From Hell with Love

CHAPTER ONE The Return of Doctor Delirium

In the secret agent business, no one is necessarily who or what they say they are. It comes with the job, and the territory. Agents in the field collect names and identities the way normal people collect credit cards; and just like you, we all have to pay the cost when the bill comes due. Use names are common, if only to help us avoid the consequences of our actions. I’m Shaman Bond as often as I’m Eddie Drood. In fact, a lot of the time I think I prefer being Shaman; he doesn’t have the duties and responsibilities of being a Drood.

And it’s not just us poor bastards risking our lives out in the field—no organisation is ever what it appears to be, when seen from the outside. They all have levels within levels, inner circles and hidden agendas, and the left hand is never allowed to know who the right hand is killing. Like the onion, there are layers within layers within layers, and sometimes, just like the onion, we have no heart.

The Droods are a family, as well as an organisation. Anything for the family, we are taught to say, from a very early age. And if you can’t trust your family, who can you trust?

It’s always hot as hell in Los Angeles, but that’s just one of the reasons why the natives call it Hell A. On the one side you’ve got Hollywood, where all your dreams can come true, including all the really disappointing ones; and on the other side you’ve got Disneyland, where dreams are up for sale, or at least rent. And in between . . . there’s all the sin and avarice in the world, just waiting for you to put a foot wrong. Everyone who matters turns up in LA eventually, because LA is a city that deals in temptation. Especially for the kind of people who like to think they’re above the laws and moral constraints that operate in the rest of the world. Las Vegas deals in money, New York deals in deals, but LA deals in sin.

Hollywood is the town where people will sell their soul for a three-picture deal; or a sit-down with a big-name producer; or just for a walk-on in a popular sitcom. Hardly surprising, then, that the place is full of people ready to buy as well as sell. You can buy anything in LA, if you’re prepared to pay the price. Dreams come cheap in Hollywood, because there’s a glut on the market.

I arrived in Los Angeles on a commercial air flight, under the Shaman Bond name. Business class, so as not to draw attention. You have to keep up the character, as well as the name, and Shaman Bond had never gone first class in his life. Ordinarily, I would have simply activated the Merlin Glass, and stepped from the family Hall in England to my destination in Los Angeles, but apparently using a major magical item that powerful would set off all kinds of alarm bells, among all the wrong people. And since I was supposed to be operating under the radar on this one, I did it the hard way. And made a point of keeping all my receipts. The family’s been coming down really hard on expense claims recently; just because a few of us have been known to be a little . . . creative, on occasion.

And I am here to tell you, fourteen hours cooped up in a plane gives you a whole new insight into air rage.

To my surprise, Los Angeles turned out to look exactly like it does on all the television shows. Brilliant blue sky, towering palm trees, more fast-moving traffic than the mind can comfortably cope with, and a sun so hot it’s like stepping into a blast furnace. My bare skin actually smarted from contact with the sunlight, so I grabbed the nearest taxi and told the very laid-back driver to take me to the Magnificat Hotel in Anaheim.

The driver just grunted, took a long drag on his hand-rolled, and steered the taxi straight into the thundering traffic with a casual disregard for road safety, and indeed survival, that took my breath away. The driver was big and black and uncommunicative. He’d covered the inside of his cab with assorted voodoo charms, pictures of the saints, and a whole bunch of severed chicken feet. More feathers and fetishes dangled from the roof. I would have settled for one of those little green pine things. I wondered whether I should inform the driver that I knew for a fact more than half his collection was complete and utter bullshit. I decided against it.

I was going to Anaheim, not Hollywood. Anaheim is on the whole other side of town, as far as you can get from the glamour and the ballyhoo and still be in the same city. There was a Disneyland park, which I hoped to visit if I got the chance. If only to chat up Snow White. (Boyhood crushes are a terrible thing.) Still, despite all my best intentions, I was just a bit overawed at being in a city I knew only from films and television. We passed off-ramp signs, for places like Echo Beach and Mulholland Drive, names the whole world knew. It was like seeing road signs to Narnia and Oz.

I was in Los Angeles to meet up with the local field agent, Luther Drood. I didn’t know the man, but then, it’s a large family, and field agents by their very nature don’t come home much. In fact, it’s the reason why most of us become field agents. Luther had made Los Angeles his home for more than twenty years, and despite all the good work he’d done, there was always the chance he’d gone native. Nothing like being a big fish in a small pond to make you forget all about the sharks who operate in the larger world.

I was supposed to meet Luther at the Magnificat, the single biggest hotel in LA, opening tomorrow morning in a gala ceremony at nine a.m., sharp. But Luther and I had business to attend to in the Magnificat today, and how we got on would decide whether there would be any grand opening tomorrow. Whenever possible, I like to get in, do the job, and get out again without being noticed, but given the nature of the job, sometimes fire, general mayhem and extensive property damage are just unavoidable side effects.

The taxi driver fixed me in his rearview mirror with his calm, steady gaze. “So, man, are you an actor, or a writer?”

“Neither,” I said firmly.

There was a long pause, as he tried to get his head around such a novel concept. “Hell, man, everyone here is either an actor, or a writer. Or a producer. Everything else is just what you do to pay the bills, till the big break comes around. You’re a Brit, right? Love the accent. You guys make the best villains . . . So, are you a producer? Because I got this killer screenplay, guaranteed to do major business. All about this guy who can turn invisible, but only when he’s naked . . . You don’t like that one? Okay, how about this for high concept—James Bond meets Alien!”

“Been there, done that,” I said. “Just drive.”

And there must have been something in my voice, because he sniffed loudly, shut up, and fixed his gaze on the road ahead. He turned his music up loud, which seemed to consist mainly of bass beats, heavy grunts and extensive use of the word “ho.” I didn’t think it had anything to do with the song from Snow White. Unless one of the dwarves was called Shouty.

We hadn’t been driving long before we hit hard traffic. Every lane was full, in every direction, and everyone had ground to a halt. There was a lot of bad-tempered horn abuse, and even more harsh language. My driver just sat back in his seat and rolled up another fat one, quite content to sit there as long as it took, and watch his fare rise. I wasn’t. I had work to be about, and a deadline to meet. So I got out of the taxi, paid off the driver, (including a tip nicely calculated to spoil his whole day without inciting actual violence), and walked up the highway, strolling in and out of the parked cars. And no one saw me, because I had armoured up and invoked stealth mode.

The marvellous armour of the Droods flowed out of the golden torc around my throat, and covered me in a moment from head to toe, like a second skin. The awful heat was cut off in a moment, the unbreathable smog was filtered into air fresh as a spring morning, and I felt stronger, smarter, and fully alive for the first time. And, more importantly, I was pretty much invulnerable to anything the world could throw at me. (I say pretty much, because no one’s actually tested it against a nuclear blast, or a full-on faerie curse . . . but the family Armourer was working on that.) With the armour in stealth mode, I couldn’t be seen by anyone or anything, including all kinds of electronic surveillance. (I’ve never been too sure how that actually works; presumably the torc rewrites the signal, to edit me out. The Armourer did try to explain how the strange matter in my torc works, and I had to go and lie down in a darkened room for several hours.)

I strolled in and out of the parked cars, resisting the urge to strike down some of the louder and more obnoxious drivers with an invisible fist round the ear, and quickly decided it was in everyone’s best interests if I got out of there as fast as possible. So I broke into a run, moving faster and faster as the incredible strength of my armoured legs kicked in. The cars became just a blur as I got up to speed, shooting in and out of gaps in a split second, thanks to my speeded-up reflexes. I was laughing into my featureless golden mask now, arms pumping easily at my sides as I really hit my stride. The world was just a smear of colours, every sound dopplering down behind me, and I wasn’t even breathing hard. My family has the best toys in the world.

Soon enough I was past the pileup that had caused all the congestion, and was sprinting in and out of moving traffic. Cars and trucks and bikes roared along, filling all the lane space available, and I had to slow down or ˚ risk running right over them. Reflexes are great, but they’re no match for an idiot behind the wheel, of which Los Angeles has more than its fair share. I got fed up dodging drivers who changed lane with no warning and no signal, so I waited for a lengthy articulated to come along, raced along beside it to match speeds, and then jumped up onto its roof. My armoured legs sent me flying through the air, and then absorbed the impact on landing so completely the articulated’s driver never even knew I was there. I struck a heroic pose that no one could see, just because, and surfed the articulated all the way to Anaheim.

I got hit by an awful lot of insects, but the armour just absorbed them.

When we finally got to Anaheim, I switched from vehicle to vehicle, riding the roofs as I followed the street map I’d memorised, and jumped off a block short of the Magnificat. I found a quiet side street, and armoured down when no one was looking. And just like that, I was just another tourist, wandering happily down the street. The air was blisteringly hot again, and so thick with pollution you could practically chew the stuff, but that’s what you get for living in the real world. No one paid me any attention as I joined the throng in the main street, heading for the Magnificat. There’s nothing memorable in my appearance. I’ve gone to great pains to appear to be just another face in the crowd. Field agents are trained to blend in, and not be noticed. It’s a useful skill for a field agent, not looking like anyone in particular. The last thing you want in this business is to be noticed or remembered.

Even when I was still a long way off, I could see the Magnificat Hotel. It was the tallest building for miles, a massive steel and glass block that towered over everything else, effortlessly dominating the scene without a single trace of character or style in its appearance. The neon sign with the hotel’s name was almost brutally ugly. Everything about the building shouted that it was there to serve a purpose, nothing more. All very efficient, but a total pain in the arse to look at. Ugly buildings are like ugly women—you can’t help feeling someone should have made more of an effort. I said this to my girlfriend Molly once, and she hit me. I’ve got a lot more careful about what I say out loud since I acquired a girlfriend. I still think things, though. Sometimes very loudly.

Luther Drood was already there, waiting. He looked exactly like the photo in his file, except even more tanned, if that were possible. Luther was a tall, heavily built man in his late forties, wearing a baggy Hawaiian shirt over blindingly white shorts, and a pair of designer flip-flops. He had a broad, lined face, with close-cut grey hair and a bushy grey moustache. He was standing right in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at nothing, smoking a large cigar as though it was the most important thing in his world. But people just walked right past him, paying him no attention at all . . . because he had a mobile phone at his ear. Those things are a godsend to the modern agent—the perfect excuse for just standing around, doing nothing.

Luther saw me approaching, put his phone away, and nodded easily to me. As though he saw me every day of the week. Typical LA native: cool and calm and so laid-back it was a wonder he didn’t fall over. I stopped before him, gave him my own very cool and collected nod, threw in a quick smile for good measure, and offered him my hand. He clasped my pale offering in his large bronzed hand, and gave it a quick meaningless LA shake.

“Hi,” he said, in a deep and apparently sincere voice. “Welcome to LA. I’m Philip Harlowe.”

I gave him a look. “Does that fool anyone?”

“Does Shaman Bond?” He allowed me a small tight smile. He still hadn’t removed his cigar from his mouth. “Everyone knows use names are fakes, but the kind of people we have to deal with are only ever comfortable with masques and illusions. So better a false ID you know is fake, than a seemingly real name you know you can’t trust.”

“But we’re family,” I said. “You’re Luther and I’m . . .”

“Please.” He stopped me with a raised hand. “Everyone in the family, and everyone in the field, knows Eddie Drood. Your reputation proceeds you—like an oncoming missile.” He took a map out of his back pocket, and unfolded it. “Look at this. It isn’t important or even relevant, but maps make excellent cover. No one pays any attention to two tourists studying a map.”

He had a point. I stood beside him, and looked at the Magnificat over the top of the map. Luther finally removed his cigar, just for a moment, and blew a perfect smoke ring. If my Molly had been there, she would have turned it into a perfect square, just to put him in his place. I settled for giving him a hard look.

“I thought tobacco was forbidden in this health conscious, zero tolerance paradise?”

“That’s cigarettes,” Luther said easily. “Cigars are different. Only important people smoke cigars, and no one bothers important people in LA. Even a complete health nazi will light your cigar for you, if they thought you could get them a meeting.”

“My worst fears are realised,” I said sadly. “You’ve gone native.”

He raised an eyebrow. I’d never seen so much work go into the creation of such a bitingly sardonic gesture. I felt like applauding.

“At least I still serve the family,” said Luther. “I’ve never tried to run it. Or run away from it.”

I sighed, plucked the cigar out of his mouth, dropped it on the ground and stamped on it. Luther made a shocked, pained sound, as though I’d just shot his dog. I gave him my very best hard glare.

“Do you have a problem with my being here, Luther?”

He would have liked to glare at me, but his cool and laid-back persona wouldn’t let him, so he settled for looking down his nose at me. There was a lot of nose to look down. Noses run in our family. (Old family joke. Really old. You have no idea.) Luther must have realised my attention was wandering, because he stuck his face right in close to mine.

“Just for the record,” I said. “Second-hand cigar smoke is in no way attractive.”

“This is my town,” said Luther. “My territory. No one knows it better than me. The people, the organisations, the schemes and the hustles. They didn’t need to send you. I could have handled this myself. I’ve handled a lot worse in my time, and never once made a ripple in the waters. I have a reputation for getting things done and keeping things quiet, and I don’t want it upset. I operate without being seen, behind the scenes. I keep the lid on things, I defuse situations before they get out of control, and no one ever knows I was there. It’s the only way you can operate, in a media-saturated town like this. The last thing I need is a show-off, grandstanding overachiever like you, coming in here playing the hero, overturning the applecart and then setting it on fire. I know all about you, Eddie. No gesture too dramatic, no action too violent. Well, you aren’t going to operate like that here. We can’t make waves; we’d be noticed. Even after everything you’ve done recently, we’re still supposed to be a secret organisation of secret agents.”

“After everything I’ve done?” I said, innocently.

He wanted to splutter and raise his voice. I could tell.

“I know your reputation,” he said doggedly. “It doesn’t impress me. You’re impetuous, you’re unnecessarily aggressive, and you’re sloppy! How many times have you been seen in armour in public? That’s not how we get things done!”

“I saved the entire world from the Hungry Gods,” I said.

“And got a lot of good Droods killed in the process. You’re not getting me killed, rushing in where devils fear to tread. This is my territory, and we’re going to do things my way. Either you agree right now to follow my orders, or I’ll kick you out of town and deal with this problem myself. And to hell with the Matriarch’s instructions!”

I considered him thoughtfully. “If my girlfriend was here, she’d make all your pubic hair fall out, just by looking at you in a Certain Way. I’m not as subtle as she ˚ is. So either you agree to work with me, as a full partner . . . or I’ll just punch you repeatedly in the head till your eyes change colour.”

“You see! You see! This is what I’m talking about! You can’t operate like that in a city like this!”

“Pretty sure I can,” I said.

He glared at me for a moment, and then his face went studiously blank, his eyes cold and calculating. “Is it true?” he said. “Did you kill the Grey Fox?”

“Yes,” I said. “I killed my Uncle James. And he meant a lot more to me than you do.”

“I knew James,” Luther said flatly. “Worked with him on a few missions, back in the day. He was a good man, and a real agent, and a credit to the family. I knew your mother, too. Your father, less so. They got themselves killed by rushing in without first . . .”

“Don’t go there,” I said, and something in my voice, or perhaps in my eyes, stopped him dead.

“Things were better the way they used to be,” Luther said finally. “Back when the Droods were a real power in the world, and the world did what it was told. For its own good. Now, countries and governments and organisations all go their own way, and the Droods . . . are just one more force among many. Used to be, when we spoke people paid attention. Now all we do is run around playing catch-up, occasionally snatching victory from the jaws of defeat.”

“We were never meant to rule the world,” I said, just a bit tiredly. “Just protect people from outside forces and from themselves, when need be. I know things were easier for us in the past, but the price we paid was too high. Or have you forgotten that our old armour was made from the imprisoned souls of sacrificed Drood babies?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” said Luther. “But you have to admit, we did a better job when our hands weren’t tied behind our backs.”

“A better job?” I said. “Two World Wars and a decades-long Cold War, in the last century alone? No, we spent too long holding Humanity’s hand; it’s well past time they grew up and took responsibility for themselves.”

“And how many of the sheep will die, because the shepherd won’t intervene?”

“We protect them from wolves. Everything else is up to them.”

“I didn’t become a field agent to see people get hurt on my watch!”

“That’s how children learn. We’ll still be here, to pick them up when they fall.”

“Nice words,” said Luther. “Pity about all the blood and suffering and death.”

“You’ve spent too long in Hell A,” I said. “You’ve got far too used to being in charge of people. For their own good, of course. You’re a bit old to be a field agent, aren’t you, Luther? Most of us get called back in once we hit forty. And you’re forty-nine. I checked your file. So what are you still doing here? Could it be you see them all as sheep now, unable to cope without your benevolent authority?”

“I have a good record here,” said Luther. “Done a good job, down the years. I’ve made good local connections, carefully maintained and nurtured, with important individuals and organisations. In LA, and in Hollywood especially, it’s all who you know. Who you can get to take your call, and then do what you tell them to do. The right names, the right relationships, can open doors here that would stay shut to anyone else. Even another Drood.”

“I was right,” I said. “You have gone native.”

“Training a replacement, and rebuilding all the connections and relationships would take years! The Matriarch knows that. She’s just . . . looking for the right man, for me to train. Besides, I’m not ready to give up yet. Not nearly ready to go back to the Hall, and sit behind a desk, pushing paper around. I’ve got years left in me yet! I’ve given my life to this job, to this town!”

“Doesn’t mean you own the job, or the town,” I said. “They sur vived before you, and they’ll do just fine after you’ve gone. We go out into the world to serve the family, and Humanity, and when we stop forgetting that, it’s time to go home.”

“I’ve thought of nothing else, since they said they were sending you,” said Luther. “They never sent anyone before.”

“I’m not your replacement, Luther.”

“No, you’re my wake-up call.” He smiled briefly, mirthlessly. “I’d miss the excitement of this place—all the larger than life people and places—but I have no roots here. No people who’d actually miss me if I disappeared tomorrow. We’re not allowed to have friends or loves or real relationships, out in the field. Because the family doesn’t allow it. That way your only loyalty is to the job, and the family. All these years I’ve fought being called back home, but I don’t have anything here I couldn’t pack into a suitcase.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s why you need to come home, to the Hall. Because things are different there, now.”

“I’m forty-nine,” said Luther. “Old-school Drood. Different . . . scares me.”

“That’s good,” I said. “That’s how you know you’re still alive.”

“Spare me the platitudes,” said Luther. “This is LA. I can get them wholesale here.”

“Sorry,” I said.

We stood together, hidden from the people passing by behind the protection of our unfolded map. Men and women went on their way and noticed nothing unusual, because Droods are trained not to stand out. Even when in the midst of an emotional crisis. It’s not easy being a field agent. Or a Drood. But then, nothing worth doing is ever easy. Across the street, the Magnificat Hotel stared calmly back at us, smugly expensive and exclusive, ready for its Grand Opening tomorrow morning. It was a really big building. Just looking up at the top floor made me dizzy and unsteady on my feet, as though at any moment I might lose my footing and be snatched up into the sky, falling up and up into the endless brilliant blue. So I stopped looking up, and made myself concentrate on all the colourful bunting and banners that had been draped across the hotel front like so many ribbons on a present. Large signs proclaimed parties and ceremonies and even awards, along with the promise of various big stars and names and celebrities. None of whom would have been seen dead at a hotel opening if their careers were really going as well as their publicists said.

(Molly has an insatiable appetite for the glossies and the gossip rags. I have therefore acquired a certain amount of celebrity information through sheer proximity and osmosis.)

“We have to get in and out before the media coverage starts,” said Luther.

“Oh sure,” I said. “Plenty of time yet. Hours. I still can’t believe we’re here because of that loser, Doctor Delirium. You are sure he’s here, in the city, waiting for his moment?”

“Quite sure,” said Luther. “He’s been keeping his head down so far, with about thirty of his people. I’ve got some of my people watching them. The Doctor can’t make a move without us knowing. Why did the Matriarch send you in particular, Eddie? When has it ever taken more than one Drood to handle Doctor Delirium?”

“I have a history with the Doctor,” I said. “I ran an operation in London, some time back, to deny him funding for some new scheme of his, but he got away. Reluctantly, I am forced to admit that I don’t have nearly the financial acumen of the late departed Matthew Drood. He really knew the City. But, unfortunately, he turned out to be a part of the Zero Tolerance insurrection and a traitor to the family.”

“So you killed him,” said Luther.

“No,” I said. “Though he’d probably have been better off if I had. Anyway, we still haven’t found anyone to replace him, so I’m handling London all on my own. And without Matthew’s insider knowledge, I betrayed my hand a little too early and it all went to rat shit in a hurry. Doctor Delirium set his mercenaries on me, and while I was kicking them around he made a swift exit. He always did believe in letting others do his fighting for him. We still don’t know exactly what he was up to in London, or what precisely he needed so much new money for . . . He’s never been short of cash in the past. Anyway, I was really . . . quite upset, when he got away from me, so when we learned he’d turned up here, I persuaded the Matriarch to let me come and assist you in taking the Doctor down.”

“Ah,” said Luther. “So this is nothing to do with me, and all to do with you. You’re only here because the Matriarch favours you. Because she’s your grandmother.”

I had to smile. “Shows how little you know her.”

I didn’t take Doctor Delirium seriously. Nobody did. He had a secret base and a private army only because an uncle left them to him in his will. Ever since, the man who used to be a decent small-time research chemist has been hamming it up big-time as a mad science villain, Doctor Delirium, and building up his army with small ads in the back of Soldier of Fortune magazine. He’s based somewhere in the Amazon rain forest, after being hounded out of every civilised country, and the Nightside, and spends all his time now plotting grand schemes and revenges against all of civilisation. A little man with lots of money and resources, and serious delusions of grandeur. Always a bad combination.

He might have become a real problem, if he hadn’t been such a prat.

His usual modus operandi was to work up some awful new disease in his secret laboratories, and then threaten to unleash them on the world, if all the various governments didn’t agree to pay him off, in rare postage stamps. I suppose once a collector, always a collector. But the Doctor was such a sloppy operator we always managed to find some weak spot in his organisation, and then we’d just squeeze the knowledge we needed out of some poor sod at the bottom of the food chain, get our hands on a specimen of his new disease before he’d even finished testing it . . . and by the time he got around to issuing his threats, we already ˚ had a cure or a vaccine. End of problem. On a few occasions, we have found it necessary to bomb his secret labs, but he always escapes and sets up somewhere else. The Amazon rain forest is a really big place.

“Who’s the field agent in his area, these days?” said Luther.

“Conrad Drood,” I said. “Good man, old African hand, very experienced. But he has a lot of ground to cover, and limited resources. And, he has to be very careful every time he ventures into the rain forest area; Timothy Drood’s still in there somewhere.”

“Tiger Tim?” said Luther. “That crazy bastard? He’s still alive? Why hasn’t someone killed him yet?”

“Because he’s still a Drood, for all his many faults. And we are notoriously hard to kill. Talk to me about Doctor Delirium. How long has he been here? What do you know, about why he’s here?”

“Not much,” Luther admitted. “He’s only been in town a few days, holed up in a motel with his mercenaries. Word is, he’s here to attend a very private auction, being held on the top floor of this very hotel, tonight. Before it officially opens. It’s hard to get any real information; my people are using every listening device and surveillance spell at their command, but the Doctor’s defences are first class. But, it seems he’s come all the way here, so far from his heavily protected comfort zone, because he’s desperate to acquire one of the items at this auction. Doctor Delirium wants the Apocalypse Door.”

“I read that name in your last report,” I said. “There’s no record of such a thing in the Hall Library, or the Old Library. Which would normally suggest it can’t be anything that dangerous, or significant, because if it was we’d have heard about it.”

“Possibly,” said Luther. “But any use of the word Apocalypse has to be just a bit worrying.”

“Either way, the Matriarch has decided that Doctor Delirium is not to be allowed to get his hands on this Apocalypse Door, whatever it might turn out to be. We are to put a stop to his efforts, give him and his people a good ˚ kicking, and then send him home with a flea in his ear. If only for being such a bloody nuisance.”

“Why don’t we just kill him?” said Luther.

“You’ve been in LA too long,” I said sternly. “Watching too many cop shows. We’re supposed to be agents, not assassins. Otherwise there’d be no difference between us and the forces we fight. It’s enough that we protect Humanity; we don’t get to bully them. Besides, Doctor Delirium really is a scientific genius, when he can be bothered. We might just need his help some day. Right now he’s a menace, but one day he might be an asset. Droods have to take the long view. So, we spank him and send him home crying. Tell me more about this auction.”

“On the top floor, strictly private, cut off from the rest of the hotel,” said Luther. “One night only, before the hotel officially opens, very definitely By Invitation Only. Lots of armed guards in place, security people everywhere, trespassers will be disappeared. The auction’s being run by the Really Old Curiosity Shoppe people; long established firm, very good reputation. Of a kind. They specialise in acquiring rare and unusual items, with or without their owners’ permission, and then offering them up at their very private auctions for the delectation of interested (and extremely wealthy) parties. No questions, no provenance, and absolutely no guarantees or refunds. But, they can get you things no one else can, things from the Past, Present and Futures. Sometimes things no one ever really thought existed, and a few that just plain shouldn’t.”

“I’ve heard of the company,” I said. “Who runs things, these days?”

Luther shrugged. “No one knows, and the company likes it that way. I suppose it’s possible someone in our family knows, but if they do it’s way above my level.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “You used to run the family. And you’re still part of the Advisory Council. Are you sure you don’t know who these people are?”

It was my turn to shrug. “The family ˚ as a whole knows lots of things, but at any given time we all only know what we need to know.”

“Why are you just a field agent again?” Luther said bluntly.

“I prefer to maintain a comfortable distance from the family,” I said. “Running it will do that to you.”

Luther carefully refolded his map, put it away, produced an oversized colour brochure and handed it to me. “This is an advance copy of the auction catalogue.”

I studied it carefully. Very expensive, stiff laminated paper, lots of colour photographs; images so sharp they seemed to jump right off the page. Which was actually quite disturbing in places, given the nature of the images. No suggested prices, or values, though. Probably came under the heading of If you have to ask, you can’t afford it. I looked at Luther.

“How did you get hold of an advance copy? If they even suspect a Drood knows they’re here . . .”

Luther looked at me pityingly. “This is my territory. I know people, and people who know people.”

“Do any of these people know you’re a Drood?”

“Of course not. I’m Philip Harlowe. Whoever he is.”

I sniffed, and went back to studying the catalogue. Items up for grabs included a formula from thirteenth-century Venice to make your blood undrinkable by vampires; a spell from Old Moore’s grimoire to make ghosts corporeal so you could have sex with them; a wristwatch that could show you the exact time in fifty-two different universes, to make dimension-hopping more exact; a crystal alien skull that when properly provoked would provide you with mental images of all the worlds its owner had visited; and a Word tattooed on the framed and mounted skin of a murdered priest, that when spoken aloud would blow this world apart like a firecracker in a rotten apple. Allegedly.

There were photos of a Martian tripod (some assembly required). a hard-boiled Roc’s egg (double yolk), a Crystal Egg (see what the Curate saw), a Hellfire grenade, an Angel’s tears preserved in aspic, and Baphomet’s Engine of Destruction. Just looking at that last one made my eyes hurt. I handed the catalogue back to Luther.

“We need to take the Word back with us,” I said briskly. “Can’t have something like that running around loose. Besides, the Armourer always says I never bring him back anything fun.”

“I also have a list of some of the Big Names and Major Players who are supposed to be attending the auction,” said Luther.

I gave him another of my hard looks, though he seemed to be developing an immunity. “Any more useful information, or are you planning to keep on doling it out one bit at a time, in case I get overexcited?”

“No,” said Luther. “That’s it.”

He handed me the paper, and I ran my eyes quickly down the list of names. I then resisted the urge to whistle, or indeed curse loudly. A whole lot of Very Important Personages, Complete Bastards and not a few Powers and Dominions. Not one of them the kind of people even Droods like to cross without heavy weaponry and serious backup.

Jerusalem Stark, the Knight Apostate, heretic and blasphemer. Used to be one of the London Knights, until he had a crisis of faith. Now he carries his dead love’s heart in a silver cage on his belt, right next to the sword he used to kill the Man who would be King. Then there was Prince Gaylord the Damned, Nuncio to the Court of King Artur, of Sinister Albion. Aunt Sally Darque, current Witch of Endor, and banned from every coven and gathering in Europe after that nasty affair at the Danse Academy in the German Black Forest. Three Dukes of Hell, attending via the possessed; two living Saints (stigmata permitting); and a Name I didn’t even want to think out loud, in case He heard me.

“What the hell does Doctor Delirium think he’s doing, mixing with people like this?” I said. “He is not in their class. Nowhere near. He must know that. Hell, he won’t even get through the first round of bidding . . .”

“There’s no way we could hope to infiltrate the auction with so many Major Players around,” said Luther. “That’s why I thought we should get here early, find a nice hiding place, wait for Doctor Delirium to show up, and then put the grab on him before he even enters the hotel. That way he doesn’t even get within spitting distance of the Apocalypse Door. Whatever that might turn out to be.”

“Strike your enemy down from behind, when he’s not looking,” I said cheerfully. “That’s the Drood way. Though I think we’ll be better off hiding inside the hotel . . . That way we can sneak onto the top floor, grab the Word and the Apocalypse Door, and anything else worth acquiring, before we go home.”

“What if the auction people find out it was us?” Luther said carefully. “I have to live in this town, remember? And if they catch us actually burgling their items, there could be major firepower, curses for everyone, and blood and slaughter all over the shop.”

“Well, let’s not let that happen, then,” I said.

We both looked the Magnificat Hotel over very carefully. To the everyday eye, it looked like just another really ugly, tasteless expensive building. But Luther and I are Droods, and when we choose, we can See the world as it is, and not as most people think it is. We both concentrated, and the torcs around our throats extended long filaments of strange matter, that shot up the sides of our faces to form really quite stylish golden sunglasses over our eyes. And through these special lenses we Saw the Magnificat as it really was—in every awful detail.

Major security defences surrounded the hotel on every side, roiling and spitting on the air in tight little bundles of spite and malevolence. Force fields, magic screens, avoidance spells and Move along nothing to see here influences. Floating curses, proximity mindwipes, soul scramblers, and bottle demons lying buried under the hotel patio like so many red-eyed trap-door spiders. Screaming ghosts with terrible teeth and claws, just waiting to be unleashed, and a whole bunch of really nasty transformation spells just waiting to be activated. All kinds of nastiness, spreading out from the hotel in overlapping layers of appalling vileness. And up on the roof of the hotel . . .

“Oh bloody hell,” I said. “Luther, do you See what I See, up on the roof? Is that what I think it is? It is, isn’t it? They’ve only got a bloody dragon up there!”

“And not just any old dragon,” said Luther, craning his head right back. “Not one of those stupid and extremely ugly beasts the elves ride around on. That . . . is one of the Great Old Beasts of England. That is the Lampton Wyrm.”

“You have got to be kidding,” I said. “Really? Who’d be crazy enough to dig that old horror up, and let it loose in the world? Is it tied down? Tell me it’s tied down! Tell you what, I’ll start running and you try and keep up.”

“Look at the rear left leg,” said Luther, entirely unperturbed. “See the nice glowing chain? That’s an elf binding. It’ll hold, for the duration of the auction. After that, well, they must have some plan in mind.”

“It’s times like these when I wish I’d paid more attention in class,” I said. “I know we covered Old Beasts, but I’m pretty sure there was a girls’ volleyball match going on outside the window that afternoon . . . The Lampton Wyrm was the one where if you cut it up, the pieces just joined back together again, right? How did they kill it, in the end?”

“They drowned it. Dug a great pit, filled it full of water, dragged the Wyrm into the pit and held it under till it drowned. Of course it didn’t stay dead, but they covered the pit over with a really heavy-duty seal, and locked it in place with really powerful magics. So the Wyrm just kept on waking up and drowning again, over and over, for centuries. Not that I feel in any way sorry for it; the Lampton Wyrm killed thousands of people before it was stopped.”

“I think we can safely say it isn’t in a ˚ very good mood, now it’s out,” I said. “I’m almost sure it’s looking right at us and I do wish it wouldn’t. How in hell are we supposed to deal with something like that?”

“Well, here’s my plan,” said Luther. “It’s up on the roof, so let’s not go up there. Let us not, in fact, go anywhere near the bloody thing.”

“Good plan,” I said. “I really like that plan. I want to marry that plan and have its babies.”

“You’re weird,” said Luther.

We looked some more at the Magnificat Hotel. The strange matter sunglasses allowed us to See all four sides at once, in as much detail as we needed. And more and more defences kept popping up, revealing themselves openly, as though defying us to do anything about them.

“There are dimensional gates attached to all the outer doors,” I said. “Preprogrammed to send you Somewhere Else if you open a door without the right passWord.”

“Standard operating procedure, when you’re running an auction half the unnatural world would love to gate-crash,” murmured Luther. “Crank your Sight up to full, and take a look inside the hotel.”

I concentrated, and the golden shades sent my Sight into overdrive. The outer façade of the Magnificat seemed to leap forward, filling my vision, and then I plunged through and in, looking around the deserted lobby. It was all very fine and luxurious, with no staff anywhere, and no security guards in sight. Presumably the auction people had a lot of faith in their outer defences. I would have. But there were no obvious guardians or booby traps, so I sent my Sight shooting up through the hotel, floor by floor. I spotted the odd group of security guards here and there, oblivious to my mental presence, all of them heavily armed but fairly relaxed. They weren’t expecting any real trouble until the auction was up and running. But the sheer number of guards increased steadily as my Sight ascended, until finally I reached the top floor, and the site of the auction.

The function rooms had all been opened up and combined into one great display area. There were people everywhere, moving back and forth, transporting objects, and getting everything in order. The security guards just stood at their stations and watched them do it. Because the guards were alive, and the auction people weren’t. They would probably have looked quite normal to the unaided eye, but Seen through my golden shades, they were quite definitely dead. Zombies. They hefted and carried, they set things in motion, they checked lights and items and cargo manifests, and not one of them had a soul. The did have quite colourful auras, which showed they were being remote-controlled by overseeing minds elsewhere. The Really Old Curiosity Shoppe people never appeared in public, even at their own auctions. All the staff, and even the auctioneer himself, would be dead men walking, remote-controlled from a safe distance through a series of cutouts, so none of the controllers could be identified or tracked down. And given that they were, when you got right down to it, just a bunch of thieves . . . it was basic common sense.

They only ever spoke through the mouths of the dead, so even their voices could never be identified.

“The security guards are all local boys,” Luther’s voice murmured in my ear. “Familiar faces, no one special. Guns and muscle, from off the rack. You can hire thousands just like these. Only here to place themselves between the more valuable items and any possibility of damage, even if the poor fools don’t know it. Hmmm. That’s odd. I can’t seem to See any of the auction items clearly. Can you?”

“No,” I said, after a moment. “Every time I concentrate on a specific item, it goes all blurry. Which means they’re hidden behind stealth screens. Really powerful screens, if our Sight can’t punch through. We can’t even be sure the Apocalypse Door is in place yet.”

“It’s there somewhere,” said Luther. “Or Doctor Delirium wouldn’t have committed himself to a personal appearance . . . Wait a minute. Hold everything. Something’s happening on the floor below.”

I pulled my Sight down a floor to match his, just in time to see Doctor Delirium and his troops appear through a dimensional door. It wasn’t much of a door, just a by the numbers rip in space and time, forced open through brute force and energy, but it succeeded where a more sophisticated gateway might not have. The Magnificat’s defences were targeted at a much better class of intruder. This attack was so basic it sneaked in under the radar. The Doctor hurried through, followed by twenty or thirty heavily armed and armoured men from his own special fighting force. You could always recognise members of Doctor Delirium’s private army, because he made them all wear his own special black and gold uniforms. They looked like escapees from a production of The Pirates of Penzance, if the costume lady had been on crack that week. Still, they established a perimeter and took up positions like they knew what they were doing, and they held their guns like they knew how to use them. A mercenary is still a mercenary, even if he is dressed like a dick.

The floor’s security guards were no problem. A nerve gas grenade had preceded Doctor Delirium through the dimensional door, and the guards went down almost immediately, without managing a single warning shot. Presumably the Doctor had protected his people against the gas in advance. The man was a genius with chemicals, when he could be bothered.

“This is why the Doctor wasn’t worried about being outbid on the Apocalypse Door,” said Luther. “The sneaky bastard’s come early, to grab it for himself. Why is he so keen on this item, Eddie? Getting the Really Old Curiosity Shoppe people mad at you is never a good idea, if you like having your organs on the inside. They have a bad temper, a long reach, and they bear grudges for generations. What is this Apocalypse Door, that Doctor Delirium’s ready to risk everything to get his hands on it?”

“The clue’s probably in the question,” I said. “I’m guessing the Door is a lot more Apocalyptic than we’ve given it credit for. And the Doctor wants it because . . . he’s not getting any younger. All his great plans have come to nothing, mostly thanks to us, and his name has become a joke. He’s a delusional scientific mastermind, but he gets no respect. He’s fed up being laughed at, he’s mad as hell and he’s not going to take it anymore.”

“Midlife crisis, in other words,” said Luther.

“Exactly. He has a scheme to rule the world, and all he needs to make it work is the Apocalypse Door.”

“A real scheme?” said Luther. “One that would actually work?”

“Yeah,” I said. “And if my arse had teeth it could play the banjo. A real plan? Come on, this is Doctor Delirium we’re talking about.”

“Even an idiot can get lucky, if he has a powerful enough weapon,” said Luther.

“There is that,” I said. “Hello, there he goes, up the back stairs to the top floor, and the auction site. At least he’s got enough sense to let his troops lead the way . . .”

The black-and-gold-clad mercenaries moved silently up the back stairs, moving with calm and sinister grace. They’d clearly rehearsed this. One man went ahead holding up a Hand of Glory, its dark magics defusing the few security spells in the stairway. Another soldier shut down the electronic surveillance systems with a small localised EMP. The Doctor gave every indication of actually having thought things through. Either that, or he’d hired someone who knew what he was doing. I knew which way I’d bet. The Doctor’s troops reached the top of the stairwell, and the man in the lead started packing plastique against the closed door. Doctor Delirium really wanted his Door. And didn’t care who got hurt in the process.

I sighed heavily, and told my torc to ˚ pull back its extension. The golden sunglasses ran quickly down my cheek, and back into the torc. The world seemed very grey, and very empty, without the Sight. I looked at Luther.

“We’re going to have to get personally involved,” I said. “A hands-on practical intervention, with no holds barred. If the Apocalypse Door really is as powerful as the Doctor clearly believes it to be . . . he can’t be allowed to have it.”

“Unfortunately, I have to agree,” said Luther. “It’s time to armour up and smite the ungodly with vim and vigour. But Eddie, please, let’s try and keep the collateral damage down to a minimum. I have to live in this town.”

“You suit yourself,” I said. “Personally, I plan to beat the shit out of anyone that doesn’t run away fast enough, throw the Doctor and his troops back through their own dimensional door, grab the Apocalypse Door and then leg it for the nearest horizon.”

“A workable plan,” said Luther. “And at least this way, we don’t have to face the bloody dragon.”

I subvocalised my activating Words, and my golden armour leapt out of my torc, insulating me from the world in a moment. I flexed my arms and breathed deeply, feeling strong and sure and more than ready to kick the arse of Evil and make it cry like a baby. Luther armoured up beside me, his golden form blazing brightly in the LA sun. For a moment he looked like the Oscar statue come to dangerous and vicious life, and then the armour shifted and stirred about his body, the strange matter flowing into new shapes and forms as he concentrated. The torc provides a basic suit of armour, like a second skin, and for centuries that was good enough for the Droods; but then a soldier from the distant future showed us how to reshape and personalise our armour, the better to strike terror into our enemies and suit our individual needs and capabilities. It takes a lot of concentration to make a new shape, and hold it, but we’re learning by doing.

Given the shape of Luther’s armour, it was clear he’d spent entirely too much time watching old Transformers cartoons. His armour was large and bulky, padded out with gun emplacements that might or might not actually do anything. I was ready to bet good money that his armour would revert to standard the moment the mayhem started, and he needed all his concentration for the fight. I still kept to the basic shape, just jazzing it up a little here and there. I favour the old knightly style, with hints of greaves and a breastplate. I still kept the featureless golden face mask. Nothing like a blank eyeless face to freak out the bad guys.

“So,” said Luther. “A traditionalist. This is the city of the future, Eddie. Only the very best will do here. Try and keep up.”

“Funny,” I said. “I was about to say the same to you.”

“Oh shit,” said Luther, abruptly.

Once again, he was staring up at the top of the hotel. I craned back my head and followed his gaze. Another dimensional doorway had opened up, hovering in the sky above the roof of the Magnificat. And this time, it was very much the real deal. A state-of-the-art, all-the-bells-and-whistles gateway; a perfect circle some hundred feet in diameter, with edges so sharply defined you could almost hear the air splitting as it hit them. I caught just a glimpse of a whole different sky through the circle, before it dropped down over the chained dragon. The Lampton Wyrm looked up, startled, its hideous gargoyle head rising up and up on its long neck, and the circle just sucked the dragon up off the roof and into itself. The circle then collapsed and disappeared, taking the dragon with it. All that remained on the roof was a short length of glowing chain.

“Happy as I am to see the dragon gone,” I said, “I find myself seriously disturbed. That . . . had to take a hell of a lot of power. Which means . . . someone else has come early to the auction.”

“Why does everything have to be so complicated?” said Luther, wistfully.

The dimensional gateway returned, just as large and twice as impressive, and a whole army of armed and armoured men fell out of it onto the hotel roof. They were all dressed in basic leathers and body armour, with no identifying patches or tags. They moved quickly to rehearsed positions on the roof, while a core group set up explosive charges.

“So, the Doctor goes in through the backdoor, and this bunch goes in through the roof,” said Luther. “Should be interesting . . . Any idea who these new boys are, Eddie?”

“Not a clue. No one should have been able to organise an operation this extensive without our knowing something in advance. I shall have some serious words with the family pre-cogs when I get back.”

“The new boys aren’t local,” said Luther. “Do we assume they are also here for the Apocalypse Door?”

“Would seem likely,” I said. “Though I really hate the idea that there are two sets of people who know more about it than we do.”

The new arrivals blew a hole right through the roof with a shaped charge, dropped a bunch of ropes through, and rappelled down into the top floor. And at pretty much the same time, Doctor Delirium’s plastique charge blew the stairwell door clean off its hinges, and they all charged through into the auction site. Both sides took one look at the other, and opened up with all guns blazing. Bullets filled the air, mowing down the auction’s security guards in a moment. The remote-control zombies were punched this way and that by the impact of the bullets, staggering back and forth, with dust and bone fragments erupting from their bullet-riddled bodies. One by one they went down as their legs were blasted out from under them, and they lay thrashing or crawling on the floor, ignored by both sides.

The two sets of soldiers dug in at opposite ends of the auction room, using overturned furniture and the shielded auction items for shelter. The firefight was doing a lot of structural damage, but there weren’t many bodies yet. Both sides were clearly professionals. The shooting gradually died down to occasional suppressional fire, as both sides considered what to do next. A remote control zombie rose up on one elbow, and denounced both sides with its dead voice. There was a single shot, and its head exploded.

“So much for our original plan,” said Luther. “What do we do now?”

“We go in,” I said. “We bestow beatings on one and all, take the guns away from both sides, and shut this nonsense down before it starts attracting attention. Then I will grab the Apocalypse Door and it’s head for the horizon time.”

“Shouldn’t we take some prisoners, ask some questions?” said Luther.

“If you must,” I said.

“I feel I should remind you, there are two private armies in there, going head to head with extensive firepower, explosives and nerve gas grenades,” said Luther. “You really want to just charge right in?”

“Two armies; one for each of us.”

Luther shook his head slowly. “There is such a thing as overconfidence, even for a Drood.”

“First problem,” I said. “Our armour should get us through the hotel’s outer defences okay, but we are going to set off all kinds of alarms . . . The last thing we need is for the two sides to discover who’s coming, and team up against us.”

“Worry not,” said Luther. “I’ve got a basic can opener and alarm-suppressor that the Armourer sent through, just the other day. For testing. He thought I might find a use for it, given that LA has so many secrets to hide, and so many different ways of hiding them. It should open up the force shields and the magic screens, while shutting down the alarms. Notice my emphasis on the word should.”

“The Armourer has always believed in the triumph of optimism over experience,” I said solemnly. “It’s not that his wonderful gadgets don’t work; it’s just that they will insist on working in unex pected ways. But you can’t complain, or he sulks. All right; let’s do it.”

“Lock and load,” said Luther. “And God help the guilty.”

“Native,” I said sadly. “Definitely native.”

We moved forward, two golden statues striding across the plaza towards the Magnificat Hotel. No one noticed a thing; we were both in full stealth mode, our torcs transmitting telepathic You can’t see me! commands to all the passersby. Luther pulled something that still looked half finished from inside his armour and pointed it at the hotel. Looking through my golden mask I could clearly See the hotel shields split and break and vanish, dismissed almost casually by the Armourer’s new toy. Luther and I kept going, the last remnants of the more stubborn shields clinging and dragging at our armour as we strode through them. They broke and fell away like cobwebs, thrown off by the sheer power inherent in the armour. Shaped curses and proximity mines detonated harmlessly, and howling ghosts burst like soap bubbles as we marched right through them. Spirit bottles shattered under the patio, releasing their demons, and they reared up to grasp at our golden legs. We just kept going, dragging them along with us, and they soon broke up and fell apart, too fragile to last long outside their bottles. Defence magics shattered and spattered against our golden chests in rainbow bursts of dispersing energies.

I kicked in the front door, shattered glass falling like hail on my shoulders, and led the way into the lobby. Two armed guards opened up on us with automatic weaponry. The bullets stitched across the front of our armour, which absorbed all the impact and then swallowed up the bullets. We worry about ricochets, these days. This rather upset the guards, who turned to run. I picked up the nearest table and threw it at them, and it slammed the two guards against the far wall like a flyswatter. Luther looked at me.

“Now that’s not fair. I never got to do anything.”

“You can have the next two. Where are the elevators?”

“At the back. But they’re all locked off, till the Grand Opening ceremony tomorrow. And you need a special key, to get you to the top floor. Watch and learn.”

He moved over to the main desk, located the main computer, and instead of powering it up and using the keyboard, he just stuck one golden fingertip against the monitor screen. Golden filaments spread out from the fingertip, spiderwebbing the screen.

“I’m accessing the hotel’s security protocols through its own operating systems,” said Luther, quite casually. “I’ve unlocked the elevators . . . shut down the alarm systems . . . and turned off all the CCTV cameras. We don’t want any record of our being here. The armour should render us electronically invisible, but this is LA—who knows what upgrades they’ve put in? Why take a chance you don’t have to, especially when we don’t know what the auction people have installed on the top floor?”

“You can operate a computer with your armour?” I said, genuinely impressed. “I didn’t know it could do that.”

“Have you ever tried? Just send a filament of strange matter into the computer, and let the armour do the rest. It is just an extension of our will, after all. It does what you tell it to do. I’ve used it as a contraceptive before now . . .”

I held up a hand. “Far too much information. Let’s go.”

Luther pulled his golden finger out, and we headed for the elevator doors at the rear of the lobby. They opened automatically as we approached, and once inside I jammed a golden finger into the lift controls, and concentrated on the top floor. The whole elevator shuddered, the doors slammed shut, and the elevator headed for the top floor like something was chasing it. When we got there the elevator’s doors flew open, as though it couldn’t wait to be rid of us. We stepped out, the doors slammed shut, and it headed for the ground floor again, at speed. I think I upset it. I stepped forward, Luther right beside me, and everyone in the world opened fire on us.

It was an attack of quite staggering proportions. Bullets came flying at us from every direction, a storm so heavy and concentrated you could almost see it. Gunfire chewed up the walls on either side of us, and pockmarked the closed elevator doors from top to bottom. The roar was deafening, and smoke curled thickly on the air. Luther and I stood our ground as gunfire raked across our armour without doing the slightest damage. We didn’t even rock on our feet from the impact, and the armour just swallowed up the bullets. Behind my golden mask, I was grinning. There’s something really quite psychologically devastating about a foe who just stands there and allows himself to be shot, so Luther and I struck arrogant poses and made the most of it.

They tried explosives and nerve gas grenades, and neither of them affected us in the least. You’d think they would’ve known better; I mean, they had to know we were Droods. This kind of low-level assault was almost an insult. The only way to win a fight with a Drood is to not be there when we turn up.

The gunfire died away in spurts and coughs, and a slow awful silence settled across the top floor. Armed and armoured guards peered at us with big eyes from behind various places of cover. There was a lot of looking at each other, and general shrugging. I could just make out the podgy figure of Doctor Delirium, peering out from behind the protective shield of some auction item. The shield glowed dully, like a silver smear on the air, hiding the nature of the item. It might have been the Apocalypse Door. It was big enough.

I moved forward, and again they opened up with every gun they had. I just walked right into the hail of bullets, not slowed or bothered in the least. Luther was right there with me. I had to say; I’d thought most of the soldiers would have had an attack of common sense and started running by now. That’s the normal reaction to Droods in their armour. I looked at Luther, nodded quickly, and we both surged forward, into the gunfire. In a moment we were in and among the armed men and ˚ throwing them this way and that. They flew screaming through the air, tossed half the length of the room. Luther took the mystery group, and I dealt with Doctor Delirium’s mercenaries. I was moving so quickly now I must have been just a golden blur to them, as I struck them down with my golden fists, for having the sheer nerve to try and kill me.

It took me longer than I thought to clear the floor, due to the sheer press of bodies. I had to force my way through a crowd of armed soldiers, knocking them down and throwing them aside. Some clung to my arms and neck, trying to drag me down through sheer weight of numbers. It took time to shrug and peel them all off, or slam them against the nearest wall. I wasn’t trying to kill anyone, but they were, after all, killers for pay, hired thugs with uniforms. But eventually I ran out of people to hit, and looked around for Doctor Delirium. He was standing beside his auction item, crowing triumphantly. Somehow, he’d broken through the protective shield.

It looked like just an ordinary door: a tall wooden oblong with no handles, or knocker. Ancient and unfamiliar runes had been carved around its edges. It stood upright on its own, entirely unsupported. And there was something about it . . . Like the feeling you get when you stare into an abyss, and know that death is only one small step away. It was the Apocalypse Door, and just the sight of it chilled the blood in my heart. There was something beyond that Door, and it wanted out, in the worst way. Doctor Delirium ran his podgy hands over it, crooning in delight.

His crude dimensional door opened and swallowed up both him and the Apocalypse Door in a moment. Those of his men left behind, and still conscious, made a run for it. I had no time for them. I was trying to come to terms with the knowledge that for the first time in his life, Doctor Delirium was now a Major Player. And almost certainly in over his head.

The mystery group’s soldiers hadn’t given up, even with their prize gone. They were still firing everything they had. Luther raged among them, slapping guns out of hands, and striking the soldiers down with rough efficiency. I didn’t have the patience for that, so I just picked up the nearest pieces of furniture and threw them at the thugs like missiles. Tables and chairs flew through the air, and struck down whole groups of men like the wrath of God.

A few kept moving, dodging from one piece of cover to another, sniping at me with more exotic weapons. They had science things and magic things, and even a few unfamiliar objects that might have been both or neither. They kept trying one thing after another, looking for anything that might pierce my armour. The fools. One of them actually produced a collapsible bazooka. He loaded up a silver shell wrapped in mistletoe, and fired it at me. I felt like showing off, so I just stood my ground and caught the shell in my arms. Didn’t even knock me backwards. I hugged the shell to my chest, and my armour absorbed the whole of the blast as it exploded. When the smoke cleared, I was still standing there, completely untouched. The soldier looked like he was going to burst into tears. He threw the bazooka down, and stamped on it.

Another soldier stepped up, and stabbed an Aboriginal pointing bone at me. Now those are pretty serious magic; a shaman who knows what he’s doing can kill you with a bad thought, throw your soul into the Dreaming, even rewrite reality itself on a small scale. Fortunately, most of that kind of magic has been lost, or forgotten. And this guy really hadn’t done his homework. The bone’s spell hit my armour, rebounded, and blasted the guy right out of existence.

Another armed thug, with more courage than sense, stepped forward and showed me the glowing metal glove on his hand. It looked a lot like the old Roman cestus, nasty things used in the Arenas by gladiators who liked to get in close and personal with their victims. This particular glove had been soaked in really nasty magics; it left long blazing trails on the air when it moved, as though just its existence stained reality. The poor fool using the glove clearly didn’t know that just wearing the thing was more than enough to kill him.

Luther finished mopping up and stepped forward to face the boxer. The soldier struck a classic pose, and then lunged forward and punched Luther right in the throat. The glowing glove actually shrieked in rage and triumph as it slammed through the air, and then the awful sound was cut off abruptly as the glove hit Luther’s golden throat . . . and was immediately swallowed up by the armour. It sucked the glowing glove right off the man’s hand, absorbed it and made it nothing, nothing at all.

The soldier fainted dead away at Luther’s feet. Though that was probably mostly due to the toxic radiations the glove had been giving off. I considered Luther thoughtfully.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes. Really. You have no idea.”

We looked around us, taking our time. The long room was littered with unconscious bodies, and a dozen or so surrendered men, on their knees with their hands on their heads, looking very much like they wished they were somewhere else. There were a few dead men, which was a shame, but they should have known better than to attack Droods. I started rehearsing the questions I was going to ask, starting with What do you know about the Apocalypse Door? And that was when a dimensional gateway appeared above our heads, sucked up all the soldiers in a moment, the living and the dead, and then slammed shut again. I looked at Luther.

“You know, that is getting really bloody annoying.”

“Couldn’t agree more if you bribed me.”

The dimensional gateway opened up again, and the Lampton Wyrm dropped out of it. The dragon was back from wherever the gate had taken it, and it clearly hadn’t enjoyed the trip. It filled more than half the floor, fifty feet long from snout to tail, its great membranous wings unfurling angrily. Its ugly head rose up on its long neck and slammed against the ceiling. Streams of broken plas ter and ceiling tiles rained down around it. The dragon’s spiked tail lashed back and forth, destroying everything it touched, and sending shielded auction items flying through the air. Clawed feet dug deep furrows in the carpeted floor. The Wyrm snatched up one of the more intact remote control zombies from the floor, chewed on it for a moment, and then spat the bits out. The dragon roared angrily, and the ghastly sound shook the whole floor.

It smelled really bad—of blood and carrion, brine and seaweed, and an atavistic stench of ancient lizard.

I really would have liked to turn and run, but that option wasn’t open to me. If the Lampton Wyrm broke free of the Magnificat and went on a rampage in Los Angeles, they’d be cleaning up the dead bodies for weeks. The Wyrm was one of the Great Old Beasts, a living god or devil, and though it was much reduced by time and age, there was still nothing in human science that could stop it. You could drop a nuke on it, and the Wyrm would just laugh at you from the depths of the atomic fires, as the mushroom cloud formed overhead.

“We’ve got to contain it,” I said to Luther.

“Ten out of ten for ambition, Eddie, but this is the Lampton Wyrm we’re talking about!” said Luther. “You can’t hurt it, you can’t kill it, and I’m not even sure our armour can protect us!”

“Get ahold of yourself, Luther! You’re a Drood! It’s easy to be brave when you’re facing something you know your armour can protect you against; it’s times like this that we get to show what we’re made of.”

“By getting killed, dismembered and eaten? Not necessarily in that order?”

Luther gave every appearance of being severely shaken. He’d spent too long in a town where he was always going to be the baddest thing in it. I kept my voice clear and calm, whilst at the same time being very careful not to make any sudden movement that might attract the dragon’s attention.

“It’s been stopped before, remember? The Lampton family sealed it in a pit and drowned it. Does this place have a swimming pool?”

“Well, yes, but I don’t see how we’re going to drag the dragon down to it, hold it under and build a cover over it, without being reduced to small bloody gobbets in the process! We have to get out of here, and call for the cavalry!”

“We are the cavalry! Get a grip!”

“Sorry,” said Luther, after a moment. “I’ve got a thing about dragons.”

“Well,” I said. “Who hasn’t? Let’s try the basics first. Hit it from two different sides, and tear it to pieces. If we can reduce it to small enough parts, and keep them from recombining . . .”

“There’s that ambition again. But, for want of anything better . . .” We hit the Lampton Wyrm from both sides at once, moving as fast as our armour could power us. I hit the dragon hard in its hideous head, my golden fist plunging deep through flesh and bone and into the brain beneath. I grabbed a handful of brains, yanked them out through the hole I’d made, and threw them on the floor. The massive head wound had already healed by the time I turned back. I grabbed great handfuls of dragon flesh, tearing them away by brute force, digging deep wounds in its sides, but they all healed in seconds.

Luther jumped on its back and punched viciously into the dragon’s spine, to no better effect. And all the time the dragon was heaving and thrashing around, trying to reach us with its claws. The head swept back and forth on its long neck, snapping viciously again and again, while I used all my armour’s speed to dodge it.

I ducked in under one carelessly wide swing, grabbed one of the dull green arms, and ripped it right out of its socket. The dragon screamed so loudly it hurt my ears, even inside the armour. The arm convulsed in my grip, still trying to get at me with its claws, and then suddenly it withered, and collapsed into dust. The dragon had grown itself a new arm. It lashed out ˚ at me. The claws skittered across my golden chest, raising a great shower of sparks. The claws couldn’t penetrate the armour, but the sheer impact blasted me off my feet, sending me flying halfway across the room.

I hit hard, and stayed on my hands and knees for a moment, getting my breath back. Luther was still riding the dragon’s back, hanging on grimly as it bucked and twisted. And then the Wyrm rolled suddenly over onto its side, pinning Luther to the floor with its great weight. With no leverage, he couldn’t use his armour’s strength to escape. I forced myself up onto my feet, charged forward and punched the dragon in the head again. My fist plunged into and through its right eye, and the dragon screamed like a soul newly damned to Hell. But when I pulled my fist out again, dripping with gore and pus and eyeball fluid, a new eye filled the bloody socket immediately. The Lampton Wyrm: the Beast that couldn’t die.

Its jaws surged forward and closed over my left arm. The dragon’s teeth broke and shattered as they ground against my armour, but they continually reformed, trying to gnaw their way through. The dragon swept its great head back and forth, shaking me like a dog shakes a rat. I grew golden spikes on my other hand, and pounded the dragon’s head again and again, but it wouldn’t release me. Luther had seized the opportunity to pull himself out from under, and he attacked its ribs, smashing them over and over again. The dragon’s jaws gaped wide with pain, and I staggered backwards.

And then the dragon’s jaws opened really wide, and it surged forward and swallowed me whole.

For a moment there was just darkness, and a sense of pressure from all sides. I couldn’t even tell which way was up. I was battered from all sides, as a series of muscular contractions tried to force me down the dragon’s throat and into its stomach. I concentrated and razor sharp blades shot out from every surface on my armour, digging deep into the throat muscles and holding me in place. The dragon screamed again, and it was even more painful hearing it from inside the throat. I lashed out with my bladed arms, opening up a long gaping wound in the side of the throat. Light flooded in, and two golden hands from outside quickly grabbed the sides of the wound and kept it from closing. Luther was on the job. I retracted my blades and forced myself out through the gap, and then Luther and I quickly retreated as the dragon thrashed back and forth, smashing everything in the room in its pain and fury.

Luther and I backed away some more. I was still thinking furiously. There had to be something, some way . . . The huge head swung round and fixed on me, studying me with its glowing eyes. It was really mad now. It wanted to take its time with us, make us suffer. And that . . . was when I got my idea. It was a really bad idea, based on a really old story, but . . . it felt right. I gestured to Luther.

“Get ready to back me up. I’m going back in.”

“What?”

“I’m going back down its throat. I’ve got an idea.”

“I don’t think hoping it will choke on you is enough.”

“I’ve got something rather more . . . extreme in mind. Once it’s swallowed me again, you grab its head. Hold the jaws closed, so it can’t spit me out. Got it?”

“No. But I’ve reached the point where I’m willing to try anything, including prayers and bribery. Go for it.”

The dragon’s head snapped forward, moving horribly fast on the end of its extended neck. I stepped forward to meet it, the huge jaws opened wide, and I threw myself into its mouth. The jaws slammed shut, and it swallowed automatically. And this time I didn’t fight it. I curled into a ball, to make the swallowing go easier, and the muscular contractions carried me swiftly down the long neck and into the belly. I uncurled, and once again grew viciously sharp blades all over my body. And step by step, I fought my way deeper into the beast. I couldn’t see where I was, or where I was going, but my Sight gave me a direction to follow. I fought my ˚ way into its stomach and on into its guts, its bowels, and all the way to the base of the tail. And once I was there, I grabbed it and with one good heave, pulled the tail inside out, so that it was in there with me.

You wouldn’t believe how strong my armour can be, when I really put my mind to it. Luther was right; it’s an extension of our will. It does what we tell it.

The dragon really didn’t like what was happening inside it. I’ve never heard screaming like it. I took a firm hold on the inverted tail with both golden hands, turned around, and step by step I struggled back through the body of the beast, from the rear to the front. And with one last effort, I hauled the tail up and into the mouth, punched a hole through the teeth from the inside, and marched out of the gaping jaws, dragging the inverted tail with me.

And that was how I turned the Lampton Wyrm inside out. It probably helped that the dragon was, after all, a magical creature.

Luther and I stood together, breathless and exhausted, and looked at the steaming, twisting mass before us. It smelled really disgusting.

“And I thought it looked ugly from the outside,” said Luther. “Heal that, you bastard.”

“Let’s contact the family, and get some experts sent in,” I said. “I think we’ve done all that can reasonably be expected of us.”

And that was when the dimensional gateway opened above us again, and a whole army of heavily armed troops dropped out of it. They hit the floor easily, wrapped in glowing body armour and carrying a whole bunch of really nasty-looking weapons. They saw the inside out dragon, and paused for a moment.

“Oh bloody hell,” I said.

The gateway snapped shut and disappeared. The armoured troop surged forward. And I . . . lost my temper. I’m usually a calm and reasonable sort of guy, but there are limits. I used my Sight to find a suitably weak fracture point in the floor, and hit it hard with my golden fist, with all my ˚ strength. The whole floor broke in half, and with a great grinding roar it collapsed, and we all fell through and down into the next floor, accompanied by several tons of assorted rubble.

Luther and I rose to our feet. No one else did. Mostly they just lay there, around and under the rubble, making low moaning noises and hoping that the ambulance wouldn’t take too long to get there. It was their own fault. Never annoy a Drood.

“You might have warned me you were going to do that,” said Luther.

“Oh hush, you big baby,” I said. “I was almost completely sure we’d live through it.”

I made my way through the mess, searching for a soldier who was still conscious. I wanted answers. I finally found one, pinned under a block of stone. He didn’t look in particularly good shape. He raised a gun as I leaned over him, and I slapped it out of his hand.

“You know who and what I am, so answer my questions. Who are you, and who are you working for?”

He smiled briefly, revealing blood-smeared teeth. His face was white from pain and shock, and beaded with perspiration. He glared into my featureless golden mask.

“We’re everything that ever scared you. We’re the wolf in the fold, and the serpent at your bosom. We’re the Anti-Droods. And we’ll be at your throat till the end of time.”

He bit down hard, and I heard a poison tooth crunch. He convulsed, his eyes starting from his head; and then he was dead.

“Fanatics,” Luther said disgustedly. “I hate fanatics. What was all that Anti-Drood stuff?”

“Beats the crap out of me,” I said.

And that was when one of the other fanatics activated a suicide bomb. I didn’t see him do it, but there was a hell of an explosion, the floor opened up beneath me, and suddenly everything was falling again. It must have been a really nasty ˚ bomb, because it cracked the hotel open from top to bottom. I fell all the way down, crashing through floor after floor, thrashing helplessly, until finally I slammed to a halt back in the lobby, right back where I started. It took me some time to dig my way out of the tons of rubble, but eventually I emerged from the mess of what had once been a very large and expensive hotel. After a while, Luther emerged to join me.

“You know,” he said. “We really don’t appreciate our armour enough.”

“Can you hear sirens?” I said. “I’m pretty sure I can hear sirens. And there are crowds gathering. I think we need to get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Yeah,” said Luther. “Let someone else sort this mess out.”

“I think we’ve done all we can,” I said.

“The Matriarch really isn’t going to pleased with us, is she?” said Luther.

“Is she ever?” I said.