Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth Read online

  “Have I got time to go to confession first?” said Suzie.

  “You leave that priest alone,” I said firmly. “He still hasn’t got over your last visit.”

  Alex produced an old-fashioned storm lantern from underneath the bar, lit the wick with a muttered Word, and then hauled open the trap-door set in the floor behind the bar. It came up easily, without the slightest creak from the old brass hinges, revealing smooth stone steps leading down into pitch-darkness. Suzie and I both leaned over and had a good look, but the light from the bar didn’t penetrate past the first few steps. Suzie had her shotgun out and at the ready. Alex sniffed loudly.

  “This is an ancient family secret I’m entrusting you with. Whatever you see down there, or think you see, it’s private. And don’t show me up in front of my ancestors, or I’ll never live it down.”

  He led the way down the steps, holding the lantern out before him. Its pale amber light didn’t travel far into the dark. Suzie and I followed him, sticking as close as possible. The steps continued down for rather longer than was comfortable, and the roar of voices from the bar was soon left behind. The air became increasingly close and clammy, and the surrounding darkness had a watchful feel.

  “There’s no electricity down here,” said Alex, after a while. His voice sounded small and flat, without the faintest trace of an echo, even though I could all but feel a vast space opening up around us. “Something down here interferes with all the regular means of power supply.”

  “Don’t you mean someone?” said Suzie.

  “I try really hard not to think about things like that,” said Alex.

  The stone steps finally gave out onto a packed-dirt floor. The bare earth was hard and dry and utterly unyielding under my feet. A blue-white glow began to manifest around us, unconnected to the storm lantern or any other obvious source. It rapidly became clear we were standing at the beginnings of a great stone cavern, a vast open space with roughly worked bare stone walls and an uncomfortably low ceiling. I felt like crouching, even though there was plenty of headroom. And there before us, stretching out into the gloomy distance, hundreds of graves set in neat rows, low mounds of earth in the floor, with simple, unadorned headstones. There were no crosses anywhere.

  “My ancestors,” said Alex, in a soft, reflective, quietly bitter voice. “We all end up here, under the bar we give our lives to. Whether we want to or not. Merlin’s indentured servants, bound to Strangefellows by his will, down all the many centuries. And yes, I know everyone else who dies in the Nightside is supposed to have their funerals handled by the Necropolis, by order of the Authorities, but Merlin’s never given a damn for any authority other than his own. Besides, I think we all feel safer here, under his protection, than any earthly authority’s. One day I’ll be laid to rest here. No flowers by request, and if anyone tries to sing a hymn, you have my permission to defenestrate the bastard.”

  “How many graves are there?” I said.

  “Not as many as you’d think,” said Alex. He put his lantern down on the bottom step and glowered around him. “We all tend to be long-lived. If we don’t get killed horribly somewhere along the way. Only useful thing we inherited from our appalling ancestor.”

  He started out across the cavern floor. Despite the limited lighting, he was still wearing his sunglasses. Style had never been a sometime thing with Alex Morrisey. Suzie and I followed, trying to look in all directions at once. We passed by great barrels of beer and casks of wine, and bottles of rare and vicious vintage, laid out respectfully in a wine rack that looked even older than its contents. There were no cobwebs, and not even a speck of dust anywhere. And somehow I knew it wasn’t because Alex was handy with a feather duster.

  “It occurs to me,” I said carefully, “that there’s no sign anywhere of the people Walker insisted on sending down here. Not any bodies. Not even any bits of bodies.”

  “I know,” said Alex. “Worrying, isn’t it?”

  We stopped again, to consider a grave set some distance away from the others. Just another low mound of earth, but with no headstone or marker. Instead, there was a massive silver crucifix, pressing down the length of the earth mound. The silver was pitted and corroded.

  “Presumably put there in the hope it would hold him in his grave and keep him from straying,” said Alex. “They should have known better. You couldn’t keep Merlin Satanspawn down if you put St. Paul’s Cathedral on top of his grave.”

  “You have to wonder exactly what’s in there,” I said. “After all these centuries.”

  “You wonder,” said Suzie. “I like to sleep soundly at night.”

  “Just bones?” I said. “No different from anyone else’s?”

  “No,” said Alex. “I think, if you dragged away the crucifix and dug him up…he’d look exactly like he did the day he was buried. Untouched by time or the grave. And he’d open his eyes and smile at you, and tell you to cover him up again. He was the Devil’s son after all, the Antichrist in person, even if he did refuse the honour to make his own path. You really think the world is finished with him yet? Or vice versa? No…the bastard’s still hoping some poor damned fool will find his missing heart and return it to him. Then he’ll rise out of that grave and go forth to do awful things in the Nightside…and no-one will be able to stop him.”

  “God, you’re fun to be around, Alex,” I said.

  We moved on, giving the grave plenty of room. The blue-white light moved with us, cold and intense, and our shadows seemed far too big to be ours. The darkness and the silence pressed in around us. Finally, we came to a bare and undistinguished-looking door, set flush into the stone wall. A gleaming copper latch, inscribed with blocky Druidic symbols, held it shut. I reached out a hand to the latch, then snatched it quickly back again. Some inner voice was shouting loudly that it would be a very bad idea for anyone but Alex to touch it. He smiled at me tiredly.

  “This door will open out onto anywhere you want, within a one-mile radius of the bar,” he said. “Announce your destination out loud, and I’ll send you on your way. But be really sure of where you want to go, because once you’re through the door, that’s it. It’s a one-way door.”

  “Who put it here?” said Suzie.

  “Who do you think?” said Alex.

  “You mean this door’s been here for fifteen hundred years?” I said.

  Alex shrugged. “Maybe longer. This is the oldest bar in the world, after all. Now get the hell out of here. I’ve got customers waiting upstairs with my money burning a hole in their pockets.”

  “Thank you, Alex,” I said. “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “What the hell,” said Alex. “You’re family. In every way that matters.”

  We smiled briefly at each other, then looked away. We’ve never been very good at saying the things that matter.

  “Where do we want to go to?” said Suzie, probably not even noticing the undercurrents. She’d never been very good at emotions, even hers. “You can bet Walker’s people will be guarding all the approaches to the Necropolis.”

  “Not if we go directly there,” I said.

  “Not possible,” Alex said immediately. “I told you, nothing over a mile radius.”

  I grinned. “I was thinking of paying the Doormouse a visit.”

  Suzie winced visibly. “Do we have to? I mean, he’s so damned…cute. I don’t do cute.”

  “Brace yourself,” I said kindly. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

  I announced our destination in a loud, clear voice, and Alex hit the latch and pulled the door open, revealing a typical Nightside street. People and other things bustled briskly back and forth, and the gaudy Technicolor neon pushed back the gloom of the cellar. I strode forward into the welcoming night, with Suzie right behind me, and Alex slammed the door shut.

  To the crowds in the street, we must have seemed to appear suddenly out of nowhere, but that was nothing new in the Nightside, so no-one noticed, or if they did, no-one gave a damn. They were all inte
nt on pursuing their own pleasures and damnations. The twilight daughters catcalled to prospective customers from the street corners, sticking out their breasts and batting kohl-stained eyes. Club barkers cried their wares to the more unsuspecting tourists, and the traffic on the road roared past without ever, ever stopping.

  I hurried down the rain-slick pavement, noting without surprise that some people were already muttering my name and Suzie’s into mobile phones. Must be a really good price on my head. And there was the Doormouse’s shop, right ahead. It was set between a new establishment called the Bazaar of the Bizarre and a music emporium that specialised in rare vinyl LPs from alternate dimensions. I paused despite myself to check out the latest specials in the window. There was a Rolling Stones album with Marianne Faithfull as the lead singer, a Pink Floyd debut LP where they were fronted by Arthur Brown, and a live double album of Janis Joplin, from her gigs as an overweight, middle-aged lounge singer in Las Vegas. I wasn’t tempted. Not at those prices.

  The frosted-glass doors hissed open as I entered the Doormouse’s excellent establishment. Then I had to go back out again and drag Suzie Shooter in. Inside, it was all very high-tech, with rows of computers and towering stacks of futuristic technology, most of which I couldn’t even identify, let alone hope to understand. The Doormouse had very good contacts and an uncanny eye for a bargain. But what he did best…was doors. He came bustling forward to meet us, a cheerful six-foot-tall roughly humanoid mouse, with dark chocolate fur under a pristine white lab coat, complete with pocket protector. He had a long muzzle with twitching whiskers, but his kind eyes were entirely human. He lurched to a halt before us, clapped his paws together, and chattered pleasantly in a high-pitched but perfectly clear voice.

  “Welcome, welcome, sir and lady, to my humble establishment! Am I correct in thinking I am in the presence of two of the Nightside’s most noted celebrities? John Taylor and Shotgun Suzie, no less! My, my, what a day! I know, I know, you weren’t expecting all this technology, were you? No-one ever does. You hear the name Doormouse, and immediately your thoughts go all rustic, but I, sir and lady, am a Town Mouse! And proud of it! Now, what can I do for you? I have doors for everyone, to everywhere, and all points between. And all at very reasonable prices! So, just state your travelling needs, and I shall rush to satisfy them! Why is she growling at me?”

  “Don’t mind her,” I said. “She’s being herself. Are you the only mouse in the Nightside? That is…”

  “I quite grasp your meaning, sir. There were others, once, but they all moved away to a small town in the countryside. Wimps. I am the only one of my kind currently residing here.”

  “Good,” said Suzie. “I was beginning to think I’d have to start putting bigger traps down.”

  “I need a door,” I said, loudly. “One that will take us directly to the Necropolis. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Oh no, sir, not at all,” said the Doormouse, edging just a little further away from Suzie. “I always keep a number of the more common destination doors in stock, ready for sale. Both inside and outside the Nightside. This way if you please, sir and…lady…”

  He scurried away deeper into his shop, with Suzie and me in close pursuit, to a showroom full of doors standing upright on end, apparently entirely unsupported. Neat handwritten labels announced the destination they opened onto. Shadows Fall, Hy Breasil, Hyperborea, Carcosa. Together with a whole series of doors that would take you practically anywhere inside the Nightside. But it was two other doors that caught my attention, standing a little off to one side. They were labelled simply Heaven and Hell. They looked no different than any of the others—simple waxed and polished wood, each with a gleaming brass handle.

  “Ah yes,” said the Doormouse, easing chummily in beside me. “Everyone notices those.”

  “Can they really take you where it says they go?” I said.

  “That is a matter of some debate,” the Doormouse admitted, crinkling his muzzle. “The theory’s sound, and the mathematics quite clear. Certainly no-one who’s gone through has ever come back to complain…”

  “Let us talk of other things,” I said.

  “Yes, let’s,” said the Doormouse.

  He led us past other doors, some labelled in languages and ideographs even I couldn’t identify. And I’ve been around. We finally came to a door labelled Necropolis. The Doormouse patted it affectionately with one padded paw.

  “I always keep this one charged up and at the ready for people who need to visit the Necropolis for a sad occasion. Much more dignified than fighting the traffic in a black Rolls Royce. This door will deliver you and the…lady, to right outside the main entrance.”

  “Not inside?” I said sharply.

  “She’s started growling again,” said the Doormouse. “No, no, sir. Never inside! My doors lead only to exterior locations. If word got out that I was willing to provide access to the interiors of buildings, thus circumventing all usual security measures, you can be sure the Authorities would send Walker to shut me down. With prejudice. Now, sir, let us talk of the price.”

  We haggled for a while, and he drove a really hard bargain for a mouse. We finally settled for an only moderately painful extortionate sum, which I paid with gold from the traveller’s pouch Old Father Time had given me, when I travelled back in Time. The pouch was seemingly bottomless, and I’m pretty sure Time meant for me to give it back to him when I returned, but I fully intended to hang on to it until it was wrestled from my grasp. The Doormouse opened the door with a flourish, and Suzie and I stepped through into another part of the Nightside.

  The Necropolis looked just as I remembered it; big, dark, and supernaturally ugly. I’d been here not long ago, with Dead Boy, to clean up an incursion by Primal demons. Which meant that technically speaking the Necropolis staff still owed me a favour. How much weight that had, when set against Walker’s publicly stated disapproval, remained to be seen.

  The Necropolis itself was a huge towering edifice of old brick and stone, with no windows anywhere and a long, gabled roof. The various owners had been adding exteriors to it for years, in a clashing variety of styles, and yet the building maintained a traditional aspect of gloom and depression. The one and only front door was a massive slab of solid steel, rimmed with silver, covered with deeply etched runes and sigils and a whole bunch of nasty words in dead languages. Two huge chimneys at the back pumped out thick black smoke from the on-site crematorium.

  The Necropolis serves all the Nightside’s funereal needs. Any religion, any ritual, any requests, no matter how odd or distressing. Cash up front and no questions asked. People paid serious money to ensure that their dearly departed could rest peacefully in their graves, undisturbed and unmolested by any of the many magicians, necromancers, and creatures of the night who might profess an unhealthy interest in the helpless dead. And, of course, to ensure that the dead stayed dead and didn’t turn up unexpectedly to contest the will. In the Nightside, you learn to cover all the bases. I considered the ugly, sprawling building before me. Cathy was being held there somewhere, very much against her will, and if she’d been harmed in any way, someone was going to pay for it in blood and horror.

  “Enough travelling,” said Suzie Shooter. “I feel the need to kill someone.”

  “Questions first,” I said. “But if anyone doesn’t feel like talking, feel free to encourage them in violent and distressing ways.”

  “You know how to show a girl a good time, Taylor.”

  “Except, your secretary isn’t in there,” said a calm, quiet, and very familiar voice.

  We both looked round sharply and there he was, Razor Eddie, the Punk God of the Straight Razor, standing unnaturally still in the pool of light from a nearby street-lamp. Even though he very definitely hadn’t been there a moment before. Razor Eddie, a painfully thin presence wrapped up in an oversized grey coat held together by accumulated filth and grime. His hollowed face was deathly pale and streaked with grime, dominated by fever-bright eyes and a smi
le that had absolutely no humour in it. We walked over to him, and the smell hit us. Razor Eddie lived on the streets, slept in doorways, and existed on hand-outs, and he always smelled bad enough to make a sewer rat’s eyes water. I half expected the street-lights to start wilting.

  “All right,” said Suzie. “How did you know we’d be here, Eddie?”

  “I’m a god,” said Razor Eddie, in his quiet ghostly voice. “I always know what I need to know. Which is how I know exactly where your secretary is being held, John.”

  I regarded him thoughtfully. Eddie and I were friends, sort of, but given the kind of pressure Walker was capable of bringing to bear…Eddie nodded slightly, following my thoughts.

  “Cautious as ever, John, and quite right, too. But I’m here to help.”

  “Why?” I said bluntly.

  “Because Walker was foolish enough to try and order me to do his dirty work for him. Like I give a damn what the Authorities want. I go where I will, and do what I must, and no-one gets to stand in my way. No-one tells me what to do. So, your secretary isn’t being held inside the Necropolis building, but rather in their private graveyard. Which is so big they keep it in a private dimension that they sub-let.”

  “Who from?” said Suzie.

  “Best not to ask,” said Razor Eddie.

  I nodded. It made sense. I’d heard that the Necropolis’s extensive private graveyard was kept in a pocket dimension, for security reasons, protected by really heavy-duty magics. Getting in wouldn’t be easy.

  “You can’t just crash into the Necropolis and intimidate the staff into giving you access,” said Eddie.

  “Want to bet?” said Suzie.

  “They know you’re here,” Eddie said patiently. “And they’re already on the phone to Walker, screaming for reinforcements. By the time you’ve smashed your way through that building’s defences, you’ll be hip deep in Walker’s people. And your only real hope for rescuing Cathy is a surprise attack. Fortunately, I can offer an alternative way in.”