Nightside - The Unnatural Inquirer

      “He’d better not have!” said Bettie, her eyes flashing dangerously. “The paper owns that DVD, no matter what’s on it.”
      I looked at her thoughtfully. “If it is real…are you curious to see what’s on it?”
      “Of course,” she said immediately. “I want to know. I always want to know.”
      “So you’ll stick with me? Until we find it?”
      “Of course, darling! Forget about the Removal Man. It was just an impulse. No; we’re on the trail of something that could shake the whole Nightside if it is real. And you know what that means? I could end up covering a real story at last! Do you know how long I’ve dreamed about covering a real story, about something that actually matters? We can’t let this end here! You’re the private eye, you’re the legendary John Taylor; do something!”
      “I’m open to suggestions,” I said.
      My mobile phone rang. I answered and was immediately assaulted by the acerbic voice of Alex Morrisey, calling from Strangefellows. As always, Alex did not sound at all happy with the world, the universe, and everything.
      “Taylor, get your arse over here at warp factor ten. A certain Pen Donavon has just turned up in my bar, looking like death warmed over and allowed to congeal. He’s clutching a DVD case like it’s his last life-line, hyperventilating, and crying his eyes out because he thinks the Removal Man is after him. He appears to be suffering from the sad delusion that you can protect him. He says you’re the only person he can trust, which only goes to show he doesn’t know you very well. So will you please come and get him because he is scaring off all my customers! Most of whom have understandably decided that they don’t want to get caught in the inevitable cross-fire. Did I mention that I am not at all happy about this? You are costing me a whole night’s profits!”
      “Put it on my tab,” I said. “I can cover it; I’m on expenses. Sit on Donavon till I get there. No-one talks to him but me.”
      I put the phone away and smiled at Bettie. “We’re back in the game. Pen Donavon has turned up at Strangefellows.”
      Bettie clapped her hands together, kicked her heels, and jumped down from the wooden shelf. “I knew you’d find him, John! Never doubted you for a moment! And we’re finally going to Strangefellows! Super cool!”
      “You’ll probably be disappointed,” I said. “It’s only a bar.”
      “The oldest bar in the world! Where all the customers are myths and legends, and the fate of the whole world gets decided on a regular basis!”
      “Only sometimes,” I said.
      “Is it far from here?”
      “Right on the other side of town. Fortunately, I know a short cut.”
      I took out my Strangefellows club membership card. Alex handed out a dozen or so, in a rare generous moment, and he’s been trying to get them back ever since. Not that any of us are ever likely to give them up. They’re far too useful. The card itself isn’t much to look at. Just simple embossed pasteboard, with the name of the bar in dark Gothic script, and below that the words You Are Here, in blood-red lettering. I pulled Bettie in close beside me, and she snuggled up companionably. I still wasn’t used to that. It had been a long time since I’d let anybody get this close to me. This casual. I liked it. I pressed my thumb firmly against the crimson lettering on the card, and it activated at once, throbbing and pulsing with stored energy. It leapt out of my hand to hang on the air before me, turning end over end and crackling with arcane activity. Bright lights flared and sputtered all around it. Alex had paid for the full bells and whistles package. The card expanded suddenly to the size of a door, which opened before us. Together, Bettie and I stepped through into Strangefellows, and the door slammed shut behind us.
      I put the card back in my coat-pocket and looked around. The place was unnaturally still and quiet, empty apart from a single drunk sleeping one off, slumped forward across his table. I knew him vaguely. Thallassa, a wizened old sorcerer who claimed to be responsible for the sinking of Atlantis. He said he drank to forget, but it was amazing how many stories he could remember, as long as you were dumb enough to keep buying him drinks. Everyone else had clearly decided that discretion was the better part of running for the hills, and that the combination of Pen Donavon, his DVD, and me in one place was just too dangerous to be around. Even the kind of people who habitually drink at a place like Strangefellows have their limit; and I’m often it.
      Donavon was easy to spot. He was sitting slumped on a stool at the bar. No-one else could look that miserable, beaten down, and shit scared from the back. He peered round as Bettie and I approached, and almost collapsed off his stool before he recognised me. He was just a small, ordinary-looking man, no-one you’d look at twice in the street, clearly in way over his head and going down for the third time. Up close, he looked in pretty bad shape. He was shaking and shivering, his face drawn and ashen, with dark circles under his eyes as though he hadn’t slept in days. Perhaps because he didn’t dare. He couldn’t have been half-way through his twenties, but now he looked twice that. Something had aged him and hadn’t been kind about it. He clutched a long, shabby coat around him, as though to keep out a chill only he could feel.
      He looked like a man who’d seen Hell. Or Heaven.
      Alex Morrisey glared at me, and then went back to half-coaxing, half-bullying Donavon into putting aside his brandy glass and trying some freshly made hot soup. Donavon remained unconvinced. He watched, wide-eyed, until Bettie and I were right there with him. Then he sighed deeply, and some of the tension seemed to go out of him. He emptied his glass with a gulp and signalled for another. Alex put aside the soup bowl, sniffed loudly, and reluctantly opened a new bottle.
      Alex owns and runs Strangefellows, and possibly as a result, has a mad on for the whole world. He loathes his customers, despises tourists, and never gives the right change on principle. He also had his thirtieth birthday just the other day, which hadn’t helped. He always wore black, because, he said, he was in mourning for his sex life. (Gone, but not forgotten.) His permanent scowl had etched a deep notch between his eyebrows, right above the designer shades he always affected. He also wore a snazzy black beret, perched far back on his head to hide his spreading bald patch. I have known clinically depressed lepers with haemorrhoids who smiled more often than Alex Morrisey. Though at least he doesn’t have to worry when he sneezes. I leaned against the bar and looked at him reproachfully.
      “You never made me hot soup, Alex.”
      He sniffed loudly. “My home-made soup is full of things that are good for you, including a few that are downright healthful, all of which would be wasted on a body as ruined and ravaged as yours.”
      “Just because I don’t like vegetables…”
      “You’re the only man I know who makes the sign of the cross when confronted with broccoli. And don’t change the subject! Once again I am left clearing up the mess from one of your cases. Like I don’t have enough troubles of my own. Bloody eels have got into the beer barrels again, the pixies have been at the bar snacks, which they will live to regret, the poor fools, and my pet vulture is pregnant! Someone’s going to pay for this…”
      He broke off as Pen Donavon suddenly reached out and grabbed my arm. There was so little strength left in him it felt like a ghost tugging at my sleeve. His mouth worked for a moment before easing into something like a smile, and there were real tears of gratitude in his eyes.
      “Thank God you’re here, Mr. Taylor. I’ve been so afraid…They’re after me. Everyone’s after me. You have to protect me!”
      “Of course, of course I will,” I said soothingly. “You’re safe now. No-one’s going to get to you here.”
      “Just keep them away,” he said pathetically. “Keep them all away. I can’t think…I’ve been running from everyone. Either they want to pressure me into selling the Recording, or they want to kill me and take it. I can’t trust anyone any more. I thought I’d be safe, once I’d made my deal with the Unnatural Inquirer, but I was ambushed on my way there. I’ve been running and hiding ever since.”
      He let go of me and looked back at the full glass of brandy before him. He gulped half of it down in one go, and Alex winced visibly. Must have been the really good stuff, then. I looked at Bettie.
      “Could someone in your offices have put the word out on Donavon coming in with the DVD?”
      “For a percentage? Wouldn’t surprise me. None of us are exactly overpaid at the Inquirer. And our Reception phones are always being tapped. We debug them at the start of every working day, but there’s always someone listening in, hoping for an advantage. After all, we hear everything first. We’re noted for it.”
      “I should never have recorded the broadcast,” said Donavon. He was sitting hunched over his brandy glass, as though afraid someone would snatch it away. “It was all a ghastly mistake. I was trying to contact the other side, yes, but I never thought…My life hasn’t been my own since. And I’d certainly never have tried to sell the Recording if I’d known it would destroy my whole life.”
      “You saw the broadcast,” said Bettie, leaning in close with her best engaging smile. “What did you see?”
      Donavon started shaking again. He tried to speak, and couldn’t. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears ran down his trembling cheeks. Alex sighed heavily and topped up the brandy glass again. He smiled nastily at me.
      “All these drinks are going on your tab, Taylor.”
      I smiled right back at him. “Do your worst. Expenses, remember?”
      “Well,” said Bettie. “You will get expenses if we deliver the DVD.”
      I looked at her. “What? What do you mean if? Nothing was ever said about my expenses being conditional!”
      “This is the newspaper game, sweetie. Everything’s conditional.”
      I scowled, and then had to stop because it was upsetting Donavon even more. I moved away down the bar and gestured for Alex to lean in close. “You can bet some of your recent customers will be out on the streets now, spilling the beans about who and what can be found in Strangefellows. Which means we can expect unfriendly visitors at any moment. Better lock the doors and slam down the shutters. Where are the Coltranes?”
      “Out the back, doing exactly that,” said Alex. “I can think for myself, thank you. My defences will keep out all but the most determined; but if anyone does get in, the resulting damage will also be going on your tab. I’d insure against you, but apparently you’re classed along with Acts of Gods and other unavoidable nuisances.”
      “Call Suzie,” I said. “I think we’re going to need her help on this one.”
      “Damn,” said Alex. “And I just had the place redecorated.”
      Bettie slipped her arm through mine and turned me round to face her. “I hate to sound disappointed,” she said, “but I am, maybe a bit. I mean, darling, this isn’t at all what I expected. It all looks so…ordinary. Well, ordinary for the Nightside. I was hoping for something more…extreme.”
      I refrained from pointing out the disembodied hand scuttling up and down the bar top. (Alex accepted it in payment for a bad debt.) The hand was busy polishing the bar top and refilling the snack bowls. Yet another good reason not to eat them, as far as I was concerned. Alex objected on principle to giving away anything, and it showed in his choice of snacks. Does anyone actually eat honeyed locusts any more? The vulture’s perch was empty, of course, but there were other things to look at. Lightning, crackling inside a bottle. Bit hard on the ship, I thought. A small featureless furry thing, that sat on the bar top purring happily to itself, and occasionally farting. Until the hand grabbed it up and used it as a rag to polish the bar top. A small cuspidor of tanna leaves, with the brand-name Mummy’s favourite. All nice homey touches.
      “I want a drink,” Bettie announced loudly. “I want one of those special drinkies you can only get here. Do you have a Maiden’s Bloody Ruin? Dragons’ Breath? Angel’s Tears?”
      “The first two aren’t cocktails,” I said. “And that last one is actually called Angel’s Urine.”
      “Which was selling quite well,” said Alex. “Until word got around it wasn’t so much a trade name as an accurate description.”
      Bettie laughed and snuggled cosily up against me. “You choose, darling.”
      “Give the lady a wormwood brandy,” I said.
      Alex gave me a look, and then fished about under the bar for the really good stuff he keeps set aside for special customers.
      “I do like this place, after all,” Bettie decided. “It’s cosy, and comfortable. It’d probably even have atmosphere if there was anybody else here but us. Ah, sweetie, you take me to the nicest places!”
      She kissed me. As though it was the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it was, for other people. I took her in my arms, and her whole body surged forward, pressing against me. When we broke apart, Alex was there, pushing a glass of wormwood brandy towards Bettie. She snatched it up with an excited squeak, sipped the brandy, and made appreciative noises. Alex looked at me. I looked at him. Neither of us mentioned Suzie, but we were both thinking about her.
      And then we all looked round sharply at the sound of heavy footsteps in the entrance lobby upstairs. They were heading our way, and they didn’t sound like customers. Alex cursed dispassionately.
      “My defences are telling me that a bunch of combat sorcerers just walked right through them, without even hesitating. Really powerful combat sorcerers.”
      “How can you tell?” said Bettie
      “Because only really powerful combat sorcerers could get through this bar’s defences,” I said.
      Thirteen very dangerous men came clattering down the metal stairs into the bar proper, making a hell of a racket in the process. They moved smoothly, in close formation, and spread out at the bottom of the steps to cut us off from all the exits. They stood tall and proud, radiating professionalism and confidence. They were all dressed in black leather cowboy outfits, complete with Stetsons, chaps, boots, and silver spurs. Surprisingly, and a bit worryingly, they weren’t wearing holsters. They all possessed various charms, amulets, fetishes, and grisgris, displayed openly around their necks or on their chests for all to see, and despair. These were major league power sources, for strength and speed, transformations and elemental commands. A bit generic but no less dangerous for that.
      They all looked to be big men and in their prime. They all had that lazy arrogance that comes from having beaten down anyone and anything that ever dared to stand against them. You don’t get to be a combat sorcerer without killing an awful lot of people in the process. There was an ideogram tattooed on all their foreheads, right over the third eye, showing their Clan affiliation. Combat sorcerers are too dangerous to be allowed to run around unsupervised. You either joined a Clan, or they joined together to wipe you out. This particular bunch belonged to Clan Buckaroo.
      Their leader stepped forward to face me. He was a good head taller than me, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist. Probably ate his vegetables every day, and did a hundred and fifty sit-ups before breakfast. He had three different charms hanging from rolled silver chains around his neck and an amulet round his waist I didn’t like to look at. This cowboy was packing some serious firepower. He fixed me with his cold blue eyes and started to say something that would only have been an insult or a demand, and I wasn’t in the mood for either; so I got my retaliation in first.
      “Those are seriously tacky outfits,” I said. “What are you planning to do, line dance us to death?”
      The leader hesitated. This wasn’t going according to plan. He wasn’t used to defiance, let alone open ridicule. He squared his shoulders and tried again.
      “We are Clan Buckaroo. We work for Kid Cthulhu. And you’ve got something we want.”
      “Like what?” I asked. “Fashion sense?”
      The leader’s hand dropped to where his holster should have been. The twelve other combat sorcerers all did the same. Some suddenly had guns of light in their hands, sparking and shimmering. Like the ghosts of guns steeped in slaughter. And a few, including the leader, just pointed their index fingers at me, like a child miming a gun. I looked at the leader and raised an eyebrow.
      “Conceptual guns,” he said. “Creations of the mind, powered by murder magic. They never miss, they never run out of ammunition, they can punch a hole through anything; and they kill whatever they hit. Allow me to demonstrate.”
      He pointed his finger at the bottles ranked behind the bar. I grabbed Bettie and Donavon and dragged them out of the way. One by one the bottles exploded, showering glass fragments and hissing liquids all over the bar. Alex stood his ground and didn’t move an inch, even as liquors soaked his shirt, and flying glass cut his cheek. The leader raised his finger to his lips and blew away imaginary smoke. The disembodied hand flipped him the finger, and then disappeared under the bar. The watching cowboys were all grinning broadly. Alex glared right back at them.
      “You needn’t be so smug. You only got the stuff I keep for tourists. The good stuff can look after itself.”
      The leader looked at him for a moment. He’d used his favourite trick, and no-one was looking the least bit intimidated. He stuck out his chin and tried again.
      “I’ve come for the Afterlife Recording.”
      “Don’t worry, dear,” said Bettie. “I’m sure you were just a bit over-excited.”
      I stepped forward, putting myself between her and the leader. I looked him square in the eye. “You don’t want to be here,” I said. “These aren’t the people you’re looking for.”
      I held his gaze with mine, and he stood very still. Behind him, the other combat sorcerers stirred restlessly. And then the leader smiled coldly right back at me.
      “I’ve heard about your evil eye, Taylor. Won’t work on any of us. We’re protected.”
      He was right. I couldn’t stare him down, couldn’t even reach him. While I was still working out what to do next, Bettie stepped past me and put herself between me and the leader.
      “Trevor!” she said. “I thought it was you, sweetie! Didn’t recognise you at first, all tricked out in the Village People outfit. You never told me you were a combat sorcerer.”
      The other cowboys looked at their leader, and I could practically see them mouthing the word Trevor? at each other. The leader glared at Bettie.
      “That is my old name,” he said harshly. “I don’t use it any more. My name is Ace now, Bettie, leader of Clan Buckaroo. I haven’t gone by…that other name in ages.”
      “You were Trevor when I knew you,” Bettie said briskly. “I did wonder why you insisted on wearing those black boots and spurs to bed, but I thought you were being kinky. Even though you went all bashful when I got out the fluffy handcuffs. What are you doing here, sweetie, dressed up as Black Bart and leading this bunch of overdressed thugs?”
      “The money’s good,” said Ace.
      “It would have to be,” said Bettie.
      “Don’t get in the way,” said Ace, giving her his best fierce glare. “We’re here to do a job, and we’re going to do it. I can’t cut you any slack just because we used to be an item.”
      “You and he were an item?” I said to Bettie.
      She shrugged. “He didn’t last long.”
      There was some quiet sniggering from the other combat sorcerers that died quickly away as Ace glared around him.
      “What exactly are you here for?” I said. “Maybe there’s room for negotiation.”
      “We want Donavon, and we want the Afterlife Recording,” said Ace, fixing me with his cold stare again. “No negotiations, no discussion. We work for Kid Cthulhu, and he wants sole ownership of the Recording.”
      “Now wait just a minute!” Bettie strode forward to glare right into Ace’s face, and he was so startled he actually fell back a pace. “The Unnatural Inquirer has already purchased exclusive rights to all the material on that DVD! We have a binding contract! We own it!”
      “Not any more you don’t,” said Ace. “Possession is everything, in the Nightside.”
      “Kid Cthulhu…” Alex said thoughtfully. “Thought I’d heard something about his having cash liquidity problems with his undersea-farming interests. And, of course, the bottom’s dropped right out of the calamari market. He must be thinking he can make enough money out of the Afterlife Recording to bail him out. So to speak.”
      “You can’t have the Afterlife Recording!” Bettie said firmly to Ace. “We got there first.”
      Ace looked at the cowboy next to him. “If she speaks again, kill her.”
      Bettie’s mouth opened wide, outraged, and I clapped a hand across it and hauled her back. Ace didn’t look like he was kidding to me. Thirteen combat sorcerers in one room can do pretty much whatever they feel like doing. But, on the other hand, I had a reputation to maintain…So I looked Alex in the eye and gave him my best disapproving stare.
      “Now that was just plain rude,” I said. “And if you threaten to kill me…I will smite the lot of you. Right here and now.”
      There was a pause, and the thirteen combat sorcerers looked at me uncertainly. With anyone else, they’d have dismissed it immediately as just talk. But I was John Taylor…
      “Bettie Divine is under my protection,” I said. “Along with everyone else in this bar. Very definitely including Pen Donavon. So you can all get your redneck wannabe big bad selves out of here, before I decide to do something quite appallingly nasty to you.”
      The combat sorcerers looked at each other, and then at their leader. Their magical guns or fingers were all pointing at the floor. And then Ace smiled at me and laughed softly, and just like that the mood was broken.
      “Never make a threat you can’t back up,” he said.
      Ace pointed his conceptual gun at the drunk sorcerer, still out cold despite all the drama going on around him. A tired old man, who might or might not have done a terrible thing in his younger days. Ace shot him three times, his pointed finger unwavering even as the invisible bullets punched large bloody holes in the sleeping man. Thallassa’s body jumped and jerked under the impact of the bullets, but he never made a sound. He just lay where he was, slumped across his table, as the blood ran out of him. Murdered, for no reason he would ever know. Ace laughed briefly and turned back to me.
      “Boys,” he said, “kill everyone in this place except for Pen Donavon.” He smiled at Bettie. “Sorry, sweetie. Just business. You know how it is.”
      “You little shit,” Bettie said defiantly. “And I do mean little, Trevor. I’ve had more fun with a toothpick.”
      Women always fight dirty.
      Ace pointed his finger at her. “Shut up and die, will you?”
      “Not in my bar,” said Alex. He produced a pump-action shotgun from under the bar, and when Ace turned to look, Alex shot him in the face. Ace was thrown backwards, blasted right off his feet, crashing into the cowboys behind him, who made shocked, startled noises. Alex worked the pump action, and all the combat sorcerers stood very still.
      “Wow,” I said. “Hard core, Alex.”
      He shrugged modestly. “Suzie left this behind, one night. Always thought it would come in handy one day. I loaded it with silver bullets, dipped in holy water, and blessed by a wandering god. I could shoot the head off a golem with this. And if golems had other things, I could shoot them off, too.”
      “You know,” said Bettie, “I think I’d be rather more impressed if Trevor wasn’t getting up again.”
      We looked round. Ace was already back on his feet, apparently entirely unaffected. Apart from the really pissed-off look on his face.
      “Oh, shit,” said Alex, putting down the shotgun. “Guys, you’re on your own. If you want me, I’ll be hiding behind the bar, whimpering and wetting myself.”
      “Really?” said Bettie, not bothering to hide her disappointment in him.
      “Hell no,” said Alex. “This is my bar! It’s bad enough that the whole world conspires against me, messes with my beer and puts my vulture up the duff, without having a bunch of refugees from an S&M march walking in here like they own the place. And Thallassa hadn’t even paid for his drinks yet, you bastards! You owe me money!” He vaulted over the bar, holding a glowing cricket bat. “Merlin made this for me, sometime back. For when you really, absolutely have to take out the trash.”
      “Alex,” I said. “This isn’t like you. It’s an improvement, but it isn’t like you.”
      “My new girl-friend’s upstairs,” said Alex. “Probably watching on the monitors. You know how it is when you’ve got a new girl. You end up doing all kinds of stupid things.”
      “Yes,” I said. “I know how it is.”
      “Is that it?” said Ace, smiling. “A glow-in-the-dark cricket bat?”
      “No,” said Alex. “Oh, girls!”
      And Alex’s two large, muscular, body-building bouncers, Betty and Lucy Coltrane, came charging in from the back of the bar and threw themselves at the startled combat sorcerers. They ploughed right into the group before the cowboys even had time to react, knocking them arse over tit and kicking them while they were down, in the fine old tradition of bouncers everywhere. Alex hit the group a moment later, swinging his cricket bat with both hands as though it were a long sword. He smashed faces and broke bones, and the cowboys fell back, crying out in shock and distress. None of them had prepared for an irate bartender armed with a weapon enchanted by Merlin Satanspawn. The glowing cricket bat smashed through their magical defences like they weren’t even there. Tougher magical shields flared up here and there, as some of the combat sorcerers got their act together enough to ward off the Coltranes, but the girls just dodged around the shields to get at those cowboys who weren’t protected. Shrill cries of pain and anguish filled the air.
      I said Ace’s name, and when he turned to look at me I threw a handful of pepper into his face. An attack so basic and physical his magical shields couldn’t do a thing to prevent it. He howled piteously, scrabbling at his tearing eyes with both hands. I kicked him in the nuts, and he folded up and fell to the floor. Top-rank combat sorcerer, my arse. Try having assassins at your throat and at your back ever since you were a small child and see what that does to your survival skills.
      Some of the combat sorcerers got past their shock and surprise and charged up their amulets and charms. They fired spells in all directions, and everyone ducked for cover. I looked around for Pen Donavon, just in time to see him diving behind the bar. Best place for him. Then I had to throw myself to one side as an energy bolt seared through the air where I’d been a moment before. It hit the long wooden bar and cracked it from end to end. I winced. I knew I was going to end up paying for that. Betty and Lucy Coltrane were ducking and dodging, avoiding fireballs and transformation spells and conceptual bullets from all directions at once. They were fast on their feet for their size, but they couldn’t protect themselves and press the fight at the same time.
      Sparks flew from Alex’s cricket bat as he clubbed his way through the cowboys before him. They blasted him with destructive spells at point-blank range, but the magic Merlin had built into the bat reflected the spells right back at their source. As a result, lightning bolts flashed back and forth across the bar, bouncing off magical shields and doing extensive damage to the bar’s fixtures and fittings. Magical bullets ricocheted, punching holes in the walls and ceiling. And two rather surprised-looking toads blinked at each other from piles of cowboy clothes before reappearing as themselves again.
      Meanwhile, I had my own problem. Ace was getting up again. I picked up a handy chair and hit him over the head with it. I’m a great one for tradition. But the chair didn’t break, and Ace didn’t go down. So much for Hollywood. I dropped the chair and looked around for something else to hit him with. Preferably something with big jaggedy edges. I saw one of the combat sorcerers grab Bettie by the arm and pull her to him. I think he intended to use her as a human shield, or as a way to get to me. He really should have known better. He pointed his shimmering gun at her, and she smiled dazzlingly at him. He hesitated, and was lost. He stood where he was, unmoving, fascinated. Bettie’s mother was a lust demon, and had passed on some of her deadly glamour to her daughter. Bettie held the cowboy’s eyes with hers, fished in her bag, brought out her Mace, and let him have it. He fell to the floor, writhing and howling, and clawing at his eyes with both hands.
      And to think I’d been a bit worried that she might not fit in with my friends.
      While I was distracted, Ace hit me with a transformation spell. I cried out in shock as the spell crawled all over me, cramping my muscles and coursing through my neural system. Pain bent me in two, and sweat dripped from my face. I could feel my skin stretching and distorting, trying to find a new shape. Discharging energies spat and crackled around me, but for all its power, the spell couldn’t find a foothold in me. Slowly, I straightened up again, fighting back the effects of the spell, throwing it off through sheer force of will. I smiled slowly at Ace, a cold and nasty death’s-head grin, and he fell back a pace as the last of his spell fell away from me, defeated.
      “So,” he said harshly. “It’s true. You’re not human. That spell would have worked on any man.”
      “A man might have shown you mercy,” I said. “But we’re beyond that now.”