Simon R. Green - Nightside 3 - Nightingale's Lament

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SIMON R. GREEN

My name is John Taylor. I've made that a name to be respected and feared, but it's also made me a target my whole

life.

I operate as a private eye, in a world where gods and monsters are real. The Nightside: the sick, secret magical

heart of London. A place where dreams come true, whether you want them to or not. It's not easy to find a way in,

and it can be even harder to find a way out.

I can find anything, solve any mystery. Except the an-swers to the dark and deadly secrets of my own past.

My name is John Taylor. And if you've come looking for me, either you 're in trouble, or you 're about to be.

The Hanged Man's Beautiful Daughter

There are all kinds of Powers running loose in the Nightside, but its power sources have to be rather more

reliable, as well as completely divorced from outside interference. Someone's got to pump out the electricity

to keep all that hot neon burning. The Nightside, being a city within a city, draws its energies from many

sources—some of them illegal, some of them unnat-ural. Power is generated by blood sacrifices and

im-prisoned godlings, gestalt minds and tiny black holes held captive inside stasis fields. And there are other

sources, so vast and awful, so alien and unutterably other, that just to glimpse their secret workings would

drive a man insane. Not that anyone cares about such things in the Nightside, not as long as the lights are

bright and the trains keep running. But the only really dependable source for electricity used to be the

futuris-tic power plant of Prometheus Inc. Magic may be more flashy, but there's always been as much

super-science as sorcery in the Nightside.

Prometheus Inc. was a fairly recent success story. Not quite six years old, it had a reputation for

depend-ability and savagely undercutting prices, which made it the company that supplied some twelve

percent of the Nightside's electricity. So the recent sudden outbreak of sabotage and destruction inside the

closely guarded power plant could not be allowed to continue. Walker made that very clear. Walker

represents the Authorities, the shadowy people who run things here, inasmuch as anyone does, or can. He

sends the occasional job my way, when it suits him, because I am quiet, dependable, and entirely

expendable.

I stood in the shadows at the end of the street, qui-etly studying the hulking edifice that was Prometheus

Inc. It wasn't much to look at - just another great tower block of glass and steel. The top floors were

offices, administration and the like. Middle floors were labora-tories, for research and development. And

the bottom floor was public relations. The power plant itself, that modern wonder of efficiency and

incredible output, was supposedly somewhere underground. I say sup-posedly, because as far as I knew,

only a handful of people had ever seen it. The whole thing was auto-mated, run from a single control centre,

and even after six years no-one had any idea of what it was or how it worked. And it's not easy, keeping

secrets in the Nightside.

The whole Prometheus Inc. success story had happened while I was away, trying - and failing - to live an

ordinary life in the ordinary world. Now I was back, and I was quite keen to see what was being hidden

under the surface of Prometheus Inc. I like knowing things that no-one else does. It's helped me keep alive,

down the years. I strolled out of the shadows and headed for the office building. There was a small army of

security men and rent-a-cops surrounding the place, and those nearest the main door lifted their heads and

paid attention as they spotted me approaching. An awful lot of guns zeroed in on me, and the sound of

safeties clicking off was almost deafening. If I'd been anyone else, I might have been worried.

I came to a halt before the main door and smiled at the rent-a-cops arrayed before me, in their wonderfully

striking uniforms of midnight blue with silver piping. I nodded to the officer in charge, a tall and somewhat

overweight man with cold, careful eyes. He held his ground, and his gaze didn't waver, though behind him

we could both hear his men whispering my name. Some of them crossed themselves or made ancient

warding signs. I let my smile widen just a little, be-cause I could see it upset them. Ever since I tracked

down the Unholy Grail and stood off two armies of an-gels to do it, my reputation had been going through

the roof. Mostly nonsense, of course, but I did nothing to discourage the rumours, particularly the nasty

ones. Nothing like a good - or more properly speaking a bad - reputation to keep the flies off.

"I'm supposed to ask for identification," said the of-ficer. "And shoot anyone who isn't on the approved list."

"You know who I am," I said calmly. "And I'm ex-pected."

The officer relaxed a little. "First good news I've had all night. Hello, Taylor. I'm actually glad to see you.

This whole business has my people seriously spooked."

"Has anyone been killed?" I asked, frowning. "I understood this was just a sabotage case."

"No deaths as yet, but a hell of a lot of casualties." The officer scowled. "Whoever's tearing this place apart

doesn't give a damn about anyone who gets in his way. I've lost forty of my people in the last three nights,

and I still haven't got a clue as to who's behind it all. No-one ever sees anything, until it's too late. I've had

this place closed up tighter than a duck's arse, and still the bastard keeps getting in."

"Inside job?" I asked, to show I was paying atten-tion.

"That was my first thought, but there hasn't been anyone in there for a week. The boss sent them all home

when the problems started. He's the only one left in the building. I ran the usual security checks on the staff

anyway, just in case, but nothing showed up. Most of them haven't been around long enough to work up a

serious grudge."

"So what's freaking your men?" I asked quietly. "If they were any more on edge, they'd be shooting each

other."

The officer snorted. "I told you. No-one ever sees anything. I've got saturation coverage around the

building, CCTV inside, and infrared and motion sen-sors working. And whoever it is comes and goes

with-out setting off any of them."

"There are a lot of things in the Nightside that come and go as they please," I pointed out.

"Don't I know it. But this is supposed to be a high-tech, low-magic area. If any heavy-duty magic-user had

appeared here, he'd have set off all kinds of alarms. Whoever or whatever's trying to shut this place down,

it's outside anything I've ever experienced, in science or magic."

I nodded easily, doing my best to exude casual con-fidence. "That's why they sent for me. Because I find

the answers other people can't. See you later."

I stepped past the officer and headed for the main door, only to stop abruptly as one of the rent-a-cops

moved suddenly forward to block my way. He was a big lad, with muscles on his muscles, and his huge

hands made the semi-automatic in his grasp look like a toy. He scowled at me in what he obviously

imagined was an intimidating way.

"Everyone gets frisked for guns," he snapped. "That's the rules. No exceptions. Even for jumped-up

ambulance chasers like you, Taylor."

The officer started to say something, but I stopped him with a quick gesture. The day I couldn't deal with a

constipated rent-a-cop, I'd retire. I gave him my best nasty smile.

"I don't use guns. Never have. They have too many limitations."

I slowly raised my hands, opened them, and the rent-a-cop's eyes widened as a steady stream of bullets fell

from my hands to bounce and rattle on the ground at his feet.

"Your gun is empty," I said. "Now get out of my way before I decide to do something unpleasantly similar

to your insides."

He pulled the trigger anyway, and made a small un-happy sound in the back of his throat when nothing

happened. He swallowed hard and stepped back. I walked past him as though he didn't exist. I could hear

the officer chewing him out as I passed through the heavy main door into the lobby beyond.

I strolled into the luxurious reception area as though I owned the place, but the effect was wasted, because

there was no-one there. I heard electronic locks closing behind me. Someone knew I was there. I looked

around the lobby and quickly spotted the security cameras tucked away in the ceiling corners. All the little

red lights were on, so I just stood there and let the cameras get a good look at me. I thought I looked pretty

good. My white trench coat was actually a little cleaner than usual, and I was almost sure I'd remembered

to shave. Appearances can be so important. There was a brief burst of static from an unseen speaker, then

a familiar voice whispered in the great empty lobby.

"John, I'm so glad you're here. Come on through to the manager's office and join me. Take the blue door at

the end of the lobby, and follow the arrows. Don't go wandering. I've got booby-traps set up everywhere.

And watch your back. We never know when the sabo-teur's going to strike next."

I passed through the blue door and followed the glowing arrows that appeared on the wall beyond. After

the luxurious reception lobby, the inner workings of Prometheus Inc. turned out to be decidedly functional.

Narrow corridors with bare walls, numbered doors, and scuffed carpeting. It was all very quiet, as though

the whole building was tense, waiting for something bad to happen. The arrows finally led me to a door with

the Prometheus company logo on it, and there waiting to greet me was the manager-owner himself, Vincent

Kraemer.

He nodded and smiled and shook my hand, but it was clear his thoughts were somewhere else. The man

was seriously worried, and it showed. He ushered me into his office, looked quickly down the corridor, and

shut and locked the door. He waved me to the visitor's chair and seated himself behind the magnificent

ma-hogany desk. The office looked comfortable, lived in. Nice prints on the walls, deep deep carpet, and a

high-tech drinks cabinet in the corner. All the usual signs of success. But the desk top was covered in

papers that had overflowed and almost buried the In and Out trays, and one whole wall of the office was

covered in CCTV monitor screens, showing ever-shifting views of the power plant interior. I studied them

for a while, to show I was taking an interest, but it was all just machinery to me. I couldn't tell a turbine

from a teapot, unless one of them had a tea cosy on it. Everything seemed to be working okay for the

moment, and the walkways were deserted. I turned my attention back to the manager, and he flashed me

another preoccupied smile.

I knew him vaguely, from several years back. Vin-cent Kraemer was one of those people who was always

running around like a mad thing, trying to put far-fetched and precarious deals into motion, chasing after the

one Big Score that would make him horribly wealthy. He finally made it, with Prometheus Inc. Vin-cent

was tall, buff, immaculately dressed, with a prematurely lined face and no hair left to speak of. His suit

probably cost more than I used to make in a year.

"Good to see you again, John." His voice was steady, cultivated, and artificially calm. "Been hearing

interesting things about you since you got back."

"And you've done very well," I said courteously. "Is wealth and success everything you thought it would

be?"

He laughed briefly. "Pretty much. What do you think of my pride and joy, John?"

"Impressive, but I'm not really equipped to appreci-ate it. Technology has always been a mystery to me. I

have to get my secretary to work the timer on my video."

He laughed dutifully. "It's your other areas of exper-tise I need, John. I need you to find out who's trying to

drive me out of business."

And then he stopped, because he saw I was looking at the only photo on his desk. A wedding scene, in a

simple silver frame. Bride, groom, best man, and me. Six years ago, and still as fresh in my memory as

though it had happened yesterday. It should have been the happiest day in the lives of two wonderful young

people, but instead it became a tragedy that everyone still talked about. Mostly because no-one had ever

been found to blame it on.

The bride was Melinda Dusk, also known as the Hanged Man's Beautiful Daughter. The groom was Quinn,

also known as the Sunslinger. She wore a wed-ding gown of brilliant white, with a long creamy train. He

wore his best cowboy outfit, all black leathers stud-ded with dazzling displays of steel and silver. And

standing on either side of the happy couple, doing our best to look at ease in our rented tuxedos, Vincent

Kraemer as best man, and me as the bride's oldest friend. Melinda and Quinn - scions of the two oldest and

most powerful families in the Nightside. Married and murdered in the same day.

There aren't many happy endings in the Nightside. Even the greatest celebrities and the most powerful

people aren't immune to tragedy. Melinda was of the dark, her powers those of shadow and sorcery. Quinn

was of the light, the deadly energies he controlled de-rived from the power of the sun itself. Their

ancestors, the original Hanged Man and the original Sunslinger, had been deadly enemies hundreds of years

ago, and all the generations since then had continued the feud, pol-ishing their hatred with years of constant

use. And Melinda and Quinn, the two latest avatars in this on-going struggle, raised to hate and fight each

other to the death, happened to meet during one of the rare truces. And it was love at first sight.

They continued to meet in secret for months, but fi-nally went public. Their families went berserk and

al-most went to war. But Melinda and Quinn stood firm, secure in the powers they wielded, and threatened

to disown their families and elope if they weren't given permission to marry. It was a magnificent wedding

in the end, attended by absolutely every member of both families, partly as a show of strength and partly to

make sure neither side tried to pull a fast one. There were famous faces and celebrities everywhere, and

Walker himself turned up to run security. It should have been the safest place in the Nightside.

Vincent and I also worked as ushers, showing peo-ple to their seats, frisking them for weapons, keeping

everyone in order, always ready to jump on anyone who even looked like doing anything funny. We were

both young men then, still building our reputations. They called Vincent the Mechanic, because he could

build or fix anything. Magic was good for short cuts, he was fond of saying, but technology was always

going to be the more dependable in the long run. He'd built an automatic confetti-thrower, especially for the

wed-ding, and kept dashing off to tinker with it when he wasn't needed. He and Quinn had been friends

since they were kids, and he had risked his life many times to act as go-between for the two lovers.

Melinda was one of the few friends I had left from childhood, one of the few powerful enough in her own

right that my enemies didn't dare mess with her.

The wedding ceremony went fine, the families be-haved themselves, and no-one got the words wrong or

dropped the ring. And when it was all over, everyone cheered and applauded and some of us dared to think

that just maybe the long war was over at last. Bride and groom left the church together, looking radiant. As

though they belonged together. As though they com-pleted each other. The automatic confetti-chucker

worked first time.

Everyone posed for photographs, drinks circulated, snacks were consumed, and old enemies nodded to each

other from a safe distance, even exchanging a few polite words. Bride and groom accepted the bridal cup,

full to the brim with the very best champagne, and toasted their families and the bright future ahead. Ten

minutes later, they were both dead. Poison in the bridal cup. It was all over so quickly that neither magic

nor science could save them. Whoever had chosen the poison had known what they were doing. There

wasn't even a sign of symptoms until Quinn suddenly fell dead to the ground. Melinda lived long enough to

hold her dead husband in her arms, her tears dropping onto his dead face, then she collapsed across him and

was gone.

If Walker and his people hadn't been there, the wed-ding party would have turned into a massacre. Both

families went crazy, blaming each other. Somehow Walker kept the sides separated until they all left,

swearing vengeance, then he organised a full investiga-tion, using all his considerable resources. He never

found anything. There was no shortage of suspects, of people in both families who'd spoken out loudly

against the wedding and the truce, but there was no proof, no evidence. Meanwhile, the two families fought

running battles in the streets, mercilessly slaughtering anyone foolish enough to be caught out on their own.

Finally, the Authorities stepped in and shut it down, threatening to banish both families from the Nightside.

A slow, sullen armed truce prevailed, but only just. That was six years ago. Melinda and Quinn were cold in

their separate family graves, and still no-one had any idea of the who or why of it. There are loads of

con-spiracy theories, but then, there always are.

I would have done my best to find the killer, but shortly after the wedding my own life went to hell in a

hurry, and I ended up running from the Nightside with Suzie Shooter's bullet in my back, vowing never to

re-turn.

"Such a terrible tragedy," said Vincent. He picked up the photo and studied it. "I still miss them. Like part of

me died with them. Sometimes I think I keep this photo on my desk as a reminder of the last time I was

really happy." He put the photo down and smiled briefly at me. "I wish they could have seen this place. My

great-est achievement. And now someone, or something, is trying to shut it down. Which is why I asked

Walker to contact you, John. Can you help me?"

"Perhaps," I said. "I'm still trying to get a feel for what's going on here. Talk me through it, from the

be-ginning."

Vincent leaned back in his manager's chair and linked his fingers together across his expansive waist-coat.

While he talked, his voice was calm and even, but his gaze kept flickering to the CCTV monitors.

"It started two weeks ago, John. Everything normal, just another day. Until one of the main turbines

sud-denly stopped working. My people investigated and found it had been sabotaged. Not a professional job

- the whole interior had simply been ... ripped apart. My people repaired it and got it back online in under an

hour, but by then systems were breaking down all through the plant. And that's been the pattern ever since.

As fast as we fix things, something else goes wrong. It's costing us a fortune in spare parts alone. There's

nothing sophisticated about the sabotage, just brutal, senseless destruction.

"No-one ever sees the saboteur. You've seen the se-curity I've hired, but they haven't made a blind bit of

difference. I've got cameras everywhere, and they never see anything either. I've had the videotapes

checked by experts, but there's no trace of anything. We can't even tell how the bastard gets in or out! The

destruction's getting steadily worse. Repairs and recon-struction are starting to fall behind. It's only a matter

of time before it starts affecting our power output. And a whole lot of people depend on the electricity we

pro-duce here."

And if Prometheus Inc. goes down, so do you, I thought, but I was still being polite, so I didn't say it

aloud.

"How about rivals?" I said. "Perhaps someone in the same line of business, looking to profit at your

ex-pense?"

"There are always competitors," said Vincent, frowning. "But there's no-one else big enough to take over if

we go under. Prometheus Inc. supplies 12.4 per cent of the Nightside's electricity needs. If we crash,

there'll be power outages and brownouts all across the Nightside, and no-one wants that. The other

companies would have to push themselves almost to destruction to take up the slack."

"All right," I said. "How about people who just don't like you? Made any new enemies recently?"

He smiled briefly. "A month ago, I would have said I didn't have an enemy in the world. But now . . ." He

looked at the wedding photo on his desk again. "I've been having dreams . . . about Melinda and Quinn, and

the day they died. And I have to wonder ... if the bas-tard who killed them is coming after me."

I hadn't seen that twist coming. "Why you? And why wait six years?"

"Maybe the killer thinks I know something, though I'm damned if I know what. And just maybe it's all

started up again because you're back, John. An awful lot of old grudges and feuds have bubbled to the

sur-face since you returned to the Nightside."

He had a point there, so I decided to change the subject. "Let's talk about the actual damage here. You said

it was . . . unsophisticated."

"Hell yes," said Vincent. "It's clear the saboteur has no real technical knowledge. There are a dozen places

he could have hit that would shut the whole plant down if they were even interfered with. But none a

layman could hope to recognise. And, of course, there's the se-cret process at the heart of Prometheus Inc.

that makes this whole operation possible. I invented it. But that's kept inside a steel vault, protected by

state-of-the-art high-tech defence systems. Even the Authorities would have a hard time getting to it

without the right pass codes." Vincent leaned forward across the desk and fixed me with a pleading gaze.

"You've got to help me, John. It's not only my livelihood we're talking about here. If Prometheus Inc. is

forced offline, and power levels drop all across the Nightside, people are going to start dying. Hundreds of

thousands of lives could be at risk."

I should have seen what was coming. But I always was a sucker for a sob story.

Vincent took me on a tour through the plant, the under-ground section that outsiders never got a chance to

see. It was all spotlessly clean and eerily quiet. The actual generators themselves turned out to be much

smaller than I expected, and made hardly a sound. There were panels and gauges and readouts and any

amount of gleaming high tech, none of which meant anything to me, though I was careful to make

impressed sounds at regular intervals. Every bit of it had been designed by Vincent, back when he was the

Mechanic, rather than the Manager. He kept up a running commentary throughout the tour, most of which

went right over my head, while I nodded and smiled and kept an eye out for the saboteur. Eventually

Vincent ran out of things to point at, and we stopped at the end of a cavernous hall, before a large, closed,

solid steel door. He looked at me, clearly expecting me to say something.

"It's all ... very clean," I said. "And very impres-sive. Though it's hard to believe you produce so much of

the Nightside's electricity with . . . just this. I was expecting something ten times the size."

Vincent grinned. "None of the power comes from this. All the machinery does is convert the power

pro-duced in there into electricity. The secret lies in my own special process, behind this sealed door. A

scien-tific marvel, if I do say so myself."

I glared suddenly at the steel door. "If you're about to tell me you've got a nuclear pile in there . . ."

"No, no . . ."

"Or a contained singularity . . ."

"Nothing so crude, John. My process is perfectly safe, with no noxious by-products. Though I'm afraid I

can't show it to you. Some things have to remain se-cret."

And then he broke off, and we both looked round sharply as we heard something. A harsh juddering began

in one of the machines at the far end of the hall, and black smoke billowed suddenly from a vent, before an

alarm shrilled loudly and the machine shut itself down. Vincent shrank back against the steel door.

"He's here! The saboteur . . . he's never got this far before. He must have been following us all this time . .

. Are you armed, John?"

"I don't use guns," I said. "I've never felt the need."

"Normally I don't, either, but ever since this shit began happening, I've felt a lot more secure knowing I've

got a little something to even out the odds." Vin-cent produced a gleaming silver gun from inside his jacket.

It looked sleek and deadly and very futuristic. Vincent hefted it proudly. "It's a laser. Amplified light to fight

the forces of darkness. Another of my inven-tions. I always meant to do more with it, but the power plant

took over my life. I can't see anyone, John. Can you see anyone?"

A machine a little further down the hall exploded suddenly. More black smoke, and the hum of the other

machines rose significantly, as though they were hav-ing to work harder. A third machine blew apart like a

grenade, throwing sharp-edged steel shrapnel almost the length of the hall. Some of the overhead lights

flickered and went out. There were shadows every-where now, deep and dark. Some of the other

machines began making unpleasant, threatening noises. And still there was no sign of the saboteur

anywhere.

Vincent's face was pale and sweaty, and his hand trembled as he swept his laser gun back and forth,

searching for a target. "Come on, come on," he said hoarsely. "You're on my territory now. I'm ready for

you."

Something pale flashed briefly at the corner of my eye. I snapped around, but it was already gone. It

ap-peared again, just a glimpse of white in the shadows between two machines. It flashed back and forth,

ap-pearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye, darting up and down the length of the hall. Glimmers of

shim-mering white as fleeting as moonlight, but I thought I was beginning to make out an impression of a

pale, haunted face. It moved in the shadows, never venturing out into the light. But it was gradually drawing

nearer. Heading for us, or perhaps for the steel door behind us and the secret vulnerable heart of

Prometheus Inc.

My first thought was that it had to be a ghost of some kind, maybe a poltergeist. Which would explain why

the CCTV cameras hadn't been able to see anything. Ghosts could operate in science- or magic-dominated

areas, provided their motivation was strong enough. In which case, Vincent needed a priest or an exorcist,

not a private eye. I suggested as much to Vincent, and he shrugged angrily.

"I had my people do a full background check on this location before we began construction; and they didn't

turn up anything. The whole area was supposed to be entirely free from magical or paranormal influences.

That's why I built here. I'm the Mechanic, I build things. It's a talent, just like your talent for finding things,

John. I don't know about ghosts. You're the ex-pert on these matters. What do we do?"

"Depends what the ghost wants," I said.

"It wants to destroy me! I would have thought that was obvious. What was that?"

The white figure was flashing in and out of the shad-ows, on every side at once, drawing steadily closer all

the time. Shimmering white, ragged round the edges, with long, reaching arms and a dark malevolent glare

in an indistinct face. It gestured abruptly, and suddenly all the shrapnel scattered across the floor rose and

ham-mered us like a metallic hailstorm. I put my arms over my head and did my best to shield Vincent with

my body. The rain of objects ended as suddenly as it began, and we looked up to see something pale and

dangerous squatting on one of the machines, tearing it apart with unnatural strength. Vincent howled with

rage and fired his laser, but the figure was gone long before the light beam could reach it. I glared about

me, my back pressed hard against the steel door. There were no other exits, no way to escape. So I did the

only thing I could. I used my talent.

I don't like to use it too often, or for too long. It helps my enemies find me.

I reached inside, concentrating, and my third eye, my private eye, slowly opened. And just like that, I could

see her clearly. As though my psychic gaze had focused her, made her plain at last, she walked out of the

shadows and into the light, standing openly before us. She nodded to me, then glared at Vincent with her

deep dark eyes. I knew her immediately, though she looked very different from her wedding photo. Melinda

Dusk, dead these six years, still wearing her wonderful white wedding dress, though it hung in tatters about

her corpse-pale body. Her raven black hair fell in thick ringlets to her bare shoulders. Her lips were a pale

pur-ple. Her eyes . . . were black on black, like two deep holes in her face. She looked angry, haunted,

vicious. The Hanged Man's Daughter, mistress of the dark forces, still beautiful in a cold, unnatural way.

She raised one hand to point accusingly at Vincent, her fin-gernails grown long in the grave. I glanced at

Vincent. He was breathing fast, his whole body trembling, but he didn't look particularly surprised.

I shut down my talent, but she was still there. I took a step forward, and the ghost turned her awful

unblinking gaze upon me. I held up my hands to show they were empty.

"Melinda," I said. "It's me, John."

She looked away. I wasn't important. All her atten-tion, all her rage, was focused on Vincent.

"Talk to me, Vincent," I said quietly. "What's going on here? You knew who and what it was all along,

didn't you? Didn't you! Why is she so angry with you, angry enough to pull her up out of her grave after six

years?"

"I didn't know," he said. "I swear I didn't know!"

"He knew," said Melinda. Her voice was clear but quiet, like a whisper in my ear, as though it had to travel

impossible distances to reach me. "You chose this place well, Vincent. As far as you could get from my

family plot, and still be in the Nightside. And the sacrifices you made here in secret, before construction

began, the innocent blood you spilled, and the promises you made . . . they would have kept out anyone else

but me. I am an avatar of the dark, and every shadow is a doorway to me. Six years it took me, to track

you down. But you could never hope to keep me out, not when the only thing that matters to me is still here.

I will have my revenge, Vincent. Dear good friend Vin-cent. For what you did, to me and to Quinn."

And that was when I finally understood. I looked at Vincent, too shocked even to be angry, for the moment.

"You killed them," I said. "You murdered Melinda and Quinn. But you were their friend . . ."

"Best friends," said Vincent. He'd stopped shaking, and his voice was steady. "I would have done anything

for you two, Melinda, but when the time came, you let me down. So I poisoned the bridal cup. It was

necessary. And surprisingly easy. Who'd ever suspect the best man? No-one ever did, not even Walker

himself." He looked at me suddenly, and he was smiling. "I was pretty sure my little problem had to be

Melinda, but I needed you here to make certain. That's why I asked Walker to contact you, on my behalf.

Because your tal-ent to find things holds her in one place, one shape. All you have to do is hold her here,

and my laser light will disrupt her, take her apart so thoroughly she'll never be able to put herself back

together again. Do this for me, John, and I'll make you a partner in Prometheus Inc. You'll be wealthy and

powerful beyond your wildest dreams."

"They were my friends, too," I said. "And there isn't enough money in the Nightside to turn me against a

friend."

"Be my friend, John," said Melinda. She'd drifted very close now, and I could feel the cold of the grave

radiating from her. "Be my friend and Quinn's, one last time. Find the source of Vincent's power. His secret

source."

Vincent fired his laser at her. The light beam punched right through her shimmering form, but if it hurt her

she didn't show it.

I called up my talent again, focusing my inner eye, my private eye from which nothing can be hidden, and

immediately I knew where the secret was, and how to get to it. I turned to the steel door and punched in

the correct entry codes. The heavy door swung slowly open. Vincent shouted something, but I wasn't

listen-ing. I walked through the opening, Melinda drifting after me, and there in the underground chamber

Vin-cent had made specially for him, was the reason Vincent had been able to produce power so easily. It

was Quinn, the Sunslinger.

He still looked a lot like he had in his wedding photo, but like Melinda, he had been through some changes.

Quinn still wore his black leathers, though the steel and silver were dirty and corroded. His body was

contained in a spirit bottle, a great glass chamber de-signed to contain the souls of the dead. Electricity

ca-bles penetrated the sides of the bottle, plugging into Quinn's eye sockets, his wedged-open mouth, and

holes cut in his torso. Quinn, the Sunslinger, whose power had been to channel and direct energies from the

sun, had been made into a battery. The spirit bottle trapped his soul with his dead body and made him

con-trollable. The cables leached his power, and Vincent's machines turned it into electricity to feed the

Nightside.

Ingenious. But then, the Mechanic had never been afraid to think big.

Melinda hovered beside the spirit bottle, staring at what had been done to her dead love with yearning eyes,

unable to touch him for all her ghostly power. I ran my fingertips down the glass side of the spirit bot-tle,

testing its strength.

"Get away from that, John," said Vincent.

I looked round to see Vincent stepping through the doorway, his laser gun trained on me. He laughed, a

lit-tle shakily.

"Ordinary guns are no use against you, John. I know that. I know all about that clever trick you do with

bul-lets. But this is a laser, and it will quite definitely kill you. It's a clever little device. Draws its power

directly from Quinn. So you're going to do exactly what I tell you to do. You're going to use your talent to

fix and hold Melinda in one place, one shape, while I kill her. Or I'll kill you. Slowly and very nastily."

"How will you stop Melinda without me?" I said.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll be able to think of something, now I know for sure it's Melinda. Maybe I'll build another

spirit bottle, just for her."

"What happened?" I said, careful to keep my voice calm and my hands still. "You three were friends for

years, closer than family. So what happened, Vincent? What turned you into a murderer?"

"They let me down," he said flatly. "When I needed them most, they weren't there for me. I dreamed up

this power station, you see. A way at last to provide de-pendable electricity for the Nightside. A licence to

print money. My big score, at last. And all I needed to make it work was Quinn. I was sure studying his

powers under laboratory conditions would enable me to build something that would power the plant. But

when I told him, he turned me down. Said his secrets were family secrets and not for sharing. After all the

things I'd done for him! I talked to Melinda, tried to get her to persuade him, but she didn't want to know

either. She and Quinn were planning a new life together, and there was no room in it for me.

"But I'd already sunk all my money into this project, and a hell of a lot more I'd borrowed from some really

unpleasant people. It had never occurred to me that Quinn would turn me down. The project was already

under way. It had to go on. So I killed Quinn and Melinda. It was their own fault, for putting their own

selfish happiness ahead of my needs, my success. I would have made them partners. Made them rich.

After they were dead, my financial associates retrieved Quinn's body from his grave, leaving a duplicate

be-hind, and brought him here. Where he ended up work-ing for me anyway. My . . . silent partner, if you

like."

Melinda looked at me, silently pleading. The spirit bottle was full of light, with no shadows she could use. I

looked at the bottle thoughtfully. Vincent aimed the laser at my stomach.

"Don't even think it, John. If you break the bottle, that breaks the connection between Quinn and my

ma-chines, and that would shut down the whole plant. No more of my electricity for the Nightside. Power

cuts everywhere. Thousands of people could die."

"Ah well," I said. "What did they ever do for me?"

It was the easiest thing in the world for my talent to find the entry point into the spirit bottle and nudge it

open just a crack. That was all Quinn needed. His dead body convulsed and suddenly blazed with light.

Bril-liant sunlight, too bright for mortal eyes to look upon. Vincent and I both had to turn away, shielding our

eyes with our arms. The spirit bottle exploded, unable to contain the released energies of the Sunslinger.

Glass fragments showered down. I made myself turn back and look through dazzled eyes as Quinn strode

out of the wreckage, pulling the cables out of his face and his body. They fell to twitch restlessly on the

floor, like severed limbs.

The dead man looked upon the ghost, and they smiled at each other, together again for the first time since

their wedding day. And Vincent stumbled for-ward with his laser gun. His eyes weren't really clear yet, and

I wasn't entirely sure who he was trying to point the gun at, but I didn't feel like taking any chances. So I

reached down, grabbed one of the twitching cables from the floor, and lunged forward to jam one end of

the cable into Vincent's eye. It plunged into his eye socket, burrowing beyond, and Vincent screamed

horribly as his own machines sucked the life energies out of him. He was dead before his twitching body hit

the floor.

Melinda Dusk and Quinn - the Hanged Man's Beau-tiful Daughter and the Sunslinger - dead but no longer

separated, were already gone, too wrapped up in each other to care about lesser needs like vengeance.

Quinn's body lay still and empty on the floor beside that of his old friend Vincent. I looked at Quinn's body

and thought about whether I should take it back to his family, for a proper burial. But I had no proof of what

had happened here, and as long as the armed truce be-tween the two families continued, it was better not to

stir things up. After all, who would Vincent have gone to first for financial backing? Who did he know, who

would still lend him money after all his failures, except for certain factions in the two families?

I walked out of the secret vault, leaving the dead past behind, and used my talent one last time to find the

self-destruct mechanism for the power plant. I knew there had to be one. Vincent was always very jealous

about guarding his secrets. I allowed myself enough time to get clear, then set the clock ticking. I told the

security men outside to start running, and something in my voice and my gaze convinced them. I was three

blocks away when the whole of Prometheus Inc. went up in one great controlled explosion. I kept walking

and didn't look back.

Not exactly my most successful case. My client was dead, so I wasn't going to get paid. Walker was

probably going to be pretty mad that the power plant was gone, and God alone knew how much damage its

loss was going to cause the Nightside. But none of that mattered. Melinda Dusk and Quinn had been my

friends. And no-one kills a friend of mine and gets away with it.

Between Cases

Everyone needs somewhere to go, when it all goes pear-shaped. A bolt-hole to shelter in, till the shitstorm

passes. I usually end up in Strangefellows, the oldest bar in the world. A (fairly) discreet drinking

establish-ment, tucked away in the back of beyond, at the end of an alley that isn't always there,

Strangefellows is a good place to booze and brood and hide from any num-ber of people, most of whom

wouldn't be seen dead in such a dive. It was run with malice aforethought by one Alex Morrisey, who didn't

allow any trouble in his bar, most especially from me.

I found a table in a corner, so I wouldn't have to watch my back, and indulged myself with a bottle of

wormwood brandy. It tastes like a supermodel's tears and is so potent it can catch alight if someone at the

next table strikes a match. I kept my head well down and looked about me surreptitiously. If anyone had

no-ticed me come in, they were keeping their excitement well under control. Certainly no-one was rushing

for the exit to tell on me. Perhaps word hadn't got around yet as to how royally I'd screwed up this time.

There were any number of people who weren't going to be at all pleased with me for knocking out twelve

percent of the Nightside's electricity supply. Not least Walker, who'd got me the job in the first place. I

faked a care-less shrug. If they couldn't take a joke, they shouldn't hire me.

It was a quiet night at Strangefellows, for once. All the lights were out, and the whole place was

illumi-nated by candles, hurricane lamps, and the occasional hand of glory. It gave the place a pleasant

golden haze, like an old photo of better times. Alex explained when I got my drink that the power was down

in various spots all over the Nightside, and I just nodded and grunted. Alex was severely pissed off by the

inconve-nience and loss of takings, but that was nothing new. Strangefellows's owner and bartender was a

thin pale streak of misery who only wore black because no-one had come up with a darker colour yet. He

wore a snazzy black beret to hide his bald patch and designer shades to tone down the perpetual glare with

which he regarded the world.

He's a friend of mine. Sometimes.

Music was playing from a portable CD player, rising easily over the bare murmur of conversation from the

few regulars nursing their drinks in the back booths. Most of the bar's usual crowd were probably out and

about in the Nightside, taking advantage of the black-outs to do unto others and run off with the takings. It

would be a busy time for the Nightside's fences, before the lights went on again. Alex's pet vulture was

perched over the till, cackling to itself and giving the evil eye to anyone who looked like getting too close.

The bar's muscular bouncers, Betty and Lucy Coltrane, were occupying themselves with a flex-off at the

end of the bar, frowning seriously as muscles distended and veins popped up all over their sculpted bodies.

Pale Michael was running a book as to which one would pass out first.

And my teenage secretary, Cathy Barrett, was danc-ing wildly on a tabletop, to the music of Voice of the

Beehive's "Honey Lingers." Blonde, bubbly, and full of more energy than she knew what to do with, Cathy

ran the business side of my life. I'd rescued her from a house that tried to eat her, and she adopted me. I

didn't get a say in the matter. Dancing opposite her on the tabletop, in a leather outfit, cape, mask, and

six-inch stiletto heels, was Ms. Fate, the Nightside's very own transvestite su-perhero, a man who dressed

up as a superheroine to fight crime and avenge injustice. He was actually pretty good at it, in her own way.

Cathy and Ms. Fate danced their hearts out, pounding their heels on the table to "Mon-sters and Angels,"

and I had to smile. They were the brightest things in the whole bar.

I topped up my glass with the murky purple liquor and drank to the memory of Melinda Dusk and Quinn. It

was good to know they were finally at rest, together, their murders avenged. I don't have that many friends.

Either my enemies kill them, or I do. Morality can be a shifting, treacherous thing in the Nightside, and both

love and loyalty have a way of getting drowned in the bigger issues. My few longtime friends have all

tended to be dangerous as hell in their own right, and more than a little crazy. People like Razor Eddie and

Shotgun Suzie . . . both of whom have tried to kill me in the past. I don't hold it against them. Much. It's a

hard life in the Nightside, and a harder death, usually. I sipped my drink and listened to the music. I wasn't

in any hurry. I had the rest of the bottle to get through.

I've never found it easy to mourn, though God knows I've had enough practice.

I looked around the bar, searching for something to distract myself with. A sailor had passed out at the main

bar, and the tattoos on his back were quietly arguing matters philosophical over the low rumble of his

snores. A mummy at the other end of the long wooden bar was drinking gin and tonics while performing

nec-essary running repairs on his yellowed bandages. Roughly midway between the two, an amiable drunk

in a blood-stained lab coat was endeavouring to explain the principles of retro-phrenology to a frankly

disinter-ested Alex Morrisey.

"See, phrenology is this old Victorian science, which claimed you could determine the dominant traits of a

man's personality by studying the bumps on his head. The size and position of these bumps indicated

different personality traits. See? Now, retro-phrenology says, why not change a man's personality by

hitting him on the head with a hammer, till you raise just the right bumps in the right places!"

"One of us needs a lot more drinks," said Alex. "That's starting to make sense."

Cathy suddenly slammed down into the chair opposite me, breathing harshly and radiating happy sweat. She

flashed me a cheerful grin. She'd picked up a fresh flute of champagne from somewhere and drank from it

thirstily. Cathy always drank "champers," and nearly always found a way to stick me with the bill.

"I love to dance!" she said cheerfully. "Sometimes I think the whole world should be put to music and

choreographed!"

"This being the Nightside, someone somewhere is undoubtedly working on that very thing, right now," I said.

"Where's your partner, the Dancing Queen?"

"Oh, he's nipped off to the loo, to freshen her make-up. You know, John, I could see you brooding from

right across the room. Who died this time?"

"What makes you think someone died?"

"You only drink that wormwood muck when you've lost someone close to you. I wouldn't use that stuff to

clean combs. I thought the Prometheus gig was a straightforward deal?"

"I really don't want to talk about it, Cathy."

"No, you'd rather sulk and be miserable and pollute the atmosphere for everyone else. If you're not careful,

you'll end up like Alex."

Cathy could always make me smile. "There's no danger of that. I'm not in Alex's class. That man could

brood for the Olympics, and pick up a bronze in self-pity while he was at it. He's why there's never been a

Happy Hour in Strangefellows."

Cathy sighed, leaned forward, and gave me her best exasperated look. "Get another case going, John. You

know you're really only happy when you're working. Not that that's much healthier, given the cases you

spe-cialise in. You need to get out more and meet people, preferably people who aren't trying to kill you.

You know, I found this really great new dating site for pro-fessional singles on the Net the other day . . ."

I shuddered. "I've seen some of those. Hi! I'm Trixi, and I've got diseases so virulent you can even

catch them down a phone line! Just give me your credit card number, and I guarantee to make your

eyes water in under thirty seconds! No, Cathy! I'm quite happy with my solitary brooding. It builds

character."

Cathy pouted, then shrugged. She never could stay unhappy for long. She finished off the last of her

cham-pagne, hiccuped happily, and looked hopefully round the bar for another dancing partner. I'd never

admit it to her, but she was mostly right. My work was all I had to give my life meaning. But since my last

successful case earned me a quarter of a million pounds, plus bonuses, I could afford to be more particular

about what work I chose to take on. (I located the Unholy Grail for the Vatican, and faced down Heaven

and Hell in the process. I'd earned that money.) Maybe I should start looking for a new case, if only to

take the taste of Prometheus Inc. out of my mouth.

"I'm bored," Cathy announced, slapping both hands on the table to prove it. "Bored of sitting around your

expensive new office with nothing to do. It's all very comfortable, I'm sure, and I love all the new

equip-ment, but a growing girl can't spend all her life surfing dodgy porn sites on the Internet. Like you, I

need to be doing. Earning my keep and smiting the ungodly where it hurts. There must be something in all

the messages I've taken that appeals to you. What about the case of the missing shadows? Or the guy who

lost his adoles-cence in a rigged card game?"

"Hold everything," I said sternly. "A disturbing thought has just occurred to me. Who's looking after things in

my expensive new Nightside office, while you're out cavorting and carousing in dubious drinking

establishments?"

"Ah," said Cathy, grinning. "I got a really good deal on some computers from the future. They practically

run the whole business on their own, these days. They can even answer the phone and talk snotty to our

cred-itors."

"Just how far up the line did these computers come from?" I said suspiciously. "I mean, are we talking

Ar-tificial Intelligence here? Are they going to want pay-ing?"

"Relax! They're data junkies. The Nightside fasci-nates them. Why don't we ask them to find something

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