Hex and the City Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF SIMON R. GREEN

  Nightingale’s Lament

  “Great urban fantasy…[an] incredible world…John is in top-gun form.”

  —BookBrowser

  “Filled with supernatural creatures of various sorts, the action leavened by occasional bits of dry humor, the Taylor series has proven to be a welcome break from the endless quasi-medieval intrigues that dominate contemporary fantasy.”

  —Chronicle

  “A delight—exciting, action-packed, truly suspenseful.”

  —Booklist

  “[The] strong characterization of a complicated hero is one of the qualities that makes Green’s series effective. He deftly balances his hero’s turmoil as he fights the darkness both within and without. With dark humor and psychological horror he rivals urban horror writers such as Jim Butcher and Christopher Golden; Laurell Hamilton fans should enjoy this series as well.”

  —Romantic Times

  Agents of Light and Darkness

  “I really enjoyed Green’s first John Taylor novel and the second one is even better. The usual private eye stuff—with a bizarre kick.”

  —Chronicle

  “The Nightside novels are a great blending of Lovecraft and Holmes. [Agents of Light and Darkness] is an action-packed thriller, a delightful private eye investigative fantasy tale.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “If you like your noir pitch-black, then return to the Nightside.”

  —The University City Review

  Something from the Nightside

  “The book is a fast, fun little roller coaster of a story—and its track runs through neighborhoods that make the Twilight Zone look like Mayberry. Simon Green’s Nightside is a macabre and thoroughly entertaining world that makes a bizarre and gleefully dangerous backdrop for a quick-moving tale. Fun stuff!”

  —Jim Butcher, author of Summer Knight and Furies of Calderon

  “A riveting start to what could be a long and extremely addictive series. No one delivers sharp, crackling dialogue better than Green. No one whisks readers away to more terrifying adventures or more bewildering locales. Sure it’s dangerous, but you’re going to follow him unquestioningly into the Nightside.”

  —Black Gate Magazine

  “Simon R. Green has written a fascinating little gem that makes people want to walk on the wild side and visit his extraordinary world.”

  —BookBrowser

  PRAISE FOR SIMON R. GREEN’S DEATHSTALKER NOVELS

  Deathstalker Legacy

  “A tangled tapestry of intrigue, hidden passion, and high adventure in a space opera filled with swashbuckling adventure.”

  —Library Journal

  Deathstalker Destiny

  “Be prepared for an incredible romp through a wonderful universe of space opera, filled with outrageous and incredibly powerful heroes and villains, swords and disruptors, and more lethal creatures than you can imagine.”

  —SF Site

  Deathstalker War

  “The action is fast and frenzied…manages to consistently entertain, with some wondrously quirky and warped characters.”

  —Locus

  Deathstalker Rebellion

  “Green blends derring-do, space battles, and wry banter aplenty to form an eminently satisfying space opera.”

  —Booklist

  Deathstalker

  “A huge novel of sweeping scope, told with a strong sense of legend.”

  —Locus

  And don’t miss Simon R. Green’s novels of fantastic adventure

  Beyond the Blue Moon

  Blue Moon Rising

  Guards of Haven

  Swords of Haven

  HEX AND THE CITY

  SIMON R. GREEN

  ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  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.

  HEX AND THE CITY

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2005 by Simon R. Green.

  Cover art by Jonathan Barkat.

  Cover design by Judith Murello.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0833-5

  ACE

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  CONTENTS

  ONEThe Psychenauts

  TWOWhen Lady Luck Comes Calling…Run

  THREEDealing with Reasonable Men

  FOURWarning Shots

  FIVEAll Answers Become Clear, in Time.

  SIXThe Hunter Run to Ground

  SEVENWhy Don’t the Dead Lie Still?

  EIGHTI Am the Stone That Breaks All Hearts

  NINEMemories of the Way We Used to Be

  TENThe Wife

  ONE

  The Psychenauts

  You can find anything in the Nightside, from the sacred to the profane and back again, but I don’t recommend attending the auctions there unless you’ve got a strong stomach and nerves of steel. I don’t normally go to auctions any more, even though most people are afraid to bid against me. I always end up saddled with a crateful of junk, just to get the one thing I do want. One time I accidentally acquired a Pookah, and for a few months I was followed around the Nightside by a Playboy Bunny Girl invisible to everyone except me. Fun, but distracting.

  However, when you work as a private investigator in the Nightside, that hidden magical heart of London, where gods and monsters walk side by side, and sometimes attend the same self-help groups, some cases almost inevitably lead you to the most unpleasant places. The head auctioneer of the Nightside’s Great Auction Hall hired me to stand watch over one particularly contentious auction, to keep the bidders in line. It sounded straight forward enough, which should have been a warning. Nothing’s ever straight forward in my life.

  I turned up nice and early, so I could look the place over. It had been several years since
I was last there, and in between I’d left the Nightside on the run, with a bullet in my back, and reluctantly returned to stage a semi-triumphant comeback. The doorman at the Hall took one look at me and didn’t want to let me in, but I gave him my name, and he turned satisfyingly pale and stepped back to wave me in. A good, or rather bad, reputation will get you into places that a battalion of troops wouldn’t.

  The head auctioneer stopped pacing nervously up and down and came striding across the great empty Hall to greet me. She grudged me a brief smile and crushed my hand in an over-firm handshake. Lucretia Grave was a short, sturdy woman in an old-fashioned tweedy outfit, surmounted by a monocle screwed firmly into one dark, beady eye. She appeared to be in her early fifties, with a brutal bulldog face and grey hair scraped back into a really severe bun on the back of her head. She looked like she could punch her weight. She glared at me like it was all my fault, and got stuck right in.

  “About time you got here, Taylor, old thing. I haven’t felt safe in me own Hall since the damned thing arrived. I’ve had piles that gave me less problems. I know we say we’ll auction anything you can find, capture, or manhandle through the doors, but some things are just more trouble than they’re worth. I wouldn’t have anything to do with the bloody thing, if I wasn’t on commission. I’ve been playing the doggies again, you know how it is. Rotten animals only have to hear I’ve put good money on them and they immediately develop back problems and heart conditions. Still, you mark my words, old thing; this particular item is going to go for serious money.” She scowled unhappily and sniffed loudly. “It’s days like this I wish I was back at me old job, at Christie’s. I’d go back in a second if only I could be sure the police weren’t still looking for me.”

  I was about to ask, politely but very firmly, what the hell we were talking about, when we were interrupted by a whole bunch of six-foot-tall teddy bears, carrying in the various items up for auction that session. The bears swept straight past us, carrying the items carefully in their soft, padded arms, talking in low, growly voices. The bears all looked like they’d seen a lot of rough handling, and as they passed Lucretia Grave a few muttered loudly about the need to get unionised. They set out each object in its own glass display case, treating every item with great care and respect.

  “I’d better check everything’s where it’s supposed to be,” Grave said heavily. “They all mean well, but they’re bears of very little brain. Typical bloody management, trying to save money again. You have a look around, old thing, get the feel of the place, don’t touch anything.”

  And off she strode, like a tug-boat under full steam, to hector the bears. I let her go. It was either that or throw her to the floor, tie her up, and sit on her till I got some useful answers out of her; and I couldn’t be bothered. I looked around. The Great Auction Hall had started out life as a thirteenth-century tithe barn, and had changed remarkably little down the years. The walls were a creamy grey stone, in large close-fitting blocks held together by artistry and tradition rather than mortar, rising up to soaring wooden rafters that came together in a complex latticework half-hidden in shadows. There were only slit windows in the walls, and the floor was unpolished wood, covered in sawdust. Fluorescent rods provided almost painfully bright light. There were no comforts or luxuries, but then, people didn’t come here to admire the scenery. The Great Auction Hall was a place of serious business.

  I walked past the rows of cheap wooden folding seats, set up to face the no-frills auctioneer’s stand, and looked over the various items in their display cases. It was the usual mixture, the famous and the infamous, of dubious value and debatable provenance. You could buy anything in the Nightside, whatever your interests or pleasure, but no-one guaranteed it was necessarily what it seemed to be. You could get lucky, or you could get dead, with precious little room in between. And just because you owned a thing, it didn’t mean you could always hang on to it…

  The first item was a heavy thigh-bone, identified as the weapon with which Cain slew Abel. There was a letter of confirmation from the ancient city of Enoch, but you took such things with a pinch of salt in the Nightside. Next in line were three different Maltese Falcons (buyer beware), a cast-brass head of JFK that supposedly spoke prophecy, Nostradamus’s quill pen, one of Baron Frankenstein’s scalpels, a small lacquered wooden box that claimed it held the ashes of Joan of Arc, and a Yeti’s-foot umbrella stand. The rest was just junk and tat, stuff only a collector could love. Certainly nothing I’d give house-room.

  I’ve never believed in acquiring objects of power. They always let you down. Either the batteries run out at the worst possible moment, or you go blank on the activating word; and you can never find the instruction manual when you need it. More trouble than they’re worth. And far too many of them turn out to be just bits and pieces that have hung around long enough to acquire a reputation. Not unlike me, I suppose.

  I paused to study myself in a tall standing mirror in an ornate silver frame. (It was labelled The Mirror of Dorian Gray; make of that what you will.) The reflection didn’t look anything special; though I supposed I did at least look like a private eye. Tall, dark, and interesting-looking, wrapped in a long white trench coat that hadn’t seen a laundry anywhen recent. A bit tired and battered round the edges, maybe, but that’s life in the Nightside for you. I tend to get the cases no-one else wants, the kind other investigators have the good sense to turn down, and I like it that way. I have a gift for finding things, whether they want to be found or not, a hunger for the truth, and a stubborn streak that keeps me in the game long after anyone with any sense would have legged it for the horizon.

  My father drank himself to death, after finding out my mother wasn’t human. No-one knows who or what my mother really was, but everyone in the Nightside’s got an opinion. There are those who treat me like the Antichrist, and others who see me as a King in waiting. And, an unknown group of enemies have been sending agents to kill me ever since I was a small child.

  I try not to let it go to my head.

  Lucretia Grave came stomping back to join me. She was wearing the monocle in the other eye now. I wondered whether I was supposed to say something, but decided not to. Some conversations you just know aren’t going to go anywhere useful. Grave started in on me again as though we’d never stopped talking.

  “We get all kinds of stuff coming through here on a regular basis, old sport, things you wouldn’t believe, even for the Nightside. Some silly sod put his soul up for auction just the other week, but it didn’t make the reserve. Ah yes, I’ve seen it all come and go, and known more than my fair share of tears and curses. Property is the curse of the thinking classes. Now, Taylor, old boy; the Hall is of course surrounded by heavy-duty wards and protections at all times, protecting us from fire, theft, substitution, and any and all outside influences, and the whole place is guaranteed neutral ground by the Authorities themselves, and respected as such even by really hard cases like the Collector. As I understand it, the Hall was the cause of so many disputes by so many high rollers that the Authorities just stepped in and took over the business themselves, to make sure all deeds were kept and honoured…So we should be safe enough…”

  “But?” I said.

  “But, today we’re auctioning something rather special, even for us. That’s why you’re here, old thing. If everything does all go to Hell in a handcart, and I for one wouldn’t be at all surprised if it did, you get to stick your hand up and say, Stop thief. What you do after that is your problem. Only don’t look to me for help, because I shall have headed for the nearest exit. And don’t look to the bears, either. They mean well, but they’ve only got sawdust where their balls should be. If all else fails, I suppose you can always use your famous gift to track down wherever the thief’s taken it…”

  “Why did you hire me?” I asked, genuinely interested.

  Grave sniffed loudly. “Our insurance people insisted we hire someone, and you were the best…our budget could stretch to.”

  I was sti
ll looking for a response to that when we were approached by a familiar figure. It was Deliverance Wilde, fashion consultant and style guru to the Faerie of the Unseeli Court. Tall, loudly Jamaican, sharp and bitter and a defiant chain-smoker. If anyone ever found the nerve to object, she blew the smoke into their faces. She was currently wearing an elegantly tailored suit of a vivid lavender shade, which contrasted interestingly with her blue-black skin, topped by a very feathery hat. I raised an eyebrow at the new look, but as always Wilde got her retaliation in first.

  “Don’t show your ignorance, darling. Lavender is this season’s colour, whether it likes it or not.”

  She struck a studiedly casual pose before me, head tilted back to better show off her high cheekbones and sensual mouth. Deliverance Wilde treated the whole world like a catwalk. Yet her eyes had trouble meeting mine, and the hand holding her cigarette wasn’t as steady as it might have been. Wilde was nervous about something. Now, it might just have been the strain of meeting me. I do tend to make people nervous; it’s part of my carefully crafted reputation. But Wilde wasn’t really focussed on me, or even Grave. Instead, she glared about the Auction Hall, shooting quick puffs of smoke in every direction.

  “I always hate coming back to the Nightside,” she said abruptly. “Vulgar, darlings, utterly vulgar. I prefer to spend my time with the Faerie. They’re so…delightfully shallow and superficial.”

  Lot you know, I thought, but had the sense not to say it aloud. Wilde had been known to stub her cigarette out on people who annoyed her.

  “I only come back here to attend the fashion shows and stock up on ciggies,” she continued remorselessly. “And to carry out the odd spot of business, of course.” She looked at me directly for the first time. “I’m glad you’re here, John. It means the Auction Hall is taking this event seriously. As they should. I have got my hands on…something rather special.”