“She’d never help them willingly,” said Molly.
“Isabella does have a . . . certain reputation,” said the Sarjeant, still very carefully.
“Can you ever see a free spirit like Iz bowing down to those circle-jerk Satanists?” snapped Molly. “God knows what they’ve done to her. . . . We have to rescue her!”
“We have to find her first,” I said.
“What about the source of Isabella’s information?” said the Sarjeant. “The sending mentioned one Charlatan Joe.”
“Dusk said the sending was only an image of Iz,” I said. “Their words, through her image . . .”
“Yeah, right, and Satanist conspiracy leaders are so well-known for telling the truth,” said Molly. “Come on, Eddie! Dusk was messing with our heads, trying to demoralise us. That’s what they do. . . . No. The sending was real. I know my own sister. She was trying to get information to us, despite being held captive.”
“And they let her, because they wanted us to know,” I said.
“I will make them suffer,” said Molly. “Every damned one of them.”
Her voice wasn’t unusually cold or threatening. It was just Molly being Molly. The Sarjeant and I looked at each other, and I decided to change the subject.
“Charlatan Joe is the only real lead we have,” I said. “I know him. Confidence trickster, merry prankster, thief and rogue and treacherous little shit. He and Shaman Bond have been friends for years.”
“Is he a usually reliable source?” said the Sarjeant.
“He knows his stuff,” I said. “He’s an honest enough villain: always gives good value for money.”
“So how could he have been so wrong this time?” said Molly.
“He couldn’t,” I said. “If he really did put Isabella onto the Cathedral Hotel, it can only be because someone paid and/or persuaded him into saying what they wanted him to say.”
“I think we need to go talk to this man,” said Molly. “I think we need to have a few firm words with him.”
“He’ll have gone to ground by now,” I said. “But the Merlin Glass will find him.”
I reached out to the Glass through my torc. It was still standing out in the grounds, a twenty-foot-square gateway, going nowhere now. I called it to me, and it shrank back down to its usual size and reappeared in my hand, in the War Room. Everyone jumped a little, looking at the Glass suddenly in my hand.
“I didn’t know it could do that,” said the Sarjeant.
“I’ve been practicing,” I said.
“I didn’t know the Merlin Glass could jump around inside the Hall, appearing anywhere it liked, without setting off any of my very sensitive alarms,” said the Sarjeant.
“Well, now you do,” I said. I held the hand mirror up before me. I hardly recognised the face I saw before me in the mirror. I hadn’t known I could look that angry, that cold. “You’re supposed to be able to locate anyone I know,” I said to the Glass. “So find me Charlatan Joe. Wherever he’s hidden himself, whatever’s hiding him. Do it.”
My face disappeared from the mirror, replaced by a series of blurred images as the Merlin Glass fought its way through any number of defensive screens and distracting measures, until finally it cleared to show a crystal clear image of a very familiar scene. Molly pressed in close beside me for a better look.
“But . . . that’s the Wulfshead Club! What’s he doing there?”
“Drinking with a few old friends, by the look of it,” I said. “And, presumably, hiding in plain sight. The Wulfshead is, after all, supposed to be neutral ground.”
“Look at him,” said Molly. “Standing there at the bar, knocking back the drinks like he doesn’t have a care in the world . . . I’ll make him care. Who are those people with him? Do you know them, Eddie?”
“Of course,” I said. Shaman Bond knows everyone. That’s what he’s for. The tall, scary woman is Lady Damnation. Born, or perhaps created, in one of those places where the walls of the world have worn thin, and influences from outside have seeped through. There are those who say she eats a little death every day to make herself immune to it. And there are those who say she’s nothing more than a jumped-up Gothette with delusions of deity. Doesn’t make her any less dangerous, though.
Standing beside her, in the heavy scarlet robes and cape, is the biggest and certainly the heaviest priest in the world: Bishop Beastly. Who refuses to belong to any organised church that would accept the likes of him as a member. He loudly proclaims that delighting in all the pleasures of the flesh is the best way to worship God, who gave them to us. He claims to have eaten one representative of every living species on this planet, so he can contain their souls within him and thereby strengthen his contact with the living world. He is very strong. Winner of the Vatican Pro-Am Exorcism Tournament for seven years running. The nuns of sixty-three different nunneries pray for his soul every day. No one knows why.
“And finally, we have the Indigo Spirit, standing tall and proud in his midnight blue leathers, cowl and cape. An old-fashioned costumed crime fighter and adventurer. A man who became his own fantasy, because he thought someone should. Surprisingly effective. The real deal, in an increasingly fake world.”
“What’s a bottom-feeding scumbag like Charlatan Joe doing hanging out with people like that?” said Molly.
“Buying them drinks, by the look of it,” I said. “And looking for protection. The Wulfshead is famously neutral ground for anyone and everyone. But not today. I can’t go there as Shaman Bond, not with what I need to do. I’ll have to go in armoured up, as a Drood. And no, you can’t come with me, Molly. You might need the club’s protections someday.”
She nodded slowly, reluctantly. “Eddie, find out what happened to my sister. Whatever it takes.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Joe is going to tell me everything I need to know.”
I armoured up, shook the Merlin Glass out to door size and stepped through into the Wulfshead Club. Then I shook the Glass down, put it away and looked unhurriedly about me.
Everyone in the club had stopped what they were doing to stare at the armoured Drood who had appeared in their midst out of nowhere. That wasn’t supposed to be possible. That was why you came to the Wulfshead: to be safe from people like me. No alarms sounded, but the pounding music cut off abruptly, and one by one the massive display screens shut down. The dancers stopped dancing, and everyone in the club stood very still, hoping not to be noticed. Sudden puffs of displaced air marked the sudden disappearance of certain particularly nervous individuals as they teleported out. Others started edging nonchalantly towards various exits. It’s surprising how many people can find something to feel guilty about when a Drood turns up. The club’s much-vaunted security was supposed to protect everyone from everyone, but sensible people didn’t take chances.
I headed straight for Charlatan Joe, standing at the bar with his new friends, and everyone else looked relieved and got out of my way. Joe looked immediately at the thirteen bartenders with the same face.
“I’m supposed to be safe here! I’m supposed to be protected! Even from the high-and-mighty bloody Droods!”
The bartenders were the club’s first line of defence, in that between them they could gang up on pretty much any troublemaker. But they took one look at my golden armour and decided they were outgunned and outnumbered, and that this was way above their pay scale. They all hunkered down behind the bar, out of sight. A very sensible attitude, I thought.
Charlatan Joe swore bitterly at the deserted bar, and sank back behind his new friends. “You promised me I’d be safe here, you bastards! What do I pay my membership dues for?”
“You don’t,” said a voice from behind the bar.
“Do you take plastic?”
Everyone fell back to give me plenty of room. I recognised friends and enemies and allies to every side of me, but they were all people Shaman Bond knew, not me. I didn’t acknowledge any of them. I couldn’t risk any of them recognising me. I didn’t want them
looking at Shaman Bond the way they were looking at me now: with a combination of awe, fear and not entirely hidden hatred. We Droods protect the world, but no one ever said the world would love us for it.
I’d almost reached Charlatan Joe when the Indigo Spirit stepped suddenly forward to block my way. He looked firm and determined and very impressive, the way costumed heroes are supposed to look. And the thing was, I knew he’d never practised that stance in front of a mirror, or even thought about doing so. It came naturally to him, because he was the real deal. Out of respect for his reputation, I stopped and considered him thoughtfully. If my featureless and forbidding golden mask disturbed him at all, he did a really good job of hiding it.
“Sorry,” said Indigo. “Joe may be a crook and a swindler and a general pain in the arse, but even he’s entitled to protection in this place. The club is sanctuary for all of us: good and bad and in between. And if the bar staff are too gutless to do their job, I’m not.”
“You don’t know what he’s done,” I said.
“It really doesn’t matter, dear boy,” said Bishop Beastly, surging forward in a splendid swirl of his scarlet robe and cape. I swear I heard the floor creak loudly as it bore his massive weight. The bishop smiled easily at me, his pursed rosebud mouth almost lost in his huge, fat face. His deep-sunk eyes were kind, but unwavering. “Sanctuary is for everyone, or it’s for no one. How can a small thing like Charlatan Joe be worth all this upset? Sit down, dear boy; have a drink and a nibble on one of the more palatable bar snacks, and we will discuss the situation in a civilised manner.”
“Anywhen else, I might have,” I said. “Anyone else, perhaps. But not him, and not today. I can’t let you interfere, Bishop; and if you knew what he’d done, whom he’s done business with and what he’s responsible for . . . you’d let me have him.”
“I rather doubt that,” murmured the bishop. “Come, let us reason together. . . .”
“He doesn’t do reasonable,” snapped Lady Damnation. “He doesn’t have to. He’s a Drood.”
She stalked forward to confront me, sneering right into my golden mask. Her corpse-pale skin stood out starkly against her brightly coloured Gypsy dress and shawl. Thick curls of long, dark hair spilled down around her pointed face, with its fierce green eyes and dark lips. She put her hands on her hips and tilted back her head, the better to sneer down her long nose at me.
“Talk to me, Drood. Give me one good reason not to go Romany on your golden arse, and curse you and yours down to the seventh generation.”
“I’m here for Joe,” I said. “He’s going to talk to me.”
“I don’t know anything!” Joe said immediately. “You’ve got to stop him! He’s going to kill me!”
“You probably earned it,” said the Indigo Spirit. “But . . . you can’t have him, Drood. It’s the principle of the thing.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. And I really was. “But I don’t have time for this.”
Lady Damnation came dancing forward, every step graceful and focussed and quite deadly. She can kill with a touch, they say, wither your heart in your breast, draw your soul out through your eyes. But she’d never met armour like mine. She stamped and pirouetted around me, chanting loudly in the old Rom style, her hands darting out at me . . . but always drawing back at the very last moment, unable to make contact with my armour. She made sudden clutching movements with both hands, but my heart never missed a beat. In the end she lunged forward and thrust her face right into my featureless golden mask. Her eyes blazed fiercely, huge in her pale face, but all she saw in my mask was her own reflection.
The power in her eyes rebounded, and the psychic feedback threw her backwards, howling with shock and horror. She turned and staggered off into the crowd, shaking and shuddering, and the crowd let her hide herself among them.
Bishop Beastly sighed heavily, shook his great bald head slowly and waddled forward to take up the fight. His great form was vast as a wall, and almost as solid. There was a lot of muscle under that fat. He thrust a large bone crucifix at me, almost lost in his huge hand. Up close, I could see the cross had been made by lashing two Aboriginal pointing bones together. A good use of horrific materials. It would probably have worked on anyone else. The bishop thrust the bone crucifix into my mask, and the cross exploded in his hand, driving vicious splinters deep into his pudgy flesh.
Blood dripped thickly from his hand, but he didn’t flinch. He shook his injured hand once, to dislodge the worst of the splinters, and then held up his other hand. Massive rings showed on every fat finger, each with its own magically glowing crystal. He cursed me then, in loud, ringing tones, and I stood there and let him do it. He had a fine voice and a lot of faith, but the confidence went out of him as one by one the light faded from the rings’ crystals, their energies exhausted against my armour. The bishop surged forward, his robes billowing like a scarlet sail, hitting me with an old-school exorcism in classical Latin, and I punched him out. His massive head snapped back, his eyes rolled up and he measured his length and considerable girth on the floor. I swear the whole floor shuddered out of respect.
The Indigo Spirit looked at me expressionlessly, and then he moved unhurriedly forward to stand before me. He did look like the real thing: lithely muscular under the costume, every calculated movement showing extensive training and hard-won skill. A man who became what he believed in, and made it real, because he believed it was the right thing to do. He did much of his work in the Nightside, because this world has become too cynical to believe in good dreams.
He’d have made a good Drood.
“Whatever Joe’s done,” said Indigo, “there must be some way to put it right. . . .”
“No,” I said. “Not this time.”
“It can’t be that bad,” said Indigo. “I mean, come on: This is Charlatan Joe we’re talking about! What did he do? Stiff a Drood on a deal? Try to sell your family some Florida swampland?”
“Droods are dead,” I said. “Because of him.”
“Oh, God,” said Joe miserably. “I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t!”
Indigo looked back at him sharply, and he must have seen something of the truth in Joe’s face. But give Indigo his due; it didn’t alter his determination in the least. There was a principle at stake—sanctuary for the needy—and he would not stand aside. I knew there was a reason we were friends. He looked at me steadily.
“I can’t let you have him, Drood.”
“He doesn’t have to die,” I said. “Just tell me what I need to know.”
“He’s lying!” Joe said immediately. “I don’t know anything! Don’t let him hurt me!”
“Your reputation does precede you, Drood,” said Indigo. “And I really can’t stand by and let a shark like you chew on a small fish like him.”
Charlatan Joe and the Indigo Spirit had both been friends of Shaman Bond for years. I’d worked cons with Joe, fought bad guys with Indigo. Spent more time in their company than I had with most of my family. But this . . . was more important than friendship.
Indigo must have sensed that the time for words was over. His gloved hand moved too swiftly to follow, and a razor-edged shuriken flashed through the air towards me. I snatched it out of midair and crumpled the solid steel in my golden hand. But Indigo had planned for that. The shuriken was a distraction, something to hold my attention while he grabbed a handful of useful items from his utility belt.
Of course he has a utility belt. What’s the point of embracing a fantasy if you don’t go all the way?
He threw a capsule onto the floor before me, and a thick grey fluid splashed everywhere, lapping against my golden feet. I knew what it was; I’d seen Indigo use it before: a specially engineered frictionless fluid, designed to cut off all contact between a bad guy and the floor he was standing on. I’d seen whole crowds of villains lose their footing and crash to the floor and not be able to get up again. Very useful stuff. Indigo gets it from some military source. I walked right through it and didn’t miss a step.
Indigo backed away, startled. The frictionless fluid had never failed him before. But strange matter follows its own rules. Or imposes its own rules on the material universe. Just like a Drood, really.
Indigo threw another capsule at me, and it smashed against my golden chest. Thick, steaming fluid ran down my golden armour, and again I recognised it. Acid strong enough to eat through steel. It ran harmlessly down my armour and pooled around my feet, hissing and spitting as it ate holes in the floor.
The Indigo Spirit was still backing away, but he hadn’t given up yet. He held up a large, blocky piece of tech in one hand. There was a loud, uneasy murmur from the crowd, as many of them recognised it. I knew what it was, because I’d had the Armourer make it for Indigo as a Christmas present: a handheld EMP device. Indigo made sure I got a good look at it and, when I still didn’t stop, activated the thing with a dramatic gesture. The electromagnetic pulse swept out across the Wulfshead in under a second, and all the lights went out at once as every piece of technology stopped working. In the sudden darkness there were brief flashes of light from small explosions in the crowd, hidden bits and pieces going bang. A few fires broke out. Dull amber lighting came on as the emergency generators kicked in. The new subdued lighting made the club look like a cave with far too many shadows in it.
“Sorry,” I said to Indigo. “But my armour isn’t technology. As such.”
The Indigo Spirit had stopped backing away. He stood defiantly between Charlatan Joe and me, his leather gloves creaking as he clenched his fists. “Sorry, Drood,” he said calmly. “But you’ll have to strike me down to get to him. And I don’t think you can do that without killing me. And I don’t think you’re the kind of man who could do that to a man who’s only doing what’s right.”
“On any other day you’d be right,” I said. “But not today.”
“Then let’s dance,” said the Indigo Spirit.
I did try to take him down easily and relatively painlessly, but Indigo wasn’t having any of it. He attacked me with every skilled move, practiced blow and dirty trick he knew, moving faster than I could, even in my armour. He struck at me again and again, searching for weak spots in my armour, trying to turn my own strength against me. But he only damaged his hands against the hard, unyielding strange matter. I tried to take him down, but somehow he was never there when my fists sailed through the air. He was so very skilled. I kept speeding up, drawing more and more on my armour, until finally . . . his skill didn’t matter anymore.
For Heaven's Eyes Only sh-5 Page 33