From Hell with Love

CHAPTER FOUR Life Goes On, Whether You Want It To Or Not

With Molly gone, the madness of the mob quickly subsided. Men and women stood around the length of the corridor, looking dazedly at one another, armouring down. Most couldn’t remember what they’d just done, or even how they got there. A low murmur of confused voices rose and fell, as they asked each other the same questions, over and over again. Some vaguely remembered their armour taking on awful shapes, but flinched away from knowing what they did with them. A few did remember, so traumatised they ended up sitting on the floor with their heads in their hands, shaking and sobbing as tears ran down their cheeks. One kept saying But I liked Molly, I did! And another knelt before the splintered and bloodstained wall where Molly died, and smashed his face against it, over and over again, reducing his features to a bloody pulp, until someone came and gently led him away.

I didn’t give a damn what they felt. It was nothing, compared to what I felt.

None of them could remember what it was that had got them so worked up, or what it was that had persuaded and encouraged them into such an extreme state ˚ of mind. They all had a vague belief it was one particular person, but no one could remember a name, or even a face. But they were all very sure it was someone they trusted, someone they had reason to trust. One of the family? Oh yes, they all said, in their shaken broken voices, quite definitely a Drood. The Sarjeant-at-Arms moved among them, slamming people up against walls and shouting his questions right into their faces, almost incandescent with rage; but no one had any answers for him.

And I sat on the floor, armoured down, hands lying helplessly in my lap, staring at nothing. Men and women who’d been parts of the mob only minutes before came listlessly forward and tried to talk to me, to explain themselves and apologise, or just to try and comfort me. I didn’t hear them. The world was just a blur. A small part of me wanted to kill every one of them, just rise up and strike them all down for what they’d done, but I didn’t have the energy. All I wanted to do was just sit there, and not think or feel anything.

After a while, the Armourer came over and crouched down before me. His knees made loud cracking noises. He was asking me things, in a quiet concerned voice, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t have answered anyway; my throat pulsed with a raw, vicious pain. I’d damaged it from screaming so hard. I could feel tears drying on my face. I couldn’t remembered when I’d stopped crying. I finally realised the Armourer was asking me if I had any idea where Isabella might have taken Molly. I wondered about that, in a vague drifting way. Would Isabella have taken Molly back to the wildwoods, to bring her home, so she could be buried there among her beloved trees and animals? And if so, might I be allowed to visit her there? Or would the beasts of that ancient forest rise up and kill me on sight, for taking her away from them to the place where she was killed? And if so . . . would I just stand there and let them do it?

I struggled to my feet, with the Armourer’s help, and looked desperately around me. I needed to be doing something, anything. I said something about going after Isabella, forcing the words past my ruined throat. The Armourer talked me out of it, with slow, kind, soothing words. Molly was beyond my help now, but I could still track down the bastard who’d created the mob that killed her. Molly wasn’t the only victim here; many people in that mob would be seriously traumatised for years to come. My responsibility to Molly was over, said the Armourer, but I still had duties and responsibilities to the family. To find Molly’s killer, and the Matriarch’s. And make them pay in blood and suffering.

Just like Grandmother always said, Anything, for the family.

I looked around at the remains of the mob, already dispersing, or being led away, stumbling and crying, shaking their heads violently as though they could deny what had just happened. The Armourer followed my gaze, but misinterpreted my feelings.

“It wasn’t their fault, Eddie. They weren’t responsible for what they did. Someone deliberately drove them out of their minds, and aimed them at you like a bullet.”

“Not me,” I said. “They could have killed me, if they’d wanted. Someone wanted my Molly dead, at the hands of Droods.”

The Armourer winced at the sound of my voice. Perhaps because it sounded so painful, or perhaps because of the cold harsh emotions he heard in it.

“Do you have any ideas who might be behind this, Eddie?” he said finally.

I shook my head. I wasn’t ready to talk to him about the Immortals, not just yet. Not when I couldn’t be sure who was who, or who might be listening. I felt cold, so cold, like I’d never feel warm or alive again. All the horror and loss and heartbreak had sunk right down, buried deep within me, so I could be focused and determined on what I had to do. I would find out who was responsible for this atrocity, and I would make them pay. Every damned one of them. I would make the Immortals die slow and hard, wade in blood up to my knees, and do terrible, unforgivable things, if that was what it took to avenge Molly Metcalf. Grieving could come later.

It was what Molly would ˚ have wanted.

The Armourer winced at what he saw in my face, and patted me gently, awkwardly, on the shoulder with his large engineer’s hand.

“Come with me, Eddie,” he said. “We’ll go down to the Armoury. We can talk properly there. I put in my own wards and protections, after that Zero Tolerance business.”

“All right,” I said. “But I have to stop off somewhere first.”

It still hurt to talk. My voice sounded to me like a dead man’s. God alone knew what it sounded like to the Armourer. But he just nodded, and let me lead him into my room. The door was hanging open, half wrenched off its hinges. The mob had overturned and smashed my furniture, and broken everything else. It didn’t matter to me. Not now. There was only room for one hatred in my head. I found the Merlin Glass, just lying on the floor, unnoticed and unbroken. It had its own inbuilt protections, like everything Merlin created. I picked it up and said the activating Words, and the Glass jumped out of my hand, growing in size to become a doorway. The Armourer and I stepped through into the Armoury.

The Armoury never changes much. A long series of interconnected stone chambers, with high arching ceilings, packed with scientific equipment, magical apparatus, and more weird shit than you could shake a Hand of Glory at. The air-conditioning system gurgles loudly to itself, when it feels like working. Multicoloured wiring, following a colour code nobody really understands, lies tacked haphazardly across the walls, you have to be really careful where you step, and there’s always something seriously dangerous, unpleasant or suddenly explosive going on in the testing area.

But this was four o’clock in the morning, and the place was practically deserted. The Armourer sat me down in his favourite chair, and bustled around making us both a nice cup of tea. Always good for what ails you, he said briskly. He always felt better when he was doing something practical. He used proper tea leaves, from an old tea caddy with the willow pattern on the sides, and got out the good china, and a silver tea strainer presented to us by Queen Victoria. Because this wasn’t an occasion for a tea bag in a plastic mug, and find your own milk and sugar. I just sat in the chair and let him get on with it. The moment I sat down, all my strength seemed to run right out of me.

I looked vaguely round the Armoury. Most of the lights had been turned off, giving the deserted labs a calm, reflective ambience. A few lab assistants were still working quietly, here and there. They should have been tucked up in bed at this ungodly early hour of the morning, but there are always a few night owls. They tapped away at computer keyboards, or scribbled frantically on oversized writing pads, lost in their own little worlds. One of them appeared to have a halo, but I decided not to mention it.

They probably didn’t even know what had just happened in the Hall. They didn’t know what had happened to the Matriarch, and my Molly.

The Armourer served me tea, with honey and lemon. I sipped at the tea automatically. It tasted good, soothing.

“No jaffa cakes, I’m afraid,” said the Armourer, pulling up a chair and sitting down opposite me. “Damn lab assistants go through them like locusts. I’ve got half a packet of chocolate hobnobs around here somewhere, if you’d like . . . Ah. Well. Maybe later, eh?”

We sat quietly together for a while, drinking our tea, thinking . . . doing our best to come to terms with so much having happened so quickly, in such a short time. Both our worlds, overturned and destroyed, in just a few hours. Uncle Jack had lost his mother, I had lost my Molly, and just maybe the Droods had lost their innocence. Trained all their life to serve the good, they had been made to do an evil thing, and some of them might never get over it. We all have monsters within us, but most of us never have to see what happens when they get loose. Droods are taught from an early age to roll with the punches, to take what punishment you have to, to get things done, to carry on the ˚ family business and mourn your losses later. But this . . . was hard.

“You never knew your Aunt Clara, did you, Eddie?” Uncle Jack said finally. His voice was calm, quiet, reflective. “My wife. She died when you were still a baby. Blood vessel just popped, in her brain. Dead before she hit the floor. It happens like that, sometimes. We’re Droods, with every advantage, but we still get sick and die sometimes, just like everyone else. She was always so full of life . . . my Clara. I left the field to come back here. There was nothing I could do for her, but I still had a young son to raise. I never left the Hall again.”

“You never talk about your son, Uncle Jack,” I said.

“He let himself down,” the Armourer said flatly. “He let all of us down. Not all sons turn out as well as you, Eddie. If his mother hadn’t died . . . if I’d been around more when he was younger, instead of running around half of Eastern Europe stamping out political bushfires . . . Kipling was right. If is the cruellest word. The point is, don’t bury yourself in work, like I did. You’re still young. You can still find someone else.”

“Not like Molly,” I said.

“Well, no,” said the Armourer.

We sat, and drank our tea, and thought some more. The tea soothed my throat, if not my heart.

“So,” the Armourer said. “That . . . was the notorious Isabella Metcalf. Impressive.”

“You know her?” I said.

“Well, of her. The female Indiana Jones of the supernatural world. Always looking for answers in strange places, digging up things any sane person would let lie. She always has to know, and to hell with the consequences. Not for any particular end, or purpose; knowledge has always been its own reward, with Isabella. She’s petitioned me a dozen times for access to the Old Library. Had to turn her down, of course. She’s not family.”

There was another long pause, the Armourer making it clear with long looks from under his bushy white eyebrows that he was waiting for me to contribute something to the conversation. So I told him what I’d discovered about the Immortals, and their possible infiltration of our family. He took it surprisingly well; no furious outbursts, no insistence that such a thing couldn’t be possible. He just leant back in his chair, sipping slowly from his cup, while his expression grew colder and colder, and his eyes became positively arctic. I’d never seen him look so dangerous. When I’d finished, draining my cup of tea to sooth my raw throat, he nodded slowly several times.

“Zero Tolerance and Manifest Destiny was bad enough,” he said finally. “They might have been traitors, but at least they were family. These are outsiders! I feel like I’ve been violated. How long has this been going on?”

“Who knows?” I said. “Given who and what they are, it could be decades or even centuries.”

“That maddened mob didn’t just happen,” said the Armourer. “Someone messed with their heads, used them to do the dirty work, to hurt them as well as you. Makes me sick.”

“Have you ever heard of the Immortals before, Uncle Jack?”

“Vague rumours, down the years. Stories . . . of the men who live forever. Always kingmakers rather than kings, always the power behind the throne; because kings and thrones come and go, but the Immortals go on forever. If there’s never any obvious villain to blame, blame the Immortals. I never paid much attention to the stories. There are always stories, in our line of work. The Immortals are . . . the urban legends of the supernatural field.”

He scowled into his cup, brooding, and I left him alone to think through the implications. It’s not every day your whole worldview gets overturned. I looked around the Armoury. The handful of lab assistants were still working quietly, or sitting staring off into space, contemplating the creation of awful and appalling things to throw at the family’s enemies. Our lab assistants are always at their most dangerous when they’re thinking. Word of the Matriarch’s death hadn’t got down here yet. Or Molly’s. We keep the Armoury isolated from the rest of the Hall for many good reasons. But eventually word would get down here, and I wanted to be long gone before that happened.

The Armourer started talking again, but not about the Immortals.

“I never really thought my mother would ever die. She’d always been there, so I thought she always would. I thought she’d go on forever, too stubborn to give in to anything as small as death. I’m all that’s left of the main line now. Father, mother, brother, sister . . . all gone.”

“Do you think it’s possible the family is responsible for the murder of my parents?” I said bluntly.

“James and I looked into their deaths, the moment we heard what had happened,” said the Armourer. “We questioned everyone we could get our hands on, and we weren’t polite about it, either. If anyone had known anything, they would have told us, after what we did, and threatened to do. We were both a little crazy, after losing Emily. And Charles too, of course. We both liked Charles. But Emily . . . was always special to us. She was the best of us. She could have been a greater field agent than me, or James. But she met your father, and then she had you, and after that she semiretired from the field, only working on information-gathering missions, with your father. Do you remember much about your parents, Eddie?”

I thought about it for a moment, before answering. “I was very young when they were killed. I’m not sure how much of what I remember of them is actual memory, and how much is what I want to remember. When I think of them, I see their official family portrait, rather than any real image, because I’ve seen the portrait far more often than I ever saw them.”

“We never turned up any evidence it was anything other than a series of stupid mistakes. Bad advance information, insufficient preparation, a mission that went wrong every way it could from the moment they hit the ground. It does happen. Do you really think I’d still be working for the family if I thought they were responsible for the death of my sister? We all loved Emily. She would have been the next Matriarch, if she’d lived.”

“Could that have been a motive?” I said. “Could she have been murdered because someone didn’t want her taking control of the most powerful family in the world?”

“We looked,” said the Armourer. “We never found anything. Not even a suggestion of anything out of place. But now, I wonder; if there really are enemy agents hidden inside the family, posing as Droods . . . I really hoped we’d put this paranoia behind us, with the destruction of Zero Tolerance. Now we have to worry about the Immortals? The men who could be anyone? If it’s true . . . then we can’t trust anyone anymore.”

“It could give us an answer to an old mystery,” I said. “Who was responsible for bringing the Loathly Ones into this world? Maybe it wasn’t our fault after all; it was theirs.”

“And they could have killed Sebastian,” said the Armourer. “I always said only one of the family could have got to him, locked securely away in the isolation wards.”

“That would simplify things,” I said. “God forbid there should be two sets of traitors within the family.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said the Armourer, producing a hip flask of brandy and liberally lacing what was left of his tea.

My throat was feeling a lot better. The Armourer must have put something in my tea too.

“There is something else I wanted to talk to you about,” I said carefully. “Something I was wondering about even before all that’s happened. Uncle James once had a gun he said could fire bullets made of strange matter, that could pierce Drood armour.”

“Yes . . .” said the Armourer. “I remember that. James asked me to make it for him. A very difficult project . . . quite a challenge, ac tually. I had it destroyed, after he died. It was just too dangerous to have around. I wanted it gone, and no threat to the family.”

“But why did you make it in the first place?” I said. “Why create a gun specifically designed to kill Droods?”

“Because he asked me to,” said the Armourer. “He was the legendary Grey Fox, after all, and if he said it was necessary, who was I to doubt him? I just assumed he had a good reason. Now, I have to wonder . . . did he suspect there were enemies hidden among us, even back then? He never said anything. He always kept things close to his chest. Even from me . . .”

The Armourer sighed heavily, and made a clear effort to pull himself together. “Come along, boy. If you’ve been declared a target by the Immortals, it’s my responsibility to see you properly armed and prepared. Look at this: a new Colt Repeater, because you wore out the last one. The new and improved version holds every kind of ammunition mortal mind could conceive of: hollow points, dumdums, silver, wood, blessed and cursed. Just say aloud what kind of ammo you need, and the Colt will have it. Even you couldn’t miss the target with this version, and you’ll never run out of ammo. Just try not to get it wet. Ruins the finish.”

“Where does all the ammunition come from?” I said, accepting the new Colt from him. “Is it held in a subspace locker, of some kind?”

“Oh please,” said the Armourer, choosing not to watch as I struggled to fit the Colt into my battered old shoulder holster. “Subspace is so last season. And don’t pretend you’d understand the physics, even if I did try to explain it to you. You never were any good at maths, Eddie. Now, what new gadgets have I got for you . . . Oh! Yes!” He glared at me. “I remember now. You’re on my special list. No more new toys for you, because you didn’t use the last lot I gave you.”

“Oh, come on!” I said. “You’re not still sulking over that, are you? I was busy! There was a lot going on! I just . . . never got around to using them.”

“You aren’t getting anything new until you’ve proved to me you can handle the last batch properly,” the Armourer said firmly.

I sighed quietly. Some arguments you just know you’re never going to win. “All right, talk me through how to use them again. You know that always cheers you up. And it’s been so long I’ve probably forgotten something important anyway.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” the Armourer said darkly. “Here we are. I had them put out specially, when I heard you were coming home. This . . . is the Gemini Duplicator. Looks like a simple gold signet ring. You activate it by pressing hard against it with the adjoining fingers. Put it on, put it on . . . Yes. You now have the option of bilocation. And please, I have already heard every possible variation of every joke involving the word bi, and not one of them was worth the breath it took to tell them. Your generation thinks it invented sex. In this case, bilocation means the ability to be in more than one place at the same time. Means you can get twice as much work done, whilst at the same time providing an unbreakable alibi. Sort of like multitasking, only more so. And yes, I am way ahead of you as always, you can make more than two of yourself at the same time, but the more duplicates you call up, the harder it will become to concentrate, to control you all. Make too many of yourself, and you could end up lost in the crowd, and unable to find your way back.”

He handed me a small black box, containing a pair of silver cuff links.

“Ah,” I said. “I remember those. The Chameleon Codex. They pick up trace DNA from people I come into contact with, so I can make myself into an exact duplicate of them. Oh, I can see endless possibilities for fun here. I can do women as well as men, can’t I?”

“You have no shame,” said the Armourer. “Now, this is a skeleton key, made from real human bone. Don’t ask who it came from; you really don’t want to know. Opens any lock, physical or electronic, and in an emergency, will even open a bottle of wine. Right. That’s it. I expect a full report on all of them as soon as this is over, detailing every way you made use of them, complete with problems and recommendations. And then I’ll let you see some of the really fun stuff I’ve been working on.”

I slipped the cuff links into place, popped the skeleton key in my pocket, and then looked thoughtfully at the Armourer.

“Uncle Jack . . . There’s something I never told you. When the Blue Fairy was killed last year, during the great spy game, I went to take the stolen torc off his body. But when I touched it with my armoured fingertip, the armour . . . absorbed the Blue Fairy’s torc. Just sucked it right in. I kept quiet about it, because the implications worried me. There’s still a lot we don’t understand about this new armour Ethel’s given us. But now I have to wonder . . . Could the Matriarch’s killer have taken her torc in the same way? And if he did, would that make his armour twice as strong? You read my report on what happened when I encountered the old monster, Grendel Rex, the Unforgiven God, in Tunguska last year. He absorbed the torcs of others, to make himself a living god. Until the family took him down, and imprisoned him under the permafrost. Could something like that happen again?”

“You do enjoy giving me things to worry about, don’t you?” said the Armourer. He scowled thoughtfully. “We still don’t know enough about the properties and limitations of the new armour. We treat it like the old armour because that’s what we’re used to, but it’s potentially very different. It is strange matter, after all. Not of this earth . . . Ethel? Are you listening?”

Oh sure! Ethel said cheerfully. I’m always listening, except when I’m not. But there isn’t much I can tell you about the armour I provide. It’s as close to the old armour as I could make it, only more so. I’m constantly amazed at all the wonderful things you’ve learned to do with it. But I can’t help you with its limitations; this world and its physical restrictions are still something of a mystery to me.

“Are we going to have to go through the privacy thing again, Ethel?” I said.

But you weren’t alone! There were two of you!

“Sometimes two people need their privacy even more,” I said pointedly.

Oh pooh! You’re talking about that sex thing, aren’t you. Like I care . . .

“Let us talk about the armour,” the Armourer said doggedly. “Eddie, did you feel any stronger, after you’d absorbed the Blue Fairy’s torc?”

“Not that I noticed,” I said. “But given how strong the armour is normally . . . I have just survived being inside a hotel when it collapsed, but so did Luther, and he only had the standard armour.”

“I can see I’ll have to run a whole series of tests,” said the Armourer, brightening up a bit. “The whole family depends on the armour. We need to know everything there is to know about it.”

Good luck with that, Ethel said cheerfully.

“Go away, Ethel,” I said firmly.

I’ve been talking to your poltergeist, said Ethel. Oh, the things I could tell . . .

I waited, but her vague sense of presence was gone. It’s never easy talking to Ethel. She does her best to be human, but it’s only ever an act. So much more than human, but hopefully less than a god. I couldn’t help noticing she hadn’t said anything about Molly’s death. I hadn’t raised the subject for fear she’d start wittering on again about how life and death are just different states of being. I really wasn’t in the mood. I took the Merlin Glass out of the sunspace pocket it had disappeared into on arriving in the Armoury, and every alarm in the world went off at once. The Armoury was full of bells, sirens, flashing lights, the works. All the lab assistants galvanised into action and dived for cover. Uncle Jack ran madly around the Armoury, shutting down one system after another, swearing at the top of his voice. After a while, peace and quiet grudgingly returned. Lab assistants reappeared here and there, peering cautiously out of their hiding places with eyes like owls, brandishing various nasty-looking weapons. The Armourer looked them over, with cold calculation.

“Very good, boys and girls, excellent reflexes. Claudia, put that portable disintegrator back where you found it. Kenneth, has Matron seen those gills? And Gregory, where did that trapdoor come from? I’ve told you all before—you’re not to add modifications to the Armoury without submitting plans in advance. All right, everyone, back to work. Make me proud. Come up with something really upsetting, and there’ll be ice cream for everyone.”

He turned his back on them and looked at me.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “The occasional emergency and threat to life helps keep them on their toes.”

“Why didn’t the Glass set off the alarms when it brought us here?”

“Because I’ve programmed the Armoury to ignore that. Just hadn’t got round to telling it to ignore the Glass’ presence. It really is a very dangerous item.” He looked at the Merlin Glass thoughtfully. “In fact, the more I discover about it, the more disturbed I become. The Librarian sent me a book he found in the Old Library the other day. It had a lot to say about the Merlin Glass, mostly operating instructions, all the practical stuff; but not a lot about why it was created in the first place. Officially, it was a gift to the Droods, from Merlin himself, for services rendered. Back then, that could cover a whole lot of ground. Hardly anything in the book about the Glass’ history, who used to own it, and what happened to them. Though I did come across a rather interesting footnote, suggesting that there might be Someone or Something imprisoned inside the Glass. Apparently you can sometimes catch glimpses of it in the Glass’ reflection. It ˚ might be what powers the Glass.”

“As long as it doesn’t turn out to be a small Victorian girl with long blond hair,” I said solemnly.

“Never liked those books,” said the Armourer. “Creeped the hell out of me when I was a boy. Entirely unsuitable for children, I’ve always said.”

“How is William?” I said, carefully changing the subject. “Has he settled into his position as head Librarian?”

“Not really,” said the Armourer. “He’s still crazy, and not in a good way. But if anyone in this family knows anything that matters about the Immortals, it will be William. He knows everything. When he can remember it.”

“He didn’t know much about the Apocalypse Door,” I pointed out.

“You need to pop into the Old Library and have a good talk with him,” said the Armourer. “I’ll stay here, where it’s safe and sane.”

“What if the Sarjeant-at-Arms turns up here looking for me, and starts putting the pressure on you?”

“Like to see him try,” said the Armourer. “I think sometimes people forget I used to be a field agent. I’m just in the mood to get unpleasant and unreasonable with someone. I’ve got a set of depleted uranium knuckle-dusters around here somewhere.”

I never know when he’s joking.