Secret Histories 10: Dr. DOA

T
HE
S
ECRET
H
ISTORIE
S
N
OVELS

The Man with the Golden Torc

Daemons Are Forever

The Spy Who Haunted Me

From Hell with Love

For Heaven’s Eyes Only

Live and Let Drood

Casino Infernale

Property of a Lady Faire

From a Drood to a Kill

T
HE
D
EATHS
TALKER
S
ERIES

Twilight of the Empire

Deathstalker

Deathstalker Rebellion

Deathstalker War

Deathstalker Honor

Deathstalker Destiny

Deathstalker Legacy

Deathstalker Return

Deathstalker Coda

T
HE
A
DVENTURES OF
H
AWK
& F
ISHER

Swords of Haven

Guards of Haven

O
THER
N
OVELS

Blue Moon Rising

Beyond the Blue Moon

Blood and Honor

Down Among the Dead Men

Shadows Fall

Drinking Midnight Wine

Once in a Blue Moon

T
HE
N
IGHTSIDE
S
ERIES

Something from the Nightside

Agents of Light and Darkness

Nightingale’s Lament

Hex and the City

Paths Not Taken

Sharper Than a Serpent’s Tooth

Hell to Pay

The Unnatural Inquirer

Just Another Judgement Day

The Good, the Bad, and the Uncanny

A Hard Day’s Night

The Bride Wore Black Leather

G
HO
ST
F
INDERS
N
OVELS

Ghost of a Chance

Ghost of a Smile

Ghost of a Dream

Spirits from Beyond

ROC

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of New American Library.

Copyright © Simon R. Green, 2016

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.

LIBRARY OF CO
NGRESS CATALOGING-IN
-PUBLICATION DATA:

Names: Green, Simon R., 1955– author.

Title: Dr. DOA: a secret histories novel/Simon R. Green.

Description: New York: Roc, 2016. | Series: Secret histories; 10

Identifiers: LCCN 2015048980 (print) | LCCN 2016002420 (ebook) |

ISBN 9780451476937 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780698407428 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Drood, Eddie (Fictitious character)—Fiction. |

BISAC: FICTION/Fantasy/Urban Life. | FICTION/Fantasy/Paranormal. |

FICTION/Fantasy/Contemporary. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction. |

Occult fiction. | Spy stories.

Classification: LCC PR6107.R44 D7 2016 (print) | LCC PR6107.R44 (ebook) |

DDC 823/.92—dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015048980

P
UBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

T
he Drood family has been safeguarding Humanity for generations. Facing down the horrors of the hidden world so you don’t have to. So you never have to know just how bad things can get. In the Secret Histories.

It’s always the dangling threads, from cases that were never properly closed, that come back to haunt you. It’s the nature of the secret-agent job that you’re never going to get to the bottom of every mystery, never completely shut down every evil organisation, never put a hand on the shoulder of every villain. It’s always the one you’ve forgotten all about that does for you in the end.

There is a man who gets away with murder. A man who specializes in removing the problems from other people’s lives by killing the people who cause those problems. He operates from the darkest shadows of the hidden world, coming and going unseen. No one knows who he is—just his
nom de mort
.

Dr
DOA.

Who Knows What the Future Holds?

I
’m Eddie Drood, secret agent for the very secret Drood family. Unless I’m working undercover, and then I go by my use-name, Shaman Bond. That feckless, easy-going face about town, always on the lookout for a little profitable trouble to get into. Shaman has his uses; doors will open to him, and people will talk to him, whereas they’d run like hell from a Drood. Under one name or another I’ve fought bad guys and evil forces, vicious conspiracies and demons from the outer dark. I’ve saved the world on more than one occasion, though the world never knew. I have punished the guilty and protected the innocent, solved mysteries and known something of the night, and walked right through the valley of death with a big nasty grin on my face. I have known good luck and bad, triumphs and tragedies, and the love of a woman worth loving. I’ve lived.

But I should have remembered the one certain lesson that life teaches. Nothing lasts. Every story comes to an end, and the curtain falls on every one of us. Because there’s nothing you can build that the world can’t tear down.

My name is Eddie Drood, and I am a dead man walking.

It started just like any other day, with a case that seemed no different from any other. I was walking through a winter wonderland, a
pleasant snow-covered scene in the middle of a forest miles from anywhere. On a cold, brisk morning, under an iron grey sky, with snow falling silently in fat white puffs. Snow had been falling for quite some time, and the thick cover crunched noisily under my heavy boots as I strode along. The narrow path, such as it was, wandered between dark leafless trees and took its own sweet time about getting anywhere. No birds sang, and nothing moved anywhere, even in the depths of the forest. I could look in any direction I liked, for as far as I liked, and not be bothered by any trace of human civilization. When I want to get away, I like to really get away. My only companion in this calm and peaceful, whited-out world was the small shaggy dog padding cheerfully along beside me. He’d taken it upon himself to keep me company. He thought I needed looking after.

I trudged along the path, occasionally slipping and sliding as I kicked my way through treacherous drifts. My heavy greatcoat kept out the cold, and the long knitted scarf wrapped round and round my neck prevented the bitter wind from harassing me. I was also wearing thick rainbow-striped mittens, a gift from my Molly. A woman of marvellous abilities and intrepid character, but no taste at all when it comes to knitwear. I was wearing the damned things only because she’d knitted them herself. She’d suggested the dog might like a cosy coat and little booties, but I put my foot down firmly on his behalf.

My bare face smarted from the cold, and my breath steamed heavily on the air. My nose was running, and my ears ached. But I remained resolutely happy, even content. Nothing like being wrapped up warm against the cold, defying everything the winter world could throw at you.

I finally left the trees behind and emerged into a wide clearing, where a paved path led straight to the front door of my isolated country cottage. Just a simple stone structure, with shuttered windows, heavy gables, and a roof buried under a thick layer of snow. Icicles hung from the guttering like gleaming exclamation marks over how
cold it was. The cottage was small enough to be cosy, but with room enough to breathe. Catswinging was not encouraged. Occasional puffs of smoke rose from the squat brick chimney, reminding me that I needed to build up the fire again. I gathered up a bucket of coal and an armful of wood from the bunkers at the side of the house, while my dog watched solemnly and made no effort to help. I went back to my front door, kicked it open, and carried my burden inside. My door is never locked, because this far from civilization there’s no one to lock it against.

The main room boasted comfortable furnishings, thick rugs on the floor, and the biggest grandfather clock I could find. It stood proudly in one corner, and had glass panels so I could observe the mechanisms working. I stoked the fire quickly and loaded up the battered old coal scuttle before pulling off the detested mittens so I could warm my fingers over the dancing flames. I straightened with a minimum of pained noises, stretched slowly, unwound the long scarf from my neck, and then shrugged off my greatcoat before hanging them both on the ornately carved coat-rack. The dog turned around several times in front of the fire and collapsed onto the thick rug with a solid thump. His way of telling me that as far as he was concerned, all travelling was now at an end. He wasn’t going anywhere. I knew how he felt.

I turned on the clockwork radio, and Radio Four hit me with a cathedral choir singing a Christmas carol. Angelic voices celebrating the festive season and offering comfort and joy. I made myself a big mug of hot sweet tea and settled comfortably into the padded armchair by the fire. The mug had
World’s Best Secret Agent
on one side and
Please Don’t Tell Anyone
on the other. My uncle James gave it to me years ago. I looked around, taking my time and enjoying an old-fashioned setting illuminated by a warm golden light. My Christmas tree stood sturdily in its corner, festooned with the traditional battered tinsel, cracked baubles, and flickering lights brought out of storage one more
time; it was one of my few happy childhood memories. Christmas cards lined the mantelpiece, because you can’t escape the damned things. Reply to one, and you’re on their list till one of you dies. I kicked off my boots and stretched out my toes toward the crackling fire. The dog made a low noise deep in his throat, as though to say,
Don’t wave those things in my direction.
He was lying on his back now with his paws in the air, showing everything he had. Dogs have no dignity. They glory in the absence of it.

I sipped at my steaming tea. All was well with the world. I like Christmas. I like everything about Christmas, except having to spend it with my family. Most of my relatives could start a fight in an empty room and then lie about who won. I much prefer to spend Christmas on my own, in my own way. Not to be bothered by anyone—a selfish wish at an unselfish time of the year.

“Apart from me,” said the dog, reading my thoughts as usual.

“You’re different,” I said.

“And your sweetie, Molly Metcalf.”

“Well, of course Molly has to be here,” I said. “Everything’s better when Molly’s around. For two such noted loners, we do seem to spend a lot of time in each other’s company.”

“That’s love,” the dog said wisely.

“What do you know about love?” I said.

“I’m a dog. We love everyone. That’s what we’re for. Humans aren’t worthy of us, but we love them anyway. Because someone has to.”

I glanced at the grandfather clock. “She should be here soon. I’d better take a look at how dinner’s doing. The chicken’s been in the oven for ages; it should have stopped clucking by now.”

“Only you would cook chicken tikka masala for Christmas,” said the dog.

“I like what I like,” I said calmly. “Fortunately, so does Molly.”

The dog sniggered. “Except when it comes to knitwear.”

“You keep quiet about that,” I said sternly. “One wrong word, and I’ll send you off to be seen to. It’s the little white lies and discreet diplomacy that make a relationship possible.”

“Humans,” said the dog. “If you all just sniffed one another’s arses, you’d be a lot happier.”

The phone rang—a harsh, urgent sound. The dog turned over heavily, and his head rose. We both looked at the old-fashioned black Bakelite phone. I stayed in my chair, hoping the thing would stop ringing if I just toughed it out long enough. But it didn’t.

“Are you going to answer that?” said the dog. “Or do you expect me to?”

“That phone is supposed to be only for emergencies,” I said, not budging from my chair. “And even then, my family should know better than to bother me at Christmas.”

“The trouble with everyone in your family,” said the dog, “is that they always think they know better.”

“True,” I said. I struggled up out of my nice comfortable chair, strode over to the phone, snatched it up, and growled into it. “Either you’re in real trouble, or you’re about to be.”

“Ah, Eddie, gracious as ever,” said a cold, familiar voice. The Drood Sarjeant-at-Arms. “Come home. You’re needed.”

“Get someone else.”

“It has to be you,” said the Sarjeant, entirely untroubled by the open menace in my voice. “All our other field agents are spoken for, and this mission can’t wait. Don’t make me come and get you.”

“I’m expecting Molly for Christmas dinner! You want to argue with her?”

“Bring her too. You’re going to need backup on this one.”

I sighed heavily. “If this doesn’t turn out to be horribly important and extremely urgent, I will decorate my Christmas tree with your insides.”

He hung up on me. The modern equivalent of having the last word. I slammed the phone down and said a few choice words of my own.

“Am I to take it Christmas is cancelled?” said the dog. “No figgy pudding and plum duff for the good and the virtuous this year?”

“Let us be optimistic and say . . . postponed.” I pulled my boots back on and strode over to the front door. My good mood had evaporated, effortlessly banished by my family and the hold it still had over me. Despite everything. I opened the door carefully inwards and looked out on the wintry scene. Everything was still and quiet for as far as I could see. I raised my voice, addressing the dark trees generally. “Molly! We’re needed!”

She appeared abruptly out of nowhere, striding up the path to my door. Grinning cheerfully and wearing a long fur coat over knitted leggings. The love of my life, my reason for being, the only thing that keeps me sane in a crazy world. Her pale face, surrounded by long bobbed black hair, seemed paler than ever in the cold, her rosebud mouth the only touch of colour. She bounded up the path, kicking snow out of her way with simple joie de vivre. She called out to me while she was still some distance away, because she never could resist a chance to prove she was right about something and I was wrong. Relationships . . .

“I told you to rip that phone out, Eddie! Every year you try for a quiet Christmas, hiding yourself away from your relatives, and every year something comes up so they have to call you back. It’s just tempting fate . . .”

“I thought I’d be safe here,” I said. “Tucked away in a wintry corner of your Wood Between the Worlds.”

“Just because the Droods can’t get in doesn’t mean they can’t reach out and twist your arm,” said Molly. “Any idea what the mission is?”

“No, but they want you as well,” I said. “Which is . . . unusual. Probably means a mission that’s more than usually dangerous.”

“Now, that’s what I call a Christmas present!” said Molly.

We met in the doorway, and she did her best to hug all the breath out of me, following with a kiss that made sure I’d stay kissed. Behind us, the dog started singing, “Love is all around . . .” Molly and I finally let go of each other, and I ushered her inside. She shrugged off her long fur coat and threw it at the coat-rack before sniffing at the air in a ladylike way as I closed the door.

“Tikka masala?”

“It’ll wait,” I said. “Till next year, if need be. My uncle Jack knew how to design an oven.”

I opened the front door, carefully pushing it outwards this time. And Molly and I stepped out of my isolated country cottage and into my private room in Drood Hall. Comfortable enough, but with only the basic requirements because I made a point of spending as little time in it as possible. The dog trotted out after us and dropped his hologram disguise as I closed the door. Scraps.2 was a robot dog, one of Uncle Jack’s last creations before his recent death. He scratched at his metal sides with a gleaming back paw, resulting in a harsh clattering sound. He seemed to find it comforting. His eyes glowed red as he looked at me.

“Only you would have a cottage in the woods inside a room within Drood Hall, Eddie.”

“Self-protection,” I said. “The more layers I can put between me and my family, the better.”

“I could stick around if you want.”

“Better not,” I said. “I can’t take a dog on a mission in the field.”

“Why not?” Scraps.2 said loudly. “I’m tougher than you, better armed than you, and my logic circuits can think rings round you!”

“Because dogs that come with built-in weaponry and can fire grenades out of somewhere unfortunate tend to get noticed,” I said.

“Ah,” said the dog. “There is that, yes. I do tend to make an impression . . . Think I’ll nip down to the Armoury, see what Maxwell and
Victoria are up to. I can’t have them thinking they can run the place without me. Look after him, Molly. See you two when you get back.”

He trotted out the door, his steel paws thudding heavily on the thick carpeting. Molly looked at me.

“That is one protective dog.”

“I think the Armourer programmed it into him,” I said, “because he knew he wouldn’t be around to do it himself.”

“I still can’t get used to him sounding like your uncle Jack,” said Molly.

I shrugged. “His Master’s Voice . . .”

*   *   *