Simon Green: Daemons Are Forever

The shamans of our tribe; standing between the people and the forces that threaten them. Fighting for them, dying for them. The protectors, not rulers, of humanity.

The Matriarch had the very best quarters in the Hall, of course. A whole suite of rooms just for herself and her husband, on the top floor of the west wing. A whole suite, even though most of us had to make do with one room, and the youngest members lived in communal rooms and dormitories. In a place as crowded and packed to the seams as the Hall, the only real luxury is space. The Hall is big, but the family is even bigger.

As the new leader of the family, I could have thrown the Matriarch out and taken the suite for myself and Molly, but I didn’t have the heart. Not after what I’d done to the Matriarch’s husband, Alistair.

I could feel my heart beating faster as I approached the Matriarch’s door, and my breathing tightened in my chest. I’d only ever been here once before, back when I was just twelve years old. I’d been summoned by the Matriarch herself for a personal interview; an unheard-of thing. The Sarjeant-at-Arms took me there, a large hand ever ready to smack me around the head if I dawdled. I was half out of my mind with worry. What had I done wrong this time? All kinds of things came to mind, but nothing bad enough to warrant the Matriarch’s personal attention. The Sarjeant knocked on her door, opened it, and pushed me in. And there she was, Martha Drood, sitting bolt upright on a chair, fixing me with her unrelenting gaze.

She had my latest schooling report in her hand, and she was very disappointed in me. Apparently it was full of comments like Must Try Harder, Could Do Better , and, most damning of all, Intelligent, but Lacks Discipline . Even at twelve, my character was pretty much set. The Matriarch scolded me in her coldest voice, while I stood sulking and stubborn before her. It wasn’t my fault if I asked questions the teachers couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer. I wouldn’t be told, you see. I’d do anything if I was asked, but I wouldn’t do a damned thing I was told if I couldn’t see a good reason for it. And a family built on duty and responsibility could never accept an attitude like that. They’d tried beating respect into me, and when that didn’t work, they sent word to the Matriarch, who now condemned me as lazy and uncooperative, and told me I’d come to a bad end.

I think she was mostly angry because we were so closely related, and my failures reflected badly on her. More was expected of me, because of that. Even at twelve I was old enough to feel that was distinctly unfair, but I didn’t have the capacity to put it into words. So I just stood sullenly before her, and said nothing. Even when she tried to question me. In the end she threw me out, back to the tender mercies of the teachers and the Sarjeant-at-Arms. I think she was resentful at having to take time away from more important business, just to deal with me. I never was important to her, and then she wondered why she was never important to me.

I stopped before the suite’s door, took a deep breath, pushed it open, and walked in without knocking. Start as you mean to go on, or they’ll walk all over you. The luxuriously furnished antechamber was full of people, all of them suddenly silent and staring at me with cold and unfriendly faces. It seemed I wasn’t the only one who wanted to see the Matriarch, now that she’d retreated into seclusion to nurse her injured Alistair. No one in the antechamber looked at all pleased to see me, but I was getting used to that. I just scowled right back at them and strode forward like I intended to trample underfoot anyone who didn’t get out of the way fast enough. Usually that works, but this time no one budged an inch. They just stood their ground, blocking the way between me and the door to the Matriarch’s bedroom, on the other side of the antechamber. Openly defying me to get past them. Some were her friends, some were her allies; most were just determined to deny me anything they could. They’d all been people of power and position, before I overturned the applecart. I stopped. It was either that or resort to throwing punches and head-butting, and I wasn’t quite ready to do that yet. Not just yet.

“Well, look who’s here,” I said. “All the paid-up members of the Let’s Turn the Clock Back and Pretend Nothing’s Happened Society. It’s times like this that make we wonder if we haven’t been getting a little too slack over the rules governing inbreeding. Hands in the air, anyone who can count to eleven on their toes.”

A woman of a certain age stepped forward to confront me. I didn’t know her, but I recognised the type.

“How dare you?” she said, loudly. “After everything you’ve done to the family, and to Martha and Alistair…How dare you show your face here?”

“That’s right, dear. You tell him,” said a man just behind her. Had to be the husband. He had that well-trained look. “Have you no shame, Edwin?”

“Sorry, no,” I said. “I’m right out. I’ll have to send down to the shops for some more. Now get the hell out of my way or…”

“Or what?” snapped the woman, folding her arms across her impressive chest. “You can’t bully us.”

“Actually, I think you’ll find I can,” I said. “Remember, I have a torc and you don’t. But what I was going to say was: Get out of my way or I’ll call the Sarjeant-at-Arms to come in here, to take names, and kick heads in.”

It was a bluff, but they didn’t know that. They all looked at the door behind me, as though expecting the Sarjeant to come crashing through at any moment, and you could just see the defiance leaking out of them.

“Well!” said the woman of a certain age, but her heart wasn’t in it. Her husband was already hiding behind her. I strode forward, and the crowd parted before me like the Red Sea. I kept my back straight, my head up, and my gaze straight ahead. When you’re walking through a pack of dangerous animals you can’t show weakness for a moment, or they’ll go for your throat. I opened the door to the bedroom, stepped through, and closed the door quietly but firmly behind me.

I sighed inwardly. It bothered me that they didn’t respect me the way they respected the Sarjeant-at-Arms. I was going to have to work on that.

The Matriarch’s bedroom was surprisingly intimate and cheerful, for all its size. Comfortable furnishings, lots of light from the big window, flowers everywhere. Cards and messages of support stood propped up on every surface. There was a handful of people in the bedroom, there to give comfort and pay their respects. They hadn’t expected to see me, but none of them said anything. They looked to Martha for their lead, but she didn’t even acknowledge my presence.

Alistair was sitting propped up by pillows in the great four-poster bed. He didn’t look good. Even now, weeks after what had happened, he was still swathed in bandages like a mummy. He had the blankets pulled up to his chest as though he were cold, though a blazing fire had the room hot as a sauna. The bandages I could see were spotted with blood and other fluids seeping through. His right arm was gone. The surgeons couldn’t save it, so they amputated it all the way back to the shoulder. His whole face was wrapped in gauze, with dark holes left for his eyes and mouth. I couldn’t see his eyes or his mouth.

That’s what you get, for messing about with Hellfire. He should never have tried to use the Salem Special. That weapon never did anyone any good. And I might have been more sympathetic to his condition if I hadn’t known that this was what he’d intended to do to my Molly.

Martha sat on the edge of the bed beside her husband, feeding Alistair soup from a bowl, one spoonful at a time. As though he was a child. I could remember her doing that for me, once, when I was very small and the doctors thought the fever was going to carry me off. She sat with me day and night, and fed me soup, and I survived. Maybe Alistair would be lucky too. Martha was dressed all in black, as though in mourning. Normally she was tall, proud, aristocratic, and intimidatingly composed. Now she seemed somehow…smaller, as though something important had broken inside her. I didn’t like to see her look that way. Her long gray hair, that she usually wore piled up on top of her head, was now allowed to fall just anywhere, hiding most of her face. But her hand was steady as she fed Alistair his soup, and the back she showed me so firmly was almost painfully straight.