Simon Green - For Heaven's Eyes Only

“We have to find her first,” I said.

“What about the source of Isabella’s information?” said the Sarjeant. “The sending mentioned one Charlatan Joe.”

“Dusk said the sending was only an image of Iz,” I said. “Their words, through her image . . .”

“Yeah, right, and Satanist conspiracy leaders are so well-known for telling the truth,” said Molly. “Come on, Eddie! Dusk was messing with our heads, trying to demoralise us. That’s what they do. . . . No. The sending was real. I know my own sister. She was trying to get information to us, despite being held captive.”

“And they let her, because they wanted us to know,” I said.

“I will make them suffer,” said Molly. “Every damned one of them.”

Her voice wasn’t unusually cold or threatening. It was just Molly being Molly. The Sarjeant and I looked at each other, and I decided to change the subject.

“Charlatan Joe is the only real lead we have,” I said. “I know him. Confidence trickster, merry prankster, thief and rogue and treacherous little shit. He and Shaman Bond have been friends for years.”

“Is he a usually reliable source?” said the Sarjeant.

“He knows his stuff,” I said. “He’s an honest enough villain: always gives good value for money.”

“So how could he have been so wrong this time?” said Molly.

“He couldn’t,” I said. “If he really did put Isabella onto the Cathedral Hotel, it can only be because someone paid and/or persuaded him into saying what they wanted him to say.”

“I think we need to go talk to this man,” said Molly. “I think we need to have a few firm words with him.”

“He’ll have gone to ground by now,” I said. “But the Merlin Glass will find him.”

I reached out to the Glass through my torc. It was still standing out in the grounds, a twenty-foot-square gateway, going nowhere now. I called it to me, and it shrank back down to its usual size and reappeared in my hand, in the War Room. Everyone jumped a little, looking at the Glass suddenly in my hand.

“I didn’t know it could do that,” said the Sarjeant.

“I’ve been practicing,” I said.

“I didn’t know the Merlin Glass could jump around inside the Hall, appearing anywhere it liked, without setting off any of my very sensitive alarms,” said the Sarjeant.

“Well, now you do,” I said. I held the hand mirror up before me. I hardly recognised the face I saw before me in the mirror. I hadn’t known I could look that angry, that cold. “You’re supposed to be able to locate anyone I know,” I said to the Glass. “So find me Charlatan Joe. Wherever he’s hidden himself, whatever’s hiding him. Do it.”

My face disappeared from the mirror, replaced by a series of blurred images as the Merlin Glass fought its way through any number of defensive screens and distracting measures, until finally it cleared to show a crystal clear image of a very familiar scene. Molly pressed in close beside me for a better look.

“But . . . that’s the Wulfshead Club! What’s he doing there?”

“Drinking with a few old friends, by the look of it,” I said. “And, presumably, hiding in plain sight. The Wulfshead is, after all, supposed to be neutral ground.”

“Look at him,” said Molly. “Standing there at the bar, knocking back the drinks like he doesn’t have a care in the world . . . I’ll make him care. Who are those people with him? Do you know them, Eddie?”

“Of course,” I said. Shaman Bond knows everyone. That’s what he’s for. The tall, scary woman is Lady Damnation. Born, or perhaps created, in one of those places where the walls of the world have worn thin, and influences from outside have seeped through. There are those who say she eats a little death every day to make herself immune to it. And there are those who say she’s nothing more than a jumped-up Gothette with delusions of deity. Doesn’t make her any less dangerous, though.

Standing beside her, in the heavy scarlet robes and cape, is the biggest and certainly the heaviest priest in the world: Bishop Beastly. Who refuses to belong to any organised church that would accept the likes of him as a member. He loudly proclaims that delighting in all the pleasures of the flesh is the best way to worship God, who gave them to us. He claims to have eaten one representative of every living species on this planet, so he can contain their souls within him and thereby strengthen his contact with the living world. He is very strong. Winner of the Vatican Pro-Am Exorcism Tournament for seven years running. The nuns of sixty-three different nunneries pray for his soul every day. No one knows why.

“And finally, we have the Indigo Spirit, standing tall and proud in his midnight blue leathers, cowl and cape. An old-fashioned costumed crime fighter and adventurer. A man who became his own fantasy, because he thought someone should. Surprisingly effective. The real deal, in an increasingly fake world.”

“What’s a bottom-feeding scumbag like Charlatan Joe doing hanging out with people like that?” said Molly.

“Buying them drinks, by the look of it,” I said. “And looking for protection. The Wulfshead is famously neutral ground for anyone and everyone. But not today. I can’t go there as Shaman Bond, not with what I need to do. I’ll have to go in armoured up, as a Drood. And no, you can’t come with me, Molly. You might need the club’s protections someday.”

She nodded slowly, reluctantly. “Eddie, find out what happened to my sister. Whatever it takes.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Joe is going to tell me everything I need to know.”

I armoured up, shook the Merlin Glass out to door size and stepped through into the Wulfshead Club. Then I shook the Glass down, put it away and looked unhurriedly about me.

Everyone in the club had stopped what they were doing to stare at the armoured Drood who had appeared in their midst out of nowhere. That wasn’t supposed to be possible. That was why you came to the Wulfshead: to be safe from people like me. No alarms sounded, but the pounding music cut off abruptly, and one by one the massive display screens shut down. The dancers stopped dancing, and everyone in the club stood very still, hoping not to be noticed. Sudden puffs of displaced air marked the sudden disappearance of certain particularly nervous individuals as they teleported out. Others started edging nonchalantly towards various exits. It’s surprising how many people can find something to feel guilty about when a Drood turns up. The club’s much-vaunted security was supposed to protect everyone from everyone, but sensible people didn’t take chances.

I headed straight for Charlatan Joe, standing at the bar with his new friends, and everyone else looked relieved and got out of my way. Joe looked immediately at the thirteen bartenders with the same face.

“I’m supposed to be safe here! I’m supposed to be protected! Even from the high-and-mighty bloody Droods!”

The bartenders were the club’s first line of defence, in that between them they could gang up on pretty much any troublemaker. But they took one look at my golden armour and decided they were outgunned and outnumbered, and that this was way above their pay scale. They all hunkered down behind the bar, out of sight. A very sensible attitude, I thought.

Charlatan Joe swore bitterly at the deserted bar, and sank back behind his new friends. “You promised me I’d be safe here, you bastards! What do I pay my membership dues for?”

“You don’t,” said a voice from behind the bar.

“Do you take plastic?”

Everyone fell back to give me plenty of room. I recognised friends and enemies and allies to every side of me, but they were all people Shaman Bond knew, not me. I didn’t acknowledge any of them. I couldn’t risk any of them recognising me. I didn’t want them looking at Shaman Bond the way they were looking at me now: with a combination of awe, fear and not entirely hidden hatred. We Droods protect the world, but no one ever said the world would love us for it.