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as good in the outfits. Knowledge of my presence spread quickly through the tightly packed immortals. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched them watching me as they gathered in little groups to discuss what the hell to do, look blankly at each other, hide behind each other, and stare openly at me from what they hoped was a safe distance. They all knew I was gate-crashing, but none of them felt confident enough to raise a fuss. They all knew I had killed an immortal in my time, or at the very last arranged for his death—the legendary Griffin. And made his children mortal again. Perhaps the worst threat of all.
    I looked for something to take the edge off my thirst. There were any number of interesting vintages, including an open jug of a wine so deep red it looked like blood. In fact, given the predilections of some of those immortals present, it might very well be blood.
    So I picked up a glass of complimentary champagne I wasn’t entitled to, leaned back against the buffet table, and looked around me under the cover of taking a long drink. For all the expensive and elegant setting, the rich and the mighty in all their finery, and the piped music playing Elizabethan airs with a lot of lute action (I suppose everyone has a special taste for the music of their youth), there was still a strange feeling to the gathering. Of a whole bunch of people from all kinds of backgrounds, who would normally have nothing to say to each other, brought together by the only thing they had in common. Not having died yet. After all, you’re only an immortal until someone manages to kill you. After that, you were just long-lived.
    The huge ballroom was full of gods, superhumans, inhumans, posthumans, and a few things that wouldn’t pass for human during a complete black-out. All the products of super-science and the supernatural, come together in one place to talk about the things that only immortals could really understand and appreciate. To prove to everyone that they were still around, to swap useful survival tips, to show off new achievements and new fashions, to reminisce about the good old days . . . and whinge and moan about how no-one appreciates the important things any more. And, of course, to show off for the media. Immortals are, first and foremost, celebrities.
    Reporters have always been allowed to attend the Ball of Forever, under sufferance, to write their glowing accounts of the most important ball of the season, but this year, for the first time, they’d allowed in a small camera crew from the Nightside Television Centre. Immortals do move with the times, but only slowly and very reluctantly. I recognised the reporter from the
Night Times
, a tall and bulky oriental fellow in a smart tuxedo. Brilliant Chang was an investigative reporter (not a recipe for long life in the Nightside), but fortunately he was also sharp and tricky and knew no fear. Plus, he could run like an Olympic sprinter when the occasion demanded it. He knew me, too, and nodded briefly in my direction. We’d worked some of the same cases, from different directions. On one side of his face, he still carried the dragon tattoo that marked him as a combat sorcerer. An old Dragon Clan enforcer, in fact, before he saw the error of his ways and abandoned gangsterism for the slightly more reputable trade of journalism. He made a point of casually wandering in my direction.
    “Hello, Chang,” I said. “What are you doing here, covering this jumped-up bun-fight? I thought Julien Advent reserved you for the really important stories these days. Like hot celebrity action, and who’s having whom . . . When are you going to get a proper job?”
    “When are you?” said Chang.
    Honours even, we relaxed a bit.
    “I’m surprised the immortals’ security people aren’t trying to throw you out,” said Chang.
    “What security?” I said. “People who’ve lived as long as these scumbags take a pride in being able to look after themselves. Standing tall and