The Bride Wore Black Leather

by Simon R. Green

  “It’s traditional, sir. It is also ill-fitting, uncomfortable, and chafes in places I don’t even care to mention. Damn right they pay me extra. Would sir like me to take his coat? We could store it in the private cloak-room. We could also have it dry-cleaned and perhaps fumigated.”

  “I don’t think I’ll leave the coat on its own,” I said. “I haven’t fed it recently. You may announce me, though.”

  “Of course, sir. I live to grovel.”

  The butler pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside. I strolled in past him, smiling easily in all directions, and the butler raised his voice to cut across the babble of many conversations, and the somewhat overbearing piped music.

  “My lords, ladies, and others, may I present to you Mr. John Taylor, newly appointed Walker to the Nightside. The horror, the horror . . .”

  “You get no tip,” I said as I walked forward into the Ball of Forever.

  The ball-room stretched away before me, larger than a football pitch, and packed from wall to wall with all the most noted immortal beings still walking this Earth. So, of course, I ignored the lot of them and fixed my attention on the huge running buffet lining most of one wall. I strolled along the trestle tables, nodding to the various waitresses, all of them dressed in vaguely fetish French maid outfits. There were no waiters. Presumably because they wouldn’t look as good in the outfits. Knowledge of my presence spread quickly through the tightly packed immortals. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched them watching me as they gathered in little groups to discuss what the hell to do, look blankly at each other, hide behind each other, and stare openly at me from what they hoped was a safe distance. They all knew I was gate-crashing, but none of them felt confident enough to raise a fuss. They all knew I had killed an immortal in my time, or at the very last arranged for his death—the legendary Griffin. And made his children mortal again. Perhaps the worst threat of all.

  I looked for something to take the edge off my thirst. There were any number of interesting vintages, including an open jug of a wine so deep red it looked like blood. In fact, given the predilections of some of those immortals present, it might very well be blood.

  So I picked up a glass of complimentary champagne I wasn’t entitled to, leaned back against the buffet table, and looked around me under the cover of taking a long drink. For all the expensive and elegant setting, the rich and the mighty in all their finery, and the piped music playing Elizabethan airs with a lot of lute action (I suppose everyone has a special taste for the music of their youth), there was still a strange feeling to the gathering. Of a whole bunch of people from all kinds of backgrounds, who would normally have nothing to say to each other, brought together by the only thing they had in common. Not having died yet. After all, you’re only an immortal until someone manages to kill you. After that, you were just long-lived.

  The huge ballroom was full of gods, superhumans, inhumans, posthumans, and a few things that wouldn’t pass for human during a complete black-out. All the products of super-science and the supernatural, come together in one place to talk about the things that only immortals could really understand and appreciate. To prove to everyone that they were still around, to swap useful survival tips, to show off new achievements and new fashions, to reminisce about the good old days . . . and whinge and moan about how no-one appreciates the important things any more. And, of course, to show off for the media. Immortals are, first and foremost, celebrities.

  Reporters have always been allowed to attend the Ball of Forever, under sufferance, to write their glowing accounts of the most important ball of the season, but this year, for the first time, they’d allowed in a small camera crew from the Nightside Television Centre. Immortals do move with the times, but only slowly and very reluctantly. I recognised the reporter from the Night Times, a tall and bulky oriental fellow in a smart tuxedo. Brilliant Chang was an investigative reporter (not a recipe for long life in the Nightside), but fortunately he was also sharp and tricky and knew no fear. Plus, he could run like an Olympic sprinter when the occasion demanded it. He knew me, too, and nodded briefly in my direction. We’d worked some of the same cases, from different directions. On one side of his face, he still carried the dragon tattoo that marked him as a combat sorcerer. An old Dragon Clan enforcer, in fact, before he saw the error of his ways and abandoned gangsterism for the slightly more reputable trade of journalism. He made a point of casually wandering in my direction.

  “Hello, Chang,” I said. “What are you doing here, covering this jumped-up bun-fight? I thought Julien Advent reserved you for the really important stories these days. Like hot celebrity action, and who’s having whom . . . When are you going to get a proper job?”

  “When are you?” said Chang.

  Honours even, we relaxed a bit.

  “I’m surprised the immortals’ security people aren’t trying to throw you out,” said Chang.

  “What security?” I said. “People who’ve lived as long as these scumbags take a pride in being able to look after themselves. Standing tall and laughing defiantly in the face of danger as a matter of principle, that sort of thing. Even if they’re not allowed to bring personal weapons to a supposedly civilised gathering like this. I’m here mainly because they can’t be bothered to exert themselves.”

  “And because they’re scared of you,” said Brilliant Chang.

  “That, too,” I said. “Really, what is an experienced crime and corruption writer like you doing here?”

  “Julien Advent was very insistent that someone experienced should cover the Ball this year,” said Chang. “And he wanted it to be someone who wouldn’t be easily impressed or intimidated. I didn’t run for the door fast enough, so I got the job.”

  I had to frown at that. “Why would he do that? What does he think is going to happen, this year?”

  “Beats me. Normally, this whole do is nothing more than fodder for the society pages and the life-style supplements. Pick up a bit of gossip, get the prettier ones to pose for a few photos, then stuff your face with the free food. Maybe it’s something to do with the television people being allowed in for the first time.”

  “No,” I said. “Julien knows something . . .”

  “So do you,” said Chang. “Or you wouldn’t be here. Are you going to kill someone?”

  I had to smile. “The night’s barely started . . .”

  The Night Times photographer saw us both smiling together and stepped forward to take a photo. I gave him a cold look, and he quickly changed his mind and retreated.

  “Don’t mind him,” said Chang. “He’s new. Somebody’s nephew, I think. I do hope he isn’t mine.”

  The other journalist seized her chance to move in for a quick chat. I knew her, too—Bettie Divine, demon girl reporter for the Unnatural Inquirer. She slammed to a halt right in front of me and struck her best confrontational pose: tall and rangy and drop-dead gorgeous. Long jet-black hair fell down around her high-boned face as she fixed me with dark green eyes and a pouting scarlet mouth. Two cute little horns poked up through the dark bangs hanging across her forehead. Demon girl reporter, oh yes. Her last big assignment had been to follow me around the Nightside on one of my cases. She then spent a lot of time afterwards loudly claiming she was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. We hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms, but I gave her my best I’ll-be-nice-if-you-will smile.

  “Don’t you smile at me, John Taylor,” said Bettie. “I’m not here for you. Didn’t even know you’d be here. I’m only here in case Elvis turns up. What are you doing here?”

  “I already asked,” said Brilliant Chang. “But our new Walker is being very tight-lipped. Perhaps you have more . . . personal ways of persuading him to talk? I am right in believing that there is history between you two?”

  “In his dreams,” said Bettie, tossing her long hair dramatically.

  “Really? Because a little bird told me . . .”

  “Oh fuck off, Chang darling; Bettie’s working.”


  Chang laughed, not in the least affronted, and moved off into the crowd. I looked Bettie over carefully. She was wearing an ankle-length, off-the-shoulder jade-green gown, to match her eyes. It was split right up to the thigh and plunging at the front. Or, at least, that’s what she looked like to me. Bettie was half succubus, and her appearance changed constantly, according to whoever was looking at her. For all I knew, I’d never seen her real face, never mind her real outfit.

  “What are you really wearing?” I asked, as a reasonably safe opening gambit.

  She laughed briefly. “Like I’d ever tell you, darling. What are you doing here, that’s what my panting readers will want to know. I mean, you’re not immortal. Or has that changed? Have I missed a scoop? Say it isn’t so . . .”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not immortal. I’m Walker.”

  “Oh, I know all about that, darling. That’s old news. And, might I say, I saw it coming months ago. So who are you here for? What have they done?”

  I grinned. “Like I’d ever tell you.”

  “Oh poo.” She batted her fantastically long lashes at me. “Not even for old times’ sake? You can tell me, darling. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Are we? The last thing you said to me was, ‘I never want to see you again.’”

  “That was personal. This is business.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “A little bird told me you’re getting married tomorrow. My invitation must have got lost in the post.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “But we’re being very strict on no reporters. On the grounds that Suzie has this unfortunate tendency to shoot them on sight. So an ex of mine who’s also a reporter? They’d be fishing pieces of you out of the guttering for weeks.”

  Bettie smiled. “I’m an ex? Did something happen that I didn’t notice?”

  “Not for want of trying on your part,” I said.

  “Not the way I remember it, darling,” said Bettie. “Some people simply don’t know how to flirt. Oh come on, sweetie, please . . . you have to give me something I can use or the editor won’t sign off on my expenses. Is there going to be trouble?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m here.”

  Bettie stuck her cute little nose in the air and stalked off. The moment she was safely away, the television news crew moved in, scenting blood in the water. The Nightside has its very own television station, covering all the stories the outside world never gets to hear about. It broadcasts across the Nightside and reaches out to a whole bunch of other worlds, dimensions, and special-interest groups. Subscription only. Lots of people like to keep up with what’s happening in the Nightside—if only so they can have advance warning of which way to duck.

  The female news reporter shoving a microphone right into my face was not unknown to me. I’d seen her stuck behind the news desk, on occasion, reporting the lighter stories with an unrelenting professional smile, but we’d never met. Charlotte ap Owen was short, blonde, and busty, currently kitted out in a skin-tight leopard-skin outfit, for that important streetwise slutty look. (It said so in a woman’s magazine I happened to be reading in my dentist’s waiting room.) She had a face so surgically perfect, it was almost characterless, and she pointed her mike at me like it was a weapon. To my knowledge, this was her first assignment outside the studio, and Charlotte was positively bursting with practised charm and barely restrained nervous energy.

  “No, Elvis will not be making an appearance here, as far as I know,” I said solemnly, before she could get a word in. “Also, yes, I am the new Walker, and no, I’m not going to tell you what happened to the old one. If you’re expecting any scandal or excitement at the Ball of Forever, I’m afraid you’re going to be very disappointed. Nothing of any real interest will happen here because nothing ever does. Immortals are very private people and wouldn’t dream of doing anything that mattered where outsiders might see it. The real meetings, wheeler-dealings and love affairs will be conducted somewhere else, behind firmly closed doors, as always. Immortals do have their feuds and disagreements, their business deals and vendettas; but those tend to play out over centuries, one move at a time, because these people have all the time in the world to get even.”

  “But something is bound to happen,” said Charlotte in her best hot and smoky voice. “You’re here! That has to mean something! Why would the freshly appointed Walker of the Nightside come to the Ball of Forever unless there were bad guys to pursue, villains to put down, and injustices to be avenged! I’ve followed your career for years, and I know what it means when you turn up somewhere unexpectedly. Blood and guts and entrails hanging from the chandelier! You’re news!”

  “Not if I can help it,” I said.

  “You must have a reason for being here,” Charlotte insisted, taking a deep breath to better show off her cleavage. “Can’t you even give me a hint?”

  I leaned forward slightly, lowering my voice so she had to lean in close. She looked eagerly at me, her face straining to show some emotion through the Botox.

  “If it all does kick off,” I said solemnly, “be first out the door. Avoid the rush. Those cameras are expensive.”

  The man with the camera sniggered loudly. He was so anonymous behind his shoulder-mounted apparatus, I’d almost forgotten he was there. Charlotte glared at him, and he shut up immediately.

  “Be sure to get my good side,” I said to the camera-man.

  “You find it, chief, and I’ll get it,” he said.

  Charlotte ap Owen made a point of turning her back on me and striding away. The camera-man lingered for a moment. “I’m Dave. Don’t mind her. She’s desperate to get out from behind a desk. She’d defenestrate her own granny for a good story. Bit desperate in other ways, too, if you catch my drift, chief. Never let her back you into a corner unless you like it rough and sudden. I’m not really a camera-man, you know.”

  I looked at him. “Oh yes?”

  “I’m an actor, really. I’m pointing this camera at things till something better comes along. Filling in between acting jobs, you know how it is. Sometimes I pretend I’m actually in some reality show, where I’m pretending to be a camera-man.”

  “Does it help?” I said.

  “Not really. Hello; she’s coming back. Little Miss Up Herself. Brace yourself; she’s got the light of battle in her contact lenses. She looks like she knows something. Would anyone here have an interest in dropping you right in it, chief?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Really. You have no idea how many.”

  Charlotte ap Owen gestured airily for Dave to start filming, then stuck her microphone in my face again. “This is Charlotte ap Owen, reporting from the legendary Ball of Forever at the MEC. I’m here talking with the very recently appointed Walker, the infamous John Taylor. Mr. Taylor, I’ve been hearing some very interesting things about your connection with one of the most far-reaching disasters to hit the Nightside in recent times, namely, the destruction of the independent power plant, Prometheus Inc. Its sudden and unexpected loss plunged much of the Nightside into chaos and cost many lives. Would you care to comment on your involvement in this catastrophic event?”

  I thought for a moment. “No,” I said.

  “But you do know something, Mr. Taylor. I have my sources . . .”

  “No, you don’t,” I said. “I can say that with complete confidence because I know for a fact there aren’t any sources remaining as to exactly what happened at Prometheus Inc., except me. I’ve no doubt someone here has been telling tales out of school and passing round the gossip, but they don’t know. Only I know. I could tell you what happened, but then I’d have to kill you, too.”

  Charlotte opened her perfectly sculpted mouth to ask another question, caught the look in my eye, and thought better of it. She jerked her head at Dave the camera-man, and he stopped filming and trailed after her as she stalked off into the crowd, presumably in search of some less obviously dangerous exclusive. She might try to use the footage she’d already got to embarrass me,
but her editor would only spike it. He knew better than to annoy Walker. Or worse still, my Suzie. Who once sent an over-enthusiastic gossip-columnist back to his editor in thirty-seven separate parcels. Gift-wrapped. Owing postage.

  I watched Charlotte ap Owen, Bettie Divine, and Brilliant Chang as they made their rounds through the packed crowd of immortals, many of whom were happy to stand and smile for the cameras, but walked away if anyone tried to question them. That wasn’t what they were there for. Some immortals would always primp and preen for the media, and some simply wouldn’t. It was always surprising which dangerous and even infamous names could behave like real drama queens when someone recognised them. I moved off in the opposite direction, doing my best to mingle with the immortals. Most of them avoided my gaze, refusing to be interrupted in their conversations, or actually turned their backs on me. They stopped doing that after I goosed a few of them. It’s always amusing to see who’ll squeal like a little girl when you do that. I smiled and nodded in every direction, and a few familiar faces nodded coolly back. Some were friends, some were enemies, and some were both. It’s like that, in the Nightside.

  I found Razor Eddie, Punk God of the Straight Razor, standing alone in a corner, observing the merry-making with a detached gaze. A tall, thin presence in a grubby grey coat, mostly held together by grime and filth. The light seemed a little bit darker where he stood, and the smell was really bad. Living on the streets and sleeping in shop doorways will do that to you. His face was hollowed and haunted, and he studied the immortals at their play with dark, dark eyes. He was holding a bottle of designer water but hadn’t bothered to open it. Flies buzzed around him, dropping dead out of the air when they ventured too close. Don’t ask me how they got in. He attracts them, that’s all.

  “Hello, Eddie,” I said. “What’s a disturbing presence like you doing at a party like this? Are you immortal?”

  “I’m a god,” said Razor Eddie in his thin, ghostly voice. “That’s even better.”