'Maybe,' said Otto. 'Ve know that vot is physically zere is not alvays vot is really zere. Look at zis vun.'
He handed her another picture.
'Oh, that's a good one of William,' she said. 'In the cellar. And... that's Lord de Worde standing just behind him, isn't it?'
'Is it?' said the vampire. 'I don't know zer man. I do know that he vas not in zer cellar ven I took the picture. But... you only have to talk to Mr Villiam for any length of time to see that, in a vay, his father is alvays looking over his shoulder--'
'That's creepy.'
Sacharissa looked around the cellar. The stone walls were old and stained, but they certainly weren't blackened.
'I just saw... people. Men fighting. Flames. And... silver rain. How can it rain underground?'
'I do not know. That's vy I study dark light.'
Noises above suggested that William and Goodmountain had returned.
'I wouldn't mention this to anyone else,' said Sacharissa, heading for the ladder. 'We've got enough to deal with. That's creepy.'
There was no name outside the bar, because those who knew what it was didn't need one. Those who didn't know what it was shouldn't go in. Ankh-Morpork's undead were, on the whole, a law-abiding bunch, if only because they knew the law paid them a certain amount of special attention, but if you walked into the place known as Biers on a dark night and had no business there, who would ever know?
For the vampires*, it was a place to hang up. For the werewolves, it was where you let your hair down. For the bogeymen, it was a place to come out of the closet. For the ghouls, it did a decent meat pasty and chips.
All eyes, and that was not the same thing as the number of heads multiplied by two, turned to the door when it creaked open. The newcomers were surveyed from dark corners. They wore black, but that didn't mean anything. Anyone could wear black.
They walked up to the bar and Mr Pin rapped on the stained wood.
The barman nodded. The important thing, he'd found, was to make sure ordinary people paid for their drinks as they bought them. It wasn't good business to let them run a tab. That showed an unwarranted optimism about the future.
'What can I--' he began, before Mr Tulip's hand caught him around the back of the neck and rammed his head down hard on the bar.
'I am not having a nice day,' said Mr Pin, turning to the world in general, 'and Mr Tulip here suffers from unresolved personality conflicts. Has anyone got any questions?'
An indistinct hand rose in the gloom.
'What cook?' said a voice.
Mr Pin opened his mouth to reply and then turned to his colleague, who was examining the bar's array of very strange drinks. All cocktails are sticky; the ones in Biers tended to be stickier.
'Says "Kill the Cook!!!"' said the voice.
Mr Tulip rammed two long kebab skewers into the bar, where they vibrated. 'What cooks've you got?' he said.
'It's a good apron,' said the voice in the gloom.
'It is the --ing envy of all my friends,' Mr Tulip growled.
In the silence Mr Pin heard the unseen drinkers calculating the
* Those, that is, who weren't gathered around the harmonium at the Temperance Mission nervously singing songs about how much they liked cocoa.
likely number of friends of Mr Tulip. It was not a calculation that would involve a simple thinker taking off their shoes.
'Ah. Right,' said someone.
'Now, we don't want any trouble with you people,' said Mr Pin. 'Not as such. We simply wish to meet a werewolf.'
Another voice in the gloom said: 'Vy?'