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  “That’s why there are carvings of white horses on hills and cliffs all over England. Because our ancestors worshipped the White Horse. What we’d awoken, and called forth, was a living god. Not the god of horses, but the idea of a Horse, worshipped as a god. Worshipped by so many, and for so long, that the sheer concentrated belief was enough to create what they believed in. We never had a hope in hell of controlling such a thing. An idea, with the power of a god. Once it was out and free again, it shrugged us off like we were nothing. After so long asleep, imprisoned under the barrow mound by priests who’d grown afraid of what they worshipped, all it wanted to do was run free.

  “Scared out of our minds by what we’d unleashed, we tried so hard to rein it in, to break the White Horse to our will, and control it. But the Red King’s Ruby just faded away, driven out of reality and back into the world of dreams by the sheer power of the living god. Because the Ruby was only ever a dream of a thing, made solid by its dreamer’s faith . . . and it was no match for the certainty of a living idea. We’d brought other things with us, other Objects of Power, I’d insisted on that . . . but none of it did any good. Just the backlash was enough to weaken us all, rob us of our strength and certainty. So we ran away.

  “We used a preprogrammed teleport spell to transport us back here, to Trammell Island. Our oldest and most secret bolt-hole, where no one could see us. We thought we’d be safe here.”

  “You ran away?” I said, so angry I could hardly speak. “Leaving the White Horse to run free? You didn’t even try to warn anyone?”

  “There was nothing we could do!” said Coll.

  “You could have told the Droods!” I said. “You were their agent. They’ve handled worse things than living gods in their time!”

  “I wasn’t thinking clearly, all right!” said Coll. “None of us were. We were all in shock. Some of us thought we should try to control it again, later. Some just wanted to hide, somewhere the White Horse could never find us. We would have found some way to warn the world, I’m sure, but that was when the Drood’s chosen agent turned up. Because I’d already told the Droods about Trammell Island. They might not be able to see in, but they could still get in. And you all saw . . . what their agent did.”

  Coll held up his memory crystal again, and the vision of yesterday returned. We all watched as the shadowy figure stepped forward into the light, looking calmly and dispassionately around him at the dead bodies sprawled across and around the long dining table. There was no mistaking that old man, with his iron grey hair and military moustache. The Regent of Shadows. My grandfather Arthur Drood. The man Molly and I now worked for.

  “Of course,” said Molly, in a dangerously calm and far-away voice. “That’s why none of their weapons could touch him. Even though he didn’t wear the golden torc. The Regent had Kayleigh’s Eye—that ancient amulet. Nothing can touch him while he’s wearing it.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Adams. The beginnings of anger were stirring in his soft voice. “Who . . . who is that?”

  “That is the Regent of Shadows,” I said. “A rogue Drood, who left the family to set up his own organisation. These days, he runs the Department of the Uncanny. Presumably . . . the Droods learned what the White Horse Faction had done, and decided they were too dangerous to be allowed to continue. They were to be an object lesson; pour discourager les autres. And they sent the Regent, as an independent contractor, so they could have deniability. Just in case it ever came back to bite them on the arse. Perhaps the Drood Matriarch wanted other underground groups to see this . . . slaughter, as the cost of endangering the world. Martha always was ready to do the hard, necessary thing.”

  “Yes,” said Coll. “Only I was left alive to spread the word . . . of the consequences of defying the Droods.”

  He turned the memory crystal in his hand, and the vision continued. We all watched the Regent of Shadows move steadily through the dining hall, making sure everyone was dead. And then he left the room, and Monkton Manse, in pursuit of the fleeing teenage Molly Metcalf. It broke my heart to see her, running blindly across the black rocks, her face still stained with the blood of her murdered mother. The Regent emerged from the rear of the house just in time to see Molly run through the Fae Gate and disappear. He stopped, and shrugged, and went back inside.

  But the vision continued, following Molly through the dimensional gate and into the wild woods . . . where she finally collapsed, to lie on a grassy bank, weeping for all she had lost, surrounded by tall trees. Animals and spirits of the wild woods slowly emerged from among the trees and the bushes, to protect and comfort her. A huge brown bear slowly turned his great shaggy head to look right at us, as though he could see us, watching him. He lunged forward, and the vision disappeared.

  Coll made his memory crystal disappear. “I survived, because I turned and ran the moment I saw the Regent of Shadows in the doorway. A Drood field agent would have been under orders to let me go, but seeing the Regent changed everything. The warning and slapped wrist I expected had been replaced by a hired killer. The Regent of Shadows did have something of a reputation for such work, back then.”

  “I never knew that,” I said. “But then, the Droods got up to a lot of things that I never knew about.”

  Coll shrugged. “No reason why you should. Even the infamous Shaman Bond can’t be expected to know everything. I’m told the Regent has . . . mellowed, in recent years. Getting old will do that to you.”

  “How did you escape, Hadrian?” said Molly.

  “I fled through the Fae Gate, long before you reached it,” said Coll. “I know; I should have taken you with me. Made sure you were safe. But what can I say; I panicked. I was convinced the Droods wanted me dead, because I’d taken part in the Working. So I disappeared through the Fae Gate and just kept on going—jumping in and out of a dozen more dimensional portals, across the world. Until I was sure I’d muddied my trail sufficiently. I finally went to ground in Shanghai, crawled into a hole, and pulled it in after me. I didn’t come out again until I’d arranged for a new identity and a new face. And then I moved on . . . from city to city, country to country, always moving so no one could find me, or track me down.” He smiled briefly at Molly. “This is the first time I’ve looked like me in ten years. All for you, Molly.” He turned to Troy and Adams and Morrison. “I thought the world had forgotten all about me until you came and found me and invited me here. And I saw a chance to redeem myself, at last. By helping create a new White Horse Faction, completely different from the old.”

  Molly looked at me. She didn’t say anything, but now we both knew why the Regent had sent us here, on this mission. To learn the truth about Molly’s parents, and their execution, that he couldn’t bring himself to tell us, face to face. Coll said the Regent had changed, but he also said the Regent of Shadows had a reputation for bloody work. And I had to wonder: what else was there my newly found grandfather had done that he couldn’t bring himself to tell me?

  Just what kind of a man was I working for now?

  • • •

  For a long while, no one said anything. We all just sat there round one end of the stupidly long dining table. Lost in our thoughts, looking at each other for some clue as to what we should say, or feel. Coll ate everything on his plate, poured himself another glass of wine, and seemed content for someone else to start the ball rolling again. For someone who’d supposedly experienced so much guilt and remorse over his previous sins, he didn’t seem particularly upset. In the end, Stephanie Troy broke the silence, speaking quietly, with great dignity and utter certainty.

  “We . . . would never do anything like that. What the old Faction tried to do with the White Horse was utterly unacceptable. The crushing of a free spirit . . . no. We would never do that. We are different.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” said Adams, in his soft and calm voice. “To plan a new, non-violent way of bringing about lasting change.”
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br />   “Damn right,” said Morrison. “You can’t defeat the enemy by becoming the enemy.”

  “Fine words,” said Hadrian Coll.

  And then the next generation of the White Horse Faction turned as one to look meaningfully at Molly. She stared right back at them.

  “What?”

  “Your reputation precedes you,” said Troy. “Your violent reputation.”

  “We’ve heard all the stories,” said Adams. “And while we admire your . . . passion, there’s no room in our organisation for anyone who still believes in the kind of violent confrontation that fills your . . . exploits.”

  “They say you once made all the portraits inside Number 10 Downing Street come alive, to attack the then prime minister,” said Morrison. “And that you briefly gave the American Pentagon a new sixth side, full of horrors.”

  “No,” said Molly. “The Pentagon has always had a secret sixth side. I just fixed it so everyone could see it, for a while. Not that it made any difference. Most people didn’t understand the significance of what they were seeing. Next time, I’ll put up some explanatory signs. Maybe something in neon . . .”

  “Mischief is one thing,” said Troy. “Mass murder is another. You blew up an entire private members club in the West End of London. Killed everyone inside. Do you deny it?”

  “Hell no,” said Molly. “I’m proud of it. That particular club was a brothel, where men of wealth and privilege could go to do appalling things to underage children. I got the kids out, before I killed everyone else. Do it again, in a moment.”

  “I have always been so proud of you, Molly,” said Coll.

  She didn’t look at him. She didn’t look at me, either. Which was probably just as well, because I was thinking of a whole bunch of other things she’d done that I knew for a fact were a hell of a lot more extreme than anything the next generation had mentioned. Usually with good reason, but probably not one the avowedly non-violent next generation could accept. They were looking steadily at Molly in a way that suggested they were still sitting in judgement of her, and hadn’t made up their minds yet.

  “The word is, that you’ve calmed down a lot since you hooked up with your Drood,” said Troy. “Now you’ve got in bed with the enemy.”

  Everyone winced at that, just a bit. Trust a woman to fight dirty.

  “I got involved with one particular Drood,” Molly said calmly. “My Eddie. I have never been a part of his family. I didn’t bring Eddie here with me because I knew you wouldn’t approve of him. That’s why I shelled out good money to hire Shaman Bond, to watch my back.”

  “Now you finally know the truth,” I said carefully, “about what really happened to your parents. . . . What do you want to do next, Molly? Do you want to kill the Regent?”

  “Yes,” said Molly. “But, I have to think about it.”

  She didn’t say, Because he’s your grandfather. So it’s complicated. She didn’t say any of that out loud, but I could see it in her eyes.

  Phil Adams rose to his feet. “I’m really not comfortable with the atmosphere in this room. I’m going to get another bottle of wine. I hope to experience a more positive atmosphere, when I return.”

  He left quickly. Obviously thinking he was making a point of principle. And not just running away from questions he couldn’t cope with. Troy and Morrison looked at each other knowingly.

  “He’s never been comfortable with clashing emotions,” said Troy. “Always wants everyone to be nice, just because they’re on the same side.”

  “Don’t give me those negative vibes, Moriarty!” said Morrison.

  We all managed some kind of smile, at that. Troy and Morrison talked with Coll some more, ignoring Molly and me. Coll was full of apologies and justifications for his past, and how much he wanted to make up for his sins, by helping them build a new White Horse Faction. Troy wanted to believe him. I wasn’t so sure about Morrison. Molly and I sat side by side, and didn’t even look at each other. We both had a lot to think about. It took all of us a while to realise that Phil Adams hadn’t returned.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” said Morrison. “He’s not sulking again, is he?”

  “He’s probably hovering outside in the corridor,” said Troy. “Refusing to come back in until we’re all being happy bunnies together.”

  “Get your arse in here, Phil!” Morrison said loudly. “This is as positive as it’s going to get!”

  There was no response. Morrison got up and went to look out the door. Adams wasn’t there. Troy went to join Morrison, and they both called Adams several more times. There was no reply. Coll got to his feet.

  “I think we should go look for him. This isn’t a good place to be on your own.”

  “Why?” said Troy. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you know about this house?” I said. “Didn’t you research the awful history of Monkton Manse before you came here?”

  “No,” said Morrison. “We chose it because it was the last meeting place of the original White Horse Faction. And because the Island’s in a null.”

  “You should have checked,” said Coll.

  I rose to my feet, and Molly immediately rose to her feet to stand beside me. “Trust me,” I said. “This is a bad place. Really bad things happened here . . . long before the Faction massacre. I think we need to find Adams quickly, before someone or something else does.”

  • • •

  Molly led the way out of the dining hall, since she knew the house best, and we all followed her through a twisting maze of hallways and side corridors. Some of the lights had gone out, leaving whole areas nothing but darkness and shadow. I told myself it was just old bulbs failing, but I wasn’t sure I believed me. We called out Adams’ name, at regular intervals. He never replied. Eventually, we split into two groups, to cover more ground. Coll went off with Troy and Morrison, while Molly and I stayed together. We went back and forth, and up and down, checking every door and room we passed, until finally, we found him.

  Phil Adams lay at the bottom of a flight of stairs. From the way his head was twisted around, it was clear his neck was broken. There was a lot of blood around the body. At first, I thought he must have fallen. Maybe even been pushed. But once I turned him over, I saw that he was covered in bloody hoof-marks. His flesh was torn and his bones were broken and his face was a bloody mess. He looked like he’d been trampled to death, by some great horse.

  Or Horse.

  • • •

  I checked for a pulse anyway, because you have to. He was still warm, but he was very definitely dead. Whatever had attacked him had done a real job on him. It felt like every bone in his body was broken. Stephanie Troy turned up while I was still checking out Adams. She’d got separated from the others. She couldn’t even look at the body. She turned away, saw Morrison coming down the corridor, and ran to him to press her face into his shoulder. He held her to him, patting her back automatically, and then he looked past her at the dead body, and his face went white . . . with what looked a lot more like anger than shock. He held Troy tightly, murmuring comforting words, unable to take his eyes off the body. Coll turned up last, saw what had happened to Adams, and swore briefly. I straightened up, stepped away from the body, and glared at Coll.

  “What the hell were you thinking, letting those two go off on their own? You know this house! You know better.”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” said Troy, finally letting go of Morrison. She looked at Coll and Molly and me, but she still couldn’t bear to look at the body. “There were just so many doors and exits and corridors that doubled back on themselves, we got separated. What . . . happened to Phil?”

  “Looks to me like he’s been trampled to death,” said Coll. I was glad he said that, so I wouldn’t have to. Morrison glared at Coll.

  “Are you insane? Trampled? How could anything have trampled Phil to death, without any of us hearing it?�
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  “Are we talking about a horse?” said Troy, just a bit shrilly. “You think a horse got in here and did that?”

  “Shaman and I heard a horse, earlier,” said Molly. “We heard it running along the beach, but we couldn’t see it anywhere.”

  Coll looked at her sharply. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. Of us all, he seemed the most shaken. I looked at him steadily.

  “You know what’s going on here, don’t you?”

  “It’s the White Horse,” said Coll. He looked older, his face grey and slack and sick. “The Horse from under the mound. It’s here.”

  “It shouldn’t have been him,” said Troy. “Not Phil. He was always the gentlest of us all.”

  She turned abruptly and ran down the corridor, heading in the direction of the front door. Morrison hurried after her. I didn’t want to leave the body, but I didn’t want Troy off on her own, either. So we all went after her. She managed a remarkable turn of speed, and we were all seriously out of breath when we finally caught up with her. She was standing in the entrance hallway, staring at the closed front door with wide, spooked eyes. Morrison got to her first, and grabbed her by the shoulder. She didn’t look round. He spoke sharply to her, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the closed door. Molly and I stood together, leaning on each other as we got our breath back. Coll brought up the rear, hacking and coughing noisily. Troy paid no attention to any of us.

  And then we heard it. From somewhere outside, beyond the closed door, came the clear and distinct sound of approaching hooves. Slow and steady and deliberate, and much heavier than they should have been. Troy whimpered out loud, one hand pressed against her mouth. Morrison put both hands on her shoulders, and pulled her backwards, away from the door. Coll looked at the closed door like a man looking at his death.