Book 1 - The Man With the Golden Torc (7 page)

She turned abruptly and stared right out of the screen at us.
Jacob gestured quickly and the picture disappeared, replaced by an old episode
of The Addams Family.

"Told you she’d stepped up security," said Jacob. "What do you
suppose that was all about?"

"I don’t know," I said. "But I don’t like the sound of it."

"Something’s going on," Jacob said darkly. "Something the
Matriarch and her precious inner circle don’t want the rank and file to know
about. There’s something in the air…Something Big is coming. I can feel it,
gathering like stormclouds in the future. And when it finally breaks, it’s going
to be a monster…There have been several direct attacks on the Hall just
recently."

"Hold it," I said. "Attacks? No one’s told me anything about any
attacks. What kind of attacks?"

"Powerful ones." Jacob stirred uncomfortably in his chair. "Even
I didn’t see them coming, and that’s not like me. Nothing got through, of
course, but just the fact that someone or something felt confident enough to
launch a direct attack on where we live speaks volumes. In my day, no one would
have dared. We’d have tracked them down, ripped their souls out, and nailed them
to our outer walls. But it’s all politics now; agreements and pacts and truces.
The family isn’t what it was…I don’t know why they’ve called you back, Eddie,
but it sure as hell isn’t to pin a medal on your chest. Watch your back, lad."

"Always," I said. "Anything I can do for you, Jacob?"

He leered at me in a frankly unsettling way. "If that headless
nun is still haunting the north wing, tell her to get her ectoplasmic arse down
here, and I’ll teach her a whole new way to manifest."

"But…she hasn’t got a head!"

"It’s not her head I’m interested in!"

And he wonders why the rest of the family won’t talk to him.

Out in the bright sunlight again, under a perfect blue sky, with
gryphons prowling watchfully on the perfect lawns, while butterflies big as my
hand fluttered through the flower gardens, I found it hard to believe that the
family could be in any real danger. Or that I might be. I might not always have
been happy here, but I always felt safe in the Hall. The power of the Droods
depended on the fact that no one could touch us. I looked up at the Hall
towering over me, ancient and powerful, just like us. How could anything be
wrong in such a perfect place, on such a perfect day?

I walked in through the main entrance, and there in the
vestibule was the Sarjeant-at-Arms, waiting to meet me. Of course he was
waiting; hours before the gryphons would have told him the exact moment I’d
arrive. The Sarjeant was never surprised by anything or anyone. That was his
job. He inclined his head stiffly to me, which was about as much welcome as I’d
expected. In the Drood family, the prodigal son was always going to be in for a
rough ride. The Sarjeant-at-Arms wore the stark black-and-white formal outfit of
a Victorian butler, right down to the stiff and starched high collar, even
though he had the build and manner of an army sergeant major. I knew for a fact
he always carried half a dozen concealed weapons of increasing power and
viciousness somewhere about his person. If the Hall ever was attacked and
breached, he’d be the first line of defence and very likely the last thing the
attackers ever saw.

He had a face that might have been chiselled out of stone. He
didn’t looked at all pleased to see me, but then, he never looked pleased about
anything. Gossip had it smiling was against his religion.

"Hi there, Jeeves," I said just to wind him up, because we both
knew he was far more than just a butler. (There are no servants, as such, in the
Hall. We all serve the family, in our own way.) (Or at least, that’s the
official line…)

"Good morning, Edwin," said the Sarjeant in his voice like
grinding gravel. "The Matriarch is expecting you."

"I know," I said. "I wish I could say I was glad to be home
again."

"Indeed," said the Sarjeant. "I wish I could say I was glad to
see you again, boy."

We sneered at each other for a moment, and then, honour
satisfied, I allowed him to lead the way through the shadowy vestibule and on
into the great hallway. Light streamed in through hundreds of stained-glass
windows, filling the extended hallway with all the colours of the rainbow. Old
paintings and portraits showed honoured members of the family: Drood men and
women sitting and standing in fixed and formal poses, in the dress and fashions
of centuries past, staring out at their descendants with stern, unwavering eyes.

Drood service and tradition goes back a long way, and none of us
are ever permitted to forget it. By the time we got to the end of the hallway,
the paintings had given way to photographs. From the first shadowy images to
sepia tones to the garish colours of modern times, the fallen dead stared
proudly out at the world they made.

I stopped to consider one photo in its silver frame, and the
Sarjeant stopped reluctantly beside me. The photo held two faces I knew like my
own. A man and a woman stood together, proudly erect as befitting Droods, but
there was a clear warmth and affection in their smiles and in their eyes. He was
tall and elegant and handsome, and so was she, and they looked every inch the
roistering adventurers everyone said they were. Charles and Emily Drood; my
father and my mother. Murdered on a family mission in the Basque region, while I
was still just a small child. Looking at them, so young and full of life, I
realised I was older now than they were when they died.

The Sarjeant-at-Arms hovered silently close beside me, making me
aware of his impatience with his proximity, but I wouldn’t let myself be
hurried. Hello, Dad, I thought. Hello, Mum. I’ve come back. But I couldn’t think
of anything else to say, so I just nodded to them and moved on.

The Sarjeant-at-Arms finally ushered me into the library, to
wait there until the Matriarch was prepared to see me. He inclined his head
again, very stiffly, and withdrew, shutting the door firmly behind him. I pulled
a face at the closed door and relaxed a little. Walking with the Sarjeant always
felt like you were being marched with a gun at your back. I wandered slowly
through the many towering stacks and shelves of the family library, inhaling the
old familiar smells of leather bindings, paper, and ink and dust. On these
shelves, in these books, is recorded the true history of the world. All the
secret deals and treaties, the private promises and betrayals, and all the
secret wars that take place behind the scenes that normal people never get to
hear about. The subtle moves on the invisible board, in the greatest game of
all.

I was born, raised, and educated here in the Hall, like every
other Drood son and daughter, but I was one of the very few who ever bothered to
read any book that wasn’t part of the official curriculum. I discovered the
library when I was ten, and after that they couldn’t keep me out. The family
teaches you what it thinks you need to know and nothing more. I, on the other
hand, ploughed through books like others devoured junk food, and what the family
called education I came to see as indoctrination. I wanted to know it all, the
context as well as the bare facts. And the more I read, the more I wanted to get
out into the real world and see it as it really was.

For a long time, I couldn’t see why this was such a problem for
my teachers. I was being trained to fight evil, to know who humanity’s real
enemies were and how to defeat them; so surely the more I knew about them, the
better. Whenever I challenged anything, I was always told to just shut up and go
along like everyone else, because only my elders and betters could see The Big
Picture. So I just kept reading, trying to see it too.

The problem with the Drood family library is the sheer bloody
size of the thing. Miles and miles of stacks and shelves taking up the whole
lower floor of the south wing, every shelf packed tight to bursting with the
accumulated knowledge and wisdom of centuries. Books written in every language
under the sun, and some from darker places, including a few dialects so arcane
that human vocal cords can’t pronounce them out loud. So I read what I could in
the original and badgered the librarian endlessly to find translations for those
I couldn’t. A decent old stick, the librarian. Wore gaudy pullovers, even in the
summer, and went motorbike scrambling every weekend. He disappeared suddenly,
years before I left. We never did find out what happened to him.

I wandered aimlessly through the racks, trailing my fingertips
lightly along the leather spines. We believe in books. Computer files can be
hacked; paper can’t. The only way to access the information in this library is
to come here in person. And the only way to do that is to be part of the family.

"Hello, Eddie. It’s good to see you again."

I turned around, already smiling because I knew who it was, who
it had to be. There was only one living member of the family who’d actually be
pleased to see me again. Uncle James strode forward to greet me, one hand
outstretched to give me a firm, manly handshake. He looked great, as always,
perfectly outfitted in the most stylish three-piece suit money could buy,
looking every inch the rakish gentleman adventurer he was. Uncle James was tall,
darkly handsome, effortlessly elegant and sardonic, and in really good shape for
a man in his late fifties. His striking face had more than its fair share of
character lines, but his hair was still jet-black. His welcoming smile was broad
and genuine, but even with me, there was still a touch of the ingrained iciness
that never left his eyes.

James had always been my favourite member of the family. After
my father and my mother were killed, James became the closest thing to a parent
I had. He took a sullen, silent, lost, and introverted boy and gave him a reason
to live. He found things to interest and challenge me, encouraged my rebellions,
and gave me a purpose in learning to fight all the evil people in the world
responsible for orphaning so many children. He brought me back out of myself and
made it possible for me to be happy again. If I ever had a hero, it was Uncle
James. The last of the great adventurers, he went to the good war like a
starving man to a feast. He had the most experience, and the most successful
missions to his credit, of any member of the family. His use-name was a curse on
the lips of the ungodly, and you could stop conversations with it in bars and
dives all across the world. They called him the Gray Fox, and he was everything
I ever aspired to be.

He was also the first one to advise me to leave and strike out
on my own before the family’s insistence on duty and tradition crushed my
spirit. I’ve always believed that the only reason I was ever allowed to operate
at such a distance was because Uncle James went to bat for me with the
Matriarch. Not that I’ve ever mentioned it, of course. It would only have
embarrassed him.

"It’s good to see you again, Uncle James," I said. "Ten years
it’s been, and yet still strangely there’s not even a hint of gray at your
temples…"

"Clean living and heavy drinking," he said easily. "You’ve
filled out since I last saw you. It suits you."

"Do you know why I’ve been summoned back here?" I said bluntly.

"Haven’t a clue, Eddie. I’m only looking in, in between
missions. A soft bed, a good meal, and a wander through the wine cellars before
they pack me off again. I’m just back from giving Dr. Delirium a bloody nose in
the Amazon jungle, and as soon as I’ve done a little research here, I’m off to
sort out the Shadow Boxers of Shanghai. You know how it is; one damned thing
after another."

"I am so jealous," I said, grinning despite myself. "You get all
the most glamorous assignments. I’ve never even been allowed out of the
country."

He raised a single eyebrow as he lit a black Russian cigarette
with his monogrammed gold lighter. "Now, you know why that is, Eddie. But you do
good work. People notice. The more missions you complete successfully, the more
trust you’ll earn, and the more leash they’ll give you."

"But they’ll never take the leash off, will they? I’ll never be
free of the family."

"Why would you want to? You’re part of the most important
heritage in the world." James looked me right in the eye, very seriously. "To be
born a Drood is a privilege as well as a responsibility. We get to know the
truth about the way things really are, and we get to fight the battles that
really matter. And if in return we get the best of everything, it’s because
we’ve earned it. And all the family has ever asked for is loyalty."

"We’re born drafted into a war that never ends," I said, meeting
his gaze squarely. "And most of us die fighting that war, far from home and
family. Some of us never get to know our parents, and some parents never get to
know their sons. I know: it’s an honour to serve. But I would have liked to be
asked."

And that was when the general alarm sounded, like every bell and
siren in the world going off at once. James and I turned as one and ran back
through the library. We charged out into the corridor and almost ran over the
Sarjeant-at-Arms as he ran past, a gun in each hand. James grabbed him by the
shoulder and hauled him to a halt as family members came running from every
direction.

"It’s the Heart!" yelled the Sarjeant, pulling away and racing
off down the corridor. "It’s an attack on the Sanctity!"

He didn’t need to say any more. James and I were already running
full pelt after him. James had a gun in each hand too now. And all I had was my
needle gun. I didn’t draw it. I was pretty sure frozen holy water wasn’t going
to be enough this time. The Heart was the source of the family’s power. Its
stored energies made all our magics and super-sciences possible, including the
living armour we all depended on. But the Sanctity, the great chamber that holds
the Heart, was the single most heavily defended and protected part of the Hall.
It’s supposed to be invulnerable, inviolate. A direct attack on the Hall was
rare enough; an attack on the Heart was unprecedented, unthinkable.