The Bride Wore Black Leather

same afterwards. These days he does his best to Do Good Things, while he can, to save his soul from certain damnation. He seemed cheerful enough, but I noticed he never liked anyone to get behind him, and he had a tendency to jump at his own shadow. Or anyone else’s. I strolled over to join him. He saw me coming, thought about running, thought better of it, and greeted me with his best smile.
    “Mr. Taylor! Hello! How’s it going?”
    “Hello, Harry,” I said. “Are you being a good boy?”
    “Always, Mr. Taylor; you know that!” His smile switched on and off as though he couldn’t quite see the point in working the thing when the person before him was never going to believe it anyway. “I’m here to see that everyone has what they need, to have a good time on your stag night. In a good way, of course. Is there anything I might have on me that would tempt you, Mr. Taylor? Got some very nice black centipede meat, very spicy. Or how about a little snuff, made from the crushed and ground-up bodies of Egyptian mummies? Black Lotus Smoothie?”
    “And this is you, being good?” I said.
    “Good?” said Harry Fabulous. “At these prices I’m practically martyring myself!”
    I left him to it. William and Eleanor Griffin, no longer immortal and looking much happier for it (especially after the Devil himself turned up in person to drag their father down to Hell), were bellying up to the bar and ordering the very best champagne Alex had to offer. Which would make him very happy. No-one ever notices they’re being overcharged when ordering the very best champagne. William and Eleanor nodded benignly to everyone and did their best to fit in before blowing it completely by asking if anyone could recommend a truly trustworthy butler?
    Percival Smyth-Herriot had also turned up, all the way from the Museum of Unnatural History, with a miniature
T. rex
on a leash. A tall spindly figure in a shiny suit, with breakfast stains on his waistcoat that might have been fresh, or might not. He was a lot happier now the Collector was dead, and no longer blackmailing him. I had persuaded the Authorities to donate all of the late Collector’s public assets to the Museum of Unnatural History, for public display, and now Percival couldn’t do enough for the Authorities in general, and me personally. It’s always good to have a tame expert you can rely on, for when you need to know something really important in a hurry. Percival was currently on his second G&T and feeling very daring. He waggled his fingers at me, and I nodded back. Percival didn’t get out much. Dead Boy collared Percival and dragged him over to meet one of the female ghouls. I decided not to get involved.
    Chandra Singh and Augusta Moon had also turned up, surprisingly arm in arm, two great monster hunters representing the Adventurers Club. They were sharing their table with a great hulking yeti (with any number of cute pink ribbons in its shaggy grey fur), a talking mongoose called Cliff, and Klatu the Thing from Dimension X. I would have given a lot to listen in on that conversation, but I was distracted by a polite but imperious cough from the next table.
    The Rogue Vicar Tamsin MacReady sat elegantly upright in her chair, drinking beer from a straight glass with her little finger extended. A tiny little thing, the vicar was barely five feet tall and slender with it. She had kind eyes and a winning smile, and a backbone of tempered steel. She wore a simple grey suit with a vicar’s white collar. She didn’t look like a fire-breathing zealot, but then the real ones seldom do. Sitting beside her was her close companion, Sharon Pilkington-Smythe. A healthy-looking young lady, wearing a baggy grey jumper over thoroughly worn-in riding britches. She had shaggy red hair and fierce green eyes, and a smile that took no prisoners. She was drinking snakebite from a brandy glass, and fooling no-one. I sighed inwardly and sat down with them. A vicar will always catch you, no matter how fast you run.
    “I have to say, sweetie, that I am a bit put-out that you didn’t want my Tamsin to officiate at your wedding,” said Sharon immediately.
    “Oh hush, dear,” said the rogue vicar. “I’m not one to put myself forward, you know that.”
    “Of course not, sweetie; that’s what I’m here for.”
    “The Lord of Thorns will be performing the ceremony,” I said. “At the Church of St. Jude’s.”
    “There, you see?” said the vicar, waggling a finger in