Casino Infernale (15 page)

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.

“God save all here, and call the Devil a bastard to his face,” he said loudly. “No . . . can’t say I know any of you. Don’t much care, either. Sorry if I’m not much on manners, but it’s hard to sweat the small stuff when you’re dead. Let’s get this over with, so I can get back to some serious smiting of the ungodly I’ve got lined up in the Nightside. Got to take your pleasures where you can find them, when your senses are a sometime thing. I was told there were refreshments. . . .”

The Armourer explained the glass container to Dead Boy, who studied it thoughtfully, with a most unpleasant smile. He produced a silver pillbox, and dry swallowed half a dozen pills, of various Technicolor hues.

“Got this marvellous Obeah woman, whips up these little treasures for me,” he said. “Builds a fire in the cold, cold flesh so I can experience bodily pleasures. For a while.”

He then ordered some of the most revolting food and drink I’ve ever heard of, piled it all up on the same plate, and pounded it down with great enthusiasm. He bent right over the table from his chair, pushing the stuff in with both hands, and everyone else edged their chairs a little bit farther away. Dead Boy studied us all with his burning eyes, and grinned.

“So, you two are Droods. I recognise the torcs. You’re a London Knight; I recognise the armour. And you’re a Ghost Finder; I recognise the complacency. And you’re. . . . No. Sorry, girlie. Don’t know you at all.”

“I’m Molly Metcalf! The wicked witch of the wild woods!”

“Doesn’t mean a thing. Don’t really keep up with the tabloids any more.”

“You’ll have to excuse our friend,” said a warm and fuzzy voice. “Because it’s either that or hit him a lot, and he wouldn’t feel it anyway.”

Bruin Bear came forward to greet us, and we all had some kind of smile for him. He was that sort of Bear. Dead Boy laughed out loud and jumped to his feet. He ran over to hug the Bear fiercely. By then we were all on our feet, and Bruin Bear made a point of shaking hands with everyone. His paw was warm and furry and very firm in my hand. He smiled at me, and I had tears in my eyes. It’s not every day you greet an old childhood friend of your early reading days, made real. I wanted to hug him too, but I had my dignity. Afterwards, I wished I had. I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded. Molly patted his head and tugged at one of his ears, and he let her. Even Sir Parsifal had a real smile for the Bear, leaning right over to carefully enclose the fuzzy paw in one great steel gauntlet.

“Oh, no, don’t mind me,” said a figure in the doorway. “Ignore me, overlook me, I’m used to it. My lot in life, these days. It’s just hard . . . when you’re not a star any more. Unlike some people . . .”

The Sea Goat raised a bottle of vodka to his oversized mouth, and took a good long swig. He’d fallen far and fallen hard, and didn’t care who knew it. Dead Boy laughed, threw an arm around the Sea Goat’s shoulders, grabbed the vodka bottle away from him, and drank deeply.

“You think it’s hard being dead,” said the Sea Goat. “Try being fictional! I was a beloved hero of childhood fantasies, along with Bruin Bear. And now, no one gives a damn. Bloody kids don’t read any more. . . . They should be made to read! I was big, I tell you! Big! It’s just the books that got small. . . .”

“Why isn’t Old Father Time here?” said the Armourer, just a bit plaintively.

“Apparently there’s a major backup in the Chronoflow,” said Bruin Bear. “And no, I don’t understand that either. But he couldn’t get away, so we volunteered. I’ve always wanted to see Mars!”

“I wanted to see Disneyland,” said the Sea Goat, wrestling his vodka bottle back from Dead Boy. “But apparently they only let in their own characters.” He grinned suddenly, showing large blocky teeth. “So I sneaked in! I had Snow White! Standing up on a roller coaster!”

“Is there anything more embarrassing than a legend that doesn’t know when it’s time to lie down and shut up?” said the final arrival, in a polished, very private finishing school tone of voice. We all turned to look.

Natasha Chang stood facing the end of the table, sweet as cyanide and twice as deadly. The door to the entrance tunnel slid smoothly and very firmly down behind her. Natasha didn’t even look back. A beautiful and exotic young lady in her pink leather cat-suit, with artfully bobbed black hair, heavy makeup to exaggerate her slanting eyes, and a teasing smile. Elegant and stylish, and aristocratically poised, but I couldn’t help noticing that she was wearing enough heavy rings on the fingers of both hands to qualify as knuckle-dusters. Molly sniffed, quietly and dangerously, beside me.