Nightside - Hell To Pay

      “No you can’t,” Polly said sadly. “No-one can. But it’s all right. I don’t think Mr. Taylor came here to hurt me. I’ll have a quick word with him, then I’ll come right back, I promise. And don’t you dare finish that story without me. I want to hear all the horrid, intimate details.”
      We moved away to a small empty table at the very edge of the dance floor. Polly moved gracefully, in a fashionable off-the-shoulder pale blue gown. The long blonde hair looked very natural. A dozen assorted Spice Girls sat at the next table, and after a few quick glances, made a point of ostentatiously ignoring us. I had a sneaking suspicion that one of them might be the real thing. Polly and I sat down, facing each other.
      “We all have secrets,” he said softly. “And Griffin family members have more than most. It’s as though we’re born with lies in our blood. This is my secret, Mr. Taylor. I want to be a woman. Always have. Even as a small child, I knew some terrible mistake had been made. My body was a foreign country to me. I grew up knowing that while I was Paul outside, I was Polly inside. And Polly was the real me. I had to keep it secret from the rest of the family, as well as the outside world.
      “Grandfather in particular would never understand. Could never understand…He can be very old-fashioned, sometimes. For him, a man must always be strong, aggressive, masculine in all things. He’d see…this as a weakness. So would everyone else. If our family’s enemies ever found out, they’d seize the opportunity to make me a laughing-stock, and through me, my grandfather. And I won’t have that. I won’t be used as a weapon against my family.”
      “There are any number of advanced sciences and sorceries in the Nightside,” I said, “that could change a man into a woman, or indeed, anything else.”
      “I know,” said Polly. “I’ve tried them all. Every difficult, painful, and degrading process I could track down…and not one of them would work on me. Even temporarily. The magic that makes me immortal is so powerful it overrides any other change spell or scientific procedure. Even simple surgery. I’m stuck like this, forever and ever and ever. The best I can manage is Paul dressed up as Polly. The only time I feel even half-real.”
      “I’m sorry,” I said. “There’s nothing I can do to help you. But I’m hoping there’s still time to help your cousin. I need you to tell me all you know about Melissa and her kidnapping.”
      For the first time Polly looked away from me, his whole body language changing, becoming tense, stubborn, evasive. “She was kidnapped. Never doubt that, Mr. Taylor. But I can’t help you.”
      “Don’t you have any idea who might have taken her, or why?”
      “I can’t talk to you about that. I just can’t.”
      “Can you at least tell me why they went after her and not any other member of the family?”
      Polly looked back at me, and his eyes were desperate, pleading. As though begging me to come up with the answers myself so he wouldn’t have to tell me. He knew something, but it was up to me to trick or force it out of him.
      “Melissa had a secret,” Polly said finally. “Just like me. Something about herself, her real self, that she kept from the rest of the family, and the rest of the world. Because they could never understand. And no, I won’t tell you what it is.”
      “Is it anything to do with the story about your grandfather selling his soul to the Devil?” I said.
      Polly just smiled sadly. “Melissa is the only one in our family who hasn’t sold their soul to the Devil, one way or another. Out of all of us, she alone is good and true and pure. You’d never know she was a Griffin at all.”
      “And how did she manage that?” I said, honestly curious.
      “She has the strength of ten because her heart is pure,” said Polly. “She always was the most strong-willed and stubborn member of our family. I think that’s why Grandfather always liked her best. Because in her own way, she was the most like him.”
      I thought about that. Paul clearly idolized his cousin. Perhaps because she was the woman he could never be.
      “Why do you lock yourself in your bedroom?” I said finally. “So you can dress up as Polly?”
      “No,” he said immediately. “I’m only Polly when I’m here, or among friends I know I can trust. I’m Paul at the Hall. I wouldn’t dare dress up there. It isn’t safe, there. It always feels like I’m being watched. Hobbes seems to know everything. He always did, even when I was a child. You couldn’t get away with anything, when he was around…Nasty, creepy old man. Always watching and spying and reporting back to Grandfather. We all hate Hobbes, except for Grandfather…
      “I lock myself in my room because my life is in danger, Mr. Taylor. You have to believe me! I haven’t dared sleep in my room for weeks, but I can’t stay away too much or it would look suspicious…They’d know for sure that I know…They have to kill me because I know the truth!”
      “Which truth?” I said. “About Melissa? About the kidnapping?”
      “No! The truth about Jeremiah Griffin! About what he did to become what he is!” Polly leaned forward across the table and grabbed my hand with masculine strength.
      “Ask Jeremiah. Ask him why no-one is ever allowed to go down into the cellar under Griffin Hall. Ask him what he keeps down there. Ask him why the only door to that cellar is locked and protected by the most powerful magics in the Hall!”
      Polly let go of my hand and sat back in his chair, breathing hard. There was something about him of a small animal in the wild, hunted and harried by wolves.
      “Talk to me,” I said, as gently as I could. “Tell me what you know, and I’ll protect you. I’m John Taylor, remember? The scariest man in the Nightside?”
      Polly smiled at me sadly, almost pityingly. “You can’t help me. No-one can. I should never have been born. I’m only safe here because I’m Polly, and no-one here would ever tell. Sisterhood is a wonderful thing.” She looked at me with sudden intensity. “You mustn’t tell either! You can’t tell anyone! How did you find me here?”
      “Relax. I’m John Taylor, remember? Finding things and people is what I do.” It was a lie, but he didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need to know that his mother knew about Polly. “My only interest in you is what you can tell me about Melissa.”
      Polly smiled, a little shamefacedly. “Sorry. When your whole life is a secret and a lie, you tend to forget the whole world doesn’t revolve around you. Grandfather tried to make me his heir, you know; when I was younger. He’d given up on Uncle William. But I was stubborn, even then. I never wanted anything to do with the family business. That’s why Grandfather finally turned to Melissa, because he saw so much more of himself in her. And because she was the only one left. All I ever wanted was to be me, and to sing every night at Divas!”
      He stood up suddenly and strode away from the table, heading for the raised stage. He took the microphone from the departing Mary Hopkin, and there he was, standing tall and proud in the spotlight, singing “For Today I Am A Boy,” by Anthony and the Johnsons. He put his whole heart into the song, and it seemed like the whole room stopped to listen. He was good, he really was, and I have heard the Nightingale sing and lived to tell of it.
      I sat and listened to Polly sing, and it occurred to me that Paul had found his own safe artificial world to hide away in, just like his Uncle William. All the Griffins had their own worlds, their own secrets…and it seemed to me that if I could only discover Melissa’s, I’d know the who and how and why of everything that had happened.
      That was when a small army of heavily armed women in combat fatigues came abseiling down from the high ceiling, a dozen of them, firing short machine pistol bursts over the heads of the crowd below. The glittering disco ball exploded, and everyone on the ballroom floor jumped to their feet and ran screaming in all directions, like so many panicked birds of paradise. Some ducked down behind hastily overturned tabletops, while others scrambled for the nearest exit. Alone on the stage, Polly stood frozen where he was, staring in horror at the assault force that had invaded his private world. You can’t protect me,he’d said. No-one can.I plunged towards the stage, ignoring the flying bullets, fighting my way through the screaming crowd.
      I vaulted up onto the stage, grabbed Polly, and threw him to the floor, covering him with my own body. I glanced out across the ballroom floor. The women in army fatigues were all touching down now, still firing their short, controlled bursts into the air at regular intervals. As far as I could see, they hadn’t actually hit anyone yet, but several bright young things had fallen and been trampled underfoot in the panic. The pattern for fire being laid down seemed designed to intimidate, for the moment. Which had to mean they’d come here with some definite purpose in mind.
      By now the army women had moved to block all the exits and were herding the club members back into the middle of the ballroom floor. A lot of the trannies had got over their first fear and were glaring fiercely at their captors. Some were clearly bracing themselves to do something. One of the army women stepped forward. Her hair was cropped brutally short, right back to the skull, and her face was plain and harsh and determined. When she spoke, her voice was flat and controlled, without a trace of mercy or compassion in it.
      “Stay where you are and we won’t have to hurt you. We’re here for one man, and when we’ve got him, we’ll leave. We won’t leave without him. Anyone gives us any trouble, we’ll make an example of him. So, who’s in charge of this den of iniquity?”
      The Angelina Jolie moved cautiously forward. Half a dozen guns moved to track her. She stopped before the army leader. “I’m the Management. How dare you do this? How dare you burst in here and…”
      The army leader punched the Angelina in the mouth, and he staggered backwards under the force of the blow. Blood spilled down his chin from his ruined mouth. The army leader snarled at him.
      “Shut your painted mouth, creature. Unnatural thing. If it was up to me, I’d have you all killed. Your very existence offends me. But I have my orders. I am here for the man. Give him to me. Show me where he is.”
      “It’s John Taylor, isn’t it?” said the Angelina, spitting blood onto the floor at the army woman’s feet. “You want him, you can have him.”
      “John Taylor is here?” The army leader looked quickly around, then took control of herself again. “No. Not him. We want Paul Griffin.”
      A low, angry murmur spread quickly through the crowd. The army women raised their machine pistols threateningly, but the murmur got louder, if anything. I searched desperately through my coat-pockets. I had a whole bunch of things I could use to turn events in my favour, but the trick was to find something that wouldn’t get a whole lot of innocent victims killed. When I looked up again, the Angelina was glaring right into the face of the army leader.
      “Paul Griffin is one of us. We don’t betray our own.”
      “Give him to us,” the army woman said coldly. “Or we’ll start killing you freaks until you do.”
      “Paul is family,” said the Angelina. “And you can’t have him. Take these ugly cows down, girls!”
      Suddenly, every transvestite, transsexual, and supersexual had some kind of weapon in their hand. Guns and knives, weapons scientific and magical because you can buy anything in the Nightside, all trained on the surprised women in their army fatigues. The girls all opened fire at once, with savage force and merciless eyes, cutting down their enemies with overwhelming firepower. Most of the army women were so startled they hardly had time to get a shot off. They fell screaming, in shock and pain and fury. The girls kept firing, the army women dying hard and bloody, until none of the attackers were moving anymore. The girls slowly lowered their weapons, and a slow silence fell as thick pools of blood spread slowly across the ballroom floor. And then the girls were laughing and cheering, hugging and high-fiving each other.
      I helped Polly to his feet, and together we got down from the stage and made our way through the jumping, excited crowd. They had the smell of blood and death in their nostrils, and some of them had found they liked it. Others were crying quietly, from shock or relief, and were being comforted on the edges of the crowd. I came to a halt before the Angelina, and we both looked down at the army leader. She’d died with a snarl on her face, her gun still in her hand. The Angelina had cut the leader’s throat with one fast sweep from a vicious-looking knife. Though God alone knew where he’d hidden it in an outfit like that. The Angelina looked at me sourly, hefting the bloody knife thoughtfully.
      “I knew you were trouble. After what followed you here last time, we all decided we needed to be able to defend ourselves, in future. The girls might have panicked a bit at first, but all it took was a threat against one of us to bring them all together again. We look after our own. We have to, no-one else will. Do you have any idea who these stupid cows were?”
      I knelt beside the body of the army leader and checked her over thoroughly. “These combat fatigues are interesting…No identification anywhere, and the cloth feels stiff and new. Maybe bought just for this job. And she didn’t sound like a soldier doing a job. She made it sound personal…Short-cropped hair, no makeup, no colour or manicure on the fingernails, but she does have a gold wedding ring. Check and see if the others are the same.” While I waited for the girls to confirm that all the other bodies were identical, I opened the combat jacket. “Silver crucifix on a chain round the neck? Yes, I thought so.”
      I stood up and looked at the Angelina. “Nuns. They’re all nuns. Hair cropped short to fit under a wimple, no feminine touches, wedding ring because they’re all Brides of Christ. And from the insults they used, I think we’re safe in supposing they’re Christian terrorists, of one stamp or another.”
      “But what were they doing here, dressed up as soldiers?” said the Angelina. “I mean, I think we can safely assume they weren’t drag kings…A disguise? And why did they want Polly?”
      “They wanted Paul Griffin,” I said. “I don’t think they knew about Polly.”
      “Nobody knows Polly is Paul. We guard our secrets here.”
      “Somebody knew. Somebody talked. Someone always does.” I considered the situation thoughtfully. “Maybe if we knew which kind of nun…Salvation Army Sisterhood? Little Sisters of the Immaculate Chain-saw? Order of the Hungry Stigmata? There’s never any shortage of fanatics on the Street of the Gods. Maybe they hired out…I’d better take Paul out of here, get him back to the Hall where he’ll be safe.”
      But when I looked around, he was already gone. I should have known he wouldn’t trust the Hall to keep him safe. And it was clear from the angry eyes all around me that no-one here would tell me where he might have gone. Even if they knew, which most of them probably didn’t. So I just nodded politely to them and to the Angelina, and walked out of Divas! If I hung around, they might expect me to help clean up the mess.

EIGHT - Truths and Consequences

      Live in the Nightside long enough, and you’re bound to start hearing voices in your head. It can be anything from godly visitations to Voices from Beyond to interdimensional admail. You have to learn to block it out or you’ll go crazy and start hearing voices. Cheap mental spam-blockers are available from every corner shop, but when you operate in the darker areas of the Twilight Zone, as I mostly do, you can’t afford to settle for anything but the very best. My current shields could block out the Sirens’ call, a banshee’s wail, or the Last Trump, and yet somehow Jeremiah Griffin’s peremptory voice ended up inside my head again without even setting off a warning alarm.
       John Taylor, I have need of you.
      “Bloody hell, Jeremiah, turn the volume down! You’re frying my neurons! Couldn’t you at least give me some advance notice, ring a little bell in my ear, or something?”
       I could have Hobbes bang a gong if you like…
      “What do you want, Griffin? If it’s a progress update, you’re out of luck. I’ve been following promising leads into dead ends for hours, and I still don’t have a single clue as to what happened to your grand-daughter. For all I know, she was abducted by pixies.”
       Don’t bring them into it. If the job was easy, I wouldn’t have needed to hire you. Right now, I need you to return to Griffin Hall. Now. My wife Mariah is throwing a party, and all kinds of important and influential people will be attending. You could learn much from talking to them.
      “A party? With Melissa still missing? Why?”
       To show I’m still strong. That I’m not cracking or falling apart under the pressure. The right people need to see I’m still in control. And, I need to see who my real friends and allies are. Any fair-weather friends who choose not to attend will be noted, for future retribution. I need you to be here, Taylor. I need everyone to see you at my side, to know you’re working for me. Let my enemies know that the infamous John Taylor is on their trail, and hopefully shock some fresh information out of them.
      “You expect your enemies to show up at this party?”
       Of course. I’ve invited them. They won’t miss a chance to see how I’m really coping, and delight in my misery, and I’ll get a chance to see who looks shiftier than usual. All of my family will be present. I insisted.
      “All right,” I said. “I’ll be there. When does this party start?”
       It’s started. Get here soon, before the canapйs run out.
      Just like that, his presence was gone from my head. Luckily for me, he had no idea that I’d entirely run out of leads and that he’d just thrown me a major life-line. Or he might have asked for some of his advance money back. All I had to do now was get back to the Hall, and that meant transport. I got out my mobile phone and called Dead Boy.
      “All right, Taylor, what do you want this time? My lovely car came back with bits of dead plant stuck in all its crevices and half its defences exhausted. Also, I think it’s grinning more than usual. See if I ever lend you anything again.”
      “Put your glad rags on, Dead Boy, and bring your car over to Divas! We’re going to a party at Griffin Hall.”
      “How in hell did you wrangle an invitation to a top-rank gathering like that? Mariah Griffin’s society bashes are even more notorious than you! Good food, excellent booze, and more unattached aristocratic tottie than you can shake a bread-stick at. I’ll be with you in five minutes or less.”
      Unlike most people who say that, Dead Boy actually meant it. The shimmering silver car glided to a halt in front of me in well under five minutes, having no doubt broken all the speed restrictions and several laws of reality in the process. The door opened, I got in, and we were off and moving even before the seat belt could snap into place around me. Dead Boy toasted me with his whiskey bottle and knocked back a handful of purple pills from a little silver case. He swallowed hard, giggled like a schoolgirl, and beat out a rapid tattoo on the steering wheel with both hands. The car ignored him and concentrated on bullying its way through the teeming traffic.
      Dead Boy looked seventeen, and had done for some thirty years now, ever since he was mugged and murdered in the Nightside. He was tall and adolescent-thin, wearing a long, purple greatcoat over black leather trousers, and tall calf-skin boots. He wore a black rose in one lapel. His long, bony face was so pale as to be almost colourless, though he’d brightened it up for the party with a touch of mascara and some deep purple lipstick. His coat hung open at the front, revealing a dead white torso covered in scars and bullet-holes, held together with stitches, staples, and the occasional stretch of duct tape. I glanced at his forehead, but the bullet-hole I knew was there couldn’t be seen, thanks to some builder’s putty and careful makeup.
      For all his finery, his features had a weary, debauched, Pre-Raphaelite look, with burning fever-bright eyes and a sullen, pouting mouth. Rossetti would have killed to paint him. Dead Boy wore a large floppy hat pressed down over long, dark, curly hair, and a pearl-headed tiepin in his bare throat. Show-off. I couldn’t help noticing that his car wouldn’t let him drive either. He dropped the whiskey bottle carelessly between his feet and fished about in the glove compartment before coming up with a packet of chocolate biscuits. He ripped the packet open and popped one in his mouth. He offered me the packet, but I declined. He shrugged easily and crunched happily on a second biscuit. Dead Boy didn’t need to eat or drink anymore, but he enjoyed the sensations. Though being dead, he had to work harder at it than most.
      You don’t even want to hear the rumours about his sex life.
      “So,” he said, somewhat indistinctly, spraying crumbs, “are you sure you can get me in? I mean, I’m persona non grata in so many places they have a preprinted form waiting, these days. It’s not my fault I haven’t got any manners. I’m dead. They should cut me some slack.”
      “I’m invited,” I said, “so you can be my plus one. Please don’t piss in the potted plants, try to hump the hostess, or kill anyone unless you absolutely have to. But, you’re an immortal, sort of, so the Griffins will just love to meet you. They collect celebrity immortals, eager as they are for hints and tips on how to get the most out of their long lives, and perhaps a few clues on how to get out of the deal that made the Griffin immortal in the first place.” I looked thoughtfully at Dead Boy. “There are those who say the Griffin made a bargain with the Devil, though I’m starting to wonder. You made a bargain…”
      “But not with the Devil,” said Dead Boy, staring straight ahead. “I would have got a better deal with the Devil.”
 
      The futuristic car slammed through the packed traffic, leaving weeping and mayhem in its wake, and got us back to Griffin Hall in record time. Sometimes I think the car takes short cuts through adjoining realities when it’s in a hurry. We tore through the tall gates, barely giving them enough time to get out of our way, and rocketed up the long, winding road to Griffin Hall. This time the surrounding jungle all but fell over itself cringing back on all sides as we passed. I’d never seen trees twitch nervously before. Dead Boy opened a silver snuff-box and snorted something that glowed fluorescent green. I think you have to be dead to be able to tolerate stuff like that.
      The silver car swung smoothly around into the great enclosed courtyard outside the Hall and slammed on the brakes. The courtyard was packed full, with every kind of vehicle under the moon. All kinds of cars, from every time and culture, including one that floated smugly several inches above the ground. A Delorean was still spitting discharging tachyons, right next to a pumpkin coach with tomato trimmings, drawn by a really disgruntled-looking unicorn giving everyone the evil eye. Beside it was a large hut standing on tall chicken legs. That Baba Yaga can be a real party animal when she’s got a few drinks inside her. Dead Boy’s car made some room for itself by forcibly shunting some of the weaker-looking cars out of the way, then waited impatiently for Dead Boy and me to disembark, before slamming its doors shut after us and engaging all its security systems. I could hear all its guns powering up. I was also pretty sure I could hear it giggling.
      Griffin Hall was alive with light, every window blazing fiercely, and hundreds of paper lanterns glowed in perfect rows all across the courtyard to guide guests to the front door. Happy sounds blasted out of the door every time it opened, spilling a warm golden glow into the night. I waited patiently while Dead Boy checked he was looking his best and took a quick snort on an inhaler, then we headed for the door. If nothing else, Dead Boy was going to make a great distraction while I circulated quietly, asking pointed questions…Over to one side, a small crowd of uniformed chauffeurs were huddled together against the evening chill, sipping hot soup from a thermos. One of them wandered over to pet the unicorn, and the beast nearly took all his fingers off.
      It took Dead Boy and I some time to cross the packed courtyard, and I watched with interest as a silver Rolls Royce opened its doors to drop off a Marie Antoinette, complete with a huge hooped skirt and a towering powdered white wig, a very large Henry VIII, and a pinch-faced Pope Joan. They sailed towards the front door, chattering brightly, and the butler Hobbes was there to greet them with a smile and a formal bow. He passed them in, then turned back to see me approaching with Dead Boy, and the smile disappeared. At least he held the door open for us.
      “Back again so soon, Mr. Taylor?” Hobbes murmured suavely. “Imagine my delight. Should I arrange for servants to throw rose petals in your path, or is Miss Melissa still at large?”
      “Getting closer to the truth all the time,” I said easily. “Hobbes, this is a costume party, isn’t it, and not some Time-travellers’ ball?”
      “It is indeed a costume party, sir. The Time-Travellers’ Ball is next week. We’re sacrificing a Morlock for charity. Since a costume of some kind is required at this gathering, might I inquire what you have come as, sir?”
      “A private eye,” I said.
      “Of course you have, sir. And very convincing, too. Might I also inquire what your disturbing companion is supposed to be?”
      “I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past,” Dead Boy growled. “Now get your scrawny arse out of my way, flunky, or I’ll show you something deeply embarrassing from your childhood. Are those your own ears?”
      He slouched past the butler and sauntered off down the hall, and I hurried after him. It’s never wise to let Dead Boy out of your sight for long. A servant came hurrying forwards to lead us to the party, being careful to walk a safe distance ahead of us. I’d brought Dead Boy along to be the centre of attention, and already he was doing a fine job. I hoped he wouldn’t defenestrate anyone important this time. I could hear the party long before we got there—a raised babble of many voices, all determined to have a good time whatever it cost. The Griffin’s parties were reported on all the society pages and most of the gossip rags, and no-one wanted to be described as a wallflower or a wet blanket.
 
      The party itself was being held in a great ballroom in the West Wing, and Mariah Griffin herself was there at the door to greet us. She was magnificently attired as Queen Elizabeth I, in all the period finery, right down to a red wig over an artificially high forehead. The heavy white makeup and shaved eyebrows, however, only added to the pretty vacuity of her face. She extended an expensively beringed hand for us to kiss. I shook it politely, and Dead Boy dropped her a sporty wink.
      “Well now, we are honoured, aren’t we?” she said, fanning herself with a delicate paper fan I didn’t have the heart to tell her was way out of period. “Not only the infamous John Taylor, but also a fellow immortal, the legendary Dead Boy himself! Come to join my little gathering! How sweet.”
      I looked at Dead Boy. “How come I’m infamous, but you’re legendary?”
      “Charm,” said Dead Boy. “Solid charm.”
      “The tales you must have to tell,” said Mariah, tapping Dead Boy playfully on the arm with her fan. “Of all your many exploits and adventures! We would of course have invited you here long ago, but you do seem to move around a lot…”
      “Got to keep the creditors on their toes,” Dead Boy said cheerfully. “And a moving target is always the hardest to hit.”
      “Well, yes,” said Mariah, a little vaguely. “Quite! Do come in. I think you’re one of the very few long-lived we haven’t actually had the pleasure of meeting yet.”
      “Have you met the Lord of Thorns?” I said, just a little mischievously. “Or Old Father Time? Or Razor Eddie? Fascinating characters, you know. I could arrange introductions if you like.”
      She glared at me briefly, then turned her full attention back to charming Dead Boy. He gave her back his best darkly smouldering look, and she simpered happily, not realising he was sending her up. I grabbed Dead Boy firmly by the arm and steered him through the door before he could do or say anything that would require Jeremiah to have him reduced to his component parts and disposed of in a trash compactor. Dead Boy has remarkable appetites and absolutely no inhibitions. He says he finds being dead very liberating.
      The huge ballroom had been elaborately and expensively transformed into a massive old-fashioned rose garden. Low hedges and blossoming rose-bushes and creeping ivy trailing up the walls. Artificial sunlight poured through the magnificent stained-glass windows, and the air was full of sweet summer scents, along with the happy trills of bird-song and the quiet buzz of insects. There were wooden chairs and benches, love-seats and sun-dials, and even a gently gusting summer breeze, to cool an overheated brow. Neatly cropped grass underfoot, and the illusion of a cloudless summer sky above. No expense spared for the Griffin’s guests.
      I hoped none of the flowers had been brought in from the outside jungle.
      A uniformed and bewigged servant came forward with a silver platter bearing various drinks and beverages. I took a flute of champagne, just to be polite. Dead Boy took two. I glared at him, but it was a waste of time. He knocked back both glasses, belched loudly, and advanced determinedly on another servant carrying a tray full of party snacks. I let him go and looked around the crowded garden. There had to be at least a hundred people come to attend Mariah’s little do, all dressed up in the most outlandish and expensive costumes possible. They were here to see and be seen, and most importantly, talked about. All the usual celebrities and famous faces had turned up, along with all the most aristocratic members of High Society, and a small group of men keeping conspicuously to themselves, immediately recognisable as Jeremiah Griffin’s most prominent business enemies.