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have a tendency to develop strange and unusual tastes, and a morality that can best be described as flexible. So the MEC is always careful to provide staff with combat training, diplomatic skills, and a hell of a lot of danger money. In advance.
    I stood outside the closed door to the top-floor ball-room, and looked it over thoughtfully. A large sign to one side proudly proclaimed THE MEC WELCOMES ALL IMMORTALS TO THE BALL OF FOREVER. AGAIN. A sign on the other side of the door presented coming attractions: THE JEKYLL & HYDE REUNION DINNER (for all those touched and affected by the Good Doctor’s special elixir) and THE GRAND ORDER OF GHOULS MANGES TOUTES EVENING . (No living staff will be provided.)
    The personal ads at the back of the
Unnatural Inquirer
, the Nightside’s very own scabrous tabloid, are jam-packed with
would like to meet similar
messages.
    I turned my attention to the tall and muscular butler standing to attention before the door, staring deliberately through me as though I weren’t there. He was wearing the full formal outfit—a tight powder blue frock coat, white tights, and a powdered wig, from the Court of Versailles of Louis XIV . . . and carrying it off with professional dignity. Presumably some of the immortals were feeling nostalgic. I moved to stand directly before the butler and gave him my best cheerful smile. In return, he gave me the butler’s professionally cool up and down, managing to imply (without speaking a single word) that not only was I not welcome, not invited, and not in any way the right sort, but also that I was improperly dressed and my flies were open. All in one glance. You had to admire the professionalism. I smiled a little more, and he sighed deeply, before reluctantly deigning to meet my impertinent gaze with his own.
    “This is a private gathering, sir. May I see your invitation?”
    “You know I haven’t got one,” I said. “I don’t need one. I’m Walker.”
    “Not quite, sir,” said the butler. “Your title has yet to be officially validated, and thus your authority is still . . . in question. Also, you do not possess the Voice. Sir.”
    “No,” I said. “But I’ve got other things. Want me to demonstrate them, in a sudden, violent, and utterly distressing way? Do you need me to remind you that the last butler who annoyed me got dragged down to Hell?”
    “Please go right in, sir. Walk all over me. It’s what I’m here for.”
    He stood to one side and opened the door. I started to walk past him, and then had to ask, “Do they pay you extra, to wear that outfit?”
    “It’s traditional, sir. It is also ill-fitting, uncomfortable, and chafes in places I don’t even care to mention. Damn right they pay me extra. Would sir like me to take his coat? We could store it in the private cloak-room. We could also have it dry-cleaned and perhaps fumigated.”
    “I don’t think I’ll leave the coat on its own,” I said. “I haven’t fed it recently. You may announce me, though.”
    “Of course, sir. I live to grovel.”
    The butler pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside. I strolled in past him, smiling easily in all directions, and the butler raised his voice to cut across the babble of many conversations, and the somewhat overbearing piped music.
    “My lords, ladies, and others, may I present to you Mr. John Taylor, newly appointed Walker to the Nightside. The horror, the horror . . .”
    “You get no tip,” I said as I walked forward into the Ball of Forever.
    The ball-room stretched away before me, larger than a football pitch, and packed from wall to wall with all the most noted immortal beings still walking this Earth. So, of course, I ignored the lot of them and fixed my attention on the huge running buffet lining most of one wall. I strolled along the trestle tables, nodding to the various waitresses, all of them dressed in vaguely fetish French maid outfits. There were no waiters. Presumably because they wouldn’t look