Simon Green - The Bride Wore Black Leather

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

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

“When are you?” said Chang.

Honours even, we relaxed a bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I grinned. “Like I’d ever tell you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course,” I said. “I’m here.”

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

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