From Hell With Love: A Secret Histories Novel

by Simon R. Green

  He’d been like this for months, ever since he tried to protect the Matriarch from me. He used a forbidden weapon, a witch-killing gun called the Salem Special. It fired flames called up from Hell itself, according to legend. I couldn’t let Alistair use it on Molly, so I made it backfire. I can still remember the way he screamed, the stench of his burning flesh, as the flames ate him up.

  Nurses and doctors had given me hard looks as I headed for his room. They couldn’t deny me some time with the man, even though they blamed me for his condition.

  I pulled up a chair, and sat down beside the bed. The heavy smell of antiseptic in the room bothered me obscurely, until I made the connection with the Red Room in Area 52, and pushed the thought from my head. I looked Alistair over. His bandages covered every visible part of him, the rest covered by a single light blanket. They were clean, white, spotless even, which suggested they were being regularly changed, at least. His face was as blank as any Egyptian mummy’s, with only dark holes for the eyes and mouth. He breathed slowly, not moving, and if he knew I was there, he gave no sign.

  “Sorry I haven’t been to see you before,” I said. “But I never had a good enough reason, till now. All the Immortals at Castle Frankenstein are dead. They’re still dragging out the bodies, and piling them up. There are still some Immortals out in the world, scattered here and there, living their various lives as other people. But we’ll hunt them all down eventually. We have their computer records, and the Armourer swears he’s almost ready with a device that will always identify an Immortal, no matter how well they hide themselves. Isn’t that good news?

  “The Matriarch is dead. Martha Drood, my grandmother, your wife. Murdered in her own bed, by someone she thought she could trust. But of course, you already knew that. Because you killed her. Whoever you are, inside those bandages. When did you make the swap? After the bandages, presumably, when no one could tell the difference. Who would ever suspect a helpless invalid like you? Did you kill Alistair, before you took his place, or had he already died from his injuries? I’d like to think you were responsible for his death, not me. Because he did try to be a good man, at the end.

  “You had the perfect disguise here, and the perfect place to hide. Easy enough for you to reprogramme the machines when no one was watching, so they wouldn’t recognise your occasional absences. Were you planning on a miraculous recovery, at some point? It doesn’t matter. The moment I saw the name Alistair on the computer’s list of Droods who’d been replaced by Immortals, I knew you’d killed my grandmother. Who else would she trust, long enough for you to get close enough to stick a knife in her?

  “There are so many things I could ask you. Things only you Immortals could know, about the infiltration of my family. I don’t suppose you’d care to volunteer which of you was responsible for the summoning of the Loathly Ones? No? It doesn’t matter. I have my list. One of you will talk.”

  The bandaged head turned slowly on the pillow to look at me. I shot him twice in the head, with the Armourer’s special gun, that fired strange matter bullets. I needed to be sure. Who was he, really? It didn’t matter. Blood from the massive exit wounds had soaked the pillow. The machines fell silent, replaced by an alarm bell. I got up, and left the room.

  For you, Grandmother. And you, Alistair. One last duty, one last service.

  Later, in the Sanctity, I met with the rest of the Council. We were, after all, supposed to be running things in the Matriarch’s absence. The Armourer was there, the Sarjeant-at-Arms, even William the Librarian, though he seemed even more distracted than usual. Harry was there, with his partner the hellspawn Roger Morningstar. No one objected to his presence, or to Molly’s. With the Matriarch gone, we were all allowing ourselves a little more freedom from the old restrictions. I was relieved to see that Molly had recovered enough magic to mend her broken arm and crushed hand, though she still looked a little fragile to me. She was currently stuffing herself with mushroom vol-au-vents at the standing buffet.

  Ethel’s familiar red glow filled the Sanctity, but the once refreshing and revitalising energies of her manifestation now seemed distinctly weakened.

  “Ethel?” I said. “You seem a little off colour. Is everything all right with you?”

  I don’t know, she said. Is it really over, Eddie?

  “Pretty much,” I said. “It’s just down to mopping up, now. Taking care of the loose ends.”

  There were traitors and murderers right here in the Hall, and I never knew . . . The Droods are under my protection. I failed you.

  “We can all be deceived, Ethel. Happens to the best of us.”

  I never knew humans could be so . . . deceitful. I’m going to have to think about that.

  I left Ethel thinking, and headed for Molly and the buffet, only to be intercepted by Harry. We nodded to each other, warily. He pushed his owlish wire-rimmed glasses into place with a fingertip, and considered me thoughtfully.

  “We’re going to have to talk soon, Eddie,” he said, in his most reasonable voice. “About who’s going to replace our dear departed grandmother. Someone has to take control of the family.”

  “We’ll organise an election as soon as the family’s recovered from its various traumas,” I said. “We’ve all been a little busy, in your absence.”

  “An election?” said Harry. “Yes, well, I suppose that’s one way of doing it.”

  He drifted away to join Roger Morningstar at the buffet, where they kissed briefly before taking turns to feed each other delicate little rolls of sushi. I saw the Armourer standing on his own, staring suspiciously at something palely loitering on a cocktail stick. I braced myself, and went over to join him.

  “Uncle Jack . . .”

  “You killed him, didn’t you?” said the Armourer, not looking up.

  “Yes,” I said. “He didn’t give me any choice.”

  The Armourer sighed briefly. “No. He wouldn’t.” He looked at me directly. “Tell me he died well.”

  “As well as could be expected,” I said. “He stood his ground, and fought to the end.”

  The Armourer shook his head slowly. “I thought that would mean something, but it doesn’t.” He popped the thing on a stick into his mouth, and chewed fiercely. “We took the dragon’s head out to the old north barrow, and buried it there. Apparently it had got quite used to being covered, and felt . . . exposed, in the open air. Took a dozen men a whole day to manage it, but then, that’s what lab assistants are for. Healthy exercise, I’m sure. Right now, our best historians are taking it in turns to sit and talk with the dragon, and take notes. That dragon has seen an awful lot of history in its time, before and after it was beheaded. A surprisingly amicable creature, I found, for a dragon. Spending centuries as just a head under a hill, winding down but unable to die, did a lot to mellow it. Now it’s just glad for some company.” He looked at me sternly. “But you can’t keep bringing home stray pets, Eddie. The thought does you credit, but we just don’t have the room.” He brightened abruptly. “On the other hand, theoretically speaking, it does seem possible that we might be able to grow back the rest of its body! And stick it back on, of course. We could really hold our heads up, with our very own personal dragon! Even those snotty London Knights don’t have their very own personal dragon! If only it hadn’t been dead for so long . . . Still, that just makes it a little bit trickier. I do so love a challenge . . .”

  “Speaking of which,” I said, “how are you getting on with the Hand of Glory, and the remains of the robot dog?”

  He positively beamed on me. “You’re spoiling me, Eddie. You don’t usually bring me back ˚ such wonderful presents. The Hand in particular has real possibilities . . . It seems to have exhausted all its magical properties, but it is still the hand of an angel.”

  I gave him a hard look. “Tell me you’re not thinking of trying to grow a whole angel from the Hand.”

  The Armourer smiled innocently. “It is tempting, isn’t it? But no, the last thing we need round here is another plagu
e of frogs. I’ll just lock it away somewhere safe, until Someone turns up to ask for it back. And thanks for the robot dog. I love jigsaws. And I’ve always wanted a dog. I used to have one, a long time ago. But it exploded. Poor little Scraps.”

  “Well,” I said. “As long as you’re happy.”

  “I still want my devices back,” said the Armourer. “The cuff links and the ring. I want to run a whole series of tests on them; see how they stood up to use in the field.”

  “In a while,” I said. “Molly and I have it in mind to run a few special tests of our own.”

  “Ah, yes . . .” The Armourer gave me a knowing look. “I had the same idea. Ran some very interesting tests, with the assistance of four of the more open-minded female lab assistants.”

  I could feel my jaw dropping. “You didn’t . . .”

  He grinned. “You young people think you invented sex.”

  He started to turn away, but I stopped him with one last question.

  “Uncle Jack, why did Timothy call himself Tiger Tim? Was it something to do with Africa?”

  “No,” said the Armourer. “Tiger Tim was his favourite character, when he was a child. I used to read to him from some old children’s books, in between rushing off to save the world in the Cold War. He always liked the Tiger Tim stories the best.”

  We both looked round as the Sarjeant-at-Arms strode over to join us, chewing enthusiastically on a chicken leg. He nodded briskly to the Armourer, and to me.

  “I’ve just put together a team of our best field agents, to track down the remaining Immortals. Wherever or whoever they are. You’d better get that detecting device finished, Armourer; the computer files from the Castle are far from complete. They’re still dragging bodies out of Castle Frankenstein, you know. That was a good night’s work. Not often you get to smite the ungodly in such great numbers.”

  “And the team I had you send to Area 52?” I said, just to get a word in edgeways.

  “They have blown up, burned out, and utterly destroyed every last bit of it,” said the Sarjeant. “The American government has made all the expected protestations, but I got the distinct impression that they were actually very relieved. It would appear previous administrations had rather let things get out of control.”

  “Tell me your people thought to empty out the armoury before they blew the place up,” said the Armourer.

  “Of course,” said the Sarjeant. “Acquired some very interesting pieces.”

  I left them deep in discussion over their new toys, and slipped in beside William, standing at the buffet table staring at an empty plate. The Librarian seemed even more lost and distracted than usual. We’d found him a new assistant, a keen young chap called Iorith, and he was hovering beside the Librarian, ready to be of use at a moment’s notice. But William didn’t even seem to know he was there. I said a few kind words to the new assistant Librarian, and he brightened immediately.

  “I do try to help,” said Iorith. “But I think he’s still getting used to me. Used to me not being Rafe, I mean. He still calls me by that name, now and again.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “Can I ask you, is it true, what they say? That there’s Something . . . alive, in the Old Library? I haven’t seen anything myself, but . . .”

  “There’s definitely Something there,” I said. “But don’t ask me what. I was right there when it stopped the false Rafe from killing the Librarian, and I still couldn’t tell you what it is. But it does seem very keen on protecting William and the Old Library, so I think we should just let it be, and try very hard not to upset it.”

  “I wonder what it is,” said Iorith. “Or perhaps who . . .”

  William stirred suddenly, and looked at me directly. “I trusted him,” he said. “Rafe. I trusted him. He looked after me, and I was teaching him how to be a good Librarian . . . I liked him. Was the Rafe I knew always an Immortal? Did I ever know the real Rafe? We have to find him, Eddie. The real Rafe, I mean. Find him, and bring him home . . .”

  “It’s in hand, Librarian,” I said. “We have people working on it. We never give up on family. You know that.”

  “Yes, of course,” said William. He seemed to suddenly realise he was holding an empty plate, and put it down. He turned away, and headed for the door.

  “Come along, Rafe.”

  Iorith nodded quickly to me, and hurried after the Librarian. And having done my duty, and spoken to all the people I should have, I was now free to join my Molly at the buffet table. She grinned at me, mopping her mouth with a napkin.

  “Family . . . Doesn’t it just give you a wonderful sense of security?”

  “Don’t start,” I said. “I can’t wait for this nonsense to be over, so I can take you back to my room . . .”

  “You have still got the cuff links, and the ring?”

  “Of course. And then afterwards, I think I’d like to just lie down and snooze quietly for several weeks.”

  “After what I’ve got in mind, you’ll need to.”

  “Delightful wench. There’s still a lot of work to be done, you know. There are still some Immortals out there, hiding in deep cover. We’ll never feel properly safe until they’ve all been found and dealt with. And we still need to find out just how badly this fam ily’s been infiltrated. The list we found in the computer said it was complete, but I don’t think I trust it.”

  And that was when the Sanctuary doors burst open, and Isabella Metcalf came storming in.

  “Molly! I know who killed our parents! And yours too, Eddie!”

  I stepped forward to hear what she had to say, and I was so caught up in the moment I didn’t see the knife in her hand until she buried it deep into my chest. I staggered backwards, blood gushing down my front. All the strength went out of my legs, and I sat down suddenly. I hit the floor hard but I didn’t feel it. I looked stupidly at the hilt of the knife sticking out of my chest. Blood bubbled around it. I could feel the pain, but it seemed very far away. I couldn’t seem to get my breath. I wanted to pull the knife out, but I still had enough sense not to. There was a lot of shouting going on. The Armourer was kneeling beside me, holding my shoulders, talking urgently, but it didn’t seem important.

  I was looking at the Sarjeant-at-Arms, as he hit Isabella in the head again and again. Her head whipped round, blood flying on the air, and then she slumped to the floor. Harry and Roger were suddenly there. They grabbed an arm each, and hauled her up, and suddenly she wasn’t Isabella anymore. A teenage boy struggled in their grip, laughing breathlessly. He saw me looking at him, and laughed even harder.

  “I got you! You killed my family, but I got you!”

  Molly thrust her face into his. “Speak to me, you bastard Immortal! Where’s Isabella? What have you done to her?”

  The Immortal laughed in her face. “You’ll never know.”

  He bit down hard, and dark blood frothed around his contorted mouth. He fell backwards, convulsing so hard Harry and Roger couldn’t hold on to him. He was dead before he hit the floor.

  “Poison tooth,” said the Sarjeant. “Hell with him. Where’s the doctor?”

  Molly came running over to kneel before me. Her face was white with shock, as she made desperate magical gestures over me.

  “Must have been poison on the blade too,” said the Sarjeant, looking over her shoulder. “He’s going fast.”

  The Armourer was crying, as he held my shoulders gently in his strong engineer’s hands. “Hold on, Eddie. Help’s coming. Hold on . . .”

  “Get a doctor in here!” screamed Molly.

  She gave up on her magics, and held both my hands in hers. I couldn’t feel them. It hurt to keep trying to breathe, so I stopped. I looked at Molly. Tears streamed down her face. I tried to say something, but all that came out of my mouth was blood. I tried to smile for her. I felt cold. Colder than I’d ever been in the Antarctic. Darkness closed in, and the last thing I saw was Molly’s face.

  Voices. I could hear voices.

  “I’m sorry, Molly.” That was the A
rmourer. “I’m sorry. He’s gone. Eddie’s dead.”

  “He can’t be!” That was Molly. “He can’t be! Eddie . . . !”

  “I’m sorry. There’s no pulse. No heartbeat. He’s not breathing. We’ve lost him.”

  “Then I’ll just have to go after him. And bring him back.”

  And then—