The Bride Wore Black Leather

looked large and ungainly, the way she never had in life, her long body sprawled across the floor. I knelt beside her and checked her neck and wrist for a pulse, but there was nothing. I never thought there would be. I was going through the motions while my mind worked frantically. I looked at Springheel Jack.
    “I’m sorry. She’s gone.”
    “No,” he said, forcing the words out between sobs. “She can’t be gone. She was born from the dead, a triumph of the Baron’s skill. He put her together using the finest parts of a hundred women, that she should have all their strength. She was born of the lightning . . .”
    He stopped abruptly, and his tears stopped, and his head came up as a great inspiration filled his face. He pushed the Bride’s body away from him and scrambled to his feet. The body slammed back against the floor, and he didn’t even notice in his excitement.
    “Born of the lightning! Of course! You can’t kill the Bride of Frankenstein just by stabbing her! He made her better than that!”
    He grabbed an ornamental lamp from the buffet table, and ripped the lamp free from its cable. Sparks sputtered from the ragged metal ends. Springheel Jack laughed breathlessly, grabbed the cable, and sank down beside the body of his Bride. He pressed the bare wires against her wounded side, and her whole body convulsed. He hit her with the electricity again, and the Bride sat bolt upright, drawing in a great ragged breath of air. Springheel Jack threw the sparking cable aside and held her in his arms, burying his face in her neck. She patted him absently with one oversized hand and looked dazedly around her.
    “What the hell happened? And why does my side hurt?”
    She looked down at the bloody wound in her side and swore briefly. She checked it out carefully with her fingertips, then sniffed loudly.
    “Nasty business. But nothing that won’t heal itself. It’s already stopped bleeding . . . Jack. Jack, sweetie, it’s all right! I’m all right. I’m fine.”
    They helped each other to their feet. Springheel Jack got hold of himself with an effort but wouldn’t let go of her.
    “All right,” I said. “What happened here?”
    Springheel Jack glared at me. “Someone tried to kill her! I warned you! I told you this was coming, but you wouldn’t listen!”
    “Hush, dear,” the Bride said firmly. “No-one ever listens to prophecy; it’s the only reason the universe allows it.” She looked down at her side. “Someone stabbed me from behind. I never saw anyone. I’d seen that awful Lord Orlando heading towards me, so I moved off the other way. Next thing I know, there’s a great stabbing pain in my side, then I’m riding the lightning and I’m back again! Well done, Jack. Quick thinking. Usually I wake up in a morgue somewhere, giving some poor doctor a heart attack.” She smiled briefly. “Much as I hate to admit it, the Baron did good work. He made his creations to last.”
    “You saw the Lord Orlando?” I said.
    “Wasn’t him,” Mistress Mayhem said immediately. “He was right here, boring me rigid, when we both heard the scream.”
    “Well really,” said the Lord Orlando.
    Springheel Jack took the Bride away to one side for some mutual support and comfort. The immortals stuck together, on the far side of the room, looking at me with wide, frightened eyes. Expecting me to put everything right. Charlotte ap Owen hauled Dave the camera-man over to interview the Bride and Springheel Jack on their ordeal. Jack gave them one look, and they both ran for their lives. I spotted Bettie Divine over by the doorway, doing her best to vamp Hadleigh Oblivion, presumably to find out what he and I had been talking about. Brilliant Chang was hovering nearby, so I summoned him over with a jerk of the head.
    “Any nearer spotting the killer?” he said bluntly.
    “No,” I said. “I’ve questioned the most obvious suspects and got nowhere. They all seemed plausible enough . . . Any number of people had any number of motives for killing King of Skin, but I don’t have a weapon, and I can’t put anyone at the scene of the crime at the right time. No-one here saw anything. How is that possible?”
    “Don’t look at me,” said Chang. “I’m a crime reporter, not Agatha Christie. You’re the detective.”
    “I was never a detective! I was a private investigator, and I relied on my gift far more than most people ever realised. I always said I wouldn’t know a clue if I fell over