Read Something From The Nightside for Free Online Page B

over them like bendy toys, trying to sleep some of it off before they had to go home. The same obscene murals on the walls and ceilings, some of them in bas-relief. The same stains on the Persian carpet. I felt positively nostalgic. I glanced at Joanna, but she was carefully maintaining the straightest of straight faces. I led the way forward, stepping over outstretched legs where necessary, until we could look down the metal stairs and into the wide stone-walled pit that held the bar proper.
    The first word that came to mind on seeing the bar again was seedy. Though sleazy came a very close second. Clearly the upmarket experiment hadn't taken. I led the way down the stairs, which clanged noisily under our feet, by design. The bar's patrons preferred not to be taken by surprise. There was the usual sea of mismatched tables and chairs, with booths at the far end for those who felt in need of a
    little extra privacy. Or somewhere to hide a body for a while. The lights were always kept low—partly for atmosphere, and partly so you couldn't get too good a look at your surroundings. Or your fellow company. Most of the tables were occupied, by the kind of mixed crowd that reminded me why I'd left the Nightside in the first place. I recognised a lot of the faces; though most of them were ostentatiously not looking at me. The usual babble of raised voices was half-drowned out by loud heavy metal rock being blasted through concealed speakers. The close un-moving air was heavy with smoke, some of it legal, some of it earthly. A sign on the wall at the bottom of the stairs said Enter At Your Own Risk. Joanna drew my attention to it. "Are they serious?"
    "Sure," I said calmly. "The bar food's terrible." "So is the ambience," Joanna said dryly. "I can feel my credit rating dropping just from being here. Tell me we're here for a purpose."
    "We're looking for information," I said patiently.
    It never hurts to spell it out for clients, especially
    when you know it irritates them. "We need to know
    who or what summoned Cathy into the Nightside,
    and where she went after my gift lost her. You can
    find the answer to practically any question at
    Strangefellows, if you know the right people to ask."
    "And if you know the right palms to grease?"
    "You see; you're learning. Money doesn't just talk
    in the Nightside; it shouts and screams and twists arms. It helps that most of the real movers and shakers have passed through here at one time or another, on their way up or on their way down. There are those who say this place has been around since civilisation began."
    Joanna sniffed. "Doesn't look like it's been cleaned much since then, either."
    "Merlin Satanspawn was buried here, under the wine cellar, after the fall of Logres. He still makes the occasional appearance, to keep everyone honest. Being dead doesn't stop you from being a major player, in the Nightside."
    "Hold everything. The Merlin?"
    "I'd hate to think there was more than one. I only saw him manifest once, but it scared the crap out of me."
    Joanna shook her head. "I need a very large drink, right now."
    "Lot of people feel that way in the Nightside."
    I headed for the extended mahogany bar at the end of the room. It was good to be back. I could feel long-buried parts of me waking up and flexing their muscles. Sometimes I hated the Nightside, and sometimes I loved it, but running away to the real world had only served to show me how much I needed it. For all its threats and dangers, its casual brutality and deep-seated wickedness, it was only here that I felt truly alive. And I'd had some good
    times in this bar, back in my younger days. Admittedly mostly because back then I'd been strictly small change, and no-one gave a damn about who I was, or might be. I led Joanna through the packed tables, and the noise of conversation didn't even slip as we passed. The record on the speakers changed, and the Stranglers began shouting about there being "No More Heroes." The bar's owner's way