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.
“Looking good, Larry,” I said. “And what have you come as? A fashion model?”
“I came as me,” he said, in his dry flat voice. He only breathed when he needed air to speak, which became disturbing after a while. “I’m only here because you’re here. We need to talk, Taylor.”
“We’ve already talked,” I said, just a little tiredly. “I told you what happened to your brother. He went down fighting during the War.”
“Then why has his body never been found?” said Larry, pushing his face right into mine. “My brother trusted you. I trusted you to look after him. But here you are, alive and well, and Tommy is missing, presumed dead.”
“He died a hero, saving the Nightside,” I said evenly.
“Isn’t that enough?”
“No,” said Larry. “Not if you let him die to save yourself.”
“Back off, Larry.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll rip your soul right out of your dead body.”
He hesitated. He wasn’t sure I could do that, but he wasn’t sure I couldn’t, either. There are a lot of stories about me in the Nightside, and I never confirm or deny any of them. They all help build a reputation. And I have done some really bad things in my time.
Dead Boy came over to join us. He’d found a large piece of gateau and was licking the chocolate off his fingers. He nodded familiarly to Larry, who glared back at him with disdain. They might both be dead, but they moved in very different circles.
“Not drinking, Larry?” said Dead Boy. “You should try the Port. And the Brandy. Get them to spike it with a little strychnine. Gives the booze some bite. And there’s some quail’s eggs over there that are quite passable…”
“I don’t need to eat or drink,” said Larry. “I’m dead.”
“Well, I don’t need to either,” Dead Boy said reasonably. “But I do anyway. It’s all part of remembering what it felt like, to be alive. Just because you’re dead it doesn’t mean you can’t indulge yourself, or get bombed out of your head. We just have to try that little bit harder, that’s all. I’ve got some pills that can really perk you up, if you’d care to try some. This little old Obeah woman knocks them out for me…”
“You’re a degenerate,” Larry said flatly. “You and I have nothing in common.”
“But you are both zombies, aren’t you?” I said, honestly curious.
“I’m a lot more than that,” Dead Boy said immediately. “I am a returned spirit, possessing my murdered body. I’m a revenant.”
“You chose to be what you are,” Larry said coldly. “This was done to me against my will. But at least I’ve gone on to make something of myself. I now run the biggest private detective agency in the Nightside. I am a respected businessman.”
“You’re a corpse with delusions of grandeur,” said Dead Boy. “And a crashing bore. John was the first private investigator in the Nightside. You and the rest are all pale imitations.”
“Better than being the bouncer at a ghost-dancing bar!” snapped Larry. “Or hiring out as muscle to keep the dead in their graves at the Necropolis. And at least I know how to dress properly. I wouldn’t be seen dead wearing an outfit like that!”
He turned his back on us and stalked away, and people hurried to get out of his path. Dead Boy looked at me.
“That last bit was a joke, wasn’t it?”
“Hard to say,” I said honestly. “With anyone else, yes, but Larry was never known for his sense of humour even when he was alive.”
“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” said Dead Boy, looking down at himself, honestly baffled.
“Not a thing,” I said quickly. “It’s just that we haven’t all got your colourful personality.”
The Lady Orlando swayed over to join us, every movement of her luscious body a joy to behold. One of Jeremiah’s celebrity immortals, and the darling of the gossip rags, the Lady Orlando claimed to have been around since Roman times, moving on from one identity to another, and she had an endless series of stories about all the famous people she’d met, and bedded, if you believed her. In the Nightside she drifted from party to party, living off whoever would have her, telling her stories to anyone who’d stand still long enough. She’d come to the party dressed as the Sally Bowles character from Cabaret, all fishnet stockings, bowler hat, and too much eye makeup. Bit of a sad case, all told, but we can’t all be legends. She came to a halt before Dead Boy and me, and stretched languorously to give us both a good look at what was on offer.
“Have you seen poor old Georgie, darlings, dressed up as Henry VIII?” she purred, peering owlishly at us over her glass of bubbly. “Doesn’t look a bit like the real thing. I met King Henry in his glory days at Hampton Court, and I am here to tell you, he wasn’t nearly as big as he liked to make out. You boys and your toys…Have you seen our resident alien, positively lording it over his loopy admirers? Klatu, the Alien from Dimension X…Thinks he’s so big time, just because he’s downloading his consciousness from another reality…I could tell you a few things about that pokey little body he’s chosen to inhabit…”