk dragging the London Knights into this mess?”

  “Because your real name is Vivienne La Fae, sister to Morgana,” said Alex. “Both of you were very close to Merlin Satanspawn, my ancestor. Which means we’re family, in a weird and probably highly unnatural way. Also you do this for me, and I will owe you a favour.”

  “A big one,” said Vivienne.

  “Aren’t they all?” said Alex.

  “Oh, all right,” Vivienne said ungraciously. “I just know I’m going to regret this . . . But it would be a pleasure to stick a spoke in Ammonia’s work. Just to put her in her place . . . There. Done. I’ve kicked her back inside her own head, and locked her out of the Nightside. But I can only keep this up till the London Knights find out. At which point they’ll probably order me to stop, to avoid bringing them into open conflict with the Droods. The last war between them didn’t go too well for either side.” She broke off and looked away. “Don’t be so impatient, Gawaine darling; I’ll be with you in a moment.” She looked back at Alex. “You do know Molly Metcalf and Eddie Drood are on their way to Strangefellows?”

  “I’m on top of that,” said John.

  “Best place to be,” said Vivienne, and vanished. Alex gave John a hard look.

  “Eddie Drood and Molly Metcalf are coming here, and you didn’t think to tell me?”

  “I was going to,” said John. “I didn’t want you distracted.”

  “You know they’re going to want to question me about what happened to that Drood,” said Alex.

  “The one I killed,” said Suzie.

  “What do you want me to do?” said Alex.

  “Tell them the truth,” said John.

  “Are you kidding me?” said Alex. “That has never worked out for me before, and I’m not about to start now.”

  “Tell them,” said Suzie. “And then tell them to come and find me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  John’s pocket-watch dropped Suzie off outside the nearest branch of the Gun Shoppes of Usher. Foremost supplier of weapons, explosives, and all the more exotic means of sudden fatalities in the Nightside. The Gun Shoppes knew Suzie of old, but when she tried the door, it was locked. Which was unheard of. The Gun Shoppes never closed. They were famous, or more properly infamous, for supplying twenty-four-hour access to death and destruction to whoever wanted it. Suzie drew her pump-action double-barrelled shotgun from the holster on her back and pointed the gun meaningfully at the closed door. She didn’t need to say anything; the Gun Shoppes knew Suzie of old. After only the slightest of pauses, the door unlocked itself and swung open before her. Suzie holstered her shotgun with a flourish and strode in.

  Mr Usher was already standing behind the counter, waiting for her. He was always behind the counter, no matter which branch you visited. The Shoppe’s owner, manager, and high priest. There was a lot of discussion as to who and what he really was, and so far no one had come up with an answer that anyone could live with.

  A respectable-looking middle-aged man in a smart if unremarkable suit, Mr Usher always manifested an air of cultivated politeness. He had a square face, a receding hairline, and rimless eyeglasses perched half-way down his nose. A look that hadn’t changed in centuries. He seemed more like an undertaker than anything else, presumably because he was in a similar line of business. His constant professional smile didn’t even come close to touching his eyes. He was a businessman, everything for sale and nothing on credit. When he spoke, he sounded like every salesman you had ever heard, except he didn’t have to try too hard. Because everyone wanted what he had to sell.

  Anyone else would have been intimidated by his presence, but Suzie honestly didn’t give a damn. Mr Usher nodded calmly.

  “Hello again, Suzie. I had a feeling you might be coming to see me.”

  “Is that why you locked the door?” said Suzie.

  “There are Droods about,” said Mr Usher.

  Suzie looked around her. As usual, there wasn’t much to look at. There were no weapons on display, no posters, and no advertising. You didn’t come to the Gun Shoppes of Usher to browse; you already had something in mind, something no one else could supply, or you wouldn’t be there. You ask Mr Usher for what you want, and he goes out back and gets it for you. No one knows what there is out back of every Shoppe, or even exactly where this “back” might be; but it must be really big to contain all the things Mr Usher has been known to return with.

  He didn’t care whether you wanted the thigh-bone Cain used to smash in Abel’s skull or the assassin’s pistol that started World War I; anything was yours for the asking. Though the price was always just that little bit more than you wanted to pay.

  “I need more of those strange-matter bullets,” said Suzie. “Lots more. I’ll take all you’ve got.”

  “Unfortunately, we’re out,” Mr Usher said smoothly. “The supply has dried up. Apparently the source discovered what you used them for.”

  Suzie frowned. “What source?”

  “You don’t need to know,” Mr Usher said firmly. “The point is, we no longer stock them.”

  “All right,” said Suzie. “Give me the Speaking Gun.”

  The atmosphere suddenly seemed distinctly chillier. The Speaking Gun was not a thing to speak of lightly. It could detect the echoes of the Word God spoke when creating the universe, which still resonated in all things. The Gun could detect the specific echoes in absolutely anything, then speak them backwards, effectively de-creating the object in question. A weapon originally designed to destroy angels and demons, the Speaking Gun took a toll on all who used it. But there was nothing like it for getting the job done.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that,” said Mr Usher.

  “Why not?” said Suzie. “I’ve used it before and survived. Can you think of anything more likely to take down a Drood?”

  “Unfortunately,” said Mr Usher, “John Taylor has given me strict instructions where the Speaking Gun is concerned. That I was not to supply it to you, or to him, or to anybody else. On the grounds that it is simply too dangerous to be allowed out in the world.”

  Suzie looked at him for a long moment. She honestly hadn’t expected that.

  “John isn’t here,” she said finally. “And I am.”

  She didn’t reach for her shotgun. She didn’t need to. Just by being who she was, the threat was implicit. And very real.

  “Mr Taylor was most emphatic,” Mr Usher said carefully. “He said he would use his authority as Walker to have all branches of my Shoppe banned from the Nightside. And since the long night is one of my very best markets . . . I regret I am unable to assist you in this matter.”

  Suzie nodded. Her threat to Mr Usher was nothing, compared to John’s threat to close him down. Particularly when she didn’t really want to ki
ll Mr Usher. Not when there were a great many useful things he could still supply her with. She decided to change tactics.

  “What have you got in stock that I can use against the Droods?”

  “I’ve got a white flag you can wave,” said Mr Usher.

  Suzie’s frown deepened. She wasn’t known for her sense of humour. Mr Usher looked at her thoughtfully.

  “I do have something . . . Though I’m not sure whether you’ll want it.”

  “Is it a weapon?” said Suzie.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I want it.”

  “The Droods’ strange-matter armour is as strong as it is because it comes from another dimension,” said Mr Usher. “So to break it, you need something stronger and stranger, from a different reality.”

  He reached beneath the counter and brought out a pair of heavy chain-mail gloves. Suzie was about to ask what use they would be when Mr Usher slipped them on and reached beneath the counter again to produce a very long sword in a black metal scabbard covered with deeply inscribed runes and sigils. From the leather-wrapped hilt to the tip of the scabbard, the sword looked to be a good seven feet long. The Shoppe suddenly felt a lot colder, as though just the sword’s presence was enough to chill the soul. Suzie was intrigued. She reached out to take the sword, and Mr Usher fell back a step to keep it out of her reach.

  “This sword fell off the back of a passing Timeslip,” he said. “And I have a strong feeling it passed through a great many places, and even more hands, before it ended up here. Probably because it had worn out its welcome everywhere else. This is the kind of weapon that gets through a lot of owners, and not in a good way.”

  He drew the sword from its scabbard. Given the sheer length of the blade, that should have been difficult, even awkward, but the sword seemed almost to leap for its freedom. The long blade glowed with a sick yellow light, like poisoned honey. Suzie could feel her skin crawling, and that didn’t happen often. Mr Usher displayed the blade to her, almost sorrowfully. The sword’s overwhelming presence seemed to fill the Shoppe, as though a dangerous animal had got out.

  “This is an Infernal Device,” he said. “The name of the sword is Wulfsbane.”

  “Will it cut through Drood armour?” said Suzie.

  “This blade is not all that it once was, after so many travels,” said Mr Usher. “But trust me; a blade like this could cut through the world.”

  “And you’re ready to sell it to me?” said Suzie. “What’s the catch?”

  “Wulfsbane is alive,” said Mr Usher. “A sentient sword, some would say possessed, with its own needs and motivations. It will seek to corrupt your soul if you hang on to it too long.”

  Suzie looked at the drawn blade, glowing like something that could poison the whole world just by being in it, and smiled a slow smile.

  “I want it. What’s the price?”

  “How about . . . your first-born child?” said Mr Usher.

  Suzie drew her shotgun and jammed both barrels up his nostrils before he could even blink. Mr Usher stood very still and tried again.

  “Or alternatively . . . John Taylor, as Walker, must agree never to ban my Shoppes from the Nightside.”

  Suzie nodded and slipped the shotgun back into its holster. “I can get John to agree to that.”

  “Then the sword is yours,” said Mr Usher.

  He slammed Wulfsbane back into its black metal scabbard. There was a feeling of resistance, as though the sword was fighting him because it didn’t want to be put away. Mr Usher presented the scabbarded sword to Suzie with a certain sense of ceremony, but she made no move to accept it.

  “Don’t I get the protective gloves as well?”

  “They prevent the sword from bonding with my soul,” said Mr Usher. “It has to do that before it will agree to be wielded. The sword is sentient, remember? Once you touch the hilt with your bare flesh, the connection will be made and the covenant entered into. The sword will then serve you, and no other, for as long as you both shall live. Do you agree to this, Suzie, for a chance to kill Droods?”

  Suzie didn’t even hesitate. She reached out and grabbed hold of the hilt, and it seemed to nestle into her hand as though it belonged there. She hefted the sword, and the great length of the blade in its scabbard seemed almost weightless. She didn’t ask for a belt to hang it from. She just put it over her shoulder, and it clung to her back, next to the shotgun in its holster. As though the sword was already a part of her. The hilt peered over her shoulder at Mr Usher, and he looked away, as though to avoid its gaze.

  “The deal is made,” he said flatly. “And the sooner you get that thing out of my Shoppe, the better. Don’t even think about bringing it back, when you inevitably decide you don’t want it any more. Disposing of the damned thing is your problem now. It belongs to you, or you belong to it. Feel free to destroy it, if you can.”

  “Before it destroys me?” said Suzie.

  “Before it becomes you,” said Mr Usher. “Wulfsbane seduces the soul, then consumes it.”

  Suzie smiled her cold smile again. “It never met anyone like me.”

  “You two were made for each other,” said Mr Usher.

  * * *

  • • •

  Back in the deserted Strangefellows, Alex Morrisey poured John Taylor a large wormwood brandy, without having to be asked. He knew a man under pressure when he saw one. John nodded his thanks and knocked half of it back in one go. Alex considered him thoughtfully.

  “So,” he said. “The Droods have invaded the Nightside, Eddie Drood and Molly Metcalf are on their way here, and Suzie’s due to give birth real soon now. What are you going to do?”

  “Damned if I know,” said John. “When I agreed to take on this job, I thought I’d already come up against the worst the Nightside could throw at me. But I never expected this . . .”

  “No one expects a Drood invasion,” said Alex. “In fact, that’s probably the point. You want to borrow my enchanted baseball bat?”

  “Have you got anything bigger?” said John.

  Alex surprised John then by thinking about it. “I’ve got all manner of useful things piled up out back. You’d be surprised what some people will bring to a bar on a night out, then leave behind. And never come back for, probably because they weren’t supposed to have it in the first place. But I really can’t think of anything that would be much use against an army of Droods. My advice is stop here, have a great many drinks, and not come out again till it’s all over. Once the Droods are in charge, they’ll still need a Walker to run things for them. I mean . . . Authorities, Droods, what’s the difference?”

  “No,” said John. “I can’t do that. As long as I’ve got this job, I have to do it to the best of my ability. If only for my pride’s sake. And the Droods . . . would be a very different kind of boss. Once they take control of the Nightside, they won’t be able to resist meddling with things. Laying down the law, enforcing the moral hard-line . . . it’s what they do. They’ll shut down everything that makes the Nightside what it is. Including this place, probably on moral-health grounds.”

  “Then get the hell out of my bar and do something to stop the bastards!” said Alex. “And don’t come back till you’ve sorted everything out.”

  “But that’s the problem,” said John, not moving. “I don’t know of any force, in this world or out of it, that’s ever been able to stop the Droods. They’ve gone to war so many times, they’ve learned to be really good at it. They’ve been badly hurt in their time, even crippled . . . but they always come back, and they always triumph. How do you break a winning streak like that?”

  “Even the longest winning streak has to come to an end eventually,” said Alex. “Use your gift. Find their weak spot.”

  “If only it was that simple,” said John.

  “Man up,” said Alex, not unkindly. “You’re John Taylor. Just as much a
legend as the Droods, in your own annoying way, and far more dangerous because you fight dirty.” He paused. “You know . . . I could come with you. If you like. Just to watch your back. From a safe distance.”

  “Thanks for the thought,” said John. “But if I’m going to negotiate a deal with Eddie Drood, it might be best not to have any witnesses present during the hard bargaining.”

  “You sound better,” said Alex.

  “I’ve had an idea,” said John.

  “Good,” said Alex. “You’re never more dangerous than when you’re being devious.”

  John Taylor took out his gold pocket-watch and disappeared. There was a brief flurry of disturbed air where he’d been standing, then a single piranha fell out of nowhere to land on the bartop.

  “Show-off,” said Alex.

  He tossed the piranha to his pet vulture, Agatha. She snatched it out of mid air, gulped it down, and went back to cooing over her night-dark egg. Alex shook his head. Some nights in Strangefellows were stranger than others. He lifted the glass of wormwood brandy that John had left behind and savoured the aroma of pure rotgut.

  “Good luck, old friend. You’re going to need it.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Eddie Drood and Molly Metcalf strode down a crowded street, heading for Strangefellows bar, and everyone gave them plenty of room. People might not recognise Eddie, but they sure as hell knew who Molly was. Eddie was still having trouble coming to terms with all the sin and temptation on open display. Book-shop windows full of ghost-written books written by real ghosts, offering spiritual wisdom, new sexual techniques, and cooking tips from beyond the grave. Restaurants that specialised in fine cuisine made from creatures that not only didn’t exist any more but were often completely imaginary. Record shops with vinyl delights rare enough to pull in even the most jaded of collectors: music of the spheres, music for robots to dance to, and recent albums by much-loved artists the outside world only thought were dead. Temptation comes in many forms.