Simon Green - From Hell with love

I have to say, I wasn't that impressed by the Castle Hotel. To start with, it wasn't a Castle-and never had been-just a larger than usual manor house in the old European style. Five stories, half-timbered frontage, gables and guttering but no gargoyles, and three different satellite dishes. Pleasantly old-fashioned but with the clear promise of modern amenities. Warm, welcoming lights shone from the ground floor windows. On the whole, the hotel looked like it had stepped right out of one of those old Universal monster movies, from the thirties. Probably quite intentionally. Nostalgia for old fictions is the strongest nostalgia of all.

I looked around me. No one about, to notice my arrival. A dozen or so parked vehicles, scattered across the adjoining car park. Not many guests, then. Off season, no doubt. So if nothing else, the hotel should be grateful for an extra guest. It was early evening, cold with a cold wind blowing, and very quiet. There was no passing traffic, and the lights of the nearby village were a good half mile away. Dark ominous clouds were already covering half the evening sky, spreading long shadows across the bleak countryside. I shuddered suddenly, for no reason, and headed for the Castle Hotel's brightly lit entrance.

The lobby turned out to be warm, cosy and inviting, and gave the impression of being an old family business. A real fire blazed in an oversized fireplace, lots of wood panelling and beams in the ceiling. The walls were covered with framed photographs. I wandered over for a closer look. They were all head? and shoulder shots of actors who'd played Baron Frankenstein and his monster. Colin Clive and Boris Karloff, of course, and Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. All of them personally autographed. A whole bunch of familiar faces, from dozens of European films that at the very least, tried hard. The most recent photos were of Kenneth Branagh and Robert De Niro. Boy, had Branagh got his film wrong. There was nothing romantic about the Frankenstein story. Ask any of his creations.

There was just the one photo of Elsa Lanchester, as the Bride of Frankenstein. I nodded respectfully to her. Absent friends…

Someone had made a recent effort to tart up the lobby with various items of Gothic chic, including lots of black crepe paper and a few rings of garlic flowers. (Wrong films there, I thought, but didn't say anything.) I strode up to the reception desk, and smiled briefly at the receptionist-a determinedly cute lady of a certain age, in a traditional back and white uniform, with peroxide white hair, too much makeup, and a knowing look. She welcomed me to the Castle Hotel with a wide smile and a bright eye, and I made a mental note to be careful around this one. She looked like the sort who'd ask if you wanted extras… and then turn up to supply them personally.

I booked in as Shaman Bond, and explained I was on a walking holiday, and just happened to be in the area… I speak enough conversational German to get by. All Droods are taught several languages from an early age, because the whole world is our concern. Almost the first thing the receptionist did was to ask for my passport and credit card. Score one for the Armourer. I'd always been field agent for London; I wasn't used to gallivanting around in foreign parts. I watched unconcerned as the receptionist carefully entered the details into her computer. They'd pass; my family has connections everywhere. And then she asked about my luggage. Well, you can't think of everything when you're planning a mission in a hurry.

"It's with my friends," I said smoothly. "They'll be along later."

"And how long will you be staying, sir?"

"Two, three days," I said. "Is there a shortage of rooms, just now?"

"Oh no, sir. We have many vacancies at the moment; it is the time of year, you understand? If it weren't for the Convention…"

"Fans of the films?" I said.

"Oh yes! We have many such gatherings here, sir. They do so love the old stories, and the legends. This week we have"-she stopped, and looked about on the desk for a brochure-"there are so many of them… Ah yes. The Spawn of Frankenstein. Not a group I'm familiar with, and I know most of them-all part of the hotel training, you understand. They've been arriving all day; nice people, very good makeup… Here are your keys, sir. We do a traditional breakfast, from seven thirty sharp. Don't be afraid to ask, if there is anything you require. Is there anything more I can do for you?"

She gave me a certain look. I smiled blankly back at her, and headed quickly for the stairs.

I had to take the stairs, all five stories of them, because there weren't any elevators. The Castle Hotel might have adopted most modern conveniences, but apparently elevators were a step too far. All to do with authenticity, no doubt. I was seriously out of breath by the time I reached the top floor. It hadn't been that long since I had been fighting for my life on the Hall grounds, and my resources were only slowly coming back. My real metal key opened a real metal lock, no electronic tags here, and I let myself into my room. And locked the door very firmly behind me.

I went over to the window and looked out, and off in the distance were the ruins of Castle Frankenstein, half silhouetted against the lowering sky. The illusion looked entirely convincing. I turned my back on it, and considered my room. Pretty good, actually; reasonably large, cosy and comfortable. I sat down on the bed, sinking into the goose feather mattress, and bounced up and down cheerfully. Little pleasures… I wondered if they did room service. I could just do with a bite. But I decided I'd better not risk it. The last thing I needed was the receptionist turning up at my door, asking if I fancied something spicy. I sat still on the bed, suddenly tired. That was the kind of joke I would have shared with Molly. I desperately wanted to just lie down on the bed and sleep, and not have to think about anything. But I had work to do.

I got up off the bed, and then paused, thoughtfully. I had the distinct feeling I was being watched. I raised my Sight and looked casually round the room, and immediately half a dozen surveillance cameras revealed themselves to me, all craftily hidden, along with over a dozen traditional listening devices. Between them they had the whole room covered, in sound and vision, without a single blind spot anywhere. I had to consider-was the whole hotel riddled with them, so the Immortals could keep an eye on everyone who booked in, or was this just one of the rooms reserved for people who arrived suddenly, with no luggage? I had wondered why I'd been given a room on the top floor, when there were supposed to be so many vacancies.

Just how paranoid were the Immortals?

It didn't make any difference, of course. My torc could hide itself from even the most sophisticated devices, and maintain my disguise as just another tourist. Still, I'd have to be careful what I said and did, in this room. Maybe I should steal a few items, just to seem normal. I could use a few good fluffy towels… Maybe later.

I washed up, took a good long pee on the grounds it might be ages before I could hit the facilities again, and took my time descending the five flights of stairs, so I wouldn't be out of breath when I got to the bottom. A man has his pride… At the foot of the stairs was a new sign, in German and English, saying THE CASTLE HOTEL IS PROUD TO WELCOME THE SPAWN OF FRANKENSTEIN. MAIN BALLROOM. TICKETS ONLY FOR SPECIAL BANQUET. I decided I might as well take a look, while I was there, so I wondered over to the main ballroom. Just to take a peek. And the first person I met at the open door was the Bride of Frankenstein. The real one.

She was tall, a good seven feet. All of the Baron's first creations had to be big, so he could fit everything in. The skin on her face was very pale and very taut, like someone who's had too much plastic surgery. But hers had always been that way, and always would. She had huge dark eyes that didn't blink often enough, a prominent nose, and her mouth was a deep dark red without benefit of makeup. She would never be beautiful, but she was attractive, in a frightening sort of way. She wore her long jet black hair piled up on her head in a beehive, like Amy Winehouse, and she wasn't bothering to dye out the white streaks anymore. Or use makeup to cover the familiar scars that stood out on her chin and neck. She wore flowing white silks, with long sleeves to cover her wrists, a tight blouse that showed off a lot of cleavage, and knee-length white leather boots.