“Welcome to the oldest bar in the world,” he said grandly. “Welcome to Strangefellows.”
I have to say, I was not impressed. I’d heard about Strangefellows, of course; everyone in my line of work has. It’s the place to go if you want to make things happen. Dreams can come true, in the oldest bar in the world, whether you want them to or not. Miracles can happen, and deals can be made, and if you sit at a table long enough, everyone in the world who matters will pass by. And while you’re watching all this, someone will steal your wallet, your clothes, and quite possibly your soul. Strangefellows is where heroes and villains, gods and monsters, myths and legends go . . . to sulk in corners and cry into their drinks.
I much preferred the upmarket, brightly lit, and certainly more civilised ambience of the Wulfshead Club, which might have its share of disreputable customers but always knew where to draw the line. The Wulfshead believed in security, good cheer, and basic hygiene, all of which were ostentatiously lacking here. The lighting was not so much low as suppressed, probably so you couldn’t tell what a dive the place actually was, and the air was thick with a whole bunch of different illegal forms of smoke. Just by breathing it in, my lungs were slumming. No one paid any attention to my sudden appearance; in fact I rather got the impression that the regulars were quite used to strangers dropping in unannounced. A lot of people were watching Walker carefully out of the corners of their eyes. I was about to remark on that when I spotted a number of small scuttling things in the shadows where the walls met the floor. I pointed them out to Walker, who shrugged.
“Don’t mind them,” he said easily. “They provide character. And the occasional bar snack.”
I tried not to shudder too openly as I followed Walker through the crowded tables towards the long wooden bar at the back of the room. I passed among vampires and ghouls, mummies wrapped in yards and yards of rotting gauze, a party of female horned daemons out on the pull, and even a few gods in reduced circumstances who leaned over their drinks and muttered how they used to be a contender. They all ignored me with a thoroughness I could only admire. They didn’t know Shaman Bond, and with my shirt collar pulled as far up as it would go, they couldn’t see my torc and mark me for a Drood.
None of them looked like people I’d talk to by choice, unless I was pursuing a case. I do have my standards. I’ve known my share of dubious dives in London: sleazy back-alley establishments where you have to mug the doorman to get in—or out. I’ve strolled through my share of members-only clubs where the air of decadence and debauchery is so thick you can carve your initials on it. I’ve moved among spies and traitors, rogues and villains, friends and fiends and felons . . . and none of them had ever made my hackles stand up on end the way this place did.
Strangefellows is where you go when the rest of the world has thrown you out.
A larger-than-life male personage was standing on a small stage beneath a single spotlight, providing the live entertainment. He wore battered black leathers left hanging open to show off the many scars covering his unnaturally pale torso. One of the Baron Frankenstein’s creatures. He held on to the old-fashioned mike like he thought it might escape while murdering an old Janis Joplin standard, “Take Another Piece of My Heart.”
“He’s often here,” said Walker, though I hadn’t asked. “Appears on as many open-mike talent shows as will have him, and let’s face it, most of them have more sense than to say no. Seems he’s not entirely satisfied with the baron’s work. He’s saving up his pennies for a sex-change operation.”
I never know what to say when people tell me things like that. So I just smiled and nodded vaguely and fixed my gaze on the bar ahead.
“I need a drink,” I said firmly. “In fact, I need several large drinks, preferably mixed together in a tall glass, but quite definitely not including a miniature umbrella or ragged slices of dodgy fruit I don’t even recognise. Any suggestions?”
“Yes,” said Walker. “Whatever you do, don’t let yourself be persuaded into trying the Merovingian cherry brandy. That’s not booze; that’s sudden death in a bottle. And don’t try the Angel’s Urine either. It’s not a trade name. They have to bury the bottles in desanctified ground. I’d stick to Perrier, if I were you. And insist on opening the bottle yourself.”
“You take me to the nicest places, Walker.”
People made space for us at the bar without actually seeming to or looking in our direction. Walker smiled charmingly at the blond barmaid.
“Hello, Cathy. I need a favour. And you’re not going to say no, or I’ll send in a team of health inspectors with armed backup.”
She scowled at him with real menace. “What do you want, Walker?”
“I need you to recharge my watch while I wait.”
“What, again? I swear you only do it here so you can fiddle your expenses . . . All right, hand it over. But if it blows the fuses again, you’re paying.”
Walker and I stood with our backs to the bar, staring out at the crowds, drinking our Perrier straight from the bottle. Walker drank with his little finger extended, of course. The roar of conversation in the bar rose and fell, interrupted now and again by moments of music and mayhem. The place might be a dump, but it was a lively dump.
“What do you intend to do when we finally catch up to Alexander and Peter?” said Walker. He didn’t look at me.
“Kill them,” I said. “No excuses, no plea bargaining. I’m going to kill them both.”
“For Honey?”
“For Honey and Blue and Katt and all the other people the Independent Agent has screwed over down the years. Alexander King made himself a legend in our field by trampling over everyone who got in his way. He did good things, important things; there’s no denying it. But only to build his reputation, so he could charge more. That’s not what being an agent is about. The world’s become too precarious to allow rogue operatives like him to run around loose . . .”
“You went to great lengths,” murmured Walker, “to establish yourself as an independent field agent for the Droods.”
“I still am,” I said. “It’s not what you do; it’s why you do it. I maintain a healthy distance from my family so I can see them clearly for what they are and operate as their conscience when necessary . . . I’m an agent, not an assassin. But I will kill Alexander and Peter King for all the things they’ve done. Not just because of Honey. And Blue and Katt. Am I going to have problems with you over this, Walker?”
“Not in the least. But, Eddie, understand this. If it comes to the point, and you find you can’t do it . . . you can’t kill them . . . I will. And you had better not get in my way. I was never an agent, Eddie. I was a soldier.”
“For Honey?” I said.
“No; I never cared much for her. Typical arrogant CIA spook. No, some people just need killing.”
At which point a large, heavily muscled, and more than fashionably dressed young man emerged suddenly from the crowds to loom over us. He planted himself right in front of Walker and smiled nastily at him. He was handsome enough, in a blond Aryan steroid freak sort of way, and up close he smelled of sweat and testosterone.
“Hello, Georgie,” said Walker. “You’re looking very yourself today. How are the bowel movements?”
“Screw you, Walker,” said Georgie. “I don’t have to take any shit from you anymore. Not so high and mighty now, are you, without your Voice? Not so powerful, since you lost your precious Voice in the Lilith War! All these years you’ve interfered in my business deals, humiliated me in front of my people, just because you could . . . Well, you can’t talk to me like that anymore! It’s my time now. And your time to get what’s coming to you!”