From a Drood to A Kill: A Secret Histories Novel

by Simon R. Green

  “I suppose he must be of an age to retire by now,” said Nicolai. “Though I still remember him as that handsome young man, a peacock of the London scene . . .”

  “Didn’t I hear he disappeared, rather mysteriously, sometime last year?” said Monkton Farley.

  “I thought I heard something like that,” said Dead Boy.

  “Was it Jack who went looking for the Holy Grail in Old Shanghai?” said Julien Advent. “Or was that James?”

  “No, that was Charles and Emily,” said Catherine. “Back when they were still doing fieldwork for the Droods. They never had the reputation, but they always did good work. You should be proud of your parents, Eddie.”

  “I am,” I said.

  “Though I sometimes wonder why,” said Molly.

  “Hush,” I said.

  “But did they ever find the Grail?” said Sir Perryvale.

  “I think I would have heard, if they had,” said Isabella.

  “No,” said Dead Boy. “It turned out to be just a false sighting of John the Baptist’s head. The Merovingians were always chasing that . . . But in this case it was just Herod’s head. Didn’t Elvis have the Grail at Graceland?”

  “No,” said Molly very firmly. “You’ve been reading those supermarket tabloids again, haven’t you?”

  Dead Boy shrugged easily. “These days it’s the only way to find out what’s really going on.”

  “Here’s to Jack!” Sir Perryvale said loudly. He held up his Champagne bottle, and we all raised our glasses in the toast. “To the Armourer, and all his marvellous toys! Including all the ones that did what they were actually supposed to do! And to a few that should never even have been tried. Remember the gun that fired miniature black holes? And the nuclear grenade?”

  “That would have worked,” I said, “if he could have only found someone who could throw it far enough.”

  People knocked back their drinks, ordered more, and swapped happy memories of the Armourer’s amazing creations. Which led, naturally enough, to stories about some of the more unusual obsessions and enthusiasms of previous Armourers. I couldn’t help but smile at discovering that so many of my family’s secrets weren’t quite as secret as they thought. There was mention of the Time Train, and Moxton’s Mistake, and a great many others. No one mentioned Alpha Red Alpha, so I didn’t either.

  “I’ve never really understood why you Droods need all these wonderful guns and gadgets, when you already have such powerful armour,” said Sir Perryvale.

  “Because the armour can only do so much,” I said. “For long distance, for a whole range of other possibilities, and for subtlety . . . you need specialized equipment.”

  “Besides,” Cedric said wisely, “it’s never good for a field agent to get too dependent on the armour. To rely on it to do everything for them, and get them out of tight corners. There’s always going to be times when the armour just isn’t the right tool for the job. Or it might not be functioning . . .”

  “Really?” said Nicolai.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” I said, to general laughter.

  “Oh, perish the thought,” said Nicolai. “The Cold War is over, and we are all good friends now, yes?” And then he looked at me and said, very casually, “Did your uncle Jack leave you anything, Eddie? Any special bequest, to remember him by?”

  “The reading of the will won’t be for some time,” I said, just as casually. “But he did say he wanted me to have the Bentley.”

  “Marvellous car, of course,” said Nicolai, nodding solemnly. “But nothing else?”

  “No,” I said. “Why do you ask? Did you have something specific in mind?”

  “Not really,” said Nicolai. “How was the funeral?”

  “Very respectful,” I said. “We did the old boy proud. I just wish my parents could have been there to see it.”

  “Have they still not turned up?” said Sir Perryvale, frowning. “There are too many people going missing these days.”

  “Like Jason Royal?” said Catherine Latimer.

  And then other people started chiming in, offering names of agents and adventurers, and even Major Players, who’d just vanished down the years.

  Slowly, a bigger picture began to emerge. As everyone threw in a name, or two or three, the number began to add up. Whatever happened to Tarot Jones, the Tatterdemalion, the Totem of the Travellers? Or the Which Doktor, who specialized in supernatural illnesses? Or Chrome Delilah, the combat cyborg from the future? Name after name, of powerful people who’d just dropped out of sight, without any sign of struggle or foul play. And other, less illustrious names, but still well-known people, even significant ones, in their own spheres of influence. More people gathered around us as the conversation became louder and more worried, and even more names were put forward. It quickly became clear that none of us had realised just how many people had gone missing down through the years. Until we started putting the picture together . . .

  Now, people in our line of work have been known to just drop out of sight, for a time, for any number of good or necessary reasons, but . . . I began to wonder if there might be a more disturbing reason behind it all.

  “Could someone,” I said, “or even some organisation, be culling the super-secret society? Or securing useful people for their own purposes?”

  “If it was anyone but you asking, I’d say it was probably the Droods,” said Isabella.

  “No,” I said, “we don’t kidnap people.”

  “No . . . ,” said Molly, in a way that made it sound more like Yes, but. “On the other hand, your family has been known to disappear certain people, when they’ve convinced themselves such action would be in the greater good. We’ve all heard stories . . .”

  There was a general murmuring of agreement from all present.

  “It’s not us,” I said firmly. “I’d know.”

  “It’s not us,” said Cedric. “I’d definitely know.”

  The crowd went quiet, as everyone looked at one another and realised we really didn’t know what was going on. Until Sir Perryvale cleared his throat, just a bit self-consciously.

  “I have heard . . . something,” he said, almost reluctantly. “Just a whisper. About a secret and very exclusive Big Game.”

  “Oh, come on!” I said. “Another Spy Game? I’ve already been through one of those, courtesy of the Independent Agent. How many of these games are there?”

  “More than you’d think,” said Isabella. “Casino Infernale isn’t the only place where people like us come together to play games. People with powers and abilities like ours do love to show off what we can do. And who better to test ourselves against than each other? How else could we find proper competition? I’m amazed we don’t have our own Olympics, with medals and everything . . .”

  “I have heard of this Big Game,” Nicolai said slowly. “Though not through any official channels . . . It is, as you say, a whisper, a rumour . . . One of the darker mysteries of our hidden community. A contest of champions, they say, where the competitors are secretly abducted and forced to fight each other to the death. No one knows how long it has been going on.”

  The crowd was very quiet now, everyone frowning hard, thinking. About things they’d seen, or heard, or heard of, that suddenly made a lot more sense.

  “How could something this important have been going on for so long, and I never heard of it?” I said finally. “Why hasn’t my family heard about it? I mean, we know everything! I’m pretty sure that’s in our job description.”

  “Someone in your family probably does know,” said Nicolai. “At some level. But like most of us who think we might know something, we don’t like to talk about it.”

  “Why not?” Molly said immediately.

  “Because the Big Game is protected,” Nicolai said flatly. “By the people who run it. The Powers That Be.”

  There was
a pause, as everyone looked at everyone else.

  “What kind of a name is that?” I said. “It’s so vague; it could be anybody! Who the hell are these people?”

  Sir Perryvale shrugged uncertainly. “Nobody knows. I think that’s the point. In a community like ours, where you can be sure somebody knows something about everything . . . Even so, nobody knows. And that should tell you something. It’s not even wise to talk about the Big Game, because you don’t want to attract the attention of . . . whoever it is that’s in charge of running the Big Game.”

  “I’m not sure I believe any of this,” I said.

  Nicolai nodded quickly. “Probably the wisest course.”

  “I need a drink,” said Molly. “I need a really big drink, with an even bigger chaser.”

  This quickly became a very popular notion, and the crowd broke up as everyone besieged the long bar, shouting their orders to Demonbane and the barmen. Drinking and talking started up again, loud voices competing to drown each other out, as the subject of the Big Game was deliberately left behind. If not necessarily forgotten.

  * * *

  Finally, after hours of heavy talking and even heavier drinking, the wake began to break up. People started leaving. Heading off to their various homes, in their various ways. Julien Advent went off with Catherine Latimer, still deep in conversation—which raised a few eyebrows. Waterloo Lillian departed with a giggling Dead Boy slung over his shoulder. And Demonbane looked at me, muttered something rude about precogs, and departed as sober as he’d arrived. At the end, no one was left in the club but me and Molly. Even the bar staff had disappeared. Literally blinked out when I wasn’t looking, now that they were no longer needed. Maybe the Management just put them back in their box. The piped music cut off in the middle of a Deep Fix medley, and a quiet calm settled over the club.

  Molly and I sat side by side at the bar, still somehow perched on bar-stools, leaning companionably against each other. Savouring our last drinks before we headed out into the cold, cold night. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d allowed myself to get this drunk outside of safe environs. I felt . . . mellow. Decidedly mellow. The funeral hadn’t seemed like a proper good-bye to my uncle Jack, and neither had clearing out his room, but this . . . this wake had been more like it. A proper farewell to a man who had always been so much more than just the family Armourer. I turned to Molly to say as much, and saw that she was very mellow. So mellow, in fact, that it was a wonder to me she was still perched on her bar-stool. I smiled at her fondly. I hadn’t been trying to keep up with her, because I knew from experience that I couldn’t. Nobody could, when she had her drinking boots on.

  “I think we gave Jack a good send-off,” I said slowly. “I wish he could have been here to see it.”

  “Now, that,” said Molly, “would have been creepy. Also macabre.”

  “I mean,” I said, speaking slowly and clearly to show I wasn’t in any way befuddled by the booze, “so he could see just how well loved and admired and respected he was. In the greater community. Not just . . . at the Hall. Or in the Armoury.”

  “I think he knew,” said Molly, nodding wisely.

  “I hope he knew,” I said.

  “Eddie?” said Molly.

  “Yes, love?”

  “Something’s wrong. I can’t move. Why can’t I move? What the hell have I been drinking?”

  “It’s not just you,” I said steadily. “I can’t move either.”

  “Eddie, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  And just like that I felt stone-cold sober. As though someone had thrown a bucket of icy water in my face. Shock can do that to you. I struggled to move, or even turn my head to look at Molly, but I couldn’t move a muscle.

  “We’ve been spelled!” said Molly. “Frozen in place!”

  “But my torc is supposed to protect me from all kinds of attack!” I said. “What kind of spell could be powerful enough to overpower Drood armour? And why are we still able to talk?”

  “Good questions,” said Molly. “I think we’re about to learn the answers.”

  I saw something moving, out of the corner of my eye. I couldn’t turn my head to see clearly, but the lights in the Wulfshead Club seemed to just fade away as shadows gathered around us. Bright electric lights guttered and went out, replaced by a bruised, unhealthy candlelight as Nicolai Vodyanoi came forward out of the dark, holding a Hand of Glory. A severed human hand whose fingers had been made into candles. Eerie green flames rose from wicks set into the fingertips, rising straight up, untouched by any breeze or movement. They were the only light in the Wulfshead now. Nicolai walked up to me, and then past me, to sit down at the bar beside Molly. I still couldn’t turn my head to look at him, to see what he was doing. All I could do was follow him out of the corner of my other eye. I’d never felt so helpless. I seethed and struggled, pitting all my willpower, and all the power of my torc, against the power of the Hand of Glory, and still I couldn’t move. Couldn’t protect my Molly from the old monster sitting so casually beside her.

  “Normally, not even a Hand of Glory would be enough to hold a Drood in place against his will,” said Nicolai quite calmly. He didn’t sound the least bit drunk. It occurred to me that while I’d often seen him with a glass of vodka in his hand during the evening, I’d never actually seen him drink from it. Had he been planning this all along? A cold anger surged through me. This was a wake! Neutral ground for all, by long tradition . . . I realised Nicolai was still talking, and made myself pay attention.

  “This is no ordinary Hand of Glory. It was made from the severed hand of a dead Drood. Don’t ask me his name. This all took place long before my time. Some Drood field agent came to Moscow, overconfident or really unlucky, and my people took him down. Very carefully, so your family never suspected we were involved. He just . . . disappeared. As we were saying earlier, such things do happen, in our community.

  “So . . . after he was dead, my people tried to take his torc, to learn the secrets of your armour; but I understand the torc just disappeared. Right in front of them. Very vexing. So they dissected the young man’s body, very thoroughly, to see what secrets it held. This was back before the days of DNA, you understand, so in the end they discovered little of any actual use. But they did cut off one of his hands and make it over into this Hand of Glory. Because even then they thought Drood flesh might be used against Drood armour . . .”

  “You see?” I said to Molly. “This is why it’s so important to completely dispose of a Drood body.”

  “Shut up, Eddie!” said Nicolai. “I am talking! We could have used the Hand against your family, but those in charge at that time suffered . . . a failure of nerve, a lack of will. They panicked, afraid of what your family might do to them if the truth ever got out. So they destroyed the body and locked the Hand away. Never even tried to use it. Such a wasted opportunity . . . The Hand remained in the KGB vaults for many years, forgotten—until I found it.

  “While looking for something else entirely. Is that not always the way? But once I understood what I had stumbled across, I knew my moment had come. I broke into the vaults, took the Hand, and came here. I fear I have rather burned my bridges with my own people, but it was necessary. I had no choice. It was easy enough for me to get in here for your sentimental little gathering; your uncle Jack once brought me here as his guest. All I had to do, then . . . was wait for everyone else to leave. And now, Eddie. You know what I want.”

  “I really don’t,” I said.

  “Where is it?” said Nicolai. “Tell me!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about? Where is what?”

  “I want what your uncle Jack left you,” said Nicolai. “All these years I’ve wanted to get my hands on it, all these years I’ve waited, and this is my chance.”

  “The Bentley?” I said. “It isn’t here.”

  “Do not
play the fool with me, Eddie.” There was a cold, very real danger in his voice. “I would hate to have to hurt your Molly. Hate to have to damage such a pretty face.”

  “Don’t you touch her!” I said. “Please! What do you want?”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” said Molly. “My sisters would hunt you down!”

  “Shut up, witch!” said Nicolai. “Tell me where it is, Eddie, right now, or . . .” He slammed the Hand of Glory down on the bar top. It stood upright, balanced uncannily on the wrist stump, green flames still rising steadily from the fingertips. Nicolai produced a slender silver knife and set the edge against Molly’s throat. She couldn’t even flinch back from it. The edge of the blade was so sharp that contact alone broke the skin and sent a thin runnel of blood coursing down her throat. I almost went mad then, straining helplessly against the power that held me still.

  “All right!” I said. “All right . . . Just, take it easy. Don’t hurt her. What you want is in my right-hand pocket, contained within a pocket dimension I keep there. You can’t just reach in and take it; only I can. That’s the way the Armourer made it.”

  Nicolai considered the matter, still holding the knife to Molly’s throat. He could kill her in a moment, and we all knew it. Finally, he nodded slowly.

  “Very well, Eddie. I restore to you the movement of your right arm.”

  And just like that, I could move my arm again. Nothing else. I couldn’t even look down as I reached into my right-hand pocket and slowly, carefully brought out the Merlin Glass. I placed it on the bar top before me. Nicolai looked at it.

  “What . . . ?” he said. “What is that?”

  “It’s what you wanted,” I said. “The Merlin Glass. I know—you thought it would look more impressive. Everybody does. But that’s it. Now, please . . . Take the Glass and let Molly go. You must know that killing her, and me, would be a really bad idea. You’d have my family and her sisters at your back and at your throat, for the rest of your life.”

  Nicolai surged forward and swept the Merlin Glass off the bar top with one blow from his hand. The Glass fell to the floor, and he pressed the knife back against Molly’s throat. Another thin line of blood ran slowly down her twitching skin.