From Hell with Love

CHAPTER TWO You Can Go Home Again, But Trust Me, You’ll Regret It.

When it all goes wrong, when the mission’s a failure, the bad guy gets away with the prize and you’ve just demolished a perfectly good brand-new hotel . . . it’s time to call it a day and go home. Secret agents can’t really hang around to say sorry, and help fill in the insurance paperwork. So I headed for the airport and left Luther to talk with his people, make what excuses he could, cover up the rest, and generally stonewall any inquiry as to what actually happened. Let him make use of those important connections he was so proud of.

Cleaning up the mess afterwards is always the hardest part of any mission; so mostly I don’t bother. Get in, get out, and then disappear while everyone else is still standing around waiting for the smoke to clear. I did offer a few possible excuses to Luther . . . Gas explosion, that’s always a good one. Or maybe a terrorist bomb, by the Aesthetic Liberation Army. On the unanswerable grounds that the Magnificat was just too offensively ugly to be allowed. Visual pollution, and a crime against the senses. I was just getting warmed up, when the taxi Luther had called for me arrived, and he picked me up and threw me bodily into the back of it.

I can take a hint.

When I got to the airport, I discovered my family was so eager to have me home again that they’d sent one of the family planes to pick me up. We use Blackhawke jets, lovely sleek black beasts, based around systems reverse engineered from an alien starship that crash-landed in a Wiltshire field in 1947. They can fly faster than any commercial jet, they’re shielded from all forms of detection even when they’re right on top of you and they can go sideways or even backwards, as required. And no, we haven’t shared the technology with anyone else. Droods aren’t big on sharing.

All our planes carry a big stylised Letter D. If anyone at an airport gets curious, we just tell them it stands for Dracula, and they go and find something else to get interested in.

I was the only passenger on the plane. Rows of empty seats stretched away before me, so I just chose one at random and settled down with a nice glass of pink champagne and the in-flight magazine. Even in a certain amount of disgrace, a Drood is still a Drood, and entitled to all the perks and courtesies. No stewardess, though. Droods don’t believe in personal servants; they make you weak. The only human contact I had was the pilot’s voice over the intercom. Iain Drood was almost unbearably cheerful as he grilled me for all the nasty details on my latest embarrassment. I could have lived without the word latest.

“An entire hotel!” Iain said gleefully. “Got to be a personal best, even for you, Eddie. You’re not the most subtle of secret agents, are you? Or even the most secret . . . We can always tell where you’ve been, because suddenly most of it isn’t there anymore . . . So, how was Hollywood? Did you meet any stars? Did you get any autographs?”

“I was in Anaheim,” I said, at least partly in self-defence to stop him talking for a while. “That’s right on the other side of Los Ange les. I didn’t even get a sniff of anything glamorous. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some serious brooding to be getting on with.”

“Oh sure, don’t mind me! Keep your seat belt on, help yourself to the complimentary peanuts, and if we hit any turbulence try and get some of it in the bag provided.”

He finally shut up so he could concentrate on his takeoff, and I leafed listlessly through the in-flight magazine, the Drood Times. We have our own monthly magazine, never distributed outside the family. In fact, all copies self-destruct if anyone without Drood DNA even touches the cover. The current issue’s headline was THE MATRIARCH’S BACK! AND THIS TIME IT’S PERSONAL! READ OUR BIG NEW INTERVIEW FOR ALL HER PLANS FOR A NEW AND IMPROVED FAMILY, EXTENSIONS TO DROOD HALL, AND HOW TO KEEP EXPLOSIONS IN THE ARMOURY TO AN ABSOLUTE MINIMUM. The Drood Times is rather like one of those long chatty letters people include with their Christmas cards, filling you in on all the latest news and gossip concerning people you really don’t know or care about.

The magazine is bright and cheerful and almost unbearably glossy, contains no adverts, and yet still seems to go on forever. The Droods are a really big family, and the sheer amount of news, gossip, cheerful chatter and character assassination results in a monthly issue big enough to stun an attacking bear. I do flick through it, on occasion. We all do. If only to see if we’re in it. There’s nothing like living together in one big Hall to get on everyone’s nerves; and if nothing else, the extremely lengthy letter columns do allow us to let off steam safely. I tend not to appear in the magazine much; except as a Bad Example.

Even when I was running the family.

I put the magazine to one side, and stared glumly out the window. We were already out and over the sea. I tried out a few excuses for size, but none of them seemed especially convincing, so in the end I just gave up and settled for my usual explanation: Look, shit happens, okay?

The pilot had been instructed to fly me straight home to Drood Hall, so I could make my report . . . but I overruled him. I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone, just yet. So I broke into the cockpit, and told him he could either land at Heathrow in London or I could punch him twenty or thirty times in the head. Given my reputation, he believed me, which was just as well, because I meant it. And I think he was just a little thrilled to have an excuse to disregard the Matriarch’s orders for once, even if only by proxy.

We have our own private landing area at Heathrow, as at all major airports across the world. We have agreements in place with all major governments, organisations and significant individuals the world over. They let us do what we want, and we promise to leave them alone. No one ever says anything, but if questions do get asked, they’re usually slammed down with the magic words National Security. On the unanswerable grounds that it’s Droods who keep nations secure. It helps that our Blackhawke jets can’t be filmed or photographed. One really fanatical plane-spotter did get uncomfortably close a few years back, so we just put him in charge of airport security. Turning poachers into gamekeepers is an old trick.

I told Iain that he could give my excuses to the Matriarch, or not, as he wished, but that I’d report in at the Hall when I was good and ready, and not before. He said he thought he’d take the long way home, round both poles, so he wouldn’t have to touch down at the Hall until after I’d decided to show up. Potentially bright lad, I thought.

I took a taxi back to my new flat in Kensington. The traditional black London taxicab made a nice change from its LA equivalent. A little ganja-smoking voodoo fetishist goes a long way. The driver here did try to be chatty, but I wore him down with a series of low growls. In revenge he turned his music on high, and it was The Carpenters Greatest Hits all across London, the bastard. I slumped in the back of the cab, tired in body and spirit. I really needed some downtime, before I had to face my family again. The mission had gone quite spectacularly wrong. I should have reported in right away. But . . . it was only Doctor Delirium. How important could it be?

I looked out the taxi window, and the familiar London streets rolled past. Places I knew, locations I remembered, all of them looking safe and secure. And all the ordinary people, going about their ordinary business, with no idea of who and what they shared their world with. I could have raised my Sight, and looked on the world as it really was, but I didn’t. Sometimes I just liked to pretend that this was it, that this was all there was. At least I have the privilege of choice. These people, with their everyday jobs and ordinary lives, keeping the machinery of the world turning, were my responsibility. My job, to stand between them and the dangers they didn’t even know existed. As Droods, we’re encouraged to see the world’s populations as our children, who must be protected. And if we do our job right, they’ll never have to know their nightmares are real.

Until the day they finally grow up enough that we can trust them with our knowledge. And then we’ll all get together and kick the Bad Things right off our world. On that far future day, we’ll all be Droods.

When I gave up the leadership of the family, and went back to being just a field agent again, I left the Hall and returned to London. But I didn’t feel like going back to my old place in Knightsbridge. Too many bad memories, from the time when I’d been falsely declared rogue, and the whole family turned on me. They’d trashed my flat, looking for secrets or stolen goods or any evidence they could use against me, but really just as an excuse to take their anger out on me. Someone spray painted the word Traitor! all across one wall. So I didn’t go back.

My nice new flat in Kensington was big, open and very comfortable. The family coughed up for all the best fittings and furnishings, as a way of saying sorry. My new place is not easy to get to, at the end of a cul-de-sac, and I have seen to it that it is very well defended. Against everyone and everything; very definitely including members of my family. ˚ Though I hadn’t actually got around to telling them that. I thought I’d just let it come as a nice surprise. Besides, they definitely wouldn’t approve of some of the nasty, vile and downright unpleasant things I’d put in place to make my new home safe and secure. Right down to the smallest detail. It’s not everyone who’s got a banshee for an alarm bell.

I also have a preprogrammed poltergeist in residence; it clears things up while I’m out, does the dirty dishes, deals with the laundry and even disposes of the garbage for me. My girlfriend Molly Metcalf gave it to me as a moving-in present. She’s very thoughtful about things like that. Though I did have to have words with her later, after I discovered she’d set the poltergeist to remove from my collection all the CDs that she didn’t approve of.

How can anyone not like Abba?

Once home, I took a while to just walk around the flat, checking all the defences were in place, and none of the booby traps had been triggered. I sorted through the post and checked my e-mails, opened some windows to let the fresh air in, and retrieved the Merlin Glass from its hiding place. These days, I keep my very special hand mirror in a subspace pocket dimension, tied to my torc. Only I can reach in and retrieve the Glass; even if you could detect the subspace pocket, which you can’t. I called to the Glass, and immediately it appeared in my right hand, looking innocently normal and ordinary. Just a standard old-fashioned hand mirror with a silver backing. But Merlin Satanspawn never made an ordinary or an innocent thing in his life. I said the proper activating Words, and the Glass shook itself back and forth, growing quickly in size, until finally it jumped out of my hand and made itself into a Door, right in front of me. Through this new opening I could see Molly’s wildwoods, the hidden place she lived in when she couldn’t be with me.

Through the Merlin Glass I could see rank upon rank of huge trees, falling away before me, heavy with foliage of so bright a green it practically glowed, interspersed with shady glens and tumbling waterfalls. Dust motes danced in long golden shafts of light. Fresh air gusted through the doorway, carrying with it rich scents of grass and greenery and living things. I stepped through the Glass into the forest, and the doorway closed behind me.

The wildwoods stretched off into the distance in every direction I looked. Massive trees with huge trunks, so tall you could crane your neck right back and still not see the tops of them. Bustling untamed vegetation, that had never known the touch of axe or saw, sprang up everywhere. These were old woods, ancient woods, from primordial times when we all lived in the forest, because the forest was all there was. The air was full of sound; of birds and beasts and insects. These were the woods of Olde Englande, when forests stretched unbroken from coast to coast, and bears and boars and wolves roamed freely, along with other rarer creatures that have long since dropped out of history and into legend. I have seen kelpies and bogles and fenendrees in this place; and they have seen me. Other shapes moved warily among the trees, maintaining a safe distance; large dark shapes that studied me with bright unblinking eyes from the deepest of the shadows. I can come to this place only because Molly loves me; the wild things of the woods are still a long way from trusting me. They were only ever comfortable around me when Molly was there too.

There was no sign of her now, which was odd. The Merlin Glass always sends a warning ahead of itself, just for her, so she knows I’m coming. Most of the time she’s already there, waiting for me. But not now. I called out her name, and it was as though the whole forest was suddenly struck dumb. Every living sound shut off, even the breeze among the branches, as though the whole wood was still, and listening. I called again, my voice echoing on and on through the trees, but there was no reply. A cold chill ran down my neck. The woods didn’t feel in any way welcoming, or inviting. And then a squirrel dropped down onto a branch right next to me, and I gave an entirely undignified jump of surprise. The squirrel sniggered loudly, its long russet tail snapping back and forth. It sat up on its haunches and studied me disdainfully.

“Hey rube,” it said. “Keep the noise down; some of us have important nuts to be gathering. Molly’s not here. Why are you here? You’re disturbing the wildlife with your presence, and that after-shave of yours is doing absolutely nothing for the local ambience. I mean, yes, we’re all happy she’s finally found a boyfriend she can bring back to meet the extended family, and all that, but did it have to be a human? She could have done so much better for herself. Still, she’s not getting any younger. Her biological clock is getting pretty damned deafening. Have you got her pregnant yet? Well, why not? You humans are too damned complicated for your own good. I could have been born human if I wanted, but I passed the intelligence test. Little squirrel humour there. Have you met her sisters yet?”

“Not as such,” I said, jamming a word in edgeways in self-defence. You might think a talking squirrel is cute, but trust me, they really get on your nerves after a while. “I’ve heard about Isabella, of course. Who hasn’t? Supernatural terrorist, twilight avenger, and so hardcore in her convictions she could scare the wings off an angel. Practically every secret organisation in the world has her on its kill list, and vice versa.”

“What about Louisa?” said the squirrel, knowingly. “She’s the one you have to watch out for. She’s really scary.”

“Well,” I said. “Something to look forward to.”

The squirrel cocked its head on one side, and considered me thoughtfully with a dark beady eye. “You do know this isn’t going to work?” it said, almost kindly. “You and Molly? Love doesn’t conquer all, and happy endings are just something you humans made up, to help you get through the nights. Molly is at war with the Droods, and always will be.”

“You see?” I said. “We have so much in common.”

The squirrel shrugged. “None so blind as those who’ve shoved two fingers in their eyes. Look, Molly’s gone off gallivanting with Isabella, and no I don’t know where, or when she might be back. She didn’t leave any messages, and she didn’t talk to anyone before she left. Our Molly’s been playing her cards very close to her chest, ever since she met you. You’re a bad influence on her, which is strange, because it’s usually the other way round. You can hang around here and wait, if you want, but frankly I wouldn’t. You make the wildlife uneasy, and there’ll probably be an incident.”

I had to smile. “I’m a Drood, remember? Untouchable comes as standard.”

“Like that means anything, in a place like this. Don’t push your luck, Drood. You’re only here on sufferance.”

The squirrel leapt up into the higher branches, and was gone. I sat down on a nearby grassy bank in an ostentatiously casual manner, just to show I wasn’t going to be pushed around. The air seemed to blow distinctly colder, and there were ominous noises and movements in the darker shadows between the trees. I studiously ignored it all, and did some hard thinking. Molly kept saying she was going to introduce me to her older sister, Isabella, but something always came up. I knew Isabella’s legend. Everybody did. Molly was a wild free spirit, as dedicated to having fun as fighting all forces of authority. Isabella was more cold, focused, unyielding in her determination to search out all the dark secrets in the world, and then Do Something about them. Molly was cheerful, capricious, and at war with the world in general. Isabella wanted to know everything other people didn’t want her to know, and was quite ready to do terrible things to anyone who got in her way.

They know Isabella in the Nightside, and in Shadows Fall. She’d worked both with and against the Droods, and gone head to head with the London Knights on more than one occasion. But then, they’ve always been a bit stuffy.

Louisa, the youngest of the Metcalf sisters, was a mystery. You heard lots of stories, but never anything definite. But the stories were always scary, and so was she. There were those who said she’d been dead seven years now, and it hadn’t slowed her down one bit.

Molly’s dark opinion of the Droods was no secret to me. She loathed and disapproved of my family, and all it stood for. She was a free spirit, and the Droods have always been about control. She’d only agreed to fight alongside us in the past because the alternatives were so much worse. She put up with them for my sake, but we both knew that wouldn’t last. I might have problems with how my family did things, but I still believed we were necessary. We fought the good fight because someone has to. Molly and I would have to find some common ground we could agree on, or our beliefs and our consciences would drive us apart.

Would I place my love for Molly before my duties, my responsibilities—my family? I hoped so. But you can never be sure about things like that. I could not love thee half so much, my dear, loved I not honour more . . .

I got up and activated the door again. The Merlin Glass hung before me on the air, my flat in Kensington clear and distinct beyond it. I sighed quietly, took up my burden again, and went home. Behind me, I could hear the woods slowly coming alive again, as the threat to their peace disappeared.

I shut down the Merlin Glass, thrust it back into its subspace pocket, and took a quick shower. Normally I like to soak and relax in a hot steaming bath; but needs must when the Devil pisses on your shoes. I pulled on some fresh clothes, started for my front door, and then hesitated. I slumped into my favourite chair, and looked at nothing in particular. The poltergeist sensed my mood, and thoughtfully faded the lights down. Brooding is always best accompanied by lengthening shadows.

More and more of late I’d been considering who I was, and who I’d turned out to be . . . as opposed to the kind of man I’d always wanted, or intended, to be. This wasn’t how I thought I’d end up. How I expected my life to turn out. I’d never been happy running the family. I did it only because it was thrust upon me. The first chance I got to return to my old life as a field agent, I grabbed it with both hands and never looked back. But now . . . having once embraced responsibility for my family, I found it hard to let go.

I never wanted to be important, or significant. Never wanted to be responsible for anyone but myself. That was why I’d run away from the Hall to be a field agent in the first place. But now I worried about the Matriarch, and the family, because I wasn’t there to keep an eye on them. It would be so easy for them to slip back into the bad old ways, one very reasonable step at a time. The terrible Heart with its awful bargain was gone, destroyed, but the Matriarch, dear Grandmother, was born with iron in her soul. If she decided that it was in the world’s best interests that the Droods should rule the world again, could I stop her? Did I have the right to overrule a freely elected leader?

I needed my freedom and my privacy, and I loved my Molly, but how could I be my family’s conscience at a distance?

And, could I really take the family away from the Matriarch a second time? I’d had surprise and all kinds of good luck on my side the first time. She’d have all kinds of new defences in place now, just for me. But if the Matriarch did try to return to the old ways, would Ethel allow it? I liked to think she was my friend, but who knows what an other-dimensional entity will do, or think, or decide?

I forced myself up and out of my chair, and headed for the front door. I can take only so much brooding and existential angst before I have to get up and do something. When in doubt, face your problems head on. And head butt them in the face. I called the Merlin Glass back to my hand, and had it open a particular door to Drood Hall. Bright light flared through the opening, and I stepped through. Onto the roof of Drood Hall.

I arrived a safe distance away from the various landing pads, surrounded by a wide sea of tiles, shingles, gables and antennae. We’ve always been ones for just adding things on, as necessary. And pulling them down again when they weren’t. We’re not sentimental. I was very high up, below a sky so solidly blue I felt like I could reach up and touch it. I should have made my arrival through the main door, as tradition demanded when summoned by the Matriarch, but I was in no mood to cross swords with the Sarjeant-at-Arms. He represented authority and discipline within and over the family, and I’ve always had problems with authority figures. Even when I was one.

Up on the Hall roof, all kinds of unusual flying objects were coming and going, heading in for textbook landings and not always making it. Half a dozen autogyros buzzed around like oversized insects, marvellous baroque creations of brass and copper, pumping black smoke and drifting cinders behind them. They’d first appeared in the 1920s, been superseded by the ’40s, and then brought back again just recently by steampunk enthusiasts in the family. Beautifully intricate and scientifically suspect, the splendid art deco machines seemed to force their way through the air by sheer brute effort.

Then there were those really brave individuals who were still trying to make jetpacks work. They flew well enough, except for when they abruptly didn’t. They didn’t care for sudden changes in direction, and they didn’t have much of a range. But there are always a few bright young things in the family with more optimism than sense, who never got over the urge to just strap on a jetpack and go rocketing up into the wild blue yonder. Just for the thrill of it. Even though the only thing jetpacks do really well is plummet.

The Armourer keeps promising to provide us with antigravity, but he’s always got some excuse.

The usual cloud of hang gliders swept by overhead, circling majestically round the roof, taking their time and showing off, held up by magic feathers. And, of course, there were a few young women riding winged unicorns. (Because some girls just never get over ponies.) A few moments after I arrived, a ˚ flying saucer came slamming into the landing pads with its arse on fire, and went skidding towards the far edge, throwing multicoloured sparks in all directions. Proof, if proof were needed, that the Armourer’s lab assistants will try absolutely anything once. They know no fear. They also have trouble with fairly simple concepts like common sense, knowledge of their own limitations, and anything approaching self-preservation instincts.

I also couldn’t help noticing that some members of the family were still trying to get their armour to grow big enough wings so that they could fly. I could tell this because of the great dents and holes in the lawns surrounding the Hall.

I looked out over the wide-open lawns, enjoying the view. Beyond the neatly cropped grassy extents lay the lake, with swans gliding unhurriedly back and forth on its still waters. There’s an undine in there somewhere, but she keeps herself to herself. What looked like a collection of dull grey statues, of people standing in strange awkward poses at the far end of the lake, were actually Droods from the nineteenth century, who’d got caught up in a Time War. Their life signs had been slowed down to a glacial scale, far beyond our ability to help or restore. They were still alive, technically speaking, so we set them out in the open air, with a view that didn’t change much. Photographs of the statues, taken over a period of decades, show they are still moving, very, very slowly.

Beyond the lake lies the woods and copses that make up the far boundaries of our estates. Nice places for a walk or a picnic, provided you’re one of us. Anyone else walks those woods at their own peril. Not all of the trees are sleeping. Peacocks and griffins stalked across the lawns, dodging in and out of the sprinklers and the misty haze they spread on the air. For such a beautiful bird, peacocks have a really ugly cry. Griffins start out ugly, and their behaviour borders on the disgusting, but since they can see a short distance into the future they make marvellous watchdogs. Just give them enough raw meat, and something nasty to roll about in, and they’re perfectly happy.

I frowned as I considered the great hedge maze. It was constructed some time back, to contain Someone or Something that desperately needed containing, but it was all so long ago that no one now remembers who or why. When your family is as constantly busy as ours, it’s only to be expected a few things are going to fall through the cracks. Looking down from above, I could see a strange metallic construct, right in the middle of the maze, but absolutely no sign of life. Or movement. If you just stick your head into the opening of the maze, nothing happens. But it doesn’t happen in a very menacing sort of way. People who actually venture in don’t come out again. Now and again the family throws someone in that we don’t like very much, just to see what will happen. Sometimes we hear a scream, sometimes we don’t. So mostly we leave the maze alone.

The Armourer wants to set fire to it, just to see what would happen. But that’s the Armourer for you.

I enjoyed the view for as long as I could justify it, but I knew I was only putting off reporting in . . . so eventually I sighed heavily, and went down into the Hall via the winding back stairs. The Matriarch was waiting for me, and the Advisory Council. Of which I was a member, and a fat lot of good it had ever done me.

Walking through Drood Hall is like walking through History, with all the centuries jumbled together. The long corridors are packed with tribute (and/or loot) from all the ages of Man. We’ve accumulated important and valuable prizes from every period of human civilisation you can think of, including several that never officially happened. We’ve got Sir Gawaine’s suit of armour from the Court of King Arthur; a section of the Beayue Tapestry that had to be confiscated because it showed a Drood in action (Harald would have won that war if so many of the family hadn’t been busy with an extra-dimensional incursion); and a whole bunch of family por traits daubed by important masters. Nothing but the best for the Droods. We also have the Koh-i-noor diamond, the original Mountain of Light from India. And very definitely not the one Prince Albert ruined with constant recutting. That was just a duplicate. The real thing was far too important to be trusted to royalty. The last few Matriarchs have used the diamond as a paperweight, and for throwing at people. I’ve ducked it several times.

I sent my thoughts up and out through my torc, and made contact with Ethel. Joining my mind with hers is like plunging into a great clear crystal lake—comforting and intimidating at the same time. Ethel doesn’t operate on the same scale as humanity, though she likes to pretend. She’s your best friend, who will always know better than you, or a somewhat absentminded god. I guess that’s other-dimensional entities for you . . .

Hi! Hi hi hi! Welcome back, Eddie! Shame about the hotel. How are you? Did you bring me back a present?

“I never know what to get you,” I said. “What do you get the invisible and immaterial strange matter entity who has everything?”

She sniffed loudly, which is an odd sensation to have inside your mind. It’s the thought that counts.

“How is Grandmother? And the Council?”

Still arguing.

“Ah,” I said. “Situation entirely normal, then.”

People passed on by as I strolled unhurriedly down the long corridors and passageways, wandering through huge open rooms and tall galleries. Most people were never quite sure how to react to me. I mean, yes, I used to run the family, but now I don’t. I’ve been declared a traitor, hailed as a saviour, known as a failure and the man who saved the whole of Humanity from the Hungry Gods. The family owes me everything, and a lot of them still resent me for hauling them out of their old complacency. Some nod and smile when they see me coming, while others make a point of stalking by with their noses in the air. But, since Droods are notoriously hard to impress, either way, most ˚ just nod briskly and keep going. Which suits me fine.

Two large and ostentatiously muscular fellows were standing guard outside the doors to the Sanctity, where all important meetings are held, and all the decisions that matter are made. These guards had clearly been chosen for their brutal menace rather than their intelligence, because they actually tried to block my way. I gave them my best hard look, and they stepped reluctantly to one side, scowling like I’d just stuck a thorn in their paw. I had to open the doors myself. So I kicked them wide open, stalked into the Sanctity like I was thinking of renting it out as a Roller Derby rink, and nodded briskly to the small group of people sitting round the table in the middle of the great hall.

The Sanctity was suffused with a rich warm rose-red glow that filled every corner of the massive room. That was Ethel, manifesting herself in the material world. The light was calming and bracing at once, like a spiritual massage; it encouraged calm and composure and clear thinking, but since only Droods ever came here, it had a lot of work to do. The Matriarch sat at the head of the table, stiff and straight backed as always. Martha Drood was a tall, slender and entirely formal personage in her late sixties. She wore smart grey tweeds, elegant pearls, and her long blond hair was piled elegantly up on top of her head. She’d been a famous beauty once, and it still showed in her poise and her fabulous bone structure. We’ve had Queens that looked less royal. I have actually seen photos of Martha smiling, in her younger days, or I’d never have believed it possible. She glared at me steadily as I approached, for having dared enter the Sanctity without waiting to be invited in.

The Advisory Council sat on both sides of the table. The family Armourer, my Uncle Jack, nodded cheerfully to me. He was tall but heavily stooped, from years of bending over workbenches in the Armoury, devising really horrible surprises to throw at our enemies. He was still wearing his stained and scorched white lab coat, suggesting that he’d been dragged away from his beloved Armoury against his will, just when things were getting seriously interesting and/or dangerous. He was middle-aged now, and looking like he’d worked hard for every year of it. He had a gleaming bald pate, with grey tufts sticking out over his ears, bushy white eyebrows, and steel grey eyes. Under his lab coat he wore a grubby T-shirt bearing the legend WHICH PART OF FUCK OFF AND DIE DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? Uncle Jack smiled easily at me as I approached the table. He’d always had time for me.

“Eddie, lad! About time you turned up! Come and see me afterwards; I’ve got some great new gadgets for you to try out.”

That was always going to be a mixed blessing, given that so many of his new gadgets had a tendency to go boom! when least expected, but I smiled gamely.

“Thank you, Uncle Jack. You always have the best toys.”

Harry Drood, cousin Harry, looked at me thoughtfully from his chair set at the Matriarch’s left hand. Harry always liked to be as close as possible to power. He’d actually run the family for a time, while I was away, and a right dog’s breakfast he’d made of it. He was a pretty good field agent in his own right, but he’d only ever seen that as a means to an end. Harry believed in Harry much more than he ever believed in the Droods. Still, put him with his back to the wall and no way out, and he could be as brave and heroic as needed. His father was, after all, Uncle James, the legendary Grey Fox. Perhaps the greatest Drood ever. Harry leaned back in his chair and rocked easily back and forth on the rear legs as he studied me silently through his owlish wire-rimmed glasses. He’d already heard about the debacle at the Magnificat, and the loss of the Apocalypse Door, and he couldn’t wait to hit me with every unfortunate detail, while he figured out how to turn it to his best advantage. Because that was what he did.

“Just once,” Harry said calmly, “it would be nice if you could bring us back some good news after a mission, Edwin.”

“You’re allowed to lose ˚ the occasional battle, as long as you win the war,” I said, meeting his gaze squarely.

“Lose enough battles and you run out of war,” said Harry.

“You want a slap?” I said. “Only I’ve got one handy . . .”

“Edwin!” the Matriarch said sharply.

“There will be no violence in this chamber unless I start it,” said the final member of the Advisory Council: the Sarjeant-at-Arms. He sat to attention on his chair, a big ugly brute of a man with a face like a fist and muscles on his muscles. “Sudden and unexpected punishment is my domain. So take your seat at the table, Edwin, before I find it necessary to discipline you.”

“Like to see you try, Cedric,” I said, as I seated myself at the end of the table, facing the Matriarch. “Really would like to see you try. I kicked the crap out of the last Sarjeant-at-Arms, and he had years more viciousness under his belt than you.”

“Yes,” said the Sarjeant. “But I’m sneakier.”

I figured honours were about even, but I changed the subject anyway, just in case. “Where’s William? He’s still part of the Council, isn’t he? Surely we need the Librarian here, if we’re to discuss the significance of the Apocalypse Door?”

“William is still away with the faeries, as often as not,” said the Matriarch, regretfully. “I had hoped letting him live in the Old Library, away from the pressures of family life, might help to settle and stabilise him, but I can’t honestly say I’ve seen any signs of improvement.”

“The Librarian is a looney tune,” said Harry. “Crazier than ever, if anything. He only appears at Council meetings through spiritual projections, insists his assistant Rafe acts as his food taster, and keeps wittering on about Something unseen that lives in the Old Library with him and steals his socks. It’s well past time we retired him, and let Rafe take over as Librarian.”

“William is a better Librarian crazy than most other men sane,” the Armourer said stubbornly. “It’s amazing how much that man knows, when he can remember it. No one knows the Old Library like he does. But he is only a part-time member of the Council now, Eddie. We’ve been forced to consider bringing in new members.”

“Fresh blood,” said Harry, with entirely too much relish in his voice.

“Howard has been in charge of Operations for some time now,” said the Matriarch. “And done an excellent job. All right, he is over-bearingly arrogant, and his company is best enjoyed in very small portions, but he’s very good at thinking outside the box. We can always insist he sits next to the Sarjeant, and issue the Sarjeant with a Taser. Being part of the Council might actually help teach him how to play nicely with others. Then there’s Callan, who’s been a real success as Head of the War Room. And yes, I’ll admit that some days it does seem like he fell out of the sarcasm tree and hit every branch on the way down, but we can live with that. We’ve lived with worse.” She glared at me. “I’ve allowed you to distract us long enough, Edwin. It is time to talk about what happened in Los Angeles. Why didn’t you report here directly?”

“I needed some downtime,” I said.

“So you could think up some excuses for your many failures on this mission?” said Harry.

“You always expect everyone to think like you, Harry,” I said. “I was only supposed to infiltrate an auction before it started, and liberate a single item. No one said anything about having to take on two heavily armed armies, and the Lampton Wyrm! I had to improvise. All right, the Apocalypse Door has disappeared, but this is Doctor Delirium we’re talking about! A mad scientist going through a midlife crisis. Anyone else would have bought a Porsche. How serious can this be?”

“The total destruction of the Magnificat Hotel is extremely serious!” said the Matriarch. “If only because so many people outside the family will have to be involved in explaining it away and cleaning up the mess! You and Luther not only failed to stop the two armed forces from reaching the Apocalypse Door, you couldn’t even identify one of them! ˚ And the Door has to be important, Edwin, and dangerous, or so many people wouldn’t be ready to risk so much just to get their hands on it. There aren’t many important and dangerous devices in this world that the family doesn’t know about, and that is in itself disturbing. Armourer!”

“Just resting my eyes, Matriarch!” He grinned at me. “Did you really turn the Lampton Wyrm inside out?”

“Yes, Uncle Jack.”

“Good boy. Love to have seen it. Yes, Matriarch, I’m getting to it . . . Ah. Yes. There’s no information at all about the Apocalypse Door in either of the family libraries. Of course, William and Rafe are still busy cataloguing and indexing the contents of the Old Library, so there’s still a good chance something will turn up . . . But given the sheer scale of the Old Library, that could take some time. And time is what we don’t have; yes, Matriarch, I am aware of that. Where was I? Oh yes. The two of them are making important new finds all the time, but we need to know what this bloody Door is now, or at least before Doctor Delirium makes use of it.”

“We have some time,” I said. “Doctor Delirium always makes threats first, just to show he has the power. And so he can demand his pay off in postage stamps. Not a bad investment, given the current economic conditions. Unless his midlife crisis is really kicking in, and he wants respect more than he wants payment. He might make use of the Door briefly, just to show he can.”

“We need to have an answer in place before he tries anything,” the Matriarch said heavily.

“Normally we’d just grab someone low down in his organisation, and squeeze the information out of them,” said Harry. “But he’s called all of his people back to his main base in the Amazon rain forest, nailed all his doors shut and set fire to the moat. Full security measures and state-of-the-art defences. We took over a CIA surveillance satellite, and tasked it to give us coverage of the area for forty minutes. Got some really good images. No one can get anywhere near his base now without setting off all kinds of alarms and booby traps. No one’s allowed in or out, until this business is over. We could try bombing him again . . .”

“No we couldn’t,” the Armourer said firmly. “If you’d studied the satellite images properly, you’d have seen the brand-new force field generators. I don’t know who sold him the offworld tech, but it’s prime stuff. Very powerful. Doctor Delirium may be delusional, but he isn’t stupid. He knew we’d be coming after him, and he’s clearly learned from past mistakes.”

“I want to know where and how Doctor Delirium learned of the Apocalypse Door,” said the Matriarch. “Who could have told him of a device so obscure even we’ve never heard of it? The Doctor rarely leaves his base in the Amazon, and the only research he’s ever shown any interest in concerned his own field of expertise . . . So someone from outside must have contacted him, told him about the Door, and where he could find it.”

“Take it a step further,” said the Armourer, scowling fiercely. “Why didn’t these people make use of the Door themselves? Did they intend for the Doctor to do all the dirty work of grabbing the Door from the auction, with the intention of taking it away from him later? Did they know the other army was going to show up?”

“Maybe the auction people set it up themselves, for the insurance?” I said.

The Matriarch looked at me. “If you don’t have anything useful to contribute, Edwin . . .”

“Who is there out there,” said the Armourer, “who knows more than we do?”

“Even though the family doesn’t like to admit it,” said Harry, “there are a number of well-informed people and organisations, some almost as experienced as us. Do I really need to mention the Carnacki Institute, the London Knights, or the Deep School, the Dark Academy? And there’s always the Regent of Shadows . . .”

“We don’t talk about him,” said the Matriarch, very sternly.

There was a short pause, as we all avoided each other’s eyes.

“These people are all long shots and you know it,” I said finally. “I say we need to look closer to home. Inside the family.”

“Paranoia doesn’t suit you, Edwin,” the Matriarch said patiently. “The days of Zero Tolerance and Manifest Destiny are over. Those traitors have been executed, expelled from the family, or very forcibly shown the error of their ways. The family is united again. I have seen to that. If the Droods are to thrive and prosper again, and take their place on the world stage, it is vital we are all singing from the same hymn sheet.”

“I do like a good male voice choir,” said the Armourer wistfully.

“I’m not talking about traitors within the family,” I said doggedly. “I’m more concerned with infiltration. A dying mercenary in the ruins of the Magnificat claimed to be part of an organisation that’s always been our greatest bogeyman: the Anti-Droods. Another family, dedicated to everything we oppose. He used the phrases wolf in the fold and serpents at our bosom. That implies an enemy who is someone we trust, someone who’s worked their way inside this family, just to work against us. It has happened before. Remember Sebastian? He was one of us, until he was possessed by a Loathly One. We never did find out who killed him, presumably to keep him from talking. We have to face up to the possibility that someone inside the family is not what they appear to be.”

“But maybe . . . that’s what he wanted you to think,” said Harry. “A dying man’s last chance to mess with your head, and spread distrust inside the Droods. There can’t be an Anti-Droods. There just can’t. We’d know.”

“We didn’t know about the Apocalypse Door,” said the Sarjeant. He was frowning thoughtfully, clearly considering certain names. And I didn’t like the way he looked at me.

“If these Anti-Droods really are as good as us,” said the Armourer, “as old and as experienced and as practiced as us . . . We wouldn’t know. That’s always been our greatest fear; that some where out there were people just like us, but opposed to everything we believe in.”

We all sat and looked at each other for a while, and there was no telling where the conversation might have gone if we hadn’t all been distracted by the sounds of sudden violence outside the Sanctity doors. Violence, heavy thuds and screams, followed by muffled moans of pain and the sounds of heavy bodies slumping to the floor. The doors burst open, and Molly Metcalf came storming into the Sanctity.

My sweet Molly, a precious china shepherdess with bobbed black hair, dark eyes, and really big bosoms. She was wearing a glorious white silk creation that clung to her like a second skin in places, emphasising her curves—like they needed any help—spotted here and there with fresh blood. She was wearing . . . shoes. Don’t ask me what kind; expensive, probably. Men don’t understand shoes.

I stood up to greet Molly, and she flashed me a wide grin. The wild witch, the laughter in the woods, the eternal rebel. Molly fought for a better world, on her terms, and often in disturbingly violent ways. My love, my everything. She threw herself into my arms, slamming me back against the end of the table, and kissed me like we’d been apart for years, instead of a few weeks. I lifted her off the ground and held her above me, and she shrieked delightedly, kicking her legs. I laughed along with her. Sometimes it seems to me the only times I get to laugh are with my Molly.

I put her down, and she punched me lightly on the chest and gave me her special low growl, that means later . . . And then she pushed me away, and glared at the Matriarch.

“I know now why my parents were killed! And Eddie’s! And it’s all down to the Droods!”

And it had all been going so well . . . I moved in beside her. “You have proof?” I said. “Evidence, and I mean hard evidence?”

“Not yet,” said Molly, still scowling at the Matriarch. “But I’m getting close. Isabella and I are right on top of it. I came straight here to tell you, Eddie. There’s a ˚ definite link between the murder of my parents and yours! Don’t trust any of these people.”

“You’re wrong,” said the Matriarch, her cold composure utterly unmoved. “No one in this family would have ordered the execution of Eddie’s parents. Certainly not without my knowing.”

“Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?” said Molly.

“Do you really think I’d order the death of my own daughter? Do you really think me capable of such a thing?”

“You had no problem ordering the death of your grandson,” I murmured. “Sending me to my death didn’t seem to bother you at all, Grandmother.”

Her face didn’t give an inch, but when she spoke she chose her words carefully. “That was different, Edwin. I thought it was necessary, for the good of the family. It has been made clear to me that I was wrong about that . . . and other things. Emily was my dearest daughter. And I approved of Charles, your father. A bit of a rogue, but a good man with a good heart. Did you think I’d let just anyone marry my daughter? I liked Charles, and trusted him implicitly. He and Emily made a formidable team as field agents. Until that unfortunate business in the Basque area . . . I investigated their deaths thoroughly, Edwin. If there’d been even a hint that anyone had intended their deaths, I would have torn the family apart to find the culprits, and executed them myself. But it was just a stupid, regrettable accident. The result of bad intelligence and worse planning. These things happen, even in the best-regulated families.”

“Nothing just happens, where the Droods are concerned,” said Molly.

“Your parents died in the middle of a firefight,” the Matriarch said calmly. “They should never have sided with the White Horse Faction. Those people were extremists, terrorists, and always far too ready to shoot first. They were a bloodbath waiting to happen.”

“They were freedom fighters,” said Molly. “Idealists. And you had them all killed, including my mother and father.”

“We offered them every chance to surrender. Causes like that are always half in love with Death, one way or another.”

“You killed my mum and dad,” said Molly.

“You could have found another way,” I said to the Matriarch.

“You know that isn’t always possible,” she said flatly. “Did you take the time to consider all the possibilities, when you murdered your Uncle James? My son? The legendary Grey Fox?”

“That wasn’t Eddie’s fault!” Molly said immediately. “You sent James to kill Eddie! And you’re still trying to manipulate him, even now, working on his emotions, and the sense of blind duty you pounded into him! It’s all you know how to do. Anything, for the family. You’re already responsible for the deaths of so many; what are a few more, even if they have familiar faces? I’ll see you dead for what you’ve done, you coldhearted bitch!”

The Sarjeant-at-Arms was already on his feet and armoured up, two oversized guns appearing out of nowhere in his hands. The Armourer was up and on his feet only a second later, moving to put himself in front of the Matriarch, protecting her from all harm with his own body. But he hadn’t armoured up. Uncle Jack liked Molly. He didn’t really believe she would hurt the Matriarch, but he knew his duty. Harry hadn’t budged at all. He just sat there, entirely at his ease, watching the drama before him with cheerful detached interest.

I could see this situation going to hell in any number of unfortunate ways, so I grabbed Molly from behind, heaved her over my shoulder, and strode quickly out of the Sanctity. She stiffened ominously for a moment, but didn’t struggle, and allowed me to remove her from the scene. Though I was pretty sure I’d be made to pay for the indignity later. Behind us, I could hear the Armourer laughing, and applauding. My back crawled, in anticipation of a bullet from the Sarjeant, but I’d been careful not to provoke him by armouring up. And besides, I didn’t think my grandmother would allow the Sarjeant to shoot me in the back. If she ever decided to order my death again, she’d want me to see it coming.

I left the Sanctity behind, and strode nonchalantly through the Hall, Molly still slung over my shoulder.

“Anyone else I’d have turned into a toad,” she said casually. “Or something small and squelchy with its testicles floating on the surface.”

“Yes,” I said. “But I have boyfriend privileges.”

“You are pushing it, big time.”

“I know,” I said. “Next time, you can carry me off.”

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

After a while I put her down, and we went back to my room at the top of the Hall, and made up. Afterwards, we lay cuddled together on my bed, our clothes scattered everywhere, sweat drying slowly on our naked bodies. I could feel scratches from her fingernails smarting on my back. Molly rested her head on my chest, and made quiet noises of contentment. I let my gaze drift slowly around my room. It wasn’t very big, as rooms went, but it was bigger than most in Drood Hall. Even with four extra Wings added on down the years, space was always at a premium. The family gets bigger every year, and every year it gets harder to find somewhere to put us all. In the not too distant future, we’re either going to have to expand the Hall again, or move. But no one wants to talk about that, just yet.

The room had all the usual comforts, but little in the way of character. I was never around long enough to stamp my personality on it. Still, it seemed very peaceful, and quiet, just then, so far away from the rest of the family and all their many troubles.

“So,” I said finally. “What have you and Isabella been up to?”

“We went to see the Mole,” she said, not raising her head. Her lips brushed against my skin. “He’s still a rogue; prefers it that way. If he were to rejoin the family, they’d try and make him come home, and he just couldn’t. He’s been alone too long. He couldn’t stand being forced to mix with people again. It would kill him. Anyway, he wasn’t comfortable with anyone knowing where his hole was, so he moved. And this time he pulled the hole in after him. Even I don’t know where he is now. I can only talk to him via e-mail, bounced back and forth so many times it can never be traced. I figured if anyone knew the truth about what happened to our parents, it would be him. He didn’t know, but he thought he knew someone who might. He sent Isabella and me to this small town in the southwest of England, a place called Bradford-on-Avon. To talk to the oldest living human in the world: Carys Galloway, the Waking Beauty.”

Molly’s story:

Bradford-on-Avon is a really old town. It was the last Celtic town to fall to the invading Saxons in 504 A.D., and there are remains of an Iron Age settlement in the hills above the town. Strange creatures and stranger people live in this small country town, and marvels and wonders can be found there. Along with dark powers and darker secrets. Some of the people who live there have lived there so long they’re not even people anymore. And they know things no one else does.

It’s a pleasant place. Isabella and I left the train station and just walked around for a while, enjoying the many styles of architecture, from old thatched cottages to seventeenth-century weavers’ tenements, from manor houses to futuristic apartments. All of time, crammed together in one place. Reminded me of Drood Hall, a bit. Except the people were a lot friendlier.

The town looks perfectly normal at first, but once we raised our Sight, everything changed. It was as though just the act was enough to push us sideways, into a subtly different realm. We strolled across the thirteenth-century town bridge, over the river Avon, and passed an old stone chapel built into the bridge wall; just big enough to hold one or two people. Something inside threw itself against the confining walls, and a terrible scream filled my head, an inhuman howl of suffering and despair, rising and falling but never ending. Isabella grabbed my arm and hurried us on. I found out later it’s called the Howling Thing; one of the really old monsters. Impris oned there centuries ago, and still doing penance. It’s doing Time, every damned bit of it.

Wispy, multicoloured sylphs danced across the surface of the river, darting and speeding and leaping high into the air, leaving shimmering sparkling trails behind them. A dozen of them leapt right over the bridge, and when the shimmering trail fell across me, I was briefly touched by pure unadulterated joy. Other things moved on and in the slowly moving dark waters—creatures old and new, and some I would have taken an oath on a pile of grimoires didn’t even exist in the material world anymore. There were swans too, proud and majestic, moving unaffected among all the other magical creatures.

In the centre of town we found the memory of old gibbets, from when so many men had been hanged during the old Wool Riots. Ghosts could still be seen, hanging from their gibbets, chatting amiably with each other. They were more than half transparent, colours moving slowly over them like so many soap bubbles, but their presence felt harsh and almost brutal in the clear sunlight. I did offer to release them from the place of their death, and help them move on, but they declined. They weren’t trapped in the town; they had chosen to remain, to protect the town and their descendants. A few of them laughed nastily. The town has enemies, they said, laughing nastily. Let them come. Let them all come. Apparently if you stay a ghost long enough, in a place like this, it’s amazing how much power you can accumulate. They did offer to demonstrate, but there was something in their voices, and in their laughter . . . so I declined. I did ask where Isabella and I might find the Waking Beauty, and one of them directed us to an old pub called the Dandy Lion.

We found the place easily enough, right in the middle of town. It had clearly been around for some time. The painted sign above the door featured a lion walking upright, dressed in Restoration finery. It turned its head and winked at us as we passed under it. The oak-panelled doors swung open before us, revealing a carefully main tained old-fashioned ambience, with pleasantly gloomy old-time lighting, and a long bar stocked with every drink under the sun. It wasn’t until my eyes adjusted to the gloom that I realised there were flowers growing right out of the wood-panelled walls, their delicate petals pulsing like heartbeats. The music box was playing a Beatles song, but one I’d never heard before. The chairs at the traditional wooden tables politely pulled themselves out so people could sit down. A pack of cards was playing solitaire by itself, and cheating. And behind the long bar, a young woman in authentic sixties hippie gear was just cutting off a Yeti, on the grounds that he got mean when he was drunk. The big hairy creature slouched out of the pub, sulking, shedding hairs all the way.

We found Carys Galloway sitting tucked away in a corner, on her own, next to the window, so she could see anybody coming. She looked us over coolly before gesturing for us to sit down facing her. The chairs were very helpful. The Waking Beauty was a small delicate creature with a personality so powerful it almost pushed me back in my chair. She had a pointed chin, prominent cheekbones, a wide mouth and more than a hint of ethnic gypsy in her. Dark russet hair fell to her shoulders in thick ringlets, and her eyes were so huge and deep you felt like you could fall into them forever. And she smiled like she already knew everything you had on your mind. She had long bony hands, with heavily knuckled fingers, weighed down with gold and silver rings set with unfamiliar polished stones. Bangles on her wrists made soft chiming sounds with her every movement. She wore traditional Romany clothes, and wore them well. She could have been any age from her twenties to her forties, but even sitting there at her ease, her gaze hit me like a blow. She burned, she blazed, with a fierce unwavering intensity, like nothing human.

I let Isabella do all the talking. I know when I’m outclassed.

“Word is, you’re connected,” Isabella said bluntly. She waited for a moment, to give the Waking Beauty an opportunity to confirm or deny, but there was no reaction, so Isabella pressed on. “You’re supposed to be the oldest person in this town. In fact, there are those who say you’re older than the town. You draw your power from the many ley lines that cross here, and from never sleeping. Are you the oldest living person in this town, Carys Galloway?”

“Well,” she said, “There’s Tommy Squarefoot. But he’s a Neanderthal.”

“Are you immortal?” insisted Isabella.

“Who knows?” said the Waking Beauty. “I just haven’t died yet, that’s all. There are those who call themselves the Immortals, but I’m not one of that family.”

“Some say you made a deal, for long life and power,” said Isabella. “A deal you would like to break, if you dared. How am I doing so far, Carys Galloway?”

“I’ve killed people for knowing less than that about me,” the Waking Beauty said calmly. “Fortunately for you, I’ve mellowed these last few years. And I always did have a soft spot for Hecate’s children. Witches know how to have fun. So, Isabella and Molly Metcalf. Where’s Louisa?”

“Walking in the Martian Tombs, last I heard,” said Isabella, which came as something of a surprise to me.

“Why have you come to talk with me, my sisters?” said the Waking Beauty. There was a trace of warning in her voice, that made it clear we’d better have a really good reason.

“Our parents were murdered by the Droods,” said Isabella. “We were always told they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but there have been . . . suggestions, that there may have been more to it than that.”

“We think they were killed deliberately,” I said, unable to keep quiet any longer. “Someone in the Droods ordered their deaths. We want to know who, and why. And, whether there’s any connection with the death of Eddie’s parents.”

“Ah,” said the Waking Beauty. “I always knew that would come back to bite the Droods on the arse. Droods killing Droods . . . secrets within secrets, lies within lies to hide a terrible truth . . . But first, you need to know about the Apocalypse Door.”

Isabella and I looked at each other.

“We do?” I said.

“Unfortunately, yes, you do. Follow the trail, oh my sisters, from the Door to Doctor Delirium to the Immortals. And if you’re still alive at the end of it, you’ll get your answers. Quite possibly more answers than you can comfortably deal with. The Apocalypse Door is one of the thirteen true entries to Hell in the material world. Open this Door, and you can let loose all the inhabitants of Hell, to run loose on the Earth. Set the damned free, to do as they will, to trample the cities of men and slaughter their inhabitants. Hell on Earth, forever and ever, and the Triumph of Evil.”

“Has anyone . . . ever tried to open this Door?” said Isabella, leaning forward, fascinated.

“Usually, the owner of the Door only has to threaten to open it, and the world will give them whatever they want,” said the Waking Beauty. “They want to be persuaded, to be paid off. But there have always been a few, who for their own various reasons wanted to unleash Hell on Mankind. Famous names like Faustus, and a certain Doctor Ware, back in the 1960s . . . These people always come to bad ends. You can’t play with Hell and not get your fingers burned. The Droods, or someone else in the same line of work, always turns up just in time to stop these people, and stamp on their heads.” The Waking Beauty stopped, and frowned thoughtfully. “Theoretically, or theologically, speaking . . . should the Door be opened, and the contents of Hell let loose on an unsuspecting populace; then the forces of Heaven would be obliged to turn out to stop them. Though the conflict would almost certainly lay waste to the Earth and everything on it. So Apocalypse would seem to be the appropriate name, for this particular Door.”

“What has all this got to do with us?” I said.

The Waking Beauty smiled upon me, like a mother with a really dim child. “Follow the connections. All the way to the end.”

“You mentioned a name I didn’t recognise,” Isabella said suddenly. “A family called the Immortals.”

“Who are they?” I said.

The Waking Beauty sat back in her chair, her face slipping into shadow. Her bangles clattered softly. “A great many people would like to know the answer to that question. Well, here is wisdom, for those wise enough to receive it. If the Apocalypse Door has reappeared in the world of men, it can only mean the Immortals are close to revealing themselves, at last. They’ve been trying to get their hands on the Door for centuries, for their own inscrutable reasons, but somehow it’s always eluded them. However; just before the legendary Independent Agent died, he sold off many of his accumulated treasures, and one of them, to the surprise of many, turned out to be the Apocalypse Door. Apparently he needed a great deal of money at the end, for some last scheme . . . I have heard that a battle has just been fought over the Door in Los Angeles, involving Doctor Delirium, the Immortals, and one Eddie Drood.”

“Is he all right?” I said.

“Oh, he’s fine. But the hotel will never be the same again.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That sounds like Eddie.”

“What about the Immortals?” said Isabella.

“It’s not easy to talk about them,” said the Waking Beauty. “They’re powerful, they’re vicious, and they’re everywhere . . . and no one knows who they really are. They can be anyone, anywhere, hiding behind faces you’ve trusted all your life. But if you want to know what I know, you’re going to have to pay my price.”

Isabella nodded slowly. “I know. You want an end to your bargain, to your curse. You want to be able to sleep again.”

“Okay, you’ve left me behind now,” I said. “Bring me up to speed. How do you know what she needs, Is?”

“Because I did my homework before we came here,” she said. “I don’t just go rushing into things. Like you.”

I ignored her, giving all my attention to the Waking Beauty. “If you break your bargain, you’ll die. Won’t you?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know. But I’m ready to find out.”

“So, who did you make your deal with?” I said. “The Devil?”

Carys Galloway snorted loudly. “Please, I’m older than Christianity, and your limited concept of the Enemy. I made my deal with Queen Mab, original leader of the Faerie. Humanity, as such, hadn’t been around long then, and Mab saw us as no threat to her people. But still, we had something they didn’t have, something Mab wanted for herself. The Fae don’t sleep, don’t dream, and that limits their imagination, their creativity. Faeries are always curious, always wanting what they don’t have . . . So Mab chose me. I don’t know why. And we made a deal; my ability to sleep and dream, in return for immortality. I had no idea what I was giving up, and she had no idea what she was getting. Mab slept, and dreamed, and was never the same afterwards. She dreamed marvellous new cities, and weapons, and customs, and woke to make them real. She made the elves mighty. But she also became a little less Fae, and a little more human. Perhaps that’s why Oberon and Titania were able to end her reign, replace her, and throw her down into Hell. I like to think so.”

“Mab is back,” I said. “She rules the Fae again, in the Sundered Lands.”

“I know,” said Isabella. “I met with her, some time back.” Again, this was all news to me, but Isabella silenced me with a hard glare before I could ask any more questions. She’d tell me what she thought I needed to know, on her own time. She always was the bossy one.

“I also made a deal with Mab,” said Isabella. “I took her humanity from her, so that she could be pure elf again, and retake the Ivory Throne. I took back her ability to sleep and dream. And I have it right here, with me.”

She placed a small plastic snow globe on the table, between us and the Waking Beauty. It looked like a cheap toy, until you looked at it closely, and then wished you hadn’t. Behind the continually falling snow, something looked back . . .

“All you have to do is break this, and sleep and dreams will be yours again,” said Isabella. “Whether you’ll still be immortal or not . . . is probably up you. You’re not losing anything, after all, just getting something back.”

The Waking Beauty cupped her large hands around the snow globe, staring unblinkingly into its unknown depths. “You have no idea how tired you can get, when you haven’t been able to sleep for thousands of years. Never any rest, never any ease, never any break from the sheer effort of living, and thinking . . . You can have too much of a good thing.”

“You’ve got what you wanted,” said Isabella. “Now tell me about the Immortals.”

“I’m the only one who can tell you about them, because I was there before them,” said Carys Galloway. “I am the only living human being older than both the Droods and the Immortals. I was already centuries old when the other-dimensional entity known as the Heart crash-landed in ancient Britain. When the Heart materialised, its emanations affected the genetic material of every living thing for miles around. Most died, some mutated, and a few survived by making deals with the Heart. The Druid ancestors of the Droods were granted the armour they requested, so they could be shamans for the human tribe.

“But one man got to the Heart before them, and he asked to be made immortal. Him, and his wife and children. Apparently this amused the Heart, and it agreed. The first Immortal went back to his family, and passed his blessing on to them, and so were born the Immortals. They can be killed, if you try really hard, but otherwise they just go on, and on and on and on. Fortunately they breed only rarely, and never with each other. Their children are half-breeds, incredibly long-lived but not immortal. They serve the Elders in the family. Down the centuries, the Immortals have learned the art of flesh dancing, of shape-changing. They can take on the appearance of anyone, be anyone, infiltrate any organisation, or family, so that they can shape the world as they wish, for their benefit. They are always on both sides of every conflict, whipping up the flames, growing rich and powerful on the proceeds of war. We’re just mayflies, to them. We don’t matter. Only family matters, to the Immortals. Remind you of anyone?

“And like the Droods, the Immortals take the long view. They deal in small, subtle changes, designed to bear useful fruit in three or even four generations time. No wonder no one ever detects the truth, of their slow and remorseless influence; not even the shadowy agencies who like to think they guard the world. The Immortals have been shaping and manipulating history for fifteen hundred years, right under the Droods’ noses.

“Anyone can be an Immortal. Even a Drood. They’ve all had many names and identities, down the years. Some of them you’d know. Some of them Eddie would recognise. How can you fight an enemy who can be anyone?”

“How does all of this tie in with the death of our parents?” I said, unable to hold back any longer.

“I have had dealings with the Droods, down the centuries,” said the Waking Beauty. “Perhaps mostly because they’re almost as old as I am. It’s good to have someone to talk to . . . But I never worked for the Immortals. At least, not knowingly. They use people, that’s all. But you can’t live as long as I have, and not hear things . . . And one of the things I’ve heard is that your parents and Eddie’s parents knew each other. They met in battle, and ended up as allies. Very secret allies. They found out something, you see, discovered something they couldn’t be allowed to tell anyone else. So a decision was made, to kill them and make it look like unfortunate accidents. The Immortals decided this, but the orders came from inside the Droods.

“The Immortals infiltrated the Droods long ago, and they’ve been steering policy, sabotaging missions, and leading them around by the nose for their own purposes, for centuries. So, go back to the Droods. Find the hidden traitors, and make them tell you what you need to know. And tell Eddie . . . to watch his back. Now go. I’m tired . . .”

We left her, sitting alone, staring into the depths of the snow globe.

I held Molly close to me, trying to make sense of everything she’d told me. Traitors, inside the Droods? Inside the Hall? People in my family, who weren’t family? Malevolent eyes watching me from behind trusted faces? And . . . if the Apocalypse Door was everything Molly said it was, then Doctor Delirium really was a Major Player at last, and a clear and present danger to the whole world.

“I shouldn’t have blown up at the Matriarch like that,” said Molly, cuddling up against me. “It’s hard being angry all the time. Sometimes, I just want to hold and be held. I’m glad you’re here, Eddie.”

“Hush,” I said. “Sleep. Everything will seem clearer, in the morning.”

It seemed only moments later when we were both awakened by a thunderous knocking on my bedroom door. The room was dark. I looked at the glowing face of the clock beside the bed; it was a little short of four in the morning. Someone was still pounding on my door, and yelling my name. I turned on the light, pulled a dressing gown around me, and went to the door. It wasn’t locked, but even in an emergency a Drood’s room and privacy were sacrosanct. I pulled the door open, and there was Howard, Head of Operations. His face was grey with shock, and his eyes were wide. He looked like he’d been hit.

“What is it?” I said.

“You have to come with me, Eddie, you have to come now!” he said. “The Matriarch’s been murdered.”