For Heaven's Eyes Only

by Simon R. Green

  “She sort of woke up when they were manhandling her out of the house. She looked at me, wondering why I was doing nothing to stop them, and when she understood, she cried and cried and cried. Ah, you have no idea how good it feels to be free of the old bat at last.”

  “You utter shit,” said William, and his voice was cold and collected and quite deadly. He rose to his feet to glare balefully at Peter, who didn’t seem to give even the smallest of damns. William headed straight for him. “She had a magnificent mind!”

  “Oh, boo-hoo,” said Peter. He took a gunmetal flask from inside his jacket. “Sorry, old sport; do I know you? Do I care? No, I don’t think I do, actually.”

  William armoured up, the golden skin sweeping over him in a moment. “You can be made to care, for what you’ve done.”

  “No,” said Peter. “I don’t think so.”

  He held up his other hand and showed us a simple metal clicker like the one Roger Morningstar had back at the Cathedral Hotel. And before any of us could even react, Peter clicked the thing, a sharp, metallic sound in the quiet, and William’s armour disappeared, driven back into his torc by an irresistible command. My armour disappeared, too, and I was suddenly exposed and shivering in the cold of the laboratory. Molly stepped quickly forward, but when she raised her hands to unleash her magics, nothing happened. She tried a few simple chants, but the words fell awkwardly into the quiet, doing nothing. Peter smiled patronisingly at her.

  “Magic won’t work here, dearie. All such subtle energies had to be suppressed, so the machine could do its work.”

  “I don’t need my armour to beat the crap out of a treacherous little tit like you,” said William.

  “Just as well I’ve got a gun, then,” said Peter. He shook his gunmetal flask once, and suddenly it was a Luger. Peter giggled happily. “Now, that’s what I call a transformer. Marvellous little toy, isn’t it? My new masters have been very generous.” For all his studied vagueness, his hand was very steady as he covered the three of us with the Luger. We all stood very still. None of us doubted he’d use it.

  “I’ve already summoned security,” said Peter. “Oh, dear, now that my flask is gone I don’t have any booze anymore. I should have told them to bring a bottle. . . .” He smiled at us all easily. “We’ve all got clickers here, you know. Lots and lots of them. The rest of your people are in for a really nasty shock, once they’ve got past those Nazi bullyboy clones and encountered the real armed forces. And the best part is, we got the formula for the clicker from inside your own family! Isn’t that delightful? It’s based on the very device your Armourer created all those years ago. One of your own is a traitor, but then, I think you already knew that, didn’t you? He’s sold you out again, I’m afraid. Or she! Far be it from me to give anything away! Please don’t move, Eddie. I really don’t think I can allow any of you to get any closer to me. I’m not a physical person. But don’t think I won’t shoot if I have to. In fact . . . I think I’d quite like to. Could be fun . . . So, whom should I start with?”

  I glanced at William, our eyes met briefly, and we were off and moving. There’s a lot more to a Drood than his armour. We’re trained to fight, with and without weapons, from early childhood, and one of the first things we’re taught is what to do if our armour isn’t available. I moved abruptly to the left while William dived to the right, and while Peter hesitated, unable to decide which of us to go after . . . Molly stepped smartly forward and kicked him full in the balls. There was an awful lot of strength and vindictiveness in that kick, and Peter bent sharply forward, tears flying from his bulging eyes. He crashed to his knees, shaking and shuddering, trying to get enough air into his lungs for a decent scream. Molly snatched the gun out of his nerveless hand and pressed the barrel to the side of his head. I didn’t think he even knew it was there. I took the clicker away from him, threw it on the floor and stamped on it. It shattered, and immediately William and I were both wrapped in our armour again. William moved over to Molly, took the Luger from her hand and shot Peter in the head, twice. The side of his skull exploded, blood and brains and bone fragments flying in the air, and he fell backwards and lay still. William then turned and shot Stefan Klein, once in the heart and once in the head, and the technician fell sprawling across his machine. William gave the gun back to a somewhat startled Molly.

  “Some shit I just don’t put up with,” he explained, before going back to Ammonia. He leaned in close to study the wires connecting her mind to the machine. “I can deal with this. It’s not rocket science. You two go and look for Isabella. I’ll free Ammonia from this . . . thing and take her back to the Hall.”

  “Will you be all right here on your own?” I said cautiously.

  “I only came here for Ammonia,” said William. “She really is a most remarkable lady. That little shit never was worthy of her.” He looked back at me. “I saw her mind when she made contact with mine. You should see what she’s really like, Eddie. She glows like a star, burns like a brilliant fire. . . .”

  “You really think she can come back, after what’s been done to her here?” I said.

  “Why not?” said William. “I did.”

  Molly moved in close beside me. “He doesn’t need us, Eddie. And I’m getting really worried about Iz.”

  “Is she far from here?” I said.

  “Not far, no.”

  “Then let’s go. Catch you later, William.”

  But he was already lost in admiration of his Ammonia, murmuring comforting words to her as he removed the wire connections one by one.

  We found the Satanists’ prisoners, or what was left of them, holed up in a series of small stone cells that were little more than kennels, with stout locks on the doors. Molly made a sharp gesture with one hand, and all the doors exploded right out of their frames and into the corridor. The smell hit me first: filth and decay and foulness so bad I had to order my mask to fade it out. Molly and I moved forward to check out the cells. No windows, no furniture, not even straw on the floor or a bucket for waste. The prisoners had been thrown into their cells and left there. Half-blinded, half-starved men and women emerged painfully slowly into the corridor, shielding their eyes from the everyday light they were no longer accustomed to, asking pitifully if they were being rescued at last. Of the thousands of townspeople who’d been kidnapped from Little Stoke, it turned out only over a hundred had survived. The rest had been . . . used up in experiments. Over a hundred people crammed into a dozen windowless cells. And twenty-two weapons makers from the Supernatural Arms Faire who’d refused to cooperate with the Satanists. Because sometimes even merchants of war have a line they won’t cross. Molly and I reassured them all as best we could, and sent them to William, so he could lead them back to the Hall.

  Sounds of conflict were still continuing on the floors above. Cries of rage and pain and horror, gunshots and explosions. How many Nazi clones did the Satanists have? I had to wonder whether my family had encountered Satanists with clickers yet, and whether I should go back to join them. Or whether I should accompany the prisoners, make sure they got out of the castle safely. But Molly still hadn’t found Isabella, and I couldn’t leave her here on her own. She was growing increasingly disturbed the closer she got to her sister, convinced something terrible had happened to her. So we moved on, deeper into the cell block.

  We found her in the very last cell, set round the corner. A single cell with the door already standing open. No number on the door, no identification, nothing to mark it as any different, but Molly knew. She stormed into the cell with her sister’s name on her lips, and then she went suddenly quiet. I hurried in after her, and that was when I saw what the Satanists had done to Isabella Metcalf.

  They’d crucified her, hung her upside down on an inverted wooden cross suspended from a single coarse rope, her head a few feet from the floor. Cold iron nails had been hammered through her wrists and ankles, and heavy steel bolts had been thrust through her broken arms and legs. One eye had been gouged out of her head, a
nd the ear next to it had been raggedly cut away. Her face had been beaten to such a pulp I barely recognised her. Blood dripped steadily down from her many wounds, forming a great half-dried pool under the inverted cross. Her clothes were tatters, her skin cut and burned and bruised. Because she defied them.

  She was still alive, because she was a witch and kept her heart somewhere else. So she couldn’t die, no matter how much they hurt her.

  It took me a moment to realise there was a man standing next to her. I turned slowly to look at him, and it was Philip MacAlpine, of MI-13. He had both hands on the tied-off rope supporting the inverted cross. He glared at me.

  “Well, don’t stand there, Drood! Help me get her down! I didn’t come all this way to rescue her just to watch her die!”

  I moved quickly over to help him untie the rope, and between us we lowered the inverted cross carefully to the floor. Molly was right there with the cross, taking as much of the weight as she could, murmuring comfortingly to her sister. Isabella never opened her remaining eye, never made a sound. I don’t think she knew where she was or what was happening to her. Or at least I hoped not. Between the three of us, we got the cross laid out on the floor, and I armoured down so Isabella would know my face if she did wake up. MacAlpine cried out.

  “Eddie Drood! I should have known you’d be here.”

  “Never mind me, Phil; what are you doing here?”

  He sniffed haughtily. “You Droods aren’t the only ones who’ve been investigating the new satanic conspiracy. MI-13 has had its best people all over this case for ages, ever since we discovered how badly they’d infested the current British government. You aren’t the only ones with your ears to the ground, you know. All that talk about the Great Sacrifice was the last straw; we knew we had to do something. Luckily, we’ve had agents in deep cover in London Undertowen for years, so it was easy enough to snatch some low-level Satanists and sweat the information out of them. I wondered why you were suddenly so keen to get into Under Parliament, so I had my people keep an eye on you when you crashed that Satanist tea party. Once we found out what went down there, that they’d run you off and snatched Isabella, we decided it was time to get involved. Isabella had done some work for us in her time, and we always pay our debts. So I came in here first, using the teleport system we found in London Undertowen, to spy out the lay of the land and look for Isabella. And pick up any interesting trinkets that happened to be lying around, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Typical MI-13: always an ulterior motive. Still, I’m glad you’re here, Phil. Where’s your backup?”

  “A whole brigade of SAS combat sorcerers, just waiting for my word,” Phil said smugly.

  “Let’s see what my people can do first,” I said. I had a strong feeling a whole bunch of SAS roughnecks would come in very handy if the Satanists did use their clickers against my family, but I didn’t want to call them in yet. Couldn’t have word getting out that the Droods had to yell for help . . . I clapped MacAlpine on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Phil. We’ll take all the help we can get. We’re not proud.”

  “Not what I’ve heard,” said MacAlpine, and we both laughed briefly. Molly looked round, her pale face empty of all expression.

  “Help me. I need help for Isabella.”

  I crouched down beside her, and MacAlpine moved in closer, frowning at Isabella’s wounds.

  “How are we going to get all those nails out?” he said. “And the steel bolts? I haven’t got a crowbar, and even if I did, the shock of digging them out would probably finish her off. . . .”

  While he was still talking, Molly gestured sharply with one hand, and every single nail and bolt shot up out of Isabella’s flesh with such force and velocity they buried themselves in the stone ceiling overhead. Isabella’s body jerked once, but she still didn’t make a sound. Molly crouched down beside her, stroking her sister’s pulped and bloody face with one hand, crooning ancient healing chants. The gaping wounds left by the dislodged nails were already beginning to close. I didn’t know how long it would take Molly to repair the major damage, or even if Isabella would be able to move afterwards; I just knew I couldn’t wait around while she did it. There was still a lot of work to be done here at Schloss Shreck. Castle Horror.

  “I thought witches couldn’t handle cold iron?” MacAlpine murmured in my ear.

  “Depends how mad they get,” I said quietly.

  “I’m amazed Isabella’s still alive,” said MacAlpine. “After everything that’s been done to her. Must have the constitution of an ox. No offence.”

  “Metcalf sisters are very hard to kill,” I said. I could have told him about the hidden heart, but he was MI-13, after all, and he had tried to kill me and Molly more than once. Some secrets should stay in the family.

  Molly looked up at me. “I can’t leave her, Eddie. She needs me. Look what they’ve done to her. . . .”

  “Do what you can,” I said. “Get her stable. Then get her out of here and back to the Hall. They’ve got specialists; they’ll know what to do.”

  “I don’t want to leave you here on your own,” said Molly.

  “You won’t be,” I said. “I’ve got Philip MacAlpine with me to watch my back.”

  “Indeed,” MacAlpine said quickly. “I know a common enemy when I see one.”

  Molly studied MacAlpine. “Thank you. For trying to help my sister. Look after my Eddie.”

  “Trust me,” said MacAlpine. “I wouldn’t dare let anything happen to him.”

  Outside in the corridor, I reached out to the Sarjeant-at-Arms through my torc. And much to my surprise and relief, I managed a brief if variable contact. He sounded very far away, and his voice kept fading in and out, but we could hear each other. I made MacAlpine stand and wait while I brought the Sarjeant up to speed.

  “Where are you, Sarjeant?”

  “Damned if I know! We’ve fought our way in from the outside, down through the roof and in through the walls, heading for the centre of the castle, and waded through a whole army of Nazi clones in the process. We’ve been destroying anything that even looked dangerous along the way, including the conspiracy’s teleport gates! The Satanists aren’t going anywhere, Eddie. They’re trapped in here with us. Where are you?”

  “Just leaving the cells, along with an agent of MI-13 I picked up along the way. He says he can call in a whole brigade of SAS combat sorcerers, if you feel the need. . . .”

  “Good to hear,” said the Sarjeant unexpectedly. “We’ve taken casualties, Eddie. I’ll take all the help we can get.”

  “I take it you’ve encountered the clickers, Sarjeant. How are you coping?”

  “After a few fairly disastrous close encounters, when it all came down to hand-to-hand fighting and every nasty trick we could spring on them, we learned to scoop up every weapon we came across and shoot the nasty bastards at a distance, before they could even use their clickers. But it’s slowing our advance right down, Eddie. I think the leader and his inner circle have run out of clones to throw at us, but we’re no nearer to getting our hands on them.”

  MacAlpine kept crowding me and demanding to know what was going on, so I broke contact with the Sarjeant and filled MacAlpine in on the high spots.

  “I think I know where we can find the conspiracy leader,” he said immediately. “We’ve had one of our people close to him for some time, in really deep cover. He told us a lot about the layout of this place. Follow me.”

  I let him lead me through the brightly lit stone corridors and passageways, most of them still lined with burning Nazi flags and banners from where Molly had expressed her displeasure earlier. No sprinkler systems in medieval castles. I could still hear signs of fighting, but way off in the distance. The main party of Droods hadn’t caught up with me. MacAlpine warned me not to armour up just yet; golden feet make a hell of a racket on marble floors, and he didn’t think we should advertise our approach. If the leader thought the Droods were almost upon him, he’d probably run. As we drew closer,
small groups of Satanists would run past, heading for the battle, and MacAlpine would give them the proper password and they’d keep going.

  “You’re a useful person to have around after all, Phil,” I said.

  “You have no idea,” he said. “Really.”

  I was starting to be seriously impressed with him. It was too easy to forget that this middle-aged, passed-over man had been a pretty decent spy in his day, and had worked with both my uncle Jack and uncle James. The fact that he’d tried to kill me and failed shouldn’t be held against him. A lot of people came into that category.

  “Droods may be flashy,” said MacAlpine, “but MI-13 is thorough. You never even knew we were investigating the conspiracy, did you? I always was a better field agent than you ever gave me credit for.”

  “Stop fishing for compliments,” I said. “I’m impressed, all right?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “But you will be.”

  Finally we came to a great oaken door with a huge Nazi swastika carved into it in brutal bas-relief. MacAlpine eased up to the door, listened for a moment and then carefully turned the handle and opened it a crack. He slipped me a quick wink and then pushed the door all the way open. He strode in, and I moved quickly in after him. Beyond the door was a great auditorium packed with people sitting in row upon row of raked seating, facing an open stage. The door closed quietly behind me.

  “All the upper echelons of the new satanic conspiracy,” MacAlpine murmured. “Safe and protected here behind layer upon layer of defences too strong for even Droods to break through.”

  I stayed by the door, studying the people in the raked seating, surprised at how many I recognised. Familiar faces from politics, big business, the media, and all kinds of celebrities. And there on the stage was Alexandre Dusk himself, smiling broadly and looking right at me. He made a welcoming gesture in my direction, and everyone in the auditorium turned to look at me and smile. Except they weren’t looking at me. They were looking and smiling at Philip MacAlpine. And when I turned to look at him, he smiled at me and held up one hand. With a clicker in it. He snapped it sharply. I tried to call my armour and couldn’t. MacAlpine gestured to two waiting guards, big muscular types in SS uniforms, and they moved quickly forward to take me by the arms. I didn’t struggle. I had my pride.