The fresh air had revived me, or the werewolf blood in me was kicking in, and I actually felt half-way human as I headed for the club entrance. I was in the mood to spoil someone’s day, and the bouncers would do as well as anyone. Their heads turned slowly in unison, accompanied by low, grinding sounds. I nodded to them briskly, and they stared silently back with their empty stone faces.
“John Taylor and friends, here to speak with Dr. Fell,” I said. “And don’t give me any crap about appointments or I’ll make you targets for every pigeon in the Nightside.”
“There aren’t any pigeons in the Nightside, John,” said Ms. Fate. “Something eats them.”
“Yes,” I said patiently, “I knew that, but very probably they didn‘t, until you told them. Now I have to come up with a whole new threat.”
“Ah,” said Ms. Fate. “Shutting up now.”
“You’re not on the list,” the stone golems said in unison, in low, grating voices.
“I rarely am,” I said. “But I think you’ll find Dr. Fell will want to see me anyway.”
The two blocky heads turned slowly to look at each other; there was a silent conference, then two empty faces ground back to look at me.
“Go right in,” they said together. “Dr. Fell will have words with you, and your friends.”
“Wonderful,” Ms. Fate said brightly. “Doesn’t sound at all intimidating.”
Lord Screech sniffed loudly, stepped forward, and thrust a single long finger deep into the blank stone face of the nearest golem. With a few quick gestures, he etched long, sweeping furrows into the stone, giving the golem a nice happy face. He gave the other golem a sad face, then stepped back to regard his handiwork. He nodded, satisfied.
“Never take sass from the hired help.”
“Can’t take you anywhere,” I said.
“Dr. Fell really isn’t going to like that,” said Ms. Fate.
“Good,” I said. “Now, when we get in there, stick close to me, don’t pee in the potted plants, and act civilised. If anyone’s going to start anything, it’s going to be me, and I really don’t like to be upstaged.”
I led the way forward, and the dull grey entrance doors slowly swung open before us. Above the doors, the neon sign had changed to read Suffer for Your Sins. Nice touch, I thought. Beyond the entrance doors lay a sparse and spartan lobby with cracked plaster walls and a grubby wooden floor. On the far side of the lobby was another set of double doors, apparently made of solid brass. I walked right up to them, but they didn’t open on their own. I gave them an experimental push, and they swung slowly backwards, a few inches at a time, their hidden counterweights utterly silent. A bright light flared in the widening gap between, too painful to look at directly. I couldn’t see a thing through it, so I waited for the gap to widen enough, then marched forward with all the confidence in the world. And a complete willingness to look down my nose at anyone who wasn’t actually a member of a major pantheon.
Ms. Fate strode proudly beside me, like the renowned crime-fighter she was, and Lord Screech ... was Lord Screech.
The moment we passed through the doors, the light sank back to a bearable level, and Dr. Fell’s curious court was revealed before us. It looked like a circus, seen from the other side. A dark carousel of strange delights and twisted grotesques, candy-coloured clowns with painted-on leers, and malformed supermodels with a strange, wounded glamour. Cold-faced men in smart leisure suits sat stiffly in oversized chairs, surrounded by pretty boys and hard-faced girls in all the more extreme fashions of decades past. All of this was set against a selection of colour schemes that were shockingly bright and almost painfully clashing.
There was no music, no background entertainment; only a constant buzz of whispered conversation.
Every face turned to look at us, but though the whispers continued, no-one had anything to say to us. They looked us over with blank, expressionless faces, staring like so many dead people, as though all the life and passion and independence had been beaten or intimidated out of everyone present. Many of them held champagne glasses in their hands, but no-one seemed to be drinking. They all looked like they’d been standing in Dr. Fell’s court forever and might stand there forever more. They weren’t his courtiers, or his acolytes, or even his army; they were his, to do with as he would.
Here and there, light flared up suddenly in this pair of eyes or that, and I remembered that Dr. Fell was supposed to be able to See through them. So I smiled cheerfully about me, determined to give him a good show. I heard the heavy brass doors close behind me, but I didn’t look back.
Ms. Fate struck a super-heroine pose at my side, her leather fists resting on her black-clad hips, just above the utility belt. Her dark cloak swirled slowly, dramatically, about her. It was a tribute to her reputation and her sheer presence that she didn’t look in any way camp or amusing. The dried werewolf blood spattered across her leathers probably helped. Lord Screech struck a carelessly elegant pose on my other side, his bored expression suggesting he was slumming just by being there, and everyone present should feel honoured that he had deigned to stop off on his way to somewhere far more interesting. Typical elf, in other words.
And I ... stood straight and tall in my white trench coat, and let everyone get a good look at me. I was John Taylor, and that should be enough for anyone.
Dr. Fell’s foot-soldiers bothered me. I’d spotted them right away. Every crime boss and Mr. Big had them; young men with a lean and hungry look, eager to advance in the organisation by demonstrating just how much more vicious and extreme they were than their colleagues. Attack dogs, with good suits that couldn’t quite hide the bulges of holstered guns and other weapons. There were quite a few of them, lined up casually in the crowd between me and their boss. Nothing I hadn’t seen before, and even wiped the floor with on occasion ... but these were different. It was in their eyes ... He was in their eyes.
Supermodel types moved listlessly through the packed crowd, sporting garish little numbers and strangely styled gowns, offering trays of drinks and nibbles and the very latest chemical delights. They were all pretty as a picture, criss-crossing the room in simple patterns, moving in perfect unison, like flocking birds. They smiled widely, all the time, the only smiles in that place of whispers and staring eyes; but smiles too perfect and unwavering to be real. Sometimes guests would reach out to caress or slap their perfect bodies, and sometimes a girl would be pulled down to sit on someone’s lap, and the smiles looked even more unreal.
This was Dr. Fell’s carnival court, just so many living dolls for him to play with.
The man himself sat above them all, on the traditional raised dais, posed stiffly on a chair fashioned from human bones bound together with strips of mummified human muscle and tendon. Supplied, no doubt, by his many deceased victims. In a faded mourning suit, Dr. Fell was a tall, thin presence, with dull grey skin and a hideously mutilated face. Half a dozen naked women stood in a semicircle behind his hideous chair, all of them malformed or abnormal in various unpleasant ways. Missing parts, twisted limbs, gouged-out eyes. You only had to look at them to know they’d been made, not born, that way. They were the way they were because it amused Dr. Fell that they should be. Some of them held knives, some held guns, and some held nasty-looking magical weapons. All of them possessed a strange dark glamour and a dangerous attraction. Dr. Fell’s personal body-guards and assassins.
I was beginning to remember where I’d heard his name before; and I didn’t think we were going to get on.
Dr. Fell had burned out his own eyes with a white-hot crucifix. Now his scorched and shrivelled eyelids were sealed together under two great cross-shaped scars. He came to the Nightside as a rogue vicar and gave up his eyes in search of a greater Vision. Whatever he Saw, it changed his allegiance completely. Rumour had it he’d looked into a mirror ... And the man who’d come here to rage against the darkness ended up embracing it. He wore a crown of thorns, pressed down hard onto his forehead, and rivulets of dried blood ran down his sunken cheeks.