From a Drood to A Kill: A Secret Histories Novel

by Simon R. Green

  I decided it was well past time to change the subject. Before he depressed the shit out of both of us.

  “So!” I said brightly. “What new toys have you got for me this time, Armourer? What new guns and gadgets to help me brown-trouser the enemy?”

  “Nothing,” he said flatly. “If you really feel you need something, go talk with Maxwell and Victoria. They handle all that sort of thing these days. But you don’t need my toys, Eddie. You never did, really.” He broke off and gave me a long, careful look. “I heard what you said in your little talk with the Matriarch.”

  “You were listening in?” I said.

  “Always. It’s a matter of self-defence in this family. Forewarned is forearmed in the Droods. So I have to ask what’s happened, Eddie. Something must have happened for you to decide so suddenly and so definitely that you’re not going to kill again out in the field. To be just an agent, never an assassin. So what was it? What happened to change your mind? You’ve always known the ultimate sanction is always going to be part of the job.”

  “It shouldn’t have to be,” I said.

  The Armourer nodded slowly. “Killing does take its toll. No matter how good the reason, or how great the cause. The ghosts . . . mount up. That was one of the reasons I retired from fieldwork, back in the day. Talk to me, Eddie. What changed your mind?”

  His gaze seemed sharp and fully focused for the first time, as he gave me all his attention.

  “You might say I was made to see things differently,” I replied. “A sudden insight into what I do, and why I do it. And I didn’t like what I saw.”

  The Armourer considered this. “I killed my fair share and more when I was a field agent. Rushing around Eastern Europe, trying to hold things together in that coldest of Cold Wars. All of them people who needed killing . . . There’s no doubt in my mind that the world is a better, safer place for them being gone. But I never did it as often as your uncle James. The legendary Grey Fox . . . some say the greatest field agent we ever had. He always was more of an assassin than an agent. By his own choice. It seemed to come so easily to him. It never came easily to me. I did what I had to, when I thought it necessary, but I was never so . . . casual about it. James never gave it a second thought. But then, he never was one for looking back.

  “Which is probably why he left so many bastards scattered across the world. Half the up-and-comers in secret organisations and hidden bunkers have his eyes, or his smile. I keep thinking we should do more for them. Bring them in, bring them home, into the family fold. Not leave them out in the cold. I do try to keep in touch with as many of them as I can.”

  He didn’t mention his only son, Timothy. Who went rogue and became Tiger Tim. I ended up having to kill him. So I didn’t mention him either.

  “Was Uncle James . . . always like that?” I said. “A natural-born killer for the Drood family?”

  “No,” said the Armourer. “Not always. But after he lost his one true love, Melanie Blaze . . . well, he was never the same after that. She was a marvellous woman. A great adventurer in her own right. Lost in the subtle realms, on some very secret mission I never did get to the bottom of. I sometimes think, when he lost her . . . the best part of your uncle James was lost too. All he cared about after that was getting the job done.”

  “Did the family never try to find Melanie Blaze?” I asked.

  “Not hard enough,” said the Armourer. “Now talk to me, Eddie. Tell me what has happened.”

  “Molly and I paid a visit to the Department of Uncanny,” I said. “Just to pay our respects, to the place where my grandfather fell. Along with so many other good people.”

  I told my uncle Jack the story of what happened there. A story I could never tell anyone else.

  * * *

  The hidden entrance to Uncanny lies in the shadow of Big Ben. Two armed policemen stood guard outside that very inconspicuous door, and I was a little surprised at how many of the everyday people passing by seemed completely unmoved by the presence of armed police on a London street. That’s still pretty rare in Britain. But I suppose it’s just a sign of the times. I headed straight for them, with Molly striding happily along beside me, and the police officers moved calmly but firmly together, blocking the way to Uncanny’s hidden door. They weren’t actually pointing their guns at us just yet. Which, given Molly’s short fuse, was just as well. And then they clearly recognised us and ostentatiously lowered their guns. The one on the left actually saluted.

  “Eddie Drood and Molly Metcalf, good morning to you both, sir and madam,” he said respectfully. “We were advised you might turn up, and we have been given orders to allow you to pass.”

  “How very fortunate,” murmured Molly, smiling sweetly.

  “You know who we are?” I said, to the policemen.

  “Not as such,” he said quickly. “We were shown your photos and told to get the hell out of your way. It has been made very clear to us that we don’t need to know anything about the door behind us or any of the people who might want to go through it.”

  “We don’t want to know,” said the other officer. “Some of us like to sleep at night.”

  “Very wise,” said Molly. “If you knew what we know about what happened here you’d never sleep again.”

  “Don’t mind her,” I said. “She’s just being herself. Has anyone else tried to go in today?”

  “Not today, sir,” said the first officer. “It’s my understanding that the whole building has been very thoroughly emptied out and cleaned up over the last few weeks. All important resources cleared away, all bodies removed. You don’t need to worry about disturbing anything. The forensic people have been and gone. We’re just here to keep any poor innocent souls from wandering inside. You take as long as you like, sir and madam. We’ll see you’re not interrupted.”

  “Did you know any of the people who worked there?” said the other officer.

  “Yes,” I said. “My grandfather used to run the Department. He was killed there, along with everyone else.”

  “Sorry for your loss, sir,” said the first officer. And give the man credit; he tried to say it like he meant it.

  And then both officers stepped carefully back, out of our way. I headed for the entrance, and Molly hurried to catch up with me. I was a little disappointed that no one else had shown an interest. I had been hoping my father and mother might show up, once they heard the Regent of Shadows was dead. But apparently not.

  I made a point of going in first, and Molly made a point of shouldering past me. Just to make it clear she was quite capable of protecting herself. I let her, since the entrance lobby was quite clearly deserted. The first time Molly and I had been there, it had seemed a cheerful enough setting, with flowers in vases, and restful colours, and nice paintings on the walls. Now everything was smashed and broken. The paintings had been ripped off the walls and torn to pieces. The comfortable furnishings had been reduced to wreckage and kindling. It had the feel of vindictiveness and spite, as much as vandalism. Dark bloodstains everywhere—old blood, long dried. Soaked into the thick carpet and splashed across the walls. No one had cleaned up; it was still a crime scene.

  “I wonder what they did with the bodies?” said Molly, peering quickly about her, entirely unmoved and unaffected. She didn’t believe in being sentimental about people she barely knew. “I hope they’ve been buried properly. The last thing this place needs is the unquiet dead wandering around, disturbing the peace.”

  “Heroes lie in anonymous graves,” I said. “Comes with the job, and the territory. But not the Regent. Grandfather’s body was recovered by the Droods. He was still one of us, after all. So the Matriarch sent in a special team to retrieve the body and take it back to the Hall.”

  “That was good of them,” said Molly.

  “Not really,” I said. “They were just being practical. Drood DNA contains far too many secrets and mysteries to b
e allowed to fall into enemy hands. Or even the hands of people who might become our enemies at some future time. My family always thinks ahead. That’s how we’ve survived so long. At least Grandfather Arthur got to go home at last. That’s something, I suppose.”

  Molly frowned. “I don’t remember receiving any invitation to his funeral.”

  “That’s because there wasn’t one,” I said. “No ceremony, no get-together. It was all taken care of very quietly, very quickly. Because Arthur had dared to walk away from the family. And to make things even worse, he had become fairly successful on his own terms, without Drood help. So the family just did what was necessary to put him to rest. I didn’t even know it had happened until it was over. Or I would have been there. Which is probably why they didn’t tell me. Or you.”

  “Your family . . . ,” said Molly.

  “Trust me,” I said. “I know.”

  We walked on, through empty corridors and open rooms. It was all very quiet, since we were the only living things left to make any noise. It was like walking through a battlefield after the opposing forces had clashed and moved on. Signs of violence everywhere: broken floorboards, kicked-in doors, smashed-in walls. The sight of blood and the smell of death. The Drood from Cell 13 and his vicious clone army had made a slaughterhouse out of the Department of Uncanny.

  “What about special weapons, and objects of power?” said Molly quite casually. “All the sensitive information in the computers?”

  “All of it gone,” I said. “Transferred to safe locations. Just in case anyone had any ideas about looting . . .”

  “Oh, perish the thought,” said Molly, grinning. “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. No. Not while there was anybody watching . . . Where do you suppose it’s all gone?”

  I gave her a look, and she shrugged prettily.

  “The Government will only lock it away, Eddie. You know that. They won’t appreciate what they’ve got. Not like I would.”

  “My family removed all the heavy-duty stuff, while they were here,” I said. “Things we felt the Government couldn’t be trusted with. Or isn’t supposed to know even exist. There are special protocols in place, even for disasters like this. In fact, probably especially for disasters like this. I’m sure everything else has been locked up in the usual secret depositories. Until it can be shared out, among the other secret organisations. They’ll all be struggling to fill the gap with Uncanny gone, and they’ll need all the help they can get. This is just an empty place now. Waiting for new occupants. A new identity and a new purpose.”

  “Do you think they’re going to rebuild the Department of Uncanny?” said Molly.

  “Probably not,” I said. “It failed.”

  And then we both stopped abruptly and looked around, as we heard someone moving about. Quiet, furtive sounds. The police officers had been quite certain that no one else should be here. We were supposed to have the place to ourselves. So whoever was in the building with us had no right to be there. I looked at Molly, and she smiled brightly.

  “Maybe someone didn’t know there’s nothing left to loot . . .”

  She concentrated, and invoked a quick-and-dirty tracking spell. A glowing green arrow appeared, floating on the air before us, pointing the way to the intruder. Molly set off briskly, and the arrow moved on ahead of her. I hurried to catch up. As far as I was concerned, barging in here uninvited was like desecrating a grave. Good people died here. The Department should have been left in peace. If there were ghouls or vultures rooting around here, I would make them suffer for their temerity. We followed the glowing arrow as it led us through empty corridors and past empty rooms, into the heart of Uncanny.

  “Who could have got in here without being noticed?” I murmured to Molly. “There’s only the one entrance, and that’s been continuously guarded.”

  “All it takes is a moment’s distraction,” said Molly, just as quietly. “And may I remind you, you are listening to the voice of experience here.”

  “But they must know there’s nothing left worth the taking,” I said. “People have been in and out, carrying stuff off, for weeks.”

  “Hope springs eternal in the heart of the burglar,” said Molly. “There’s always the chance they missed something. Perhaps something very secret and very important that wasn’t officially here . . .”

  “Unless . . . this is one of the unquiet dead,” I said. “Some very powerful individuals died here. If the forensic people missed something—if they didn’t follow all the proper procedures—there could still be someone moving around. Some remnant or revenant, stumbling around and wondering where everyone else went. Not realising they should have moved on . . .”

  “You and your imagination,” said Molly. “Far more likely it’s a burglar.”

  The arrow finally came to a halt outside the closed door to my grandfather’s office. Where he was murdered. The arrow flickered, then disappeared. It had taken us as far as it could. A slow chill crawled up my back. I knew the Regent wasn’t in there. My family said he’d been put to rest, and I believed them. But still . . . of all the places the arrow could have brought us . . . Molly moved in close to the door, and listened, and then beckoned urgently for me to come and join her. I leaned in close beside Molly, and listened. There was definitely someone moving around inside the room.

  My grandfather was dead. I’d seen the body. With the great bloody hole in his chest, where that ancient and powerful jewel Kayleigh’s Eye had been torn out by brute force. The only way it could be taken. I knew there was no way the Regent could be in his office. But a part of me still hoped, because it just didn’t seem right that such a good man could be gone and not leave something of himself behind. For those who loved him.

  Molly straightened up, gestured sharply at the door, and it sprang open, flying all the way back to slam against the inner wall. I charged into the office, with Molly beside me. And there, frozen in place by shock and surprise, caught searching through the drawers of the Regent’s desk, was an entirely unremarkable young man. He gaped at me and Molly, and then straightened up quickly, backing away from the desk with both hands raised to show they were empty. He was wearing a cheap, ill-fitting suit, without a trace of character in it. It went with his face.

  “I know you!” he said suddenly, in a harsh, cracked voice. “Oh yes. I should have known, should have expected . . . Eddie Drood! And Molly Metcalf! The runaway Drood and the wicked witch of the woods! I’ve read your files. Did you know they had files on you here? Not that there was much in them, of course. And what there was, was pretty contradictory. But then, that’s Droods for you. And witches. But you don’t know who I am, do you?”

  “No,” I said. “Who are you, and what the hell are you doing here? If you do know me and Molly, then you know better than to hold out on us.”

  He drew himself up and sneered haughtily. “I used to be a Shadow. One of the Regent’s old Shadows, from the organisation he used to run before they lured him away to Uncanny. He took most of the Shadows with him when he moved; but he didn’t take me.”

  “What are you doing here?” I said. And although I could hear how cold my voice was, he didn’t flinch one bit.

  “What are you doing here, Drood?” he said, lowering his hands so he could stuff them in his pockets and slouch defiantly before me. “You have no business being here. You went away and left him, left the Regent and all his people here to die . . . at the hands of your own kind.”

  “That’s not what happened,” I said. He drew himself up haughtily.

  “What are you doing in the Regent’s office?” said Molly. “Bearing in mind that I am getting very tired of this, and am only moments away from turning you into something small and squishy, with your testicles floating on the top, and then Riverdancing on them.”

  He sneered at her, too. “I didn’t come back to avenge the fallen Regent. Or mourn his death. No, I just needed to be sure he rea
lly was dead. For my own peace of mind. He was a great man, you know. Everyone said so. Including him . . . But not always. No, not to everyone. Not to those he considered unworthy . . . I didn’t let him down! Not really. But he still wouldn’t take me with him to Uncanny. In fact, he told me to stay away. Gave orders that I was to be turned away from his door if I did show up! Not that I would have. I have my pride . . . He should have cut me some slack! I tried so hard. Really hard. But he was just so old-fashioned in his thinking. He didn’t understand . . . that you can’t be strong all the time . . .”

  I looked at Molly. “Are you following any of this?”

  “So far, it just seems to be whine whine whine,” said Molly.

  I glared at the young man behind the Regent’s desk. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Marcus Turner,” he said. “And you’ve never heard of me. It’s not fair. It’s not fair! I was going to be someone; everyone said so. Including him! The Regent of Shadows told everyone I was going to be someone important someday! But he betrayed me. Offered me the world, and then snatched it away again.”

  “Why?” I said. “Why would he do that?”

  “Because I dared to disagree with him! Because he was old, and limited in his thinking! He couldn’t see the big picture . . . Not like me. I made him the Regent of Shadows, you know. I made that possible. I was the one who found Kayleigh’s Eye for him. And you don’t even want to know how far I had to go to find the awful thing and bring it back. All the things I had to do . . . all the blood on my hands . . . Mine! Not his! I was entitled to something for myself. I was! For everything I went through, for him . . . I said to him, I said, we should break the Eye up, shatter the stone into a thousand pieces, so we could all have a shard. So all the Shadows could be untouchable, and unstoppable. We could have changed the world . . . But he said no! He said he’d seen where that led, with the Droods. He lied. He just wanted the Eye for himself. Old fool! We could have been greater than the Droods!”