She screamed, just once, as she saw what lay before her, then the gate sucked her in and sent her down, and she was gone while the echo of her scream still hung on the hot air. I looked at the hellgate, at the suffering human eyes in what had once been a human face, and thought about killing it. I knew how. I’d done it before. But to disrupt the hellgate while the transfer was still in progress could release unimaginable energies. I certainly wouldn’t survive it. Wand or no wand. I didn’t want to die, not while I still had so much life ahead of me ... So even though I knew what was coming, I waited and watched, as Queen Mab of the Fae returned to the world of the living. One of the old monsters, Humanity’s Ruin.
Something came rising up out of Hell. I could feel it, in the deepest part of what made me human. Something old and powerful, and huge beyond bearing, was rising up out of the dark latitudes, up from the Houses of Pain, forcing her way back into a natural world that wanted no part of her. Rising up, like a shark through bloody waters, like a tidal wave come to sweep away every living thing before it, up she came, Queen Mab, rising faster and faster. Coming at me like a meteor crashing to the Earth, like a bullet with my name on it.
Screaming in an ancient tongue, laughing horribly, swearing damnation and torment on all her many enemies; Queen Mab came back.
She stood before me in all her terrible glory. The hellgate lay in ruins on the wall behind her, incinerated by her passage through it, nothing now but small pieces of cooked meat pinned to the wall. The gate was closed, its victim released. That was something. Queen Mab fixed me with her fierce gaze, and I couldn’t have moved to save my life. She was eight feet tall, slender, graceful, overbearingly regal. Horribly abhuman and utterly evil. Her presence filled the cavern, and I knelt to her. I still like to think I had no choice.
“This place was once dedicated to me,” she said, and her voice was calm and casual, like a cat playing with a mouse. “Nice to know I haven’t been completely forgotten. And I have been brought back by a human through the sacrifice of an elf. Love the irony. You can keep the wand, for now. Never let it be said Queen Mab failed to reward her servant. But now I’m back, and must be about my business.”
She laughed, and I wanted to vomit.
“Ah, the things I’ll do, now I’m back.”
I never told anyone, Who could I tell? Who would believe it wasn’t my fault?
FIVE
Everybody’s Talking at Me
I listened to Larry’s story without interrupting, then offered him my glass of Valhalla Venom again. He all but grabbed it out of my hand and knocked the stuff back in several large gulps. There are times when a stiff drink isn’t just traditional ; it’s a psychological necessity. The vicious liquor didn’t seem to affect Larry at all; presumably being dead helped. We both sat silently for a while, each of us considering our own thoughts. A lot of Larry’s story had struck home with me. I knew how it felt to be trampled on and used by greater powers.
“I could have stopped her,” Larry said finally. “I could have stopped Queen Mab coming through if I’d been willing to die to do it. But I wasn’t.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“I never will, now. Through my weakness, or at best my hesitation, I let one of the old monsters back into the world. And now I’m dead, Heaven and Hell seem a lot closer. I can’t just lie down and let go; I don’t dare. My only hope is atonement ; and for now that means finding Tommy. Are you in?”
I thought about it. Several things in his story had struck me forcefully. There were an awful lot of elves in the Nightside recently. Far more than usual. And then there were the Arthurian elements; did Polly Perkins pick them at random to lure Larry in? Or could they be linked to Puck’s warning about Excalibur? Something was going on. But then, this is the Nightside. Something’s always going on.
To unravel a mess, pull on any strand. So Tommy it was.
“I’ll help you find out what happened to Tommy,” I said. “But all I can offer is the truth. Don’t blame me if you don’t like what I find.”
“That’s what I always say to my clients,” said Larry. “Only I usually put it a little more tactfully.”
We managed a small smile for each other. We were never going to be close; but we could work together.
Then the whole bar went quiet. Conversations ceased, laughter and tears died away, and the piped music stopped so fast it briefly went into reverse. Heads turned and craned, and not a few lowered themselves and hoped not to be noticed. The whole bar seemed to be holding its breath because Walker had arrived.
He hadn’t bothered with his usual slow descent of the metal steps, to let everyone know he was coming and make a grand entrance. He simply appeared suddenly out of nowhere, standing right there in the middle of the bar, leaning casually on his furled umbrella, smiling easily about him. Most of the clientele avoided meeting his eyes, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. Because if Walker was on the scene, it meant someone was in trouble; and given that Walker moves in more mysterious ways than half the Beings on the Street of the Gods, it might just be you. Walker was infamous for knowing things he shouldn’t and doing something horribly punitive about it—pour discourager les autres.
And whatever he does, no-one ever protests. Because he’s Walker.
But there’s always one, isn’t there? Someone always has to learn the hard way. In this case, it was one of Black Betty’s overmuscled goons. She always had half a dozen or so on a leash in case she met a customer. This particular goon decided he was going to impress his mistress, so he stepped forward to face Walker, flexing his steroid-abused muscles in what he clearly thought was a threatening way. Walker considered him thoughtfully. A wise man would have taken the hint and run, but not the goon.
“You’re upsetting my mistress, little man,” said the goon. “Disappear.”
Walker smiled, just a little. “Shit yourself.”
He used the Voice, which commands everyone who hears it, and the goon made a sudden low sound of distress. Quickly accompanied by other, less pleasant sounds. Black Betty pulled a face and dropped his leash. The goon turned away from Walker, slowly and carefully, and trudged miserably off to the toilets. People he passed by wished he hadn’t. The bar as a whole decided the safest thing to do was act as if Walker wasn’t there. Heads turned away, conversations resumed, and the piped music returned. I noticed the bar’s muscular bouncers, Betty and Lucy Coltrane, lurking in the background, ready to give their all at a moment’s notice; but Alex had more sense. He gave Walker his best glare, then busied himself polishing some glasses that didn’t need polishing.
Walker looked unhurriedly about him, taking his time. No-one was fooled by his calm exterior. Walker was always dangerous, even when he was being polite. Perhaps especially then. And, of course, in the end he spotted me, walked over to my booth, and smiled charmingly.
“Hello, John. Can I have a word? It is rather urgent.”
“You’ve got a nerve,” I said. “Just a few hours ago you were doing your best to have me killed.”
“It’s what I do,” said Walker. “Nothing personal, John. You should know that by now.”