"What do they call them here? The Old Bill?"
Slide glanced at the two London cops. "I wouldn't worry about them,"
To Gibson's amazement, the officers proceeded to walk slowly past them.
"They didn't even see us."
Slide nodded. "I took the precaution of making us invisible."
"Invisible? You can make people invisible?"
"I'm a demon, kid, I do shit like that. If you notice, you're also not getting wet."
For the first time, Gibson noticed that the drizzle wasn't getting to him. There was no slick of moisture on his raincoat. It was as though there was a kind of force field a millimeter or so out from his body.
"I appreciate you keeping me dry."
Slide laughed. "I'm not doing it for your comfort, boy. I'd look kinda dumb if there was an empty shape in the air that the rain was going around."
It was while Slide was talking that a figure at the top of the hill caught Gibson's attention. There was a black man with dreadlocks perched on a ten-speed bicycle, on the opposite side of the street from the church, looking in their direction. He not only seemed able to see them but apparently didn't like what he was seeing. He took off on his bike with a look of considerable alarm and disappeared over the brow of the hill. No one else appeared to have noticed, so Gibson kept his mouth shut.
Slide leaned closer to him. "I think the only real answer to your fears, Joe, is that, if I'd wanted you, I would have had you by now."
This was easier to accept. Gibson was in no doubt that Slide hadn't showed them even the introduction to his bag of tricks.
Slide seemed to sense that he'd at least marginally won Gibson over, and he turned his attention to Windemere.
"It's really kind of pointless standing around in the street. Why don't we go into your house and talk in a bit more comfort?"
This was clearly the last thing Windemere wanted. "I'm not inviting you into my house."
Slide's eyes became angry slits. "Never invite an idimmu across the threshold? That's vampires, my friend."
Windemere refused to give ground. "Is there that much difference?"
"Find a vampire and I'll show you."
"I'm not letting you into my house."
"You may regret this, Windemere,"
"That's always possible."
Slide gestured to the others to get back in the car. He took a final look a Windemere.
"Don't start feeling too pleased with yourself. I'll still be around. If you make a move, I'll know about it."
" Could your being here have something to do with the rumors that your master is about to wake?"
Slide was in the process of getting into the driver's seat of the Hudson. He stopped and slowly turned. To Gibson's surprise, he suddenly looked weary, as if eighteen thousand years had just dropped hard on him. "Master? My master? You don't know what you're talking about, Windemere. You really don't."
"I heard that Necrom will soon be on the move."
"If you knew anything, you wouldn't even mention the name."
The car door closed. Then the window rolled down and Slide fixed Gibson with those alien eyes.
"You should be very careful, Joe. You're running with some people who may not be all that they appear."
The window rolled up and the Hudson squealed away from the curb, laying smoke and rubber. When it reached the top of the hill, something happened to its shape. It seemed to distort and shimmer, and Gibson wasn't sure whether it had disappeared over the hill or just disappeared. He suddenly felt as though a cold, clammy hand had closed over him. The drizzle was noticeably wet.
"I guess we're back in the visible world."
Windemere indicated that the three of them should return to the house. "I think a drink is in order."
Gibson fell into step beside him. "That could have been a lot worse."
Windemere was thoughtful. "I don't think we've seen the last of Yancey Slide."
Cadiz met them at the door. The outline of what looked like a sawed-oflf shotgun was easy to make out through his combat coat. Once, years before, Gibson had been instructed in the lore of the sawed-off shotgun. Backstage at one of the band's concerts at the Wembley soccer stadium, a bodyguard called Big Cyril, who'd been hired on for the tour, had waxed lyrical, claiming that, in his youth, he'd broken legs for the notorious Kray Twins. "What makes the sawn-off shotgun so favorite is that it appeals to the imagination, like. All you got to do is point one at a geezer and he immediately imagines himself splattered all over the wall like a Sam Peckinpah film. Me, I don't hold with killing. I use a gun to avoid killing. I want a gun that so terrifies people they do exactly what you say and no bother. You know what I mean?" Gibson had hastily assured him that he knew what he meant. Big Cyril had later been fired for his violently overzealous handling of teenage fans.
Cadiz looked a little anxious. Within the limitations of his considerable macho, he all but clucked over Windemere. "Are you okay, boss? I didn't like the look of those guys. They had this aura about them. A bad aura, like the yellow light before a storm."
Gibson was amazed that Cadiz-who on the surface seemed little more than a Central American thug who should nave been carrying an Uzi for the Medellin Cartel-talked so matter-of-factly about auras. Then he remembered that, five hundred years ago, his ancestors were probably performing human sacrifices on the tops of pyramids.
Windemere was quick to reassure Cadiz that all was well. "I'm okay. There's no problem."
Gibson wondered about the loyalty that Windemere received from his strange household. There was a great deal more to Gideon Windemere than appeared on the surface. Which was exactly what Yancey Slide had said. Windemere questioned him about this as they took off their coats.
"How do you feel about Slide's parting shot?"
Gibson looked at him guardedly. "You mean about things not being what they might seem."
Windemere nodded. "That one."
Gibson looked unconcerned. "It seemed like a crude attempt to induce a few doubts."
"And did it?"
"I've been around paranoia so long that it now takes more than a minor demon to get me going. UFOs and other dimensions are quite enough. Besides, I'm living proof that things aren't what they appear."
Although he made light of it, Slide had in fact started Gibson thinking. He had no guarantee that these people that he was with were the Good Guys. All he had was their word on it. He'd been quite impressed with Yancey Slide's style and the show that he'd put on, and Nephredana had been something else again. Slide's trio seemed as though they'd be a good deal more entertaining than Smith, Klein, and French.
"What exactly is an idimmu?"
Windemere shook his head. "It'd take too long to explain right now. One thing to remember, though, is never to underestimate them." He started up the stairs to the drawing room. Halfway up, he looked back. "Don't be charmed by them, either."
The sun went down behind the Shepherds Bush high-rise projects, the streetlights came on, and the drizzle continued. After a fairly perfunctory couple of Scotches with Windemere, Gibson found himself left alone. He was aware that things were going on in the rest of the house in which he wasn't being included. Everyone seemed to have private stuff to do and people to talk to after the events of the day, and all he could do was make the most of an evening of comparative peace and quiet.
The high point of being left to himself turned out to be making the acquaintance of another member of Windemere's staff. Rita was a large Jamaican lady who cooked for Windemere and the rest of his household and who served Gibson the best meal that he'd had in a very long time: lamb chops with mint sauce and new potatoes, a bottle of Guinness, and apple crumble with egg custand to follow. Even before the adventure had started, Gibson had eaten like a drunk, either greasy or not at all, and at the moment that he finished the last mouthful of dessert, he would have cheerfully fought with anyone who said anything bad about English cuisine. After Rita had served him coffee and cognac, this time only a mere eighteen years old, he was left alone with the television.