Nightside 07 - Hell to Pay

layer upon layer of defensive magics, everything from shaped curses to Go Straight to Hell spells. There were all kinds of guards, tactfully hidden behind camouflage magics, and the two large gentlemen standing by the front door might be dressed in elegant tuxedos, but they both had tattoos on their foreheads that marked them as combat magicians. Ex-SAS, from the look of them. Even the paparazzi maintained a very discreet distance.
    So, fighting or intimidating my way in wasn’t going to work here. That just left bluff and fast talking, which fortunately I’ve always been very good at. My reputation’s always been more impressive than me, and that’s because I put a lot of work into it. I left the alley-way and sauntered up to the front door. The two gentlemen in tuxedos saw me coming, recognised me immediately, and moved to stand in front of the door, blocking my way. A bouncer is a bouncer, no matter how smartly you dress him. I stopped before them and smiled easily, like I didn’t have a care in the world.
    “Hi guys. I’m here representing the Griffin, to speak with his daughter Eleanor.”
    They weren’t expecting that. They looked at each other, communicating in that silent way of bouncers everywhere, then they looked back at me.
    “Do you have any proof of that, sir?”
    “Would even I claim the Griffin’s support if I didn’t have it?” I countered.
    They considered that, nodded, and stepped aside. My reputation might be unsettling, but the Griffin’s was downright scary. I strolled through the door and into the Tea Room as though I was slumming just by being there. When it comes to looking down the nose at someone, it pays to get your retaliation in first. The cloakroom girl was a friendly looking zombie dressed in a black bustier and fishnet stockings to set off her dead white skin. The dead make the best servants—so much less back-talk. She asked very nicely if she could take my trench coat, and I said I thought not.
    I got her phone number, though. For Dead Boy.
    I stepped through a hanging bead curtain into the main Tea Room, and the loud babble of conversation didn’t even dip for a moment. The Ladies Who Lunch saw scarier and more important people than me every day. I wandered slowly between the crowded tables, taking my time. A few people got up and left, heading discreetly but speedily for the rear exit. I was used to that. The Tea Room was all steel and glass and art deco stylings, with one entire wall dominated by a long row of high-tech coffee machines, the kind that labour mightily for ages that little bit longer than you can actually stand, in order to finally provide you with a cup full of flavoured froth. I’ve always preferred tea to coffee myself, and preferably in a brew so strong that when you’ve finished stirring it, the spoon has stress marks on it.
    The staff darted gracefully back and forth among the tables, pretty young boys and girls dressed in nothing but collars and cuffs, which presumably made them very careful not to spill anything. The rich and therefore very important women sat huddled around their tables, ignoring everything except their own conversation, laughing and shrieking loudly and throwing their hands about to make it clear they were having a much better time than everyone else. There were a few private booths at the back, for assignations of a more personal nature, but not many used them. The whole point of being at Hecate’s Tea Room was to prove that you were rich and important enough to be allowed into such a prestigious gathering.
    (But just try and get in after you’d been divorced or dumped or disinherited, and see how fast they slam the door in your face.)
    All the women were dressed to the nines, chattering raucously like so many gorgeous creatures of the urban jungle as they drank their tea and coffee with their little fingers carefully extended. They all felt free to stroke and caress the staff’s bare flesh as they came and went with fresh cups of tea and coffee, and the pretty young things smiled mechanically and never lingered. They all knew a caress could turn into a slap or a blow for any reason or none, and that the customer was always right. Every table was full, the ladies crowded together under conditions they would never have tolerated anywhere else. These were the fabled Ladies Who Lunch, though there didn’t seem to be any actual lunching going on anywhere. You didn’t get to look that good and that svelte by eating when