For Heaven's Eyes Only

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.

“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 contact 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.

The Indigo Spirit looked at me expressionlessly, and then he moved unhurriedly forward to stand before me. He did look like the real thing: lithely muscular under the costume, every calculated movement showing extensive training and hard-won skill. A man who became what he believed in, and made it real, because he believed it was the right thing to do. He did much of his work in the Nightside, because this world has become too cynical to believe in good dreams.

He’d have made a good Drood.

“Whatever Joe’s done,” said Indigo, “there must be some way to put it right. . . .”

“No,” I said. “Not this time.”

“It can’t be that bad,” said Indigo. “I mean, come on: This is Charlatan Joe we’re talking about! What did he do? Stiff a Drood on a deal? Try to sell your family some Florida swampland?”

“Droods are dead,” I said. “Because of him.”

“Oh, God,” said Joe miserably. “I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t!”

Indigo looked back at him sharply, and he must have seen something of the truth in Joe’s face. But give Indigo his due; it didn’t alter his determination in the least. There was a principle at stake—sanctuary for the needy—and he would not stand aside. I knew there was a reason we were friends. He looked at me steadily.

“I can’t let you have him, Drood.”

“He doesn’t have to die,” I said. “Just tell me what I need to know.”

“He’s lying!” Joe said immediately. “I don’t know anything! Don’t let him hurt me!”

“Your reputation does precede you, Drood,” said Indigo. “And I really can’t stand by and let a shark like you chew on a small fish like him.”

Charlatan Joe and the Indigo Spirit had both been friends of Shaman Bond for years. I’d worked cons with Joe, fought bad guys with Indigo. Spent more time in their company than I had with most of my family. But this . . . was more important than friendship.

Indigo must have sensed that the time for words was over. His gloved hand moved too swiftly to follow, and a razor-edged shuriken flashed through the air towards me. I snatched it out of midair and crumpled the solid steel in my golden hand. But Indigo had planned for that. The shuriken was a distraction, something to hold my attention while he grabbed a handful of useful items from his utility belt.

Of course he has a utility belt. What’s the point of embracing a fantasy if you don’t go all the way?

He threw a capsule onto the floor before me, and a thick grey fluid splashed everywhere, lapping against my golden feet. I knew what it was; I’d seen Indigo use it before: a specially engineered frictionless fluid, designed to cut off all contact between a bad guy and the floor he was standing on. I’d seen whole crowds of villains lose their footing and crash to the floor and not be able to get up again. Very useful stuff. Indigo gets it from some military source. I walked right through it and didn’t miss a step. Indigo backed away, startled. The frictionless fluid had never failed him before. But strange matter follows its own rules. Or imposes its own rules on the material universe. Just like a Drood, really.

Indigo threw another capsule at me, and it smashed against my golden chest. Thick, steaming fluid ran down my golden armour, and again I recognised it. Acid strong enough to eat through steel. It ran harmlessly down my armour and pooled around my feet, hissing and spitting as it ate holes in the floor.

The Indigo Spirit was still backing away, but he hadn’t given up yet. He held up a large, blocky piece of tech in one hand. There was a loud, uneasy murmur from the crowd, as many of them recognised it. I knew what it was, because I’d had the Armourer make it for Indigo as a Christmas present: a handheld EMP device. Indigo made sure I got a good look at it and, when I still didn’t stop, activated the thing with a dramatic gesture. The electromagnetic pulse swept out across the Wulfshead in under a second, and all the lights went out at once as every piece of technology stopped working. In the sudden darkness there were brief flashes of light from small explosions in the crowd, hidden bits and pieces going bang. A few fires broke out. Dull amber lighting came on as the emergency generators kicked in. The new subdued lighting made the club look like a cave with far too many shadows in it.

“Sorry,” I said to Indigo. “But my armour isn’t technology. As such.”

The Indigo Spirit had stopped backing away. He stood defiantly between Charlatan Joe and me, his leather gloves creaking as he clenched his fists. “Sorry, Drood,” he said calmly. “But you’ll have to strike me down to get to him. And I don’t think you can do that without killing me. And I don’t think you’re the kind of man who could do that to a man who’s only doing what’s right.”

“On any other day you’d be right,” I said. “But not today.”

“Then let’s dance,” said the Indigo Spirit.

I did try to take him down easily and relatively painlessly, but Indigo wasn’t having any of it. He attacked me with every skilled move, practiced blow and dirty trick he knew, moving faster than I could, even in my armour. He struck at me again and again, searching for weak spots in my armour, trying to turn my own strength against me. But he only damaged his hands against the hard, unyielding strange matter. I tried to take him down, but somehow he was never there when my fists sailed through the air. He was so very skilled. I kept speeding up, drawing more and more on my armour, until finally . . . his skill didn’t matter anymore.

I crowded him up against the bar so he had nowhere to go, and then he took a terrible beating from my golden fists. I hit him again and again, but he wouldn’t fall. I beat him horribly, saw his blood fly and heard his bones break; but he wouldn’t cry out and he wouldn’t stop fighting. There were no spikes on my gloves, no extruded blades. I didn’t want to kill him. But in the end, because he wouldn’t give in, I ran out of patience. I moved in close, broke his ribs and his collarbone and then both his arms. And as his arms hung uselessly at his sides, I clubbed him to the ground with blow after blow to the head. His cowl protected him from the worst. At least, I hoped it did.

He made one hell of a good showing, like the hero he was. But he never should have got between a Drood and his prey.

I looked at him, sitting slumped on the floor with his back to the bar, his chin resting on his chest, blood streaming from his crushed nose and mouth. Blood bubbles formed from one nostril, and I hoped a rib hadn’t pierced his lung. He was my friend, but I was too angry, too coldly determined, to be stopped. I’d apologise to him later. I’d care about what I’d done later. I had to have some measure of revenge for what had been done to Harry and Roger. Because I’d left them there to die. Because I hadn’t gone back to rescue them, like I promised. Because I’d never liked them. And because revenge was all that was left. All I could do for them. I had to do something. . . . If you can’t hurt the ones you hate, hurt the ones you can reach.

I looked around at the remaining patrons of the Wulfshead Club, huddled together in tight little groups, staring at me as though I were the monster.

“Go,” I said. “Leave. I’m not here for you.”

They left as fast as they could. Charlatan Joe called pitifully after them, but no one even looked back. They’d seen a Drood in his anger, the monster was loose, and they wanted nothing to do with him. Joe made a small move toward the nearest exit, but I was already there, blocking his way. He cringed back against the bar. I looked over the bar, at the staff hiding there.

“Don’t interfere,” I said.

“No danger of that,” said the nearest bartender. “But you’d better be quick. The management knows what’s happening here. They’ll have already put in a call to the real security people. And you know who they are.”

I nodded. I knew. “The Roaring Boys.”

I turned to face Charlatan Joe, so close now I could reach out and touch him whenever I felt like it. He was so close his breath could have fogged up my mask. He was a pitiful sight: terrified, trembling, his features white and pinched, his eyes huge and rolling like those of a panicked animal. When I placed one golden hand on his shoulder, he cried out sharply and wet himself. The sudden smell of urine was shockingly clear on the still air. His legs started to buckle, and I had to hold his shoulder more firmly to keep him from collapsing.

He’d been my friend for years. We’d known good times together. And I had reduced him to this.

“Who gave you the information about the satanic conspiracy gathering at the Cathedral Hotel?” I said. “And who told you to pass it on to Isabella Metcalf?”

“Oh, God,” Charlatan Joe said miserably. “You know I can’t talk about that. They’d kill me!”

“What do you think I’ll do if you don’t?” I said. “Good Droods, good men, are dead because of you.”

“I didn’t know!” said Joe. “I just did what I was told! That’s what people like me do. I can’t tell you. . . .”

“I can make you tell me,” I said.

“You’re going to beat the information out of me? Torture me? Is that what Droods do these days?”

I’d had enough. I placed the tip of one golden finger in his left ear.

“Talk to me, Joe,” I said. “Or I will send razor-sharp filaments of my armour through your eardrum and into your brain and tear the truth right out of you. You’ll still be alive afterwards, but what’s left inside your head won’t be much use to you.”

I was bluffing, but Charlatan Joe didn’t know that. After everything he’d seen me do, he believed me. He started crying, great, shuddering sobs that racked his whole body. Snot ran out of his nose. I told myself I’d make it up to him later. Shaman Bond would make it up to him. But I think I knew, even then, that some things can never be undone.

“The source for the information was Sir Terrence Ashtree,” said Charlatan Joe, in between crying and gasping for breath. “Big man in the city. He’s part of this new satanic conspiracy. Because it’s good for business. He told me what to say to Isabella Metcalf when she came around. And how to tell it to her in such a way that she wouldn’t remember it until the conspiracy wanted her to remember. Ashtree. He’s your man. He’s the man you want. Not me . . .”

I didn’t ask him whether he’d been paid, or pressured, or even threatened into doing it. It didn’t matter.

I knew Terrence Ashtree. Part of an old business family, all of them leading lights in the establishment. Except that Terrence had never been all that successful in his own right. I didn’t know much about the man himself. That had always been Matthew’s territory, back when he was the main field agent in London, and I mopped up the crumbs that fell from his table. But then Matthew betrayed the family, and was killed by the family, and I became the main London agent. Which I thought was what I’d always wanted. Our dreams betray us by coming true.

I always meant to do a tour of all the big city names, and put the fear of God into them. But I’d barely made a start, only got as far as Ashtree, when the Hungry Gods war kicked off . . . and then there were the Immortals, and I was so busy. . . . City cases, business cases, seemed such small fry compared to the end of the world. Of course, that was before we found out what the bankers were really up to. . . .

Sir Terrence Ashtree, also known as Terry the Toad because of his complete willingness to screw over anybody in pursuit of a deal or because they were in his way. Not that his ruthlessness had ever done him much good, as such. Until recently . . . Word was, Terry the Toad was on the way up, a man to be reckoned with, which, at his middle age, was something of a surprise. Cutthroat business is a young man’s game. I’d been vaguely aware of changes in the city recently, but hadn’t paid it much attention. I hadn’t known about the satanic conspiracy then.

I turned my attention back to Charlatan Joe. He’d almost stopped crying. His eyes were red and puffy, his mouth loose and trembling.

“Where’s Isabella Metcalf right now?” I said.

“I don’t know! I don’t know! I swear, I don’t! The conspiracy has her; everyone knows that . . . but I don’t know anything! They don’t tell people like me things like that. If only so people like you can’t beat it out of people like me.”

He had a point. I stepped away from him, lowering my hand, and he almost collapsed in sheer relief. He smiled and nodded at me, eager to show his gratitude, and I almost wanted to hit him for being so pathetic. For making me feel like such a monster.

“Why?” I said. “Why did a small-time con artist like you get in bed with the Satanists in the first place?”

“For the money,” said Charlatan Joe. “That’s what I do. And the money was really good. . . .”

Yes, I thought. That is what you do, what you’ve always done. The clue is in the name. I always knew what kind of man you were, all those years we were friends. What right have I to feel angry now?

“Vanish,” I said. “Go on; get out of here. Lose yourself somewhere in the great wide world where no one will think to look for you. Until the Droods and the Metcalf sisters finally forgive you.”

“But . . . that could take forever!” said Charlatan Joe.

“Yes,” I said. “But that’s all the mercy I have in me today.”

I took him to the nearest exit. Forced the door open with my armoured strength, so that it opened onto some back alley somewhere. Joe gaped at me.

“That isn’t supposed to be possible,” he said. “No one can open those doors, except the club owners. Everyone knows that.”

“You’d be surprised what a Drood can do when he’s mad enough,” I said.

Charlatan Joe hurried through the open door, and I forced it shut behind him. I never saw him again.

I took out the Merlin Glass, activated it and opened up a doorway between the club and Drood Hall. Molly came straight through and I shut the Glass down. I didn’t want anyone else to see what I’d done. What I’d become. Molly looked quickly about her as I put the Glass away, taking in the dimly lit club, the wreckage, the bloody, unconscious forms of Bishop Beastly and the Indigo Spirit.

“Well,” she said. “You can always tell where a Drood’s been. . . . Eddie, what happened here?”

“I did,” I said. “You wanted answers, remember?”

Molly came forward to stand before me, and I armoured down. She put a hand to my face, and her fingers came away wet. I hadn’t realised I’d been crying.

“Oh, Eddie, what have you done?”

“Bad things,” I said. “Necessary things.”

“You did this to them? I thought they were your friends.”

“I’m not always a very good friend. Comes with the job.”

“Eddie,” said Molly, “this isn’t like you. I don’t like you like this.”

I looked at her, a sudden anger flushing my face. “I did this for you! You want your sister back, don’t you?”

“I want my Eddie back!”

“When it’s over,” I said. “I’ll be back when it’s over. Until then . . . it’s all about the conspiracy. I will do what I have to do to stop them. To save Humanity. To save the children.”

“You can’t fight evil with evil methods,” said Molly. “I should know. Fighting evil is supposed to bring out the best in us, not the worst.”

I managed a small smile. “Shouldn’t we be on opposite sides of this argument? Shouldn’t I be lecturing you on excessive behaviour?”

She came into my arms and hugged me tightly, and I hugged her back like a drowning man clinging to a straw. Molly finally pushed me away.

“We’ve been through a lot,” she said. “We need drinks. We need really big drinks.” She leaned over the bar and scowled down at the hiding bartenders. “You! Serial face! I want the finest wines in creation, all mixed together in one bloody big glass, shaken not stirred, with two curly-wurly straws.”

The bartender she was addressing shrugged helplessly. “If it were up to me, you could have one of everything, on the house, with a little parasol. But when the electromagnetic pulse went off, it shut down all the machinery. Management keeps all the booze in a pocket dimension attached to the bar, and with the systems down we can’t reach it. We can’t serve anything until management turns up and hits the reset button.”

“I hate you,” said Molly.

To take her mind off that, I filled her in on everything I’d learned from Charlatan Joe. It didn’t take long.

“That’s it?” said Molly. “Just one name? What about Isabella? Where are they holding her?”

“He said he didn’t know anything about that,” I said.

“And you believed him?”

“After what I did to him? Yes. You can’t make people tell you what they don’t know.”

“I can come bloody close,” Molly growled. “I can’t believe you let the little creep go.”

“We’ve got a new name,” I said. “A new lead, a new way into the conspiracy. Terry the Toad was an important member of the business establishment, even before he joined the conspiracy. Odds are he knows all kinds of important things. And names. Want to go have a word with him?”

“Try to stop me,” said Molly.

And then her head snapped round as she tried to look in every direction at once. “Did you feel that? What the hell was that? The whole atmosphere in this place changed. The temperature’s dropped; something’s sucking all the energy out of the room. . . . Something’s coming. Something bad.”

“The Wulfhead’s security,” I said. “The Roaring Boys.”

“Oh, shit,” said Molly. “Eddie, get the Glass working. Get it working right now, because I really don’t want to be here when they arrive. Even I have enough sense to be scared of the Roaring Boys.”

I already had the Merlin Glass out and activated. “I’m pretty sure I could take them,” I said. “But I think I’ve probably done enough damage here for one day.”

“This is no time to be getting cocky, Eddie! Get us the hell out of here!”

I opened a door between the club and a certain office deep in the city, and we both stepped quickly through into the outer office of Sir Terrence Ashtree. A terrible roaring sound filled the club on the other side of the mirror, wild and awful and full of fury, as something awful downloaded into the Wulfshead. I shut down the Glass. It almost seemed to fight me for a moment, as though something were trying to force it open from the other side; but the connection was quickly broken, and the Glass was only a hand mirror again. I put it away and joined Molly in checking out where we’d arrived.

My family would make apologies to the Wulfshead management. And they would accept, because we all have to do business together sometime.

We’d arrived in Ashtree’s outer office: fairly old, maybe even Victorian originally, with lots of heavy wood panelling on the walls, and really quite ugly furniture. The only modern touch was the highly efficient computer on the secretary’s desk. There was no one around. It was all very peaceful and quiet, and therefore worrying.

“I’ve been here before,” I said to Molly. “I’m sure Sir Terrence will remember me. Still . . . this is odd.”

“Odd?” Molly said immediately. “How odd?”

“This is the outer office, where the secretary makes you wait till Terry the Toad is ready to see you,” I said. “And like all bosses’ secretaries, she’s there to guard his privacy and her territory like an attack dog. So . . . where is she?”

We both looked at the empty desk. The computer was turned off; everything was neat and tidy, not even a half-finished cup of coffee.

“Let’s go see if Terry the Toad is in,” said Molly. “Since we’ve come all this way.”

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s do that. I’m sure we’ve got lots to talk about.”

The heavy door that led into Ashtree’s very private office wasn’t locked. I tried the handle carefully, mindful of booby traps, but it turned easily in my hand. I slammed the door all the way open with my shoulder, and Molly and I strode in. Ashtree was sitting quietly behind his desk, a tired old man in a crumpled suit, his face drawn, haggard. He didn’t so much as flinch when Molly and I made our entrance. He nodded to both of us slowly.

“I’ve been waiting for someone,” he said. “I knew somebody would come eventually. But I can’t say I recognise either of you.”

“Edwin Drood,” I said. “And Molly Metcalf.”

“Ah. Yes. Isabella’s sister. Please come in; make yourselves comfortable. I have so many things to say to you.”

I had a good look round his office, but there didn’t seem to be any hidden assassins crouching in the corners, so I pulled out a chair for Molly and then dropped easily into one beside her. Ashtree didn’t move at all, looking us over with tired curiosity.

“Edwin . . . Yes. I do remember you. . . . I was actually pleased to see you, you know. I never did get on with Matthew.”

“Not many did,” I said. “Do you know why we’re here?”

Of course. I’m surprised it’s taken you this long. I left a clear enough trail. I’m glad you’re here, so I can get this over with. I never wanted any of this, you know. It was . . . I’d struggled so long, trying to be the success in business I was supposed to be, even though I never had any taste for it. . . . But it was what my family wanted, so I went along. . . . You’d know all about that, Edwin. But I never got anywhere that mattered, or achieved anything of note, no matter how hard I tried. So when this new satanic conspiracy came looking for me, head-hunted me . . . I jumped at the chance. You do know about the . . . Of course you do. I didn’t think they were real, you see. . . . I mean, who believes in satanic conspiracies in this day and age? I thought it was like the old Hellfire Club, a chance to dress up and play games. . . .

Suddenly everything I touched was golden. I was the big man in the city my family had always wanted me to be. I had everything I’d ever wanted. I was happy, you see. Such a long time since I’d been happy . . . So when they told me to pass some information on to Charlatan Joe, I thought . . . Why not? Who’s Isabella Metcalf to me? I had to do it in a certain way, using some rather unpleasant magics, but . . . it was all playing the game; you see? I should have known better. Nothing’s ever simple or straightforward in the conspiracy. It’s all plans within plans, traps within traps. . . .

I was there when the conspiracy kidnapped Isabella. Snatched her right out of her own teleport spell. They have very powerful people working for them. She put up one hell of a fight. I was impressed. But the conspiracy people had all kinds of weapons and dirty tricks at their command, and they . . . wore her down. And when she was helpless, stripped of all her magics, they . . . did things to her. They hurt her horribly, broke her spirit, defiled and abused her . . . and laughed while they did it. They let me watch. It was their idea of a reward. They thought I’d enjoy it.

It sickened me.

“I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I thought I was a hard man, up for anything . . . but to my surprise, it seems there was a good man inside all along, struggling to get out. There was a line I wouldn’t cross. I couldn’t help Isabella, but I couldn’t stand by and watch. They saw the weakness in me; they knew I wasn’t one of them anymore. So I came here to wait for whoever found me first. I could have run, could have hidden, but . . . I think I need to be punished for what I’ve done.”

“Is she alive?” Molly said harshly. “My sister? Is Isabella still alive?”

“As far as I know,” said Ashtree. “They took her away with them. Dragged her off . . . So much blood. I’d never seen so much blood before. They said they had a use for her, you see. I didn’t know any of that was going to happen! You must believe me; I didn’t know. . . . I never understood what I was getting into. Or maybe . . . I didn’t want to understand, because I was having such a good time. . . . I didn’t believe in Devil worshippers. Didn’t believe in the Devil. But it turns out he believed in me. . . . I’m not a bad person, Eddie, Molly. . . . Not really. I’ve done bad things, I know, things I’m not proud of, but it was just to get on. . . . Nobody ever really got hurt.”

“If you want to atone,” I said, “help us find Isabella. And the mind-influencing machine. And the leaders of the conspiracy.”

“You don’t understand,” said Ashtree. “I never dealt with people on that level, never worked with anyone that high up. I was never that important to the conspiracy.”

“Did you know about the Great Sacrifice?” I said.

“No!” said Ashtree. “I never dreamed . . . I had no idea. I was just in charge of raising money! Moving numbers around . . .”

“You must know something,” I said. “Something that can help us. That’s why you stayed, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” said Ashtree. “That’s why I’m glad you found me first. I was at Lightbringer House, you see, to make a report, and I happened to pass by a door that was a little ajar. Curiosity got the better of me, and I peeked. And there he was, the great leader of the satanic conspiracy, holding a private meeting. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it was him! I knew him; I’d had dealings with him in the past. I couldn’t believe such a small man could be the leader of the conspiracy. But then, I suppose it’s always the small men with big ambitions. . . .”

“Who?” I said. “Tell us his name!”

“I can’t,” said Ashtree. “I can’t say his name to anyone outside the conspiracy. No one can. They found me listening, you see, and they put a geas on me, a binding burned right into my soul. . . . It hurts even to think the name. . . . But I can tell you where to find Isabella Metcalf. I wasn’t supposed to know that either; but people will talk in front of me, you see. Because I’m not important. They’ve taken her to the conspiracy’s most secret place, their hidden fortress, where the leader sits and gloats among his treasures and his prisoners and makes all the decisions that matter. I can’t tell you how to get there. But that’s where you have to go.”

“Where?” said Molly. “Where do we have to go? Where is my sister?”

“They’re holding her in the Timeless Moment,” said Sir Terrence Ashtree, never again to be Terry the Toad.

And then he screamed horribly, convulsing in his chair as his flesh began to rot and corrupt. Roger said, They’re always listening. . . . I pushed the heavy desk out of the way to get to Ashtree, but it was already too late. The conspiracy was taking its revenge on him for having dared betray them. Ashtree screamed and screamed again, whipping back and forth in his seat as his flesh melted and ran away in thick streams of putrescent liquids. He should have died from the shock of it, but the same dark magic that was killing him kept him alive to suffer, to know horror . . . to be punished. His head snapped back and forth in agony, and thick gobbets of suppurating flesh flew off to spatter and stain the floor. I heard his bones snap and break and splinter inside him, torn apart by savage forces. There was nothing I could do to save him. I looked at Molly, but she shook her head helplessly. I looked at Ashtree, with his melting face and empty eye sockets. The timbre of his screams was changing as his vocal cords rotted and ran away down his throat.

I armoured up, extended a golden blade from my hand and cut his head off. It was the only mercy I could give him. The head fell away as the body collapsed in upon itself, and in a few moments he was gone, leaving nothing behind but thick, greasy stains on and around his desk. The stench was so bad it drove Molly and me from the room, and I slammed the door shut to contain it. Molly glared at me.

“Where the hell is the Timeless Moment? You know, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, what is it?”

“Just what you’d think,” I said. “The perfect hiding place.”