Agents of Light and Darkness

by Simon R. Green

  “It’s what you need,” I said carefully. “Something that matters to you. Something that’s as real to you as you are. Something to believe in.”

  Her head rose sharply, and she turned her unwavering regard on me. I did my best not to wince. She cocked her head to one side, like a bird. “Where did you find this?”

  “In the teddy bears’ graveyard.”

  She laughed briefly, but it surprised me anyway. “Never ask the magician how he does his tricks. I know. I’m crazy, but I know that. And I know I’m crazy. I knew what I was buying with the price I paid. I’m always alone now, divorced from the world and everyone in it; because of what I did to myself, what I made of myself. La la la…just me, talking to myself…It wasn’t an easy or a pleasant thing, to cut away my humanity and become the Unbeliever. I walk through the world, and I’m the only one in it. Until now. Now there’s me and teddy. Yes. Something to believe in. What do you believe in, John Taylor?”

  “My gift. My job. And perhaps my honour. What happened to you, Jessica?”

  “I don’t know, any more. That was the point. My past was so appalling, I had to make myself forget it, had to make it unreal, had to make it never have happened. But in doing that I lost my faith in reality, or it lost faith in me, and now I only exist through a constant effort of will. If I ever stop concentrating, I’ll be the one to disappear. I’ve been alone for so long, surrounded by shadows and whispers that mean nothing, nothing at all. Sometimes I pretend, just to have someone to talk to, but I know it’s not real…But now I have my bear. A comfort, and a reminder. Of who and what I was.” She smiled down at the battered old bear in her stick-thin arms. “I’ve enjoyed our little chat, John Taylor. Made possible by this place, and this moment. Don’t ever try this again. I wouldn’t know you. Wouldn’t remember you. Wouldn’t be safe.”

  “Remember the bear,” I said. “Just maybe, it can lead you home.”

  But she was already gone, striding out of the church and back into the night. I let out my breath slowly and sat down on the front pew before I fell down. Jessica Sorrow was too damned spooky, even for the Nightside. It’s not easy having a conversation with someone you know thinks she’s only listening to voices in her head. And who can drop you out of existence on the merest whim. I got to my feet and went over to the altar to collect up my candles. And that was when I heard running footsteps approaching the church from outside. Not Jessica. Human footsteps, this time. I retreated to the very back of the church and hid myself in the deepest of the shadows. Apart from Jessica, and, of course, Walker, no-one was supposed to know I was there. But I have enemies. Their dread agents, the Harrowing, have been trying to kill me since I was born. And besides, I’d had enough excitement for one night. Whoever was coming, I didn’t want to know.

  A man in black came running through the gap where the door used to be. His dark suit was tattered and torn, and his face was slack with exhaustion. He looked like he’d been running for a really long time. He looked like he’d been scared for a really long time. He was wearing sunglasses, black and blank as a beetle’s eyes, even though he’d come out of the night. He staggered down the aisle towards the altar, clutching at the pews with one hand as he passed, to hold himself up. His other hand pressed an object wrapped in black cloth to his chest. He kept glancing back over his shoulder, clearly afraid that whoever or whatever pursued him was close behind. He finally collapsed onto his knees before the altar, shaking and shuddering. He pulled off his sunglasses and threw them aside. His eyelids had been stitched together. He held out his parcel to the altar with unsteady hands.

  “Sanctuary!” he cried, his voice rough and hoarse, as though it hadn’t been used in a long time. “In God’s name, sanctuary!”

  For a long moment there was only silence, then I heard slow, steady footsteps approaching the church from outside. Measured, unhurried footsteps. The man in black heard them too, flinching at the sound, but he wouldn’t look back; his mutilated face was fixed desperately on the altar. The footsteps stopped, just at the doorway to the church. A slow wind blew in from the night, gusting heavily down the aisle like someone breathing. The candles nearest the door guttered and went out. The wind reached me, even in my shadows, and slapped against my face, hot and sweaty like fever in the night. It smelled of attar, the perfume crushed out of roses, but sick and heavy, almost overpowering. The man in black whimpered before the altar. He tried to say sanctuary again, but he couldn’t get his voice to work.

  Another voice answered him, from the darkness beyond the church’s doorway. Harsh and menacing, and yet soft and slow as bitter treacle, it sounded like several voices whispering together, in subtle harmonies that grated on the soul like fingernails drawn down a blackboard. It wasn’t a human voice. It was both more and less than human.

  “There is no sanctuary, here or anywhere, for such as you,” it said, and the man in black trembled to hear it. “There is nowhere you can run where we cannot follow. Nowhere you can hide where we cannot find you. Give back what you have taken.”

  The man in black still couldn’t find the courage to look back at what had finally caught up to him, but he clutched his black cloth parcel to his breast and did his best to sound defiant.

  “You can’t have it! It chose me! It’s mine!”

  There was something standing in the doorway now, something darker and deeper than the shadows. I could feel its presence, its pressure, like a great weight in the night, as though something huge and dense and utterly abhuman had found its way into the human world. It didn’t belong here, but it had come anyway, because it could. The odd, whispering voice spoke again.

  “Give it to us. Give it to us now. Or we will tear the soul out of your body and throw it down into the Pit, there to burn in the flames of the Inferno forever.”

  The face of the man in black contorted, caught in an agony of indecision. Tears forced themselves past the heavy black stitches that closed his eyes and ran jerkily down his shuddering cheeks. And, finally, he nodded, his whole body slumping forward in defeat. He seemed too tired to run any more, and too scared even to think of fighting. I didn’t blame him. Even as I hid deep in my concealing shadows, that sick and pitiless voice scared the crap out of me. The man in black unwrapped his cloth parcel, slowly and reverently, to reveal a great silver chalice, studded with precious stones. It shone brilliantly in the dim light, like a piece of heaven fallen to earth.

  “Take it!” the man in black said bitterly, through his tears. “Take the Grail! Just…don’t hurt me any more. Please.”

  There was a long pause, as though the whole world was listening and waiting. The man in black’s hands began to shake so hard he was in danger of dropping the chalice. The harmonied voice spoke again, heavy and immutable as fate.

  “That is not the Grail.”

  A great shadow leapt forward out of the doorway, rushed down the aisle, and enveloped the man in black before he even had time to cry out. I pressed my back against the cold stone wall, praying for my shadows to hide me. There was a great roaring in the church, like all the lions in the world giving voice at once. And then the shadow retreated, seeping slowly back up the aisle, as though…satiated. It swept through the open doorway and was gone. I couldn’t feel its presence in the night any more. I stepped cautiously forward, and studied the figure still crouching before the altar. It was now a gleaming white statue, wearing a tattered black suit. The white hands still held the rejected chalice. The frozen white face was caught in a never-ending scream of horror.

  I collected all my candles, checked to make sure I’d left no traces of my presence anywhere, and left St. Jude’s. I walked home slowly, taking the pretty route. I had a lot to think about. The Grail…if the Holy Grail had come to the Nightside, or if the usual interested parties even thought it had, we were all in a for a world of trouble. The kind of beings who would fight for possession of the Grail would give even the Nightside’s toughest movers and shakers a real run for their money. A wise man would consider th
e implications of this, take a long holiday, and not come back till the rubble had finished settling. But if the Grail really was here, somewhere…I’m John Taylor. I find things.

  There just had to be a way for me to make a hell of a lot of money out of this.

  Possibly literally.

  TWO

  The Gathering Storm

  Strangefellows is the kind of bar where no-one gives a damn what your name is, and the regulars go armed. It’s a good place to meet people, and an even better place to get conned, robbed, and killed. Not necessarily in that order. Pretty much everybody who is anybody, or thinks they are or should be, has paid Strangefellows a visit at one time or another. Tourists are not encouraged, and are occasionally shot at on sight. I spend a lot of time there, which says more about me than I’m comfortable admitting. I do pick up a lot of work there. I could probably justify my bar bill as a business expense. If I paid taxes.

  It was still three o’clock in the morning as I descended the echoing metal staircase into the bar proper. The place seemed unusually quiet, with most of the usual suspects conspicuous by their absence. There were people, here and there, at the bar and sitting at tables, plus a whole bunch of customers who couldn’t have passed for people even if I’d put a bag over my head as well as theirs…but no-one important. No-one who mattered. I stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked around thoughtfully. Must be something big happening somewhere. But then, this is the Nightside. There’s always something big happening somewhere in the Nightside, and someone small getting shafted.

  The bar’s hidden speakers were pumping out King Crimson’s “Red,” which meant the bar’s owner was feeling nostalgic again. Alex Morrisey, owner and bartender, was behind the long wooden bar as usual, pretending to polish a glass while a sour-faced customer bent his ear. Alex is a good person to talk to when you’re feeling down, because he has absolutely no sympathy, or the slightest tolerance for self-pity, on the grounds that he’s a full-time gloomy bugger himself. Alex could gloom for the Olympics. No matter how bad your troubles are, his are always worse. He was in his late twenties, but looked at least ten years older. He sulked a lot, brooded loudly over the general unfairness of life, and had a tendency to throw things when he got stroppy. He always wore black of some description, (because as yet no-one had invented a darker colour) including designer shades and a snazzy black beret he wore pushed well back on his head to hide a growing bald patch.

  He’s bound to the bar by a family geas, and hates every minute of it. As a result, wise people avoid the bar snacks.

  Above and behind the bar, inside a sturdy glass case fixed firmly to the wall, was a large leather-bound Bible with a raised silver cross on the cover. A sign below the glass case read In case of Apocalypse, break glass. Alex believed in being prepared.

  The handful of patrons bellying up to the bar were the usual mixed bunch. A smoke ghost in shades of blue and grey was inhaling the memory of a cigarette and blowing little puffs of himself into the already murky atmosphere. Two lesbian undines were drinking each other with straws, and getting giggly as the water levels rose and fell on their liquid bodies. The smoke ghost moved a little further down the bar, just in case they got too drunk and their surface tensions collapsed. One of Baron Frankenstein’s more successful patchwork creations lurched up to the bar, seated itself on a barstool, then checked carefully to see whether anything had dropped off recently. The Baron was an undoubted scientific genius, but his sewing skills left a lot to be desired. Alex nodded hello and pushed across an opened can of motor oil with a curly-wurly straw sticking out of it. At the end of the bar, a werewolf was curled up on the floor on a threadbare blanket, searching his fur for fleas and occasionally licking his balls. Because he could, presumably.

  Alex looked up and down the bar and sniffed disgustedly. “It was never like this on Cheers. I have got to get a better class of customers.” He broke off as the magician’s top hat on the bar beside him juddered briefly, then a hand emerged holding an empty martini glass. Alex refilled the glass from a cocktail shaker, and the hand withdrew into the hat again. Alex sighed. “One of these days we’re going to have to get him out of there. Man, that rabbit was mad at him.” He turned back to the musician he’d been listening to and glared at him pointedly. “You ready for another one, Leo?”

  “Always.” Leo Morn finished off the last of his beer and pushed the glass forward. He was a tall slender figure, who looked so insubstantial it was probably only the weight of his heavy leather jacket that kept him from drifting away. He had a long pale face under a permanent bad hair day, enlivened by bright eyes and a distinctly wolfish smile. A battered guitar case leaned against the bar beside him. He gave Alex his best ingratiating smile. “Come on, Alex, you know this place could use a good live set. The band’s back together again, and we’re setting up a comeback tour.”

  “How can you have a comeback when you’ve never been anywhere? No, Leo. I remember the last time I let you talk me into playing here. My customers have made it very clear that they would rather projectile vomit their own intestines rather than have to listen to you again, and I don’t necessarily disagree. What’s the band called…this week? I take it you are still changing the name on a regular basis, so you can still get bookings?”

  “For the moment, we’re Druid Chic,” Leo admitted. “It does help to have the element of surprise on our side.”

  “Leo, I wouldn’t book you to play at a convention for the deaf.” Alex glared across at the werewolf on his blanket. “And take your drummer with you. He is lowering the tone, which in this place is a real accomplishment.”

  Leo ostentatiously looked around, then gestured for Alex to lean closer. “You know,” he said conspiratorially, “if you’re looking for something new, something just that little bit special to pull in some new customers, I might be able to help you out. Would you be interested in…a pinch of Elvis?”

  Alex looked at him suspiciously. “Tell me this has nothing at all to do with fried banana sandwiches.”

  “Only indirectly. Listen. A few years back, a certain group of depraved drug fiends of my acquaintance hatched a diabolical plan in search of the greatest possible high. They had tried absolutely everything, singly and in combination, and were desperate for something new. Something more potent, to scramble what few working brain cells they had left. So they went to Graceland. Elvis, as we all know, was so full of pills when he died they had to bury him in a coffin with a childproof lid. By the time he died, the man’s system was saturated with every weird drug under the sun, including several he had made up specially. So my appalling friends sneaked into Graceland under cover of a heavy-duty camouflage spell, dug up Elvis’s body, and replaced it with a simulacrum. Then they scampered back home with their prize. You can see where this is going, can’t you? They cremated Elvis’s body, collected the ashes, and smoked them. The word is, there’s no high like…a pinch of Elvis.”

  Alex considered the matter for a moment. “Congratulations,” he said finally. “That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard, Leo. And there’s been a lot of competition. Get out of here. Leo. Now.”

  Leo Morn shrugged and grinned, finished his drink, and went to grab his drummer by the collar. His place at the bar was immediately taken by a new arrival, a fat middle-aged man in a crumpled suit. Slobby, sweaty, and furtive, he looked like he should have been standing in a police identification parade somewhere. He smiled widely at Alex, who didn’t smile back.

  “A splendid night, Alex! Indeed, a most fortunate night! You’re looking well, sir, very well. A glass of your very finest, if you please!”

  Alex folded his arms across his chest. “Tate. Just when I think my day can’t get any worse, you turn up. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you paying your bar bill, is there?”

  “You wound me, sir! You positively wound me!” Tate tried to look aggrieved. It didn’t suit him. He switched to an ingratiating smile. “My impecunious days are over, Alex! As of today, I am
astonishingly solvent. I…”

  At which point he was suddenly pushed aside by a tall, cadaverous individual, in a smart tuxedo and a billowing black opera cape. His face was deathly pale, his eyes were a savage crimson, and his mouth was full of sharp teeth. He smelled of grave dirt. He pounded a corpse-pale fist on the bar and glared at Alex.

  “You! Giff me blut! Fresh blut!”

  Alex calmly picked up a nearby soda syphon and let the newcomer have it full in the face. He shrieked loudly as his face dissolved under the jet of water, then he suddenly disappeared, his clothes and cloak slumping to the floor. A large black bat flapped around the bar. Everyone present took the opportunity to throw things at it, until finally it flapped away up the stairs. Alex put down the syphon.

  “Holy soda water,” he explained, to the somewhat startled Tate. “I keep it handy for certain cocktails. Bloody vampires…that’s the third we’ve had in this week. Must be a convention on again.”

  “Put it from your thoughts, dear fellow,” Tate said grandly. “Tonight is your lucky night. All your troubles are over. I will indeed be paying my bar bill, and more than that. Tonight, the drinks are on me!”

  Everyone in the bar perked up their ears at that. They never had any trouble hearing the offer of a free drink, even with King Crimson going full blast. It wasn’t something that happened very often. A crowd began to form around the grinning Tate, pleased but somewhat surprised. Frankenstein’s creature pushed forward his can for a refill. Alex still hadn’t uncrossed his arms.

  “Absolutely no more credit for you, Tate. Let’s see the colour of your money first.”

  Tate looked around him, taking his time, making sure he had everyone’s full attention, and produced from inside his jacket a substantial wad of cash. The crowd murmured, impressed. Tate turned back to Alex.