The Unnatural Inquirer

“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 ta

“I want a drink,” Bettie a

“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 pla

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 gri

“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.