“I greet you, Jack Drood, in the name of King Arthur Returned,” said Sir Parsifal. His voice was polite, but distant.
“I greet you, Sir Parsifal, in the name of Drood,” said the Armourer. “Be welcome to this Summit Meeting. Allow me to present . . .”
“I know who they are,” said the Knight. “The witch, and the renegade Drood.”
He didn’t seem at all pleased to meet me, so I made a point of giving him my most friendly smile, while holding Molly firmly by the elbow so she wouldn’t throw herself at him. The Knight had already looked away.
“Please be seated,” said the Armourer, “while we wait for the others. Refreshments are available.”
“Not while I’m on duty,” said Sir Parsifal. His mouth twitched slightly. Apparently that had been his idea of a joke. “I do not eat or drink, in enemy territory.”
“I thought this was supposed to be neutral ground,” I said. “That’s why we came all this way.”
Sir Parsifal kept his gaze fixed on the Armourer. “No such thing, boy. What are you teaching them at the Hall these days, Armourer?”
“You two know each other?” I said.
“Back in my field agent days,” said the Armourer. “Everyone knows everyone, out in the field.”
“That was back in the sixties,” I said. “You don’t look nearly old enough, Sir Parsifal.”
“I don’t believe in aging,” said the Knight. “Do enough of it, and you die.”
His mouth twitched again. Another joke. He was going to be a barrel of laughs, this one; I could tell.
I let go of Molly’s elbow. She was still glaring daggers at the Knight, but even she had enough sense not to take on a Knight of the Round Table. Unless she had to. The London Knights exist to protect our world from Outside threats. They’ve fought off alien invasions, other-dimensional incursions, and gone head-to-head with gods and monsters and everything in between. And they’ve never lost a war. The Droods exist to protect Humanity from Earthly threats; the London Knights take care of everything else.
And on the few occasions when we overlap, we’re all terribly careful to be very polite, and hide the fact that we can’t stand each other.
“We had to take on the Hungry Gods ourselves,” I said, just a bit pointedly. “Where were you guys when we needed you?”
“We can’t be everywhere, boy,” said Sir Parsifal. “It’s a big universe. We’re stretched thin, these days.”
The steampunk spacesuit arrived next, stomping in through the entrance tunnel. Steam hissed loudly from the joints, and the lead boots made loud jarring sounds on the crystal floor. The suit waved cheerfully at us all, as the man inside peered out through the metal grille on the front of his diving helmet. And then the whole suit split open, right down the middle, from top to bottom, and the Ghost Finder stepped out. The suit crumpled to the floor, and lay there, as the man from inside strode forward to join us at the table.
Tall and dark and handsome, elegant and arrogant, in a blindingly white suit, the Ghost Finder had a rock star’s mane of really long dark hair, and wore sunglasses so dark I was amazed he could see through them. He grinned cockily at all of us, as though he just knew he was the one we’d all been waiting for.
“J. C. Chance, Ghost Finder Extraordinaire, at your service,” he said easily. “Don’t all cheer at once, just throw money. I represent the Carnacki Institute, for my sins; officially licensed arse-kickers of the supernatural. Our motto: We don’t take any shit from the Hereafter. Or anyone else, for that matter. We exist to investigate ghosts, and Do Something about them. I recognise everyone here, of course. We have extensive files, at the Institute. On everyone who matters and a great many who might. Hello, Molly. Been a while, hasn’t it?”
I glowered at her. “Is this another of your dodgy exes?”
“Oh, please,” said Molly. “Him? I wouldn’t piss down his throat if his lungs were on fire. We just . . . worked together, a few times. That’s all. Hello, J.C. Play nice, or I’ll tell everyone what your initials really stand for.”
“I stand for pretty much anything,” said J.C.
And then he took off his sunglasses, and looked around. His eyes blazed with a fierce golden light. He studied the massive chamber as though he was looking right through the crystal walls, at what lay behind, and when he turned suddenly back to look at me I actually shuddered, for a moment. There was something inhuman about that gaze. He slipped his sunglasses back into place, and we all relaxed, just a little.
“Those are seriously spooky eyes,” I said. “What happened?”
“Laser surgery,” said J.C. “I’m suing.”
“He was touched inappropriately by Outside forces,” said the Armourer.
“Good or bad?” said Sir Parsifal, immediately.
“Let me get back to you on that,” said J.C.
“I was rather hoping to see Catherine Latimer,” said the Armourer. “Given her . . . close relationship with Crow Lee.”
“Sorry,” said J.C. He didn’t sound it. “She’s busy.”
“Busy?” said Sir Parsifal, loudly. “What could possibly be more important than stopping a war that threatens to tear the whole world apart?”
“You ask her,” said J.C. “I wouldn’t dare.”
He flashed a wide meaningless smile at all of us, and took a seat at the table, adjusting his ice-cream white trousers carefully to favour the razor-sharp crease.
Next to appear was Dead Boy, swaggering in like he owned the place. Up close, he looked even more dead, even while he blazed with an unnatural vitality. His long greatcoat hung open at the front, revealing an old Y-shaped autopsy scar, a whole bunch of other injuries, and several bullet holes. Along with a great many stitches, staples, and the occasional length of black duct tape, to hold everything in. His long pale face had a restless, debauched, Pre-Raphaelite look, with fever-bright eyes and a sulky colourless mouth.
“God save all here, and call the Devil a bastard to his face,” he said loudly. “No . . . can’t say I know any of you. Don’t much care, either. Sorry if I’m not much on manners, but it’s hard to sweat the small stuff when you’re dead. Let’s get this over with, so I can get back to some serious smiting of the ungodly I’ve got lined up in the Nightside. Got to take your pleasures where you can find them, when your senses are a sometime thing. I was told there were refreshments. . . .”
The Armourer explained the glass container to Dead Boy, who studied it thoughtfully, with a most unpleasant smile. He produced a silver pillbox, and dry swallowed half a dozen pills, of various Technicolor hues.
“Got this marvellous Obeah woman, whips up these little treasures for me,” he said. “Builds a fire in the cold, cold flesh so I can experience bodily pleasures. For a while.”
He then ordered some of the most revolting food and drink I’ve ever heard of, piled it all up on the same plate, and pounded it down with great enthusiasm. He bent right over the table from his chair, pushing the stuff in with both hands, and everyone else edged their chairs a little bit farther away. Dead Boy studied us all with his burning eyes, and grinned.
“So, you two are Droods. I recognise the torcs. You’re a London Knight; I recognise the armour. And you’re a Ghost Finder; I recognise the complacency. And you’re. . . . No. Sorry, girlie. Don’t know you at all.”
“I’m Molly Metcalf! The wicked witch of the wild woods!”
“Doesn’t mean a thing. Don’t really keep up with the tabloids any more.”
“You’ll have to excuse our friend,” said a warm and fuzzy voice. “Because it’s either that or hit him a lot, and he wouldn’t feel it anyway.”
Bruin Bear came forward to greet us, and we all had some kind of smile for him. He was that sort of Bear. Dead Boy laughed out loud and jumped to his feet. He ran over to hug the Bear fiercely. By then we were all on our feet, and Bruin Bear made a point of shak
ing hands with everyone. His paw was warm and furry and very firm in my hand. He smiled at me, and I had tears in my eyes. It’s not every day you greet an old childhood friend of your early reading days, made real. I wanted to hug him too, but I had my dignity. Afterwards, I wished I had. I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded. Molly patted his head and tugged at one of his ears, and he let her. Even Sir Parsifal had a real smile for the Bear, leaning right over to carefully enclose the fuzzy paw in one great steel gauntlet.
“Oh, no, don’t mind me,” said a figure in the doorway. “Ignore me, overlook me, I’m used to it. My lot in life, these days. It’s just hard . . . when you’re not a star any more. Unlike some people . . .”
The Sea Goat raised a bottle of vodka to his oversized mouth, and took a good long swig. He’d fallen far and fallen hard, and didn’t care who knew it. Dead Boy laughed, threw an arm around the Sea Goat’s shoulders, grabbed the vodka bottle away from him, and drank deeply.
“You think it’s hard being dead,” said the Sea Goat. “Try being fictional! I was a beloved hero of childhood fantasies, along with Bruin Bear. And now, no one gives a damn. Bloody kids don’t read any more. . . . They should be made to read! I was big, I tell you! Big! It’s just the books that got small. . . .”
“Why isn’t Old Father Time here?” said the Armourer, just a bit plaintively.
“Apparently there’s a major backup in the Chronoflow,” said Bruin Bear. “And no, I don’t understand that either. But he couldn’t get away, so we volunteered. I’ve always wanted to see Mars!”
“I wanted to see Disneyland,” said the Sea Goat, wrestling his vodka bottle back from Dead Boy. “But apparently they only let in their own characters.” He grinned suddenly, showing large blocky teeth. “So I sneaked in! I had Snow White! Standing up on a roller coaster!”
“Is there anything more embarrassing than a legend that doesn’t know when it’s time to lie down and shut up?” said the final arrival, in a polished, very private finishing school tone of voice. We all turned to look.
Natasha Chang stood facing the end of the table, sweet as cyanide and twice as deadly. The door to the entrance tunnel slid smoothly and very firmly down behind her. Natasha didn’t even look back. A beautiful and exotic young lady in her pink leather cat-suit, with artfully bobbed black hair, heavy makeup to exaggerate her slanting eyes, and a teasing smile. Elegant and stylish, and aristocratically poised, but I couldn’t help noticing that she was wearing enough heavy rings on the fingers of both hands to qualify as knuckle-dusters. Molly sniffed, quietly and dangerously, beside me.
“Try to force your eyeballs back into their sockets, Eddie. First rule when it comes to dealing with anyone from the Crowley Project is never relax for a moment. Because they’ll steal your soul first chance they get, just to keep their hand in.”
“Or eat it?” I murmured.
“Well, well!” said Natasha, deepening her smile to bring out the dimples in her cheeks. “The amazing Eddie Drood and the infamous Molly Metcalf . . . how nice! Are you here representing the Droods, or your new masters, the Department of the Uncanny?”
“Both,” I said. “We get around.”
“So I’ve heard,” murmured Natasha, batting her heavy eyelids at both of us.
“Don’t push your luck, darling,” said Molly.
“How rude,” pouted Natasha. She turned away, dismissing both of us, and swayed forward to stand before J. C. Chance. Who, to do him justice, stood his ground. He bowed to her sardonically, but something in his face, and perhaps his gaze, stopped her short. She pretended it was her own idea, and turned to Dead Boy.
“Love the look, darling,” she said. “I could just eat you up.”
“I’d only make you ill,” said Dead Boy.
Natasha looked at Bruin Bear and the Sea Goat. “Oh, I see you’ve brought your pets you with. . . . Bless.”
“Nasty woman,” said Bruin Bear.
“Oh, yeah,” said the Sea Goat, grinning unpleasantly. “Hey there, bad girl, want a suck on my Stoli?”
“Can’t take you anywhere,” sighed the Bear.
“As host of this Summit Meeting, I suggest we all take our seats at the table,” the Armourer said loudly. “We have a lot to discuss, and not much time to do it in. For the moment no one knows we’re here, but that won’t last. The Martian Tombs are proof against eavesdropping, but there’s nothing to stop other interested parties from dropping in to crash the party, once they realise something’s going on here.”
“I was going to mention that,” I said. “I can’t help noticing that all the groups gathered here are based in England. Where are the Americans, and the Russians? Not to mention the Chinese, the Indians, and so on and so on? This is a worldwide threat we’re here to discuss.”
“The word went out,” said the Armourer. “It’s not our problem if they don’t take it seriously.”
“They can play catch-up later,” said Sir Parsifal. “I prefer smaller gatherings; decisions get made faster.”
“I was hoping the Regent of Shadows would be here,” said J.C. “A very useful person to have around when there’s sudden death in the offing, by all accounts.”
“His reputation does precede him,” said the Armourer. “But it was thought his presence here might prove . . . divisive.”
“Because so many of us would kill him on sight, for good reason,” said Sir Parsifal. “Penance and good works in his old age are all very well, but some of us remember why he really had to leave his family.”
I looked at the London Knight sharply, but he had nothing more to say. The Armourer looked uncomfortable, but remained silent. We all chose a chair and settled ourselves around the long table, allowing plenty of room between our various spheres of influence. The Armourer sat at the head of the table, as host, and looked hopefully about him . . . but nobody seemed to want to get the ball rolling. And then J.C. took his sunglasses off again, and glared about with his terrible glowing eyes. We all started, and looked quickly around.
“Is anyone else Seeing what I’m Seeing?” said J.C.
I called my armour out of my torc and fashioned a pair of golden sunglasses to look through, and glared all around me . . . but I couldn’t See anything new. I glanced at Molly, and she shrugged quickly.
“This whole place looks weird to me,” said Dead Boy. “I do feel sort of . . . at home, here, but then I would. What are you Seeing, Ghost Boy?”
“We’re not alone here,” said J.C.
“You can See Martians?” said Bruin Bear.
“Not . . . as such,” said J.C. He put his shades back on. “I think the sooner we make our decisions and get the hell out of here, the better. And no, I’m not going to say anything else.”
“Well, thanks a whole bunch for that,” said the Sea Goat. “Unnerve us all, why don’t you? Martians? Hah! Bug-eyed Monsters . . . I eat stranger things than that for breakfast in Shadows Fall!”
“It’s true,” said Bruin Bear. “He does.”
I looked around, one last time. The crystal walls blazed brightly . . . and maybe it was just my imagination that made me think I glimpsed huge dark shadows moving beyond them. The Armourer said the Martians were dead and gone, long gone. But that didn’t mean there was no one else here in the Tombs.
Louise wouldn’t have come here for no reason. . . . I made the golden sunglasses disappear, and deliberately turned my back on the walls.
“Hold everything,” said Molly. “Isn’t there going to be anyone here from Bradford-on-Avon? It is supposed to be the most important town in the world.”
“I thought that was Shadows Fall,” said the Sea Goat.
“No, we’re outside the world, strictly speaking,” said Bruin Bear.
Sir Parsifal leaned forward, the joints of his armour creaking loudly. “The town you just mentioned . . . is best left to itself.”
“We leave the
town alone,” said the Armourer, “and they leave the world alone. It’s safer that way.”
“Boring . . .” said Dead Boy.
Sir Parsifal glared at him. “Since when do we allow walking corpses to attend our Summits? We used to have standards. . . . The business of the living should be determined by the living. Not by dead bodies with delusions of grandeur.”
Dead Boy punched Sir Parsifal in the head. The Knight’s head whipped round under the force of the blow, and we could all hear the bones in Dead Boy’s hand breaking. When Sir Parsifal turned back, his cold expression hadn’t changed at all. Dead Boy snarled defiantly at him, and quietly pushed the bones in his hand back into place again.
The Armourer was on his feet. “Behave yourself, Dead Boy! Or I will throw you out of this meeting! You know I can do it. And then you can explain to the Nightside Authorities why you weren’t present when the important decisions were made. And Sir Parsifal—apologise.”
“He started it,” said the Knight.
“You deserved it. You know the rules of the Summit. We all leave our personal feelings behind, the better to concentrate on the matter at hand. Now apologise to Dead Boy, or I’ll put you out. And you know I can do it.”
“Of course,” said Sir Parsifal. “You would think that, wouldn’t you?”
“We’re Droods,” I said. “We can do anything. Everyone knows that.”
Sir Parsifal nodded. “Of course. You are quite right, Sir Armourer. I was forgetting. I apologise, Dead Boy.”
“Fair enough,” said Dead Boy. “Let’s all be friends! Group hug?”
The Armourer sat down again. I was still watching Sir Parsifal. My uncle Jack had warned me about head-butting and jockeying for position, but I hadn’t thought it would be so obvious. The Knight had pushed things, to see what he could get away with, and now he was sitting there quite calmly, looking around him, waiting for his next chance.
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