The Bride Wore Black Leather

various waitresses, all of them dressed in vaguely fetish French maid outfits. There were no waiters. Presumably because they wouldn’t look as good in the outfits. Knowledge of my presence spread quickly through the tightly packed immortals. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched them watching me as they gathered in little groups to discuss what the hell to do, look blankly at each other, hide behind each other, and stare openly at me from what they hoped was a safe distance. They all knew I was gate-crashing, but none of them felt confident enough to raise a fuss. They all knew I had killed an immortal in my time, or at the very last arranged for his death—the legendary Griffin. And made his children mortal again. Perhaps the worst threat of all.

I looked for something to take the edge off my thirst. There were any number of interesting vintages, including an open jug of a wine so deep red it looked like blood. In fact, given the predilections of some of those immortals present, it might very well be blood.

So I picked up a glass of complimentary champagne I wasn’t entitled to, leaned back against the buffet table, and looked around me under the cover of taking a long drink. For all the expensive and elegant setting, the rich and the mighty in all their finery, and the piped music playing Elizabethan airs with a lot of lute action (I suppose everyone has a special taste for the music of their youth), there was still a strange feeling to the gathering. Of a whole bunch of people from all kinds of backgrounds, who would normally have nothing to say to each other, brought together by the only thing they had in common. Not having died yet. After all, you’re only an immortal until someone manages to kill you. After that, you were just long-lived.

The huge ballroom was full of gods, superhumans, inhumans, posthumans, and a few things that wouldn’t pass for human during a complete black-out. All the products of super-science and the supernatural, come together in one place to talk about the things that only immortals could really understand and appreciate. To prove to everyone that they were still around, to swap useful survival tips, to show off new achievements and new fashions, to reminisce about the good old days . . . and whinge and moan about how no-one appreciates the important things any more. And, of course, to show off for the media. Immortals are, first and foremost, celebrities.

Reporters have always been allowed to attend the Ball of Forever, under sufferance, to write their glowing accounts of the most important ball of the season, but this year, for the first time, they’d allowed in a small camera crew from the Nightside Television Centre. Immortals do move with the times, but only slowly and very reluctantly. I recognised the reporter from the Night Times, a tall and bulky oriental fellow in a smart tuxedo. Brilliant Chang was an investigative reporter (not a recipe for long life in the Nightside), but fortunately he was also sharp and tricky and knew no fear. Plus, he could run like an Olympic sprinter when the occasion demanded it. He knew me, too, and nodded briefly in my direction. We’d worked some of the same cases, from different directions. On one side of his face, he still carried the dragon tattoo that marked him as a combat sorcerer. An old Dragon Clan enforcer, in fact, before he saw the error of his ways and abandoned gangsterism for the slightly more reputable trade of journalism. He made a point of casually wandering in my direction.

“Hello, Chang,” I said. “What are you doing here, covering this jumped-up bun-fight? I thought Julien Advent reserved you for the really important stories these days. Like hot celebrity action, and who’s having whom . . . When are you going to get a proper job?”

“When are you?” said Chang.

Honours even, we relaxed a bit.

“I’m surprised the immortals’ security people aren’t trying to throw you out,” said Chang.

“What security?” I said. “People who’ve lived as long as these scumbags take a pride in being able to look after themselves. Standing tall and laughing defiantly in the face of danger as a matter of principle, that sort of thing. Even if they’re not allowed to bring personal weapons to a supposedly civilised gathering like this. I’m here mainly because they can’t be bothered to exert themselves.”

“And because they’re scared of you,” said Brilliant Chang.

“That, too,” I said. “Really, what is an experienced crime and corruption writer like you doing here?”

“Julien Advent was very insistent that someone experienced should cover the Ball this year,” said Chang. “And he wanted it to be someone who wouldn’t be easily impressed or intimidated. I didn’t run for the door fast enough, so I got the job.”

I had to frown at that. “Why would he do that? What does he think is going to happen, this year?”

“Beats me. Normally, this whole do is nothing more than fodder for the society pages and the life-style supplements. Pick up a bit of gossip, get the prettier ones to pose for a few photos, then stuff your face with the free food. Maybe it’s something to do with the television people being allowed in for the first time.”

“No,” I said. “Julien knows something . . .”

“So do you,” said Chang. “Or you wouldn’t be here. Are you going to kill someone?”

I had to smile. “The night’s barely started . . .”

The Night Times photographer saw us both smiling together and stepped forward to take a photo. I gave him a cold look, and he quickly changed his mind and retreated.

“Don’t mind him,” said Chang. “He’s new. Somebody’s nephew, I think. I do hope he isn’t mine.”

The other journalist seized her chance to move in for a quick chat. I knew her, too—Bettie Divine, demon girl reporter for the Unnatural Inquirer. She slammed to a halt right in front of me and struck her best confrontational pose: tall and rangy and drop-dead gorgeous. Long jet-black hair fell down around her high-boned face as she fixed me with dark green eyes and a pouting scarlet mouth. Two cute little horns poked up through the dark bangs hanging across her forehead. Demon girl reporter, oh yes. Her last big assignment had been to follow me around the Nightside on one of my cases. She then spent a lot of time afterwards loudly claiming she was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. We hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms, but I gave her my best I’ll-be-nice-if-you-will smile.

“Don’t you smile at me, John Taylor,” said Bettie. “I’m not here for you. Didn’t even know you’d be here. I’m only here in case Elvis turns up. What are you doing here?”

“I already asked,” said Brilliant Chang. “But our new Walker is being very tight-lipped. Perhaps you have more . . . personal ways of persuading him to talk? I am right in believing that there is history between you two?”

“In his dreams,” said Bettie, tossing her long hair dramatically.

“Really? Because a little bird told me . . .”

“Oh fuck off, Chang darling; Bettie’s working.”

Chang laughed, not in the least affronted, and moved off into the crowd. I looked Bettie over carefully. She was wearing an ankle-length, off-the-shoulder jade-green gown, to match her eyes. It was split right up to the thigh and plunging at the front. Or, at least, that’s what she looked like to me. Bettie was half succubus, and her appearance changed constantly, according to whoever was looking at her. For all I knew, I’d never seen her real face, never mind her real outfit.

“What are you really wearing?” I asked, as a reasonably safe opening gambit.

She laughed briefly. “Like I’d ever tell you, darling. What are you doing here, that’s what my panting readers will want to know. I mean, you’re not immortal. Or has that changed? Have I missed a scoop? Say it isn’t so . . .”

“No,” I said. “I’m not immortal. I’m Walker.”

“Oh, I know all about that, darling. That’s old news. And, might I say, I saw it coming months ago. So who are you here for? What have they done?”

I grinned. “Like I’d ever tell you.”

“Oh poo.” She batted her fantastically long lashes at me. “Not even for old times’ sake? You can tell me, darling. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Are we? The last thing you said to me was, ‘I never want to see you again.’”

“That was personal. This is business.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “A little bird told me you’re getting married tomorrow. My invitation must have got lost in the post.”

“Sorry,” I said. “But we’re being very strict on no reporters. On the grounds that Suzie has this unfortunate tendency to shoot them on sight. So an ex of mine who’s also a reporter? They’d be fishing pieces of you out of the guttering for weeks.”

Bettie smiled. “I’m an ex? Did something happen that I didn’t notice?”

“Not for want of trying on your part,” I said.

“Not the way I remember it, darling,” said Bettie. “Some people simply don’t know how to flirt. Oh come on, sweetie, please . . . you have to give me something I can use or the editor won’t sign off on my expenses. Is there