Simon Green - Casino Infernale

Perhaps fortunately for all our tender sensibilities, Dead Boy was interrupted by the arrival of Sir Parsifal, clanking loudly in his plate steel armour, his plumed helmet stuffed under one arm. He frowned at the generic army, and the nearest rows actually fell backwards a few steps.

“We are used to horses in the London Knights,” said Sir Parsifal. “They are our companions, our war chargers, our partners in the great cause. King Arthur recognised the White Horse the moment it appeared in our Court. I was honoured to be chosen, to be carried here to fight the good fight. Is this all of us?”

“Pretty much,” I said.

“Good,” said Sir Parsifal. “More deaths at our hands, more honour for us all.”

“I don’t know about the clones,” said J.C., “but he scares the crap out of me. I may hide behind him, once the advance starts.”

“That does sound like you,” said Natasha Chang, striding elegantly forward to join us. “I am not even going to discuss what I was doing when the Horse appeared out of nowhere to carry me away . . . I just hope the cleaning lady will untie him in the morning, if I’m not back.” She stopped, to glare at the Sea Goat as he came ambling forward with Bruin Bear.

“Living gods are two a penny in Shadows Fall,” the Sea Goat said loudly. “And I hate riding horses. Makes me feel sea-sick.”

“You stay away from me, you . . . animal,” said Natasha.

The Sea Goat leered at her, showing large blocky teeth in his grey muzzle. “Come on, sweetie—in Crowley Project terms, what we did was practically foreplay.”

Bruin Bear shook his head. “Can’t take you anywhere. . . . Hello, everyone. Good to see you all again.”

And the thing was, he meant it. You could tell. He was just that sort of Bear.

“It’s good to see you again, Eddie,” the Armourer said gruffly. “I brought you a gift. From Ethel. I’ve been holding on to it ever since you left.”

He held out a simple golden circlet, and I took it from him with an unsteady hand. Immediately the circlet opened, and shot forward to wrap itself around my neck. It was all I could do to keep from crying out. I had my torc again; I had my armour again. A Drood again, at last. I stood up straighter, and grinned savagely around me. I was back! I was Eddie Drood, and let everything and everyone in all the worlds beware! I threw my arms around Uncle Jack, and hugged him fiercely. He patted me awkwardly on the back, till I was finished. We’ve never been very good at the touchy-feely stuff in my family.

“All right,” said J.C. “I am now officially confused. I was told Shaman Bond was infiltrating Casino Infernale.”

“Shaman is my use name,” I said. “My cover identity, when I’m out in the field. I hope you’ll all keep this knowledge to yourselves, or I will have to track you down and kill you in inventive and highly distressing ways.”

“Yeah,” said Dead Boy. “He’s a Drood.”

Molly was looking at the generic spokesman, who’d retreated almost all the way back to the front row of his army. He actually flinched as she fixed him with her gaze.

“You’re in trouble now, boys,” Molly said loudly. “The gang’s all here. Surrender now, and avoid the rush.”

“We outnumber you,” the generic spokesman said stubbornly. His face was pale and his eyes were wide, but his voice was still steady. “There are thousands of us, to your handful. You cannot win. You must all die so that the truth you know dies with you.”

“Truth?” said the Armourer. “And what truth might that be? Have you been keeping something from us, Eddie? I think you need to bring us all up to speed, boy.” He shot the generic spokesman a heavy glare, from under his bushy white eyebrows. “Anyone, and I mean any one of you, who makes the slightest aggressive move, or tries to interrupt us while Eddie’s talking, will be made a horrible example of for the others.”

“Yeah,” said Dead Boy. “He’s a Drood too. No one does a nasty threat like a Drood.”

And he must have been right, because the generic army just stood there and did nothing, while I gave all the original members of the Summit Meeting a short, concise version of what had gone down at Casino Infernale, and what I had learned about the true nature of the Shadow Bank, and the Crow Lee Inheritance. I showed them the silver key, and they all expressed polite amazement over how such a small thing could be so dangerous. None of them interrupted while I talked. They were all good listeners. They were, after all, professionals. When I finally finished I liked to think they were all looking at me, and Molly, a little more respectfully. Even the London Knight.

“So,” said Sir Parsifal. “The war over the Crow Lee Inheritance is finished before it began. A non-starter. Pity. I would have liked to get my hands bloody, punishing the various dirty factions. But”—and here he looked out over the standing rows of the generic army—“I suppose these will do.” He picked out the generic spokesman with his cold fierce eyes, and raised his voice. “You, fellow, there! Do you still intend to kill us all?”

“Of course,” said the generic man. “It is necessary. You cannot be allowed to stand in the way of efficiency.”

Sir Parsifal looked at me. “You want us to kill them all?”

“I think that might be beyond even us,” I said carefully. “No, I think we need to find their head-quarters, from where they actually run the Shadow Bank, and destroy it. Destroy their ability to support organised supernatural crime. Bring the whole thing down. It’s all so clear, now . . . they run things in an inhuman way, because they are inhuman. No conscience, or compassion, in their day to day business, because they have none. This cannot be allowed to continue.”

“That’s my nephew,” the Armourer said proudly. “More ambitious than a barrelful of Hollywood starlets. I’m sorry, I don’t know where that image came from.”

“But why should the rest of us fight for you, Drood?” said Natasha. “A Summit Meeting is one thing; open warfare is quite another.”

“Fair question,” I said. “For justice. To stop further injustice. So we can all be free of the Shadow Bank and the evils it makes possible.”

“So . . . I wouldn’t have to pay off my loans?” said J.C. “Sounds good to me.”

“Always did love a challenge,” said Dead Boy, beaming happily around him at the generic army.

“You cannot win!” said the generic spokesman, almost desperately. “Why do you persist in this? The situation is clear. We are many; you are few.”

“You never met anyone like us,” said Sir Parsifal. He drew his great sword, and the long blade blazed a dazzling silver on the night. “This is the sword Ex Caliburn, soaked in the blood of evil men. I have fought Humanity’s enemies on a thousand worlds, spilled alien blood in alien mud, brought down a thousand forces who thought they could prey on Humanity. I don’t see why this should be any different.”

He stood tall and proud in his gleaming medieval armour, and I believed every word he said.

J.C. stepped forward, and whipped off his sunglasses to glare at the generic army with his awful glowing eyes. “I have fought forces and beings from beyond the realms of death. Because I work for the Carnacki Institute, and we don’t take any shit from the hereafter. We exist to make sure Humanity can sleep safely in its bed at night. You? You’re just an annoyance that needs slapping down.”

The Armourer activated his armour and the golden strange matter whipped itself around him in a moment, so that he stood there like a perfect golden statue, under the stars and the moons. “I represent Drood,” he said flatly. “You know of us. You know what we can do. Stand down now. While you still can.”