For Heaven's Eyes Only

CHAPTER EIGHT Getting Down with the Damned

There’s a lot to be said for saying to hell with it all and hiding in your bedroom until everything’s calmed down again. Molly and I stepped through the Merlin Glass directly into my room at Drood Hall. Partly because we were both exhausted and running on fumes, but mostly because neither of us was T in the mood to make a formal report to the Drood Council. I barely had time to shut down the Glass and put it away before Molly was sprawled on her back on my bed, stretching luxuriously as she sank slowly into the deep goose-feather mattress. I dropped down beside her, groaning out loud as my muscles were finally able to relax. We lay there side by side for a long time, snuggled together, enjoying the luxury of not having to worry about anything for a while. It felt good to be back in my own room, among familiar things, with no more duties or responsibilities.

“I like it here,” said Molly, after a while.

“Really?” I said, after another while. “I thought you preferred your own private woods.”

“It’s nice there, too,” said Molly. “But mostly . . . I like it wherever you are.” She turned her head on the pillow to look at me. “Are you sure someone from your family isn’t going to come charging in here, demanding we make a full report on everything that happened inside the dark circle?”

“Ethel will have told them that I’m back,” I said calmly. “But she’ll also have told them that I am more than ready to punch out anyone who pesters me, and then Riverdance on their head. And no one would even think of barging into another Drood’s room. It isn’t done. When you’ve got this many people all living together under one roof, privacy is nonnegotiable. They wouldn’t even knock unless there was a major emergency. We’re safe. Anyway, Ethel has all the readings and information my armour picked up and stored in my torc. She’ll have passed that on to the Armourer.”

“I didn’t know your armour could do that,” said Molly.

“The old armour couldn’t,” I said. “This new strange-matter armour is far more sophisticated. We’re still learning all the things it can do. The Armourer keeps bugging Ethel for an operator’s manual, but she says it’s important we learn these things for ourselves. Enough about my family, sweetie. Let them take care of the world for a while, while we take care of each other.”

Molly smiled. “Help me with this zipper, would you?”

Quite a while later, Molly and I were drowsing quietly, lying naked on top of the sheets, entwined in each other’s arms and legs, when Isabella Metcalf appeared very suddenly out of nowhere to stand at the foot of the bed. I was half-asleep, and half-convinced I was dreaming, until Molly sat up abruptly and said something very rude. I realised there actually was someone else in the room and sat bolt upright, moving instinctively to put my body between Molly and the intruder. She slapped me on the shoulder and pushed me firmly to one side.

“Sweet of you, dear, but a bit patronising. I am quite capable of defending myself.”

“What is your sister doing in my bedroom?” I said loudly. “Does she have any idea of what time it is and oh shit I’m naked.”

“Never mind that . . .” said Isabella.

“I do mind!” I said loudly. “Did you invite her here, Molly?” And then a thought occurred to me, and I looked thoughtfully from Molly to Isabella. “Oh . . . is this about a threesome?”

“Not why I’m here,” said Isabella, very definitely.

Molly elbowed me in the ribs. “In your dreams, stud.”

“Then I still want to know what she’s doing here while we’ve got no clothes on,” I said firmly.

“Oh, don’t be so conservative, Eddie,” said Molly, leaning back against the headboard quite unself-consciously. “Being naked is nothing to a witch. I’ve danced skyclad among the standing stones of Stonehenge, and in the snows of the Himalayas, and up and down Wall Street under a full moon. It comes with the territory.”

“Not with my territory it doesn’t,” I said. “I am not big on sharing.” I wanted to grab a pillow and hide certain parts of me behind it, but I knew they’d laugh at me. So I sat up straight, pulled in my stomach and did my best to hang on to what was left of my dignity. And still almost lost it when Molly scratched at her left tit reflectively.

“Calm down, Eddie,” said Isabella. “I’ve seen it all before.”

“Not mine, you haven’t,” I said. “We are now going to change the subject. How is it you keep getting in and out of Drood Hall so easily, despite all of our more than state-of-the-art defences and protections expressly designed to keep out people like you?”

Isbaella sniggered. “When you let Molly in, you let all of us in. The Metcalf sisters come as a package deal. One for all, all against the world.”

“You mean Louisa could turn up here anytime, without warning?” I said. “Oh, bloody hell . . . Someone’s going to have to break the news to the Sarjeant-at-Arms, and please, God, let it not be me.”

“Why are you here, Iz?” said Molly.

Isabella folded her arms across her chest, and her bloodred biker leathers creaked loudly. She gave us both a severe look. “I am here to report what I’ve discovered about the new Satanist conspiracy. And no, it couldn’t wait. This is important and significant stuff, and urgent with it. I’ve been talking with certain friends and associates, along with others who owe me money and favours, and I have learned something you need to know, right now.”

“Iz has contacts on every side of the fence,” Molly said proudly. “She knows people in places most people don’t even want to admit exist. They tell her things. If they know what’s good for them.”

“People . . .” I said dubiously. “What kind of people are we talking about here? I’m not going to place much trust in information that comes from anonymous sources. And neither will my family. I need names, Isabella.”

She sighed loudly, in a put-upon kind of way. “Oh, very well, if you’re going to be stuffy about it . . . John Taylor, from the Nightside. Razor Eddie, punk god of the straight razor. A ghost called Ash, from Shadows Fall. Jimmy Thunder, god for hire. The Grey Eidolon, the Lord of Thorns, and the Regent of Shadows.”

“Don’t mention that last one around here, dear,” said Molly. “I never knew a man to be so thoroughly persona non grata. Droods really know how to bear a grudge.”

“Centuries of practice,” I said proudly.

“I trust you find some of those names acceptable?” said Isabella.

“Oh, sure,” I said. “I’ve worked with most of them at one time or another. Not the most reputable bunch, or the most tightly wrapped, but they usually know what they’re talking about.”

Molly looked at me. “I thought Droods weren’t allowed in the Nightside?”

“We’re not,” I said.

“Then how . . . ?”

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

“You want a slap?”

“The important thing,” Isabella said loudly, “is that all of them agree on one thing: where you need to go next. It seems that most of the higher echelons in the conspiracy will be attending a very important meeting very soon now. Alexandre Dusk won’t be there, but there is to be a special surprise guest who will have a good deal to say about the details of this Great Sacrifice they’re planning.”

“Okay,” I said. “That is pretty important. But I still don’t see why you had to bring it straight to my bedroom! Why couldn’t this have waited till the morning, so we could have discussed it with the full council?”

“Because I don’t trust them,” said Isabella.

“Why not?”

“Because they’re Droods!”

“Ah,” I said. “Fair enough.”

“I’m not entirely sure I trust you,” said Isabella. “Even if Molly does vouch for you.”

I turned to smile at Molly. “You do? That is so sweet of you.” “Well,” said Molly, “I am the sweet one.”

“Young people in love,” said Isabella. “The horror, the horror . . .”

I gave her my best serious stare. “All right, where do we have to go to crash this vital satanic get-together? Am I going to have to dress up formal?”

“Have I got time to buy a new dress?” said Molly.

Isabella smiled unpleasantly. “You’re going back to your old stomping grounds, Eddie. They’re meeting in London, in the Under Parliament.”

That stopped me dead, and I hugged my knees to my chest while I had a good think. Under Parliament is part of the old Roman catacombs set deep under the Houses of Parliament, the Commons and the Lords. The ancient catacombs are part of an extensive labyrinth of tunnels, caverns and stone galleries that stretch back and forth under the entire city, holding all the secrets and secret people too dark even for that ancient and knowledgeable city, London. The labyrinth itself is known as London Undertowen. And most people cross themselves when they say it.

The Romans built the original catacombs under what was then called Londinium, so they could go down there and do things in private they knew their gods wouldn’t approve of. The Romans believed that if their gods couldn’t see what they were doing, it didn’t count. Very practical people, the Romans.

After the Romans declined and fell and got the hell out of Britain, other people moved in and used the tunnels for their own purposes, extending them as they went along. London Undertowen has been greatly expanded and added to, down the centuries, by many hands, for many reasons. It’s sunk deep in the bedrock, well below the underground trains, and used by all kinds. These days the dark tunnels and galleries are home to everyone from the Sleeping Tygers of Stepney to the Slow Subterraneans. From the Dark Fae to the Night Gaunts to the Sons of the Old Serpent. You can find aliens, kobolds, dream-walkers and downbound souls, and even the deformed children of celebrities and lust demons. Abandoned and forgotten by their parents, they thrive in the dark and the cold and plot terrible revenges on the world that should have been theirs. And no, they don’t ride around on giant albino alligators that were flushed down toilets when they got too big to be pets. That’s only an urban legend. The Lost Children eat alligators, and wear their teeth as crowns on their bulging, misshapen heads.

London Undertowen: home to any who have good reason to prefer the dark to the light. The lost and the fallen, the cursed and the corrupt. Neutral ground for all the groups and individuals who wouldn’t be tolerated anywhere else. The kind who play too rough for the Nightside, or are too sick, or sickening, for the World Beneath. It’s where the underpeople go to hide and scheme and do awful things, far from the sight of man.

Just the place for Satanists to party.

“I’ve been down there a few times,” I said slowly. “The ambience is awful, and the company is worse.”

“Louisa loves it there,” said Isabella.

“She would,” said Molly.

“Is she . . . ?” I said.

“No,” said Isabella. “She’s still excavating the Martian Tombs.”

“Still?” said Molly. “What the hell is she up to there?”

“Last I heard, trying to raise up something that would talk to her.”

“Oh, this can only end badly,” said Molly.

“That’s Louisa for you,” said Isabella.

“Look,” I said firmly, “I am still waiting to hear what makes this so urgent that you had to come bursting in here to interrupt our quality time.”

“The Satanists’ meeting is scheduled for one a.m. tomorrow morning,” said Isabella. “Some three hours from now.”

“The thirteenth hour,” said Molly. “Satanists can be terribly sentimental about some things.”

“Three hours from now?” I said.

“Give or take,” said Isabella. “I’d get moving, if I were you.”

“Just once, I’d like some downtime between emergences,” I said wistfully. “A weekend off in a nice hotel, with room service . . . I need my beauty sleep.”

“Getting old,” said Molly, prodding me somewhere indelicate.

“I’ll meet you both there, in Under Parliament,” said Isabella, averting her gaze from such a blatant display of fondness. She snapped her fingers and disappeared from my bedroom.

“I thought she’d never go,” said Molly. She leaned companionably against me and trailed the fingertips of one hand across my bare chest. “Now, where were we?”

“You never told me that granting you access to the Hall also allowed your sisters access,” I said sternly.

“Do you expect me to tell you everything?” said Molly.

“When it involves Drood security, yes!”

“You can be very stuffy sometimes, Eddie Drood,” said Molly.

She turned abruptly away from me, got up from the bed and gave her full attention to getting dressed, with her back to me.

“I’ve killed the moment, haven’t I?” I said.

Molly said nothing—very loudly. I sighed, rolled regretfully off the side of the bed and wandered round the room, picking up bits of my clothing from where I’d flung them earlier.

“Don’t you dare put those back on,” said Molly, without looking round. “They’ve been through a lot, and little of it good. Dump it all in the laundry basket, and pick out some fresh ones.”

“They were fresh yesterday. . . .”

“That was yesterday!”

We got dressed. Molly chose an impressive backless, shoulderless creation from the pocket dimension she kept in the back of my cupboard. I was never allowed to look into it, which made me suspect she kept other things there as well, apart from dresses, but I never asked. I chose a smart but nondescript three-piece suit, because I was going to have to enter the House of Commons in order to reach Under Parliament, and I didn’t want to stand out. Or be in any way memorable. I put on an old Etonian tie. Might come in handy. I waited until Molly was putting the last touches to her makeup in the dressing table mirror, and then tried a hopefully innocuous question.

It’s hard to keep a relationship going when there’s an argument in the room.

“We’ve got a good three hours until the Satanists’ little bash gets under way. Do we have to leave now?”

“I do,” said Molly. “You can hang around here if you want. I have somewhere to go first.”

“Where?”

“The Wulfshead Club. You are, of course, perfectly free to go and wake up all your council members, and make a full report, and listen to them discuss everything in great detail before finally authorising you to investigate the situation, but I am off. Right now. Things to see, people to do. It’s not that I don’t trust Isabella, you understand, or her fascinating friends and allies . . . but I’ll feel a lot better once I’ve confirmed their information through some friends and allies of my own. And that means a short, sharp visit to the Wulfshead.” She finally turned to look at me. “You can tag along if you like, while I pin people to the wall and ask them pointed questions; just don’t embarrass me. You can usually trust Isabella to tell you the truth, but you can’t always trust her to tell you everything. Forewarned is forearmed, and since we won’t be able to take any weapons into Under Parliament for fear of setting off all their alarms . . .”

“I’ll go as Shaman Bond,” I said, when she finally paused for breath. “He won’t seem out of place, either in the club or London Undertowen. People expect him to turn up anywhere. I’ve put a lot of work into establishing that reputation, for times like this. And people will say things to Shaman that they wouldn’t dream of discussing in front of a Drood.”

“Good,” said Molly, smiling for the first time. “I like Shaman. He’s good company.”

“But he’s me. . . .”

“Not always.”

“I can be good company. . . .”

“Stuffy,” said Molly airily. “Definitely stuffy.”

The Merlin Glass couldn’t take us directly to the infamous Wulfshead Club, semilegendary watering hole for all the really interesting and dangerous people on the fringes of reality . . . because the club’s defences wouldn’t allow it. So instead it dropped us off in a garbage-strewn back alley somewhere in the grubbier part of London’s Soho. Access points to the club are always changing, drifting back and forth across the seedier parts of London. The Wulfshead isn’t actually in the city; in fact, there are those who claim it isn’t even on Earth. As such. But you can access the club from selected very secret locations in every major city in the world. As long as you’re a member in good standing, of course.

The alley was full of uncertain shadows, a flat amber light sprawling across black garbage bags and the nastier sort of litter from the single streetlamp at the mouth of the alley. A cold wind was gusting, picking up a few leaves and playing with them, but not strong enough to move anything else. The tang of fresh urine was sharp in the air. Molly ignored it all, staring intently at one particular part of the bare brick wall that seemed no different from any other. She ignored the obscene graffiti, nodding slowly as her witchy Sight showed her the signs beneath the signs. She said the current passWord, and a great door of solid silver appeared in the wall before us. As though it had always been there, and we hadn’t noticed it till now. The dully gleaming metal was deeply etched with threats and warnings in angelic and demonic script, the disturbing characters sharp and clear, actually painful to merely human eyes. I stepped forward and pressed my left hand flat against the unnervingly warm metal, and the door swung slowly inwards. Attempting entry to the Wulfshead Club is never going to be easy, because if for any reason, good or bad, your name is no longer on the approved list, the door will bite your hand off. One of the many reasons the Wulfshead has never felt the need for a bouncer at the door.

Molly and I stepped quickly through the opening into dazzlingly bright light, pounding music, aggressively modernistic furniture and more good times and hard living than can usually be crammed into such limited time and space. The joint was jumping, and the place was packed. Let the good times roll, and the Devil take the hindmost. I eased my way through the crowd, Molly at my side, smiling and nodding. A lot of people smiled and nodded back; Shaman Bond and Molly Metcalf were familiar faces on the scene. Giant plasma screens covered the walls, showing intimate secrets of the rich and famous, while impossibly pretty girls wearing hardly any clothing danced madly on spotlit stages, and a group of seriously high bright young things danced on the ceiling.

Molly and I took up casual but watchful positions leaning against the bar at the far end of the club. They’ll serve you anything you ask for at the Wulfshead, from an atomic cocktail with a strontium 90 Perrier chaser, to a bracing glass of medicinal absinthe with a little parasol in it. I’ve seen people order drinks so volatile they had to be served in depleted uranium cups, and alcohol so potent it was served by a miniature tap-dancing pink elephant. Though admittedly, the night I saw that I’d had a few. . . . I ordered my usual bottle of Beck’s, and a Buck’s Fizz for Molly. She thinks the orange juice makes it healthy. There are always a dozen or so bartenders stationed up and down the length of the bar, all with the same face. I’ve never asked.

The usual crowd was in. Larry Oblivion, the dead detective, looking to make useful contacts and touting for business. He was drinking neat formaldehyde, with a crème de violette chaser to take the edge off his breath. He was quite happy to tell Molly that he didn’t know anything about a new satanic conspiracy, and didn’t want to. Having been murdered by his ex-partner, and then brought back to life as a zombie, he had more reason than most to be careful about the state of his soul. There’s nothing like having died to make you very thoughtful about the afterlife.

A fat, middle-aged and disturbingly hearty fellow in a Hawaiian shirt and grubby shorts waved cheerfully to Molly. He was drinking from a whiskey bottle with a nipple on the end, and scratching himself in an entirely too unself-conscious way. Molly moved over to join him, and I followed after. Neither of us wanted to get too close to him. He leered at Molly, and nodded briskly to me.

“Hail fellows well met, and all that crap. Trash, sir, at your service. It’s not my given name, you understand; I chose it. It’s real, it’s romantic, it’s . . . me. Trash: child prodigy, eccentric dancer, and necromancer-in-waiting to the court of St. James, the bastards. I understand you’re hot on the trail of a new satanic conspiracy. . . . Whatever happened to the old one, I wonder? People can’t be bothered to look after their conspiracies anymore. In my young day, you could expect a decent conspiracy to give you a good run for your money; be something you could hand down to your children and grandchildren. Not that I’ve ever been cursed with such. I would love to be of assistance, Molly, dear, but these days if it isn’t directly concerned with death and dying, I’m really not interested. Sex and death, you see; it’s all down to sex and death. Or if it isn’t, I don’t want to know. I could ask some recently departed if they know anything, but frankly I wouldn’t trust anything they have to say. The dead have their own strange ideas about what’s real and what isn’t. Either that, or they have a really weird sense of humour, and lie a lot. And they always have their own agenda.”

We moved on, leaving Trash to chat up an emo ghoul with far too many piercings. I spotted Jeremy Diego wistfully waving a folded banknote in the air as he tried to attract a bartender’s attention. Some people can’t get served. Jeremy was a ghost finder from the Carnacki Institute, and it showed in his prematurely aged face and otherworldly eyes. A short and stocky chap in a battered suit and a jaunty fedora, and what appeared to be half his breakfast all down his front. He seemed pleased enough to see me, and nodded politely to Molly, but as always, if it didn’t involve ghosts, he didn’t have a clue.

“The word is,” he said, peering at us owlishly over the drink I’d bought him, “things are stirring in the afterworlds. Very powerful things. An awful lot of our psychics are looking into the future and coming back with spiritual shell shock. Something Bad is heading our way. Can’t get any of them to agree on what it might be, but then, that’s psychics for you. The one thing you can be sure of is that when we do find out what it is, we’re really not going to like it. Mark my word, young Shaman, there’ll be tears before bedtime. . . .”

And then there was Monkton Farley, the famous consulting detective, leaning very casually against the bar in his immaculately cut suit, elegant cuffs and brightly polished brogues. He had the usual small crowd of admirers set out before him, listening eagerly to his tale of the Case of the Unnatural Progression. Luckily he’d almost finished, because we’d never get anything out of him until he had. We waited for the crowd to finish applauding, and then pushed our way through to the front. He looked down his long nose at me, over his flute of pink champagne, but had better sense than to try that with Molly, and so gave her a wintry smile.

“Satanic conspiracy?” he drawled, in that aristocratic tone I knew for a fact he wasn’t entitled to. “Haven’t heard a thing. Been very busy, you know. Nothing succeeds like success, and all that. Only just got back from the wilds of rural Somerset. God, I despise the countryside. It’s so . . . uncivilised.”

Molly and I split up after that, so we could cover more ground. I worked the club with my usual practiced charm, asking a discreet question or two here and there, and reading between the lines of what I was told; but when I joined up with Molly again neither of us had much to show for our efforts. There was a general feeling among the club regulars that there was definitely Something in the air, but no one knew anything for sure. And when I did come right out with it, and asked if anyone had heard anything about a new satanic conspiracy, most people laughed at me. A satanic conspiracy? Oh, my dear, that’s so last century. . . .

And then, while Molly and I were refreshing ourselves with several new drinks, I spotted a familiar if somewhat unexpected face. Philip MacAlpine was one of the old-time spies, who spent his whole adult life in the treacherous trenches of espionage and double-dealing. He was supposed to have done good work with my uncle James and uncle Jack back in the day, but now, at the end of his career, he was only a minor functionary at MI-13, helping to keep the lid on things the public wasn’t supposed to know about. He’d tried to kill me on more than one occasion, but I did my best not to take it personally.

He was looking old and tired, so I decided to cheer him up with my company. He took one look at me advancing on him and tried to run. But I’d already sent Molly ahead of me to block his way. He looked back and forth, and his shoulders slumped. I smiled at him, and he grunted back. Anyone would have thought he wasn’t pleased to see me.

“Not pleased to see me, Philip?” I said brightly.

“I used to have a career!” he snapped. “I used to have prospects, and an office with a window! And then you happened to me.”

“Shouldn’t have tried to kill me then,” I said reasonably.

“I shouldn’t have failed,” said MacAlpine, pouting. “I told them there was no point in trying to go head-to-head with a Drood field agent, but no; no one ever listens to me. Even though I’ve got more field experience than half my superiors put together, these days. The departments aren’t what they were. I used to swan around Eastern Europe in a cool car, with all the latest weaponry, making trouble in all the right places . . . and now I have to fill in forms in triplicate just to go to the toilet. I blame the end of the Cold War. They knew how to play the game. . . . Now it’s all fanatics and religious head cases with no sense of humour, who wouldn’t understand the rules of the game if you tattooed them on their foreheads.”

“I heard you’d found a new niche for yourself at MI-13,” said Molly. “Cracking down on unregistered aliens from other dimensions . . .”

“MI-13 is still a force to be reckoned with,” MacAlpine said quickly. “Droods don’t have all the answers. There’s still plenty for us to do.”

I nodded, only half listening to what he was saying. A strange sense of déjà vu was raising all the hairs on the back of my neck. The last time I’d talked with Philip MacAlpine, it had been at the Winter Hall, in Limbo. I still remembered that conversation, but he didn’t, because he wasn’t really there. Or was he? It was hard to be sure about anything that had happened in that strange other place. I wondered, if I were to remind him of what he said there, would he remember? I decided it was better not to ask. I cut into his ramblings about how his life hadn’t worked out the way it should have, and fixed him with a hard stare.

“You owe me, MacAlpine. You, MI-13 and this whole country. I saved the crown jewels from being stolen.”

MacAlpine sniffed moistly. “All right. Say you did. Even though officially that never happened, and don’t you forget it. What do you want, a medal? I could probably get you a nice illuminated scroll, signed by Her Majesty.”

“You owe me,” I said, and something in my voice made him look away for a moment. “You owe me, and I want a favour. Right now, with a ribbon on it. Nothing too difficult. I need to get into Under Parliament, and for that I need access to the outer lobby of the House of Commons. Now, I could force my way in, but that would make more trouble than it was worth, for both of us. So I want you to supply Molly and me with two MI-13 security passes. One day only, of course. Do it now, Philip. Or watch me turn seriously crotchety.”

He growled and muttered for a while, but his heart wasn’t in it. He took out his mobile phone and moved away so he could talk in private. Though he needn’t have bothered; over the blasting music and the sheer bedlam of raised voices, we’d had to shout at each other to be heard anyway. Molly glared after him.

“Never trusted him. Shifty little scrote. You really think he’s going to help us? He hates your guts!”

“Possibly,” I said calmly. “But he’s far too much the professional to let that get in the way of doing business. He may not want to help me now, but his superiors will. They owe the Droods, and they know it, and they’ll be glad to get off this easily. What are a couple of passes to them? They hand the things out like party favours these days.”

MacAlpine put his phone away and came back to join us, looking even more sour than before, if that was possible. “All right, it’s arranged. Two security passes will be waiting for you at the entrance to the House of Commons: a full pass for Shaman Bond, and a backup pass for one other.”

“One other?” Molly said ominously. “The powerful and legendary wild witch of the woods is one other?”

“If I put your real name on the pass, they’d never let you in,” said MacAlpine. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Yes,” said Molly, not displeased. “It does tend to.”

MacAlpine made a point of turning his full attention to me. “The passes will get you into the outer lobby, but no farther. Don’t push your luck. And getting into Under Parliament is strictly your business.”

“No problem,” I said cheerfully.

“I really didn’t like the way you said that,” MacAlpine said sadly.

“Good,” I said.

“It’s not supposed to be easy to get into Under Parliament!” snapped MacAlpine. “Or London Undertowen! Because that’s where you’re really going, isn’t it?”

I considered him thoughtfully. There had been something in his voice. . . . “What have you heard, Philip?”

He smiled at me for the first time. “That maybe . . . there’s something worse than Droods in the world now.”

Molly and I left the Wulfshead Club by the back door, and emerged into a shabby side street in Westminster. The streetlights were sharp and bright, there was hardly anyone about, and only the very best kinds of cars rolled smoothly past. Molly and I strolled along arm in arm, allowing our hearing to recover from the deafening noise of the club. It wasn’t a long walk to the House of Commons. I didn’t even bother trying the Merlin Glass; both Houses of Parliament are all but buried under overlapping layers of defences and protections, laid down over the centuries. The establishment has always looked after itself, first and foremost. Bring an object of power like the Merlin Glass anywhere near Parliament, and every SAS combat sorcerer in the army would teleport in, loaded for bear and ready to commit extreme violence against anything that moved. So Molly and I strolled along, taking the pretty route, killing time till one a.m.

We stopped off along the way at a pub called the Floating Voter. The pub sign showed the actual voter, floating facedown in the Thames. They’re not exactly subtle around Westminster. It was definitely down-market, as pubs went, and this one went pretty far, but it had the benefit of being the local watering hole for all the political hacks, all the reporters and researchers and hangers-on that accumulate around Parliament like flies round a dead dog. Print reporters, of course; the television people were a more refined breed, with their own upmarket dives to hang around in. And the researchers here were really only glorified runners, making sure their respective MPs had all the information they needed, so they wouldn’t disgrace themselves every time they opened their mouths. Heaven forfend that they might have an opinion of their own, not thoroughly tested in advance by market research. It was a hard, thankless and never-ending job, but it was often the only way into the game for people who didn’t have the right family or party connections. And there’s never been any shortage of people who want to get close to power without the trial of actually getting elected. The Floating Voter was where all these people came to vent their anger as they wet their whistles, and let off steam about what idiots their masters were, and all the other people who were holding them back.

Molly knew a whole bunch of these people from her time in Manifest Destiny, back when that organisation was still pretending to be a part of the political process. We strolled casually into the main bar, and a number of heads came up to smile and nod in our direction. Molly isn’t someone you easily forget, and as always, people expected Shaman Bond to turn up anywhere. A bunch of tabloid hacks waved us over to join them at the bar.

“Welcome back to the din of iniquity, Molly dearest!” said an overstuffed gentleman in a long, grubby coat. “Still plotting character assassinations and general insurrection?”

“Ah, happy days,” said Molly. “Hello, Brian. Stand me a drink, and I’ll tell you where a few bodies are buried.”

Everyone laughed, though a bit uneasily. You never knew with Molly. . . .

The pub itself gave every indication of being a bit dodgy, a place where quiet deals could be made, and expensive items purchased cheaply out the back when no one was looking. It was also more than a little old-fashioned, with political cartoons from the fifties and sixties in framed cases on the walls. No one sat alone. People came here to talk. Secrets were currency, and gossip was gold. And everyone had something to sell or, more hopefully, swap. Reputations could be made or destroyed here, and old slights avenged by nudging the right person in the right direction.

There were a lot of sideways glances and muttered conversations, as the regular clientele wondered what Molly Metcalf and Shaman Bond were doing here. Because no one ever came to the Floating Voter by accident, or dropped in for a quiet drink. We must want something; and they were all wondering how best to sell it to us. A lot of them seemed to remember Molly; but then, she always did make an impression. A political journalist from one of the more upmarket tabloids, one Linda Van Paulus, remembered Shaman Bond, and made a point of drifting casually in my direction. She bought me a drink, which was decent of her, and we propped up the bar together for a while, as Molly reestablished old connections and pumped them ruthlessly for information.

“Shaman, darling,” said Linda, peering at me sharply over her glass of neat gin, “surprised to see you and the infamous Molly Metcalf together. Business or pleasure?”

“Bit of both,” I said.

“Did I hear right, that you two are an item now?”

“Can’t keep anything from you, Linda.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Linda was tall and overbearing, with a long, horsey face and a mouth with too many teeth in it, dressed so casually it bordered on downright careless. But she had a mind, when she cared to use it. She looked over at Molly and the people she was talking with, and I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head as she realised what they had in common. I moved in quickly, to distract her.

“So, Linda,” I said. “What story are you working on? Anything interesting?”

“The prime minister and his whole cabinet are up to something,” Linda said immediately. She never could resist showing just how in-the-know she was. “Bit of a surprise there, because normally they can’t agree on anything. They say the new cabinet table is round, so they can all stab one another in the back simultaneously. But whatever it is they’re up to, it must be really important, because I can’t get even a sniff of it. All my usual sources have either gone into hiding or are holding out for more money than my editors are prepared to pay. Fools. I keep telling them you have to spend money to make money, but the boards are all run by bean counters these days. Penny wise, pound foolish. Not one of them’s got printer’s blood in their veins.” She looked at me suddenly, and put her glass down on the bar. “You know something. You do, don’t you? Come on, Shaman; share the goodies, for old times’ sake. I’ll see you don’t go short.”

“Well,” I said carefully, “you’re probably not going to believe this, but I have been hearing very solid rumours that the prime minister and his people are in bed with a new satanic conspiracy.”

And the interesting thing was, she didn’t immediately laugh in my face. She looked at me thoughtfully and drummed her fingers on the bar. “So, that’s what you’ve been hearing, is it? Wouldn’t have anything to do with this Great Sacrifice that our glorious leader was on about? Oh, yes, darling, Auntie Linda has been hearing things, too. My regular sources might be fading into the woodwork, or pricing themselves out of the market, but there are still people willing to talk, if you know where to listen. No one’s got any details about this Great Sacrifice yet, but you can bet that the likes of you and I will be the ones who end up making it. And the PM and his lot who end up profiting. See that quiet little chap over there, brooding into his rum and Coke? He’s the one you want to talk to. Dear little Adrian Toomey, works for the Times, and occasionally as a researcher for the BBC’s only decent documentary programme, Panorama. Talk to him. See what you can get out of him.” She gripped me firmly by the arm, her long fingers digging deep into the flesh. “And be sure you share anything you find out. Yes . . . dear, dear Adrian. He’s deeper in this than anyone else. Or so he likes to claim . . .”

I thanked her, made a few promises I had no intention of keeping and moved over to join Adrian Toomey, who was sitting on the edge of a conversation and paying it no attention at all. His pale blue eyes were far away. He was a stocky, wistful type in a chubby pullover and a shapeless blazer, and his old-school tie was almost certainly more genuine than mine. He blinked mildly at me as I pulled up a chair and sat down beside him, and then he shifted uncomfortably on his chair as I explained what I wanted to know. He leaned forward so he could talk confidentially, his soft, clear voice almost lost in the general noise of the pub.

All my usual sources have disappeared, Mr. Bond. No one seems to know what’s happened to them. And of the few who are left, the official spokespeople, the briefers and the leakers . . . they’re still talking as much as ever, without actually saying anything. And not because they’ve been leaned on or scared off; they genuinely don’t seem to know what’s going on. And these are people who are used to being in the loop, in the know. Everyone’s talking about this Great Sacrifice, and the wonderful new future it’s supposed to usher in for all of us; but no one knows what it is, or what it involves. Except our current lords and masters. And they only ever talk about it behind closed doors, and with major levels of security, with no record kept of what’s said. Someone said . . . they saw the prime minister crying yesterday.

“The farther in I go, the less people have to say. There’s an atmosphere in the corridors of power, Mr. Bond. People are scared. Genuinely terrified of something that’s coming. They know enough to know that they don’t want to know any more. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Pardon me for being blunt,” I said. “But have you heard anything about a new satanic conspiracy?”

Adrian Toomey looked at me sadly. “Oh, Mr. Bond. I took you for a serious researcher. I don’t do that tabloid nonsense.”

Molly and I left the Floating Voter not much wiser than we’d arrived. Molly had quizzed all her old contacts, to no effect. The prime minister and his cabinet were definitely planning something, and probably up to no good; everyone was certain of that. . . . But no one knew what. Molly was quite annoyed, and a little mystified, that she hadn’t been able to get anything more specific. Westminster isn’t usually that good at keeping secrets. Someone always knows, and can’t wait to tell . . . for politics, or principle, or money. But it seemed the few people who were in the know weren’t talking. Because they were too scared.

Though, interestingly enough, few people were ready to believe in a new satanic conspiracy, except for those who worked on the more downmarket tabloids, for whom such things were their everyday meat and drink. I couldn’t help thinking of the boy who cried wolf. . . .

Still, it was a nice enough night, only just past midnight, so we enjoyed a pleasant stroll through the brightly lit streets of Westminster, and happily discussed all the truly appalling things we were going to do to the Satanists at the meeting, once we got our hands on them.

We reached the House of Commons with a good half hour to spare, and one of Philip MacAlpine’s people was already there waiting for us. I recognised him immediately, having done business with him before, back when I was only another field agent in London, and still learning my craft. No one ever sent a minor functionary like Alan Diment out on anything important. Alan was a middle-aged, lower-rank courier, as quietly anonymous as any secret messenger should be. He was blond and blue eyed in a minor aristocratic sort of way, the kind that drifts into intelligence work because that was what Daddy did. He would clearly have liked to be mysterious, but didn’t have the poise to carry it off. I’ve no idea what he does at MI-13 when he isn’t running errands, but he’s trustworthy enough. If only because he doesn’t have the ambition to be treacherous.

He was actually walking up and down outside the House of Commons quite openly, looking very much like he didn’t want to be there. He nodded quickly to me as I approached, and managed a small but punctiliously polite nod to Molly.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said. “But orders are orders, and all that, needs must. . . . So here are two MI-13 security passes: one made out to Shaman Bond, and the other to . . . well, one other. Is she really . . . Yes, thought she was. Best not put her name down on a pass, eh? Don’t want to give the chaps inside a coronary. . . . The passes will give you access to the outer lobby, but no farther. I was instructed to say that in a very definite voice, and I think you’ll agree I gave it my best shot. Anyone bothers you, show them the passes and look mean, and they’ll leave you alone. Please don’t break anything, please don’t kill anybody and above all, please don’t do anything that might embarrass the department. We’re up for a budget review next month, and this is no time to be making enemies, so try not to make any trouble. . . .”

“Trouble?” I said innocently. “Us?”

“If you should be arrested, the department has never heard of you,” said Diment. “We’ll deny all knowledge of you, and swear blind the passes are forged. Would you like to sign for your passes?”

“What do you think?” said Molly.

“Oh, here,” said Diment. “Take the bloody things, so I can go home.”

He thrust two small laminated passes into my hand. Very official-looking, but carefully bland. No photo ID, because MI-13 agents don’t like to be remembered, and the official signatures were just scrawls. Perfect.

“Right. That’s it. I’m off,” said Diment. “I am going home to a warm bed and a hot wife, and if you should need any further assistance, feel free to phone anyone except me. Phone MacAlpine. He never liked me. Good-bye.”

And he strode off into the night, still muttering to himself. Molly looked at me.

“If I’d known it was this easy to break into Parliament, I’d have done it years ago. You know, I could get you a really good deal on several gallons of napalm. . . .”

“Another time,” I said.

Getting into the House of Commons was easy: Flash the passes around and look confident. The police on duty nodded to us. The security guards inside insisted on a close look at the passes, but bowed down to the implied might of MI-13. The outer lobby was exactly like it looks on television: very old, steeped in history and tradition. Full of people with vaguely familiar faces coming and going with an important air about them, even at this early hour of the morning. The business of government never sleeps, which is sometimes a good thing, and sometimes not. Occasionally someone very dignified and important would come striding through the outer lobby, on very important business, smiling graciously at the television crews waiting about, because you never knew when a camera might be rolling. The television reporters showed no interest in Molly or me. They didn’t recognise us, so we couldn’t be important.

A uniformed security guard with a large sniffer dog felt quite the opposite, and came forward to check us out. So I immediately knelt down and made a big fuss over the dog, rubbing his head and scratching behind his ears, and he wagged his tail happily as I spoke cheerful nonsense to him. The guard looked pained.

“Please don’t do that, sir; he’s working.”

“Oh . . . is he working, then? Is he?” I said to the dog. “Is he working then!”

“Soppy,” said Molly.

I showed the guard our passes, and he reluctantly dragged his dog away, only to be replaced almost immediately by a plain-clothed security man who seemed to take it as a personal insult that he hadn’t been briefed about an MI-I3 presence in advance. He looked down his nose at me, and then at Molly, and studied our passes very thoroughly, obviously just itching to find something he could say was wrong with them.

“MI-13,” he said sniffily. “I am Peregrine Le Behan.” And he looked down his nose again, clearly expecting the name to mean something to us. I think we were both supposed to bow down and offer him our firstborn, to appease his wrath. When we looked back at him blankly, he glared at both of us. “No one from your department cleared this with me! Or anyone from Drood Hall. Oh, yes, Eddie Drood and Molly Metcalf . . . I’ve read your files. You’re trouble, both of you, and I want to know what you’re doing here with MI-13 passes!”

“At least I’m not one other anymore,” said Molly.

“The fact that we’re using the passes should tell you that we’re not here as ourselves,” I said. “As far as you’re concerned, as far as anyone’s concerned, there’s no need to make a big deal of this. We’re just two MI-13 people having a quiet look round. No need to panic anyone, is there?”

Le Behan sniffed loudly. “These passes have no validity, since they weren’t cleared with me. So I’m confiscating them. And you will both have to come with me while I make further enquiries. I’m sure we can find somewhere suitably depressing to hold you while I find out what’s really going on. You should never have been allowed in here in the first place.”

“Allowed?” I said, and something in my voice made him fall back a step. I smiled coldly. “No one allows Droods to do anything. We do what needs doing, and minor functionaries like you get the hell out of the way, if they don’t want to be trampled underfoot.”

Le Behan started to splutter something officious and suitably outraged, so I armoured up my right fist and held it up in front of his face. He stopped talking immediately, his wide eyes fixed on the golden spikes rising up from my knuckles. He actually whimpered a little. He jerked his gaze away and looked at Molly. She smiled unpleasantly, snapped her fingers and turned his expensive shoes into a pair of dead fish. Le Behan looked like he was going to burst into tears.

“Now be a good little functionary, Peregrine, and piss off,” I said. “Or we’ll get cranky.”

“Seriously cranky,” said Molly.

“And give me back the bloody passes,” I said. He thrust them into my hand, and I gave him a hard look. “Remember: We were never here. Or we’ll fix it so you were never here.”

“Ever,” said Molly.

Le Behan squelched mournfully away in his dead fish, and I made my armoured fist disappear. No one noticed. No alarms. No one was paying us any attention at all. The television people were still waiting for someone important to show up. Security in the outer lobby was seriously rubbish. I’d have to have a word with someone about that later.

Molly and I wandered around the outer lobby, looking the place over. The old walls looked solid enough, but my torc-backed Sight led me immediately to one particular section tucked away in a corner. As we approached, several quite powerful move along; nothing to see here avoidance spells kicked in, more than enough to divert normal attention. Molly brushed them aside with a sweep of her hand, like clinging cobwebs. As we drew closer, my Sight showed me a massive door set into the wall, made of solid gold. Molly made admiring noises.

“Is that really solid gold . . . ? It is, it is! Tons of it! Well, one up on the Wulfshead’s silver door . . .”

“Don’t get any ideas,” I said. “The door is fused to the wall; you couldn’t pry that loose with an enchanted crowbar.” I ran my fingertips across the gleaming gold. It was unnaturally warm to the touch, and subtly unpleasant. As though there were something really nasty on the other side. “This isn’t just gold, Molly. It feels . . . inhabited.”

“Could this be the same material as your armour?” said Molly.

“Good question,” I said. “Obviously not the strange matter of my current armour, but . . . the Heart got up to a lot of stuff that most of the family never got to hear about. No . . . No. I don’t think so. London Undertowen had already been in existence for centuries before the Heart crashed into our reality. This is probably a coincidence.”

But I couldn’t seem to make myself feel comfortable about that, even as I said it.

“How do we get in?” Molly said briskly. “Without our having to do something urgent, violent and attention-gathering?”

“We use the passWord,” I said; and I said it. The golden door swung smoothly and silently open before us.

“How did you know that?” said Molly.

“Because Droods know everything,” I said.

“Not always,” she said sweetly. “Or we wouldn’t need to be here, would we?”

“True,” I said.

Inside the door, a narrow stairway of very old, very smooth and worn-down stone steps led away into darkness. They looked old enough to have actually been Roman. I looked back, but no one was paying us any attention. The door’s avoidance spells were protecting us. I led the way down the steps, Molly following close behind. She wanted to go first, but I wouldn’t let her, and then she wanted to walk beside me, but the steps weren’t wide enough; so she settled for walking close behind and sulking. There was no handrail, so we had to press our shoulders hard against the rough stone of the adjoining wall to be sure we didn’t accidentally get too close to the edge of the steps, and the apparently bottomless drop beyond.

We went down and down and down for quite some time. When I looked back the way we’d come, the light at the top was already gone, shut off by the closing door. The only light came from floating balls of pale green fluorescence, bobbing along on the air before us, leading the way down, like more than usually dependable will-o’-the-wisps. They paused when we paused, but were always careful to maintain a respectful distance, no matter how much I tried to close the gap. The shadows were deep and dark, and the long drop to our side still showed no sign of having any bottom. We descended, following the lights, until I lost all track of how deep we were.

“How deep do you think it goes?” said Molly.

“All the way,” I said.

“I hate answers like that,” said Molly.

The rough stone wall boasted many overlapping layers of graffiti, laid down over centuries, in many different languages and dialects, including a few traces of Latin. I pointed out one of the clearer sections to Molly.

“Any idea what that says?”

“Sorry,” she said. “That is in no way classical Latin. It could be saying, ‘Biggus Dickus will make your eyes water,’ for all I know.”

Some of the writing became clearer as we descended, though many were of ambiguous intent. The Juwes Are the Men Who Will Not Be Blamed for Nothing. King Mob Leads the Way. We Are All Lilith’s Children. Dagon Has Returned! That last one looked very recent.

My legs began to cramp up, from the strain of the continuing descent, and my back was killing me. Molly had to be feeling it, too, but she didn’t complain, so I couldn’t. I gritted my teeth against the pain and kept going.

“You’d think they’d have an elevator put in, in this day and age,” I said.

“Whom would you trust to run it?” said Molly.

“Good point,” I said. “Is it just me, or is the air getting seriously cold . . . ?”

“We’re a long way from the sun down here.”

“That’s probably the point.”

“Have you ever visited London Undertowen before?” said Molly. “I mean, you have the passWord. Even I don’t know the passWord.”

“I’m a Drood field agent in London,” I said. “I get to know all the passWords. But no, I’ve never been down here before. This was always more Matthew’s province than mine. He mixed with the authorities, the movers and shakers; worked all the important cases and knew all the important people. I knew about London Undertowen . . . heard all the stories. This is the shadow world, the distorted mirror image of the world above, where the tail wags the dog. As below, so above. They say that all new members of Parliament are brought here after they’re elected, dragged down into Under Parliament to be shown where true power lies. And those who won’t kneel or bow their head are driven mad or killed.”

“I’ve heard those stories as well,” said Molly. “And for once, I really hope they aren’t true.”

Sometime later, and by then I had no idea at all how much later, we reached the foot of the stairs. Molly and I stopped and leaned on each other, breathing hard. We took it in turn to massage some feeling back into our legs and rub each other’s backs, and when we were ready we looked around. We were standing in a narrow stone tunnel lit by a few of the green lights bobbing up by the ceiling. The stone walls gave every indication of being authentically ancient, with the original tool marks still plain to the eye. We followed the corridor for a while, took a sharp left turn, and found ourselves in a large but surprisingly pleasant stone grotto. Bright electric lights pushed back the darkness, which still filled a number of empty doorways leading off. Thick rugs and carpets covered the floor, comfortable furniture was scattered around, and there was even a bar. People stood around chatting cheerfully. Quite a lot of people. If not for the setting, it could have been any party, anywhere. A few people glanced in our direction as we arrived, but no one seemed particularly interested. Because if we were here, it could only be because we were expected.

“It looks like someone’s living room,” said Molly. “And the people look so . . . ordinary.”

“I see a bar,” I said. “When in doubt, head for the bar.”

Molly looked at some of the empty doorways, full of impenetrable darkness, and actually shivered. “You can’t trust anything down here. They say you can find anything, or anyone, somewhere in the catacombs of London Undertowen. Evocations of every place or period, every style and culture. Because nothing’s ever lost or forgotten down here. But this . . . this looks like a seventies swingers’ party.”

“As long as we’re not expected to throw our car keys into a bowl,” I said.

“Watch your back,” said Molly. “Here there be monsters.”

I headed for the bar, with Molly striding right at my side. And that was when Isabella Metcalf emerged suddenly from the crowd to confront us. I almost didn’t recognise her. She’d abandoned her usual bloodred biker leathers for a city business power suit of navy blue, dark stockings and some shoes that were no doubt very fashionable.

“Are those . . . padded shoulders?” I said innocently.

“Shut up, Eddie,” said Isabella.

“No, really, I’ve heard they’re coming back.”

“Shut up, Eddie.”

“Please,” I said. “It’s, ‘Shut up, Shaman Bond,’ if you don’t mind. I have a secret identity to maintain.”

Isabella moved in close, so she could speak clearly without having to raise her voice. “And my name here is Felicity. I killed a conspiracy agent and disposed of the body so I could use her invitation to get in here. How did you . . . ? No. I don’t want to know. They all think I’m one of them, for the moment. Luckily I’ve never been as well-known as you, Molly. No one will be too surprised to see you here, or Shaman; but watch yourselves. This is an even bigger meeting than I’d expected, for people pretty high up in the conspiracy.”

I looked around me. “I have to say this really isn’t what I was expecting, for a Satanist gathering. I mean, where are all the goats, and the naked women sprawled over altars?”

“You sweet old-fashioned thing, you,” said Molly. “Try to keep up with the times. This isn’t a religious ceremony; it’s a meet-and-greet for the conspiracy faithful. A chance for the upper echelons to get to know one another and show off how well they’ve all done. A taste of the good life, of rewards yet to come, with probably a few inspirational speeches, and perhaps a minor celebrity from among the higher-ups. And no goats. You’ve been watching those Hammer horror moves again, haven’t you?”

“We need to separate,” said Isabella. “Wander around, mingle, talk to people. See what we can learn.”

She moved determinedly off, and Molly gave me a quick smile before drifting away in another direction. I went straight to the bar and ordered a Beck’s. With a nice cold bottle in my hand and a happy taste in my mouth, I felt much more at ease. The bartender gave me a bit of an odd look when I gave him my order, but I stared him down. I like what I like. I wandered around the huge stone grotto, nodding and smiling at the faces around me. Some of them I knew; a surprising number seemed to know me. But then, Shaman Bond has a reputation for turning up anywhere.

At first, everything seemed normal enough. Just another party, with expensively dressed men and women standing around, drinking from expensive crystal and snacking on expensive party nibbles carried around on expensive silver trays by underpaid tuxedoed waiters. But there was something . . . off about the whole affair. I stopped one of the waiters, who bowed courteously to me.

“Tell me,” I said, “what’s good in the food department? What are people eating and drinking?”

“Ah, sir,” said the waiter unctuously, “only the very best for our honoured guests. The most popular drink is menstrual blood from possessed nuns, and tonight’s most requested delicacies are lightly spiced cancers, baby’s hearts with cardamom seeds, and pickled eyeballs. Might I offer you—”

“Maybe later,” I said.

I dismissed him with a curt wave of the hand, because he seemed to expect it, and he carried on circulating with his tray of satanic delights. Proof, if proof were needed, that some people will eat absolutely anything if they think they’re not supposed to. And that nothing here was necessarily what it seemed. The expensively dressed men and women were not here to enjoy themselves. Even though they all displayed that easy smugness that comes from wealth and power and station, they were all working the room with quiet desperation, endlessly circulating, trying to sort out the really important people from the upstarts and wannabes, so they could make a Good Impression with the Right People, and maybe even make that Important Connection. This wasn’t a party; it was survival of the fittest. A high-strung woman with darting eyes and far too much makeup planted herself in front of me, and addressed me with practised charm.

“I don’t know you, do I?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m Shaman Bond. Don’t mind me. I’m not anyone important.”

“Then why am I wasting time talking to you?” she snapped, and strode off.

“Nice to meet you,” I murmured. “I do hope you get dysentery soon.”

“You always did know how to make an impression on the ladies,” said Molly, easing in beside me.

“Don’t touch any of the food or drink,” I said.

“Oh, I know all about these dos. You should see what they serve up at witches’ sabbats. Some of it would make a goat gag.”

“They might be Satanists, but they really don’t know how to throw a party,” I said. “I’ve never seen so many people absolutely failing to have a good time. I have also never seen so many faces I would dearly love to punch, on general principle. Everywhere I go, they’re all trying to impress me, and one another, with lengthy tales of how horrible they can be, and all the awful things they’ve done. ‘Oh, it’s so liberating being a Satanist,’ is all I hear, as they talk oh, so casually about rape and torture and murder, and spiritual atrocities of all kinds. ‘We might be evil, but at least we’re smug about it.’ ”

“What else did you expect?” Molly said reasonably.

“I could kill every single person here and feel good about it, without a second thought,” I said; and there must have been something extra cold in my voice, because Molly looked at me sharply.

“That isn’t like you, Eddie, and you know it. Don’t let them get to you. We’re here to get information—this time.”

I shrugged uncomfortably, and took a long drink from my bottle. “I think these people are a bad influence on me.”

“Hello, Molly!” said a short, chubby redhead in a silver evening dress that didn’t suit her. She and Molly kissed the air near each other’s faces, and made mwah-mwah sounds, and then the redhead looked me over like I was on sale in a catalogue. Her face was flushed, and she didn’t look too steady on her feet.

“This is Jodie Harper,” said Molly. “Jodie, Shaman Bond.”

“Oh, yes, darling, I’ve heard about you,” said Jodie. “Had enough of being a lone operator at last, eh? Ready to join a winning team?” She didn’t give me a chance to answer, turning straight back to Molly. “Been such a while, darling, since the old Danse Academie in the Black Forest, hasn’t it? I should have known you’d be here, Molly; you never could bear to be left out of anything.” And then she turned back to me. “So, coming up in the world, eh, Shaman? Or, more properly, down!”

She laughed loudly at her own joke, and for the first time I realised how frightened she was. The glass in her hand looked like it contained good old-fashioned booze, and whatever was coming, she’d clearly felt the need to knock back a lot of the stuff in order to face it. Which made me wonder what could be coming that was so bad it scared even hardened Satanists. Jodie realised she was laughing on her own, and stopped abruptly. She swore almost absently, turned her back on us and headed for the bar.

Molly looked coolly after her. “Nothing worse than a superficial Satanist. Jodie never could commit to anything all the way. I don’t think she’ll last long in this company. Have you noticed, Eddie, all the rugs on the floor come from furs of endangered species? The candles in the candelabra are made from human fat, derived from the bodies of prisoners of conscience and ebola plague victims. Even the air we’re breathing has been scented with the essence of suffering, distilled from the tears of innocents.”

“How can you possibly know all that?” I said.

“Because it’s standard for satanic gatherings,” said Molly. “I have been to this kind of do before.”

“We will discuss that later,” I said.

“The point is,” said Molly, “most of this is laid on to impress the guests, to shock and awe them into a proper state of respect for the forces they’ve sworn to serve. It’s not enough for them to break the laws of this Earth; they have to sin in their hearts in everything they do, and glory in it. Everything is permitted, every horror is encouraged, and trampling the weaker underfoot is their duty and delight. There’s no room here for the weak of conviction or intent. The atrocities on offer are deliberately designed to weed out the wannabes and impostors.”

“Ordinarily, probably,” I said. “But I think . . . there’s more to it than that this time. Can’t you feel it? In the air, in the faces, in the conversations? There’s something coming, and they’re all scared shitless of it. Even beyond all the nasty trappings, there’s a palpable sense of evil, of spiritual corruption. Like fingernails down the blackboard of my soul. Makes me sick to my stomach . . . makes me want to lash out at everyone. This isn’t a party for people, Molly; there’s something else here. Something touched by the Pit.”

“You don’t think they’ve actually called something up?” said Molly. “Something from Hell, just for this gathering? No . . . No. I would have felt that. I’m sure I would have felt something like that.”

“But you do feel something?” I said.

“Yes,” said Molly. “Something bad . . . something familiar . . .”

We both stopped talking as another guest homed in on us. Tall, pale, hard faced under long, flat blond hair, wrapped in an apple green cocktail dress, she bestowed an icy smile on me, and nodded quickly to Molly. She looked stringy enough that a strong breeze might blow her away, but fierce nervous energy burned in her eyes and in every bird-quick movement.

“I’m Mother Shipton,” she said, in a sharp, clipped voice. “Not my given name, of course. I chose it. Names have power, old names especially so. Thought I recognised you, Shaman; we met at Barty’s party, a few years back. While you . . . must be the infamous Molly Metcalf. Yes . . . How sweet. Glad to see such an important witch as yourself finally committing to the Left-hand Path. That Wiccan nonsense was never going to catch on. Far too wishy-washy. You know where you are with Satan. I take it you’re both here for the special event? Of course you are. We all are. He is going to tell us the truth at last. All about the Great Sacrifice. I can’t wait. He’ll be speaking from that special pulpit over there.” She gestured at an old-fashioned wooden pulpit wedged awkwardly into one corner of the grotto. Mother Shipton smiled happily. “It’s been quite thoroughly debased, of course. In fact, we made quite a party of it. The girls all drank gallons of holy water and then pissed all over it . . . and the boys finished it off with a wicked bukkake session.” She giggled briefly. A flat, unpleasant sound. “If that pulpit were any more debased, it would bleed brimstone. A suitable setting for our special guest to enlighten us as to the final stages of the great plan.”

“Who is this special guest?” I said.

She looked at me. “You don’t know?”

“I’ve heard several names mentioned,” I said carefully. “But I’ve been disappointed before, so I’ll believe it’s him when I see him, and not till then.”

“Oh, it’s him, all right,” said Molly. “Look . . .”

The whole party fell silent as everyone turned to watch Roger Morningstar ascend into the debased pulpit. I hadn’t seen him arrive, and from the look on the faces of everyone else, they hadn’t either. Roger was wearing a blindingly white three-piece suit liberally splashed with fresh bloodstains, like some great Rorschach card from Hell. He wasn’t bothering to suppress his demonic side anymore. Two great curling horns sprouted from his forehead, his easy smile showed pointed teeth, his eyes glowed a sullen crimson, and I had no doubt that behind the debased pulpit he now had cloven hooves instead of feet. Roger had embraced his infernal inheritance. And as he took up his position in the debased pulpit and smiled down on his congregation, his presence seemed to fill the whole grotto like a hot and ash-filled wind blowing out of Hell. You only had to look at him to know he was evil, in every sense of the word.

There were startled gasps, and mutterings. And a whole lot of backing away. Suddenly, no one wanted to be noticed. One woman dropped to her knees and vomited. A man started bleeding from his eyes. But most people there looked at him adoringly, as though he were the answer to every vicious prayer they’d ever had.

Roger Morningstar seemed very pleased with himself, looking down at the happy, upturned faces. They were his before he ever said a word. Because Roger was a hellspawn, born of man and succubus: the real thing, the real deal. They all envied him his power and position and wanted it for themselves. He was a prince of the world to come, and they all wanted to be exactly like him.

When he leaned forward and rested his hands on the pulpit, the old wood scorched and blackened and steamed at his touch.

He didn’t bother with opening remarks, or introductions, or pleasantries to the crowd. He didn’t bother with flattering words or inspirational speeches. He had come to this place, to these people, to tell them something important. To tell them of Hell’s plans for mankind. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, my hands clenching into fists. This was about the Great Sacrifice; had to be. I was finally about to find out what the hell this was all about.

“Soon it will be time for the Great Sacrifice,” said Roger, his steady ordinary voice still managing to command everyone’s attention. Soon enough, we will have persuaded all the governments of the world to persuade all the people of the world to do our work for us. They will be persuaded to sacrifice their children, at their own hands, in the cause of a greater good. It’s always easier to persuade people to do terrible things in a good cause. At the same time all over the world, parents will murder their children, from teenagers to toddlers to babes in arms. In all the towns, in all the cities, in all the countries . . . they will kill their children to gain a better life for themselves. One generation shall utterly wipe out another, for the promise of better times to come.

It shouldn’t be too difficult to persuade them. The old have always distrusted and been jealous of the young. And the media has been demonising youth for decades. Blaming them for everything, mocking their beliefs, presenting them as a menace . . . Parents have become frightened of their own children. All the leaders of the world will persuade their adult populations that the current generation of children is rotten, corrupt, beyond saving . . . and a threat to civilisation itself. How much better, how much safer the world will be when they are all gone! They must die so that everyone else can live safely. They can always have more children, better children, in the future. . . . Once the adult population has been properly bombarded with propaganda and whipped into a suitable hysteria, the governments will put weapons into the hands of the adults, step back . . . and let nature take its course.

Blood shall run in rivers, and all that can be heard will be the screaming of children as the whole world takes part in the greatest mass sacrifice Humanity has ever known. It has to be done willingly; it has to be their choice or it won’t be a sin. Managed properly, the whole adult population of the world will damn themselves to Hell.

“We can’t intervene directly, but we can influence things, nudge them along. We have people working on a mind-influencing machine of great power, currently being updated by the weapons makers we so recently abducted from the Supernatural Arms Faire. Amazing how fast some people can work, once properly . . . motivated. Soon enough this machine will be completed, and then its influence will spread across the world. Not strong enough to change a mind in itself; that’s no use to us. But the machine will help people recognise the good sense of what’s being explained to them. We’ve been using the townspeople we abducted from Little Stoke as test subjects, with most encouraging results. Soon enough we’ll have the whole world dancing to a tune only we can hear; and oh, what a merry dance we’ll lead them. . . .”

He paused, and the whole crowd burst into ecstatic applause, cheering and clapping and stamping their feet. Molly joined in, to avoid standing out, but I couldn’t. I thought I’d been sick to my stomach before, but this . . . I had never heard anything so simply evil, so utterly appalling, so . . . inhuman, in my life. Parents killing their own children? A whole generation betrayed and slaughtered by the very ones supposed to love and protect them? I looked at Roger, and I’d never wanted to kill anyone so much in my life. I clamped down on my emotions and made myself think coolly, so I could work out what best to do next. First I had to get this information back to Drood Hall. The family had to know what was being planned: nothing less than the destruction and damnation of the whole human race. And then Roger started speaking again.

“I know, I know,” he said, holding up his hands, and the whole grotto went deathly still and silent again, hanging on his every word. “How does any of this benefit us? What do we get out of it? The purpose of this Great Sacrifice is to make a whole generation guilty of an unforgiveable sin. A despicable act that can never be taken back or atoned for. A whole generation lost to Heaven forever. It won’t be enough on its own to release our lord Satan from Hell; he can’t break the doors from his side. But with the power the Great Sacrifice will give us, we will smash all the Gates of Hell from this side and let Hell out. Satan shall come forth and rise up, and with him all the fallen and all the damned that have ever been. There will be Hell on Earth; governments shall be cast down, leaders butchered in their seats of power when we no longer need them; and all the populations of the Earth shall be subdued and made slaves, punished for their sins for all time. And all of you who have assisted in this great conspiracy shall be made kings of the Earth, to do with Humanity as you please. They shall suffer at your hands, for your pleasure, forever and ever and ever.”

The applause to that was truly deafening. It took a long time to die down, and when it finally did, someone else spoke out before Roger could. I knew it immediately. Isabella. She must have thought she could speak freely from the anonymity of the crowd.

“We’ve heard all this before, Morningstar. When will it happen?”

Roger Morningstar looked down from his debased pulpit and knew Isabella immediately. His glowing crimson eyes snapped back and forth and found Molly and me. He stabbed an accusing finger in our direction.

“A Drood!” he said loudly. “A Drood has come among us! And those treacherous Metcalf witches Isabella and Molly! Seize them! Drag them down!”

The assembled Satanists turned on us like a pack of wild dogs, driven out of their minds with rage at having been infiltrated so easily and having their great moment spoiled. They had been offered a taste of everything they’d ever dreamed of, and they were ready to kill anyone who might thwart that. They threw themselves at Isabella and Molly, howling and spitting, reaching for them with clawed fingers. But the two witches had already moved back-to-back, calling their magics around them. Wild energies sparked and sizzled round Molly’s upraised hands, and swirling magics stained the air around Isabella. Powerful magical shields slammed down around both of them, sealing them off, and the Satanists couldn’t get to them. There were witches and psychics and sorcerers in the crowd, but none of them were a match for the legendary Metcalf sisters.

Everyone else was looking for the Drood, but none of them were looking at me. They were expecting a figure in golden armour, because that’s what a Drood meant to them. They didn’t realise Roger Morningstar had pointed at Shaman Bond; why should they? Everyone knew Shaman. . . .

“Get out of here, Drood!” yelled Isabella, lightning crackling round her fists. “We’ll keep these bastards occupied!”

Molly threw fireballs into the packed crowd, and suits and dresses and hair immediately caught alight. Men and women screamed shrilly, banging into one another and spreading the flames around. Isabella threw lightning bolts this way and that, blasting men and woman into blackened corpses and throwing jerking bodies in all directions. Molly threw something that spit and fizzled at the debased pulpit, which exploded immediately, throwing Roger through the air and sending jagged wooden shrapnel into the crowd. Screams filled the grotto: shock and pain, horror and rage.

But Roger landed easily, unhurt, and there were so many in the crowd, too many for Molly’s and Isabella’s attacks to make any real difference.

In the confusion of so much happening at once, it was easy enough for me to armour up while no one was paying any attention to Shaman Bond. As far as the crowd was concerned, a golden-armoured Drood appeared among them out of nowhere. There were shouts and screams, and everyone around me backed hastily away. The Satanists looked at one another, not sure what to do, but perfectly ready for someone else to do it first. A sudden quiet fell over the grotto, broken only by the crackling of flames from burning bodies as Roger Morningstar walked forward to face me, and the whole crowd fell back to give him room.

Roger smiled at me and gestured grandly, raising his voice so everyone could hear. “Full protections are now in place, Drood! You can’t get out of here. All the entrances and exits have been sealed, and your precious Merlin Glass can’t make contact with the outside world anymore. You’re trapped in here with us.”

I laughed, and those Satanists near me fell back even farther. I turned my featureless golden mask on Roger. “Well, yes, that’s one way of looking at it. Another would be to say that you’re all trapped in here with me and the infamous Metcalf sisters. Come to me, Roger. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone as much as you.”

“Typical Drood arrogance,” said Roger, not moving. “You have no idea how much power there is in this place for us to draw on. In Under Parliament, in London Undertowen. This is our place, not yours, and you should not have come here, little Drood, little witches.”

Molly threw a fireball right at him. Flames spattered all over him and then ran away like so much fiery liquid to pool unnoticed at his feet. He looked at Molly and raised an eyebrow.

“Please, Molly, remember who and what I am. Fire holds no fear for me. You’re embarrassing yourself.” He turned his attention back to me. “Fight all you want, Drood. It’ll make it so much more satisfying when we finally drag you down. And when we eventually send your broken bodies back to Drood Hall, even the most hardened members of your family will weep and vomit at the sight of all the awful things we did to you before we finally let you die.”

The Satanists laughed: a low, mean, ugly sound. More animal than human. The sound of people lowering themselves to beasts and glorying in it. I was still separated from Molly and Isabella, the press of the crowd keeping us apart. The Satanists stood very still, watching with hot, eager eyes for any sign of weakness, for any opening they could exploit. There were an awful lot of them, but for the moment they seemed happy enough to follow Roger’s authority.

“Really don’t like the odds, Iz,” said Molly.

“Time to go,” said Isabella. “I think we’ve worn out our welcome. I had the foresight to set up a teleport spell in advance, before I came down here. Roger’s shields can’t block that, because technically it’s already happened. I have only to say the activating Word and we’re out of here. But . . .”

“I knew there was going to be a but,” said Molly. “But what?”

“The spell isn’t strong enough to take the Drood with us. It’s the armour. . . .”

“No!” Molly said immediately. “I won’t leave here without him!”

“Go,” I said. “I have armour. You don’t. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“I won’t leave you!”

“You have to! Get her out of here, Iz!”

And Isabella grabbed Molly, holding her tightly in her arms as she yelled the activating Word; and they were gone, air rushing in like a miniature thunderclap to fill the place where they’d been.

The crowd of Satanists made a loud, savage, hateful sound and turned all their attention on me. But I was already off and running. I lowered my golden shoulder and ploughed right through them, sending broken bodies flying to either side of me as I pressed on. I struck about me with spiked golden fists, tearing flesh and sending blood spraying through the air. I wanted to kill them all, wanted it so badly I could taste it; but I knew bad odds and a worse situation when I saw one. What mattered now was getting the information out. The family had to know about the Great Sacrifice.

Shrieking and howling men and women threw themselves at me, trying to block my way and drag me down, but they were no match for my armour. Bones broke and people fell as I slammed through the crowd, heading for the way I’d come in. I tried to reach Drood Hall through my armour, or even Ethel; but no one heard me. Roger’s shields saw to that. I was on my own. And then a voice came to me through my armour: Roger Morningstar’s voice, saying, “You can’t get out. You can’t get away. You belong to us now.”

I forced the voice out of my head and burst through the crowd, only to find the stone tunnel that led from the stairs to the grotto was no longer there; the exit had been sealed off with solid stone. I hit the wall with my golden fist, and the stone broke and fell apart, but there was only more stone beyond. I hit it again and again, but there was always more stone, as though the whole tunnel had been filled in. I spun round to face the waiting crowd. I’d seen other exits on the far side of the grotto, but I’d have to fight my way through the crowd to reach them. With no guarantee Roger hadn’t sealed them off, too.

The Satanists took their time closing in, jeering and taunting me in thick, spiteful voices. I’d spoiled their fun, their special event, and they meant to make me pay for that in blood and horror. They showed me their weapons, the awful things they’d brought down into London Undertowen with them. Some had Aboriginal pointing bones; some had glowing witch daggers; some had bone amulets. One had a Hand of Glory made from a mummy’s paw: a forbidden weapon. Some had black-magic charms, made from the bones and skin of suicides. One of them even had what looked very like a variation of my own Colt repeater. Which I hadn’t brought with me for fear of setting off the security alarms. I kept a watchful eye on the gun; it didn’t seem likely the Satanists would have access to strange-matter bullets, but you never knew. . . . The Immortals had them.

The crowd hit me with everything they had, unleashing all their weapons at once. Terrible energies crawled all over me, dancing on my armour, discharging in the air, unable to pierce strange matter. Magics fell away; curses failed, unable to get a hold. My armour rang like a gong and sounded like a bell from all the many impacts and concussions, but I felt none of it, safe from harm.

The armour absorbed bullets and shook off everything else. I stood firm, defying them all, letting them exhaust their weapons. The crowd quickly grew tired of that, and the braver of them surged forward to attack me directly. Glowing blades shattered on my armour, and magical weapons glanced aside harmlessly. I laughed behind my featureless mask, waiting for them to come within reach of my armoured hands. A part of me wanted to run wild and kill them all. To smash their hated faces with my spiked gloves, to kill and kill, sinking myself in rage. But I couldn’t do that. Wouldn’t do that. Partly because . . . that would make me just like them. But mostly because I still knew my duty: to wait for a chance to escape and get the information out.

And then suddenly, it all stopped. No more weapons, no more attacks, no more shouted threats and insults. The crowd was silent, backing away to allow Roger to walk through them to face me again. They didn’t want to, but Roger’s air of authority, and his sheer infernal presence, overpowered them. He stood before me, careful to stay out of arm’s reach. I studied him carefully from behind my mask. He knew I was Shaman Bond. Was he about to reveal and destroy my other identity? Because he could? I didn’t think so. . . . More likely he’d keep that knowledge for himself, for some future occasion of pressure or blackmail.

He looked more demonic than ever. Crimson flames curled around his cloven hooves, and he’d left a trail of burning hoofprints behind him in the expensive rugs and carpets. He carried with him a stench of blood and sulphur and sour milk: the scent of Hell. A circle of buzzing flies surrounded his horned head like a halo.

“Sorry about all that,” he said easily. “Have to let them have their fun now and again.”

“Why?” I said.

He nodded slowly, knowing I wasn’t talking about the crowd. Why am I here? Why am I on Hell’s team? Oh, Eddie, it’s really very simple. When I last went down into Hell, as an emissary for your family, it was made very clear to me in the Houses of Pain that I was persona non grata. For letting the side down, for embracing my human nature over my infernal inheritance, for siding with the Droods. But most of all for showing love and compassion to Harry. That’s not allowed for my kind. I was given a choice: Show which side I was truly on by leading this new Satanist conspiracy, betraying the Droods in general and Harry in particular . . . or be hauled down into Hell again at the first opportunity, dragged screaming and kicking into the Pit, to know torment and horror forever. Not a difficult choice, really.

“And now, the end is nigh. There’s enough power in this place and in these people to allow me to peel that armour right off you. If you won’t see sense and surrender.”

I laughed right into his face. “You could try, hellspawn.”

“The time of the Droods is over. This is Hell’s time, come round at last. You heard what’s coming. You can’t stop it.”

“This isn’t you, Roger,” I said. “Not really. You were with us when we fought the Hungry Gods, and the Accelerated Men, and the Immortals.”

“That was then,” said Roger. “This is now. And this, truly, is me.”

“Do you really think this pathetic bunch of losers and wannabes will ever be a match for my family?”

The crowd made ugly noises, only to fall silent again the moment Roger glanced at them. Roger smiled calmly. “We have something you don’t.”

“Like what?”

“You’ll find out. The whole point of a secret weapon is to keep it secret right up until you finally use it.”

“So,” I said. “What now? Are you really going to try to kill me, cousin?”

“No,” said Roger. “I’m going to let you go.”

“What?” I said.

But my voice was drowned out by the crowd’s. They turned on Roger, yelling and protesting in a hundred voices at once. A Drood, helpless before them? They’d dreamed of an opportunity like this. Some of them had been at Lightbringer House when Alexandre Dusk had let me go, and they weren’t at all happy about my escaping their anger again. But Roger glared about him, not even deigning to speak to them, and where his gaze fell the Satanists grew silent and looked away. And slowly, like a man surrounded by a pack of half-trained dogs, Roger brought them under control again.

“I want you to go back to your family, Edwin, and tell them of your failure.” Roger smiled slowly, letting me see his pointed teeth. “I want you to make your report to the council and tell them everything you learned here.”

“Tell Harry?” I said.

“Tell them all. I want the Droods to know what’s coming, what I’ve put together to send against you. There’s nothing you can do to stop it. Because you’re one oversize and overextended family, while the conspiracy is a worldwide organisation with governments at our beck and call.”

“What should I tell Harry?” I said.

“Tell him . . . it was fun while it lasted.” He made a brusque gesture with one hand. “There. The shields are down. Go. While you still can.”

Molly and Isabella appeared immediately behind me, grabbed me in their arms and teleported me out. And the last thing I heard was Roger Morningstar’s infernal laughter.