Simon Green - For Heaven's Eyes Only

“Of course,” said the Sarjeant. “I’m sure survivors could provide us with valuable information as to what happened.”

“No,” I said flatly. “We go in and rescue them, because that’s what Droods do. We exist to stand between the innocents and the horrors of the hidden world.”

“Ah, Eddie,” said Harry, drifting over to join us. “Always intent on the small things, and missing out on the big picture. Anyone who got left behind in that town wouldn’t survive long under those conditions. It’s already too late for them. Which means we need to concentrate all our resources on working out how this appalling attack was orchestrated. Here’s your tea, Callan. They were all out of Jaffa Cakes.”

Callan accepted his tea with bad grace and sipped at it suspiciously before grudgingly nodding approval. “Always said you’d make a good tea boy, Harry.” And then he looked round sharply as a far-seer farther down the row called out to him urgently. We all hurried down to join the young man at his station, and he goggled for a moment, overwhelmed at having so many important members of the family all staring at him at once. But give the man credit; he recovered quickly and nodded jerkily at the monitor screen before him.

“Virgil Drood, at your service. Don’t blame the messenger. I picked this up off the feed we’re intercepting from the CIA satellite. What you’re looking at is a hill outside the dark circle. Conditions there are completely unaffected by . . . whatever’s happened in the town. It seems we have observers, just teleported in. Ten men, three women, some of them . . . familiar faces.”

We all crowded in around him, studying the screen. Thirteen people were standing on top of a grassy green hill overlooking what had been Little Stoke, chatting cheerfully among themselves. It was only a visual image—no sound. One of the men was Alexandre Dusk, leader of the Lightbringer House Satanists. And standing right next to him was Roger Morningstar, son of the legendary James Drood and a lust demon out of Hell. The half-breed hellspawn who fought alongside the Droods because he’d fallen in love with one of us. And now there he was, standing quite chummily with Dusk, nodding and smiling as they looked down on the dark circle below. They both seemed quite pleased with what they’d done. Harry turned to Callan.

“We need sound. We need to hear what they’re saying.”

“I’m sorry,” said Virgil. “We’re lucky to have visual under these conditions. Getting sound is going to take some time.”

“Then get a lip-reader in here! We must have one somewhere. We need to know what they’re saying!”

Alexandre Dusk looked round suddenly, and seemed to stare right out of the screen at us. I don’t think he could See us, but he knew someone could See him. He smiled a wintry smile, snapped his fingers, and the image disappeared from the screen. Virgil worked his controls fiercely and then sat heavily back in his chair with frustration.

“We’ve lost the feed.”

“Then get it back!” said Harry.

“You don’t understand! The feed is gone because the satellite is gone. It isn’t there anymore. Something blasted it right out of orbit. And according to my readings, the observers are gone, too. I suppose it’s too much to hope that they might have blown up, too.”

He tried an uncertain smile on us, but none of us was in the mood for even the slightest of jokes. We all looked at one another, and then we looked at Harry, who’d moved away a little to be on his own. He was rubbing his chin with jerky, shocked movements, thinking hard.

“I didn’t even know Roger had left the Hall,” he said almost plaintively. “He didn’t tell me he was going anywhere. Ethel, when did Roger Morningstar leave Drood Hall?”

“Right after the last council meeting, when you were all together,” said Ethel. “He left on his own, through a dimensional door he created on the grounds.”

“Didn’t you ask him where he was going?” said Harry.

“Not my place,” said Ethel. “You people do so value your privacy, even if I still don’t understand why.”

“Once a hellspawn, always a hellspawn,” the Sarjeant-at-Arms said heavily. “I did warn you, Harry. Everyone warned you. Never trust a hellspawn.”

“Roger’s been . . . different ever since he returned from Hell,” said Harry. “The trip you insisted he go on! Maybe they did something to him there. . . .”

“The question is,” said the Sarjeant, talking right over Harry as he addressed the rest of us, “how long has the hellspawn been working against us? How long has he been conspiring with our enemies, passing on secret information, including details of our missions?”

“No need to rub it in, Sarjeant,” I said.

“He was present at council meetings!” said the Sarjeant. “Because of you, Harry! Think of all the things he knows about this family! I’ll have to reset all the security measures, change all the codes and passwords, beef up our defences . . . and recheck every piece of information acquired from every mission he was involved with!”

“He fought alongside us against the Hungry Gods, and the Accelerated Men, and the Immortals!” said Harry. “He risked his life to fight in our cause, because of me! There must be a reason for this. . . . I have to go to Little Stoke.”

And then he stopped and couldn’t say any more. His face had gone pale and sweaty, and his hands were shaking. I knew why. We all did. He was remembering his time in the ghoulvilles, towns taken over by the Loathly Ones and removed into a separate reality. Terrible places. Sanity destroying. Soul destroying. We all knew Harry had been affected by what he’d seen there, what he’d had to do there. None of us said anything. A lot of Droods came back spiritually wounded from fighting in the ghoulvilles. Those who did come back.

“Roger’s not there anymore,” I said, carefully. “You heard Virgil; he and the others teleported out.”

“I have to know,” said Harry. “I have to be sure. I need to talk to him. . . .”

“Of course you do,” I said. “But there’ll be another time. I have to go into Little Stoke. You have to stay here. You’re needed in the War Room to help Callan and the Armourer work out how this was done. And there’s always the chance Roger might return here to the Hall. You need to be here for that.”

“Why would Roger come back?” said Callan, to show he was keeping up with the rest of us.

“Because Dusk doesn’t know who was watching him on the hilltop,” said the Sarjeant. “The hellspawn doesn’t know that we know he’s a traitor.”

“We don’t know that!” said Harry. “And Roger would know who was watching him. He’s always been very . . . gifted. He won’t come back here because he’d know I’d be waiting for him. I wouldn’t shoot him on sight, and I wouldn’t let anyone else do it. I’d want to talk to him. Hear his side. But if he really has joined the conspiracy . . . he hasn’t betrayed just me; he’s betrayed my family. His family, as much as mine.”

“No one would expect you to go up against Roger,” I said.

“I would,” said Harry. “If he has turned traitor . . . I will kill him. Anything for the family.”

Hell hath no fury like a lover scorned, I thought, but had enough sense not to say out loud.

“I’m going to Little Stoke,” I said. Because it needed doing, and because I knew a trip into that disturbed place would destroy Harry. So, tired as I was after the arms fair and Ammonia Vom Acht, it was all down to me. Again.

“You are not going in on your own,” Molly said firmly. “I’m going with you.”

“Not a good idea . . .” I said carefully.

“You never take me anywhere,” Molly said cheerfully. “You wouldn’t last ten minutes in that place without me to watch your back, and you know it.”