“Gideon Brooks,” Alex said thoughtfully, after I’d filled him in on the necessary details. He cleaned a dirty glass with the same towel he used to mop up spills from the bartop, to give him time to think. “Not one of the big Names, but you know that as well as I do. Of course, the really powerful ones like to stay out of sight and under the radar. But the rosewood box, Heart’s Ease . . . that name rings a bell. Some sort of priceless collectible; the kind that’s worth so much it’s rarely bought or sold, but more often prized from the dead fingers of its previous owner.”
“Collectibles,” I said. “Always more trouble than they’re worth. And the Nightside is littered with those magic little shops that sell absolutely anything, no questions asked, and certainly no guarantees. Where the hell am I supposed to start?”
Alex smirked and slapped a cheap flyer down before me. ONCE AND FUTURE COLLECTIBLES, announced the ugly block lettering. I should have known. All kinds of rare and strange items turn up in the Nightside, from the past, the future, and any number of alternate earths. The jetsam and flotsam of the invisible world. And, this being the Nightside, there’s always someone ready to make a profit out of it. The Once and Future Collectibles traveling show offered the largest selection of magical memorabilia and general weird shit to be found anywhere. Someone would know about the rosewood box. I made a note of the current address and looked up to find Alex grinning at me.
“You know who you need to talk to,” he said. “The Queen of Hearts. She’s bound to be there, and she knows everything there is to be known about heart-related collectibles. Big Bad Betty herself... I’m sure she’ll be only too happy to renew your acquaintance . . .”
“Don’t,” I said. “The only good thing that woman ever taught me was to avoid mixing my drinks.”
“I thought you made a lovely couple.”
“You want a slap?”
I LEFT STRANGEFELLOWS AND HEADED OUT INTO THE NARROW RAIN-SLICK streets of the Nightside. The night was bustling with people, and some things very definitely not people, all in hot-eyed pursuit of things that were bad for them. Hot neon burned to every side, and cool music wafted out of the open doors of the kind of clubs that never close; where you can put on the red shoes and dance till you bleed. Exotic smells from a hundred different cuisines, barkers at open doors shilling thrills so exotic they don’t even have a name in polite company, and, of course, the twilight daughters, patrolling every street corner; love for sale, or something very like it. You’re never far from heaven or hell in the Nightside, though they’re often the same place, under new management.
I was heading for the old Market Hall, where the Once and Future Collectibles were currently set up, when someone eased up alongside and made himself known to me. He was got up like a 1950s biker: all gleaming black leathers, polished steel chains, peaked leather cap, and an almost convincing Brando swagger. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, seventeen, with a corpse-pale face and thin colorless lips. His eyes were dark, his gaze hooded and malignant. He matched my pace exactly, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.
“The name’s Gunboy,” he said, in a calm, easy monotone, not even looking at me. “Mister Sweetman wants to talk with you. Now.”
“All lines busy,” I said. “Call back later.”
“When Mister Sweetman wants to talk to someone, they talk to him.”
“How nice for Mister Sweetman. But when I don’t want to talk to people, I have a tendency to push them off the pavement and let them go play with the traffic.”
Gunboy took one hand out of his jacket pocket and pointed it at me, the fingers shaped like a child’s imaginary gun. He let me have a good look at it, and then pointed the single extended finger at a row of blazing neon bulbs set above the door to a Long Pigge franchise. His hand barely moved, but one by one the bulbs exploded, sparks flying wildly on the night air. A large man in a blood-soaked white overall came hurrying out to complain, took one look at Gunboy, and went straight back in again. Gunboy blew imaginary smoke from his finger and then stuck it casually in my ribs. He wasn’t smiling, and his dark gaze was hot and compelling.
“Conceptual guns,” he said, his lips barely moving. “Conceptual bullets. Real, because I believe they are. The power comes from me, and so do the dead bodies. Come with me, or I’ll make real holes in you.”
I considered him thoughtfully. Down the years, I’ve acquired several useful and really quite underhanded tricks for dealing with guns aimed in my direction, but they all depended on there being some kind of actual gun to deal with. So I gave Gunboy my best
MISTER SWEETMAN TURNED OUT TO BE STAYING AT THE HOTEL DES HEURES: a very upmarket, very pricey establishment, where all the rooms were individually time-coded. Stay as long as you like in your room, and not one moment will have passed when you step outside again. The ultimate in assured privacy—as long as you keep your door locked. You could spend your whole life in one of those rooms—though don’t ask me how they manage room service.
Gunboy guided me to the right room, performed a special knock on the door, waited for it to open, and then pushed me inside. The single finger prodding me in my back was enough to keep me moving. Mister Sweetman was waiting for us. A very large Greek gentleman in a spotless white kaftan, he rose ponderously from an overstuffed chair and nodded easily to me. His head was shaved, he wore dark eye makeup, and he smiled only briefly as he gestured for me to take the chair opposite. We both sat down, looking each other over with open curiosity. Gunboy stayed by the door, his hands back in his jacket pockets, looking at nothing in particular.
“Mister Taylor!” said Sweetman, in a rich, happy voice. “An honor, my dear sir, I do assure you! One bumps into so many living legends in the Nightside that it is a positive treat to encounter the real thing! I am Elias Sweetman, a man of large appetites, always hungry for more. You and I, sir, have business to discuss. To our mutual benefit, I hope. You may talk candidly here, Mister Taylor; dear Gunboy will ensure that we are not interrupted.”
Gunboy gave me a brief look, to indicate that I’d better behave myself, and then leaned back against the door. His eyes were immediately elsewhere, as he thought about whatever teenage thrill-killers think about. I was going to have to do something about Gunboy, for my pride’s sake. I smiled easily at Sweetman while he arranged the folds of his kaftan for maximum comfort. He looked like a man who liked his comforts. He smiled on me like some favorite uncle who might bestow all manner of treats if he felt so inclined.
“Your reputation precedes you, Mister Taylor, indeed it does, so let us not beat about the bush. You are currently in pursuit of a certain prize that I have a special interest in; the box, Mister Taylor, the rosewood box. It has gone by many names, of course, inevitable for a treasure that has passed through so many hands down the centuries, but I believe you might know it as Heart’s Ease.”
“I know the name,” I said, carefully noncommittal.
He let out a sharp bark of laughter. “I do admire a man who plays his cards close to his chest, indeed I do, Mister Taylor! But there’s no need to be bashful here. I have pursued the rosewood box for many years, through many lands in many worlds, disputing with equally serious collectors along the way, but now . . . the box has come to the Nightside. So here we all are. Yes . . . I must ask you, Mister Taylor: what, precisely, is your interest in the box?”
I didn’t see any good reason to conceal the truth, so I gave him the reader’s-notes version of what Holly told me, concealing only her name. When I was finished, Sweetman gave his short bark of laughter again.
“Whatever the rosewood box may turn out to contain, Mister Taylor, I can assure you it is most definitely not the heart of some unimportant little witch. No, no . . . the box contains a source of great power. A great man’s heart, perhaps even a god’s . . . Some say the box contains the preserved heart of the great old god Lud, the original foundation stone for London. Others say the box contains the missing heart of that terrible old sorcerer, Merlin Satanspawn. Or perhaps the heart of Nikola Tesla, the broken and bitter saint of twentieth-century science. No one knows for sure; only that the box contains a power worth dying for. Or killing for . . . Certainly, the box has become so famous in its own right it has become a collectible in itself, whatever it might eventually prove to contain.”
“So,” I said, “a source of wealth, and possibly power. No wonder so many people want it.”
“Passed from hand to hand down the years, acquiring blood and legends along the way, Mister Taylor. Priceless because there isn’t enough money in the world to buy it. You have to be man enough to take it, and hold
