AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I waited patiently, until she was finished with the tourists. They left happily enough, with their jar full of something that glowed with a sour, spoiled light; and I shut the door behind them and turned the sign to read CLOSED. Pretty Pretty looked at me curiously and started to say something in the patois. I raised a hand, and she stopped.
“Please,” I said. “I’m not a tourist.”
“Never said you were, darling,” said Pretty Pretty, in the polished voice of her very expensive finishing school. “Now what on earth are you doing here? You can’t have run out already, surely? I mean, honestly darling, you do get through those things at a rate of knots … You’re not supposed to pop them back like sweeties…”
And then she stopped, her voice just trailing away. There must have been something in my face, in my eyes, because she stood very still behind her counter. She must have had defences there, but she had enough sense not to go for them. I smiled at her, and she actually shuddered.
“Mother Macabre,” I said. “I want her. Where is she?”
“She just left, darling,” said Pretty Pretty. She swallowed hard. “Maybe half an hour ago? You just missed her … Is it important?”
“Yes,” I said. “Stay out of the way, Pretty Pretty. I’m prepared to believe you’re not involved. Keep it that way.”
I strode past the counter and kicked in the door that led to Mother Macabre’s private office. The lock exploded, and the heavy wood cracked and fell apart. I pulled the pieces out of the broken frame and threw them to one side. There must have been magical protections, too, because I felt them run briefly up and down my dead skin; but they couldn’t touch me. Pretty Pretty made an unhappy noise but had enough sense to stay behind her counter.
The private office looked very ordinary, very business-like. I tried the computer on her desk, but it was all locked down. And even I can’t intimidate passwords out of a computer. I tried all the desk drawers, and the in-tray and out-tray, but it was all just everyday paper-work. Nothing of interest. So I trashed the whole office, very thoroughly. Just to make a statement. Pretty Pretty watched timidly from the doorway. When I tore the heavy wooden desk apart with my bare hands, she made a few refined noises of distress. When I’d finished, because there was nothing left to break or destroy, I stood and considered what to do next, picking splinters out of my unfeeling hands. I looked sharply at Pretty Pretty, and she jumped, only a little.
“Where would Mother Macabre be? Right now?”
“I suppose she could be at her Club,” Pretty Pretty said immediately. Anyone else she would have told to go to Hell, and even added instructions on the quickest route; but I wasn’t anyone else. “She owns this private club, members only, called the Voodoo Lounge. Do you know it?”
“I know of it,” I said. “I can find it.”
“Should I … phone ahead? Let her know you’re coming?”
“If you like,” I said. “It won’t make any difference. I’ll find her wherever she goes.”
“Why?” said Pretty Pretty. “What’s happened? What’s changed?”
“Everything,” I said.
* * *
I’d heard of the Voodoo Lounge. Not the kind of place I’d ever visit but very popular with the current Bright Young Things, keen to throw away their inheritance on the newest thrill. Voodoo for the smart set, graveyard chill for those old enough to know better. Very expensive, very exclusive, very hard to get into, for most people. I told Sil to take me there, and she didn’t say a word. We drove in silence through the angry traffic, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I was getting close now. I could feel it. Close to all the answers I ever wanted, and one final act of vengeance … that even I was smart enough to realise I might not be able to walk away from.
Sil pulled up outside the Voodoo Lounge. I got out and told her to wait for me. She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sulking, or even disapproving; it was simply that she knew better than to speak to me when I was in this kind of mood. The risen dead don’t have many positive qualities, but stubbornness is definitely one of them. There were two guards on duty outside the black-lacquered doors that gave entrance to the Voodoo Lounge. Very large black gentlemen, with shaven heads and smart tuxedos. I put on my best worrying smile and strode right at them. They knew who I was, probably even knew why I was there; but neither of them did the sensible thing and ran. You have to admire such dedication to duty. They looked at me expressionlessly and moved to stand just a little closer together, blocking my way to the entrance.
“Members only, sir,” said the one on the left.
“No exceptions, sir,” said the one on the right.
“We have orders to keep you out.”
“By whatever means necessary.”
“On your way, Dead Boy.”
“Not welcome here, zombie.”
I let my smile widen into a grin and kept on going. One of them pulled a packet of salt from his pocket and threw the contents into my face. Salt is a good traditional defence against zombies, but I’ve always been a lot more than that. The other guard produced a string of garlic and thrust it in my face. I snatched one of the bulbs away from him, took a good bite, chewed on it, and spat it out. No taste. Nothin
g at all. And while I was doing that, the first guard produced a gun and stuck the barrel against my forehead.
“When in doubt,” he said calmly, “go old school. Shoot them in the head.”
He pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed through my forehead, through my dead brain, and out the back of my head. I rocked slightly on my feet, but I didn’t stop smiling. The guard with the gun actually whimpered as I snatched the gun out of his hand and tossed it to one side.
“That’s been tried,” I said. “I’ll have to fill the hole in with plaster of paris again.”
