Nothing else bothered us. In fact, most of the vegetation seemed to draw back more than a little as we passed by.

It still took a long time to get to Griffin Hall, the road rising higher and higher, increasingly steep and twisting as I ascended far above the neonlit streets of the Nightside and all the little people who lived there. It felt like I was scaling the heights of Mount Olympus to meet with the gods, which was probably the intention. Griffin Hall stood at the very top of its own private mountain, looking out over the Nightside as though the whole area was the Griffins’ own private preserve. As though they owned everything they could see, for as far as they could see. And if Jeremiah Griffin didn’t actually own all of the Nightside, and everyone who lived in it, it certainly wasn’t for want of trying.

In the past the Authorities had kept him in his place, but they were all dead and gone now, so who knew what the future held. Someone had to run the Nightside, and ensure that everyone played nice together, and certainly no-one was better placed than Jeremiah Griffin, the immortal.

I didn’t give a damn who ran the Nightside, or thought they did. I was only here because I’d been summoned, by the man himself. A great honour, if you cared about such things, which mostly I don’t. Of course, such an important man couldn’t follow the usual route of contacting my office and making an appointment with my secretary. No, the first I knew was when his voice suddenly appeared in my head, booming This is Jeremiah Griffin. I have need of you, John Taylor.

“Dammit, turn down the volume!” I yelled, attracting the occasional glance from other people in the street.

“God himself wouldn’t be that loud, even if it was the Second Coming, and He was offering advance bookings for ringside seats. You’re not God, are you? I’ve been good. Mostly.”

There was a pause, then a somewhat quieter voice said, This is Jeremiah Griffin. I have need of you, John Taylor.

“Better,” I said. “Now how did you get hold of this number? My head is supposed to be strictly ex-directory.”

You will come to Griffin Hall. There is work for you here.

“What’s in it for me?”

There was a rather longer pause. People like Jeremiah Griffin weren’t used to being questioned, especially when they’ve lowered themselves to speak to you personally.

I could have you killed.

I had to laugh. People (and others) have been trying to kill me for as long as I can remember, and I’m still here, while mostly they aren’t. To my surprise, the voice in my head laughed, too, just a little.

Good. I was told you weren’t the kind of man who could be threatened or intimidated. And that’s the kind of man I need. Come to Griffin Hall, John Taylor, and you shall have more money than you have ever dreamed of.

So of course I had to go. I didn’t have any other cases, and the big money the Vatican had paid me for finding the Unholy Grail had pretty much run out. Besides, I was intrigued. I’d heard of the Griffin, the legendary human immortal—everyone in the Nightside had—but I’d never moved in the kind of circles where I was likely to meet him. Jeremiah Griffin was a man of wealth and fame and had been for centuries.

All the Griffins were immortal, and there are very few human immortals left these days, even in the Nightside. Jeremiah was the first and the oldest, though no-one knew for sure exactly how old he was. Impossibly rich and incredibly powerful, Griffin owned much of the Nightside and many of the businesses that operated there. And he’d always been very open about his intention eventually to run the whole Nightside as his own private kingdom. But he was never a part of the Authorities, those grey and faceless men who used to run the Nightside from a safe distance. They blocked him at every turn, denied him openings and opportunities, kept him in his place…because when all was said and done, to them he was just another part of the freak show they’d run for longer than he’d been alive.

Still, they were gone now. Perhaps it was the Griffin’s time, come round at last. Most of the Nightside wouldn’t care, too busy chasing their own chosen damnations and salvations, all the passions and pleasures that could only be found and enjoyed in the sleazy bars and members-only clubs of the Nightside.

No-one knew for sure how Jeremiah Griffin became immortal. There were stories, there are always stories, but no-one knew for sure. He wasn’t a godling, a vampire, or a sorcerer. He had no angelic or demonic blood in him. He was just a man who’d lived for centuries and might live for centuries more. And he was rich and powerful enough to be very hard to kill. The Griffin’s past and true nature were a mystery, reportedly even from the rest of his family, and he went to great lengths to keep it that way. I saw the severed heads of investigative journalists set on spikes above the main gates as I drove through. Some of the heads were still screaming.

The jungle garden came to an abrupt halt at the low stone walls surrounding the great open courtyard laid out before Griffin Hall. Rustling vegetation came right up to the walls but stopped just short, careful not to touch them. Long rows of curious carvings had been deeply etched into the pale creamy stone. The future car passed through the single opening into the courtyard, delicate filigree silver gates opening before the car as we approached and shutting themselves firmly behind us. The car curved around in a wide arc, its heavy wheels churning up the gravel, and stopped right before the main entrance. The driver’s door opened, and I got out. The door then immediately shut and locked itself. I didn’t blame it. There was nothing remotely inviting or welcoming about Griffin Hall.

I leaned against the car, and took my time looking around. Beyond the low stone walls, the jungle pressed forward here and there, over and over. Any part of the vegetation that touched the creamy stone immediately shrivelled up and died, but the jungle persisted, sacrificing small parts of itself in its tireless search for a weak spot, driven by the slow, stubborn relentless nature of plants. Waiting only for the day, however far in the future that might be, when the walls would finally fall, and the jungle press inexorably forward to overwhelm Griffin Hall and all who lived in it. The jungle was immortal, too, and it had endless patience.

The Hall itself was huge, sprawling and subtly menacing in the shimmering silver light from the oversized moon that dominated the Nightside sky. All the windows were illuminated, dozens of them, blazing out at the surrounding darkness. It should have been impressive, but every single window was long and narrow, like squinting, mean-spirited eyes. The massive main door was made of some unnaturally dark wood I didn’t recognise. It looked solid enough to stop a charging rhino.

I let my eyes drift up several stories. All those brightly lit windows, and not one face peering out. Up on the roof, dark, indistinct figures moved shiftily among the sharp-edged gables. The gargoyles were getting restless. As long as they didn’t start throwing things…gargoyles delighted in toilet humour, and possessed uncanny aim. I took a deep breath, pushed myself away from the future car, and headed for the main door as though I didn’t have a care in the world. Never show fear in the Nightside, or something will walk all over you.

I didn’t have to worry about Dead Boy’s car. It could look after itself.

The path to the front door was illuminated by Japanese paper lanterns on tall poles, each one decorated with a different screaming face to ward off evil spirits. I took the time to study a few close up, but I didn’t recognise anyone. As I approached the front door, I realised for the first time that for all Griffin Hall’s legendary age, its stonework was still clean and sharp, the creamy stone untouched by time or erosion or the ravages of weather. The huge building could have been built just yesterday. Griffin Hall, like the family it protected, was also immortal, untouched, unchanging.