From Hell With Love: A Secret Histories Novel Page 10

  “If you’re seeing this, then I’m dead,” she said flatly. “I suppose it could have happened in any number of ways, but I’m betting on violence. Droods live well, but we don’t live long. Comes with the job. It doesn’t really matter how; what matters is the family. Do not let my death divide or weaken the family. The Council must take over the running of things, until a new leader can be decided on. Work together; this is my last instruction to all of you. Edwin, we never agreed on anything much, except that the good of the family must always come first. Anything, for the family. Anything, for England. Anything, for Humanity. Remember that, and you won’t go far wrong. I was always proud of you, Edwin, hard though you may find that to believe. Even when you outraged and defied me. Perhaps especially then. It’s good to know the family can still produce lions as well as drones.

  “Jack . . . Good-bye, my dear. My only living child. I wish . . . we’d found the time to talk more. But you were always so busy in your Armoury, and I had the family to run, and the world . . . just kept getting in the way. You always think there’ll be more time, to say the things you want to say. Until suddenly there isn’t.

  “Sarjeant-at-Arms, do your duty. Protect the family. And if I have died at some assassin’s hand, let nothing stand between you and getting to the truth. I think that’s it. I can’t think of anything more to say. I have no regrets. No apologies. Everything I did, I did for the family. Nothing else matters.”

  She stood there for a moment, seeming to see us all clearly with her fierce cold gaze, and then she was gone. I looked back at the body on the bed. It was hard to think of them as the same person.

  “So,” said the Sarjeant. “An unliving will. How very . . . practical. A pity she didn’t name a successor. We can’t take time out for elections; it would leave the family vulnerable.”

  “Who would have been the next Matriarch?” said Molly.

  “Irrelevant,” said the Armourer. He held his mother’s dead hand in both of his, squeezed it briefly, and then let it go. He stood up and looked severely at the rest of us. “The old ways are gone. No one can inherit leadership; we have seen where that leads. We are a democracy now, for the good of our souls.”

  “The family chose to put Martha in charge again,” said the Sarjeant-at-Arms.

  “As leader,” the Armourer said firmly. “The title Matriarch was purely honorary. The family just felt . . . more secure, that way. No, the Advisory Council will run things, for now.”

  “The line of inheritance is broken anyway,” said Howard. He was still by the doorway, still unable to bring himself any farther into the room. “The Matriarch’s only daughter, Emily, is . . .”

  “Dead,” I said. “My mother is dead.”

  The Armourer came forward, and we looked into each other’s faces. Then he opened his arms, and we hugged each other. Two sons who had lost their mothers. We let go, and the Armourer stepped back and nodded to me brusquely.

  “I’ll make all the arrangements. I know what she would have wanted.”

  “Any funeral will have to wait,” said the Sarjeant. “The body must be examined, and the room, and the whole Hall must be searched, thoroughly.” He looked at Molly again. “But the witch . . . must be excluded from all our discussions. She is not family. Edwin must also be excluded, because of his relationship to the witch. Both of them must be securely confined, until their guilt or innocence can be established.”

  “Not going to happen, Cedric,” I said.

  “You heard your grandmother’s last orders,” the Sarjeant said, unmoved by the clear threat in my voice. “Let nothing stand between me and the truth. Certainly not an ungrateful grandson and a notorious witch.”

  The Armourer made a sudden shocked sound, and we all looked round sharply. He was leant right over his mother’s body, pointing at her bare neck.

  “Her torc is gone! How did we miss that? How is it even possible? Every torc is bound to its wearer on the genetic level!”

  We all crowded round the bed. There was no torc. Martha’s neck looked almost obscenely naked without it.

  “Is that what this was all about?” said Molly. “Was she killed so someone could take her torc?”

  “No,” the Sarjeant said immediately. “Far easier to kill a field agent, outside the protections of the Hall, and take their torc. But . . . there is a very old and awful weapon, right here in the Hall, that could have been used. Armourer, where is Torc Cutter?”

  “Still safely locked away in the Armageddon Codex, along with all the other forbidden weapons,” said the Armourer. “And no, the Codex hasn’t been opened. I’d know. Whatever did this, it wasn’t Torc Cutter.”

  “Could anyone have got the torc outside the Hall without setting off all the alarms?” said Molly.

  “No,” said the Sarjeant. “Which means it must still be here. Somewhere in the Hall.”

  A sudden thought struck me, and I contacted Ethel again. “Did you see what happened here?”

  You know I don’t watch individuals anymore, she said reproachfully. Not after we had that little talk about personal privacy. Still not sure I entirely grasp the concept, but whatever keeps you happy . . .

  “Can you locate the Matriarch’s missing torc?” I said.

  Hmmm . . . That’s odd. No, I can’t. I should be able to, I should be able to isolate and identify every individual torc; but not this one. How very intriguing. Either someone of great power is blocking my probes, which I would have said was impossible, or . . . Actually, I don’t have an or. The Sarjeant is quite correct, however, it must still be in the Hall somewhere.

  “You’ve been listening!”

  Of course I’ve been listening! This is an emergency, and I am part of the Hall’s protections, after all.

  I passed Ethel’s comments on to the others, and they all considered them, in their various ways. The Sarjeant wouldn’t stop staring at Molly.

  “Inside job,” she said. “Has to be.”

  “But not by one of us,” said the Sarjeant. “It would take a witch of your power to block Ethel’s probes.”

  “You really are pushing your luck, Cedric,” I said.

  “You keep using my name as though it is an insult, or a weakness,” said the Sarjeant-at-Arms. “It’s just my name. And all of your sentimental attraction to the witch, and all your usual arrogance, will not stop me from carrying out my duty.”

  I sneered at him, but I was already preoccupied with another thought. When the Blue Fairy died, I took back his stolen torc by absorbing it into my own armour. I didn’t know my new armour could do that, until it did. I hadn’t told anyone about that. Could another member of the family have discovered this trick, and be hiding the Matriarch’s torc inside their own armour? It would explain why Ethel couldn’t find it . . .

  “Who investigates murders, inside the family?” said Molly, still doing her best to seem reasonable and cooperative. “I assume such things do happen, even in this best-regulated of families?”

  “Rarely,” said the Sarjeant. “And then it falls to my office to investigate. With the help of my CSI people. They’re on their way.”

  “CSI?” I said. “You’ve been watching far too much television.” He sniffed loudly. “We have tech those people never even dreamed of. And all kinds of forensic magic. I will discover the truth, Edwin, no matter how hard you try to muddy the waters.”

  “There’s a lot of blood, on the body and on the sheets,” Molly said doggedly. “Whoever stabbed the Matriarch must have got in close, and been covered in blood themselves. Surely your special CSI people can track down a set of bloodstained clothes?”

  “Of course,” said the Sarjeant. “Unless someone has already removed the bloodstains magically.”

  I moved in close beside Molly, glaring at the Sarjeant, and he glared right back at me. The threat of violence hung in the air. And then we all looked round sharply, distracted by the approaching sound of urgent running feet. The Sarjeant suddenly had a gun in his hand, trained on the open door. Pe
rhaps coincidentally, it was also covering Molly. I moved forward a little, to put myself between Molly and the Sarjeant. We were both just a moment away from armouring up, when Harry burst in through the door, and then stopped dead at the sight of the gun in the Sarjeant’s hand. He was breathing hard, sweat on his face. He looked past us at the Matriarch, dead in her bed. He swallowed hard, and then turned his gaze back to Molly, and me.

  “You’ve got to get her out of here, Eddie,” he said harshly. “There’s an angry mob headed this way, dozens of them, and not that far behind me. News of the Matriarch’s murder has spread all over the Hall. Most of the family are shocked, or mourning, but a hell of a lot of them are out of their minds with shock and fury, and the need to take it out on someone. They’ve decided Molly is guilty, and they want blood. Someone’s been whipping them up against the two of you, and for once it wasn’t me.”

  “Really, Harry,” I said. “Couldn’t wait to bring me the bad news, though, could you?”

  “Will you forget that shit!” he said loudly. “They’re coming, and they want Molly dead! They’ll tear her apart with their armoured hands!”

  For once, I believed him. “How much time have we got, before they get here?”

  “You need to get moving now,” he said. “I don’t know where all this rage is coming from, but there’s no way you can talk or bluff them out of this.” He looked at Molly. “You did threaten to kill the Matriarch. In the Sanctity. News like that gets around fast.”

  “And someone’s taken advantage of it,” I said.

  Surprisingly, the Sarjeant didn’t pick up his cue. He was already mad as hell at the thought of Droods rioting in the Hall.

  “A mob?” he said. “On my watch? Droods running wild? I will not have such a lapse in family discipline! I decide who is guilty here; no one else!”

  I looked at Molly. “Time we were leaving.”

  “Got that right,” she said tightly. “I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

  “Get her down to the Armoury,” said the Armourer. “Shut all the doors and instigate full lockdown. No one can get through that. And don’t open up again until I tell you it’s safe.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Harry. “You’ve got to go now! They were right on my heels! Just . . . run! While you still can. They’ll kill her!”

  “The Merlin Glass is back in my room,” I said to Molly. “I didn’t put it back in its subspace pocket because I thought I’d be using it to send you back to your woods. If we can get back to my room, that’s our way out.”

  “Go,” said the Sarjeant. “I’ll stand between you and the rabble.”

  “You’re not worried about losing your chief suspect?” I said.

  “Go,” he said. “When I want you I’ll come and get you.”

  I grabbed Molly’s hand and we ran out of the Matriarch’s suite. And there was the mob, just spilling onto the top floor from the end stairs. They saw Molly, and a great shout went up, of almost hysterical rage and bloodlust. Harry was right. Someone had put a lot of hard work into driving them completely out of their minds. At least they hadn’t thought to armour up yet. They were still moving at human speeds, with human limitations. So I couldn’t armour up to protect Molly, in case it gave them ideas. They came charging down the corridor, screaming and howling like animals, with outstretched clutching hands, fighting each other in their eagerness to get to Molly.

  The Sarjeant-at-Arms stepped out of the Matriarch’s suite, and took up a stand in the middle of the corridor, between Molly and me and the mob. The Armourer came out and stood by his side. The Sarjeant had two big guns in his hands. He fired a series of warning shots over the heads of the mob, and it didn’t even slow them down. So the Sarjeant and the Armourer armoured up, and the moment they did, a great roar went up from the mob, as though they’d just been given permission to do what they wanted all along. They armoured up, every one of them. The Sarjeant shouted a powerful Word, and swore briefly when nothing happened. Under normal circumstances, the Sarjeant had the ability to take control of torcs and force Droods to armour down, that he might discipline them. But for whatever reason, the Word wasn’t working. He opened fire again, but his bullets had no affect. His weapons had only ever been intended for use against enemies of the Droods. The Armourer produced his latest toy, something he’d still been testing the last time I was home: a tanglefield grenade. He lobbed it along the floor towards the mob, and it exploded in a shower of shimmering energy filaments that wrapped themselves around the first row of the mob, and brought them crashing to the ground. But the maddened rows behind just vaulted over the struggling bodies and kept coming. I hadn’t realised just how many of them there were—dozens of Droods in full armour, coming to murder my Molly.

  They hit the Sarjeant and the Armourer like a vicious tidal wave, and the sheer weight of so many bodies slammed the two men aside, throwing them back against the corridor walls. They struck out fiercely with their golden fists, felling man after man, but they could do nothing to stop the horde that rushed past them.

  It all happened in a few moments, while Molly and I stood frozen in place, watching. I never really thought they’d get past the Sarjeant and the Armourer so easily. I’d never seen so many armoured figures coming at me, with murder on their minds. I’d never understood before how scary a blank golden face can be. Time . . . seemed to slow right down, giving me all the time I needed to study them.

  Their golden armour was changing shape and form even as they advanced, becoming strange and awful, taking on the individual characteristics of their maddened owners. Changes that were usually only achieved after much thought and with great concentration were now thrown up in moments, imprinted on the armour by the sheer intensity of so many enraged minds. Their helms took on the shapes of strange beasts and unnatural insects, of horrid forms born out of nightmares. They weren’t in control of their armour anymore; it was responding to their emotions, their instincts, and all their darker impulses. Monsters from the id.

  New arms sprouted from golden sides, ending in jagged claws and pincers. Some of the mob dropped forward, and ran on all fours, while others became utterly inhuman, horrid creatures from the worst parts of the imagination; nightmares forged in gold and let loose in the waking world. All the things Droods are never supposed to be. The Armourer cried out in shock, to see such violation of the armour, and the Sarjeant swore fiercely as he fought against the rushing mob, but even as his fists rose and fell, striking men down left and right . . . he was just one man, and they were many.

  The Armourer crashed to the floor, buried under a pile of flailing armoured figures. The rest of the mob vaulted right over them, intent only on Molly. The sounds they made . . . were not human sounds.

  By this time Molly and I were running full pelt down the corridor, heading for my room, the mob ravening at our backs. It felt like we were running in slow motion. I could have armoured up, just grabbed Molly up and ran with her. But she needed to be free to use her magics, if it came to that. When we rounded the corner that led to my room, more of the mob were already there, waiting for us. Some were already inside my room, between me and the Merlin Glass. It sounded like they were smashing the place up. And even in the midst of all that was happening, I thought, Why do they always break my things? I reluctantly armoured up, ready to make a stand. I concentrated, and long golden blades protruded from my hands. I yelled to Molly to run, to run anywhere, just get away, already knowing there was nowhere she could run. And the Hall’s protections wouldn’t let her teleport out.

  “Hell with that,” she said crisply. “You think I’d leave you here, to face these crazy bastards alone? They’d kill you too, just for loving me. And I won’t have that.”

  She gestured sharply, and a great storm wind hit the advancing mobs like a hammer. The raging winds blew in both directions at once, hitting both mobs head on. The smaller mob was completely blown away, tumbling head over heels back down the corridor. The main mob was stopped in its trac
ks, as winds of hurricane strength picked them up and threw them this way and that, golden bodies slamming against the walls and ceiling. Wood panelling cracked and fell apart. But some in the mob just bowed their misshapen golden heads and refused to be moved, trudging slowly forward into the face of the hurricane, driven on by the amazing strength of their armour. And soon enough, the storm blew itself out. There wasn’t enough air on the top floor to support it. The mob started forward again, and Molly considered them thoughtfully.

  “Please,” I said. “Don’t kill them. I don’t think they’re in their right minds. Droods aren’t like this!”

  “Oh Eddie,” she said. “Always so charitable. Always so forgiving.”

  “Please, Molly! They don’t know what they’re doing!”

  “I do.”

  She thrust out both her hands, and blasted them with hellfire, with a heat so vicious I actually flinched back from it, even inside my armour. The floor and the walls and the ceiling burst into flames, as great waves of searing liquid fire rolled over the advancing mob. It splashed across their golden forms, seemed to hesitate, and then dropped thickly away. The armour held, and the Droods walked through hellfire to get to us.

  Molly cut off the flames with a gesture, though the rest of the corridor still burned fiercely. Priceless ˚ paintings and tapestries were reduced to ashes, and ancient marble statues blackened and cracked. The air shimmered with heat haze. Molly’s hands closed into small determined fists, and she said a Word that sickened me just to hear it. Crackling energy beams shot from her eyes, and every Drood she hit was blasted right off his feet. But they always got up again, and the mob just kept coming. They weren’t howling anymore. They moved slowly, in a terrible silence, as though they meant to enjoy their triumph.