From Hell with love sh-4

by Simon R. Green

  "William is still away with the faeries, as often as not," said the Matriarch, regretfully. "I had hoped letting him live in the Old Library, away from the pressures of family life, might help to settle and stabilise him, but I can't honestly say I've seen any signs of improvement."

  "The Librarian is a looney tune," said Harry. "Crazier than ever, if anything. He only appears at Council meetings through spiritual projections, insists his assistant Rafe acts as his food taster, and keeps wittering on about Something unseen that lives in the Old Library with him and steals his socks. It's well past time we retired him, and let Rafe take over as Librarian."

  "William is a better Librarian crazy than most other men sane," the Armourer said stubbornly. "It's amazing how much that man knows, when he can remember it. No one knows the Old Library like he does. But he is only a part-time member of the Council now, Eddie. We've been forced to consider bringing in new members."

  "Fresh blood," said Harry, with entirely too much relish in his voice.

  "Howard has been in charge of Operations for some time now," said the Matriarch. "And done an excellent job. All right, he is over-bearingly arrogant, and his company is best enjoyed in very small portions, but he's very good at thinking outside the box. We can always insist he sits next to the Sarjeant, and issue the Sarjeant with a Taser. Being part of the Council might actually help teach him how to play nicely with others. Then there's Callan, who's been a real success as Head of the War Room. And yes, I'll admit that some days it does seem like he fell out of the sarcasm tree and hit every branch on the way down, but we can live with that. We've lived with worse." She glared at me. "I've allowed you to distract us long enough, Edwin. It is time to talk about what happened in Los Angeles. Why didn't you report here directly?"

  "I needed some downtime," I said.

  "So you could think up some excuses for your many failures on this mission?" said Harry.

  "You always expect everyone to think like you, Harry," I said. "I was only supposed to infiltrate an auction before it started, and liberate a single item. No one said anything about having to take on two heavily armed armies, and the Lampton Wyrm! I had to improvise. All right, the Apocalypse Door has disappeared, but this is Doctor Delirium we're talking about! A mad scientist going through a midlife crisis. Anyone else would have bought a Porsche. How serious can this be?"

  "The total destruction of the Magnificat Hotel is extremely serious!" said the Matriarch. "If only because so many people outside the family will have to be involved in explaining it away and cleaning up the mess! You and Luther not only failed to stop the two armed forces from reaching the Apocalypse Door, you couldn't even identify one of them!? And the Door has to be important, Edwin, and dangerous, or so many people wouldn't be ready to risk so much just to get their hands on it. There aren't many important and dangerous devices in this world that the family doesn't know about, and that is in itself disturbing. Armourer!"

  "Just resting my eyes, Matriarch!" He grinned at me. "Did you really turn the Lampton Wyrm inside out?"

  "Yes, Uncle Jack."

  "Good boy. Love to have seen it. Yes, Matriarch, I'm getting to it… Ah. Yes. There's no information at all about the Apocalypse Door in either of the family libraries. Of course, William and Rafe are still busy cataloguing and indexing the contents of the Old Library, so there's still a good chance something will turn up… But given the sheer scale of the Old Library, that could take some time. And time is what we don't have; yes, Matriarch, I am aware of that. Where was I? Oh yes. The two of them are making important new finds all the time, but we need to know what this bloody Door is now, or at least before Doctor Delirium makes use of it."

  "We have some time," I said. "Doctor Delirium always makes threats first, just to show he has the power. And so he can demand his pay off in postage stamps. Not a bad investment, given the current economic conditions. Unless his midlife crisis is really kicking in, and he wants respect more than he wants payment. He might make use of the Door briefly, just to show he can."

  "We need to have an answer in place before he tries anything," the Matriarch said heavily.

  "Normally we'd just grab someone low down in his organisation, and squeeze the information out of them," said Harry. "But he's called all of his people back to his main base in the Amazon rain forest, nailed all his doors shut and set fire to the moat. Full security measures and state-of-the-art defences. We took over a CIA surveillance satellite, and tasked it to give us coverage of the area for forty minutes. Got some really good images. No one can get anywhere near his base now without setting off all kinds of alarms and booby traps. No one's allowed in or out, until this business is over. We could try bombing him again…"

  "No we couldn't," the Armourer said firmly. "If you'd studied the satellite images properly, you'd have seen the brand-new force field generators. I don't know who sold him the offworld tech, but it's prime stuff. Very powerful. Doctor Delirium may be delusional, but he isn't stupid. He knew we'd be coming after him, and he's clearly learned from past mistakes."

  "I want to know where and how Doctor Delirium learned of the Apocalypse Door," said the Matriarch. "Who could have told him of a device so obscure even we've never heard of it? The Doctor rarely leaves his base in the Amazon, and the only research he's ever shown any interest in concerned his own field of expertise… So someone from outside must have contacted him, told him about the Door, and where he could find it."

  "Take it a step further," said the Armourer, scowling fiercely. "Why didn't these people make use of the Door themselves? Did they intend for the Doctor to do all the dirty work of grabbing the Door from the auction, with the intention of taking it away from him later? Did they know the other army was going to show up?"

  "Maybe the auction people set it up themselves, for the insurance?" I said.

  The Matriarch looked at me. "If you don't have anything useful to contribute, Edwin…"

  "Who is there out there," said the Armourer, "who knows more than we do?"

  "Even though the family doesn't like to admit it," said Harry, "there are a number of well-informed people and organisations, some almost as experienced as us. Do I really need to mention the Carnacki Institute, the London Knights, or the Deep School, the Dark Academy? And there's always the Regent of Shadows…"

  "We don't talk about him," said the Matriarch, very sternly.

  There was a short pause, as we all avoided each other's eyes.

  "These people are all long shots and you know it," I said finally. "I say we need to look closer to home. Inside the family."

  "Paranoia doesn't suit you, Edwin," the Matriarch said patiently. "The days of Zero Tolerance and Manifest Destiny are over. Those traitors have been executed, expelled from the family, or very forcibly shown the error of their ways. The family is united again. I have seen to that. If the Droods are to thrive and prosper again, and take their place on the world stage, it is vital we are all singing from the same hymn sheet."

  "I do like a good male voice choir," said the Armourer wistfully.

  "I'm not talking about traitors within the family," I said doggedly. "I'm more concerned with infiltration. A dying mercenary in the ruins of the Magnificat claimed to be part of an organisation that's always been our greatest bogeyman: the Anti-Droods. Another family, dedicated to everything we oppose. He used the phrases wolf in the fold and serpents at our bosom. That implies an enemy who is someone we trust, someone who's worked their way inside this family, just to work against us. It has happened before. Remember Sebastian? He was one of us, until he was possessed by a Loathly One. We never did find out who killed him, presumably to keep him from talking. We have to face up to the possibility that someone inside the family is not what they appear to be."

  "But maybe… that's what he wanted you to think," said Harry. "A dying man's last chance to mess with your head, and spread distrust inside the Droods. There can't be an Anti-Droods. There just can't. We'd know."

  "We didn't know about the
Apocalypse Door," said the Sarjeant. He was frowning thoughtfully, clearly considering certain names. And I didn't like the way he looked at me.

  "If these Anti-Droods really are as good as us," said the Armourer, "as old and as experienced and as practiced as us… We wouldn't know. That's always been our greatest fear; that some where out there were people just like us, but opposed to everything we believe in."

  We all sat and looked at each other for a while, and there was no telling where the conversation might have gone if we hadn't all been distracted by the sounds of sudden violence outside the Sanctity doors. Violence, heavy thuds and screams, followed by muffled moans of pain and the sounds of heavy bodies slumping to the floor. The doors burst open, and Molly Metcalf came storming into the Sanctity.

  My sweet Molly, a precious china shepherdess with bobbed black hair, dark eyes, and really big bosoms. She was wearing a glorious white silk creation that clung to her like a second skin in places, emphasising her curves-like they needed any help-spotted here and there with fresh blood. She was wearing… shoes. Don't ask me what kind; expensive, probably. Men don't understand shoes.

  I stood up to greet Molly, and she flashed me a wide grin. The wild witch, the laughter in the woods, the eternal rebel. Molly fought for a better world, on her terms, and often in disturbingly violent ways. My love, my everything. She threw herself into my arms, slamming me back against the end of the table, and kissed me like we'd been apart for years, instead of a few weeks. I lifted her off the ground and held her above me, and she shrieked delightedly, kicking her legs. I laughed along with her. Sometimes it seems to me the only times I get to laugh are with my Molly.

  I put her down, and she punched me lightly on the chest and gave me her special low growl, that means later… And then she pushed me away, and glared at the Matriarch.

  "I know now why my parents were killed! And Eddie's! And it's all down to the Droods!"

  And it had all been going so well… I moved in beside her. "You have proof?" I said. "Evidence, and I mean hard evidence?"

  "Not yet," said Molly, still scowling at the Matriarch. "But I'm getting close. Isabella and I are right on top of it. I came straight here to tell you, Eddie. There's a? definite link between the murder of my parents and yours! Don't trust any of these people."

  "You're wrong," said the Matriarch, her cold composure utterly unmoved. "No one in this family would have ordered the execution of Eddie's parents. Certainly not without my knowing."

  "Well, you would say that, wouldn't you?" said Molly.

  "Do you really think I'd order the death of my own daughter? Do you really think me capable of such a thing?"

  "You had no problem ordering the death of your grandson," I murmured. "Sending me to my death didn't seem to bother you at all, Grandmother."

  Her face didn't give an inch, but when she spoke she chose her words carefully. "That was different, Edwin. I thought it was necessary, for the good of the family. It has been made clear to me that I was wrong about that… and other things. Emily was my dearest daughter. And I approved of Charles, your father. A bit of a rogue, but a good man with a good heart. Did you think I'd let just anyone marry my daughter? I liked Charles, and trusted him implicitly. He and Emily made a formidable team as field agents. Until that unfortunate business in the Basque area… I investigated their deaths thoroughly, Edwin. If there'd been even a hint that anyone had intended their deaths, I would have torn the family apart to find the culprits, and executed them myself. But it was just a stupid, regrettable accident. The result of bad intelligence and worse planning. These things happen, even in the best-regulated families."

  "Nothing just happens, where the Droods are concerned," said Molly.

  "Your parents died in the middle of a firefight," the Matriarch said calmly. "They should never have sided with the White Horse Faction. Those people were extremists, terrorists, and always far too ready to shoot first. They were a bloodbath waiting to happen."

  "They were freedom fighters," said Molly. "Idealists. And you had them all killed, including my mother and father."

  "We offered them every chance to surrender. Causes like that are always half in love with Death, one way or another."

  "You killed my mum and dad," said Molly.

  "You could have found another way," I said to the Matriarch.

  "You know that isn't always possible," she said flatly. "Did you take the time to consider all the possibilities, when you murdered your Uncle James? My son? The legendary Grey Fox?"

  "That wasn't Eddie's fault!" Molly said immediately. "You sent James to kill Eddie! And you're still trying to manipulate him, even now, working on his emotions, and the sense of blind duty you pounded into him! It's all you know how to do. Anything, for the family. You're already responsible for the deaths of so many; what are a few more, even if they have familiar faces? I'll see you dead for what you've done, you coldhearted bitch!"

  The Sarjeant-at-Arms was already on his feet and armoured up, two oversized guns appearing out of nowhere in his hands. The Armourer was up and on his feet only a second later, moving to put himself in front of the Matriarch, protecting her from all harm with his own body. But he hadn't armoured up. Uncle Jack liked Molly. He didn't really believe she would hurt the Matriarch, but he knew his duty. Harry hadn't budged at all. He just sat there, entirely at his ease, watching the drama before him with cheerful detached interest.

  I could see this situation going to hell in any number of unfortunate ways, so I grabbed Molly from behind, heaved her over my shoulder, and strode quickly out of the Sanctity. She stiffened ominously for a moment, but didn't struggle, and allowed me to remove her from the scene. Though I was pretty sure I'd be made to pay for the indignity later. Behind us, I could hear the Armourer laughing, and applauding. My back crawled, in anticipation of a bullet from the Sarjeant, but I'd been careful not to provoke him by armouring up. And besides, I didn't think my grandmother would allow the Sarjeant to shoot me in the back. If she ever decided to order my death again, she'd want me to see it coming.

  I left the Sanctity behind, and strode nonchalantly through the Hall, Molly still slung over my shoulder.

  "Anyone else I'd have turned into a toad," she said casually. "Or something small and squelchy with its testicles floating on the surface."

  "Yes," I said. "But I have boyfriend privileges."

  "You are pushing it, big time."

  "I know," I said. "Next time, you can carry me off."

  "I love it when you talk dirty."

  After a while I put her down, and we went back to my room at the top of the Hall, and made up. Afterwards, we lay cuddled together on my bed, our clothes scattered everywhere, sweat drying slowly on our naked bodies. I could feel scratches from her fingernails smarting on my back. Molly rested her head on my chest, and made quiet noises of contentment. I let my gaze drift slowly around my room. It wasn't very big, as rooms went, but it was bigger than most in Drood Hall. Even with four extra Wings added on down the years, space was always at a premium. The family gets bigger every year, and every year it gets harder to find somewhere to put us all. In the not too distant future, we're either going to have to expand the Hall again, or move. But no one wants to talk about that, just yet.

  The room had all the usual comforts, but little in the way of character. I was never around long enough to stamp my personality on it. Still, it seemed very peaceful, and quiet, just then, so far away from the rest of the family and all their many troubles.

  "So," I said finally. "What have you and Isabella been up to?"

  "We went to see the Mole," she said, not raising her head. Her lips brushed against my skin. "He's still a rogue; prefers it that way. If he were to rejoin the family, they'd try and make him come home, and he just couldn't. He's been alone too long. He couldn't stand being forced to mix with people again. It would kill him. Anyway, he wasn't comfortable with anyone knowing where his hole was, so he moved. And this time he pulled the hole in after him. Even I don't k
now where he is now. I can only talk to him via e-mail, bounced back and forth so many times it can never be traced. I figured if anyone knew the truth about what happened to our parents, it would be him. He didn't know, but he thought he knew someone who might. He sent Isabella and me to this small town in the southwest of England, a place called Bradford-on-Avon. To talk to the oldest living human in the world: Carys Galloway, the Waking Beauty."

  Molly's story:

  Bradford-on-Avon is a really old town. It was the last Celtic town to fall to the invading Saxons in 504 A.D., and there are remains of an Iron Age settlement in the hills above the town. Strange creatures and stranger people live in this small country town, and marvels and wonders can be found there. Along with dark powers and darker secrets. Some of the people who live there have lived there so long they're not even people anymore. And they know things no one else does.

  It's a pleasant place. Isabella and I left the train station and just walked around for a while, enjoying the many styles of architecture, from old thatched cottages to seventeenth-century weavers' tenements, from manor houses to futuristic apartments. All of time, crammed together in one place. Reminded me of Drood Hall, a bit. Except the people were a lot friendlier.

  The town looks perfectly normal at first, but once we raised our Sight, everything changed. It was as though just the act was enough to push us sideways, into a subtly different realm. We strolled across the thirteenth-century town bridge, over the river Avon, and passed an old stone chapel built into the bridge wall; just big enough to hold one or two people. Something inside threw itself against the confining walls, and a terrible scream filled my head, an inhuman howl of suffering and despair, rising and falling but never ending. Isabella grabbed my arm and hurried us on. I found out later it's called the Howling Thing; one of the really old monsters. Impris oned there centuries ago, and still doing penance. It's doing Time, every damned bit of it.