Nightside 11 - A Hard Days Knight

something really foul and shook herself hard, trying to throw off the supernatural shock. Julianne wasn’t just any ghost. Whatever Stark had done to her to keep her with him had made her more terrible than any ghost had a right to be. It was as though she wore Death itself round her, like a shroud.
    Stark was already out the door, Excalibur in his hand. I could hear his metal boots slamming down the corridor. I lurched after him, my arm hanging limp at my side, but by the time I was out the door, he was already in the lift. I watched the doors close on his cold face and went back into the room. Neither Suzie nor I was in any condition to chase after him.
    She was sitting on the unmade bed, cradling her shotgun to her like a doll. Her eyes were clear, but her face was deathly pale. I sat down beside her, biting my lip against the pins and needles of returning circulation in my arm. On the floor, Artur’s headless body was no longer wearing armour. Instead, a large pile of dark scales stood quietly to one side, barely moving. Suzie glared at me.
    “How can anyone lose Excalibur twice in one day?”
    “It’s a gift,” I said.
    “Well, try your other gift and track the bastard down.”
    I raised my gift and locked on to Stark almost straight away. My inner eye Saw him run out of the Fortress and onto the street, produce a bone charm, and speak several very dangerous Words over it. A dimensional gateway materialised before him, a rip in Space and Time, brutally simple but effective. The rogue knight had a portable Timeslip of his own. Stark stepped into the dimensional gate and disappeared; but he’d barely been gone a moment before Merlin Satanspawn appeared out of nowhere and threw himself into the gateway after Stark. The Timeslip collapsed in on itself and was gone, leaving the street empty again.
    I lowered my gift and brought Suzie up to speed. She frowned, thinking.
    “So, where has Stark gone?”
    “Sinister Albion,” I said. “My gift told me that much. And Merlin went straight through after him. So at least the Nightside is safe, for a while.”
    “But we still need Excalibur, to face the elves when they come,” said Suzie. “So we have to go after them. Don’t we?”
    “Unfortunately, yes. But Merlin took the Timeslip with him when he left. There’s not a trace of it left. And my Portable Timeslip can’t track his destination without the right co-ordinates. Which is a bit beyond what my gift can do.”
    “Are you saying they’ve got away? There’s no way we can go after them?”
    I smiled. “This is the Nightside. There’s always a way. Do you by any chance remember the Doormouse?”
    “Oh bloody hell,” said Suzie.

SIX
    The Land That Merlin Made
    When you absolutely, definitely, have to be somewhere else in a hurry, there’s no substitute for the Doormouse and his excellent establishment, the House of Doors. He can open up a Door to anywhere and anywhen; though, of course, getting back again is strictly your problem. My Portable Timeslip took Suzie and me straight to his street, dropping us off, a little short because the Doormouse has very powerful protections. The old place looked pretty much as I remembered it. Still standing between a vampire theme pub, where the waiters snack on the customers, and a branch of the Bazaar of the Bizarre franchise, this week specialising in Necro-tattooing; where the tattooist uses blood instead of ink. Elf blood, werewolf blood, Frankenstein blood—producing images that don’t just sit there but get right under your skin ...
    Suzie and I walked up to the Doormouse’s place, and the frosted-glass doors swung regally open before us, admitting us to an extensive lobby of really quite remarkable style and elegance. Thick carpeting, huge mirrors, antique furnishings, and all the very latest high tech lying casually scattered round the place. Some of it so determinedly futuristic I couldn’t even begin to name it, let alone guess what it was for. The Doormouse is always up to the mark; and, thanks to his Time-travelling capabilities, often more than a bit beyond.
    The Doormouse himself came scurrying cheerfully forward to greet us; a six-foot-tall, vaguely humanoid mouse, with dark chocolate-coloured fur under a pristine white lab coat, complete with pocket protector for his colour-coded pens. He had a long muzzle, twitching whiskers, and shrewd, thoughtful eyes. He actually looked quite cute, in an entirely disturbing and unnatural way. He spoke