From Hell With Love: A Secret Histories Novel

by Simon R. Green

  “You’re getting cold, Eddie,” said the Armourer. “I don’t think I like that. Not in you.”

  “Molly’s gone,” I said, looking at him steadily. “I was going to be free, and have a life, with her. She was going to save me from my family. Now she’s gone, and all I have left is duty and responsibility. And revenge. It’s not much . . . but it’s something.”

  “The family’s not such a bad thing, Eddie,” said the Armourer. “It means you’re never alone. I lost my mother today, and my only son a long time ago, but I still have the family. I have you, and you have me.”

  “The Immortals took away my hope when they took away my Molly, Uncle Jack. I will make them pay for that; make them pay in blood and suffering. I had a life and a future, and now all I have is the family, and what it means to be a Drood. A life in service, to a war that never ends. A cause that consumes you, and an early death for reasons you’ll probably never understand. Well, I can live with that, if there’s revenge to be had along the way. Let’s get to work, Uncle Jack. It’s all I’ve got now.”

  “There’s one obvious dropping-off point,” said the Armourer, his face and his voice all business again. “The fake Frankenstein Castle—now just called . . . the Castle Hotel. The tourist trap, remember? Only a mile and a half down the road from the real thing, next to a small village. You could be just another tourist, attracted by the name and the legend. They must see enough of those. Hmmm. Wait a minute . . .” He searched quickly through several drawers, muttering to himself, and finally came up with a slim folder. “This should do you nicely. Standard field agent’s package, for sudden intrusion into foreign climes. All the paperwork you’ll need: passport, visa, travel documents, credit cards . . . the usual. I always keep a few basic sets handy. What name do you want to use?”

  “Shaman Bond,” I said. “He has a reputation for just turning up anywhere.”

  The Armourer grunted, and quickly customised the necessary documents. He passed them over to me, and I settled them here and there about my person. Nothing like a bunch of fake documents to make you feel like a real field agent. The Armourer fixed me with a firm stare.

  “You probably won’t need most of them, but it would be stupid to get yourself picked up by the locals over something so routine. And use the credit cards sparingly, we’re on a budget. And get receipts, if you want to claim expenses.”

  “Shaman Bond’s a good cover,” I said. “I’m comfortable being Shaman. I’ll book into the hotel, spy out the lay of the land, and if it looks clear I’ll head straight for Castle Frankenstein. And then I’ll use the cuff links to turn me into Rafe, and walk right in.”

  “You’ll need a cover story as Rafe,” said the Armourer. “To explain your escape from us. They must know we captured him by now.”

  “Easy,” I said. “I’ll just say I stole the Merlin Glass, and stepped through from the Hall to the Castle. They’ll be so overjoyed at the prospect of getting their hands on such an unexpected prize, they won’t even think to challenge my version of events until it’s far too late.”

  “You can’t actually give them the Glass, Eddie! Once it’s out of your possession, there’s no guarantee you’d ever get it back! I don’t even want to think what the Immortals could do with the Merlin Glass!”

  “Will you relax, Uncle Jack? Breathe deeply, and unclench. I have done fieldwork before. Promising them the Glass is one thing, delivering it quite another. I have no intention of handing it over to them; I’ll just say I have it stashed safely somewhere nearby. You know, standard operational bullshit. I’m very good at bullshit.”

  “I’ve always thought so,” said the Armourer. He looked at me thoughtfully. “Do you think you’ll find Doctor Delirium and Tiger Tim with the Immortals? Could they have the Apocalypse Door at Castle Frankenstein?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Dom Langford said he saw the Door at one of the Doctor’s bases. But, who can be sure of anything, where the Immortals are concerned? Dom never actually saw where he was . . . But at the very least, I should find information on its location at the Castle. The Immortals will know.”

  “Information is what we need, first and foremost,” the Armourer said sternly. “Revenge can wait. Let’s put a stop to the immediate threat of the Apocalypse Door, and save the world; and then we can decide how best to drop the hammer on the Immortals.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Information first. I understand.”

  “But, Eddie, if you get a chance . . . And I mean a real chance . . .”

  “I will wipe them out down to the last man,” I said. “Burn down their Castle, and piss on the ashes.”

  “Good man,” said the Armourer. And then he hesitated. “Eddie . . . I need to ask you something. A personal favour. If you should find the rogue Tiger Tim at the Castle . . . If you should find Timothy Drood . . . Eddie, he’s my son. My only child.”

  I could only gape at him for a moment. We’re a big family, and I’d been away from the Hall for a long time. “Tiger Tim, Timothy . . . I knew the name, but I never made the connection. But, he nearly killed you, trying to persuade you to open the Armageddon Codex!”

  “He lost his mother at an early age,” the Armourer said steadily. “And I wasn’t there for him. Afterwards, well, perhaps I tried too hard. I never was father material. You of all people should understand someone driven to rebel against family discipline . . .”

  “Well, yes, but I was never a rogue,” I said. “Not even when Grandmother said I was. I turned on the family, not on all Humanity. The things he’s done, Uncle Jack, you don’t know . . .”

  “I know,” he said. “I’ve made it a point to know. But . . . he’s all I’ve got left, that’s mine. He can still be saved, Eddie. I have to believe that. Please, if you can, don’t kill him.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said. “But he may not give me any choice.”

  The Armourer nodded stiffly, and turned away. I wondered if he really knew all the awful things his estranged son had done, and planned to do. If he knew about what Tiger Tim had done at Doctor Delirium’s Amazon base. And if it would have made any difference, if he had known. I’ve never found it easy to lie to my Uncle Jack. But I gave it my best shot when I said I’d try not to kill Tiger Tim.

  Some people just need killing.

  I coaxed the Merlin Glass back out of subspace, and had it open a doorway through to the Castle Hotel in Germany. I stepped through into a cobbled courtyard, and the Glass immediately disappeared again. If I hadn’t known better I would have said it was frightened. After this was all over, I’d have to give it a good talking-to. Preferably where no one else could see me doing it.

  I have to say, I wasn’t that impressed by the Castle Hotel. To start with, it wasn’t a Castle—and never had been—just a larger than usual manor house in the old European style. Five stories, half-timbered frontage, gables and guttering but no gargoyles, and three different satellite dishes. Pleasantly old-fashioned but with the clear promise of modern amenities. Warm, welcoming lights shone from the ground floor windows. On the whole, the hotel looked like it had stepped right out of one of those old Universal monster movies, from the thirties. Probably quite intentionally. Nostalgia for old fictions is the strongest nostalgia of all.

  I looked around me. No one about, to notice my arrival. A dozen or so parked vehicles, scattered across the adjoining car park. Not many guests, then. Off season, no doubt. So if nothing else, the hotel should be grateful for an extra guest. It was early evening, cold with a cold wind blowing, and very quiet. There was no passing traffic, and the lights of the nearby village were a good half mile away. Dark ominous clouds were already covering half the evening sky, spreading long shadows across the bleak countryside. I shuddered suddenly, for no reason, and headed for the Castle Hotel’s brightly lit entrance.

  The lobby turned out to be warm, cosy and inviting, and gave the impression of being an old family business. A real fire blazed in an oversized fireplace, lots of wood panelling and beams
in the ceiling. The walls were covered with framed photographs. I wandered over for a closer look. They were all head ˚ and shoulder shots of actors who’d played Baron Frankenstein and his monster. Colin Clive and Boris Karloff, of course, and Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. All of them personally autographed. A whole bunch of familiar faces, from dozens of European films that at the very least, tried hard. The most recent photos were of Kenneth Branagh and Robert De Niro. Boy, had Branagh got his film wrong. There was nothing romantic about the Frankenstein story. Ask any of his creations.

  There was just the one photo of Elsa Lanchester, as the Bride of Frankenstein. I nodded respectfully to her. Absent friends . . .

  Someone had made a recent effort to tart up the lobby with various items of Gothic chic, including lots of black crepe paper and a few rings of garlic flowers. (Wrong films there, I thought, but didn’t say anything.) I strode up to the reception desk, and smiled briefly at the receptionist—a determinedly cute lady of a certain age, in a traditional back and white uniform, with peroxide white hair, too much makeup, and a knowing look. She welcomed me to the Castle Hotel with a wide smile and a bright eye, and I made a mental note to be careful around this one. She looked like the sort who’d ask if you wanted extras . . . and then turn up to supply them personally.

  I booked in as Shaman Bond, and explained I was on a walking holiday, and just happened to be in the area . . . I speak enough conversational German to get by. All Droods are taught several languages from an early age, because the whole world is our concern. Almost the first thing the receptionist did was to ask for my passport and credit card. Score one for the Armourer. I’d always been field agent for London; I wasn’t used to gallivanting around in foreign parts. I watched unconcerned as the receptionist carefully entered the details into her computer. They’d pass; my family has connections everywhere. And then she asked about my luggage. Well, you can’t think of everything when you’re planning a mission in a hurry.

  “It’s with my friends,” I said smoothly. “They’ll be along later.”

  “And how long will you be staying, sir?”

  “Two, three days,” I said. “Is there a shortage of rooms, just now?”

  “Oh no, sir. We have many vacancies at the moment; it is the time of year, you understand? If it weren’t for the Convention . . .”

  “Fans of the films?” I said.

  “Oh yes! We have many such gatherings here, sir. They do so love the old stories, and the legends. This week we have”—she stopped, and looked about on the desk for a brochure—“there are so many of them . . . Ah yes. The Spawn of Frankenstein. Not a group I’m familiar with, and I know most of them—all part of the hotel training, you understand. They’ve been arriving all day; nice people, very good makeup . . . Here are your keys, sir. We do a traditional breakfast, from seven thirty sharp. Don’t be afraid to ask, if there is anything you require. Is there anything more I can do for you?”

  She gave me a certain look. I smiled blankly back at her, and headed quickly for the stairs.

  I had to take the stairs, all five stories of them, because there weren’t any elevators. The Castle Hotel might have adopted most modern conveniences, but apparently elevators were a step too far. All to do with authenticity, no doubt. I was seriously out of breath by the time I reached the top floor. It hadn’t been that long since I had been fighting for my life on the Hall grounds, and my resources were only slowly coming back. My real metal key opened a real metal lock, no electronic tags here, and I let myself into my room. And locked the door very firmly behind me.

  I went over to the window and looked out, and off in the distance were the ruins of Castle Frankenstein, half silhouetted against the lowering sky. The illusion looked entirely convincing. I turned my back on it, and considered my room. Pretty good, actually; reasonably large, cosy and comfortable. I sat down on the bed, sinking into the goose feather mattress, and bounced up and down cheerfully. Little pleasures . . . I wondered if they did room service. I could just do with a bite. But I decided I’d better not risk it. The last thing I needed was the receptionist turning up at my door, asking if I fancied something spicy. I sat still on the bed, suddenly tired. That was the kind of joke I would have shared with Molly. I desperately wanted to just lie down on the bed and sleep, and not have to think about anything. But I had work to do.

  I got up off the bed, and then paused, thoughtfully. I had the distinct feeling I was being watched. I raised my Sight and looked casually round the room, and immediately half a dozen surveillance cameras revealed themselves to me, all craftily hidden, along with over a dozen traditional listening devices. Between them they had the whole room covered, in sound and vision, without a single blind spot anywhere. I had to consider—was the whole hotel riddled with them, so the Immortals could keep an eye on everyone who booked in, or was this just one of the rooms reserved for people who arrived suddenly, with no luggage? I had wondered why I’d been given a room on the top floor, when there were supposed to be so many vacancies.

  Just how paranoid were the Immortals?

  It didn’t make any difference, of course. My torc could hide itself from even the most sophisticated devices, and maintain my disguise as just another tourist. Still, I’d have to be careful what I said and did, in this room. Maybe I should steal a few items, just to seem normal. I could use a few good fluffy towels . . . Maybe later.

  I washed up, took a good long pee on the grounds it might be ages before I could hit the facilities again, and took my time descending the five flights of stairs, so I wouldn’t be out of breath when I got to the bottom. A man has his pride . . . At the foot of the stairs was a new sign, in German and English, saying THE CASTLE HOTEL IS PROUD TO WELCOME THE SPAWN OF FRANKENSTEIN. MAIN BALLROOM. TICKETS ONLY FOR SPECIAL BANQUET. I decided I might as well take a look, while I was there, so I wondered over to the main ballroom. Just to take a peek. And the first person I met at the open door was the Bride of Frankenstein. The real one.

  She was tall, a good seven feet. All of the Baron’s first creations had to be big, so he could fit everything in. The skin on her face was very pale and very taut, like someone who’s had too much plastic surgery. But hers had always been that way, and always would. She had huge dark eyes that didn’t blink often enough, a prominent nose, and her mouth was a deep dark red without benefit of makeup. She would never be beautiful, but she was attractive, in a frightening sort of way. She wore her long jet black hair piled up on her head in a beehive, like Amy Winehouse, and she wasn’t bothering to dye out the white streaks anymore. Or use makeup to cover the familiar scars that stood out on her chin and neck. She wore flowing white silks, with long sleeves to cover her wrists, a tight blouse that showed off a lot of cleavage, and knee-length white leather boots.

  She recognised me immediately, and flung her arms around me. I braced myself for her embrace; she’d never known her own strength. Up close, she smelled of attar of roses, and maybe just a hint of formaldehyde. She released me, and clapped me hard on the shoulder with one heavy oversized hand.

  “Shaman, my dear! So long since I have seen you!” Her voice was a rich contralto, full of life. “What are you doing here?”

  “Little bit of business,” I said solemnly. “You know how it is . . .”

  She laughed easily. “Of course. If there is a profit to be made, or trouble to get into, there you will find Shaman Bond! If you should find yourself in need of an alibi, or someone to stand bail for you . . .”

  “I’ll bear you in mind. I see you’re not covering up the scars anymore. Or is that just for the Convention?”

  “No . . . I have come out of the living dead closet, my dear. I am who I am. I’m almost fashionable, these days . . . And more and more I think, the best place to hide is in plain sight.”

  The Bride and I first met at the Wulfshead Club in London, that well-known gathering place and watering hole for the strange and unnatural. We soon warmed to each other. Shaman Bond is always very sociable because yo
u never know when it might come in handy down the line. We fell into one of those easy friendships where you’re always popping in and out of each other’s lives. We even worked together on a few cases. Always with me as Shaman Bond; the Bride had no idea I was a Drood. The last job we’d done together had turned out rather messy. We’d been asked to stamp out the Cannibal Priests of Old Compton Street, who worshipped the insides of people, and not in a good way. Still, fire purifies. And even when it doesn’t, it’s still a damned good way to destroy evidence.

  The Bride has been around. She’s worked with pretty much every unorthodox organisation there is, including the Droods, but she’s always been her own person. She prefers to work with a partner, though given who and what she is, she tends to either wear them out or outlive them. The Bride specialises in the most dangerous of cases, on the grounds that she has so much less to lose than most.

  She’s a very feminine creature; she works hard at it. Her latest companion was the current Springheel Jack, latest inheritor of the title, and the curse. Apparently she quite literally stumbled over him in the middle of a case, when it was all new and horrible and he didn’t understand what was happening to him. So she took him under her wing, showed him the ropes, and the padded handcuffs, and they’ve been inseparable ever since.

  “He’s isn’t at all put off that I am very much the older woman,” she said cheerfully. “And the scars aren’t a problem at all. He likes them! And I always was a size queen, so . . .”

  “Hold it right there,” I said. “We are rapidly approaching the point of too much information. Where is Jack?”