Simon R. Green - Nightside 2 - Angels of Light and Darkness

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Nightside 02

Angels of Light and Darkness

Simon R. Green

E-Book Version 0.5

Most formatting & spelling errors rectified

Scanned by Bodafon

27th March 2004

If your like this book, please buy it.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product

of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously,

and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events,

or locales is entirely coincidental.

AGENTS OF LIGHT AND DARKNES

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTOR Ace mass-market edition / November 2003

Cover art by Jonathan Barkat.

Cover design by Judith Murello.

Text design by Julie Rogers.

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

I'm John Taylor.

A private eye who operates mainly in the darker areas of the Twilight Zone.

The Nightside is the sick, secret, magical heart of London, where gods and monsters go to

make the deals and seek the pleasures they won't find anywhere else.

I find things. It's a gift. And sometimes... they find me.

Everyone Believes in Something

There is only the one church in the Nightside. It's called St. Jude's. I only ever go there on

business. It's nowhere near the Street of the Gods, with its many and varied places of worship.

It's tucked away in a quiet corner, shadowed and obscured, no part of the Nightside's usual

bright and gaudy neon noir. It doesn't advertise, and it doesn't care if you habitually pass by

on the other side. It's just there, for when you need it. Dedicated to the patron saint of lost

causes, St. Jude's is an old, old place; a cold stone structure possibly older even than

Christianity itself. The bare stone walls are grey and featureless, unmarked b time or design,

with only a series of narrow slits for windows. One great slab of stone, covered with a cloth

of white samite, serves as an altar, facing two rows of blocky wooden pews. A single silver

cross hangs on the wall beyond the altar; and that's it. St. Jude's isn't a place for comfort, for

frills and fancies and the trappings of religion. There is no priest or attendant, and there are no

services. St. Jude's is, quite simply, your last chance in the Nightside for salvation, sanctuary,

or one final desperate word with your God. Come to this church looking for a spiritual Band-

Aid, and you could end up with a hell of a lot more than you bargained for.

Prayers are heard in St. Jude's; and sometimes answered.

I use the church occasionally as a meeting place. Neutral ground is so hard to come by in the

Night-side. Only occasionally, though. All are welcome to enter St. Jude's, but not everyone

comes out again. The church protects and preserves itself, and no-one wants to know how.

But this time, I had a specific reason for being here. I was counting on the nature of the place

to protect me from the terrible thing that was coming. From the awful creature I had very

reluctantly agreed to meet.

I sat stiffly on the hard wooden seat of the front pew, huddled inside my white trench coat

against the bitter chill that always permeated the place. I glared about me and tried not to

fidget. Nothing to look a and nothing to do, and I wasn't about to waste my time in prayer.

Ever since my enemies first tried to kill me as a child, I've learned the hard way that I can't

depend on anyone but myself. I stirred restlessly, resisting the urge to get up and pace back

and forth. Somewhere out there in the night, a force of destruction was heading straight for

me, and all I could do was sit tight and wait for it to come. I let one hand drift down to the

shoe box on the seat beside me, just to reassure myself it hadn't gone anywhere since the last

time I checked. What was in the box might protect me from what was coming, or it might not.

Life's like that; particularly in the Nightside. And especially when you're the famous—or

infamous—John Taylor, who has been known to boast he can find anything. Even when it

gets him into situations like this.

The dozen candles I'd brought and lit and placed around the church didn't do much to dispel

the general gloom of the place. The air was still and cold and dank, and there were far too

many shadows. Sitting there, in the quiet, listening to the dust fall, I could feel the age of the

place, feel all the endless centuries pressing down on me. St. Jude's was supposed to be one of

the oldest surviving buildings in the Nightside. Older than the Street of the Gods, or the Time

Tower, older even than Strangefellows, the longest-running bar in the world. So old, in fact,

and so long established as a place of worship that there are those who hint it might not even

have been a church, originally.

Just a place where you could talk to your God, and sometimes get an answer. Whether you

liked the answer you got was, of course, your problem.

It's only a short step from a burning bush to a burning heretic, after all. I try not to bother

God, and hope He'll do me the same courtesy.

I don't know why there aren't any other churches in the Nightside. It's not that the people who

come here aren't religious; it's more that the Nightside is where you go to do the things you

know your God wouldn't approve of. Souls aren't lost here; they're sold or bartered or just

plain thrown away in utter abandon. There are presences and avatars, and even Powers and

Dominations, to be found on the Street of the Gods; and you can bargain with them for all the

things you know your God wouldn't want you to have.

There are those who've tried to destroy St. Jude's, down the centuries. They aren't around any

more, and St. Jude's still is. Though that could change this night, if I was wrong about what I

had in the shoe box.

It was three o'clock in the morning, but then it always is in the Nightside. The night that never

ends, and the hour that stretches. Three o'clock in the morning, the hour of the wolf, when a

man's defences are at their weakest. The time when most babies are born and most people die.

That lowest of points, when a man can lie awake in his bed and wonder how his life could

have turned out so very differently fro what he'd intended. And, of course, the very best time

to make deals with the devil.

All the hairs on the back of my neck stood up suddenly, and my heart missed a beat, as

though a cold hand had closed fleetingly around it. I lurched to my feet, an almost violent

shudder running through me. She was close now. I could feel her presence, feel her gaze and

cold intent turned upon me as she drew nearer. I grabbed up my shoe box and clutched it to

my chest like a life preserver. I moved reluctantly out into the aisle, and turned to stand facing

the only door. A single great slab of solid oak, five feet tail and five inches thick, locked and

bolted. It wouldn't stop her. Nothing could. She was Jessica Sorrow the Unbeliever, and

nothing in the world could stand against her. She was close now, very close. The monster, the

abomination, the Unbeliever. There was a stillness to the air, like the tension that precedes the

coming storm. The kind of storm that rips off roofs and drops dead birds out of the sky.

Jessica Sorrow was coming to St. Jude's, because she'd been told I was there, and I had what

she was looking for. And if they and I were wrong about that, she would make us all pay.

I don't carry a gun, or any other kind of weapon. I've never felt the need. And weapons

wouldn't do any good against Jessica Sorrow anyway. Nothing could touch her any more.

Something happened to her, long ago, and she gave up her humanity to become the

Unbeliever. Now she doesn't believe i anything. And because she doesn't believe with such

utter certainty, all the world and everything in it are nothing to her. None of it can affect her

in the least. She can go anywhere, and do anything, and she does. She can do terrible,

distressing things, and she does, and nothing touches her. She has no conscience and no

morality, no pity and no restraint. The material world is like paper to her, and she rips it apart

as she walks through it. Luckily for the world, she doesn't leave the Nightside much. And

luckily for the rest of us here, there are long periods when she just sleeps or drops out of sight.

But when she's up and walking, everyone gets the hell out of her way. Because when she

concentrates her unbelief on anything or anyone, they disappear. Gone forever. Even the

Street of the Gods closes up shop and goes home early when Jessica Sorrow is abroad in the

night.

Her most recent rampage had been one of her worst, as she stormed through all the most

sensitive parts of the Nightside, leaving a trail of chaos and destruction behind her as she

searched obsessively for ... something. No one seemed too sure of exactly what that might be,

and absolutely no one had any intention of getting close enough to her to ask. It had to be

something special, something really powerful... but this was Jessica Sorrow, who was famous

for not believing anything was special or powerful. What use could the Unbeliever have for

material possessions any more? There was no shortage of objects of powe in the Nightside,

anything from wishing rings to description theory bombs, and every damn one of them was

up for sale. But Jessica Sorrow would have none of them, and people and places vanished

under her angry glare as she continued her rampage. The word was, she was looking for

something so real she would have to believe in it... perhaps something real enough and

powerful enough finally to kill her, and put her out of everyone's misery.

So Walker came to me, and told me to find it. Walker represents the Authorities. No-one

really runs the Nightside, though many have tried, but the Authorities are the ones who step in

and bang heads together whenever any of the movers and shakers look like they're getting out

of hand. Walker is a calm and quiet sort, in a neat city suit, and he never raises his voice

because he doesn't have to. He doesn't approve of lone operatives like me, but he throws me

the odd job occasionally, because no-one else can do the things I can. And because as far as

he's concerned, I am entirely expendable.

Which is why I make him pay through the nose for those jobs.

I can find anything. It's a gift. From my dear departed mother, who turned out not to be

human. She's really not dead; that's just wishful thinking on my part.

Anyway, I found what Jessica Sorrow was looking for, and now it lay in the shoe box I was

crushing t my chest. She knew it was here, and she was coming to get it. My job was to

present it to her in exactly the right way, so that it would defuse her anger and send her back

to wherever she went when she wasn't scaring the crap out of the rest of us. Assuming, of

course, that I had found the right thing. And that she didn't just storm right in and unbelieve

me out of existence. She was outside the church now. The solid flagstones under my feet

vibrated strongly, echoing to the tread of her approaching feet, crashing down heavily on the

world she refused to believe in. All the candle flames were dancing wildly, and the shadows

leapt around me, as though they were frightened too. My mouth was very dry, and my hands

were crushing the shoe box out of shape. I made myself put it down on the pew, then

straightened up and thrust my hands deep into my coat pockets. Looking casual was out of the

question, but I couldn't afford to seem weak or indecisive in the presence of Jessica Sorrow

the Unbeliever. I had hoped that St. Jude's accumulated centuries of faith and sanctity would

offer me some protection against the force of Jessica's unbelief, but I wasn't so sure about that

any more. She was coming, like a storm, like a tidal wave, like some implacable force of

nature that would sweep me effortlessly aside in a moment. She was coining, like cancer or

depression, and all the other things that cannot be denied or negotiated with. She was the

Unbeliever, and compared to that St. Jude's was nothing and I wa nothing ... I took a deep

breath, and held my head up. To hell with that. I was John Taylor, dammit, and I'd talked my

way out of worse scrapes than this. I'd make her believe in me.

The heavy oaken door was reinforced with heavy bands of black iron. It must have weighed

five hundred pounds, easy. It didn't even slow Jessica down. Her thunderous feet marched

right up to the door, then her fingers plunged through the thick wood and tore it like cloth.

The whole door came apart in her hands, and she walked through it like a hanging curtain.

She came striding down the aisle towards me, naked and emaciated and corpse pale, the

heavy flagstones exploding under the tread of her bare feet. Her eyes were wide and staring,

as focussed as a feral cat's, and as impersonal. Her thin lips were stretched wide in something

that was as much a snarl as a smile. She had no hair, her face was as drawn and gaunt as the

rest of her, and her eyes were yellow as urine. But there was a force to her, a terrible energy

that drove her on even as it ate her up. I held my ground, giving her back glare for glare, until

finally she crashed to a halt right in front of me. She smelled... bad, like something that had

spoiled. Her eyes didn't blink, and her breathing was unsteady, as though it was something

she had to keep reminding herself to do. She was hardly five feet tall, but she seemed to tower

over me. I could feel my thoughts and plans disintegrating in my head, blown away b the

sheer force of her presence. I made myself smile at her.

"Hello, Jessica. You're looking... very yourself. I have what you need."

"How can you know what I need?" she said, in a voice that was frightening because it was so

nearly normal. "How can you, when I don't know myself?"

"Because I'm John Taylor, and I find things. I found what you need. But you have to believe

in me, or you'll never get what I have for you. If I just disappear, you'll never know ..."

"Show me," she said, and I knew I'd pushed it as far as I could. I reached carefully down into

the pew, picked up the shoe box, and presented it to her. She snatched it from me, and the

cardboard box disintegrated under her gaze, revealing the contents. A battered old teddy bear

with one glass eye missing. Jessica Sorrow held the bear in her dead white hands, looking and

looking at it with her wild unblinking eyes, and then, finally, she held it to her shrunken chest

and cuddled it to her, like a sleeping child. And I began to breathe once more.

"This is mine," she said, still looking at the bear rather than at me, for which I was grateful.

"It... was mine, when I was a small child. Long ago, when I was still human. I haven't thought

of him in ... so long, so very long..."

"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, sur-

rounded 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 ex-

citement 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 bis 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 ble 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

harmonized 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 the 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.

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 en 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 Grace-land 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

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Nightside02AngelsofLightandDarknessSimonR.GreenE-BookVersion0.5Mostformatting&spellingerrorsrectifiedScannedbyBodafon27thMarch2004Ifyourlikethisbook,pleasebuyit.Theauthorreallydeservestheroyalties.Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,places,andincidentseitheraretheproductoftheauthor'simaginationora...

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Simon R. Green - Nightside 2 - Angels of Light and Darkness

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