Hell to Pay Read online

Dead Boy looked seventeen, and had done for some thirty years now, ever since he was mugged and murdered in the Nightside. He was tall and adolescent-thin, wearing a long, purple greatcoat over black leather trousers, and tall calf-skin boots. He wore a black rose in one lapel. His long, bony face was so pale as to be almost colourless, though he’d brightened it up for the party with a touch of mascara and some deep purple lipstick. His coat hung open at the front, revealing a dead white torso covered in scars and bullet-holes, held together with stitches, staples, and the occasional stretch of duct tape. I glanced at his forehead, but the bullet-hole I knew was there couldn’t be seen, thanks to some builder’s putty and careful makeup.

  For all his finery, his features had a weary, debauched, Pre-Raphaelite look, with burning fever-bright eyes and a sullen, pouting mouth. Rossetti would have killed to paint him. Dead Boy wore a large floppy hat pressed down over long, dark, curly hair, and a pearl-headed tiepin in his bare throat. Show-off. I couldn’t help noticing that his car wouldn’t let him drive either. He dropped the whiskey bottle carelessly between his feet and fished about in the glove compartment before coming up with a packet of chocolate biscuits. He ripped the packet open and popped one in his mouth. He offered me the packet, but I declined. He shrugged easily and crunched happily on a second biscuit. Dead Boy didn’t need to eat or drink anymore, but he enjoyed the sensations. Though being dead, he had to work harder at it than most.

  You don’t even want to hear the rumours about his sex life.

  “So,” he said, somewhat indistinctly, spraying crumbs, “are you sure you can get me in? I mean, I’m persona non grata in so many places they have a preprinted form waiting, these days. It’s not my fault I haven’t got any manners. I’m dead. They should cut me some slack.”

  “I’m invited,” I said, “so you can be my plus one. Please don’t piss in the potted plants, try to hump the hostess, or kill anyone unless you absolutely have to. But, you’re an immortal, sort of, so the Griffins will just love to meet you. They collect celebrity immortals, eager as they are for hints and tips on how to get the most out of their long lives, and perhaps a few clues on how to get out of the deal that made the Griffin immortal in the first place.” I looked thoughtfully at Dead Boy. “There are those who say the Griffin made a bargain with the Devil, though I’m starting to wonder. You made a bargain…”

  “But not with the Devil,” said Dead Boy, staring straight ahead. “I would have got a better deal with the Devil.”

  The futuristic car slammed through the packed traffic, leaving weeping and mayhem in its wake, and got us back to Griffin Hall in record time. Sometimes I think the car takes short cuts through adjoining realities when it’s in a hurry. We tore through the tall gates, barely giving them enough time to get out of our way, and rocketed up the long, winding road to Griffin Hall. This time the surrounding jungle all but fell over itself cringing back on all sides as we passed. I’d never seen trees twitch nervously before. Dead Boy opened a silver snuff-box and snorted something that glowed fluorescent green. I think you have to be dead to be able to tolerate stuff like that.

  The silver car swung smoothly around into the great enclosed courtyard outside the Hall and slammed on the brakes. The courtyard was packed full, with every kind of vehicle under the moon. All kinds of cars, from every time and culture, including one that floated smugly several inches above the ground. A Delorean was still spitting discharging tachyons, right next to a pumpkin coach with tomato trimmings, drawn by a really disgruntled-looking unicorn giving everyone the evil eye. Beside it was a large hut standing on tall chicken legs. That Baba Yaga can be a real party animal when she’s got a few drinks inside her. Dead Boy’s car made some room for itself by forcibly shunting some of the weaker-looking cars out of the way, then waited impatiently for Dead Boy and me to disembark, before slamming its doors shut after us and engaging all its security systems. I could hear all its guns powering up. I was also pretty sure I could hear it giggling.

  Griffin Hall was alive with light, every window blazing fiercely, and hundreds of paper lanterns glowed in perfect rows all across the courtyard to guide guests to the front door. Happy sounds blasted out of the door every time it opened, spilling a warm golden glow into the night. I waited patiently while Dead Boy checked he was looking his best and took a quick snort on an inhaler, then we headed for the door. If nothing else, Dead Boy was going to make a great distraction while I circulated quietly, asking pointed questions…Over to one side, a small crowd of uniformed chauffeurs were huddled together against the evening chill, sipping hot soup from a thermos. One of them wandered over to pet the unicorn, and the beast nearly took all his fingers off.

  It took Dead Boy and I some time to cross the packed courtyard, and I watched with interest as a silver Rolls Royce opened its doors to drop off a Marie Antoinette, complete with a huge hooped skirt and a towering powdered white wig, a very large Henry VIII, and a pinch-faced Pope Joan. They sailed towards the front door, chattering brightly, and the butler Hobbes was there to greet them with a smile and a formal bow. He passed them in, then turned back to see me approaching with Dead Boy, and the smile disappeared. At least he held the door open for us.

  “Back again so soon, Mr. Taylor?” Hobbes murmured suavely. “Imagine my delight. Should I arrange for servants to throw rose petals in your path, or is Miss Melissa still at large?”

  “Getting closer to the truth all the time,” I said easily. “Hobbes, this is a costume party, isn’t it, and not some Time-travellers’ ball?”

  “It is indeed a costume party, sir. The Time-Travellers’ Ball is next week. We’re sacrificing a Morlock for charity. Since a costume of some kind is required at this gathering, might I inquire what you have come as, sir?”

  “A private eye,” I said.

  “Of course you have, sir. And very convincing, too. Might I also inquire what your disturbing companion is supposed to be?”

  “I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past,” Dead Boy growled. “Now get your scrawny arse out of my way, flunky, or I’ll show you something deeply embarrassing from your childhood. Are those your own ears?”

  He slouched past the butler and sauntered off down the hall, and I hurried after him. It’s never wise to let Dead Boy out of your sight for long. A servant came hurrying forwards to lead us to the party, being careful to walk a safe distance ahead of us. I’d brought Dead Boy along to be the centre of attention, and already he was doing a fine job. I hoped he wouldn’t defenestrate anyone important this time. I could hear the party long before we got there—a raised babble of many voices, all determined to have a good time whatever it cost. The Griffin’s parties were reported on all the society pages and most of the gossip rags, and no-one wanted to be described as a wallflower or a wet blanket.

  The party itself was being held in a great ballroom in the West Wing, and Mariah Griffin herself was there at the door to greet us. She was magnificently attired as Queen Elizabeth I, in all the period finery, right down to a red wig over an artificially high forehead. The heavy white makeup and shaved eyebrows, however, only added to the pretty vacuity of her face. She extended an expensively beringed hand for us to kiss. I shook it politely, and Dead Boy dropped her a sporty wink.

  “Well now, we are honoured, aren’t we?” she said, fanning herself with a delicate paper fan I didn’t have the heart to tell her was way out of period. “Not only the infamous John Taylor, but also a fellow immortal, the legendary Dead Boy himself! Come to join my little gathering! How sweet.”

  I looked at Dead Boy. “How come I’m infamous, but you’re legendary?”

  “Charm,” said Dead Boy. “Solid charm.”

  “The tales you must have to tell,” said Mariah, tapping Dead Boy playfully on the arm with her fan. “Of all your many exploits and adventures! We would of course have invited you here long ago, but you do seem to move around a lot…”

  “Got to keep the creditors on their toes,” Dead Boy said cheerfully. “And a moving target is alw
ays the hardest to hit.”

  “Well, yes,” said Mariah, a little vaguely. “Quite! Do come in. I think you’re one of the very few long-lived we haven’t actually had the pleasure of meeting yet.”

  “Have you met the Lord of Thorns?” I said, just a little mischievously. “Or Old Father Time? Or Razor Eddie? Fascinating characters, you know. I could arrange introductions if you like.”

  She glared at me briefly, then turned her full attention back to charming Dead Boy. He gave her back his best darkly smouldering look, and she simpered happily, not realising he was sending her up. I grabbed Dead Boy firmly by the arm and steered him through the door before he could do or say anything that would require Jeremiah to have him reduced to his component parts and disposed of in a trash compactor. Dead Boy has remarkable appetites and absolutely no inhibitions. He says he finds being dead very liberating.

  The huge ballroom had been elaborately and expensively transformed into a massive old-fashioned rose garden. Low hedges and blossoming rose-bushes and creeping ivy trailing up the walls. Artificial sunlight poured through the magnificent stained-glass windows, and the air was full of sweet summer scents, along with the happy trills of bird-song and the quiet buzz of insects. There were wooden chairs and benches, love-seats and sun-dials, and even a gently gusting summer breeze, to cool an overheated brow. Neatly cropped grass underfoot, and the illusion of a cloudless summer sky above. No expense spared for the Griffin’s guests.

  I hoped none of the flowers had been brought in from the outside jungle.

  A uniformed and bewigged servant came forward with a silver platter bearing various drinks and beverages. I took a flute of champagne, just to be polite. Dead Boy took two. I glared at him, but it was a waste of time. He knocked back both glasses, belched loudly, and advanced determinedly on another servant carrying a tray full of party snacks. I let him go and looked around the crowded garden. There had to be at least a hundred people come to attend Mariah’s little do, all dressed up in the most outlandish and expensive costumes possible. They were here to see and be seen, and most importantly, talked about. All the usual celebrities and famous faces had turned up, along with all the most aristocratic members of High Society, and a small group of men keeping conspicuously to themselves, immediately recognisable as Jeremiah Griffin’s most prominent business enemies.

  Big Jake Rackham, Uptown Taffy Lewis, both in formal tuxedos, because their dignity wouldn’t allow them to be seen in anything less in the presence of their enemy. Max Maxwell, the Voodoo King, so big they named him twice, dressed up as Baron Samedi, and next to him, somewhat to my surprise, General Condor. I’d never met the man, but I knew his reputation. Everyone did. The General had been a starship commander in some future time, before he fell into the Nightside through a passing Timeslip. A very strong-minded, moral, and upright man, he disapproved of pretty much everything and everyone in the Nightside, and had made it his mission to change the Nightside for the better. He disapproved of the Griffin and his business practices most of all. But enough to ally himself with these men? A straight-backed, strait-laced military man, working with the Griffin’s enemies? Presumably because the enemy of my enemy is my ally, if not my friend. I just hoped he knew any one of them would stab him in the back first chance they got. The General really should have known better. He might have been a hero in the future he came from, but the Nightside does so love to break a hero…

  The businessmen kept a careful and discreet distance from the ongoing festivities, and from each other. They were only here to check out the Griffin, and for all General Condor’s attempts to find some common ground, they had nothing to say to each other. All they had in common was their hatred and fear of a shared enemy. I looked round sharply as the party’s noise level dropped abruptly, in time to see the crowd part respectfully to allow Jeremiah Griffin to approach me. He ignored everyone else, his attention focused solely on me, his expression ostentatiously calm and unconcerned. Dead Boy wandered back to join me, stuffing his face with a handful of assorted snacks and spilling crumbs down the front of his coat. He moved into position beside me, facing Jeremiah, so everyone would know where he stood. The Griffin crashed to a halt in front of us.

  “John Taylor!” he said, in a loud and carrying voice, so everyone present would be in no doubt of who I was. “So good of you to come at such short notice. I’m sure we have lots to talk about.” It wasn’t exactly subtle, but it made the required impression. People were already muttering and whispering together about what I was doing here and what I might have to tell. The Griffin looked dubiously at Dead Boy. “And you’ve brought a friend, John. How nice.”

  “I’m Dead Boy, and you’re very pleased to meet me,” Dead Boy said indistinctly, through a mouthful of food. “Yes, I am immortal, sort of, but no, there’s nothing I can do to help you with any deal you may or may not have made. Good food. You got any more?”

  The Griffin summoned a servant with a fresh tray of party nibbles, watched with a somewhat pained expression as Dead Boy grabbed the lot, then turned his attention back to me. “I see you’ve spotted my business rivals, cowering together,” he said, in a somewhat lower voice. “Afraid to circulate, for fear they’ll hear bad things about themselves. But I knew they couldn’t stay away. They had to see for themselves how I was coping. Well, let them look. Let them see how calm and controlled I am. Let them see who I have hired to deal with this threat to me and my family.”

  “So business is still good?” I said. “The city still has confidence in you?”

  “Hell, no. All this uncertainty is ruining me financially. But I’ve made arrangements, and you can be sure that if I go down, I’ll take them all with me.” The Griffin fixed me with a fierce stare. “You let me worry about the finances, Taylor. You concentrate on finding Melissa. Time is running out. Once she is returned to me, everything will be well again.”

  He then made a deliberate effort to change the subject by pointing out several other immortals who had come to grace his party with their presence. The vampire Count Stobolzny had come as a white-faced clown, in a white clown suit set off with a row of blood-red bobbles down the front. To match his eyes, presumably. But for all the Count’s airs and graces, there was nothing human about him. You only had to look at him to see him for what he really was—a slowly rotting corpse that had dug itself up out of its own grave to feast on the living. Behind the ragged lips were animals’ teeth, made for rending and tearing. I’ve never understood why some people see leeches as romantic.

  Then there were two elves in full Elizabethan dress, probably because that was the height of fashion the last time they’d shared the world with us. The elves walked sideways from the sun centuries ago, disappearing into their own private dimension once it became clear they were losing their long war with Humanity. They only come back now to mess with us and screw us over. It’s all they have left. Both elves were supernaturally tall and slender and elegant, holding themselves ostentatiously apart from the vulgar displays of human enjoyment, while never missing a chance to look down their arrogant noses at anyone who got too close. So why invite them? Because they were immortal, and knew many things, and magic moved in them like breath and blood. It is possible to make a deal with an elf, if you have something they want badly enough. But you’d be well advised to count your testicles afterwards. And those of anyone close to you. The Griffin named these elves as Cobweb and Moth, which rang a faint bell in my memory. I knew that would bug me all evening till I got it.

  Not that far away, two godlings were chatting easily together. The huge Hell’s Angel in big black motorcycle leathers was apparently Jimmy Thunder, God for Hire, descended from the Norse God Thor and current holder of the mystic hammer Mjolnir. He was a happy, burly sort, with a long mane of flame red hair and a great bushy beard. He looked like he could bench-press a steam engine if he felt like it, and also like he wouldn’t stop boasting about it for weeks afterwards. His companion was Mistress Mayhem, a tall blue-skinned beauty with midnight
-dark hair down to her slender waist. She was descended (at many removes, one hopes) from the Indian death goddess Kali. She’d come dressed as Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, her form-fitting black silk dress cut away to show as much blue skin as possible. Jeremiah insisted on walking me over and introducing me, and they both smiled politely.

  “Just passing through,” Jimmy Thunder boomed. “I was over in Shadows Fall, consulting with the Norns, and I had to stop over here to refuel my bike. You wouldn’t believe how much they wanted to charge me for a few gallons of virgin’s blood! I mean, I know there’s a shortage these days, but…Anyway, Mayhem told me about this party, and I never miss a chance for a good knees up at someone else’s expense.” He prodded me cheerfully in the chest with one oversized finger. “So, you’re Lilith’s son. Not sure if that makes you a godling or not. Either way, don’t let anyone start a religion over you. They get so damned needy, and they never stop bothering you. These days I limit my worshippers to setting up tribute sites on the Net.”

  “Which you are always visiting,” said Mistress Mayhem.

  I studied her thoughtfully. “Are you really descended from a death goddess?”

  “Oh yes. Would you like to see me wither a flower?”

  “Maybe later,” I said politely.

  Jimmy Thunder put a huge arm companionably across Mistress Mayhem’s shoulders. “Hey sweetie, want to hold my hammer?”

  Perhaps fortunately, at that point someone grabbed me firmly by the arm and steered me over to the nearest wall for a private chat. I don’t normally let people do that, but for Larry Oblivion I made an exception. We’d fought side by side in the Lilith War, but I wouldn’t call us friends. Especially after what happened to his brother Tommy. Larry Oblivion, the deceased detective, the post-mortem private eye. Murdered by his own partner, he survives now as some kind of zombie. No-one knows the details, because he doesn’t like to talk about it. You wouldn’t know he was dead till you got up close and smelled the formaldehyde. He was dressed in the very best Armani, tall and well built, with straw-coloured hair over a pale, stubborn face. But you only had to look into his eyes to know what he was. Meeting Larry Oblivion’s gaze was like leaning over an open grave. I stared right back at him, giving him gaze for gaze. You can’t show weakness in the Nightside, or they’ll walk right over you.