Harry made a space amid the rubble and sat down beside Roger, holding his body in his arms. He said Roger’s name several times. And then Roger closed his eye, blood bubbled briefly at his mouth and he stopped breathing.
Harry armoured down. He was only a man now, sitting amid destruction, holding his dead love in his arms.
“No,” he said. “You can’t be dead. I fought my way through Hell to be here, scared off a demon with my love for you; you can’t be dead! It isn’t fair! God damn you! God, this isn’t fair!”
There were sounds from outside, people and perhaps things not people, digging their way through the rubble, trying to get in, to get to Harry. He laid Roger’s dead body down and smiled briefly, bitterly.
“You won’t get me,” he said. “Anything for the family.”
He raised one golden hand, grew a blade out of it and stabbed himself cleanly through the heart.
CHAPTER TEN
The Things We Do for Revenge
The display screen went blank. And in the War Room at Drood Hall, there was a long, terrible silence. I looked slowly around me. Molly, Callan and the Sarjeant-at-Arms had joined me in time for the end. In time to see Roger and Harry die. Everyone in the War Room was shocked, stunned. Death in the field was nothing new to Droods; but we don’t usually get to see our own murdered in cold blood right in front of us. And I think we were all perhaps a little more than usually upset because Roger and Harry had died so very bravely, serving the family, even though most of us had never particularly liked or trusted either of them. Some of the comm technicians were quietly holding and comforting one another. A few of the far-seers were crying quietly. Nobody seemed to know what to do or say.
“Ethel?” I said.
“I’m here, Eddie,” said the calm, quiet voice from out of nowhere. “I’m sorry. They’re gone. I can’t See what’s happening there anymore. There are powerful shields in place. There’s nothing I can do.”
I turned to the Sarjeant-at-Arms standing beside me. “Raise your army. Raise the whole damned family, if that’s what it takes. We’re going back.”
“There’s no point,” said the Sarjeant. “Roger and Harry are dead, Eddie. There’s nothing any of us can do for them.”
“They’ll have taken Harry’s torc,” said Callan. One of his hands rose unconsciously to the torc at his throat, replacement for the one ripped off him by the Blue Fairy, to reassure himself it was still there.
“We have to go back!” I said. “We have to make those bastards pay!”
“Eddie,” said Molly, moving in close beside me. “You’re shouting.”
“We are not going back,” said the Sarjeant, his voice very cold and very steady. That’s what they want, Eddie. Given the size of the conspiracy’s army they could have taken Harry and Roger alive, if they’d wanted to. They could have found a way. Hell, they could have entered the hotel in force and overwhelmed them. They could have taken the two of them prisoner, held them for ransom, threatened them to put pressure on us. . . . But instead they blew up the room, quite deliberately, knowing we were watching, to make us so mad we’d go charging back in, and to hell with how outnumbered we were. And then . . . they would slaughter us, Eddie. We’re not prepared for all-out war, not yet, and they are.
“Give me time, Eddie. Give me time to raise a properly trained and equipped army, with some of the nastier forbidden weapons from the Armageddon Codex, and I will set that army against anything the conspiracy can put up. But we’re not ready. Not now.”
“They won’t wait,” I said. I felt numb and cold, and my voice seemed to be coming from a long way away. “As soon as they realise we’re not taking the bait, they’ll leave.”
“We’ll find them,” said the Sarjeant. “And then we’ll take the fight to them.” He looked at the empty display screen. “They died well. Like men. Like Droods. I was wrong about them.”
“We have to do something,” I said. “We left them there on their own. We have to do something!”
“You do something,” said Callan. “But do it somewhere else. I have a War Room to run.”
He moved off among his people, murmuring reassuring words and occasional sarcasm, ordering fresh pots of tea and more Jaffa Cakes, and quietly but firmly encouraging everyone back to work. The technicians turned back to their comm stations, the far-seers to their scrying pools, and the War Room went back to watching the world again.
“Isabella Metcalf’s information was false,” the Sarjeant-at-Arms said carefully. “Designed to lead us into a trap.”
“The conspiracy has her,” I said. “They snatched her right out of her own teleport, just as we left Under Parliament.”
“She’d never help them willingly,” said Molly.
“Isabella does have a . . . certain reputation,” said the Sarjeant, still very carefully.
“Can you ever see a free spirit like Iz bowing down to those circle-jerk Satanists?” snapped Molly. “God knows what they’ve done to her. . . . We have to rescue her!”
“We have to find her first,” I said.
“What about the source of Isabella’s information?” said the Sarjeant. “The sending mentioned one Charlatan Joe.”
“Dusk said the sending was only an image of Iz,” I said. “Their words, through her image . . .”
“Yeah, right, and Satanist conspiracy leaders are so well-known for telling the truth,” said Molly. “Come on, Eddie! Dusk was messing with our heads, trying to demoralise us. That’s what they do. . . . No. The sending was real. I know my own sister. She was trying to get information to us, despite being held captive.”
“And they let her, because they wanted us to know,” I said.
“I will make them suffer,” said Molly. “Every damned one of them.”
Her voice wasn’t unusually cold or threatening. It was just Molly being Molly. The Sarjeant and I looked at each other, and I decided to change the subject.
“Charlatan Joe is the only real lead we have,” I said. “I know him. Confidence trickster, merry prankster, thief and rogue and treacherous little shit. He and Shaman Bond have been friends for years.”
“Is he a usually reliable source?” said the Sarjeant.
“He knows his stuff,” I said. “He’s an honest enough villain: always gives good value for money.”
“So how could he have been so wrong this time?” said Molly.
“He couldn’t,” I said. “If he really did put Isabella onto the Cathedral Hotel, it can only be because someone paid and/or persuaded him into saying what they wanted him to say.”
“I think we need to go talk to this man,” said Molly. “I think we need to have a few firm words with him.”
“He’ll have gone to ground by now,” I said. “But the Merlin Glass will find him.”
I reached out to the Glass through my torc. It was still standing out in the grounds, a twenty-foot-square gateway, going nowhere now. I called it to me, and it shrank back down to its usual size and reappeared in my hand, in the War Room. Everyone jumped a little, looking at the Glass suddenly in my hand.
“I didn’t know it could do that,” said the Sarjeant.
“I’ve been practicing,” I said.
“I didn’t know the Merlin Glass could jump around inside the Hall, appearing anywhere it liked, without setting off any of my very sensitive alarms,” said the Sarjeant.
“Well, now you do,” I said. I held the hand mirror up before me. I hardly recognised the face I saw before me in the mirror. I hadn’t known I could look that angry, that cold. “You’re supposed to be able to locate anyone I know,” I said to the Glass. “So find me Charlatan Joe. Wherever he’s hidden himself, whatever’s hiding him. Do it.”
My face disappeared from the mirror, replaced by a series of blurred images as the Merlin Glass fought its way through any number of defensive screens and distracting measures, until finally it cleared to show a crystal clear image of a very familiar scene. Molly pressed in close beside me for a better look.
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“But . . . that’s the Wulfshead Club! What’s he doing there?”
“Drinking with a few old friends, by the look of it,” I said. “And, presumably, hiding in plain sight. The Wulfshead is, after all, supposed to be neutral ground.”
“Look at him,” said Molly. “Standing there at the bar, knocking back the drinks like he doesn’t have a care in the world . . . I’ll make him care. Who are those people with him? Do you know them, Eddie?”
“Of course,” I said. Shaman Bond knows everyone. That’s what he’s for. The tall, scary woman is Lady Damnation. Born, or perhaps created, in one of those places where the walls of the world have worn thin, and influences from outside have seeped through. There are those who say she eats a little death every day to make herself immune to it. And there are those who say she’s nothing more than a jumped-up Gothette with delusions of deity. Doesn’t make her any less dangerous, though.
Standing beside her, in the heavy scarlet robes and cape, is the biggest and certainly the heaviest priest in the world: Bishop Beastly. Who refuses to belong to any organised church that would accept the likes of him as a member. He loudly proclaims that delighting in all the pleasures of the flesh is the best way to worship God, who gave them to us. He claims to have eaten one representative of every living species on this planet, so he can contain their souls within him and thereby strengthen his contact with the living world. He is very strong. Winner of the Vatican Pro-Am Exorcism Tournament for seven years running. The nuns of sixty-three different nunneries pray for his soul every day. No one knows why.
“And finally, we have the Indigo Spirit, standing tall and proud in his midnight blue leathers, cowl and cape. An old-fashioned costumed crime fighter and adventurer. A man who became his own fantasy, because he thought someone should. Surprisingly effective. The real deal, in an increasingly fake world.”
“What’s a bottom-feeding scumbag like Charlatan Joe doing hanging out with people like that?” said Molly.
“Buying them drinks, by the look of it,” I said. “And looking for protection. The Wulfshead is famously neutral ground for anyone and everyone. But not today. I can’t go there as Shaman Bond, not with what I need to do. I’ll have to go in armoured up, as a Drood. And no, you can’t come with me, Molly. You might need the club’s protections someday.”
She nodded slowly, reluctantly. “Eddie, find out what happened to my sister. Whatever it takes.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Joe is going to tell me everything I need to know.”
I armoured up, shook the Merlin Glass out to door size and stepped through into the Wulfshead Club. Then I shook the Glass down, put it away and looked unhurriedly about me.
Everyone in the club had stopped what they were doing to stare at the armoured Drood who had appeared in their midst out of nowhere. That wasn’t supposed to be possible. That was why you came to the Wulfshead: to be safe from people like me. No alarms sounded, but the pounding music cut off abruptly, and one by one the massive display screens shut down. The dancers stopped dancing, and everyone in the club stood very still, hoping not to be noticed. Sudden puffs of displaced air marked the sudden disappearance of certain particularly nervous individuals as they teleported out. Others started edging nonchalantly towards various exits. It’s surprising how many people can find something to feel guilty about when a Drood turns up. The club’s much-vaunted security was supposed to protect everyone from everyone, but sensible people didn’t take chances.
I headed straight for Charlatan Joe, standing at the bar with his new friends, and everyone else looked relieved and got out of my way. Joe looked immediately at the thirteen bartenders with the same face.
“I’m supposed to be safe here! I’m supposed to be protected! Even from the high-and-mighty bloody Droods!”
The bartenders were the club’s first line of defence, in that between them they could gang up on pretty much any troublemaker. But they took one look at my golden armour and decided they were outgunned and outnumbered, and that this was way above their pay scale. They all hunkered down behind the bar, out of sight. A very sensible attitude, I thought.
Charlatan Joe swore bitterly at the deserted bar, and sank back behind his new friends. “You promised me I’d be safe here, you bastards! What do I pay my membership dues for?”
“You don’t,” said a voice from behind the bar.
“Do you take plastic?”
Everyone fell back to give me plenty of room. I recognised friends and enemies and allies to every side of me, but they were all people Shaman Bond knew, not me. I didn’t acknowledge any of them. I couldn’t risk any of them recognising me. I didn’t want them looking at Shaman Bond the way they were looking at me now: with a combination of awe, fear and not entirely hidden hatred. We Droods protect the world, but no one ever said the world would love us for it.
I’d almost reached Charlatan Joe when the Indigo Spirit stepped suddenly forward to block my way. He looked firm and determined and very impressive, the way costumed heroes are supposed to look. And the thing was, I knew he’d never practised that stance in front of a mirror, or even thought about doing so. It came naturally to him, because he was the real deal. Out of respect for his reputation, I stopped and considered him thoughtfully. If my featureless and forbidding golden mask disturbed him at all, he did a really good job of hiding it.
“Sorry,” said Indigo. “Joe may be a crook and a swindler and a general pain in the arse, but even he’s entitled to protection in this place. The club is sanctuary for all of us: good and bad and in between. And if the bar staff are too gutless to do their job, I’m not.”
“You don’t know what he’s done,” I said.
“It really doesn’t matter, dear boy,” said Bishop Beastly, surging forward in a splendid swirl of his scarlet robe and cape. I swear I heard the floor creak loudly as it bore his massive weight. The bishop smiled easily at me, his pursed rosebud mouth almost lost in his huge, fat face. His deep-sunk eyes were kind, but unwavering. “Sanctuary is for everyone, or it’s for no one. How can a small thing like Charlatan Joe be worth all this upset? Sit down, dear boy; have a drink and a nibble on one of the more palatable bar snacks, and we will discuss the situation in a civilised manner.”
“Anywhen else, I might have,” I said. “Anyone else, perhaps. But not him, and not today. I can’t let you interfere, Bishop; and if you knew what he’d done, whom he’s done business with and what he’s responsible for . . . you’d let me have him.”
“I rather doubt that,” murmured the bishop. “Come, let us reason together. . . .”
“He doesn’t do reasonable,” snapped Lady Damnation. “He doesn’t have to. He’s a Drood.”
She stalked forward to confront me, sneering right into my golden mask. Her corpse-pale skin stood out starkly against her brightly coloured Gypsy dress and shawl. Thick curls of long, dark hair spilled down around her pointed face, with its fierce green eyes and dark lips. She put her hands on her hips and tilted back her head, the better to sneer down her long nose at me.
“Talk to me, Drood. Give me one good reason not to go Romany on your golden arse, and curse you and yours down to the seventh generation.”
“I’m here for Joe,” I said. “He’s going to talk to me.”
“I don’t know anything!” Joe said immediately. “You’ve got to stop him! He’s going to kill me!”
“You probably earned it,” said the Indigo Spirit. “But . . . you can’t have him, Drood. It’s the principle of the thing.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. And I really was. “But I don’t have time for this.”
Lady Damnation came dancing forward, every step graceful and focussed and quite deadly. She can kill with a touch, they say, wither your heart in your breast, draw your soul out through your eyes. But she’d never met armour like mine. She stamped and pirouetted around me, chanting loudly in the old Rom style, her hands darting out at me . . . but always drawing back at the very last moment, unable to make c
ontact with my armour. She made sudden clutching movements with both hands, but my heart never missed a beat. In the end she lunged forward and thrust her face right into my featureless golden mask. Her eyes blazed fiercely, huge in her pale face, but all she saw in my mask was her own reflection.
The power in her eyes rebounded, and the psychic feedback threw her backwards, howling with shock and horror. She turned and staggered off into the crowd, shaking and shuddering, and the crowd let her hide herself among them.
Bishop Beastly sighed heavily, shook his great bald head slowly and waddled forward to take up the fight. His great form was vast as a wall, and almost as solid. There was a lot of muscle under that fat. He thrust a large bone crucifix at me, almost lost in his huge hand. Up close, I could see the cross had been made by lashing two Aboriginal pointing bones together. A good use of horrific materials. It would probably have worked on anyone else. The bishop thrust the bone crucifix into my mask, and the cross exploded in his hand, driving vicious splinters deep into his pudgy flesh.
Blood dripped thickly from his hand, but he didn’t flinch. He shook his injured hand once, to dislodge the worst of the splinters, and then held up his other hand. Massive rings showed on every fat finger, each with its own magically glowing crystal. He cursed me then, in loud, ringing tones, and I stood there and let him do it. He had a fine voice and a lot of faith, but the confidence went out of him as one by one the light faded from the rings’ crystals, their energies exhausted against my armour. The bishop surged forward, his robes billowing like a scarlet sail, hitting me with an old-school exorcism in classical Latin, and I punched him out. His massive head snapped back, his eyes rolled up and he measured his length and considerable girth on the floor. I swear the whole floor shuddered out of respect.
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