From a Drood to A Kill: A Secret Histories Novel

by Simon R. Green

  “Why did the Powers That Be take Molly?” I said. “Do you know? I mean, there must be any number of people who’ve got in too deep and owe too many people . . . Why choose her, out of all of them? When the Powers That Be must have known that the infamous Molly Metcalf has friends and family who will never stop looking for her?”

  “The Powers That Be don’t explain themselves to me,” said Walker. “They don’t need to. They move in mysterious ways because they can. But I am convinced they have a purpose in everything they do. Maybe, quite simply, it was her turn.”

  He shot me a quick glance over his shoulder as he set off again. “Come on, Eddie. Nearly there.”

  “Nearly where?” I said testily, forcing myself onward again.

  Everything changed again, and we were walking through the massive nave of an impossibly huge Cathedral. A building so big I couldn’t see the beginning or end of it. The farthest walls seemed to be miles away, the ceiling unbearably high. The sheer scale of the building was staggering. The Cathedral was a city, a world, in its own right. Far too huge to be anywhere real, or even historical. Warm sunlight spilled in through massive stylised stained-glass windows. But when I looked closely at the designs on the nearest wall, I discovered the depicted Saints were all Droods I knew. James and Jack, Arthur and Martha, Cedric and William, all wearing golden medieval-styled armour, with old-fashioned circular halos around their exposed heads. They were all fighting hideous demons, and losing.

  I deliberately turned my head away. The interior space of the Cathedral was impossibly huge, a space too large for the human mind to comfortably comprehend. Walker just strode forward across the bare stone floor in an unwaveringly straight line, looking neither left nor right, with enough confidence to suggest he knew where he was going. The Somnambulist followed him, and I followed her. Our feet made no sound at all on the stone floor. But at least we all had shadows.

  After a while, I made out a small group of people up ahead, standing in front of an oversized altar. They seemed to be waiting for us. Still too far away for me to be able to make out any of their faces, but it did seem to me there was something decidedly familiar about the way one of them was standing. Something in the way she held herself . . .

  She stepped forward, away from the others, and called out my name. Her voice echoed through the great open space, hanging on the air. My name, spoken in a voice I knew like my own. I broke away from Walker and the Somnambulist, running past them, sprinting across the great open space of the nave, and Molly came running towards me. It seemed to take ages before we finally met and crashed into each other. We hugged and held each other tightly, crying out each other’s name, tears on our faces.

  “Oh Molly, my Molly,” I said, fighting to get the words out past the ache in my heart, “I am never letting you out of my sight, ever again.”

  We finally let go of each other, and stood back to look into each other’s face, our hands still on each other’s shoulders. We were both laughing and crying at the same time, and not giving a damn. I wiped the tears from her face with my hand, and she did the same for me.

  “I thought you’d never get here,” said Molly. “Where’s the cavalry?”

  “You’re looking at it,” I said.

  Molly actually looked a little outraged. “No Iz, or Lou? Not even some of your appalling family?”

  “It’s been really hard to track you down,” I said, just a bit defensively. “And even harder to get here.”

  “Not as hard as it is to escape from,” said Molly. “And believe me, I’ve been trying.”

  There was a polite clearing of the throat, and we both looked around to find that Walker and the Somnambulist had caught up with us. Molly and I stood side by side to face them. Molly sniffed loudly.

  “I see you’ve met two of our jailors. A dead man and a traitor. After everything I did for you, Carrys!”

  “She can’t hear you,” I said. “She’s asleep.”

  “I know!” said Molly. “It’s so infuriating, not to be able to give the ungrateful cow a piece of my mind. You wait till you wake up, my girl . . .”

  “I’m not even sure she can hear me,” said Walker. “And I’m supposed to be able to give her orders.”

  “Have you tried?” I said.

  “Not as such, no . . . She is very good at anticipating. For someone who’s fast asleep.”

  I looked at Molly. “Have you met the people in charge here yet? The Powers That Be?”

  “No,” said Molly. “None of us have. They’re keeping themselves well in the background. Only make their wishes known through Walker. Which leads me to think . . . We might just know them, if we saw them.”

  “Well,” I said, “it’s not like we have a shortage of enemies.”

  “I know!” said Molly.

  I had to smile. She sounded so proud. Molly looked down her nose at Walker, hovering nearby.

  “Why can’t you stay dead?”

  “Too much to do,” Walker said calmly. “Come along, Eddie. There are people waiting up ahead that you’re going to want to meet.”

  Molly surprised me then, by nodding and smiling in agreement. “You really won’t believe who’s here, Eddie.”

  Walker led us across the vast nave to the small group of people waiting in front of the oversized altar. Two of them stood hand in hand, as though they belonged together. The other three stood stiffly on their own. Because of the sheer size of the nave, it took a while to reach them. Molly stuck close by my side, her arm tucked firmly through mine, as though determined not to be separated from me again, even for a moment. The Somnambulist brought up the rear, perhaps to keep any of us from falling behind, or escaping.

  But when we finally got to the altar, I recognised the couple standing together. My heart lurched in my chest, and for a moment I couldn’t get my breath. I knew this older man and woman, knew their smiles. They looked so happy to see me.

  “Mum?” I said. “Dad?”

  I ran forward, and Molly let me go. Though I didn’t realise that until later. I ran to my parents and hugged them both in turn, and they held me close, held me the way I always wanted my mother and father to hold me, when I was a child, left alone with the family. I had to fight for self-control, but eventually I let go and stood back, and looked them over carefully.

  My father, Charles. A calm, self-possessed middle-aged man, completely bald but with a bushy salt-and-pepper beard. He had sleepy eyes and an easy smile, but there was still a definite presence to the man. Something about him suggested he could still be dangerous if the need arose. He wore a casual suit in a careless manner. My grandfather, the Regent of Shadows, originally introduced him to me as Patrick, the best weapons master the Department of Uncanny ever had. Apparently the engineer’s gene ran in my side of the family, though it seemed to have bypassed me. Uncle Jack did try to teach me some basic skills when I used to hang out in the Armoury as a child, but nothing ever took.

  “I have to ask,” I said quietly, “do you happen to have any of your nasty little tricks about you? Like your famous protein exploder?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” said Charles just as quietly. “We’re only allowed what the Powers That Be allow us.”

  He didn’t ask whether I had anything about me. But we did exchange a look before I turned to my mother, Emily.

  Originally presented to me as Diana, one of the Regent’s very Special Agents. She spoke with a clipped, aristocratic accent that I knew for a fact never came from any of the standard finishing schools, because Droods don’t go in for that sort of thing. Emily was a calm, poised middle-aged lady, good-looking in a classic way. She wore an elegantly cut tweed suit, with a creamy panama hat crammed down over her long grey hair. And a flounced white silk scarf at her throat. She sparkled with charm and grace, without even trying.

  Without being asked, she shook her head. “No, Eddie. I’ve tried repeatedl
y, but the Powers That Be have suppressed my shadow-dancing skills. Just as well, or I’d have grabbed your father, dived into the nearest shadow, and disappeared from this awful place so fast it would have made their heads spin. I didn’t think anyone could interfere with my abilities, especially after everything I had to go through to get them; but then, I didn’t think anyone could kidnap your father and me against our will either.”

  “So you’ve been here all this time?” I said.

  Charles and Emily looked at each other, quickly picking up from me that more time had passed during their absence than they’d thought.

  “Not by choice,” said Charles.

  “We were abducted,” said Emily. “Snatched out of our hotel room, past all the Casino’s defences, between one moment and the next.”

  “No warning,” said Charles. “No way to avoid it. A most professional job.”

  “I have so many questions to put to you,” I said. “But first, I have some bad news. You’ve been gone for months, and bad things have happened. The Regent of Shadows is dead. Murdered.”

  Emily and Charles made low, shocked sounds and held each other’s hands. They looked like they’d been hit.

  “How?” said Emily. “My father had Kayleigh’s Eye! How could anyone hurt him while he had that?”

  “The Drood in Cell 13 found a way,” I said. “But my grandfather has been avenged. His murderer is dead. And I’m sorry, but that’s not all. The Armourer, Jack, is also dead. A heart attack.”

  Charles and Emily embraced each other tightly, as though they were holding each other up. They looked suddenly older, and frailer.

  “But I just saw him!” said Emily. “He seemed fine!”

  “You’ve been gone a lot longer than you think,” I said.

  “Have we missed the funeral?” said Emily. “We have, haven’t we. Bastards!”

  “And the wake,” said Charles. “After we were forced to miss James’ wake, we swore we’d be there for Jack’s. Someone is going to pay for this.”

  We would have talked more, but Walker insisted on interrupting so he could present the other players in the Big Game. I turned reluctantly away to study the three other people standing at the altar. Walker started with Tarot Jones, the Tatterdemalion. A tall, lean, and almost indecently young-looking man, though years of experience showed in his eyes. He wore the traditional mix of travellers’ clothes: rags and woollens, leathers and jeans, bangles and beads. Strangely constructed stick figures clung to his back, as though they were catching a lift. He had a great mass of curly black hair, and a long, bony face dominated by a beak of a nose and a big, toothy grin. His occasional sudden gestures were surprisingly graceful. There was a certain otherworldly, almost fey quality to him, like a woodland creature, only superficially civilised.

  Tarot Jones looked wildly out of place in the Cathedral setting, with his patchwork outfit and almost feral presence, but then, I would have been hard-pressed to name anywhere the Tatterdemalion would have seemed at home that didn’t involve a whole lot of trees. I put forward a hand for him to shake, but he declined, studying me thoughtfully.

  “I am the Totem of the Travelling Tribes,” he said finally. “Their protector and spiritual leader. I stand between them and the violence of the town people. I sold my soul, repeatedly, to gain the power I needed to look after my people. So I could hide them away in isolated natural settings, far from anywhere civilised. Where no one could find or reach them to punish them for being different. And for enough power to defend them from any threat. You probably don’t remember the bad old days, when Thatcher sent her stormtroopers against us. The blood, and the horror . . . I swore then: Never again.”

  “But to sell your soul . . . ,” I said.

  “Over and over again,” said Tarot Jones, suddenly grinning broadly. “What’s a soul or two between friends, eh? I knew what I was doing. I did it of my own free will. It is the old way, after all. The King sacrifices himself; for the good of the Tribe. But it seems none of the power I bought so dearly is enough to get me out of here. Out of this awful, unnatural place. I have to get home, to look after my people! They need me!” He glared at Walker. “Why did your Powers choose me?”

  “They don’t tell me things like that,” said Walker. “But I have heard it suggested that just possibly, the players of the Game choose themselves. Because they’re so desperate to avoid the fate awaiting them.”

  Tarot Jones looked at Walker for a long moment, and then looked away.

  Next we were introduced to Chandarru, Lord of the Abyss and Seeker After Truth. Chandarru made a point of adding these titles themselves, stressing the capital letters. He bowed to me, rather than taking my hand. He was a robust, comfortably padded Oriental gentleman, wearing a smart formal tuxedo, with top hat and swirling opera cloak. He also had the traditional long moustaches, painted-on devilish eyebrows, and a tarred pigtail. When he spoke, it was in considered formal phrases, as though English wasn’t necessarily his first language. He gave the impression of a man holding everything within, giving nothing away.

  “I used to be big on the stage,” he said. “One of the last authentic Oriental conjurers to tread the boards. London, Paris, New York. Such days! But as I grew older I decided I’d had enough of tricks, and went in search of the real thing. And I was never the same after that. I have made many deals in my time; and many promises, to Powers and Principalities, in return for secrets. And power, of course, because once you have secrets, other people want to take them from you. I never really believed I’d have to pay the many debts I amassed, because I was always careful to play my various debtors against each other. But eventually I ran out of tricks. I was actually on the run when I was contacted.”

  “So you weren’t kidnapped?” I said.

  He gave me a quick, meaningless smile. “No. I was offered a chance to earn my salvation, through participation in the Big Game. And I jumped at the chance.”

  I gave him a meaningless smile of my own. With a sudden insight, I realised that Chandarru was a performer. What he was showing us was just a role he played. No more him than the man he was onstage. He hadn’t told us a single real thing about himself.

  The Sin Eater was a large black American with a big round face, close-cropped white hair, and a gaze so direct and unblinking it was a challenge to meet it. He wore the blindingly white suit of a Southern preacher, complete with a dog collar, and held himself as though he expected to be attacked at any moment. And was more than ready to give as good as he got. He refused to shake my hand, or even to give me his real name.

  “Sin Eater,” I said. “Interesting title. A very old, very heretical practice, condemned by all sides of the Christian Church. Consuming the sins of others, to allow them forgiveness . . . Why would anyone do that?”

  “It’s what I am,” said the Sin Eater, in a dark, rich voice that sounded more used to addressing and intimidating a large audience. “I gave up my old life, gave up everything, to become what I am now. I have allowed myself to be possessed, many times, exorcising the demons out of the afflicted, and then locking them up inside me. Making a cage for them out of my body and my soul. Partly so I could save the cursed and demon-ridden, and bring peace to the persecuted. But also so that I could take the demons for myself . . . draw on their hellish powers and make them mine.”

  “There are demons inside you?” said Molly. “Why would you want that?”

  “So I can use Hell’s power to fight Hell’s agents,” said the Sin Eater, smiling for the first time. It was not a pleasant smile. “So I could use demonic power to strike down Evil wherever I found it. It isn’t difficult to find these days. I save those worth saving, protect those worth protecting.”

  “Whether they want saving, or protecting, or not?” said Molly.

  “It is my duty before God,” the Sin Eater said coldly. His voice was flat and uncompromising. “What else is there that matters?
”

  “Then what are you doing here?” I said.

  “I was ready to pay the price, or so I thought,” he said slowly. “Until I got old. And tired. It has become . . . more difficult to contain the demons inside me. They are always whispering in my ear, tempting me . . . They want me to do things, and sometimes I do. I wake up with blood on my clothes, and worse.” He suddenly pulled back his left sleeve to show us the length of barbed wire wrapped around his arm. The barbs had dug deep into his flesh, and there was dried blood caked around the wounds. Some of them looked to be infected, but I knew better than to say anything.

  “I mortify the flesh,” said the Sin Eater, gently running his right hand over the barbed wire and patting it fondly, like a favoured pet. Before carefully pulling the sleeve down again. “I control myself, through pain and punishment. So I can still do what I need to do. Be the Sin Eater; and bring salvation to those who need it most. Because what we do in Heaven’s name has Heaven’s strength.”

  “He’s very conflicted,” Walker said quietly.

  “So!” I said, smiling easily about me. “We’re all here to play the Big Game! For the entertainment of the Powers That Be . . . Does anybody know what this Big Game actually entails? What the rules are? What we have to do?”

  “No one’s said anything yet,” said Molly, scowling impartially around her. “Nothing useful, anyway.”

  “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “Not long,” said Molly. “Hardly had time to swap names and backgrounds. Of course, it helped that everyone here had heard of me . . .”

  “Witch!” said the Sin Eater.

  “Exactly!” said Molly and turned her back on him. “I couldn’t believe it when I met your parents though, Eddie. I mean, what were the odds?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I was thinking that . . . You and Charles and Emily were kidnapped. But not the other three . . .”