Book 2 - Daemons Are Forever (15 page)

The Armourer put a large, comforting hand on my shoulder. “And not everything bad that happens here is your fault, Eddie. Jacob will turn up. He always does…unfortunately. You couldn’t get rid of him with bell, book, and candle. Now, the Glass…I’ve got some of my people working their way through the old library, looking for mentions of the Glass, or Merlin, but without an overall index…It’s a slow process. And the current librarian isn’t much use. He didn’t even know the old library existed until you rediscovered it. Now all he does is roam the stacks going
Oooh
! and
Aaah
! and trying to keep my people from reading the older texts in case they damage them. Idiot. Those old books can look after themselves. You could probably pour boiling napalm on them and not even mark their covers. Some of them would probably fight back…”

“Then you’ll probably be pleased to know that one of the rogues I’m planning to bring back is our long lost William Dominic Drood,” I said. “He always was the best librarian we ever had.”

“Damn right!” said the Armourer, brightening again. “You found William? Well done, Eddie! I never did believe that nonsense about him going rogue when he disappeared. I knew him well, back in the day; a first-class mind. Where has he been all these years?”

I shot a look at Molly before answering, but there was no easy way to say it. “William…isn’t the man he used to be, Uncle Jack. He had some kind of confrontation with the Heart, before he left…and something bad happened to him. He held himself together long enough to go to ground, but then … he had a breakdown. He’s currently residing in a sanatorium.”

“A lunatic asylum?” the Armourer said incredulously. “You mean he’s crazy?”

“It’s not such a bad place,” Molly said quickly. “They’re looking after him properly there. Eddie and I visited him just recently. He was…distracted, but he was also quite sharp, for a while. I think the Heart did something to his mind. Now that it’s gone, perhaps the effects will disappear too…”

“I’m sure he’ll feel a lot better, once he’s back in the Hall,” I said just a bit weakly.

“Hell,” the Armourer said gruffly. “This whole place is a madhouse at the best of times. He’ll fit right in.”

“New weapons?” I said, figuring that was the best way to take the Armourer’s mind off things.

He sniffed loudly again. “I don’t know if I want to trust you with any of my good stuff. The Bentley came back covered in scratches, and I still haven’t forgiven you for breaking my one and only reverse watch. And you lost that special directional compass I made for you!”

“Let us take it for granted that I am careless and ungrateful, and never appreciate anything you do for me, and move on, shall we?” I said patiently. “I still have the Colt Repeater, but I could use something more…dramatic.”

“I’ve still got that nuclear grenade…”

“No,” I said, very firmly.

“All right, how about a portable sonic generator that can make your enemies’ testicles swell up and explode in slow motion?”

“Oh, please!” said Molly.

“Tempting, but no,” I said. “I’d prefer something a little less…conspicuous.”

“You were always fussy with your food, too.”

“Moving on, please…”

“I’ve got a short-range teleporter I’ve been riddling with,” said the Armourer, scrabbling through the junk piled up before him on the workbench. “Jumps you instantaneously half a mile, in any direction. Just think of a place, say the Words, and go. Completely untraceable. And unlike Merlin’s Glass, completely undetectable.”

“That sounds more like it,” I said. “Why only half a mile?”

“Because any farther than that, and you tend to arrive in an arbitrary number of separate pieces,” the Armourer admitted reluctantly.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Molly.

“You are not alone,” I said.

“Oh, go on,” said the Armourer. “Give it a try. Ah! Here it is.” He held up a simple copper bracelet, breathed on it, polished it on his grubby coat sleeve, and then handed it to me. It looked very much like one of those bracelets people wear to ward off rheumatism. The Armourer grinned. “I’ve been trying to find someone to test it in the field for me. And given your current circumstances, being able to be suddenly somewhere else can only be an advantage.”

“He may be scary, but he has a point,” said Molly.

Reluctantly, I slipped the copper band round my wrist. “With my luck, it’ll probably turn my skin green. And you still haven’t offered me a decent weapon…”

“You don’t need a weapon,” said Molly. “You’ve got me.”

“She’s got a point,” said the Armourer.

Molly and I used the Merlin Glass to transport us to our first destination, that notorious drinking dive, neutral ground, and den of iniquity, the Wulfshead Club. All I had to do was tug at the Glass’s silver frame while muttering the right Words, and the mirror stretched like a piece of Silly Putty, until it was the size of a door. Our reflections vanished, replaced by a dim and gloomy view of our destination. Molly and I stepped through, and just like that we were standing in a familiar deserted back alley, deep in the heart of London’s Soho. The Glass snapped back to its usual size, and I put it away.

The Wulfshead Club is a well-known watering hole for all the strange and unusual people in the world. And for those just passing through…No one’s quite sure exactly where the club itself is located, and the very anonymous management likes to keep it that way, but there are authorised access points at locations all around the world, if you know where to look. And if your name’s on the approved list. This isn’t the kind of club where you can get in by bribing the doorman. Either you’re a member in good standing, or you’re dead.

I took a quick look around to make sure we were unobserved. The alley was empty, apart from general assorted garbage and a handful of rats with very strong stomachs. The only sound was the distant roar of passing traffic. It was barely early evening, but already the alley was heavy with shadows, dark and impenetrable. The stained brick walls were covered with the usual graffiti:
dagon shall rise again!, vampires suck!
, and the somewhat more worrying
supersexuals of the world unite.

I moved over to the wall, said the right Words, and a massive silver door appeared in the wall, as though the door were shouldering the lesser reality of the wall aside. The solid silver was deeply etched with threats and warnings, in angelic and demonic scripts. There was no door handle. I placed my left hand flat against the disturbingly warm and sweaty silver, and after a moment the door recognised me and swung slowly open. I always find the wait just a tad worrying. Because if your name isn’t on the approved list, the door will bite your hand right off.

I looked at Molly. “Remember, my name here is Shaman Bond. Slip up and you could get us both killed.”

She smiled sweetly at me. “You know, it’s almost charming, this need you have to hold my hand and explain everything to me. But if you don’t cut it out sharpish, I will slap you halfway into next week.”

“After you,” I said, and followed her into the Wulfshead.

We walked into a savage blaze of light and a righteous blare of noise. Music was playing, people were drinking and dancing and making deals in corners, and the whole damned joint was rocking. Harsh lighting bathed the packed crowd in constantly changing primal colours, and the music never stopped. Molly and I made our way through the surging mass of bodies with a combination of smiles, charm, and a complete willingness to use our elbows in violent and unprovoked ways. We were heading for the high-tech bar at the far end of the club; a nightmarish art deco structure of steel and glass, complete with computerised access to more kinds of booze than most people even know exist. You want a strontium 90 mineral water with an iodine chaser? Or a wolfsbane cocktail with a silver umbrella in it? Or maybe angel’s urine with extra holy water? Then no wonder you’ve come to the Wulfshead.

Rumour has it the management keeps the bar stock in a different dimension, because they’re afraid of it.

The Wulfshead Club prides itself on always being totally up to the minute, if not a little beyond. The great plasma screens on the walls show constantly shifting glimpses of the bedroom secrets of the rich and famous, interspersed with tomorrow’s stock exchange figures, while go-go girls dance in golden cages suspended from the ceiling, wearing only wisps of feathers. For the more traditionally minded, lap dancers in black leather strips gyrate on raised stages and hump their steel poles into submission. Tonight, a group of Satan’s Harlots out on a hen’s night were line dancing up and down the long steel bar top.

You can find all sorts at the Wulfshead, if they don’t find you first, preparing for a caper or a war, or recovering afterwards. Janissary Jane drank here, in between her regular shifts as an interdimensional mercenary, because she found the place restful. Which tells you a lot about the kind of places she works in. I didn’t see her anywhere yet, or hear the telltale sounds of screams and gunfire, so I bellied up to the bar with Molly at my side. The bartender wandered unhurriedly over to serve us. I’ve never bothered to remember his name. There’s a dozen of them behind the bar, all of them clones. Or homunculi. Or probably something even more disturbing.

He nodded familiarly to both of us. “Hello Molly, Shaman; been a while. The usual?”

I nodded, and he fussed over an impressive collection of nozzles and cables behind the bar, before handing over a Beck’s for me and a Buck’s Fizz for Molly. (She believes the orange juice makes it healthy.) I felt a little relieved that my use name was still good here. As far as the Wulfshead crowd was concerned, I was just Shaman Bond, a small-time operator and familiar face on the scene, nothing more. I’d put a lot of time and effort into establishing my cover identity, and not just because no one here had any love for the Droods. In the Wulfshead, I was no one important, no one special, and nothing was expected from me. Which was really very liberating. Especially now.

Back at the Hall, most of my family either worshipped me, feared me, or hated me. Or any combination of the three. Edwin Drood had become the most important person in the most important organisation in the world. But here, Shaman Bond was just another face in the crowd. It was as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I put my back against the bar and looked out over the milling throng, nodding easily to a few familiar friends and faces. Harry Fabulous was sliding unctuously through the mob, working the crowd with a wide smile and a hearty handshake, your special go-to man for everything that was bad for you. Last time I was in, he was offering pirate DVDs of Muppet films from another dimension:
Citizen Kermit
and
Miss Piggy Does Dallas
. Lined up along the great length of the bar I could see a ghost called Ash, a minor Norse godling, and the Indigo Spirit, complete with leather costume, cape, and cowl, taking a brief break from his crime-fighting.

And finally, there was Janissary Jane her own bad self, shouldering her way through the packed crowd to the bar, in search of a fresh whiskey bottle. One of the bartenders was waiting for her, and she snatched the refill out of his hand and drank the cheap whiskey straight from the bottle. She looked like the soldier she was; tall and blocky with muscular bare arms, a ramrod-straight back, and black hair cropped close to her head so an enemy couldn’t grab hold of it in a fight. She might have been pretty once, but all that was left now was scars and character. Her army fatigues were scorched and torn and stained with dried blood, and I knew up close she would smell of blood and smoke and brimstone. The whiskey was actually a good sign; gin made her maudlin, and then she tended to shoot people. Mostly people who needed shooting, but it did tend to put a damper on the party atmosphere.

The Wulfshead has never objected to her presence. Apparently they feel she gives the place character.

I called her name, from a safe distance, and her head came around quickly, one hand dropping to the gun at her side. I stood very still until I was sure she’d recognised me, and then gestured for her to come over and join Molly and me. She took her hand away from her gun, nodded stiffly, and made her way down the bar, shouldering people aside when they didn’t get out of her way fast enough. No one was dumb enough to object. This was Janissary Jane. Demon killer, seasoned warrior, and complete bloody psychopath. She stopped before Molly and me, studied us both just a little owlishly, and then toasted us both with her whiskey bottle.

“Hello, Jane,” I said easily.

“Hello,
Shaman
,” Janissary Jane said pointedly. She was perhaps the only other person here who knew I was a Drood. “What do you want with me?”

“I’m organising a major operation against some demons,” I said. “I could use your advise and expertise. You’ll get the going rate for the duration, plus a generous bonus if we pull the thing off successfully.”

“Hold it,” said Molly. “We’re paying her?”

“Of course,” I said. “She wouldn’t come otherwise. Would you, Jane?”

“I am a professional,” said Janissary Jane. “But who exactly would I be fighting for?”

“Does it matter?” I said.

“Of course it matters!” Janissary Jane said sharply. “There are worse things than demons. Like the Droods, for example…”

“Not this time,” I said. “We’re targeting the Loathly Ones, and we won’t stop till they’re either wiped out completely or banished forever.”

Janissary Jane whistled soundlessly and took another drink from her bottle. She considered me thoughtfully. “The Loathly Ones. That’s…ambitious. Hate demons. Bastards. But soul-eaters are the very worst…On the other hand, I’ve been hearing things. About the Droods. Word is something bad has happened to them. No one seems too sure what, but there are those going around saying they’ve lost their power.”

“There are always rumours,” I said easily. “All you need to know is that the money’s guaranteed. We’re serious about the Loathly Ones, Jane. And we could use your help.”

“Damn right you could. The Loathly Ones are hardcore demons. Soul-eaters don’t just kill you; they make you into them.” She smiled slowly. “There’s no way I’m missing out on this. If the Loathly Ones are finally going down, I want to be there to kick the last few heads in. You want me, you got me.”