Daemons Are Forever Page 12

  “You really do nurse a grudge, don’t you?” I said.

  “You have no idea,” said Molly.

  “I was just telling Uncle Jack that we’re off to look up a few old friends,” I said. “You ready to go?”

  “Of course. Are you?”

  “Not quite.” I turned back to the Armourer. “We could use some of your latest gadgets and dirty tricks on this one. What have you got?”

  “Ah,” said the Armourer, brightening up. He was always happiest when discussing new methods of murder and mayhem. “I just might have a few new things that will chill and thrill you, only waiting for some brave soul to test them out in the field . . .”

  “Hold it,” said Molly, peering over the Armourer’s shoulder. “What is that you’re working on there?”

  He scowled. “It’s supposed to go bang. And it doesn’t.” He picked up a large lump hammer and hit the black box before him. Molly and I both flinched, and I wrestled the lump hammer away from the Armourer and put it down safely out of reach. His scowl deepened. “You have to teach technology to respect you! It needs to know who’s in charge!”

  “You can try again later,” I said. “When we’re both safely out of range. Now, tell me about your new gadgets.”

  “Yes, well . . . To start with, you’d better have this.” He took a heavy sheaf of handwritten papers out of his desk drawer and handed them to me. “This is your instruction manual for Merlin’s Glass. Don’t let anyone else see it. I wrote it all out in longhand so there’d be no record in the computers. Something this powerful needs to be kept strictly confidential.”

  “There’s over forty pages here,” I said feebly.

  “And more to come,” said the Armourer. “The damned thing’s full of extra options, many of which I don’t fully understand. Yet. Typical Merlin; couldn’t just make the Glass he was asked for . . . had to show off . . . These are just the options I’ve identified so far, along with the activating Words. And don’t go experimenting, Eddie; the thing’s probably full of booby traps for the unwary. It’s what I would have done. And Merlin Satanspawn was apparently renowned for his strange and unpleasant sense of humour.”

  “You sure he wasn’t a Drood?” I said, thumbing quickly through the pages.

  “Pay attention, Eddie. The two most useful options are these: the Glass can see everywhere in the present, as well as the past and the future, and it can also be used as a door, for immediate transport to anywhere in the world. Just tell it where you want to go, tug at the frame till it’s big enough, and then step through.”

  I gave up on the pages, folded them neatly, and stuffed them into an inside pocket of my jacket. “Thank you, Uncle Jack. I’m sure it’ll be very helpful. But I was hoping for something a bit more . . . aggressive.”

  “Hold everything,” said Molly. “If the Glass can show us scenes from absolutely everywhere in the present . . . we can use it to spy on people in the shower, or on the toilet! Maybe even take incriminating photographs! The possibilities for blackmail are endless!”

  “You can take the witch out of the wood . . .” murmured the Armourer.

  “Let’s test it!” said Molly. “Go on, you know you want to.”

  I took the silver-framed hand mirror out of my pocket and hefted it thoughtfully in my hand. “I suppose we should try it out, in the spirit of scientific enquiry. Just to make sure it can do what it’s supposed to do.”

  “That’s my boy!” the Armourer said cheerfully.

  I sighed. “You are both such a bad influence on me.”

  I used the activating Words I’d memorised from the pages and ordered the Glass to show me what the Matriarch was doing, right then. Molly and the Armourer crowded in on either side of me as we stared into the Glass. Our reflections became dim and uncertain, and then were suddenly replaced by a view of the Matriarch’s bedchamber. It was as though we were watching from someplace by the door, unseen and unsuspected. Martha was now sitting on a chair beside the bed, ignoring Alistair, who stared up at the ceiling, making low, dreamy sounds. Presumably there had been a heavy dose of something in the soup. The Matriarch’s bedroom was still full of friends and supporters, but now she had new guests: Harry and the Sarjeant-at-Arms. I wasn’t really surprised to see either of them. Harry, because he needed support if he were to establish a new power base inside the family, and the Sarjeant because I’d always known which way his sympathies went, even before I invited him into my Inner Circle. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, especially when they’re family.

  No Roger, though. Presumably Harry was hoping out of sight would mean out of mind. The three of us stared into the hand mirror, watching and listening silently as the voices in the room came clearly to us from far away.

  “Hello, Grandmother,” said Harry, leaning right over to kiss her offered hand. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  “There were reasons,” said the Matriarch. “As well you know. But you are here now, back where you belong, and that is all that matters. It is good to see you again, Harold. You have your father’s looks . . .”

  “And my mother’s, so I’m told,” said Harry.

  The Matriarch ignored that. “Much has changed, but the family’s needs must always come first. You can serve the family now, more than you ever did in your self-imposed exile. James was always my favourite son, high in power and esteem. Be my favourite grandson, Harold. Take control of the family back from the traitor Edwin. Restore the proper way of things. And all old . . . arguments shall be forgotten and forgiven.”

  Harry smiled. “That’s what I’m here for, Grandmother.”

  I shut down the Glass with a Word, and the scene was swept away by our returning reflections.

  “Treacherous little scumbag,” said Molly. “Didn’t take him long to stick his knife in your back, did it?”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised by any of this,” I said, slipping the Glass back into my pocket. “Disappointed, but not surprised.”

  “Want me to turn him into something small and icky?”

  “I can stop Harry,” I said. “If I have to. Grandmother believes in bloodlines, in children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”

  “Am I supposed to understand that?” said Molly.

  “No,” I said.

  “You and your family’s secrets,” said Molly. “Like I care.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on the prodigal son till you return,” growled the Armourer. “But don’t rely on me to stop him from making mischief. I may be Inner Circle, but I don’t have the power or influence I once had. Nobody does anymore. The whole family’s fragmented, arguing with itself over what we should do next, and what we’re supposed to be. So don’t stay away too long, Eddie. Or you might not have a family to come home to.” He sniffed loudly, and then ostentatiously changed the subject. “And be careful with that Glass! I’m still trying to work out what the drawbacks might be. There are always drawbacks with something that powerful. What little I’ve been able to discover about past uses of the Glass comes from texts in the old library. Jacob was helping me research, but he’s disappeared. Again. Don’t suppose you know where he is?”

  “I haven’t seen him since the Circle meeting,” I said.

  “He disappeared when Harry turned up,” Molly said thoughtfully. “Could there be some connection?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Not everything that happens here is part of some conspiracy; it just seems that way. I should never have encouraged Jacob to leave his chapel. I only wanted him here in the Hall because I needed his support. He was always so much more . . . together in the chapel. He knew who he was there. He only left the chapel to save me . . .”

  The Armourer put a large, comforting hand on my shoulder. “And not everything bad that happens here is your fault, Eddie. Jacob will turn up. He always does . . . unfortunately. You couldn’t get rid of him with bell, book, and candle. Now, the Glass . . . I’ve got some of my people working their way through the old library, looking for m
entions of the Glass, or Merlin, but without an overall index . . . It’s a slow process. And the current librarian isn’t much use. He didn’t even know the old library existed until you rediscovered it. Now all he does is roam the stacks going Oooh! and Aaah! and trying to keep my people from reading the older texts in case they damage them. Idiot. Those old books can look after themselves. You could probably pour boiling napalm on them and not even mark their covers. Some of them would probably fight back . . .”

  “Then you’ll probably be pleased to know that one of the rogues I’m planning to bring back is our long lost William Dominic Drood,” I said. “He always was the best librarian we ever had.”

  “Damn right!” said the Armourer, brightening again. “You found William? Well done, Eddie! I never did believe that nonsense about him going rogue when he disappeared. I knew him well, back in the day; a first-class mind. Where has he been all these years?”

  I shot a look at Molly before answering, but there was no easy way to say it. “William . . . isn’t the man he used to be, Uncle Jack. He had some kind of confrontation with the Heart, before he left . . . and something bad happened to him. He held himself together long enough to go to ground, but then . . . he had a breakdown. He’s currently residing in a sanatorium.”

  “A lunatic asylum?” the Armourer said incredulously. “You mean he’s crazy?”

  “It’s not such a bad place,” Molly said quickly. “They’re looking after him properly there. Eddie and I visited him just recently. He was . . . distracted, but he was also quite sharp, for a while. I think the Heart did something to his mind. Now that it’s gone, perhaps the effects will disappear too . . .”

  “I’m sure he’ll feel a lot better, once he’s back in the Hall,” I said just a bit weakly.

  “Hell,” the Armourer said gruffly. “This whole place is a madhouse at the best of times. He’ll fit right in.”

  “New weapons?” I said, figuring that was the best way to take the Armourer’s mind off things.

  He sniffed loudly again. “I don’t know if I want to trust you with any of my good stuff. The Bentley came back covered in scratches, and I still haven’t forgiven you for breaking my one and only reverse watch. And you lost that special directional compass I made for you!”

  “Let us take it for granted that I am careless and ungrateful, and never appreciate anything you do for me, and move on, shall we?” I said patiently. “I still have the Colt Repeater, but I could use something more . . . dramatic.”

  “I’ve still got that nuclear grenade . . .”

  “No,” I said, very firmly.

  “All right, how about a portable sonic generator that can make your enemies’ testicles swell up and explode in slow motion?”

  “Oh, please!” said Molly.

  “Tempting, but no,” I said. “I’d prefer something a little less . . . conspicuous.”

  “You were always fussy with your food, too.”

  “Moving on, please . . .”

  “I’ve got a short-range teleporter I’ve been fiddling with,” said the Armourer, scrabbling through the junk piled up before him on the workbench. “Jumps you instantaneously half a mile, in any direction. Just think of a place, say the Words, and go. Completely untraceable. And unlike Merlin’s Glass, completely undetectable.”

  “That sounds more like it,” I said. “Why only half a mile?”

  “Because any farther than that, and you tend to arrive in an arbitrary number of separate pieces,” the Armourer admitted reluctantly.

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” said Molly.

  “You are not alone,” I said.

  “Oh, go on,” said the Armourer. “Give it a try. Ah! Here it is.” He held up a simple copper bracelet, breathed on it, polished it on his grubby coat sleeve, and then handed it to me. It looked very much like one of those bracelets people wear to ward off rheumatism. The Armourer grinned. “I’ve been trying to find someone to test it in the field for me. And given your current circumstances, being able to be suddenly somewhere else can only be an advantage.”

  “He may be scary, but he has a point,” said Molly.

  Reluctantly, I slipped the copper band round my wrist. “With my luck, it’ll probably turn my skin green. And you still haven’t offered me a decent weapon . . .”

  “You don’t need a weapon,” said Molly. “You’ve got me.”

  “She’s got a point,” said the Armourer.

  Molly and I used the Merlin Glass to transport us to our first destination, that notorious drinking dive, neutral ground, and den of iniquity, the Wulfshead Club. All I had to do was tug at the Glass’s silver frame while muttering the right Words, and the mirror stretched like a piece of Silly Putty, until it was the size of a door. Our reflections vanished, replaced by a dim and gloomy view of our destination. Molly and I stepped through, and just like that we were standing in a familiar deserted back alley, deep in the heart of London’s Soho. The Glass snapped back to its usual size, and I put it away.

  The Wulfshead Club is a well-known watering hole for all the strange and unusual people in the world. And for those just passing through . . . No one’s quite sure exactly where the club itself is located, and the very anonymous management likes to keep it that way, but there are authorised access points at locations all around the world, if you know where to look. And if your name’s on the approved list. This isn’t the kind of club where you can get in by bribing the doorman. Either you’re a member in good standing, or you’re dead.

  I took a quick look around to make sure we were unobserved. The alley was empty, apart from general assorted garbage and a handful of rats with very strong stomachs. The only sound was the distant roar of passing traffic. It was barely early evening, but already the alley was heavy with shadows, dark and impenetrable. The stained brick walls were covered with the usual graffiti: DAGON SHALL RISE AGAIN!, VAMPIRES SUCK!, and the somewhat more worrying SUPERSEXUALS OF THE WORLD UNITE.

  I moved over to the wall, said the right Words, and a massive silver door appeared in the wall, as though the door were shouldering the lesser reality of the wall aside. The solid silver was deeply etched with threats and warnings, in angelic and demonic scripts. There was no door handle. I placed my left hand flat against the disturbingly warm and sweaty silver, and after a moment the door recognised me and swung slowly open. I always find the wait just a tad worrying. Because if your name isn’t on the approved list, the door will bite your hand right off.

  I looked at Molly. “Remember, my name here is Shaman Bond. Slip up and you could get us both killed.”

  She smiled sweetly at me. “You know, it’s almost charming, this need you have to hold my hand and explain everything to me. But if you don’t cut it out sharpish, I will slap you halfway into next week.”

  “After you,” I said, and followed her into the Wulfshead.

  We walked into a savage blaze of light and a righteous blare of noise. Music was playing, people were drinking and dancing and making deals in corners, and the whole damned joint was rocking. Harsh lighting bathed the packed crowd in constantly changing primal colours, and the music never stopped. Molly and I made our way through the surging mass of bodies with a combination of smiles, charm, and a complete willingness to use our elbows in violent and unprovoked ways. We were heading for the high-tech bar at the far end of the club; a nightmarish art deco structure of steel and glass, complete with computerised access to more kinds of booze than most people even know exist. You want a strontium 90 mineral water with an iodine chaser? Or a wolfsbane cocktail with a silver umbrella in it? Or maybe angel’s urine with extra holy water? Then no wonder you’ve come to the Wulfshead.

  Rumour has it the management keeps the bar stock in a different dimension, because they’re afraid of it.

  The Wulfshead Club prides itself on always being totally up to the minute, if not a little beyond. The great plasma screens on the walls show constantly shifting glimpses of the bedroom secrets of the rich and famous, inte
rspersed with tomorrow’s stock exchange figures, while go-go girls dance in golden cages suspended from the ceiling, wearing only wisps of feathers. For the more traditionally minded, lap dancers in black leather strips gyrate on raised stages and hump their steel poles into submission. Tonight, a group of Satan’s Harlots out on a hen’s night were line dancing up and down the long steel bar top.

  You can find all sorts at the Wulfshead, if they don’t find you first, preparing for a caper or a war, or recovering afterwards. Janissary Jane drank here, in between her regular shifts as an interdimensional mercenary, because she found the place restful. Which tells you a lot about the kind of places she works in. I didn’t see her anywhere yet, or hear the telltale sounds of screams and gunfire, so I bellied up to the bar with Molly at my side. The bartender wandered unhurriedly over to serve us. I’ve never bothered to remember his name. There’s a dozen of them behind the bar, all of them clones. Or homunculi. Or probably something even more disturbing.

  He nodded familiarly to both of us. “Hello Molly, Shaman; been a while. The usual?”

  I nodded, and he fussed over an impressive collection of nozzles and cables behind the bar, before handing over a Beck’s for me and a Buck’s Fizz for Molly. (She believes the orange juice makes it healthy.) I felt a little relieved that my use name was still good here. As far as the Wulfshead crowd was concerned, I was just Shaman Bond, a small-time operator and familiar face on the scene, nothing more. I’d put a lot of time and effort into establishing my cover identity, and not just because no one here had any love for the Droods. In the Wulfshead, I was no one important, no one special, and nothing was expected from me. Which was really very liberating. Especially now.

  Back at the Hall, most of my family either worshipped me, feared me, or hated me. Or any combination of the three. Edwin Drood had become the most important person in the most important organisation in the world. But here, Shaman Bond was just another face in the crowd. It was as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I put my back against the bar and looked out over the milling throng, nodding easily to a few familiar friends and faces. Harry Fabulous was sliding unctuously through the mob, working the crowd with a wide smile and a hearty handshake, your special go-to man for everything that was bad for you. Last time I was in, he was offering pirate DVDs of Muppet films from another dimension: Citizen Kermit and Miss Piggy Does Dallas. Lined up along the great length of the bar I could see a ghost called Ash, a minor Norse godling, and the Indigo Spirit, complete with leather costume, cape, and cowl, taking a brief break from his crime-fighting.