I strode through the open door with my head held high and my nose in the air, as though I wasn’t bothered at all. Never show weakness in front of your enemies. Or your friends.
* * *
Inside the Wulfshead Club, it was all bright lights and loud noise, the cheerful roar of a great many people determined to have a good time. It’s almost obligatory to be cheerful at a wake, or you’d never get through it. I was pleased to see the place looking so crowded; I always knew my uncle Jack had a great many friends and colleagues, but it was good to see so many of them had turned out for the occasion. It isn’t always possible, given the kind of lives we lead. Music from the Fifties and Sixties—Jack’s favourite period—pumped out of hidden speakers. I recognised a compilation of John Barry themes, from old James Bond movies. Someone’s idea of a sense of humour.
The walls were covered with a series of massive plasma screens, usually showing secret and embarrassing scenes from the lives of the rich and powerful, just for a laugh; but they’d all been turned off. Tonight was all about Jack Drood, not the outside world. I headed for the long bar, which took up half the far wall. A gleaming high-tech structure, it looked more like a modern art installation than anything functional. But if you can name a drink, or even describe it, you can be sure you’ll find it at the Wulfshead. Everything from Atlantean Ale to Angel’s Urine, from sparkling holy water with a mistletoe chaser to Chernobyl Vodka (for that inner glow). From the frankly perverse to the seriously terrifying, from the entirely illegal to the utterly unnatural. Rumour has it the Wulfshead’s mysterious Management keep their bar stock securely locked up in a separate dimension. Because they’re afraid of it. The dozen or so barmen serving behind the bar all looked exactly the same, because they were. The Management clone them.
I spotted Molly half-way down the bar, chatting with her sisters, Isabella and Louisa. The world’s most dangerous hen party. I called out Molly’s name, and even through the loud music and raucous chatter, she heard me immediately. She spun round, saw me, and yelled my name joyously. She headed straight for me, barging through the packed crowd with simple determination and much use of her elbows. No one objected. Because even the kind of people who drink at the Wulfshead have more sense than to annoy a Metcalf sister. Molly broke through the last few people, hugged me hard, kissed me harder, and grabbed my arm so she could drag me back to the bar.
“Have a drink!” she said loudly. “Hell, have several! I am! All drinks are on the house, courtesy of your family, for the duration of the wake. I hope you brought a toothbrush and a change of clothes because I plan on being here for some time!”
We finally made it to the bar, and Molly drank thirstily from the glass in her hand before banging it down on the bar top, in front of the nearest barman.
“Another Hemlock Wallbanger, if you please, barman! With a mandrake chaser. And another bag of pork scratchings. What are you having, Eddie?”
I had already decided that one of us was going to have to pace ourself, and since experience suggested it definitely wasn’t going to be Molly, I settled for my usual bottle of chilled Beck’s. My family had hired this club for as long as needed, and this particular crowd looked determined to do Jack Drood’s memory justice and see him off in grand style.
“We should really have held this do at Strangefellows,” said Molly. “Your uncle always did most of his drinking in the Nightside. But I suppose there are limits . . .”
“Oh, there are,” I said. “Really. You have no idea. I did once visit Strangefellows, with Walker. As Shaman Bond. Can’t say I cared much for the place . . .”
“Of course not,” said Molly. “Far too much fun going on there for you.”
“I know how to have fun!”
“Only since you met me.”
I decided it was probably safer not to disillusion her. I put my back to the bar, alongside Molly, and looked out over the club. There were lots of familiar faces present, many of them the kind of people you meet only at weddings or wakes. Or when you’re trying to kill each