“What do you think, Suzie?” I said.

“He kills monsters,” said Suzie. “Better to have him where we can see him, than maybe sneaking up on us. And I am kind of curious to see what will happen when two holy warriors go head to head.”

“All right,” I said to Chandra. “You’re in. We split the fee three ways, and you’re responsible for your own expenses. Agreed?”

“Most certainly, Mr. Taylor. I shall be very interested to see how you work, close up.”

“If the Walking Man truly is a servant of the Christian God, where does that leave you?” I said, honestly curious.

“God is God,” said Chandra. “Creator of us all. I do not think the Supreme Being cares what name we give him, as long as we talk to him. And listen.”

Walker finally came down to fetch me and Suzie, looked around at the general blood and mess, and gave me a stern look.

“Can’t take you two anywhere.”

“Entirely not my fault,” I said. “See Bulldog Hammond over there, sitting very quietly in the corner?”

“Ah,” said Walker. “I suppose none of this is Suzie’s fault either?”

“Of course not,” I said. “Or there’d be dead bodies piled up all over the place.”

“Good point,” said Walker. “Come with me. The Authorities are waiting.”

“What took you so long?” I said. “I was under the impression they were expecting us.”

“We had things to discuss first,” said Walker. “Like whether the situation really was bad enough to justify hiring you and Shotgun Suzie.”

“Good point,” said Suzie.

Walker nodded respectfully to Chandra Singh. “Always good to see you again, Chandra. Keeping busy?”

“Of course, Mr. Walker. There is never any shortage of monsters in the Nightside.”

They bowed to each other briefly, then Walker led the way upstairs.

“I didn’t know you knew Chandra,” I said to Walker.

“Of course,” he said. “I went to Eton with his father. Splendid chap. First-class geneticist these days, by all accounts.”

The Nightside is full of unexpected connections. Heroes and villains, gods and monsters, we all know each other. Sometimes as friends, sometimes as enemies, sometimes as lovers. Sometimes all three. It’s that kind of place.

I let Walker lead the way up the back stairs, just in case. Only a fool turns his back on Walker. Suzie brought up the rear. And in a small private room at the top of the Club, surrounded by the very best security measures the Adventurers Club had to offer, I finally came face-to-face with my new would-be lords and masters. They sat around a long, polished table, trying to look like people in charge. My breath caught in my throat as I saw their faces, and I thought my heart would stop. I knew them. I had seen them all together before, and not in a good way.

Julien Advent, the legendary Victorian Adventurer, now editor of the Night Times. Jessica Sorrow, the Unbeliever. Annie Abattoir, spy, assassin, and high-class courtesan. Count Video, lord of the binary magics. King of Skin, in all his sleazy glory. And Larry Oblivion, the dead detective. I had seen these people gathered together in one place before, in a future time-line where they had been the last survivors of Humanity, and my Enemies. They sent terrible agents back through Time to try to kill me, before I could bring about the awful devastated future in which they lived. I had gone to great pains to avert that particular time-line, to save their souls and mine, but here they were, gathered together again for the first time.

It had to mean something.

I strolled into the room and gave them all my best unimpressed look, on general principles. Never let them see you’re hurting. And never let them think they’ve got the upper hand, or they’ll walk all over you. Suzie didn’t look impressed either, but then, she never does. Count Video spotted the shotgun holstered on Suzie’s back and stirred uncomfortably.

“Hold everything. I thought we agreed—no weapons at meetings!”

“You want to try to take it away from her, be my guest,” said Annie, amused.

Of course then everyone at the table had to make their views known, and I took the opportunity to gather my shattered thoughts. It didn’t matter whether this particular grouping had any future significance; I had to deal with them here and now. So . . . Julien Advent I knew of old. We’d worked together, on various cases. Julien was a good, honest, and highly moral man, which meant he tended not to approve of me. Or at least, some of my methods. He’s far too good a man for the Nightside. I think he only stays because he’s never been known to back down from a fight. As always, he was dressed in the height of Victorian finery, all stark black-and-white, with the only touch of colour the apricot cravat at his throat, held in place by an ornate silver pin supposedly presented to him by Queen Victoria herself. He looked to be a handsome man of about thirty, and had appeared so for several decades.

Jessica Sorrow’s appearance was altogether more disturbing. Called the Unbeliever because for many years she didn’t believe anything was real except herself, and she believed that so fiercely that if any particular thing or person caught her attention . . . she disbelieved in them until they stopped existing. A very scary and dangerous personage, until I helped defuse her. She still had a powerful presence, a kind of anti-charisma that fascinated and appalled at the same time. Barely five feet tall, she sat curled up in her chair like a feral child, horribly emaciated and corpse pale. Her eyes were very big in her face, her colourless mouth little more than a slit. She wore a battered brown leather jacket and leggings, the jacket hanging open to reveal her bare, sunken chest, to which she tightly hugged the teddy bear I’d found for her. Her old childhood friend, perhaps her only friend, it helped her ground herself in reality. Given the fierce, unsettlingly blank look in her dark eyes, I wouldn’t have put money on her stability, but just the fact that she was there, interacting with other people, was a good sign. She cocked her head suddenly to one side, and looked at me, and knew me. For a moment, her expression was almost human. She smiled briefly. Her eyes didn’t blink nearly often enough.

Annie Abattoir was altogether easier on the eye. A ripe, voluptuous woman in her midforties, Annie was an accomplished seductress and heart-breaker, and many other things beside, most of which could not be discussed in polite company. Six-foot-two, broad-shouldered and imposing, with a sharp sensual face, she wore a ruby red evening gown, cut daringly low at front and back, that went well with her great mane of copper red hair. She was beautiful and sexy and effortlessly charming, and she knew it. She wore long white evening gloves; presumably to disguise how much blood she had on her hands.

Count Video was a Major Player, when he could get his act together, and an old adversary of mine. And a real pain in the arse. Tall and stiff, he wore a stylish suit with little grace and less poise. I could still see the staples and stitches on his neck and face from where he’d had his skin ripped off during the Angel War, then reattached afterwards. The skin also puckered around the odd silicon node, or patch of implanted sorcerous circuitry, which powered his impressive binary magics. Plasma lights sputtered on and off around him, as some drifting thought or impulse rewrote reality on some basic level. He was good-looking enough, in a sulky sort of way, and would probably be dangerous if he ever got around to growing a pair.

King of Skin was more than a man but less than a god. Or possibly the other way round. It was hard to tell. Wrapped in his usual sleazy glamour, people only saw of him what he wanted them to see. He could charm or enchant you with a word or a look, or show you what you feared most. He could make nightmares real and send them chasing through the street after you, or grant you something very like your heart’s desire, though it might look very different in the morning. Except mostly . . . he couldn’t be bothered. A nasty man with nasty tastes and worse habits, King of Skin was also a Major Player, when he chose to be. For today’s meeting, he had chosen to appear as the young Elvis, in Ann-Margret drag.