Simon Green: For Heaven's Eyes Only

I glanced at William, our eyes met briefly, and we were off and moving. There’s a lot more to a Drood than his armour. We’re trained to fight, with and without weapons, from early childhood, and one of the first things we’re taught is what to do if our armour isn’t available. I moved abruptly to the left while William dived to the right, and while Peter hesitated, unable to decide which of us to go after . . . Molly stepped smartly forward and kicked him full in the balls. There was an awful lot of strength and vindictiveness in that kick, and Peter bent sharply forward, tears flying from his bulging eyes. He crashed to his knees, shaking and shuddering, trying to get enough air into his lungs for a decent scream. Molly snatched the gun out of his nerveless hand and pressed the barrel to the side of his head. I didn’t think he even knew it was there. I took the clicker away from him, threw it on the floor and stamped on it. It shattered, and immediately William and I were both wrapped in our armour again. William moved over to Molly, took the Luger from her hand and shot Peter in the head, twice. The side of his skull exploded, blood and brains and bone fragments flying in the air, and he fell backwards and lay still. William then turned and shot Stefan Klein, once in the heart and once in the head, and the technician fell sprawling across his machine. William gave the gun back to a somewhat startled Molly.

“Some shit I just don’t put up with,” he explained, before going back to Ammonia. He leaned in close to study the wires connecting her mind to the machine. “I can deal with this. It’s not rocket science. You two go and look for Isabella. I’ll free Ammonia from this . . . thing and take her back to the Hall.”

“Will you be all right here on your own?” I said cautiously.

“I only came here for Ammonia,” said William. “She really is a most remarkable lady. That little shit never was worthy of her.” He looked back at me. “I saw her mind when she made contact with mine. You should see what she’s really like, Eddie. She glows like a star, burns like a brilliant fire. . . .”

“You really think she can come back, after what’s been done to her here?” I said.

“Why not?” said William. “I did.”

Molly moved in close beside me. “He doesn’t need us, Eddie. And I’m getting really worried about Iz.”

“Is she far from here?” I said.

“Not far, no.”

“Then let’s go. Catch you later, William.”

But he was already lost in admiration of his Ammonia, murmuring comforting words to her as he removed the wire connections one by one.

We found the Satanists’ prisoners, or what was left of them, holed up in a series of small stone cells that were little more than kennels, with stout locks on the doors. Molly made a sharp gesture with one hand, and all the doors exploded right out of their frames and into the corridor. The smell hit me first: filth and decay and foulness so bad I had to order my mask to fade it out. Molly and I moved forward to check out the cells. No windows, no furniture, not even straw on the floor or a bucket for waste. The prisoners had been thrown into their cells and left there. Half-blinded, half-starved men and women emerged painfully slowly into the corridor, shielding their eyes from the everyday light they were no longer accustomed to, asking pitifully if they were being rescued at last. Of the thousands of townspeople who’d been kidnapped from Little Stoke, it turned out only over a hundred had survived. The rest had been . . . used up in experiments. Over a hundred people crammed into a dozen windowless cells. And twenty-two weapons makers from the Supernatural Arms Faire who’d refused to cooperate with the Satanists. Because sometimes even merchants of war have a line they won’t cross. Molly and I reassured them all as best we could, and sent them to William, so he could lead them back to the Hall.

Sounds of conflict were still continuing on the floors above. Cries of rage and pain and horror, gunshots and explosions. How many Nazi clones did the Satanists have? I had to wonder whether my family had encountered Satanists with clickers yet, and whether I should go back to join them. Or whether I should accompany the prisoners, make sure they got out of the castle safely. But Molly still hadn’t found Isabella, and I couldn’t leave her here on her own. She was growing increasingly disturbed the closer she got to her sister, convinced something terrible had happened to her. So we moved on, deeper into the cell block.

We found her in the very last cell, set round the corner. A single cell with the door already standing open. No number on the door, no identification, nothing to mark it as any different, but Molly knew. She stormed into the cell with her sister’s name on her lips, and then she went suddenly quiet. I hurried in after her, and that was when I saw what the Satanists had done to Isabella Metcalf.

They’d crucified her, hung her upside down on an inverted wooden cross suspended from a single coarse rope, her head a few feet from the floor. Cold iron nails had been hammered through her wrists and ankles, and heavy steel bolts had been thrust through her broken arms and legs. One eye had been gouged out of her head, and the ear next to it had been raggedly cut away. Her face had been beaten to such a pulp I barely recognised her. Blood dripped steadily down from her many wounds, forming a great half-dried pool under the inverted cross. Her clothes were tatters, her skin cut and burned and bruised. Because she defied them.

She was still alive, because she was a witch and kept her heart somewhere else. So she couldn’t die, no matter how much they hurt her.

It took me a moment to realise there was a man standing next to her. I turned slowly to look at him, and it was Philip MacAlpine, of MI-13. He had both hands on the tied-off rope supporting the inverted cross. He glared at me.

“Well, don’t stand there, Drood! Help me get her down! I didn’t come all this way to rescue her just to watch her die!”

I moved quickly over to help him untie the rope, and between us we lowered the inverted cross carefully to the floor. Molly was right there with the cross, taking as much of the weight as she could, murmuring comfortingly to her sister. Isabella never opened her remaining eye, never made a sound. I don’t think she knew where she was or what was happening to her. Or at least I hoped not. Between the three of us, we got the cross laid out on the floor, and I armoured down so Isabella would know my face if she did wake up. MacAlpine cried out.

“Eddie Drood! I should have known you’d be here.”

“Never mind me, Phil; what are you doing here?”

He sniffed haughtily. “You Droods aren’t the only ones who’ve been investigating the new satanic conspiracy. MI-13 has had its best people all over this case for ages, ever since we discovered how badly they’d infested the current British government. You aren’t the only ones with your ears to the ground, you know. All that talk about the Great Sacrifice was the last straw; we knew we had to do something. Luckily, we’ve had agents in deep cover in London Undertowen for years, so it was easy enough to snatch some low-level Satanists and sweat the information out of them. I wondered why you were suddenly so keen to get into Under Parliament, so I had my people keep an eye on you when you crashed that Satanist tea party. Once we found out what went down there, that they’d run you off and snatched Isabella, we decided it was time to get involved. Isabella had done some work for us in her time, and we always pay our debts. So I came in here first, using the teleport system we found in London Undertowen, to spy out the lay of the land and look for Isabella. And pick up any interesting trinkets that happened to be lying around, of course.”