From Hell with Love

CHAPTER NINE Here Comes the Bride

The Armourer threw a sheet over Rafe’s body, and then we both turned our backs on it. The noisy hustle and bustle of the crowded Armoury went on around us, as though nothing unusual had happened. As though I hadn’t just shot a defenceless man in the head. The Armourer’s lab assistants are a tough crowd to shock. I slipped the Colt Repeater back into its holster with a steady hand, and looked at the Armourer. He shrugged.

“Some of my people will take care of the body,” he said. “When they’re not so pushed.”

“I’m going to break into the Immortals’ base,” I said. “Right now, while they’re still trying to figure out what’s happening. One agent on his own has a far better chance of getting in, uncovering the necessary information and getting out again, than any larger force. And it has to be me, Uncle Jack. I’m the only one the family can spare. The rest of you have to concentrate on making the Hall and grounds secure again. Just in case there’s another assault on its way.”

“That isn’t why you want to do this,” said the Armourer. “It’s still all about revenge. Didn’t I teach you better than that? Never take it personally. You weren’t the only one who was lied to, and taken in.”

“But I’m the only one who can do something about it.”

The Armourer shook his head. “You always were good at finding reasons why you should be allowed to do something you’d already decided to do anyway.”

“This needs doing, Uncle Jack, and it needs doing now!”

“I’m not arguing,” the Armourer said mildly. “If anyone can take on the Immortals where they live, it’s you. I just don’t want you going in there in the wrong frame of mind. That gets more field agents killed than anything else. Come over here, Eddie, and let’s take a look at the place.”

We pulled up chairs before his main workstation, and he put his whole computer network online. Screens lit up one after another in a long row, and the Armourer cracked his prominent knuckles noisily as he bent over the main keyboard. It took him only a minute to lock on to a Chinese surveillance satellite, and task it to cover the exact location Rafe had given us. (I still thought of him as Rafe. Even though he wasn’t.) A remarkably clear image appeared on the screen before us, but the image was that of a ruin, fallen down and beaten into submission by the erosive forces of time and rough weather. A few stubby stone towers, some crumbling inner walls, and a bunch of uneven stone boundaries half buried under ivy. Desolate and destroyed, open to all the elements, it was clear no one had lived there for centuries.

“He lied to us!” I said. “If the Immortals ever were there, they moved out long ago.”

“Not so quick, not so quick,” said the Armourer, checking the information on his other screens. “Rafe couldn’t have flat out lied to us—not after everything I’d pumped into him. This is the right location, and it matches what we have on file for the infamous Castle Frankenstein. So let me try a few things here . . . slip in a few filters . . . Ah. Now that’s more like it. I’m picking up major energy spikes, and definite traces of scientific and magical protections. Layer upon layer of the things . . . not unlike Drood Hall, actually. We’re looking at a carefully designed and maintained illusion; the same kind of thing we use to hide the Hall from prying outside eyes. Yes, very professional work. But not good enough to keep me out.”

“Can you slip in past these defences, without setting off any alarms?” I said, leaning in for a closer look.

“Teach your grandmother to suck oranges,” he said absently, his hands flying over the keyboard. “It’s all about matching resonances and reversing the polarity . . . Look, Eddie, you wouldn’t understand it if I did explain it to you. Just trust me when I say this is going to be very tricky, and don’t disturb me while I’m working.” He gave all his attention to the computers, and I sat back and let him get on with it. The side screens were going crazy displaying cascades of incoming information, and the computers were making a series of high-pitched noises I was sure couldn’t be good for them. I tend to forget that my Uncle Jack doesn’t just make things with his hands; he makes them with his mind and his computers. He finally sat back in his chair, grunting loudly with satisfaction.

“All right, that’s taken care of the scientific protections: the force shields, the intelligence systems, the subspace generators. The magical protections . . . are pretty straightforward, actually. Just what you’d expect. They’re all based on existing pacts and treaties, backed up by the usual Objects of Power. All very potent and respectable, but nothing out of the ordinary. They’d keep out anyone else . . . but we are Droods, which means we have our own pacts and treaties, and even more powerful Objects of Power. You know, I don’t think the Immortals have updated their protections in years, maybe even centuries. Could be arrogance, or complacency. Either way, they haven’t got a damned thing I can’t deal with.”

The image of the ruin on the main screen disappeared abruptly, and something altogether different took its place. I leaned in close again, for my first look at the real Castle Frankenstein. A huge, grim, overpowering medieval edifice, a fortress set on a cliff overlooking the River Rhine far below. Tall towers, high stone walls with crenellated battlements, and massive doors heavy enough to stand off an invading army. All kinds of light blazed in the windows, from clear and clean electric light to the kind of murky glares you normally see only underwater. There were eerie glows and unhealthy illuminations, that flared up briefly and then sank down to flickering glimmers. Dark shadows crawled slowly across the towering stone walls. But there was no sign anywhere of human activity, and not a single human guard in place.

“I’m impressed,” said the Armourer. “Damned good illusion, behind powerful protections. Would have fooled anyone else. And now this . . . of course, they’re bound to have improved the place since the Baron’s time. Amazing, when you think of what that man achieved, with the limited knowledge and resources of his time. All right, the Baron was undoubtedly ten parts crazy to ten parts genius, and he ran away from his responsibilities every chance he got, and he had the moral compass of a deranged sewer rat, but still, you have to admit . . . he did it. He brought the dead back to life, right there in his laboratory.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ve talked to some of his creations. Most of them weren’t at all happy about it.”

“Yes, well,” the Armourer said vaguely. “That’s progress for you.” He stopped, and looked at me. “Eddie, what are you thinking?”

“Frankenstein defeated death,” I said slowly. “Out of all the stories, and all the legends that have grown up around him, that’s the one thing we can be sure of. He took dead bodies and made them live again. And I’m wondering . . . if his knowledge is still there, somewhere, preserved by the Immortals.”

“No, Eddie,” the Armourer said firmly. “That’s not a road you want to go down. Whatever Frankenstein’s techniques might bring back, it wouldn’t be your Molly. Or my mother. All that bastard ever really did was make the dead stand up and walk around, and I don’t remember anyone ever thanking him for it. There’s nothing in that Castle or anywhere else that can help us. Dead is dead, Eddie, even in our world. Because all of the alternatives are worse.”

“I know, Uncle Jack. I know.”

“Stick to what you can do,” the Armourer said kindly. “The good thing about our work is that it never ends, so we always have something to distract ourselves with. Now, there’s no way you can teleport directly into Castle Frankenstein. Not through all those shields. Whatever got through would eventually arrive as a small pile of steaming red and purple blobby bits.”

“The torc couldn’t protect me?” I said. “Not even if I went through in full armour?”

“That’s the problem,” said the Armourer. “The shields would let you through, but stop the torc. Your body would pass through . . . probably piece by piece. And no, you can’t use the Merlin Glass, either. If an artefact that powerful were to come tap tap tapping on the Castle’s shields, it would set off every alarm in the place. You can’t sneak past defences like these.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s see what the Glass can do.”

I summoned it into my hand, and had it show me a view of Castle Frankenstein. But all the mirror could manage was an aerial view, from fairly high up. I winced.

“Forget it,” I said. “I am not falling for that again.”

The Armourer’s ears pricked up. “Again?” he said innocently.

“Don’t ask,” I said. “No, I mean it. Don’t ask. Glass, zoom in and give me the closest image you can.”

The image in the hand mirror loomed swiftly up before me, and then slammed to a halt still some way out. The image flickered back and forth between the real Castle Frankenstein and the Immortals’ illusion, and then the Merlin Glass abruptly shut itself down, and I was left with just a mirror in my hand, showing me my own confused reflection. I shook the mirror hard a few times, and tried half a dozen different command words, but faced with the Immortals’ levels of protection the Merlin Glass had given up, and was now clearly sulking. I sent it back to its subspace pocket to think things over.

“Okay,” I said to the Armourer. “Defences strong enough to defy the Merlin Glass? I am seriously impressed.”

“Well, don’t forget, the Immortals are older than Merlin,” said the Armourer. “However, they might have the experience, but we are more up to date. Give me a few weeks, and I could put together a package that would let you stroll right through those shields.”

“We don’t have a few weeks,” I said. “I’m going to have to get as close to the Castle as the Glass can get me, and cover the rest of the distance on foot.”

“Only an Immortal can pass safely through the defences,” said the Armourer. “That’s what Rafe said.”

“And Rafe is going to get us in,” I said. “Because Rafe is going to make me into an Immortal. Remember those clever little cuff links you gave me, Uncle Jack? The Chameleon Codex?”

I went back to the diagnostic chair, and flipped back the sheet to reveal Rafe’s damaged head. Half of it had been blow away by my bullets, but the face was still mostly there. Blood was still dripping from his chin, and his remaining eye stared at me with cold accusation. Like I gave a damn. I looked at Rafe dispassionately for a moment, and then ran my right cuff link swiftly down one side of his face. Didn’t get a single blood spot on my cuff. I covered him up again, and when I looked, there wasn’t any blood on the cuff link either. It had eaten it all up, the necessary DNA information now stored and ready for use.

“You’re getting cold, Eddie,” said the Armourer. “I don’t think I like that. Not in you.”

“Molly’s gone,” I said, looking at him steadily. “I was going to be free, and have a life, with her. She was going to save me from my family. Now she’s gone, and all I have left is duty and responsibility. And revenge. It’s not much . . . but it’s something.”

“The family’s not such a bad thing, Eddie,” said the Armourer. “It means you’re never alone. I lost my mother today, and my only son a long time ago, but I still have the family. I have you, and you have me.”

“The Immortals took away my hope when they took away my Molly, Uncle Jack. I will make them pay for that; make them pay in blood and suffering. I had a life and a future, and now all I have is the family, and what it means to be a Drood. A life in service, to a war that never ends. A cause that consumes you, and an early death for reasons you’ll probably never understand. Well, I can live with that, if there’s revenge to be had along the way. Let’s get to work, Uncle Jack. It’s all I’ve got now.”

“There’s one obvious dropping-off point,” said the Armourer, his face and his voice all business again. “The fake Frankenstein Castle—now just called . . . the Castle Hotel. The tourist trap, remember? Only a mile and a half down the road from the real thing, next to a small village. You could be just another tourist, attracted by the name and the legend. They must see enough of those. Hmmm. Wait a minute . . .” He searched quickly through several drawers, muttering to himself, and finally came up with a slim folder. “This should do you nicely. Standard field agent’s package, for sudden intrusion into foreign climes. All the paperwork you’ll need: passport, visa, travel documents, credit cards . . . the usual. I always keep a few basic sets handy. What name do you want to use?”

“Shaman Bond,” I said. “He has a reputation for just turning up anywhere.”

The Armourer grunted, and quickly customised the necessary documents. He passed them over to me, and I settled them here and there about my person. Nothing like a bunch of fake documents to make you feel like a real field agent. The Armourer fixed me with a firm stare.

“You probably won’t need most of them, but it would be stupid to get yourself picked up by the locals over something so routine. And use the credit cards sparingly, we’re on a budget. And get receipts, if you want to claim expenses.”

“Shaman Bond’s a good cover,” I said. “I’m comfortable being Shaman. I’ll book into the hotel, spy out the lay of the land, and if it looks clear I’ll head straight for Castle Frankenstein. And then I’ll use the cuff links to turn me into Rafe, and walk right in.”

“You’ll need a cover story as Rafe,” said the Armourer. “To explain your escape from us. They must know we captured him by now.”

“Easy,” I said. “I’ll just say I stole the Merlin Glass, and stepped through from the Hall to the Castle. They’ll be so overjoyed at the prospect of getting their hands on such an unexpected prize, they won’t even think to challenge my version of events until it’s far too late.”

“You can’t actually give them the Glass, Eddie! Once it’s out of your possession, there’s no guarantee you’d ever get it back! I don’t even want to think what the Immortals could do with the Merlin Glass!”

“Will you relax, Uncle Jack? Breathe deeply, and unclench. I have done fieldwork before. Promising them the Glass is one thing, delivering it quite another. I have no intention of handing it over to them; I’ll just say I have it stashed safely somewhere nearby. You know, standard operational bullshit. I’m very good at bullshit.”

“I’ve always thought so,” said the Armourer. He looked at me thoughtfully. “Do you think you’ll find Doctor Delirium and Tiger Tim with the Immortals? Could they have the Apocalypse Door at Castle Frankenstein?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Dom Langford said he saw the Door at one of the Doctor’s bases. But, who can be sure of anything, where the Immortals are concerned? Dom never actually saw where he was . . . But at the very least, I should find information on its location at the Castle. The Immortals will know.”

“Information is what we need, first and foremost,” the Armourer said sternly. “Revenge can wait. Let’s put a stop to the immediate threat of the Apocalypse Door, and save the world; and then we can decide how best to drop the hammer on the Immortals.”

“Of course,” I said. “Information first. I understand.”

“But, Eddie, if you get a chance . . . And I mean a real chance . . .”

“I will wipe them out down to the last man,” I said. “Burn down their Castle, and piss on the ashes.”

“Good man,” said the Armourer. And then he hesitated. “Eddie . . . I need to ask you something. A personal favour. If you should find the rogue Tiger Tim at the Castle . . . If you should find Timothy Drood . . . Eddie, he’s my son. My only child.”

I could only gape at him for a moment. We’re a big family, and I’d been away from the Hall for a long time. “Tiger Tim, Timothy . . . I knew the name, but I never made the connection. But, he nearly killed you, trying to persuade you to open the Armageddon Codex!”

“He lost his mother at an early age,” the Armourer said steadily. “And I wasn’t there for him. Afterwards, well, perhaps I tried too hard. I never was father material. You of all people should understand someone driven to rebel against family discipline . . .”

“Well, yes, but I was never a rogue,” I said. “Not even when Grandmother said I was. I turned on the family, not on all Humanity. The things he’s done, Uncle Jack, you don’t know . . .”

“I know,” he said. “I’ve made it a point to know. But . . . he’s all I’ve got left, that’s mine. He can still be saved, Eddie. I have to believe that. Please, if you can, don’t kill him.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said. “But he may not give me any choice.”

The Armourer nodded stiffly, and turned away. I wondered if he really knew all the awful things his estranged son had done, and planned to do. If he knew about what Tiger Tim had done at Doctor Delirium’s Amazon base. And if it would have made any difference, if he had known. I’ve never found it easy to lie to my Uncle Jack. But I gave it my best shot when I said I’d try not to kill Tiger Tim.

Some people just need killing.

I coaxed the Merlin Glass back out of subspace, and had it open a doorway through to the Castle Hotel in Germany. I stepped through into a cobbled courtyard, and the Glass immediately disappeared again. If I hadn’t known better I would have said it was frightened. After this was all over, I’d have to give it a good talking-to. Preferably where no one else could see me doing it.

I have to say, I wasn’t that impressed by the Castle Hotel. To start with, it wasn’t a Castle—and never had been—just a larger than usual manor house in the old European style. Five stories, half-timbered frontage, gables and guttering but no gargoyles, and three different satellite dishes. Pleasantly old-fashioned but with the clear promise of modern amenities. Warm, welcoming lights shone from the ground floor windows. On the whole, the hotel looked like it had stepped right out of one of those old Universal monster movies, from the thirties. Probably quite intentionally. Nostalgia for old fictions is the strongest nostalgia of all.

I looked around me. No one about, to notice my arrival. A dozen or so parked vehicles, scattered across the adjoining car park. Not many guests, then. Off season, no doubt. So if nothing else, the hotel should be grateful for an extra guest. It was early evening, cold with a cold wind blowing, and very quiet. There was no passing traffic, and the lights of the nearby village were a good half mile away. Dark ominous clouds were already covering half the evening sky, spreading long shadows across the bleak countryside. I shuddered suddenly, for no reason, and headed for the Castle Hotel’s brightly lit entrance.

The lobby turned out to be warm, cosy and inviting, and gave the impression of being an old family business. A real fire blazed in an oversized fireplace, lots of wood panelling and beams in the ceiling. The walls were covered with framed photographs. I wandered over for a closer look. They were all head ˚ and shoulder shots of actors who’d played Baron Frankenstein and his monster. Colin Clive and Boris Karloff, of course, and Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. All of them personally autographed. A whole bunch of familiar faces, from dozens of European films that at the very least, tried hard. The most recent photos were of Kenneth Branagh and Robert De Niro. Boy, had Branagh got his film wrong. There was nothing romantic about the Frankenstein story. Ask any of his creations.

There was just the one photo of Elsa Lanchester, as the Bride of Frankenstein. I nodded respectfully to her. Absent friends . . .

Someone had made a recent effort to tart up the lobby with various items of Gothic chic, including lots of black crepe paper and a few rings of garlic flowers. (Wrong films there, I thought, but didn’t say anything.) I strode up to the reception desk, and smiled briefly at the receptionist—a determinedly cute lady of a certain age, in a traditional back and white uniform, with peroxide white hair, too much makeup, and a knowing look. She welcomed me to the Castle Hotel with a wide smile and a bright eye, and I made a mental note to be careful around this one. She looked like the sort who’d ask if you wanted extras . . . and then turn up to supply them personally.

I booked in as Shaman Bond, and explained I was on a walking holiday, and just happened to be in the area . . . I speak enough conversational German to get by. All Droods are taught several languages from an early age, because the whole world is our concern. Almost the first thing the receptionist did was to ask for my passport and credit card. Score one for the Armourer. I’d always been field agent for London; I wasn’t used to gallivanting around in foreign parts. I watched unconcerned as the receptionist carefully entered the details into her computer. They’d pass; my family has connections everywhere. And then she asked about my luggage. Well, you can’t think of everything when you’re planning a mission in a hurry.

“It’s with my friends,” I said smoothly. “They’ll be along later.”

“And how long will you be staying, sir?”

“Two, three days,” I said. “Is there a shortage of rooms, just now?”

“Oh no, sir. We have many vacancies at the moment; it is the time of year, you understand? If it weren’t for the Convention . . .”

“Fans of the films?” I said.

“Oh yes! We have many such gatherings here, sir. They do so love the old stories, and the legends. This week we have”—she stopped, and looked about on the desk for a brochure—“there are so many of them . . . Ah yes. The Spawn of Frankenstein. Not a group I’m familiar with, and I know most of them—all part of the hotel training, you understand. They’ve been arriving all day; nice people, very good makeup . . . Here are your keys, sir. We do a traditional breakfast, from seven thirty sharp. Don’t be afraid to ask, if there is anything you require. Is there anything more I can do for you?”

She gave me a certain look. I smiled blankly back at her, and headed quickly for the stairs.

I had to take the stairs, all five stories of them, because there weren’t any elevators. The Castle Hotel might have adopted most modern conveniences, but apparently elevators were a step too far. All to do with authenticity, no doubt. I was seriously out of breath by the time I reached the top floor. It hadn’t been that long since I had been fighting for my life on the Hall grounds, and my resources were only slowly coming back. My real metal key opened a real metal lock, no electronic tags here, and I let myself into my room. And locked the door very firmly behind me.

I went over to the window and looked out, and off in the distance were the ruins of Castle Frankenstein, half silhouetted against the lowering sky. The illusion looked entirely convincing. I turned my back on it, and considered my room. Pretty good, actually; reasonably large, cosy and comfortable. I sat down on the bed, sinking into the goose feather mattress, and bounced up and down cheerfully. Little pleasures . . . I wondered if they did room service. I could just do with a bite. But I decided I’d better not risk it. The last thing I needed was the receptionist turning up at my door, asking if I fancied something spicy. I sat still on the bed, suddenly tired. That was the kind of joke I would have shared with Molly. I desperately wanted to just lie down on the bed and sleep, and not have to think about anything. But I had work to do.

I got up off the bed, and then paused, thoughtfully. I had the distinct feeling I was being watched. I raised my Sight and looked casually round the room, and immediately half a dozen surveillance cameras revealed themselves to me, all craftily hidden, along with over a dozen traditional listening devices. Between them they had the whole room covered, in sound and vision, without a single blind spot anywhere. I had to consider—was the whole hotel riddled with them, so the Immortals could keep an eye on everyone who booked in, or was this just one of the rooms reserved for people who arrived suddenly, with no luggage? I had wondered why I’d been given a room on the top floor, when there were supposed to be so many vacancies.

Just how paranoid were the Immortals?

It didn’t make any difference, of course. My torc could hide itself from even the most sophisticated devices, and maintain my disguise as just another tourist. Still, I’d have to be careful what I said and did, in this room. Maybe I should steal a few items, just to seem normal. I could use a few good fluffy towels . . . Maybe later.

I washed up, took a good long pee on the grounds it might be ages before I could hit the facilities again, and took my time descending the five flights of stairs, so I wouldn’t be out of breath when I got to the bottom. A man has his pride . . . At the foot of the stairs was a new sign, in German and English, saying THE CASTLE HOTEL IS PROUD TO WELCOME THE SPAWN OF FRANKENSTEIN. MAIN BALLROOM. TICKETS ONLY FOR SPECIAL BANQUET. I decided I might as well take a look, while I was there, so I wondered over to the main ballroom. Just to take a peek. And the first person I met at the open door was the Bride of Frankenstein. The real one.

She was tall, a good seven feet. All of the Baron’s first creations had to be big, so he could fit everything in. The skin on her face was very pale and very taut, like someone who’s had too much plastic surgery. But hers had always been that way, and always would. She had huge dark eyes that didn’t blink often enough, a prominent nose, and her mouth was a deep dark red without benefit of makeup. She would never be beautiful, but she was attractive, in a frightening sort of way. She wore her long jet black hair piled up on her head in a beehive, like Amy Winehouse, and she wasn’t bothering to dye out the white streaks anymore. Or use makeup to cover the familiar scars that stood out on her chin and neck. She wore flowing white silks, with long sleeves to cover her wrists, a tight blouse that showed off a lot of cleavage, and knee-length white leather boots.

She recognised me immediately, and flung her arms around me. I braced myself for her embrace; she’d never known her own strength. Up close, she smelled of attar of roses, and maybe just a hint of formaldehyde. She released me, and clapped me hard on the shoulder with one heavy oversized hand.

“Shaman, my dear! So long since I have seen you!” Her voice was a rich contralto, full of life. “What are you doing here?”

“Little bit of business,” I said solemnly. “You know how it is . . .”

She laughed easily. “Of course. If there is a profit to be made, or trouble to get into, there you will find Shaman Bond! If you should find yourself in need of an alibi, or someone to stand bail for you . . .”

“I’ll bear you in mind. I see you’re not covering up the scars anymore. Or is that just for the Convention?”

“No . . . I have come out of the living dead closet, my dear. I am who I am. I’m almost fashionable, these days . . . And more and more I think, the best place to hide is in plain sight.”

The Bride and I first met at the Wulfshead Club in London, that well-known gathering place and watering hole for the strange and unnatural. We soon warmed to each other. Shaman Bond is always very sociable because you never know when it might come in handy down the line. We fell into one of those easy friendships where you’re always popping in and out of each other’s lives. We even worked together on a few cases. Always with me as Shaman Bond; the Bride had no idea I was a Drood. The last job we’d done together had turned out rather messy. We’d been asked to stamp out the Cannibal Priests of Old Compton Street, who worshipped the insides of people, and not in a good way. Still, fire purifies. And even when it doesn’t, it’s still a damned good way to destroy evidence.

The Bride has been around. She’s worked with pretty much every unorthodox organisation there is, including the Droods, but she’s always been her own person. She prefers to work with a partner, though given who and what she is, she tends to either wear them out or outlive them. The Bride specialises in the most dangerous of cases, on the grounds that she has so much less to lose than most.

She’s a very feminine creature; she works hard at it. Her latest companion was the current Springheel Jack, latest inheritor of the title, and the curse. Apparently she quite literally stumbled over him in the middle of a case, when it was all new and horrible and he didn’t understand what was happening to him. So she took him under her wing, showed him the ropes, and the padded handcuffs, and they’ve been inseparable ever since.

“He’s isn’t at all put off that I am very much the older woman,” she said cheerfully. “And the scars aren’t a problem at all. He likes them! And I always was a size queen, so . . .”

“Hold it right there,” I said. “We are rapidly approaching the point of too much information. Where is Jack?”

“Off seeing the sights,” she said. “These gatherings aren’t for outsiders. They are reserved only for those who have known the benefits, and otherwise, of the Baron’s methods. For those who belong dead.”

“Got it,” I said. “The Spawn of Frankenstein.”

“A gathering of all the various creations, creatures and by products of the Baron’s admittedly amazing surgical gifts. We like to get together once a year, for self-help groups, companionship, and the pursuit of closure. We all have abandonment issues, after all. We end each meeting by cursing the Baron in his absence, wherever he may be.”

“I did hear he was dead . . .”

The Bride snorted loudly. “He’s cheated death so many times they don’t even bother screwing the lid down anymore. No, he is still out there, practicing his ungodly arts on those who cannot defend themselves, bringing new and awful life into the world. And hiding from us, his forsaken children.”

“What would you do?” I said. “If you ever did track him down?”

“I don’t know. Call him Daddy. Have sex with him. Kill him. It’s a difficult kind of relationship. Complicated . . . What would you say, if you came face-to-face with your creator? Ask him why you were made to suffer so much? I think I have a better chance of getting a straight answer out of my creator, than you have from yours.”

“Mine might have had better motives,” I said.

“But can you be sure?” The Bride chuckled quietly. “I’m afraid I cannot ask you in, Shaman, my dear. You understand how it is.”

“Of course,” I said. “Family only.”

I did take a quick glance through the open door, and the Bride didn’t object. There were enough of them to fill the ballroom, standing around like any group, talking and drinking and nibbling dubiously at finger snacks provided by the hotel. Hidden speakers dispensed inoffensive classical music, the only safe bet when those present come from so many times and cultures. There were all kinds on view, from those who could pass for normal, with a little help, to those who never would. Not all of the Baron’s children were monsters, but they were all marked by the obsessions of their creator. Everyone in the room had started out dead, and it showed. In the eyes, in the voices, and in their image, which could be disguised but never forgotten.

Some of the more extreme cases displayed their differences openly here, among the only people who would understand. Men and women with two pairs of arms, or legs with too many joints. Gills on the neck, bulbous foreheads, bulging chests that contained specially designed new organs. Feathers, fur and even scales. The Baron had grown more adventurous as his work progressed. They talked easily together, bastard offspring of a bastard science. All they had in common was their scars, and their pain; but sometimes, that was enough.

I looked thoughtfully round the crowded room. Something was nagging at me. Something I’d seen or sensed, but not understood. So I raised my Sight, and looked again. And just like that I saw the one person present who didn’t belong in this group. Oh, he had the look down pat. A tall bulky chap, in black leathers with studs and dangling chains, with prominent scars at his wrists, and a ragged line across his bulging forehead. But he had an aura. No one else in the room had an aura. Revenants of whatever kind may have a mind, and even a soul, but they never have an aura. That’s reserved for the living, and the Spawn of Frankenstein were the living dead. So whoever this guy was, he definitely wasn’t one of the Baron’s creations. I pointed him out to the Bride, and explained why, and she swore viciously.

“I should have known! He said all the right things, dropped all of the right names, but the scar on his forehead was just too ragged. The Baron, for all his faults, always did neat work. How dare he! How dare he intrude on such a strictly private gathering? The one place where we can be honest and open, without fear of condemnation . . . This could put some people’s therapy back months! He is probably a reporter, from some squalid little tabloid . . . I will take his hidden camera and shove it so far up him he’ll be able to take photographs through his nostrils!”

And she stalked forward before I could stop her. I had a pretty good idea of who and what he was, and it wasn’t any kind of journal ist. I watched from the doorway as the Bride marched right up to the only living man in the ballroom, spun him around and stabbed him hard in the chest with one long bony finger. I winced, but he didn’t.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” demanded the Bride, towering over the intruder. “You are not one of us!”

The room fell quiet, all the conversations stopped dead. Everyone turned to look at the intruder, and the expressions on their faces would have scared the crap out of anyone else. Death was in the room, cold and angry. The man I’d pointed out realised immediately that there was no point in continuing his pretence, and he smiled easily about him with calm, practiced arrogance.

“I am an Immortal,” he said. “The real thing; not a botched scientific experiment, like you. And I am here because Immortals go where they please, to learn what they need to know. Get on with your little party. I’ll see myself out.”

But the Bride still blocked his path. She stabbed him again in the chest with one long thin finger, hard enough to rock him back on his feet, and this time he did wince.

“This is a private gathering of gods and monsters, of men and women who have sworn never to be victims again. You insult us by your very presence, and we will have an apology.”

“I don’t think so,” said the Immortal, and his tone of voice was a slap in the face to everyone present.

All the features on his face suddenly ran, like melting wax. The underlying bone structure rose and fell, and then everything snapped back into place, and the intruder had a whole new face. He was now a middle-aged man with a broad square face, fierce dark eyes and a cruel mouth. It was a face I’d seen before, in a number of portraits from the nineteenth century. The Bride fell back a step, and a slow murmur ran round the ballroom.

The Baron . . . It’s the Baron . . .

“Bow down before your creator,” said the Immortal.

In the doorway, I felt like covering my face with my hands. Bad idea, Immortal, really bad idea. The Bride punched the Immortal so hard in the face, I half expected her fist to come out the back of his head. The false Baron staggered backwards, his features already moving again, trying to become someone else. The Bride went after him, and every one of the living dead in the ballroom closed in, looking for their own little bit of vengeance and payback, if only by proxy.

“We are the Spawn of Frankenstein, little man,” said the Bride. “And you should not have come here.”

The crowd fell upon the Immortal like a pack of savage beasts, hammering him with oversized fists, slicing at him with clawed hands, and hacking at him with all kinds of blades. The Immortal took a terrible punishment, that would have killed an ordinary man, but he just soaked it all up and stubbornly refused to fall. His features settled into yet another face, proud and disdainful, and he struck out at those creatures nearest him with more than human strength. Bodies flew threw the air, slammed into walls and furniture, and took their time about rising again. The Immortal raged through the crowd, striking them down with cold purpose, but still the living dead pressed forward, determined to get their hands on him, driven by more than one lifetime’s rage.

I stepped quietly inside the ballroom, and pulled the door shut behind me. Someone had already thoughtfully turned up the music, so if the receptionist did hear anything, hopefully she’d just think it was more than usually enthusiastic dancing. In the meantime, I stayed by the doors. It wasn’t my place to get involved. First, it would have been presumptuous, implying I thought they couldn’t handle this themselves. And second, I didn’t see what I could do, without armouring up and revealing myself a Drood. Which could be bad, for any number of reasons. So I stood my ground, and watched, and winced as the Immortal threw the Spawn of Frankenstein around like they were children.

They were hitting the Immortal from every side at once, but he was still standing, and more and more they weren’t. I was starting to feel really glad we’d strapped the false Rafe down while we had the chance. The Immortal lashed about him with both fists, beating his attackers down with contemptuous ease. But the Spawn were learning, cutting at him with their claws and blades and then darting back out of reach. He was losing a lot of blood, and the strength in his blows wasn’t what it was. So he pulled his next trick.

His whole body shuddered, and bone plates rose up out of his flesh to cover his chest, arms and skull. Pale, gleaming bone, the plates turned aside blades and claws and took no damage. Spikes and spurs of bone rose up from his hands, and his fingertips lengthened and hardened into vicious claws of his own. Flesh dancing, Rafe had called it. I was impressed; the Immortals had developed their own armour.

The Immortal tore into the living dead with recovered energy, and blood and other fluids flew on the air. (Not all of the Baron’s creatures had blood in their veins.) But they could all take a lot of punishment, and they were used to pain. They pressed forward just as eagerly as before, hitting the Immortal with everything they had, and still they couldn’t bring him down. He stood his ground, ripped through their pale flesh, hammered them to the floor, and trampled them underfoot. One by one they fell back from him, nursing their wounds and struggling for breath, still surrounding him, still searching for something else to try. And then the Bride came forward to stand before the Immortal. She towered over him, and showed him the spiked silver knuckle-dusters on both her hands. She smiled a cold and deadly smile, and even the Immortal could see the power in her.

“Let’s dance,” said the Bride.

“Let’s,” said the Immortal.

They slammed together like crashing cars, all strength and fury. Clawed hands versus spiked silver knuckle-dusters. The strength of the flesh-dancing Immortal, set against the inhuman vitality of the living dead woman. There was no skill or strategy in what they did; they just stood their ground and hammered at each other, both refusing to give an inch. They each took terrible punishment, but neither of them cried out. But in the end, the Immortal had flesh that healed itself, and an energy that simply wouldn’t give out, and he just wore her down. He beat her to her knees, and then grabbed her by the throat with one heavy hand, and squeezed. The Bride clawed at his face with her long arms, even as her breath was cut off. Death had no fear for her. She’d already been there. The Immortal throttled the life out of the Bride, and looked around him disdainfully.

“Don’t think you’re anything special. You’re just an ugly bunch of failed experiments. My family throw away better things than you in our laboratories every day. How many of you do I have to kill, before you get the message? Know your place.”

And that was when I hit him in the face with the punch bowl. It was a good throw. The heavy glass bowl shattered over his head, and the industrial strength alcohol filled his eyes, blinding him. He cried out with shock and pain, and let go of the Bride so he could claw at his face with both hands. I knew I shouldn’t have intervened, but there’s some shit I just won’t put up with. I was looking around for more things to throw, when the French windows suddenly blew open and there, silhouetted against the night, was a tall dark shape. All of Frankenstein’s creations turned to look, and then as one they fell back, opening up an aisle between the newcomer and the Immortal. I nodded slowly, smiling. I’d been wondering when he’d show up. The Immortal cleared the last of the noxious punch from his eyes, and glared at the man in the French windows. The newcomer advanced slowly on the Immortal, with a calm, elegant bearing. He was wrapped in a long black cloak that swept about him like batwings, and wore an old-fashioned top hat. From his pale face, he was barely my age, but his eyes were very old and very cold, and he was smiling a most unpleasant smile.

“Get away from my Bride,” he said, in a cool and really quite disturbing voice. “Or you’ll be resting in pieces before you know it.”

The Immortal looked at him incredulously. “Who the hell are you?”

“Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it? Sometimes I think one thing, sometimes I think another. But unfortunately for you, right now I’m Springheel Jack.”

The Immortal lashed out at him with a bone-spurred hand, and Springheel Jack jumped lightly into the air, high enough to trail his fingertips across the ceiling. The Immortal lurched forward and almost fell on his face, as his blow whipped through the air where Jack had been only a moment before. He stepped quickly back, and Jack dropped lightly to the floor again. But now he had two brightly shining straight razors, one in each hand. He smiled mockingly at the Immortal, and then jumped right over him. He somersaulted over his enemy’s head, landed elegantly behind him, his legs absorbing the impact as though it was nothing, and then he spun round and hamstrung both the Immortal’s legs at once. Blood spurted thickly, and the Immortal cried out in agony; and then he collapsed to the floor as his legs failed him, both leg muscles sliced completely through. Springheel Jack looked down at him, thrashing helplessly on the bloody floor, and then stepped elegantly forward to stand before his Bride.

“You all right, love?”

She caressed her throat briefly, but her smiled never wavered. “All the better for seeing you, my sweet.”

“I know you,” the Immortal said harshly, from the floor. “We all know you. We keep killing you, and you keep coming back!”

“It’s a gift,” said Springheel Jack. He grabbed the Immortal’s head and jerked it back to expose the throat. A straight razor pressed against the taut skin, and a thin runnel of blood trickled down, as the steel edge nicked the skin.

“Say good night, Gracie,” said Jack.

“No!” said the Bride. Springheel Jack ˚ looked at her.

“No?” he said, politely.

“I’m not in a mood to be merciful,” said the Bride.

Springheel Jack considered this, and then nodded. He hit the Immortal a vicious blow on the top of the head with his elbow, and the Immortal slumped unconscious to the floor. Jack stood up, and took his Bride in his arms. They embraced, laughing, and then she crushed him to him. And since she was a good foot taller than he was, his face disappeared into her cleavage. He didn’t seem to mind. She finally released him, still laughing, and he smiled happily around him. The straight razors were gone from his hands. He looked down at the unconscious form at his feet.

“Who is he, anyway?”

“An Immortal,” I said. “Shaman Bond, at your service.”

“Ah,” said Springheel Jack. “The Bride has spoken of you, in a quite annoyingly approving way. If I weren’t so secure, I might be jealous. But I’m not. Thanks for throwing the bowl.”

“Least I could do,” I said.

“Yes,” said Jack. “That’s what I thought. Still, an Immortal, you say? One of those terribly up themselves long-lived creeps, from the real Castle Frankenstein, up the road?”

“They think we don’t know,” sniffed the Bride. “Of course we know! We all remember where we were born.”

Springheel Jack considered me carefully. “What do you know of Immortals, Shaman?”

“I’m just here to do a favour for a friend,” I said. “You know how it is . . .”

“Of course,” said the Bride. “If there’s anything . . .”

“I’ll let you know,” I said.

“And if you should by any chance find a way into the Castle . . .”

“I’ll let you know.”

I bowed to them all politely, and headed for the open French windows. Just in case the receptionist was listening at the door and wondering why it had all gone quiet. I was just stepping out into the dark of the evening when I heard the Bride say, “An Immortal, who claims to be our superior? I think not. I think . . . we’ll make him one of us. Jack, fetch me my scalpels!”

Some monsters are scarier than others.

I moved quickly across the cobbled yard, putting some distance between me and the Hotel. I looked up the long narrow road that led to the real Castle Frankenstein, but it was hidden from view behind the rising hill. I had to wonder if perhaps Rafe had got some kind of warning off, before we grabbed him. In which case, they knew I was coming. Was that why the Immortal had been sent down to the Hotel? But there is caution, which is useful, and paranoia, which is mostly not. Not everything is about me. I was here to do a job, and it was time I got on with it. I started up the road. There was still no sign of any passing traffic. The evening had gone dark, and the last of the light was going out of the day. A storm was gathering.

Perfect atmosphere, for an assault on Castle Frankenstein.

I walked up the middle of the road, pacing myself. It was a fair walk to the Castle, and I didn’t want to miss anything interesting along the way. There were no streetlights, no markings on the road, and as the Hotel vanished behind a curve in the road, it felt like I was walking back into the Past, into a more primitive time, where the peasants in the small village I’d left behind me had reason to be afraid when the lightning flared, and strange lights shone at Castle Frankenstein.

There were no more signs of civilisation, just the rising hill and the darkening sky, and the road winding away before me. It wasn’t even much of a road. A nearly full moon rode high on the sky, just enough to see by. I would have liked to use my torc, to call up some golden glasses to see through, but I didn’t dare, this close to the Castle. The torc could hide itself, but my armour would stand out like a beacon in the dark. It wasn’t as though there was much to see, anyway. It was all black basaltic rock and shifting scree, rising up increasingly on the one side, and the dull sounds of the River Rhine far below, on the other. No life, no vegetation, not even the usual hardy shrubs. And then, not nearly far enough off, I heard the sudden howling of a wolf. At least, I hoped it was a wolf. In this kind of territory, you never knew. I checked my Colt Repeater was secure in its holster, so I could be sure I had access to silver bullets.

First the Bride of Frankenstein, and now werewolves in the night. It was liking walking through one of the old Universal monster movies.

Cool.

But even as I kept a cautious eye on my surroundings, it dawned on me that I hadn’t seen anything moving, anything living, ever since I left the Hotel behind me. Which was . . . unusual. I raised my Sight, and then stopped dead in my tracks. The world around me was completely empty, and that never, ever happens. There’s always something: ghosts from the Past, elementals, otherworldly entities . . . they’re everywhere. Part and parcel of the Hidden World, that most people don’t even know exists. The unnatural world, of which the natural world is only a part, like the tip of the iceberg. But, not here.

And then finally my Sight showed me something, something I’d overlooked simply because it was so very big. The hill was alive, and it was watching me. I couldn’t make out any actual eyes, even with my Sight, but I could feel their regard. The whole hill . . . either was something, or covered something, very huge and very old. The steady gaze didn’t feel particularly dangerous, or menacing. Just . . . interested. So I faced the hill, bowed politely, and raised my voice on that empty silent night.

“Good evening. I am Edwin Drood. May I inquire, whom do I have the honour of addressing?”

The answering voice rolled around inside my head like a long crash of thunder, ancient and powerful, but strangely . . . wistful.

Drood . . . Yes, I know that name. Though it has been long and long since any of that name came to talk with me. I am a dragon, Edwin Drood. Or at least, a dragon’s head. Cut off long ago, by the Baron Frankenstein. Left here to rot, as a warning to others. But I am a dragon of the old blood, and we do not die easily. I did not rot. I watched him with my eyes, and I cursed him with my voice, and eventually he had his people cover me over with earth and stone, and I became a hill. And so . . . I remain, slowly dying, slowly passing from this world of men.

“All right,” I said. “That . . . is just unfair. I have business with the current occupants of Castle Frankenstein, but after I’ve dealt with them . . . Would you like to come home with me? You’d be welcome at Drood Hall, for whatever time you have left.”

I couldn’t tell you why I made the offer. I never met a dragon that didn’t deserve killing on general principles, like the one at the Magnificat . . . but I felt sorry for this one. Just left lying here, alone and ignored, fading away down the years . . . It didn’t sit right with me. I know; it’s stray dog syndrome with a vengeance, but . . . the family could learn a lot from talking to a dragon. We don’t normally get the chance.

Home . . . Yes, Drood. I think I would like that. The world is very quiet here, and empty. I would enjoy having something new to look at.

“I’ve noticed that,” I said. “Where is everything? What happened to all the inhabitants of the Hidden World?”

They killed them. Killed them all. From the greatest to the smallest, from the most dangerous to the most insignificant, they wiped them all out. In the space of one long bloody night.

I didn’t have to ask who they were. The Immortals had protected their privacy and their security by destroying everything that surrounded them. Just because they could. And I thought my family was ruthless . . .

“I have business with those murderous sons of bitches,” I said. “When it’s all over, I’ll send a message to my people, and we’ll see about getting you out from under this hill. Talk to you later.”

Good-bye, Drood. It is a kind offer, and I wish you good fortune. But honesty compels me to inform you that in my experience, no one comes back from Castle Frankenstein.

I followed the increasingly rough road up the side of dragon hill, and finally came to a halt atop a tall bluff, looking down at the ruins of Castle Frankenstein. Even this close, the illusion was perfect. Just a couple of stumpy stone towers, a few tumbledown walls, crawling ivy and dark shadows; all of it standing starkly against the dark sky. It would have been convincing . . . but even with my foreknowledge of its true nature, I would have known something was wrong. There was no trace of any of the wildlife that would normally have infested such a ruin. I couldn’t See a single life sign anywhere. No rats, no wild dogs or feral cats, not even a single bat. And that . . . was a real giveaway. I looked the ruins over carefully with my Sight, but couldn’t See a single gap or weakness anywhere in the illusion. Which meant I was going to have to do it the hard way.

I started down the steep crumbling path that led to the Castle, wincing every time I dislodged a few small rocks, but I hadn’t got far before I had to stop abruptly. The way was blocked by the Immortals’ first line of defence: a simple but incredibly powerful force field. It hung on the air before me, invisible, intangible, but carrying enough energy to fry me on the spot if I so much as touched it with a fingertip. There was a built-in avoidance ward, a basic go away nothing to see here influence, enough to keep out the tourists; but I was concentrating so hard on not making any noise that my Sight only caught it at the last moment. I’m pretty sure my torc would have saved me by automatically armouring up, but that would have set off God alone knew how many alarms. So I stood very still, feeling the cold sweat bead on my face, as I realised how close I’d just come to blowing my whole mission.

Time to use the Chameleon Codex. I touched a single fingertip to the silver cuff link, muttered the activating Words, and the stored DNA data rushed into my system, rewriting me from within.

My flesh crawled, surging and rippling all over my body, like a terrible itch I couldn’t scratch, and then I swayed on my feet as everything suddenly snapped into place. I held up my hands, turning them back and forth, but in the gloom they looked just the same. Hard to tell with hands, really. I started to call up the Merlin Glass, so I could study my new face in its mirror, but again stopped myself just in time. Just the proximity of such a powerful artefact would undoubtedly trigger its own set of alarms. I had to trust that I was Rafe now, right down to his Immortal DNA.

And people say their lives are complicated.

I walked forward, into the force field, and it opened up before me, its subtle energies trailing across my bare face like caressing fingers. And then I was through, and moving on, and Castle Frankenstein lay open and defenceless before me.