Have you heard about the Great Game this year? They say it’s going to be bigger than ever . . . I hear the man in Cell 13 is finally getting out . . . I heard the Lady Faire has just sent out invitations to attend her annual Ball, for all past and present friends and lovers. Is she handling everything herself? I wouldn’t be at all surprised . . . I hear it’s all kicking off in the Nightside, with the return of the Celestial Children . . . I hear, I hear . . .
Everyone had heard all kinds of things, but that didn’t necessarily make any of them true. There was a lot of gossip about what the Droods were up to-nearly all of it wrong, but worrying. Which was as it should be.
There were certainly a hell of a lot of people in tonight. Packed together so tight you could hardly breathe. Some I knew, some I didn’t. Monkton Farley, the famous consulting detective, was propping up the bar not far from me. Tall and whipcord lean, with a hard-boned face and flashing eyes, dressed very smartly, as always, with a vulgarly large diamond tiepin and immaculate white spats. Holding forth, very much as usual, to a small crowd of his wide-eyed and devoted fans, all of them hanging on his every word as he related his latest triumph. There’s no denying he’s a really good detective, with a razor-sharp mind; but there’s also no denying he’s an arrogant, stuck-up little tit. A hard man to dislike-but worth the effort.
Not too far away, ostentatiously ignoring Monkton Farley, was Ellen de Gustibus. She eats monsters. A pleasant enough sort, but it’s still hard to look at her without feeling a certain chill. She really does eat monsters. Some agents of the Good are scarier than others. A tall, statuesque blonde in a rose-red basque and fishnet stockings, Ellen also favoured a bulky black leather jacket and stiletto heels so high they could be used in close combat, and often had been. She wore a hell of a lot of makeup, under spiky blonde hair, and was always smiling and laughing. And nearly always ready to buy the next round. Her crowd of wide-eyed admirers was even bigger than Farley’s, and her stories were a lot more fun.
No one ever bothers Ellen de Gustibus. If anyone even tries, she just takes out a toothpick and rolls it round her mouth in a meaningful sort of way. Apparently, she’d just got back from cleaning out a nest of vampires in Budapest.
“How did you find them, Ellen?” asked a fan adoringly.
“Tasty,” said Ellen.
Also present, unfortunately for all, was the Painted Ghoul. The clown at midnight himself, dressed in a bloodstained clown’s costume composed of deliberately clashing colours. The Painted Ghoul’s face was daubed with distressing patterns, and when he smiled his big red smile, you could see he’d filed his teeth into sharp points. His overbright eyes were full of a malevolent glee. There’s nothing funny about a clown with an erection.
I turned my back on him to look elsewhere, because he just lives for the attention, and nodded to Waterloo Lillian, a tall showgirl in a spangly outfit, with ostrich feathers in her piled-up hair and a bravely prominent Adam’s apple.
“Have you heard anything about the Indigo Spirit?” I said, deliberately keeping it vague.
“Oh, him,” said Lillian, sipping delicately from his champagne glass with an extended little finger. “He doesn’t come around here anymore. Not since he got his head handed to him by a Drood a while back. I hear he does his drinking in the Nightside now. Because he knows he can’t trust anyone here.”
I felt bad about that, but I couldn’t say anything. I hadn’t meant to hurt him so badly. He just . . . got in the way.
“How about Charlatan Joe?” I asked, as casually as I could.
Waterloo Lillian sniffed loudly, the tall ostrich feathers shivering as he shook his head dismissively.
“The club management banned him permanently, for being dumb enough to bring the wrath of the Droods down on us in the first place. I mean, yes, this is supposed to be a sanctuary for one and all, but there are limits. And it’s not like anyone misses Charlatan Joe, after all.”
I moved away. I wasn’t prepared to feel any more guilty. I’d done my penance.
Also present at the Wulfshead that night was Jumping Jack Flashman. Wearing a mind-blowingly colourful three-piece suit so bright and distinctive that blind people would have winced at it, complete with a black carnation in his buttonhole. He was looking even more smug than usual-which could only mean he’d just pulled off a really big score. Everyone knew he was a thief and a burglar, but we all felt safe when he was around. Partly because he was smart enough not to shit where he lived, but mostly because he stole only from the Very Rich and Prosperous. And no one who drinks in the Wulfshead makes enough money to qualify as one of Jumping Jack’s targets. Tall and gangling, and handsome enough in a weak sort of way, Jumping Jack had fey blue eyes, dark stringy hair, and a drooping porn star’s moustache.
He bellied up to the bar, grandly offering to buy drinks for one and all, and loudly announced he’d already set up his next challenge. A victim who would make everyone sit up and take notice. We all just laughed and nodded, because that was what he always said. No one doubted he could bring it off, though. No one did the short-range teleport burglary better than Jumping Jack Flashman.
I looked around, carefully, but no one seemed to be paying undue attention. Even though you would have thought that was just the kind of secret information the people spying on the club would want to know.
I moved unhurriedly on through the crowd, working the room with easy grace, chatting amiably with one and all, and just sort of casually bringing up the subject of secrets going missing. It seemed like everyone had heard something, though rarely the same something, but no one knew anything for sure. They weren’t even particularly on their guard, or watching what they were saying. This was the Wulfshead, after all. They still felt safe here, because they always had been.
Monkton Farley bristled at the very thought, but he made a point of dismissing his faithful devotees so we could discuss the matter privately.
“The whole point of drinking in an establishment like this,” he said, “is that you can feel free to speak openly. Share a confidence, in the certainty that it will remain an understanding between the persons concerned. If that is no longer true, I may have to take my custom elsewhere.”
“And we should miss you so, Monkton,” said Ellen de Gustibus, easing in beside us and considering us solemnly over a very large drink. “But what secrets might you have, Monkton, that you’re so concerned about? You’re always saying your life is an open book.”
“My professional life remains transparent to all,” said Farley with quiet dignity. “But damn it all, a chap’s private life should remain just that. The whole point of secrets is that they should stay secret.”
“Two may keep a secret, if one of them is dead,” Ellen said wisely.
The Painted Ghoul sniggered loudly as he forced his way into our group.
“I have no secrets, because I wear my heart on my sleeve. Look! There it is!”
We all looked, despite ourselves, and sure enough there was a human heart stitched to his billowing silk sleeve. It was still beating, slowly. The Painted Ghoul took a firm grip and wrenched the heart away. We all winced just a bit, as we heard the stitches tear. The Painted Ghoul offered the heart to each of us in turn, but we all declined. Even Ellen. Perhaps she was full, after Budapest. The clown shrugged and bit deeply into the heart. Blood dripped thickly from his chin, as he chewed happily.
He didn’t care; but he loved it that we did.
“Your loss,” he said indistinctly.
“I wouldn’t touch anything you’d touched, clown,” said Ellen. “I have scruples.”
“Really?” leered the Painted Ghoul.
“Yes,” said Ellen. “Bags full of them.”