Property of a Lady Faire: A Secret Histories Novel Read online

  ALSO BY SIMON R. GREEN

  THE SECRET HISTORIES NOVELS

  The Man with the Golden Torc

  Daemons Are Forever

  The Spy Who Haunted Me

  From Hell with Love

  For Heaven’s Eyes Only

  Live and Let Drood

  Casino Infernale

  THE DEATHSTALKER SERIES

  Twilight of the Empire

  Deathstalker

  Deathstalker Rebellion

  Deathstalker War

  Deathstalker Honor

  Deathstalker Destiny

  Deathstalker Legacy

  Deathstalker Return

  Deathstalker Coda

  THE ADVENTURES OF HAWK & FISHER

  Swords of Haven

  Guards of Haven

  OTHER NOVELS

  Blue Moon Rising

  Beyond the Blue Moon

  Blood and Honor

  Down Among the Dead Men

  Shadows Fall

  Drinking Midnight Wine

  Once in a Blue Moon

  ACE BOOKS

  THE NIGHTSIDE SERIES

  Something from the Nightside

  Agents of Light and Darkness

  Nightingale’s Lament

  Hex and the City

  Paths Not Taken

  Sharper Than a Serpent’s Tooth

  Hell to Pay

  The Unnatural Inquirer

  Just Another Judgement Day

  The Good, the Bad, and the Uncanny

  A Hard Day’s Night

  The Bride Wore Black Leather

  GHOST FINDERS NOVELS

  Ghost of a Chance

  Ghost of a Smile

  Ghost of a Dream

  Spirits from Beyond

  ROC

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © Simon R. Green, 2014

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Green, Simon R., 1955–

  Property of a lady faire: a secret histories novel/Simon R. Green.

  pages cm.—(Secret histories)

  ISBN 978-0-698-14559-7

  1. Drood, Eddie (Fictitious character)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6107.R44P76 2014

  823'.92—dc23 2013044973

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Also by SIMON R. GREEN

  Title page

  Copyright page

  CHAPTER ONE: Who Wants to Know?

  CHAPTER TWO: Where There’s a Will, There’s a Complication

  CHAPTER THREE: After the Will, a Last Testament

  CHAPTER FOUR: The Drood in Cell 13

  CHAPTER FIVE: A Short History of the Lazarus Stone

  CHAPTER SIX: False Knight on the Road

  CHAPTER SEVEN: Doors

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Murders on the Trans-Siberian Express

  CHAPTER NINE: So Many Lovers, So Little Love

  CHAPTER TEN: Everything Revealed at Last

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: What Really Matters, at the End

  CHAPTER ONE

  Who Wants to Know?

  I was just breaking out of a Top Security section of the Vatican, after an entirely successful burglary, when a voice spoke my name. I had been padding very quietly down a corridor that wasn’t on any plan, in a building that didn’t officially exist, and the last thing I expected was to hear my name spoken aloud by a voice I was almost sure I recognised. I stopped and looked quickly about me. I was halfway down a long, unlit hallway, heavy with shadows, with not a light on anywhere in the dozen or so adjoining offices. I was completely alone.

  I knew that, because I’d gone to great pains and trouble to make sure of it. Because if the Vatican Security Forces ever found a Drood field agent operating anywhere inside the bounds of the holy city, they would quite definitely never forgive me. The Church might have made occasional use of the Droods down the centuries but has never trusted my family an inch. And I think it is only fair to say, vice versa.

  The corridor was so dark I could only just make out its far end, but I was positive there wasn’t another soul anywhere near me. The deep shadows lay undisturbed, and it was so quiet all I could hear was my own slow, controlled breathing. And then the Merlin Glass shot up out of my pocket to hang on the air right in front of my face. I didn’t quite jump out of my skin, and I didn’t actually make the strangulated scream I very much wanted to, but I did regard the hand mirror hovering before me with more than usual interest. Because if your very secret mission has just been utterly compromised and is now lying tits up in the gutter, you might as well enjoy it.

  The sorcerer Merlin Satanspawn—and yes, I do mean the one you’re thinking of—had made a present of the Glass to my family some fifteen hundred years ago. We’re still trying to decide whether that was a kindly act or not. Ever since the Merlin Glass fell into my hands, not that long ago, it has proved itself to be highly useful, intensely irritating, and constantly surprising. Not least because I can never lay my hand on the operating manual when I need it.

  The Glass looks like a perfectly ordinary hand mirror, with a chased silver handle and back. It can show me views of anywhere on Earth, and grow into a dimensional Doorway big enough to take me there. I’d grown used to that. But I wasn’t at all used to seeing my reflection vanish from the mirror and be replaced by the shifty features of the notorious Harry Fabulous.

  I grabbed the mirror by its handle and pulled it close to my face. A pale yellow light was spilling out of the Glass from wherever Harry was, and I didn’t want it to attract unnecessary attention. I was almost out of this very secret part of the Vatican, but almost isn’t is. Burglars should not hang around at the scenes of their crimes, not if they want to grow up to be very old burglars—particularly if the local security forces are authorised to use extreme and distressing levels of violence. But Harry Fabulous had got my attention. No one had ever used the mysterious Merlin Glass as a mobile phone before. I hadn’t even known that was possible.

  I tried the door handle on the nearest office, and it turned easily in my grasp. I pushed the door open and slipped silently into the darkened room, pulling the door almost but not completely shut after me. Just in case I needed to make a sudden and hurried exit. The pale yellow light from the hand mirror showed me the rough outlines of furniture and filing cabinets, and not much else. I looked into the Merlin Glass and gave Harry Fabulous my best intimidating glare.

  “This had better be important, Harry,” I said quietly. “I am rather busy just at the moment. How did you get this number
, anyway?”

  “Trust me; this is really very important, Eddie,” said Harry, smiling nervously. “And I mean seriously important, with a heaping side order of urgent. As to how I was able to tap into the Merlin Glass, you really don’t want to know. It would only keep you up nights.”

  There was no point in pressing Harry. If he wasn’t prepared to give up his source, it was only because he was more scared of whomever he was working for than he was of me. Mind you, Harry Fabulous was scared of a great many people and things, usually with good reason. Harry is a creature of the shadows, or at least those very grey areas where Law and Morality and Good Sense are only passing things. Harry is a master of the illegal deal, the crafty con, and the kind of borderline business agreement you just know you’ll end up regretting later. Harry Fabulous is your go-to guy for all the things you’re not supposed to want, all the things that are supposed to be impossible to get. Whether it’s a drug or a dream, a girl or a grimoire, a memory from yesterday or a promise of tomorrow, Harry has sources. He can get you anything, for the right price.

  He’s not much to look at, but then his kind never is. In his business, it’s never a good idea to stand out from the crowd. A shabby man in shabby clothes, with a hard-worn face and unreadable eyes, Harry always said he could run a game on God, and be well out of town before the penny dropped. But then something went horribly wrong for Harry Fabulous, in a secret back room in one of those very private Members Only clubs well off the main drag in the Nightside . . . And now Harry leads a desperate life of penance and atonement, to make up for . . . whatever it was he did. Doing good deeds, for the good of his soul. Before it’s too late. He hustles around, happy to be helpful to all the right people, mediating between people and groups who couldn’t otherwise talk to one another.

  Harry Fabulous wouldn’t normally say boo to a Drood, so for him to contact me at all was . . . interesting.

  “What do you want, Harry?” I said. “And can’t it wait till I’ve broken out of the Vatican?”

  “Not really, no,” said Harry. “I have a client in desperate need of your help. As in right now!”

  “Keep your voice down!” I said, glancing quickly out through the crack at the door. The corridor still looked empty, but I wasn’t as convinced of that as I had been. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was creeping up on me. And not in a good way.

  “What are you doing in the Vatican, Eddie?” said Harry.

  “I could tell you,” I said, “but then I’d have to exorcise you.”

  “Come on, Eddie, you know me,” said Harry. “I am the soul of discretion. Mostly.”

  “I do know you, Harry Fabulous,” I said, “and I would not trust you as far as I could throw a wet camel.”

  “Lot of people say that,” Harry said sadly.

  “Can we please get on with this? I am rather in the middle of something here . . .”

  “Doing what?”

  “Something I am entirely sure both my family and all the Powers That Be at the Vatican would not want you to know about.”

  “Fair enough,” said Harry. “I currently represent the management of the Wulfshead Club. And no, I don’t have a clue who they are, just like everyone else, so there’s no point in asking me.”

  “Then how do you know it’s really them?” I said craftily.

  “They were very convincing,” said Harry. “I still get the shakes when I think about it.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll come straight to the Wulfshead, as soon as I’m outside the Vatican buildings.”

  “No!” Harry said quickly. “You can’t! The club’s new privacy shields don’t allow anyone to teleport in. Even the mighty Merlin Glass would bump its nose. I’ll meet you in the alley outside the main London entrance. As soon as you can, Eddie. Please.”

  “Give me ten minutes,” I said. “Unless I run into Security . . . then make it fifteen minutes.”

  Harry’s face disappeared from the Merlin Glass, replaced by my own reflection. Even in the dim light of the empty office, I thought I looked tired and hard done by. As one of the most secret of the hidden world’s secret agents, I go to a lot of trouble to appear ordinary and anonymous, but people like Harry Fabulous put years on me. I would have preferred for him to hang around just a little longer, to answer a few pointed questions about exactly why I was needed so urgently, but that was probably why he’d disappeared so quickly. I slipped the Merlin Glass back into my pocket and stood still for a moment, thinking.

  I knew all about the Wulfshead Club. Everyone in my line of work does. A very private drinking establishment, for very private people. A covert bolt-hole, for those of us who operate in the hidden world. The Good, the Bad, and the In-between are always welcome, as long as they’ve got money to spend. More importantly, it’s neutral ground for those of us who feel the need for somewhere safe and secure to let our hair down. Many of us who work in the supernatural Intelligence community tend to end up there. If only because we all need someone we can talk to, about the things we’ve seen and the things we’ve done, who won’t judge us. The kinds of things only people like us ever get to know about.

  The world doesn’t need to know. It would only worry.

  There are a great many secret entrances to the Wulfshead Club, in any number of cities, scattered around the world. Though getting in, or out, can be murder. The club’s been around for as long as anyone can remember, in one form or another, but no one knows for sure who owns and runs it. Despite a clientele who make their business digging out answers, the Wulfshead’s management remains determinedly anonymous. And they have never, ever, asked a member of my family for help before. I had to smile. This was just too good to turn down.

  My head came up sharply as I heard soft running footsteps outside the office, approaching rapidly from the far end of the corridor. Not good. Not in any way good. I couldn’t use the Merlin Glass to teleport out until I was completely outside the building and back in the official world.

  I pulled the door open and slipped back out into the corridor, not making a sound. When you’re a field agent for the Droods, moving unseen and unobserved comes as standard. I glared into the gloom at the far end of the corridor, back the way I’d come, and could just make out a number of dark, indistinct figures heading my way at more than human speed. Charging down the corridor, they shifted their shapes subtly as they moved. I couldn’t hear any bells or sirens; the advancing shapes were doing nothing to raise the alarm. Presumably they intended to bring me down before anyone else found out I was ever there. I had to smile. Being chased by a small army of angry priests and warrior nuns was probably every good Catholic boy’s worst nightmare. Good thing I was raised Church of England.

  I ran down the corridor at full pelt, not even trying to be quiet or unobserved any more. My feet hammered on the floor, and my arms pumped at my sides as I made good speed, leaving my pursuers behind. I was still hoping to make my escape without having to fight my way out. I didn’t want to make more of a fuss than was necessary. Scrapping with priests and nuns inside the Vatican, even the parts that don’t officially exist, is never going to be profitable. And I really didn’t want the Vatican Security Forces to even suspect they’d had a Drood in the house. Which was why I hadn’t raised my incredible Drood armour. Just the presence of so much golden strange matter in the holy city would set off every alarm they had and bring everyone running at once.

  I risked a glance back over my shoulder. My pursuers were catching up fast, moving so quietly now that their feet didn’t even seem to be brushing the bare wooden floor. I could see robes and wimples, but no faces. Even as I looked, though, the dark shapes changed, flowing like water. Legs and arms lengthened, backs became hunched, and great black membranous wings stretched out, their tips brushing against the corridor walls, beating loudly on the still air. The whole atmosphere in the corridor changed, becoming horrid and oppressive. There was a sudden stench of blood and brimstone. It seemed the rumours were true, after all. The Va
tican had contracted out for its most secret security forces, drawing on denizens from the Lower Reaches. The remote activating of the Merlin Glass must have alerted them to my presence.

  I was in real trouble now.

  I pounded down the corridor, forcing the last bit of speed out of my aching muscles. It had been a long night, and I’m not really built for running. I could hear my breathing coming fast and hard, and my heart was hammering in my chest. I finally reached the door at the far end, skidded to a halt, and rattled the handle. It was locked. Of course it was; it was that kind of night. I grabbed a handy piece of heavy marble statuary from its niche (almost certainly centuries old, and valuable beyond price) and used it to smash the lock. The statue came to pieces in my hand, but the door jumped open. I threw the pieces aside and charged through the opening. I didn’t dare look back. I could hear the flapping of huge wings right behind me, like wet blankets on the air.

  Outside, an old-fashioned black iron fire escape clung precariously to the ancient stone wall. I hurried up the steps, heading for the roof. Having to pass through the door one at a time should slow my pursuers down nicely, especially if they stopped to argue over who had precedence. I hauled myself up the shaking metal rungs, making a hell of a racket, grabbing at the railings with both hands to hurry myself along. I made it onto the slanting tile roof and then stopped to get my breath and my bearings.

  I could hear heavy things hammering up the fire escape, their combined weight almost pulling the metal stairs away from the side of the building. I didn’t look. I didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know. I could hear angry buzzing voices, only just trying to be human, saying bad things. I went to stand on the very edge of the roof, planting one foot on the iron guttering, and looked out over the view below.

  It was a hell of a long drop down to the ground below. Hundreds of feet, at least. But I could see the whole of the holy city stretched out before me, the great white buildings glowing and gleaming in the fierce moonlight. You get to see some of the best views in the world in my job. Though mostly not for very long.