Molly confronted the glass container with the gleam of battle in her eye. “I want a beefburger, twelve ounces, medium rare, with cheese and onion and bacon, and a fried egg on top.”
The burger appeared. It was a work of art; a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Molly grabbed it and bit into it, and grease ran down her chin as her eyes squeezed shut. She didn’t even try to hold back the loud ecstatic noises. We all sat at the table, engrossed in our food. When we were finished, we all looked thoughtfully at the glass container. We were all thinking of second helpings, but no one wanted to go first and seem like a pig.
“How the hell does it do that?” said Molly.
“I have no idea,” said the Armourer. “And I’m getting really tired of saying that. I’ve been trying to duplicate the thing in my lab for years, with only very limited success.”
“How does it get everything so right, from such a basic description?” I said.
“I think something in the Tombs reads our minds,” said the Armourer.
Molly glared about her suspiciously.
A viewscreen suddenly appeared, six foot by three, floating in mid-air above the table. It showed a view of the open red plain that we’d just crossed to get to the Tombs. The detail was so sharp I could see the trail our footprints had left.
“Ah!” said the Armourer, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “This means our guests are about to arrive. Pay attention. You might learn something useful. The Summit Meeting, also known as the Consultation, has been going on, off and on, for centuries. It has outlasted many of the secret groups and organisations who originally founded it. So it’s always interesting to see who actually turns up. No one ever wants to refuse the honour, but circumstances sometimes take their toll. When the call goes out, everyone who can attends. If only to make sure they don’t get left out of having their say in whatever’s decided.”
Quite suddenly without benefit of dimensional Door, secret Gate, or any obvious means of transportation, a figure was walking across the red plain. Plodding steadily towards the city in a heavy suit of plate steel armour. Resolutely medieval in style, with boots and gauntlets, stylised greaves and main-gauches, and a great blocky steel helmet with a coloured feather sticking up: blue, with purple trimmings. The knight in armour wore a great sword on one hip, and a bloody big axe on the other. It was hard to judge scale at such a distance, but he gave every indication of being a really big fellow. He left a trail of deep footprints behind him, punched into the plain by the sheer weight of his armour.
“Sir Parsifal, representing the London Knights,” said the Armourer. “I recognise the plume. An interesting choice, for a representative.”
“You know him?” said Molly.
“Let’s say, of him,” said the Armourer. “Brave and true, honest as the day is long, arrogant and stuck-up and a real pain in the arse to work with.”
“How can you be so sure, if you haven’t actually met him?” I said.
“Because that sums up all the London Knights,” the Armourer said flatly. “Think they’re so big time, just because they’ve been around almost as long as we have. They’ve been even more insufferable, just lately, ever since King Arthur returned to lead them again. Haven’t got a dragon, though, have you, Parsifal? We’ve got a dragon!”
My gaze was jerked back to the floating viewscreen, as something dark and indistinct came hurtling down through the swirling atmosphere. Sir Parsifal didn’t even pause to look. Even when the something slammed down into the red plain not fifty feet away, hard enough to raise great clouds of red dust. The clouds slowly settled, revealing a single human shape kneeling in the centre of a new crater. He was wearing what looked like some kind of steampunk spacesuit. Without waiting to be asked, the viewscreen obligingly closed in for a better look. The atmosphere suit had clearly been based on an old-fashioned diving suit, complete with a bulbous metal helmet, and weights attached here and there to compensate for the lesser gravity. Modern scuba oxygen cylinders had been strapped on to his back, while his chest boasted a large Union Jack flag. The figure slowly straightened up, got its bearings, and headed purposefully for the great cliff face.
“All right,” said Molly. “I’ll bite. What the hell is that tatty museum piece doing here?”
“That,” said the Armourer, “is almost certainly the representative from the Carnacki Institute. They’ve been around for ages, and they never throw anything away.”
“The Ghost Finders?” I said. “What business have they got at a Summit like this?”
“I have to wonder whether that might be their boss, inside that suit,” said the Armourer. “Catherine Latimer . . . She and Crow Lee were something of an item, back in the day. Her insight on the nature of the Inheritance would be invaluable. But, she’s a bit too old and too fragile to handle a landing like that. Must be one of her field agents. And don’t be so snotty, Eddie! The Institute does valuable work.”
“Okay,” I said. “Now explain the spacesuit.”
“From the original manned moon landing, back in Victorian times,” said the Armourer. “We’re not the only ones with a secret history.”
“You just made that up!” said Molly.
“I wish,” said the Armourer.
The view in the viewscreen shifted suddenly, whipping sideways across the great red plain at staggering speed, and then slammed to a halt to show a Door opening. It looked a lot more modern than ours, while still entirely basic and ordinary. A tall dark figure stepped through it, and the Door immediately slammed shut behind him, and disappeared. The figure looked around, taking his time. Molly and I looked at each other, sighed heavily, and shook our heads regretfully. We knew this one, by reputation. Everyone did.
Dead Boy was seventeen. He’d been seventeen some thirty years now, ever since he was mugged and murdered in the Nightside. And then came back from the dead to avenge his murder. He made a deal with Someone he still won’t talk about, but he should have paid more attention to the small print. Because there was nothing in the compact he made about getting to lie down again afterwards. So now Dead Boy goes on and on, trapped in his body; a returned soul possessing his own corpse.
Tall and adolescent thin, he wore a deep purple greatcoat over black leather trousers, and scuffed calfskin boots. He wore a black rose on his lapel, and a large floppy hat crammed down on dark curly hair. He stood alone on the Mars surface, unprotected and unaffected by the local conditions because he was, after all, dead. He stared about him in an open, touristy way, and then jumped up and down a few times, to test the gravity. He looked like he was giggling. He strode off across the red plain, kicking red dust this way and that with happy abandon.
“Oh, hell,” said the Armourer. “All the people the Nightside Authorities could have sent, and they chose Dead Boy? Why couldn’t they have sent their new Walker, John Taylor?”
“Because he’s on honeymoon,” said Molly. “He married Shotgun Suzie, just recently. I read it in Heat magazine.” I looked at her, and she shrugged self-consciously. “The Nightside edition. I’m a subscriber. Look, do I make comments when you watch Testosterone Gear?”
“I like Top Gear,” I said. “It makes me feel manly.”
“Pay attention, children,” said the Armourer. “Someone else is arriving.”
A bright light flared, out on the Martian plain, and suddenly . . . a four-foot-tall teddy bear was standing there, looking around him with great interest. He was wearing his famous blue tunic and trousers, and his big red scarf. He smiled at everything, and his bright intelligent eyes were full of wonder and delight. Every child’s good friend, and companion in adventure, in the far off Golden Lands. Bruin Bear. From those wonderful stories we all read when we were young. I understand he’s out of fashion and out of print, these days.
Kids today don’t know what they’re missing.
And there at Bruin Bear’s side, his constant friend and companion, the Sea Goat. Tall and angular in his blue-grey trench-coat, human enough in shape, but topped wit
h a large blocky goat’s head, complete with long curving horns. He . . . didn’t look particularly pleased to be on Mars.
Dead Boy went over to join them, and they were soon having a cheerful conversation. The lack of air didn’t seem to bother any of them. Because he was dead, and they were fictional. Bruin Bear and the Sea Goat resided at Shadows Fall these days, a small town in the back of beyond where legends go to die when the world stops believing in them. An elephant’s graveyard for the supernatural.
The Ghost Finder in his antiquated atmosphere suit came over to join them, and patted Bruin Bear fondly on the head. The Bear let him because he was, after all, everyone’s friend. The Sea Goat gave the Ghost Finder a cold unwavering glare that clearly said Don’t even think about it . . . and then they all walked on together, heading for the city in the cliff. None of them made any attempt to catch up with Sir Parsifal.
“Oh, bloody hell,” said the Armourer. “Not Bruin Bear and the Sea Goat . . . I was sure Shadows Fall was going to send Old Father Time. Okay . . . hide everything valuable, including the cutlery; don’t promise the Sea Goat anything; and if he starts any trouble, just hit him over the head with something solid. Don’t worry, you can’t hurt him; he’s fictional.”
And then, finally, the last arrival. A strange contraption appeared out of nowhere, some distance away from the others. A great cage of twisted silver bars, throwing off multicoloured sparks like a fireworks display. The cage shook and shuddered, like it might fly apart at any moment, and then abruptly settled down. The lights blinked off, and there, standing in the middle of the cage, was a tall Asian young lady, looking very formal and intimidating. She held herself like a Royal on a state visit, as though she was slumming just by being there. The silver cage disappeared, leaving her standing alone on the Martian surface, surrounded by a shimmering force shield. She was wearing a pink leather cat-suit, topped with a pink pillbox hat, over neatly trimmed black hair. She strode purposefully forward across the red plain, ignoring the others completely.
“Now, what is that little bitch doing here?” said Molly.
“You know her?” I said.
“Natasha Chang? Hell, yes. She still owes me money. She’s a field agent for the Crowley Project. . . . Oh come on, Eddie, you must have heard of them! Nasty people, doing nasty things, always for a profit. Natasha is a Project field agent. A supernatural terrorist, serial nightclubber, rampant despoiler of fit young men who should know better, and eater of souls. And no, I am not even a little bit exaggerating. She eats ghosts, and digests their memories. I worked with her, a few times. On . . . matters of mutual interest.”
“My girlfriend has a past,” I said solemnly. “The horror, the horror . . . What’s this Natasha Chang doing here?”
“The Crowley Project was originally founded by Crow Lee,” said the Armourer. “The gaps in your background knowledge never cease to amaze me, Eddie. The Project kicked him out, eventually, so they could go their own unpleasant way . . . but they still know more about Crow Lee than anyone else. They kept him under constant surveillance, probably in self-defence. Which is why they have a seat at the table today. Because if anyone knows for sure what the Crow Lee Inheritance actually is, it’s them.”
“This is going to be a very noisy meeting, isn’t it?” I said.
“Oh, you have no idea,” said the Armourer. “We’ll probably have to clean blood and hair off the walls before we can leave.”
* * *
It took them all a while to arrive and assemble in the oversized entrance hall of the Martian Tombs. Sir Parsifal was the first, of course. The door in the cliff face didn’t even wait for him to touch it, just slid rapidly upwards to get out of his way as he strode heavily forward. I sort of got the impression that if it hadn’t, he would have walked right through it. There’s no doubt the London Knights are the good guys, but they do like to think of themselves as the biggest dog on the block.
Sir Parsifal slammed to a halt at the foot of the long table, and studied us silently through the Y-shaped slit in the front of his helmet. His eyes were cold and grey and unyielding. He dismissed Molly and me immediately, and gave all his attention to the Armourer, who bowed politely. The Knight inclined his head slightly, and then removed his helmet to reveal a hard-faced man in his early thirties, with a blunt square head, a bald pate, and no eyebrows. His mouth was set in a thin straight line.
“I greet you, Jack Drood, in the name of King Arthur Returned,” said Sir Parsifal. His voice was polite, but distant.
“I greet you, Sir Parsifal, in the name of Drood,” said the Armourer. “Be welcome to this Summit Meeting. Allow me to present . . .”
“I know who they are,” said the Knight. “The witch, and the renegade Drood.”
He didn’t seem at all pleased to meet me, so I made a point of giving him my most friendly smile, while holding Molly firmly by the elbow so she wouldn’t throw herself at him. The Knight had already looked away.
“Please be seated,” said the Armourer, “while we wait for the others. Refreshments are available.”
“Not while I’m on duty,” said Sir Parsifal. His mouth twitched slightly. Apparently that had been his idea of a joke. “I do not eat or drink, in enemy territory.”
“I thought this was supposed to be neutral ground,” I said. “That’s why we came all this way.”
Sir Parsifal kept his gaze fixed on the Armourer. “No such thing, boy. What are you teaching them at the Hall these days, Armourer?”
“You two know each other?” I said.
“Back in my field agent days,” said the Armourer. “Everyone knows everyone, out in the field.”
“That was back in the sixties,” I said. “You don’t look nearly old enough, Sir Parsifal.”
“I don’t believe in aging,” said the Knight. “Do enough of it, and you die.”
His mouth twitched again. Another joke. He was going to be a barrel of laughs, this one; I could tell.
I let go of Molly’s elbow. She was still glaring daggers at the Knight, but even she had enough sense not to take on a Knight of the Round Table. Unless she had to. The London Knights exist to protect our world from Outside threats. They’ve fought off alien invasions, other-dimensional incursions, and gone head-to-head with gods and monsters and everything in between. And they’ve never lost a war. The Droods exist to protect Humanity from Earthly threats; the London Knights take care of everything else.
And on the few occasions when we overlap, we’re all terribly careful to be very polite, and hide the fact that we can’t stand each other.
“We had to take on the Hungry Gods ourselves,” I said, just a bit pointedly. “Where were you guys when we needed you?”
“We can’t be everywhere, boy,” said Sir Parsifal. “It’s a big universe. We’re stretched thin, these days.”
The steampunk spacesuit arrived next, stomping in through the entrance tunnel. Steam hissed loudly from the joints, and the lead boots made loud jarring sounds on the crystal floor. The suit waved cheerfully at us all, as the man inside peered out through the metal grille on the front of his diving helmet. And then the whole suit split open, right down the middle, from top to bottom, and the Ghost Finder stepped out. The suit crumpled to the floor, and lay there, as the man from inside strode forward to join us at the table.
Tall and dark and handsome, elegant and arrogant, in a blindingly white suit, the Ghost Finder had a rock star’s mane of really long dark hair, and wore sunglasses so dark I was amazed he could see through them. He grinned cockily at all of us, as though he just knew he was the one we’d all been waiting for.
“J. C. Chance, Ghost Finder Extraordinaire, at your service,” he said easily. “Don’t all cheer at once, just throw money. I represent the Carnacki Institute, for my sins; officially licensed arse-kickers of the supernatural. Our motto: We don’t take any shit from the Hereafter. Or anyone else, for that matter. We exist to investigate ghosts, and Do Something about them. I recognise everyone here, of course. We
have extensive files, at the Institute. On everyone who matters and a great many who might. Hello, Molly. Been a while, hasn’t it?”
I glowered at her. “Is this another of your dodgy exes?”
“Oh, please,” said Molly. “Him? I wouldn’t piss down his throat if his lungs were on fire. We just . . . worked together, a few times. That’s all. Hello, J.C. Play nice, or I’ll tell everyone what your initials really stand for.”
“I stand for pretty much anything,” said J.C.
And then he took off his sunglasses, and looked around. His eyes blazed with a fierce golden light. He studied the massive chamber as though he was looking right through the crystal walls, at what lay behind, and when he turned suddenly back to look at me I actually shuddered, for a moment. There was something inhuman about that gaze. He slipped his sunglasses back into place, and we all relaxed, just a little.
“Those are seriously spooky eyes,” I said. “What happened?”
“Laser surgery,” said J.C. “I’m suing.”
“He was touched inappropriately by Outside forces,” said the Armourer.
“Good or bad?” said Sir Parsifal, immediately.
“Let me get back to you on that,” said J.C.
“I was rather hoping to see Catherine Latimer,” said the Armourer. “Given her . . . close relationship with Crow Lee.”
“Sorry,” said J.C. He didn’t sound it. “She’s busy.”
“Busy?” said Sir Parsifal, loudly. “What could possibly be more important than stopping a war that threatens to tear the whole world apart?”
“You ask her,” said J.C. “I wouldn’t dare.”
He flashed a wide meaningless smile at all of us, and took a seat at the table, adjusting his ice-cream white trousers carefully to favour the razor-sharp crease.
Next to appear was Dead Boy, swaggering in like he owned the place. Up close, he looked even more dead, even while he blazed with an unnatural vitality. His long greatcoat hung open at the front, revealing an old Y-shaped autopsy scar, a whole bunch of other injuries, and several bullet holes. Along with a great many stitches, staples, and the occasional length of black duct tape, to hold everything in. His long pale face had a restless, debauched, Pre-Raphaelite look, with fever-bright eyes and a sulky colourless mouth.
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