Here private detective John Taylor, long accustomed to dealing with ghosts and wizards and ghouls in the Nightside, takes on his strangest case, that of a witch who lost her heart—and wants it
THE CITY OF LONDON HAS A HIDDEN HEART; A DARK AND SECRET PLACE where gods and monsters go fist-fighting through alleyways, where wonders and marvels are two a penny, where everything and everyone is up for sale, and all your dreams can come true. Especially the ones where you wake up screaming. In London’s Nightside it’s always dark, always three o’clock in the morning, the hour that tries men’s souls . . . and finds them wanting.
I WAS DRINKING WORMWOOD BRANDY IN THE OLDEST BAR IN THE WORLD when the femme fatale walked in. The bar was quiet, or at least as quiet as it ever gets. A bunch of female ghouls out on a hen night were getting tipsy on Mother’s Ruin and complaining about the quality of the finger buffet. Ghouls just want to have fun. A pair of Neanderthals who’d put away so many smart drinks they were practically evolving before my eyes. And four Emissaries from the Outer Dark were playing cutthroat bridge and cheating each other blind. Just another night at Strangefellows—until she walked in.
She came striding between the tables with her head held high, as though she owned the place, or at the very least was planning a hostile takeover. She slammed to a halt before my table, gave me a big smile, and let me look her over. A tall, slender platinum blonde, late teens, Little Black Dress . . . big eyes, big smile, industrial-strength makeup. Attractive enough, in an intimidating sort of way. An English rose with more than her fair share of thorns. She introduced herself in a light breathy voice and sat down opposite me without waiting to be asked. She tried her smile on me again. On anyone else, it would probably have worked.
“You’re John Taylor, private investigator,” she said briskly. “I’m Holly Wylde, and I’m a witch. My ex stole my heart. I want you to find it, and get it back for me.”
Not the strangest thing I’ve ever been asked to find, but I felt obliged to raise an eyebrow.
“I’m being quite literal,” she said. “All witches learn how to remove their hearts, and keep them safe and secure in some private place, so that no one can ever fully kill us. As long as the heart stays safe, we always come back. Hardly sporting, I know, but if I believed in things like fair play I’d never have become a witch in the first place. My ex, bad cess to his diseased soul, used to be my mentor. Taught me all I know about magic, and rogered me breathless every evening at no extra cost. Gideon Brooks; perhaps you know the name?”
“No,” I said. “Which is unusual. I know all the Major Players in the Nightside, all the real movers and shakers on the magical scene; but I don’t know him.”
She shrugged prettily. “When it comes to forbidden knowledge, Gideon is the reason why a lot of it is forbidden. A very powerful, very dangerous man, on the quiet. Anyway, I thought we were getting on splendidly. But when I decided I’d learned enough to leave Gideon and strike out on my own, he suddenly got all possessive on me. I thought we were just mentor and student, with benefits, but now he’s all over me, declaring his undying love and how he can’t live without me! Well. I was shocked, Mister Taylor. I don’t do emotional entanglements. Not at this stage in my career. I tried to be graceful about it, but there’s only so many ways a girl can say ‘No!’ in a loud and carrying voice. So. After a while he calmed down, apologized, and said he was just worried about me. Which was fair enough. But then he persuaded me to hand over my heart, so he could place some heavy-duty protections on it, to keep me safe once I was out on my own. And like a fool, I believed him. He has my heart, Mister Taylor, and he won’t give it back! And whoever owns a witch’s heart will always have power over her. I’ll never be free of him.”
She finally stopped for breath and gave me the big smile again, accompanied by the big, big eyes and a deep breath to show off her bosoms. I gave her a smile of my own, no more sincere than hers. For all her artless honesty and finishing-school accent, Holly was as phony as a banker’s principles. All the time she’d been talking to me, her gaze had been darting all around the bar, hardly ever looking at me, and never making eye contact for more than a few seconds. Which is a pretty reliable sign that someone is lying to you. But that was okay; I’m used to clients lying to me, or at the very least being economical with the truth. My job is to find what the client asks for. The truth makes the job easier, but I can work around it if I have to.
“What kind of a witch are you, Holly?” I said. “Black, white, Wiccan, or gingerbread house?”
She bestowed a happy wink on me. “I never allow myself to be limited by other people’s perceptions. I’m just a free spirit, Mister Taylor; or at least I was, until I met Gideon Brooks. Nasty man. Say you’ll help me. Pretty please.”
“I’ll help you,” I said. “For one thousand pounds a day, plus expenses. And don’t plead poverty. That dress you’re wearing costs more than I make in a year. And don’t get me started on the shoes.”
She didn’t even blink. Just slapped an envelope down on the table before me. When I opened it, a thousand pounds in cash stared back. I gave Holly my best professional smile and made the envelope disappear about my person. Never put temptation in other people’s way, especially in a bar like Strangefellows, where they’ll steal your gold fillings if you fall asleep with your mouth open. Holly leaned forward across the table to fix me with what she thought was a serious look.
“They say you have a special gift for finding things, Mister Taylor; a magical inner eye that can See where everything is. But that won’t help you find my heart. Gideon placed it inside a special protective rosewood box, called Heart’s Ease. No one can pierce the magics surrounding that box—and only Gideon can open it. And you won’t be able to find him or his house, either. Gideon lives inside his own private pocket dimension that only connects with our world when he feels like it. I only saw him when he let his house appear, at various places throughout the Nightside. And I haven’t seen him since he stole my heart.” She looked me right in the eye while she told me this, so I accepted most of it as provisionally true.
She leaned back in her chair and gave me her big smile again. It really was quite impressive. She must have spent a lot of time practicing it in front of a mirror.
“I know: Find a missing heart, and a missing man, in a missing house. But if finding them were easy I wouldn’t need you, would I, Mister Taylor?”
She got up to leave. As entirely calm and composed as when she’d entered, despite her fascinating sob story.
“How will I find you?” I said.
“You won’t, Mister Taylor. I’ll find you. Toodles.”
She waggled her fingers at me in a genteel good-bye, and was off, striding away with a straight back, ignoring her surroundings as though they were unworthy of her. Which they probably were. Strangefellows isn’t exactly elite, and you couldn’t drive it upmarket with a whip and a chair. I sipped thoughtfully at my wormwood brandy for a while, and then strolled over to the long mahogany bar to have a quiet word with Strangefellows’ owner, bartender, and long-time pain in the neck, Alex Morrisey. Alex only wears black because no one has come up with a darker color, and he could gloom for the Olympics, with an honorable mention in existential angst. He started losing his hair while he was still in his early twenties, and I can’t help feeling there’s a connection. He was currently prodding the bar snacks with a stick, to see if they had any life left in them.
A bunch of spirits were hanging round the bar: shifting semitransparent shapes that blended in and out of each other as they drained the memories of old wines from long-empty bottles. Only Alex could sell the same bottle of wine several times over. I made the sign of the extremely cross at the spirits, and they drifted sulkily off down the bar so Alex and I could talk privately.
