“I’ve got an intriguing little e-mail here, from last week,” said Cathy. “Katherine Karnstein wants you to find her lost innocence.”
I sniffed loudly. “I don’t think so. I know the lady in question, and she didn’t lose her innocence; she threw it away with both hands, first chance she got.”
“All right; how about this one? A Mr. William Everett wants you to find lost Atlantis.”
“It isn’t lost,” I said. “It’s hidden. There’s a difference. Move on.”
“The SAS are offering a seriously large amount, for you to find the Holy Grail for them.”
“The Salvation Army Sisterhood should have known better than to ask,” I said. “They’re probably trying to get me in trouble again. They’ve never approved of me. I had enough problems tracking down the Unholy Grail. What else have you got?”
“A Reverend Lionel wants you to find the last of the Merovingian line.”
“Forget it,” I said. “That line’s been broken so many times down the centuries that properly speaking it isn’t a line, any more. Far too many pretenders to the throne, so to speak.”
“All right then, Mr. Fussy Pants, what have you got?”
I looked dubiously at the paper before me. “Someone who prefers to remain anonymous wants me to find out why the Moon in the Nightside sky is so much bigger than it should be. Which is actually a fair question. And I am tempted; I always wanted to know the answer to that one. I think it implies that the Nightside isn’t actually when we think it is . . . But no. This would be a long-term case, with lots of footwork and asking questions, and I don’t have the time.”
“Hmmm. Odd little e-mail here, boss. Says, Let the sun shine in.”
I looked up at that. I’d seen that same sentiment graffitied on a wall in the underpass. It felt like it meant . . . something. I shrugged mentally. No doubt I’d find out, eventually. And then I sat up sharply as I discovered something genuinely interesting. A letter from someone signing himself, An Anonymous Gentleman, on good-quality paper, in that old-fashioned copperplate hand writing that no-one teaches any more. I put the other papers aside. I held the sheet of paper up to the light and made out a watermark from the Londinium Club. That revered and very private club for the real movers and shakers of the Nightside. I tossed it across the desk to Cathy.
“By any chance, is this one of those missives that appeared on your desk out of nowhere?”
“Got it in one, boss. It was here when I turned up this morning. It does look like the real thing, doesn’t it?”
She tossed it back to me, and I read the communication out loud. It seemed the Anonymous Gentleman wanted me to find the secret of immortality. And not just for him, but for everyone. Apparently, a serum existed that could make anyone who took it live forever. He created it, and brought it to the Nightside, looking for someone to mass-produce and distribute it; and, of course, someone stole it. The main suspects were the existing immortal beings of the Nightside, who didn’t want any more competition. The Gentleman claimed that the thief would be presenting the serum to the annual meeting of the Nightside Immortals, at the Ball of Forever. Where they would ceremoniously destroy it. The Gentleman wanted me to attend the Ball, find the thief, and recover the serum, for the good of all.
“It does sound like a good case to go out on,” I said.
“Can you use your gift to find the Ball of Forever?” said Cathy.
I looked at her. “I don’t need to, child,” I said patiently. “I know where the Ball of Forever is held. Everyone does. They hold it in the same place every year. It gets major coverage in the society pages of the Night Times.”
“Will you be taking Suzie with you?” Cathy said artlessly.
“Not this time,” I said. “She’s far too busy arranging everything for tomorrow’s ceremony, and I’m not going to be the one to interrupt her. In fact, one of the reasons I came here looking for one last case was to get out of her way.”
“Whipped,” said Cathy. “Utterly whipped. I’m going to be her maid of honour, you know! Even though technically speaking, I’m not qualified. And haven’t been for a long time . . .”
“Too much information,” I said firmly. I looked at Cathy for a moment. “Would you like to join me, on this case? Be my companion, one last time?”
“No,” said Cathy. “It’s time to cut the cord and cut it clean. You run off and have fun, and I’ll make all the necessary arrangements to shut this place down.” She looked at the filing cabinets. “What do you want me to do with all the old case records? There are a lot of secrets in there that a lot of people would probably rather prefer remained secret.”
“Burn it all, then put the ashes through the shredder,” I said. “And then scatter the ashes in the cellars under Strangefellows. That should do it.”
Cathy looked me square in the eye. “Any idea of who this Anonymous Gentleman might be?”
“I’ve got a few ideas,” I said. “But it doesn’t really matter. The case is the thing.”
“Sure. Right. Do you really believe there’s a serum that can make us all immortal?”
“Well, this is the Nightside . . . but no, I doubt it. What matters is whether other people believe it, and what they might be prepared to do, to get their hands on it.”
“Including kill each other?”
“Of course. This is the Nightside . . .”
Cathy frowned thoughtfully. “How do you kill an immortal?”
I grinned. “Very thoroughly.”
“Get out of here,” said Cathy. “Some of us have got work to do.”
“Oh,” I said. “I sort of promised this building’s front door that it could come to the wedding. Make the necessary arrangements, would you?”
“Soft, soppy, sentimental,” said Cathy. “Tell me you didn’t invite that bloody elevator as well . . .”
“If that bloody thing comes anywhere near the church, you have my permission to shoot it,” I said. “Will you be at Suzie’s hen night, tonight?”
“Of course!” said Cathy. “I’ve already booked the male strippers!”
“Just get her to the church on time,” I said.
TWO
You’re Only Immortal as Long as You Don’t Die
Is there anything more fun than deliberately crashing a party where you know you’re not welcome, you’re not supposed to be there, and you can be absolutely sure that everyone is going to throw a major hissy fit over your very appearance? It’s little victories like this, against the rich and the mighty, that keep me going.
The Portable Timeslip inside my gold pocket-watch dropped me off at the entrance to the top (and most select and most expensive) floor of the MEC, the Mammon Emporium Centre. A meeting place and upscale watering hole for the Major Players of the Nightside, or at the very least those rich enough to act like they are. The MEC provides whole floors set apart for private gatherings, complete with uniformed staff, excellent food and drink, and heavily armed security staff, all at only mildly extortionate prices. (If you have to ask how much, you can’t afford it.)
The Ball of Forever is one of the oldest and most select get-togethers in the Nightside, which takes some doing. You have to be immortal to get an invitation, you have to be rich enough to pay the entrance fee and powerful enough to be able to defend yourself against the other guests. For hundreds of years the Ball of Forever was held at Strangefellows, the oldest bar in the world; but then Merlin Satanspawn came back from the dead, declared the bar to be his own private territory, and kicked them all out. (And perhaps only I knew he did this because it wasn’t only his body that was buried in the cellars under the bar but that of Arthur Pendragon, the once-and-future King, as well.)
The Ball of Forever moved through various venues over the next thousand years or so, before finally settling in what became the MEC. Which these days provides staff in uniforms of your own choosing, all of them guaranteed very discreet about what they might or might not see, along with every luxury you can think of, and some that would shock less-well-travelled souls rigid. The extremely long-lived have a tendency to develop strange and unusual tastes, and a morality that can best be described as flexible. So the MEC is always careful to provide staff with combat training, diplomatic skills, and a hell of a lot of danger money. In advance.