Casino Infernale

CHAPTER ONE They Break Horses, Don’t They?

I’d go to the end of the world for you. I suppose we’ve all said that, or something like it, to the one we love. Only I really did do that, once. I should have known that the end of the world is where the lies run out, and the truth returns. And while the truth may satisfy, it’s never going to be as comforting as a treasured lie.

Scotland has almost eight hundred offshore islands, though fewer than a hundred are populated. Trammell Island is the most northern, way out past the Orkneys and the Shetlands, just a jutting rock set in dark and deathly cold waters, where no one goes any more. Or at least, no one with any sense. Not a big island; you could walk round the perimeter in less than an hour. Trammell Island has a beach, a cliff face, and an ugly stone hill with a single building at its summit. Monkton Manse. The house at the end of the world. Originally a monastery many centuries ago; then a rich man’s holiday home; now nothing more than a deserted property, an abandoned folly. Empty and silent, holding within dust and shadows and bad memories, and one last terrible secret.

Trammell Island: a long way from anywhere, and soon to be the end of more than one person’s world.

I stood at the very top of the cliff face, as close to the edge as I could get. Dry, cracked earth crumbled and fell away under my weight, dribbling streams of dirt down the sheer rocky face and into the crashing waters far below. I looked down at the heavy swelling waves as they pounded the narrow pebbled beach and broke against the outcropping rocks. Night-dark waters, cold enough to kill anyone unfortunate enough to end up in them, they threw great clouds of frothing spume into the air as the waves fell back, frustrated, from the inhospitable shore.

A cold wind blew savagely in from the north, bitter enough to have come all the way from the North Pole. Which wasn’t that far off, truth be told. I hunched my shoulders inside my heavy, padded greatcoat, thrust my gloved hands deep into my pockets, and wished I’d worn a hat like everyone suggested. I hate hats. Never found one I looked good in. I shuddered despite myself as the cold sank into my bones and Molly Metcalf thrust an arm through mine and snuggled up against me. She was wearing a long sheepskin coat with stylishly fringed sleeves, and a bobbly woollen hat pulled down over her ears. She looked like a traveller on her way to protest against something fashionably despicable.

It’s hard to know what to wear when you’re visiting the island at the end of the world.

Molly looked down at the bleak, empty shore and the raging waters, and smiled brightly at me.

“You take me to the nicest places, Eddie.”

“Easy on the name,” I said. “As far as everyone we’re going to meet here is concerned, I’m just Shaman Bond. General bad boy about town. No one we’ll be meeting would be at all happy to meet a Drood.”

“Not many are,” said Molly. “Your family might protect the world, but no one ever said the world would thank you for it. Especially given some of the tactics you use. Hey, speaking of names, I looked up Trammell in the dictionary before we left London. It’s an old Scottish name for a burial shroud. Very fitting.”

“So it is,” I said. “More importantly, it also means an impediment to function, or a shackle for a horse.”

“Smugness is very unattractive in a man,” said Molly.

“Always go for the complete Oxford English Dictionary,” I said. “Never settle for the lesser.”

“You’ve got a dictionary built into your armour, haven’t you?” said Molly accusingly.

“Look at those gulls,” I said. “The only birds that will come out this far, pursuing the fishing boats. And even they’ve got more sense than to come anywhere near Trammell Island. Just black smudges on a grey sky . . . with the saddest cries in the world. There are those who say that seagulls cry for the sins of Humanity. And that if we ever get our act together, they’ll be able to stop crying.”

“You’re in a mood,” said Molly. “Don’t you dare try to out-gloom me. I’m the only one here entitled to indulge in deep dark existential brooding. This is my past we’re visiting.”

“Never look back,” I said wisely. “All you’ll ever see are lost opportunities creeping up on you with bad intent.”

“You don’t have a sentimental bone in your body, do you?” said Molly.

“If I did, I’d have it surgically removed. Sentiment just gets in the way of seeing things clearly.”

“Sometimes . . . that can be a good thing.”

I looked at Molly, but she’d already let go my arm and turned away from the cliff edge to look steadily at the single great building at the top of the hill. Monkton Manse. An ugly building, with an ugly past. Once upon a time it was a monastery, founded by a heretic offshoot of the monks of Saint Columba. Long abandoned now, left to fall into ruin and decay. In the 1920s it was rebuilt and refurbished to resemble an old English country manor house complete with pointed gables, a slanting grey-tiled roof, protruding leaded-glass windows in a mock Tudor frontage, and a really big oaken front door. Large and solid and blocky, grim and forbidding; built to withstand Time and the bitter elements. Even though no one had lived in Monkton Manse since the late twenties, it still looked ready for visitors. In a dark and threatening sort of way.

Monkton Manse looked like it should be on the front cover of some old paperback Gothic romance, with just the one light showing in a window.

“Looks to me like the setting for some old Agatha Christie murder mystery,” said Molly.

“You know I’ve always preferred Ngaio Marsh,” I said. “She cheats less in the denouement.”

“This house was the last meeting place for the old White Horse Faction,” said Molly. “My parents’ old group. Supernatural terrorists, or ecological freedom fighters, depending on who you listen to. I was here with them ten years ago, when they planned their last great adventure. Before your family had them all killed.”

“And so, you went to war with my family,” I said. “Now here we are together, you and I. Who would have thought . . .”

“The house doesn’t look at all how I remember it,” said Molly, frowning. “I thought it would look . . . brighter. Happier.”

“Given the house’s downright disturbing history, that was never on the cards,” I said. “I have to ask, Molly: Given that the old White Horse Faction had their roots in English countryside Leveller traditions . . . what the hell were they doing all the way out here?”

“My parents chose this location,” Molly said sternly, “because it was as far from England as they could get. Because it was one of the few places in this world where they could be sure they were free from spying eyes, very definitely including the Droods. This whole Island lies inside a natural, or perhaps more properly unnatural, mystical null. No one can see in. Trammell Island is invisible to crystal balls, remote viewing, and spy satellites. Not at all easy to get to, but worth the effort. The perfect place to plot the overthrow of all the sanctimonious, two-faced, hypocritical Powers That Be.”

“We’re talking about my family again, aren’t we?” I said. “The Droods are like the dentist: a necessary evil. Because all the other options are worse.”

“Eddie,” said Molly. “Sorry, I mean Shaman. . . . Why are you still holding the Merlin Glass in your hand? Are you anticipating a hurried exit?”

I looked down. She was right. I still had the looking glass in my hand. I honestly hadn’t realised. Not much to look at, at first glance. Just a simple hand mirror with a silver frame and handle. A gift to my family from the old Arthurian sorcerer himself, Merlin Satanspawn. The Glass could show you anything, anywhere, and then take you there through a dimensional short cut. It could do other things, too; some of them very disturbing.

“Is that the original Merlin Glass?” said Molly. “Or is it the one we found in the Other Hall—the other-dimensional duplicate that replaced Drood Hall for a time?”

“Other people don’t have conversations like this,” I said. I hefted the Merlin Glass in my hand. “The original mirror was broken during our attack on the Satanic Conspirators hiding out in Schloss Shreck, in the Timeless Moment. The Armourer did his best to repair the Glass, but even his skills are no match for that old devil Merlin. So, my uncle Jack got out the second Merlin Glass, from the Other Hall, so he could compare the two. He put the mirrors down on his work-bench, side by side, and they just . . . slid together and merged into one. So I guess this is both. And no, I don’t know why I’m holding on to it. Except . . . that I really don’t like this island.”

Molly sniffed loudly. “We could have come here through the dimensional gate in my wild woods.”

“We don’t want anyone else knowing that way exists,” I said firmly. “You’re only safe in those woods because no one else knows how to get into them. And I need there to be somewhere I can be sure you’re safe when I’m not around.

“I can look after myself,” said Molly. “But you are a sweetie for saying it.”

“Boyfriend brownie points?”

“Well, a tick in the plus column, at least,” said Molly. She looked past the great hulking house. “There’s an old fairy circle, out behind the Manse. A Fae Gate. The elves used to use it as a stepping-off point on their way to places beyond this world. I don’t think anyone knows why. Elves don’t talk to humans if they can help it.”

“You must show it to me, after we’ve completed our mission here,” I said. “It might explain how all the old Columbian monks came to disappear, so suddenly and completely.”

“You always were big on doing your homework before a mission,” said Molly. “Go on; lecture me. You know you love it. But keep it concise, or I’ll heckle you and throw things.”

I took a moment to stuff the Merlin Glass into my pocket. I keep a pocket dimension there, for storing weapons and dangerous objects, and things I don’t want other people to detect.

“There are a lot of stories about what the heretic monks of Saint Columba got up to here, in their monastery on Trammell Island,” I said. “Most of them not suitable for everyday company, or those of a nervous disposition. They established their monastery here precisely because the Island existed in a mystical null zone, and they didn’t want anyone to see what they were doing.”

“You know, of course,” said Molly. “Droods know everything.”

“Not this time,” I said. “The monks just vanished, overnight. A supply boat turned up one morning to find the monastery completely deserted. No monks, no signs of a struggle or violence of any kind. Just the monastery, standing silent and empty with its front door wide open. The monks had no boat of their own, no known way off the Island. A single severed human hand was found, in the hallway, with one finger pointing at the open front door. Not a drop of blood anywhere. Interestingly enough, nothing inside the monastery had been disturbed, but every single book in the monastery’s extensive and infamous library . . . was missing. Nothing left but empty shelves. So we never did find out what they were up to here . . . but given how things turned out, I doubt it was anything pleasant.”

“The monks could have left through the Fae Gate,” said Molly, “if they thought their enemies were closing in on them.”

“Some of my ancestors explored that possibility,” I said. “They were quite positive no one had activated the Gate in years. Trammell Island has a long history of dark secrets, and sudden disappearances. People came here to do things they didn’t want the rest of the world to know about.”

“I escaped through the Fae Gate,” said Molly. “It opened onto the wild woods, and then closed again, so I could be safe.”

“What?” I said. “Escaped? Escaped from what, Molly?”

“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. She looked suddenly confused, disoriented. “I don’t remember. And I didn’t even realise there was anything to remember, until just now.”

She shuddered heavily, and not from the cold. Her eyes were fey and distant, her mouth pulled into a tight grimace.

“The others will be here soon,” I said. Just to be saying something.

“Let’s get inside the house,” said Molly. “I don’t like it out here. This whole island gives me the creeps.”

We headed towards Monkton Manse, Molly clinging tightly to my arm again. I was disturbed, because it wasn’t like Molly to be scared of anyone or anything. More usually, it was the other way round. The huge manor house loomed over us as we approached—dark and foreboding. Evening was falling fast on Trammell Island, and there were no lights on anywhere in the house. The dark windows seemed to study us like so many thoughtful eyes, planning and plotting. At least there weren’t any gargoyles. I’ve never liked gargoyles. We stopped before the massive oak door, which was, of course, very firmly closed and locked.

“I suppose you know all about the house, as well?” said Molly, trying to keep her voice light.

“Of course,” I said. “And no—there isn’t a key under the flowerpot. Why don’t you do a quick search for security spells, and hidden defences, while I regale you with the horrible history of Monkton Manse?”

“Way ahead of you,” said Molly, rubbing her chin with a single gloved knuckle as she concentrated.

“Monkton Manse was built on the ruins of the abandoned monastery building, in 1924,” I said. “Hence the name. By the first and last Lord of Trammell; otherwise known as Herbert Gregory Walliams. War profiteer, quite obscenely rich, and an utterly appalling person by all accounts. He bought Trammell Island so he could set it up as his very own independent kingdom, with him as its self-appointed lord, so he wouldn’t have to pay taxes. They were still fighting that one out in the courts when he died.”

“Suddenly and violently and horribly, I trust?” said Molly. “And no, I’m not picking up any defences, of any kind.”

“Once again, it’s hard to be sure what happened to him,” I said. “He held huge parties here, in his big new home away from home. Celebrations for the rich and famous, the idle and the eccentric, and celebrities of all kinds. There were quite a lot of all of those, back in the Roaring Twenties. Desperate to show they were still having a good time, even as the world closed in on them. Sex and drugs and really hot jazz—often for days or even weeks on end. There were scandals and atrocities, murders and suicides, and abominations of all kinds. It was all building up to a really nasty exposé, involving big names from politics and business as well as high and low society . . . when once again, it all went suddenly very quiet. A boatful of policemen and journalists, and certain other interested parties, arrived at the Island to discover everyone in Monkton Manse was dead. There were signs to suggest it all happened quite recently, over one very long night. They used guns and knives and blunt instruments, and finished the slaughter with their bare hands. There were signs some of the killers had paused to feast on the flesh of the victims before continuing their bloody business. The authorities found the first and last Lord of Trammell scattered all over the house; bits and pieces of him in every room.”

“I can’t find a single defence, protection, or booby-trap anywhere,” said Molly. “Which is . . . odd. So, why did they all kill each other?”

“No one knows,” I said. “Again, my ancestors investigated very thoroughly, and found nothing. Not a single answer, not even the smallest clue. I suppose it is possible the jaded partygoers went a little too far in their dabbling with the black arts . . . ventured into areas best left alone, and attracted the attention of . . . Something. Perhaps the same Something that came for the missing monks . . .

“Monkton Manse was emptied out, cleaned up, and then sealed. Left to rot and fall apart, far and far from the civilised world. Trammell Island was declared off-limits, to everyone.” I looked at Molly. “And this is the place your parents brought you to? How old were you then?”

“Fifteen,” said Molly. “And don’t you dare judge them. It’s not like they had much of a choice. It’s not easy finding places in this world that the Droods can’t see into. But . . . I don’t remember this as a bad place. I don’t remember anything but happy times here.”

“In this house?” I said.

We studied the closed, locked door. “You’ve got a key, haven’t you?” said Molly.

“Of a sort,” I said.

I subvocalised the activating Words, and Drood armour slipped out of the golden collar around my neck, and ran down my right arm to form a golden glove around my hand. I pressed one gleaming finger against the heavy brass lock, and golden filaments extended from my fingertip, filling the lock and forming into just the right key. I turned the key in the lock, pulled my armour back into my torc, and pushed the door open. It swung slowly inwards, revealing a dark, shadowed hallway. The hinges groaned loudly.

“How very traditional,” said Molly.

“Be fair,” I said. “No one’s oiled those hinges in years. You have to make allowances.”

“No, I don’t,” said Molly. “In fact, I am famous for not making allowances. However . . . that is a very dark hallway.”

I peered into the gloom. It was hard to make out anything much. “I haven’t been inside yet, and already I don’t like this place,” I said steadily. “It feels . . . unpleasant.”

“Given that this island is still hidden from the eyes of the world by its mystical null, and thus the perfect place to hide from prying eyes, I’m surprised no one else has made use of it,” said Molly.

“People have tried, down the years,” I said. “No one ever stays. Trammell Island has always had a really bad reputation, and I can understand why. This house is supposed to be haunted, you know.”

“Who by?” said Molly.

“Take your pick,” I said. “The missing monks, any number of dead partygoers, all the bits and pieces of the first and last Lord of Trammell . . .” I paused for a moment, before looking at Molly. “I have to ask—did the old White Horse Faction do . . . something bad here?”

“I don’t know,” said Molly. “I don’t remember! But I do think that whatever happened here . . . the echoes still remain. I didn’t realise how much I’d forgotten about my time here. . . .”

“Could this memory loss be connected to the death of your parents?” I said carefully. “Emotional trauma, perhaps?”

“I don’t see why,” Molly said immediately. “It’s not like I was there, when it happened. No . . . no. This is the last place I remember being really happy. I was so happy here, with my parents.”

“Aren’t you happy with me?” I asked.

She shot me a quick smile. “You know I am. Stop fishing for compliments. This . . . was different.”

“You had a happy childhood,” I said. “I’m glad one of us did.”

“It didn’t last,” said Molly. “Your family killed my family.”

“You know I had nothing to do with that.”

“Yes. I know. My love . . .”

She took hold of my hand, and held it tight. And together we walked through the open doorway, and into the long dark hall of Monkton Manse.

We didn’t go far. We stopped just inside the door, and waited for our eyes to adjust to the gloom. Neither of us liked the feel of the place. The long hallway stretched away before us, its ending lost in dust-swirled air and shadows deep as the night. The silence had a heavy, oppressive quality. I called out to announce our presence, just in case, and the brooding presence of the place seemed to just swallow up my voice. There were no echoes, and nobody answered me. My vision quickly adjusted, and dim shadowy figures lining the length of the hall were revealed as suits of medieval armour. Set standing at irregular intervals, in unnatural, inhuman stances. Someone had daubed unpleasant mystical symbols on the dully gleaming steel in what looked very much like old dried blood. The steel helmets were all missing, replaced with sculpted heads of giant insects and alien monstrosities.

Dust and cobwebs were everywhere, like an attic no one had visited in years. Some light fell in muddy streams through the smeared windows, but it made little progress into the stubborn shadows. I could smell damp on the air, and musk, and mushrooms. I decided very firmly that I wasn’t going to touch anything. I moved slowly forward, down the hall, with Molly moving quietly beside me. It felt like moving into enemy territory, with the threat of imminent attack from any number of unseen hiding places. Except, there was nobody home. I could tell. Just the house watching our every movement like a cat with a mouse.

Rows of portraits lined both walls, painted in any number of styles; mostly head-and-shoulder portraits of the famous names who’d visited Monkton Manse, back in the twenties. None of them were smiling. And in many of them, the paint seemed to have . . . slipped, or melted, so that the famous faces seemed strange and monstrous. Perhaps that was how they’d looked after one too many parties in this awful place. There’s no hell so savage as the one we make for ourselves.

“This isn’t how I remembered the house,” said Molly. Her voice sounded small, and lost. “I remember it as being full of light, and life, and laughter. I don’t remember any of this.”

“You want me to take you out of here?” I said.

“Hell with that!” she said immediately. “I never ran from a fight in my life, and I’m not about to start now. Though whether it’s a fight with this house, or my memories . . . this is weird, Shaman. I don’t remember anything of this.”

We pressed on. The portraits changed, to show all the pretty people doing things of an increasingly nasty nature . . . including sex with things that weren’t in any way people. After a while I stopped looking. You can’t keep on being shocked; it wears you out. I couldn’t shake off a vague but definite feeling of being watched by nearby, unseen eyes. Molly stopped abruptly, and I stopped with her. She looked up at the heavy brass chandeliers overhead, still stuffed with the stumps of old candles. She snapped her fingers smartly, and all the candle stubs burst alight at once, shedding a comforting butter-yellow light down the length of the hallway. The light pressed back the shadows, but couldn’t dispel them. Or do much to improve the general uncomfortable atmosphere.

Molly cried out suddenly, and pointed a shaking hand at a mirror mounted on the left-hand wall. I moved quickly forward to stand between her and whatever had alarmed her, and it was a measure of how unnerved she was that she let me do it. I glared about me, but couldn’t see anything immediately threatening. I looked at Molly, and she pointed again at the mirror on the wall. I strode over to stand before it, Molly sticking close to my side. I was becoming increasingly worried about Molly. This wasn’t like her. I studied the mirror carefully, ready to smash it to bits if necessary and to hell with the seven years bad luck, but nothing looked back at us except our own reflections.

It doesn’t matter whether I’m being Eddie Drood or Shaman Bond, I always look like an ordinary, everyday kind of guy. Just another face in the crowd—no one you’d look at twice. Average height, average weight, the kind of nondescript features you’d forget in a moment. Best kind of look for a secret agent. It takes a lot of training, and a lot of practice, to look this forgettable, like no one in particular.

Molly looked like a china doll with big bosoms, bobbed black hair, dark eyes in a sharply defined face, and a rosebud mouth red as sin itself. Normally, Molly took pride in appearing arrogant and assured enough to stare Medusa in the eye, and ask who the hell the Gorgon thought she was looking at. Molly Metcalf was a fighter and a brawler, ready to take on the whole damned world at a moment’s notice. Only . . . not here, not in this place that wasn’t at all what she remembered. Her face was pale and her eyes were wide, and in the mirror’s reflection she looked like a frightened little girl. I didn’t like that.

What had really happened to Molly here, all those years ago?

“What is it?” I said quietly. “What did you see in the mirror?”

“A face,” she said, forcing the words out. “A great white face. Not human. Looking at me.”

“Nothing there now but us,” I said, carefully. “It’s not like you to be . . . jumpy, Molly.”

“No,” she said. “It isn’t.” She stood up a little straighter, gathering some of her old arrogance around her like familiar armour. “Eddie . . . yes, I know, I should say Shaman, but there’s no one else here, I can tell. . . . Can you see ghosts, through your armoured mask?”

“Sure,” I said. “I can See pretty much anything when I’m in my armour. If there’s anything to be seen. You think there’s ghosts here?”

“There’s something here,” Molly said flatly. “Do me a favour. Armour up and take a good look around. Tell me what this place looks like when it’s caught with its underwear down.”

I called my armour out of my torc again, and it slipped over me from head to toe in a moment, like a second skin. I could see myself in the mirror, looking like an old-fashioned knight in armour, gleaming gold and glorious. My face mask was blank and featureless, not even any eyeholes; the better to scare the crap out of my enemies. But from inside, I could See everything. I always feel stronger, faster, sharper, when I’m in my armour. I can hear a mouse fart, or the wind change direction, and I can see infrared and ultraviolet. I can also See all kinds of things that are fortunately hidden from the everyday people of the everyday world. If people could See what they really share this world with, they’d shit themselves.

But when I looked carefully up and down the hallway, I couldn’t See a single thing out of the ordinary. No ghostly figures, no stone tape memories repeating old actions in sealed loops, like an insect caught in amber. Nothing moved in the shadows or walked through the walls, and all I could hear were the slow shifting sounds of an old house settling itself. I armoured down, looked at Molly, and shook my head helplessly.

“For a place where so many really bad things have happened, it’s actually very quiet here,” I said. “I still don’t care for the feel of the place, but I think that’s more down to atmosphere, history, and rising damp, than to anything supernatural.”

“Then why is this house affecting me so badly?” said Molly. “All I have are good memories of my time here before. I actually looked forward to coming back here again!”

“I think we need to phone home,” I said. “Check in with the man in charge; see if perhaps there’s something he didn’t get around to telling us about Monkton Manse.”

I moved over to a nearby side table, reached into my pocket, and retrieved my computer laptop from my pocket dimension. I keep all kinds of useful items there. I wiped a thick coating of dust from the tabletop with my coat sleeve, and then set down the laptop and fired it up. I sent my armour back down my arm again, and delicate golden filaments surged into the laptop. Which is a bit like introducing nitrous oxide into the engine of a family car. The laptop danced about for a moment, like I’d goosed it when it wasn’t looking, and then settled down, its screen glowing bright. I tapped in the necessary start-up commands with two fingers. One of these days I’m going to have to learn to type properly.

“You really think you can reach anyone with that?” said Molly. “In the middle of a mystical null zone?”

“I’d bet Drood armour against any kind of null zone, any day,” I said cheerfully. “The whole point of strange matter is that it trumps magic and science. . . . There! We have contact!”

A pleasant, smiling face appeared on the screen, nodding politely to Molly and me. It wasn’t real; just a simulacrum set in place to take messages. The face looked just human enough to be subtly disturbing when it started to speak. The mouth movements were too stylised, and the eyes were just dead.

“Hello. You have reached the Department of the Uncanny. Please state your name, and the office you wish to be connected with.”

“This is Eddie Drood, on Trammell Island,” I said. “Put me through to the Regent.”

“Please wait. Please be patient. Your call is important to us.”

The face continued to smile, while the eyes remained lifeless. Orchestrated versions of old Britpop classics played remorselessly in the background.

“This is what happens when you go to work for the Establishment,” I said. “Every chance they get, they do their best to bland you to death.”

“Are you still happy you did the right thing in leaving the Droods for the Department?” said Molly.

“Yes,” I said. “My family lied to me one time too often. Not least about the Regent of Shadows. They should have told me my grandfather was still alive. Hell, they should have told me my parents were still alive! I’m not sure how much trust I put in the Regent, or the Department, they’re both too close to the Government for my liking . . . but I need to put some space between my family and me. And how could I turn down a chance to work with my parents, and my grandfather?”

“Very good,” said Molly. “Now try saying all that like you mean it.”

I had to laugh. “Let us look on this . . . as an extended vacation. Getting away from it all in favour of cases that actually mean something to us. Are you happy to be working alongside me, Molly?”

“I go where you go,” said Molly. “Forever and a day, sweetie.”

I smiled, but didn’t say anything. I knew Molly came with me because the Regent promised her the truth at last about what really happened to her parents all those years ago. She’d always believed her parents were killed by a Drood field agent in a shoot-out with the White Horse Faction. A dangerous supernatural terrorist organisation. The Regent promised her the name of her parents’ killer. But I of all people knew better than to believe the official version of any event. No matter whose official version it is. Facts could be slippery things in the secret agent business. Especially where my family’s concerned. But how could I stand between anything that mattered so much to my Molly? I needed to be there with her when she finally learned the truth, whatever that turned out to be. And do my best to put the pieces back together again afterwards.

Molly had spent years at war with the Droods and everything they stood for. Fighting them on every level, opposing them with a fierce and unrelenting rage. Until she and I ended up on the same side, working to reform the Droods from within. And we became an item—much to our mutual surprise. I’d done everything I could to convince Molly that my family was a force for good in the world, mostly; but it was hard going. My family has more hidden sides and secret motives than a barrel full of Hollywood lawyers.

The two of us had only just accepted the Regent’s invitation to come work with him at the Department of the Uncanny, when he hit us with our first official mission. He wanted us to infiltrate the newly reformed White Horse Faction. As Shaman Bond and Molly Metcalf. The Faction would gladly accept Molly, because of her parents’ importance to the old Faction. And they’d accept Shaman, because the whole point of him was that he could turn up anywhere. Molly and I went along because the Regent promised us there were answers to be found, within this new White Horse Faction, as to who actually killed Molly’s mother and father.

The false face on the laptop disappeared abruptly, replaced by an image of the Regent of Shadows himself. An elderly man in a scruffy suit with leather patches on the elbows, sitting comfortably behind his desk in his office. He had iron grey hair, a neatly clipped military moustache, a charming smile, and piercing blue eyes. He seemed affable enough, but you had to meet his steady gaze for only a moment to see the iron backbone in the man. He nodded easily to Molly and me. If he was at all concerned about sending Molly to investigate a group that her parents had once believed in and died for . . . he didn’t show it.

“We’re on Trammell Island,” I said. “Inside Monkton Manse. Spooky bloody place. No sign of anyone else yet. Are you sure this new White Horse Faction is a real threat? I know the old group were supernatural terrorists, back in the day; hard-core protectors of Mother Earth and all that . . . but all the information I could dig up on this new version suggest they’re really just a bunch of non-violent New Age hippie tree-hugger types.”

“Well, that’s what you’re there to confirm, isn’t it?” said the Regent, in his usual calm and untroubled voice. “Just work your way in, old boy, and see what’s what.” He looked at Molly. “I promise you, my dear; the true nature of your parents’ death can be found among these people.” He looked back at me. “This new iteration of the White Horse Faction may present themselves as a less threatening alternative to the bad old ways, but we need to know the truth. Talk to them. Get them to open up to you. I have to say, my boy, that I have my suspicions.

“Reports have reached this Department that this new generation of the Faction have reached out to the one surviving member of the old group. A certain Hadrian Coll, also known as Trickster Man. A most untrustworthy fellow, with a long history of moving from one dangerous group to another, stirring up trouble, persuading them into violent and destructive acts, and then moving on. Always managing to disappear just before the ordure hits the fan.”

“I remember Hadrian,” said Molly, frowning. “He was a close friend of my parents, and a tutor to me. He wasn’t like that! He was a freedom fighter, a constant defender of noble causes. He was a good man!”

But her frown deepened even as she was speaking, as though she was troubled by conflicting, newly surfacing, memories.

“Yes, well,” said the Regent, entirely unmoved, “that was then; this is now. The current leadership of this new White Horse Faction are on their way to Monkton Manse to debate their future, and the nature of future tactics. I am concerned that they’ve invited this Hadrian Coll, this Trickster Man, to be a part of their debate. Whatever happens on Trammell Island, hidden from the eyes of the world, will decide what direction the next generation will take. It’s up to you . . . to help guide them in the right direction. You are authorised to take whatever action may be necessary to deal with the Faction in general, and Hadrian Coll in particular.” He looked steadily at Molly. “Coll was a very violent man, back in the day. And he was very definitely present when your parents died.”

“Of course he was there,” said Molly. “He was their friend. He wouldn’t abandon them.”

“He claims to have reformed,” said the Regent. “That he’s no longer the man he used to be. And, that he doesn’t want the White Horse Faction to be what it used to be. Which is all very nice and as it should be. But, has he really embraced non-violence? Or is he still the dangerous Trickster Man, ready to say whatever it takes to have influence over the next generation of Faction leaders?”

“I’ll find out,” said Molly. “He wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Someone’s coming,” I said. “Talk to you later, Grandfather.”

I shut down the laptop, whipped out the golden filaments, and made both my armour and the laptop disappear. I turned quickly to face the open front door, Molly standing stiffly at my side. I wanted to put a hand to the collar at my throat. The golden torc isn’t normally visible to the everyday eye. Normally, you have to possess the Sight, or at the very least be the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son (exceedingly rare in these days of family planning), just to be able to detect the torc’s presence. But Monkton Manse didn’t feel like a normal place, with normal conditions. If they found out I was a Drood . . . this whole situation would deteriorate faster than an argument about who didn’t have a starter in a row over a restaurant bill.

And I needed this to go well, for Molly’s sake. So she could get to the truth, at last, and put it behind her.

Footsteps approached the open door from outside, and then suddenly there they were. The three leaders of the next generation of the new White Horse Faction, standing together in the doorway, staring blankly at Molly and me.

They stood very still, clearly under the impression that they’d been the first to arrive on the Island. Certainly not expecting anyone to have got to the house ahead of them. They appeared alarmed, then suspicious, and finally distinctly annoyed. They looked Molly and me over, taking their time. I gave them my best confident, charming, and in no way dangerous smile, and Molly . . . did her best. It wasn’t that she lacked in people skills; it was mostly that she just couldn’t be bothered. The three next-generation leaders glanced at each other, exchanged a quick flurry of smiles, raised eyebrows and shrugs, and then turned back to present Molly and me with a united front. Doing their best to look as though they were in charge, and full of authority. But their lack of experience was against them; neither of them had progressed very far into their twenties, and there was no overlooking the way they stood very close together, for mutual support.

The young woman suddenly stepped forward. “Hi,” she said, just a bit ungraciously. “I’m Stephanie Troy. I know who both of you are, of course. We’re happy to have you here with us on this auspicious occasion. The rebirth and regeneration of the White Horse Faction! It’s an honour to meet you, Molly Metcalf.”

Troy barely gave me a second look, but then, that was how it should be. Shaman Bond has a history with most supernatural organisations, usually as a supplier of information, but no reputation at all for getting personally involved in dangerous action. Unlike the infamous Molly Metcalf . . .

Stephanie Troy was tall and fashionably slender, and positively blazed with nervous energy. She had short-cropped honey blonde hair, flashing eyes, and a tightly pursed mouth. She wore a smart grey suit with sensible shoes, minimal makeup, and no jewellery. I was pretty sure she would consider such things distracting, and frivolous. This was a woman who had given herself to a cause, and everything and everyone else would always come second to that.

She darted forward and grabbed Molly firmly by the hand. Molly suffered her hand to be shook, and nodded amiably enough.

“Hi!” I said. “I’m Shaman Bond! Happy to be here; glad to help out.”

“I know who you are,” said Troy, reluctantly releasing Molly’s hand. “Your reputation precedes you.” She didn’t make that sound like a good thing. And she didn’t offer to shake my hand.

“I’m Phil Adams,” said the shortest member of the next generation. He stepped forward, shyly and deferentially, and made a point of shaking my hand as well as Molly’s.

He was barely medium height, far more than medium weight, with a constant little smile and an evasive gaze, wearing a baggy shapeless jersey over grubby blue jeans that looked like they’d been through several wars. His heavy boots were held together with two different-coloured sets of shoe-laces, along with a certain amount of knotted string. He wore his long mousey-coloured hair in untidy dreadlocks, and sported a stubbly and not particularly successful beard. He had a calm, easy manner, but didn’t seem to want to look directly at anyone. I’d seen his kind before. More at home with animals than people, he loved Nature so much there wasn’t a lot left in him for people. He would almost certainly turn out to be the heart and soul of the group, but he’d always leave it to the other two to do the talking.

The last one to come forward announced himself loudly as Joe Morrison. He was a big one, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, wearing a hooded jacket of indeterminate colour over designer jeans and cowboy boots. Given the way he moved, and the way he held himself, I got the feeling he was probably ex-military. Or at the very least, ex-bouncer. He looked like he would have enjoyed saying No trainers! and Your name’s not on the list. He was dark and not particularly handsome, and gave every indication of knowing and not giving a damn. He nodded to Molly, clearly pleased to see her, but just as clearly not as impressed by her reputation as the others. He glanced at me, and sniffed loudly.

“I did my research, once I knew you two would be here,” he said. “Everyone knows Molly Metcalf is the real deal, but I couldn’t get anyone to agree on what you are, Shaman. Have you ever believed in anything, I mean really believed, in your whole crooked life?”

“I believe in getting paid,” I said easily. “And Molly is paying me really good money to watch her back, while she’s here. What do you believe in, Joe Morrison?”

“I believe in protecting Nature, and Mother Earth,” said Morrison. In a way that suggested that hadn’t always been the case. There’s nothing more fervent and more dogmatic than a recent convert.

For a while, we all just stood there in the hallway, and looked each other over. These three may be the next-generation leaders of the White Horse Faction, but Molly and I were the only ones with real reputations. We’d actually done things. In the end, Troy nodded briskly to Molly, and favoured her with a brief smile.

“We’re really glad you’ve come back to the White Horse Faction, Molly. Your parents left a hell of a legacy. We admire their commitment, and revere their contributions, even though we have chosen to follow a different path. I’m sure we’ll have lots to discuss. What we decide here, in this place, will change the world.”

And then she looked at me. I smiled calmly back at her.

“I know,” I said. “I’m just a dilettante in all this, and I’ll never be a true believer. But as long as Molly is putting money in my pocket, you can depend on me.”

“To do what?” said Troy, bluntly. “What can you bring to the cause?”

“I can open doors for you,” I said. “I know people. I can make connections, get you whatever you need. For a very reasonable percentage, of course.”

“Parasite,” said Morrison. He gave Molly a hard look. “What’s he doing here? Is he your . . . significant other, these days?”

“Hardly,” I said smoothly. “Dear Molly’s just the boss lady. I am here . . . because this is a bad place. Which you’d know, if you’d done your research.”

“I wouldn’t have thought the infamous Molly Metcalf would need a bodyguard,” Adams said quietly, tugging reflectively at a dreadlock. “And didn’t I hear you were stepping out with a Drood these days, Molly?”

“A rogue Drood,” said Molly. “And I didn’t bring him, because if I had . . . you wouldn’t have dared turn up. My Eddie has left his very scary family, but I knew you wouldn’t be comfortable in his presence. That’s why I hired Shaman. We’re old colleagues.”

Troy was already shaking her head. “Our invitation was just for you. We are here to decide the final direction of the White Horse Faction—and the future of the whole world.”

“Just the three of you?” I said, innocently.

“We represent hundreds of supporters,” Adams said quietly. “Hundreds of cells, with thousands of fellow travellers, spread out across every country in the world. All of them dedicated to give their all in defence of Mother Earth. We will dictate policy, and our armies will carry it out.”

“Armies?” said Molly. “I thought it was all about non-violence, these days.”

“We have to use language the rest of the world will understand,” said Morrison. “We’re at war with all those who would pollute our waters and poison the air. Just because we don’t believe in violence, doesn’t mean we’ll shy away from open confrontation. We have to save the world while there’s still time.”

“And this meeting will decide how we’re going to do it,” said Troy.

“Occupy!” said Morrison, smiling for the first time. “Stand in the way. Place ourselves between the bad guys and their evil ways. Make it impossible for them to screw up our poor planet any more.”

“In a totally non-threatening, non-violent way, of course,” said Adams.

I didn’t smile. I approved of their sentiments, and admired their courage, but in my experience, the nail that sticks up most is the first to get hammered down.

“Who knows?” said Troy, smiling frostily in my direction. “When you’ve seen all the evidence, and heard all the arguments, perhaps we’ll convert you, Shaman.”

“Non-violence is an excellent idea,” I said. “I just wish it worked more often. Is everyone in your new White Horse Faction equally dedicated to turning the other cheek? Only, a little bird did tell me a certain Hadrian Coll will be joining us. . . .”

The three next-generation leaders looked at each other quickly, and that glance was all I needed to see how they felt about Hadrian Coll, also known as Trickster Man. Troy looked excited, Adams looked disapproving, and Morison looked conflicted, like he thought they were all making a big mistake.

“He’s . . . on his way,” said Troy. She made an effort to appear upbeat. “You mustn’t be put off by his past reputation. He’s changed. It’s only because he’s heard how much we’ve changed the organisation, and its methods, that he’s agreed to come out from deep cover, to talk with us here.”

“He was a warrior, in defence of Mother Earth,” said Adams. “It took great courage for him to admit the old ways didn’t work.”

“He still needs to understand that he’s not in charge any more,” said Morrison.

“He was a good friend to my parents,” said Molly. “And a tutor to me. He helped make me everything I am today.”

All three of the next generation looked seriously uncomfortable, as they considered all the very definitely violent and destructive things the infamous Molly Metcalf had done in her time. They might revere her parents, and be impressed by her accomplishments, but none of them wanted anything to do with her idea of tactics. I could see in their faces they were all wondering whether they’d done the right thing in inviting her, after all.

“Well, it’s good to know I haven’t been forgotten,” said a new, cheerful voice. We all looked round sharply, and there he was in the open doorway, grinning easily at all of us. Hadrian Coll himself; the Trickster Man. The only surviving member of the original White Horse Faction.

He stood tall and proud, loud and cocky, hard worn and showing his middle age, but still possessed of a certain shop-soiled charisma. He looked like a retired businessman, dressed for a walking holiday, all casual and slouching. But you had to look at him for only a few moments to see that was just a mask, with the real and very dangerous persona peering out from behind it. Then, he looked a lot more like a mercenary soldier, dressed for a walking holiday. He had thinning white hair, bushy black eyebrows, and a heavy broken nose protruding from a blocky, hard-lined face. He smiled easily enough, but it never reached his eyes.

I’d seen his sort before drinking happily at the end of the bar, just waiting for trouble to break out, so he could join in and get his hands bloody. He’d never start anything, but you could always be sure he’d be the last one standing. And he wouldn’t care at all how many bystanders got hurt in the process. Now here he was, claiming to have retired and reformed. Ready to do non-violent penance for his bloody past.

I wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe Molly’s old tutor wasn’t what the Drood files said he was. But I didn’t.

Troy and Adams and Morrison just stood there, mouths open and wide-eyed, dazzled by the glare of Coll’s reputation. His legend. Molly squealed with delight, and ran forward to hug Coll fiercely. He wrapped his great arms around her and lifted her off her feet, so he could swing her around in a circle. They both laughed loudly, as he hugged her to him like a friendly old bear. He finally put her down and let her go, and turned to grin at all of us, one arm still draped companionably over Molly’s shoulders. Like she belonged to him. Molly’s face was flushed, and her eyes were shining. Coll nodded easily to the next generation.

“So, you’re my replacements. Good to see you all! Great to be here! Seems I’ve been away too long; the world’s grown even worse, while I turned my back. Well, no more of that! I have returned and all my knowledge and experience is at your disposal. My way didn’t work; I can only hope that yours will. Molly, my sweet, do the introductions, there’s a dear girl.”

He was probably the only one present who could have got away with calling her that. Molly ran through the names quickly, and Coll strode forward to shake each of the next generation firmly by the hand. He gave them all the same big smile, and lots of eye contact, and they all smiled and simpered, like a dazzled fan meeting their favourite movie star. They fell all over each other to say how proud they were to meet him, and how delighted they were he’d agreed to come out of retirement to be their spiritual mentor and advisor. Coll nodded easily to each of them. And then, finally, Molly introduced him to me.

I gave Coll my best harmless smile, playing the chancer con man act to the hilt; but I couldn’t tell whether he bought it or not. He crushed my hand in his, clapped me hard on the shoulder, and loudly said any friend of Molly was a friend of his.

“Shaman Bond! I know the name, of course,” he said. “You’ve been around, haven’t you? I’ve pitched up at every trouble spot there is in the last few years, and as often as not, your name was there before me. Never anything big, but always there, hanging around on the edge of the scene. A good man to know, they say, when you need a helping hand.”

“For a reasonable price,” I said.

He laughed. “Your reputation precedes you!”

“That was going to be my line,” I said.

“Ah,” he said sadly. “I’m not the man I was. And mostly, I’d have to say that is a good thing.”

He turned abruptly, to face the next generation again and give them his full attention. “It’s been a long trip, getting here. Took a lot out of me. I could use a nice sit-down, and a spot of something to eat. I’m old now. I get tired. I have Nam flashbacks.”

“You were in Vietnam?” said Morrison.

“No,” said Coll. “That’s what makes the flashbacks so worrying . . .” He laughed again, a great roar of joyous sound, and everyone joined in. The next generation looked at him like he was the Second Coming. Molly looked at him adoringly. And I smiled until my cheeks ached.

Troy and Adams and Morrison led the way down the hall, chattering loudly, trying to make a big fuss of Coll, though he would have none of it. He was just there to advise and support them, he insisted. They were the important ones. Molly wandered after him, smiling just a bit foolishly, while I brought up the rear, thinking my own thoughts. I just couldn’t see it. This amiable old bear of a man wasn’t the tricksy, dangerous man I’d discovered in my research. Hadrian Coll had killed a lot of people, for any number of causes. He planted bombs in public places, arranged magical booby traps for important people, undermined whole governments for any number of organisations. And was never, ever, around when it came time to pay the butcher’s bill. Of course, the records covered only what he did, not why he did it. And I had enough blood on my own golden hands to know that appearances aren’t everything.

But, no one had seen hide nor hair of Hadrian Coll, the legendary Trickster Man, for almost ten years. No one knew where he’d been, or what he’d been doing. Why would he reappear now, to support a White Horse Faction that was nothing like the group he used to belong to? Did he feel the need to do penance, for the monster he used to be?

Or was he just here . . . because Molly was here?

We left the hallway and entered a huge dining room. Molly snapped her fingers and once again the candle stubs in the overhead chandeliers blazed into friendly yellow light. The next generation looked startled, and then applauded lightly. Coll grinned at Molly.

“You always did show such promise, Molly my sweet,” he said. “It’s been so many years since I last saw you . . . look at you! My little girl is all grown up!”

“I need to talk to you, Hadrian,” said Molly. “About my mother and my father. And what really happened to them.”

“Of course you do,” said Coll. For the first time he sounded properly serious. “Don’t you remember . . . how they died?”

“I thought I did,” said Molly. “I thought I knew what happened . . . until I came here, and realised I only really remembered bits and pieces.”

“That’s probably for the best,” said Coll.

“No, it isn’t!” said Molly, so loudly that everyone winced, and backed away from her. Molly fixed Hadrian with a cold hard gaze. “I need to know! I need to know everything that happened.”

“We’ll talk later,” said Coll. “I promise. But I have business with these good people, and I owe them my full attention. Afterwards, we’ll sit down together, you and I, and I’ll tell you everything.”

He smiled fondly at Molly, and after a moment she smiled back. I couldn’t help but feel that he was putting it on, but Molly just smiled and nodded, and hugged him quickly.

“I am so proud of you,” Coll said quietly. “So proud of everything you’ve achieved, and what you’ve made of yourself. You’ve far surpassed your old tutor. . . .” He looked suddenly at me. “Why do you need a bodyguard, Molly? And why him?”

“Because even the infamous wild witch of the woods needs someone to watch her back, on occasion,” I said. “And like you said, Hadrian, I’ve been around. I’m not easily fooled, or distracted, and I’m really hard to surprise.”

Coll nodded, and then turned the full force of his charisma on the patiently waiting next generation. “Ten years! I can’t believe it’s been that long since I last set foot in this monstrous old house. Later on, I’ll have to give you the grand tour; fill you in on all the old stories. I have so many memories of this place . . . and the original White Horse Faction. The long nights we spent here, talking and talking into the early hours, plotting and planning . . . we would change the world, we said.”

“We still can,” said Troy, her voice entirely serious. She may be impressed by Coll, but he was still nothing compared to her devotion to the cause. “You must tell us everything about the old times, and the old organisation. If only so we can avoid making their mistakes.”

“We want to hear everything,” said Morrison.

“And so you shall, my friends!” said Coll. “But first, food and drink! Something for the inner man, hmm?”

He looked meaningfully at Stephanie Troy. Anyone else, she would have told to go to hell. That just because she was a woman, she wasn’t there to cook and make the tea and wait on the men. But this was Hadrian Coll, so she just nodded quietly.

“I’m sure I can manage something. Our advance agents are supposed to have left some food in the kitchens, tins and things. . . .”

“Excellent!” said Coll, rubbing his large hands together.

“You do that,” I said. “I think I’ll go for a little walk, down on the beach. Get some fresh air in my lungs. Care to accompany me, Molly?”

She tore her gaze away from Coll, looked at me for a long moment, and then nodded quickly.

“Of course,” she said. “Fresh air. Just the thing.”

“Don’t take too long,” said Troy. “A meal will be ready soon.”

“Don’t be late,” said Coll. “Or we’ll start without you.”

Molly and I smiled meaninglessly all round, and then I took her by the arm and led her away. No one seemed too disappointed to see us go. The next generation wanted Hadrian Coll all to themselves. I wasn’t sure yet what Coll wanted. I led Molly out of Monkton Manse, chatting cheerfully to her all of the way, of this and that, until the front door slammed shut behind us.

Once we were outside Molly pulled her arm free of mine, and strode on ahead on her own. I let her go. She strode back to the cliff edge, and then set off down some very steep stone steps, cut into the cliff face itself. She hurried ahead of me, not waiting for me to catch up. I pressed my shoulder hard against the cliff face, to keep from straying too close to the edge, and the long drop. The gusting, bitterly cold wind hit me hard, ruffling my hair and plucking at my clothes. The steps just seemed to fall away forever, and by the time I finally reached the bottom and stepped off onto the beach, my legs were aching fiercely.

Molly stood with her back to me, farther down the beach, just short of the incoming tide, looking out at the great crashing waves. I took my time, stretching my back and stamping my feet to ease the kinks out of my leg muscles. Finally, I moved forward to join Molly. She didn’t say anything. I looked around me. Not a stretch of sand anywhere on Trammell Island beach; just dark pebbles, for as far as the eye could see, interrupted here and there with great swatches of ugly green and brown seaweed, washed up by the heavy tides as they pounded up and down the beach. Not a living thing to be seen anywhere—no crabs, or lobsters. Not even a gull in the sky overhead. The overcast sky was darkening from evening into night, but there was still enough light to see there was nothing much to see.

I picked up a pebble, hefted it thoughtfully, and then sent it flying out across the uneven surface of the waters. It bounced several times, before sinking. After a moment Molly bent down, picked up a pebble of her own, and threw it out across the sea. Her pebble bounced a lot farther than mine. For a while we just stood there, throwing pebbles with all our strength, trying to outdo each other. Neither of us could manage much in the way of distance; the huge waves just snatched at the pebbles and dragged them under. The tide was coming in. I stooped down for another pebble, and a length of seaweed curled suddenly around my hand and clamped down, painfully tight. I had to use both hands to break the seaweed’s grip, and throw it aside. It was tough and springy, and unnaturally strong.

“There are those who say you can use seaweed to tell the weather,” said Molly.

“Oh yes?” I said. “Like, if it’s wet, it must be raining?”

“Something like that,” said Molly. “Tell me, Shaman—what are we doing here?”

“Here on the beach, or here on the Island?” I said, carefully.

“You don’t like Hadrian, do you?”

“I don’t trust him,” I said. “But then, I don’t trust any of the next generation, either. We’re here to do a job, Molly.”

“Hadrian was my first tutor. He taught me so much. My parents admired him. I think he was the closest friend they ever had.”

“A lot of people trusted him, in a lot of organisations, most of which aren’t around any longer. He was a very dangerous man, Molly. He still has a bad reputation in many parts of the world.”

“So do I,” said Molly.

“You always believed in your cause,” I said. “Hadrian Coll, aka Trickster Man, let us not forget . . . claimed to believe in a great many causes down the years. But somehow he was never there when the authorities closed in to round up the groups and make them pay for their crimes. I’m . . . not convinced by him. He has the feel of a professional politician. The kind who’ll say anything, do anything, that will advance his cause. Whatever that might turn out to be. I don’t trust this man, Molly, and I don’t think you should either.”

“No one ever did,” said Molly, surprisingly. “Not even my mother and father. But there was no one like him for getting things done. No one like him for stirring things up, for starting a fire in people’s hearts, and then aiming them at a target and encouraging them to do what needed doing. When Hadrian was around, people stopped talking and theorising, and started practising what they preached. That was what Coll always brought to the party: how to commit yourself to direct action. Even back then, in the original White Horse Faction, a group with a solid history of direct action . . . there were always people ready to talk any subject to death. To avoid committing themselves to getting their hands dirty. Or bloody. Coll put an end to that. Coll got things done.”

“Good things?” I asked. She didn’t answer.

We stared out across the beach at the dark and disturbed sea, and after a while Molly slipped her arm through mine. Where it belonged.

“You said . . . Monkton Manse isn’t the way you remembered it,” I said slowly. “Is Hadrian Coll . . . how you remembered him?”

“That’s the problem,” said Molly. “He’s exactly the way I remember him. As though he hasn’t changed at all. How can that be possible, after ten years? There’s a part of me that wonders if he’s just playing a part.”

“For your sake?” I said. “Or the next generation?”

“They seem straight-forward enough,” said Molly. “If . . . inexperienced in the real world. I’m not sure they’re ready to deal with someone like Hadrian Coll. Trickster Man.”

“Good thing we’re here, then. Isn’t it?” I said.

And then we both looked round sharply. From somewhere farther down the beach, stretching far and far away before us, a horse was running. I could hear the sound of its hooves, pounding along the pebbles. The sound was quite clear and distinct, rising above the crashing of the waves. And from the way Molly stood tensed beside me, I knew she heard it too. But no matter how hard I looked, straining my eyes against the distance and the lowering light, I couldn’t see a horse anywhere. The beach just stretched away into the distance, open and empty.

“There’s nothing there,” said Molly. “But I can hear it, clear as day. What the hell would a horse be doing here?”

I murmured my activating Words, and pulled my armour out of my torc to cover my face. The golden mask settled easily into place, and I used its expanded Sight to zoom in on the end of the beach. But no matter where I looked, there was no sign of any horse. Just the sound of one, endlessly running. And then, quite suddenly, it stopped. Gone, between one moment and the next. I dismissed the golden mask and looked at Molly.

“I couldn’t See a damned thing. And look at the beach. A real horse, running on this beach, would have kicked up pebbles everywhere. I can’t see any sign of a disturbance.”

“A ghost horse?” said Molly. “How likely is that? And what would a ghost horse be doing here? A lot of people may have died on this island, but no animals, as far as I know.”

“Maybe it came through the Fae Gate,” I said. “The living and the dead can travel the elven ways.”

“No,” said Molly, frowning. “If I’m remembering right . . . there’s never been any animal life on Trammell Island. Not even rabbits, or rats . . . animals just die here. Even birds won’t land, or so I’m told. Who told me that? Why can’t I remember?” She stopped, frowning so hard it must have hurt her forehead. She looked distracted, almost frightened. “This means something, Eddie. It means something to me, something important that I just can’t remember! Like a word on the tip of your tongue. A horse . . . There’s something significant about that. Something that matters.”

I waited, but she had nothing more to say.

“If you say so,” I said, finally.

“There are gaps in my memory,” Molly said flatly. “Though I never knew that, until I came back here. I’m remembering things I never remembered before, important things, that I’d forgotten I ever knew. But there are still great gaps in my memory of my time here before. How could I have forgotten so much? And not even noticed?”

“Because someone didn’t want you to remember,” I said. “And perhaps that someone was you, Molly. You didn’t want to know. If something really bad did happen here, maybe something to do with the death of your parents . . .”

“I need to know,” said Molly, coldly. “I need to know everything.”

She shuddered suddenly. I took her in my arms and held her, but it didn’t help.

Some time later, we made our way back to Monkton Manse. All the windows were lit now, blazing with bright electric light, and the whole place felt more comfortable, and inviting. It looked inhabited again, the kind of place where people might actually live. It even felt comfortably warm in the hallway as we came in out of the bitter cold, and slammed the heavy door shut behind us. We rubbed our hands together, and stamped our feet, and finally took off our coats and hung them up.

“Coll must have got the old generator working again,” said Molly.

“They’ve blown out your candles,” I observed. “I think I preferred the candlelight. Less harsh.”

“You old romantic,” said Molly. And then she frowned. “I don’t think this place was ever romantic. Or even happy . . .”

“But . . . you had good times here?” I said.

“Maybe,” said Molly.

We made our way through the winding corridors and hallways of Monkton Manse to the main dining hall, where a meal of sorts was waiting for us. We joined the others, all sitting around one end of the long mahogany dining table, eating cold cuts of tinned meat, along with a couple of bottles of half-way decent wine. The food had been neatly arranged on the very best china plates, along with gleaming stylised cutlery. Presumably courtesy of the first and last Lord of Trammell.

We all huddled together for comfort at our end of the table, which stretched away into the massive dining hall. It had clearly been originally intended to seat thirty or maybe even forty people at one sitting. The hall had an oppressively high ceiling, and gleaming wood-panelled walls. No portraits or paintings here, or decorations of any kind. This was a setting for the serious business of food and drink.

We kept our voices low as we talked, and tried not to look around, half intimidated by the sheer scale and opulence of the dining hall. Doing our best to ignore all the extra empty space, and pretend it wasn’t there. Hadrian Coll wasn’t bothered. His great voice boomed out endlessly, telling one story after another as he attacked his food and drink with great enthusiasm. I did my best to seem a little overwhelmed, because Shaman Bond would be, but this was actually a bit more than even Eddie Drood was used to at Drood Hall. This dining hall had been deliberately designed to be too big for people, to put them in their place in the presence of the Lord of Trammell.

I really didn’t like the shadows at the end of the dining hall. There were too many of them, too deep and too dark. And I am not the sort who is usually bothered by shadows.

Coll did most of the talking, often with his mouth full, dominating the conversation by the simple expedient of never letting anyone else get a word in edge-ways. The next generation were overawed enough to let him get away with that, and Molly seemed genuinely interested in everything he had to say. Perhaps because she was checking it all against her memories. Looking for contradictions, and loopholes. I watched everyone else, as they listened to Coll.

“It was a different time then,” he said grandly, refilling his wine-glass with a flourish. “All those years ago . . . the big businesses and the corrupt politicians held all the big cards. And they owned the law. So all we had left to work with was violence, to force change for the better. And yes, that meant playing their game, but when it’s the only game in town . . . We were at war with vested interests, who were never going to be persuaded to change things by reason or logic. Not if it meant giving up power and money. Arguments got you nowhere, persuasion didn’t work, so all that left was hitting them where it hurt. It was all we had.

“Now, things have changed. The Internet means that arguments and philosophies can shoot around the world in minutes, backed up by hard evidence. Information wants everyone to be free. If I’ve learned anything from my time with so many groups and organisations, it’s that you can’t get people to listen by shouting at them. You have to gang up on them, and drown out their lies with the truth.”

He stopped abruptly, to look at Molly. She’d hardly touched her food or her wine, which wasn’t like her, and now she was leaning forward, scowling, and rubbing at her forehead as though bothered by some intrusive new pain. Or memory.

“Are you all right, Molly?” said Coll. “Is something bothering you?”

“I remember being here, before,” said Molly. Her voice sounded odd, strangely detached. “At this table. With the old White Horse Faction. Everyone was here, including my parents. And you, Hadrian. I can see them all, as clearly as I see you . . . sitting around this table. Talking, planning . . . something big. I’m here, excited to be included in their plans. I see my mother and my father, smiling at me. They don’t look that much older than I am now. Oh, God . . . it’s been such a long time, since I saw them smile at me . . . but now everyone’s talking at once, raising their voices, shouting at each other. Something’s changed. My parents aren’t smiling any more. No. No! They’re gone. . . . They’re all gone.”

She raised her head, to look sharply at Coll. “What were they planning here, Hadrian? It was something much bigger, and far more dangerous, than they were usually involved in. Why did my parents look so sad then, at the end? And why did you look so worried?”

“This isn’t what you really want to talk about,” said Coll. “You want to know how your parents died. All right, you’ve waited long enough. Look at this.”

He produced something from his pocket, and held it up for all of us to see: a single brightly glowing jewel. Smooth and polished as a pearl, shining fiercely with some intense inner light. Almost too bright to look at directly. Like staring into the sun. Coll rolled the thing back and forth between his fingers, splashing unnatural light around the length of the dining hall. Enjoying the way he was holding everyone’s attention.

“This . . . is a memory crystal. Supersaturated with condensed information. Future technology, of course . . . fell off the back of a Timeslip, in the Nightside. It contains a complete recording of what happened here, in this room, at the very last meeting of the original White Horse Faction. The night everybody died.”

“What?” Molly sat bolt upright, glaring at him. “My parents died here? In Monkton Manse? Why didn’t I remember that?”

“Because you were here when it happened,” said Coll. “Now hush. And watch.”

He murmured some activating words over the memory crystal, and just like that a vision appeared, floating on the air before us. A deep and distinct image from the Past, showing exactly what happened, in this dining hall, ten years earlier.

Some twenty-odd people sat around the long table, talking heatedly with each other. We couldn’t hear their voices, couldn’t hear what they were saying, but none of them looked happy. Hadrian Coll was there, looking a lot more than ten years younger. He wasn’t talking. Just sat there, watching the others. Beside him sat a man and a woman I immediately recognised as Molly’s parents. A good-looking pair, strong and noble, arguing with passion and intensity. And sitting beside them a teenage Molly Metcalf. Obviously upset by all the raised voices and arguments. She looked so young, so vulnerable. Unmarked by all the harsh pain and anger to come, that would scar her so deeply. I wanted to reach out to her, to hold her and protect her; to save her from what I knew was coming. But I couldn’t.

All I could do was watch.

Everyone at the table looked round, startled, as the door at the far end of the dining hall slammed open, to reveal a dark and shadowy figure. And before anyone at the table could properly react, the shadowy figure produced a gun and opened fire. Those nearest him died first, blood flying from gaping wounds and shattered heads. Bodies crashed to the floor. People started to their feet, reaching for weapons or magical protections, but bullets found them first. They all died, one after another; the entire White Horse Faction wiped out, in just a few moments.

Molly’s mother and father were among the last to die. Jake Metcalf put himself between his wife and his daughter and the bullets of the shadowy gunman, trying to push his wife away from the line of fire. A row of bullets stitched across his chest, throwing him backwards into his wife’s arms. And then a bullet hit her, in the side of the head, blasting half her face away. The blood splashed across Molly’s face as she stood there at the table, horrified. She screamed and screamed, silently, like she would never stop.

The last few remaining members of the White Horse Faction opened up on the shadowy gunman with everything they had. Energy guns, enhanced weapons, shaped curses and pointing bones. But none of it had any effect. The shadowy man stood his ground in the doorway, and nothing touched him. Molly turned and ran for the door nearest her. By the time she reached it, everyone else who’d been sitting at the table was dead.

The vision snapped off, and Coll put the memory crystal down on the table. Molly was on her feet, staring down the long table at the far door, where the gunman had been. Her eyes were wide, wild, lost. I was on my feet beside her, but she didn’t even know I was there. The next generation stared at Coll as though seeing him for the first time, and not liking what they saw. He sat calmly in his chair, giving all his attention to the wine in his glass. I glared at him.

“You didn’t have to show her everything at once! You didn’t have to throw her in the deep end like that, you bastard!”

Coll shrugged, entirely unmoved by the anger in my voice, or Molly’s condition.

“Watch your mouth, Shaman. I gave her what she wanted. Sometimes you have to just rip the scab right off. Less painful, that way.”

I leaned in close to Molly, careful not to touch her, just yet. “Is that . . . how it was, Molly? Is that how it really was? Do you remember now?”

“Yes,” said Molly. “My mum and dad died right here, in this room, right in front of me. I only remembered flashes before, and it never occurred to me to look too closely. People told me it happened somewhere else, so often, that I believed them. And forgot all this . . . I was so sure it was a Drood who killed them, like everyone said . . .” She turned her head slowly to look at Coll. “Why was the killer just a shadow, when everything else was so clear?”

“Because you’re not ready to see who it was, just yet,” said Coll. “And because I feel the need . . . to keep a little something in reserve. In case I need something to bargain with.”

“This, all of this, is why I became the wild witch,” said Molly. “Why I made so many deals, with so many Courts, for power. So I’d never be helpless again.”

“And to avenge your parents,” I said. I looked at Coll, and he stirred uncomfortably in his chair, at something he saw in my face. “That shadowy figure,” I said. “He definitely wasn’t wearing Drood armour, despite his . . . untouchability. So he wasn’t a Drood. You’ve known that, all these years, but you never said anything to Molly. Why?”

Molly looked at me. “You thought the killer was a Drood . . .”

“Because that’s what it says in the Drood files,” I said.

“What?” said Troy. “How would you know something like that?”

“Because I’m Shaman Bond!” I snapped. “I get around, everyone knows that. I know things I’m not supposed to know. Take it from me: the original White Horse Faction was quite definitely wiped out on the orders of the Droods, supposedly to prevent them from doing something quite extraordinarily dangerous. I always believed it was a Drood field agent who did the job; but now it’s starting to look like the Droods contracted out for the hit. I have to wonder why . . .”

“Talk to me, Hadrian,” said Molly, and she didn’t sound like an old friend, any more. “Explain to me what happened here. What did you talk the Faction into? What did you get my parents involved in that was so bad they all had to be murdered on Drood orders?”

“And why weren’t you killed, along with all the others?” I said.

Coll looked at Molly and me, and then at Troy and Adams and Morrison, and saw he didn’t have a single ally in the room any more. He smiled.

“Well. I see it’s finally time . . . to tell the tale. The truth, the whole truth, and everything in between. I suppose I’m the only one left now who knows everything. Very well. The truth is that the Drood’s agent got here too late. The bad thing had already happened. The White Horse Faction had already carried out their greatest mission, and their most terrible failure. We performed a great magical Working, and it all went horribly wrong. That’s why we ran all the way back here, to Trammell Island and Monkton Manse; not to plot and plan but to hide away from prying eyes . . . and from the awful thing we’d let loose in the world.

“The Faction discovered, while looking for something else entirely—and isn’t that always the way—that a nuclear power plant down in the south-west of England had been constructed over an ancient Celtic barrow mound. A very magical, and significant, burial mound. The owners and builders of the power plant were horrified when the mound was discovered during the early stages of construction. They knew bringing in architects and historians would bring construction to a halt, costing them millions. They might even be required to stop building and move the plant somewhere else, and God alone knew how much that would cost them! So the owners just paid everyone off, and kept building. The nuclear power plant went online, on time, and the truth never came out.

“Except—someone wrote it all down. A complete record. Just in case it ever came back to bite them on the arse. And someone who supported the White Horse Faction got hold of this document, and passed it on. The Faction investigated, and found this particular barrow mound was built to contain Something so powerful it had to be put down into the earth and left there, to sleep the sleep of ages. And that’s when the Faction all came up with this great idea.

“We would wake the Sleeper, raise it up and take control of it through a great Working. We would use the Sleeper’s power to blow up the nuclear power plant, and then channel all that released energy into a second, even greater Working. One that would rewrite Reality itself, according to our needs and wishes, to remake England and the world in our preferred image.

“It seemed so perfect: to use the hated power of the enemy to create a new and magical world that would have no need and no use for nuclear power plants.”

“What the hell made you think you could control something that powerful?” I said.

“More blind luck,” said Coll. “We’d managed to get our hands on all kinds of useful Objects of Power, courtesy of various fellow-travellers and well-wishers . . . who didn’t have the balls to use the things themselves. And one new item in particular made the whole scheme seem possible. Or so we thought. We really did think we could bring this off; it’s important that you understand that. We thought we were saving the world. But we had no idea just how powerful the Sleeper under the mound was. We didn’t know what we were dealing with . . .

“We had the Red King’s Ruby, you see. And we thought that with that, we could do anything.” He saw the look of horror in my face, and the blank incomprehension in everyone else, so he sighed heavily, and paused to explain himself. “The Red King’s Ruby is a magical artefact that originally existed only in dreams. A purely conceptual item, and therefore unlimited in its power. Someone found a way to bring it forward, out of dreams and into reality. Once it was made manifest, and material, it was supposed to be powerful enough to give its wielder control over everything. How could we resist?”

“Who gave you the Ruby?” said Molly. Her voice was very cold.

“The Most Evil Man In The World: Crow Lee. He didn’t tell us how he got his hands on it, and we didn’t ask. We didn’t even have to pay him for it! His only requirement was that we use it. I think . . . he was scared to try it out himself. He wanted someone else to do it for him, first. And I believe it amused him to think of something like the Red King’s Ruby in hands like ours. I did wonder, afterwards, whether he knew what we were planning . . . and knew that it would never work.”

“Something so powerful that even Crow Lee never dared use it,” I said. “Didn’t that tell you something?”

“I talked them into it,” said Coll. “That was my job. And this is where we get to the part of the story you know nothing about, Molly. The part that not even your parents suspected. I was a spy. A double agent, working for the Droods. It was my job to infiltrate dangerous underground groups, find out their plans and secrets, and pass that information back to the Droods. So they could decide what to do. That was why I kept moving, from one group to another. And, because the other part of my job was to act as an agent provocateur. Encourage these groups to act before they were ready, to perform violent acts that would discredit them in the eyes of the world, and sink them hip-deep in trouble. I, of course, was always long gone by then. That’s how I acquired my other name: Trickster Man. Though no one ever suspected the truth. I was . . . very good at my job.”

“Why?” said Troy. And in that one word was all the shock and betrayal of a disappointed child. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“For the money, of course! And because I’m a Drood bastard,” said Hadrian Coll. “Illegitimate child of James Drood, the legendary Grey Fox. He did put it about, you know. There’s a lot of us Grey Bastards out and about in the world, all of us desperate to ingratiate ourselves with the mighty Drood family. In the hope of earning a place among them. Of being invited home, to Drood Hall. Maybe even presented with a torc . . . Any of us would have done anything, for that.

“I was sent into the White Horse Faction to do my usual number on them . . . but a funny thing happened. The more I listened to them, the more I found I agreed with them. Your mother and father were good people, Molly. I became a convert to their cause. I was the one who heard about the Red King’s Ruby, and used my Drood connections to put the White Horse Faction in touch with Crow Lee. So in a way, everything that happened afterwards was my fault. But I swear to you . . . I had no idea then what the Faction wanted it for. What they intended to do with it.

“Once it was all explained to me, I was horrified. I knew it would never work. I tried to talk them out of it, but for once my famous powers of persuasion failed me. They’d suffered too many defeats, endured too many set-backs. They were desperate for one big win that would settle everything. And put an end to a war they were so tired of. I could see it all going horribly wrong in so many ways . . . so I turned them in, to the Droods. I told them everything the White Horse Faction were planning, and they said they’d send a field agent to stop them. I was so relieved. I thought the agent would just walk in and take the Ruby away from them before anyone could get hurt.

“But the Droods took too long making up their minds. By the time their chosen agent arrived, it was too late. We’d already awoken the Sleeper under the mound.

“Do I really need to tell you how badly we’d misunderstood the situation? The Sleeper . . . wasn’t what we thought it was. I had to go along. They would have suspected the truth, otherwise. I was right there with them, on the hill overlooking the nuclear power plant. In the bright summer sunshine; still trying to talk them into setting up stronger safeguards . . . but they wouldn’t listen. They used the Red King’s Ruby to make contact with what had lain sleeping under the barrow for so many centuries. Used the Ruby’s power, to turn their dream into reality.”

“Hold it,” I said. “Let me get this straight. You were close enough to see a nuclear power plant you were planning to blow up?”

“I know!” said Coll. “We were young, we were stupid, and intoxicated with the possibilities for our cause. And we truly believed the Ruby would protect us. Perhaps fortunately, things never got that far. When the Sleeper awoke, and burst forth from its barrow mound, we saw at once that it wasn’t at all what we’d expected. It wasn’t some ancient Celtic chief, or magician, or some powerful remnant of Times Past. No. It was a Horse. A great White Horse. It came ghosting up through the nuclear power plant without even touching it, invisible to their scientific mindsets, growing larger and larger. Filling the sky. We only saw it because we were connected through the Red King’s Ruby. The White Horse was huge, massive, overwhelming to merely human senses. A brilliant, dazzling white too terrible to look at directly. The embodiment of all horses, and the power they gave the Celts over their enemies.

“That’s why there are carvings of white horses on hills and cliffs all over England. Because our ancestors worshipped the White Horse. What we’d awoken, and called forth, was a living god. Not the god of horses, but the idea of a Horse, worshipped as a god. Worshipped by so many, and for so long, that the sheer concentrated belief was enough to create what they believed in. We never had a hope in hell of controlling such a thing. An idea, with the power of a god. Once it was out and free again, it shrugged us off like we were nothing. After so long asleep, imprisoned under the barrow mound by priests who’d grown afraid of what they worshipped, all it wanted to do was run free.

“Scared out of our minds by what we’d unleashed, we tried so hard to rein it in, to break the White Horse to our will, and control it. But the Red King’s Ruby just faded away, driven out of reality and back into the world of dreams by the sheer power of the living god. Because the Ruby was only ever a dream of a thing, made solid by its dreamer’s faith . . . and it was no match for the certainty of a living idea. We’d brought other things with us, other Objects of Power, I’d insisted on that . . . but none of it did any good. Just the backlash was enough to weaken us all, rob us of our strength and certainty. So we ran away.

“We used a preprogrammed teleport spell to transport us back here, to Trammell Island. Our oldest and most secret bolt-hole, where no one could see us. We thought we’d be safe here.”

“You ran away?” I said, so angry I could hardly speak. “Leaving the White Horse to run free? You didn’t even try to warn anyone?”

“There was nothing we could do!” said Coll.

“You could have told the Droods!” I said. “You were their agent. They’ve handled worse things than living gods in their time!”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly, all right!” said Coll. “None of us were. We were all in shock. Some of us thought we should try to control it again, later. Some just wanted to hide, somewhere the White Horse could never find us. We would have found some way to warn the world, I’m sure, but that was when the Drood’s chosen agent turned up. Because I’d already told the Droods about Trammell Island. They might not be able to see in, but they could still get in. And you all saw . . . what their agent did.”

Coll held up his memory crystal again, and the vision of yesterday returned. We all watched as the shadowy figure stepped forward into the light, looking calmly and dispassionately around him at the dead bodies sprawled across and around the long dining table. There was no mistaking that old man, with his iron grey hair and military moustache. The Regent of Shadows. My grandfather Arthur Drood. The man Molly and I now worked for.

“Of course,” said Molly, in a dangerously calm and far-away voice. “That’s why none of their weapons could touch him. Even though he didn’t wear the golden torc. The Regent had Kayleigh’s Eye—that ancient amulet. Nothing can touch him while he’s wearing it.”

“I don’t understand,” said Adams. The beginnings of anger were stirring in his soft voice. “Who . . . who is that?”

“That is the Regent of Shadows,” I said. “A rogue Drood, who left the family to set up his own organisation. These days, he runs the Department of the Uncanny. Presumably . . . the Droods learned what the White Horse Faction had done, and decided they were too dangerous to be allowed to continue. They were to be an object lesson; pour discourager les autres. And they sent the Regent, as an independent contractor, so they could have deniability. Just in case it ever came back to bite them on the arse. Perhaps the Drood Matriarch wanted other underground groups to see this . . . slaughter, as the cost of endangering the world. Martha always was ready to do the hard, necessary thing.”

“Yes,” said Coll. “Only I was left alive to spread the word . . . of the consequences of defying the Droods.”

He turned the memory crystal in his hand, and the vision continued. We all watched the Regent of Shadows move steadily through the dining hall, making sure everyone was dead. And then he left the room, and Monkton Manse, in pursuit of the fleeing teenage Molly Metcalf. It broke my heart to see her, running blindly across the black rocks, her face still stained with the blood of her murdered mother. The Regent emerged from the rear of the house just in time to see Molly run through the Fae Gate and disappear. He stopped, and shrugged, and went back inside.

But the vision continued, following Molly through the dimensional gate and into the wild woods . . . where she finally collapsed, to lie on a grassy bank, weeping for all she had lost, surrounded by tall trees. Animals and spirits of the wild woods slowly emerged from among the trees and the bushes, to protect and comfort her. A huge brown bear slowly turned his great shaggy head to look right at us, as though he could see us, watching him. He lunged forward, and the vision disappeared.

Coll made his memory crystal disappear. “I survived, because I turned and ran the moment I saw the Regent of Shadows in the doorway. A Drood field agent would have been under orders to let me go, but seeing the Regent changed everything. The warning and slapped wrist I expected had been replaced by a hired killer. The Regent of Shadows did have something of a reputation for such work, back then.”

“I never knew that,” I said. “But then, the Droods got up to a lot of things that I never knew about.”

Coll shrugged. “No reason why you should. Even the infamous Shaman Bond can’t be expected to know everything. I’m told the Regent has . . . mellowed, in recent years. Getting old will do that to you.”

“How did you escape, Hadrian?” said Molly.

“I fled through the Fae Gate, long before you reached it,” said Coll. “I know; I should have taken you with me. Made sure you were safe. But what can I say; I panicked. I was convinced the Droods wanted me dead, because I’d taken part in the Working. So I disappeared through the Fae Gate and just kept on going—jumping in and out of a dozen more dimensional portals, across the world. Until I was sure I’d muddied my trail sufficiently. I finally went to ground in Shanghai, crawled into a hole, and pulled it in after me. I didn’t come out again until I’d arranged for a new identity and a new face. And then I moved on . . . from city to city, country to country, always moving so no one could find me, or track me down.” He smiled briefly at Molly. “This is the first time I’ve looked like me in ten years. All for you, Molly.” He turned to Troy and Adams and Morrison. “I thought the world had forgotten all about me until you came and found me and invited me here. And I saw a chance to redeem myself, at last. By helping create a new White Horse Faction, completely different from the old.”

Molly looked at me. She didn’t say anything, but now we both knew why the Regent had sent us here, on this mission. To learn the truth about Molly’s parents, and their execution, that he couldn’t bring himself to tell us, face to face. Coll said the Regent had changed, but he also said the Regent of Shadows had a reputation for bloody work. And I had to wonder: what else was there my newly found grandfather had done that he couldn’t bring himself to tell me?

Just what kind of a man was I working for now?

For a long while, no one said anything. We all just sat there round one end of the stupidly long dining table. Lost in our thoughts, looking at each other for some clue as to what we should say, or feel. Coll ate everything on his plate, poured himself another glass of wine, and seemed content for someone else to start the ball rolling again. For someone who’d supposedly experienced so much guilt and remorse over his previous sins, he didn’t seem particularly upset. In the end, Stephanie Troy broke the silence, speaking quietly, with great dignity and utter certainty.

“We . . . would never do anything like that. What the old Faction tried to do with the White Horse was utterly unacceptable. The crushing of a free spirit . . . no. We would never do that. We are different.”

“That’s why we’re here,” said Adams, in his soft and calm voice. “To plan a new, non-violent way of bringing about lasting change.”

“Damn right,” said Morrison. “You can’t defeat the enemy by becoming the enemy.”

“Fine words,” said Hadrian Coll.

And then the next generation of the White Horse Faction turned as one to look meaningfully at Molly. She stared right back at them.

“What?”

“Your reputation precedes you,” said Troy. “Your violent reputation.”

“We’ve heard all the stories,” said Adams. “And while we admire your . . . passion, there’s no room in our organisation for anyone who still believes in the kind of violent confrontation that fills your . . . exploits.”

“They say you once made all the portraits inside Number 10 Downing Street come alive, to attack the then prime minister,” said Morrison. “And that you briefly gave the American Pentagon a new sixth side, full of horrors.”

“No,” said Molly. “The Pentagon has always had a secret sixth side. I just fixed it so everyone could see it, for a while. Not that it made any difference. Most people didn’t understand the significance of what they were seeing. Next time, I’ll put up some explanatory signs. Maybe something in neon . . .”

“Mischief is one thing,” said Troy. “Mass murder is another. You blew up an entire private members club in the West End of London. Killed everyone inside. Do you deny it?”

“Hell no,” said Molly. “I’m proud of it. That particular club was a brothel, where men of wealth and privilege could go to do appalling things to underage children. I got the kids out, before I killed everyone else. Do it again, in a moment.”

“I have always been so proud of you, Molly,” said Coll.

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t look at me, either. Which was probably just as well, because I was thinking of a whole bunch of other things she’d done that I knew for a fact were a hell of a lot more extreme than anything the next generation had mentioned. Usually with good reason, but probably not one the avowedly non-violent next generation could accept. They were looking steadily at Molly in a way that suggested they were still sitting in judgement of her, and hadn’t made up their minds yet.

“The word is, that you’ve calmed down a lot since you hooked up with your Drood,” said Troy. “Now you’ve got in bed with the enemy.”

Everyone winced at that, just a bit. Trust a woman to fight dirty.

“I got involved with one particular Drood,” Molly said calmly. “My Eddie. I have never been a part of his family. I didn’t bring Eddie here with me because I knew you wouldn’t approve of him. That’s why I shelled out good money to hire Shaman Bond, to watch my back.”

“Now you finally know the truth,” I said carefully, “about what really happened to your parents. . . . What do you want to do next, Molly? Do you want to kill the Regent?”

“Yes,” said Molly. “But, I have to think about it.”

She didn’t say, Because he’s your grandfather. So it’s complicated. She didn’t say any of that out loud, but I could see it in her eyes.

Phil Adams rose to his feet. “I’m really not comfortable with the atmosphere in this room. I’m going to get another bottle of wine. I hope to experience a more positive atmosphere, when I return.”

He left quickly. Obviously thinking he was making a point of principle. And not just running away from questions he couldn’t cope with. Troy and Morrison looked at each other knowingly.

“He’s never been comfortable with clashing emotions,” said Troy. “Always wants everyone to be nice, just because they’re on the same side.”

“Don’t give me those negative vibes, Moriarty!” said Morrison.

We all managed some kind of smile, at that. Troy and Morrison talked with Coll some more, ignoring Molly and me. Coll was full of apologies and justifications for his past, and how much he wanted to make up for his sins, by helping them build a new White Horse Faction. Troy wanted to believe him. I wasn’t so sure about Morrison. Molly and I sat side by side, and didn’t even look at each other. We both had a lot to think about. It took all of us a while to realise that Phil Adams hadn’t returned.

“Oh, bloody hell,” said Morrison. “He’s not sulking again, is he?”

“He’s probably hovering outside in the corridor,” said Troy. “Refusing to come back in until we’re all being happy bunnies together.”

“Get your arse in here, Phil!” Morrison said loudly. “This is as positive as it’s going to get!”

There was no response. Morrison got up and went to look out the door. Adams wasn’t there. Troy went to join Morrison, and they both called Adams several more times. There was no reply. Coll got to his feet.

“I think we should go look for him. This isn’t a good place to be on your own.”

“Why?” said Troy. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you know about this house?” I said. “Didn’t you research the awful history of Monkton Manse before you came here?”

“No,” said Morrison. “We chose it because it was the last meeting place of the original White Horse Faction. And because the Island’s in a null.”

“You should have checked,” said Coll.

I rose to my feet, and Molly immediately rose to her feet to stand beside me. “Trust me,” I said. “This is a bad place. Really bad things happened here . . . long before the Faction massacre. I think we need to find Adams quickly, before someone or something else does.”

Molly led the way out of the dining hall, since she knew the house best, and we all followed her through a twisting maze of hallways and side corridors. Some of the lights had gone out, leaving whole areas nothing but darkness and shadow. I told myself it was just old bulbs failing, but I wasn’t sure I believed me. We called out Adams’ name, at regular intervals. He never replied. Eventually, we split into two groups, to cover more ground. Coll went off with Troy and Morrison, while Molly and I stayed together. We went back and forth, and up and down, checking every door and room we passed, until finally, we found him.

Phil Adams lay at the bottom of a flight of stairs. From the way his head was twisted around, it was clear his neck was broken. There was a lot of blood around the body. At first, I thought he must have fallen. Maybe even been pushed. But once I turned him over, I saw that he was covered in bloody hoof-marks. His flesh was torn and his bones were broken and his face was a bloody mess. He looked like he’d been trampled to death, by some great horse.

Or Horse.

I checked for a pulse anyway, because you have to. He was still warm, but he was very definitely dead. Whatever had attacked him had done a real job on him. It felt like every bone in his body was broken. Stephanie Troy turned up while I was still checking out Adams. She’d got separated from the others. She couldn’t even look at the body. She turned away, saw Morrison coming down the corridor, and ran to him to press her face into his shoulder. He held her to him, patting her back automatically, and then he looked past her at the dead body, and his face went white . . . with what looked a lot more like anger than shock. He held Troy tightly, murmuring comforting words, unable to take his eyes off the body. Coll turned up last, saw what had happened to Adams, and swore briefly. I straightened up, stepped away from the body, and glared at Coll.

“What the hell were you thinking, letting those two go off on their own? You know this house! You know better.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” said Troy, finally letting go of Morrison. She looked at Coll and Molly and me, but she still couldn’t bear to look at the body. “There were just so many doors and exits and corridors that doubled back on themselves, we got separated. What . . . happened to Phil?”

“Looks to me like he’s been trampled to death,” said Coll. I was glad he said that, so I wouldn’t have to. Morrison glared at Coll.

“Are you insane? Trampled? How could anything have trampled Phil to death, without any of us hearing it?”

“Are we talking about a horse?” said Troy, just a bit shrilly. “You think a horse got in here and did that?”

“Shaman and I heard a horse, earlier,” said Molly. “We heard it running along the beach, but we couldn’t see it anywhere.”

Coll looked at her sharply. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. Of us all, he seemed the most shaken. I looked at him steadily.

“You know what’s going on here, don’t you?”

“It’s the White Horse,” said Coll. He looked older, his face grey and slack and sick. “The Horse from under the mound. It’s here.”

“It shouldn’t have been him,” said Troy. “Not Phil. He was always the gentlest of us all.”

She turned abruptly and ran down the corridor, heading in the direction of the front door. Morrison hurried after her. I didn’t want to leave the body, but I didn’t want Troy off on her own, either. So we all went after her. She managed a remarkable turn of speed, and we were all seriously out of breath when we finally caught up with her. She was standing in the entrance hallway, staring at the closed front door with wide, spooked eyes. Morrison got to her first, and grabbed her by the shoulder. She didn’t look round. He spoke sharply to her, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the closed door. Molly and I stood together, leaning on each other as we got our breath back. Coll brought up the rear, hacking and coughing noisily. Troy paid no attention to any of us.

And then we heard it. From somewhere outside, beyond the closed door, came the clear and distinct sound of approaching hooves. Slow and steady and deliberate, and much heavier than they should have been. Troy whimpered out loud, one hand pressed against her mouth. Morrison put both hands on her shoulders, and pulled her backwards, away from the door. Coll looked at the closed door like a man looking at his death.

“I could go and open the door,” I said quietly to Molly. “See what’s really out there.”

“Really not a good idea,” said Molly, just as quietly. “First, you can’t use your usual . . . protection, in present company. And second, we didn’t see anything on the beach. What makes you think you’ll see anything here?”

“No one is to open that door!” said Coll. “Monkton Manse has its own protections! I don’t think it can get through the door.”

“Are you crazy?” said Morrison. “It’s already got in here once, to kill Phil! We need to get out of here! Out of this house, and off this cursed island!”

“Best idea I’ve heard so far,” I said.

I turned away and got out my Merlin Glass. But when I tried to activate it, nothing happened. The hand mirror remained just a mirror.

“Okay,” I said quietly to Molly. “That’s . . . unusual. I didn’t think there was anything here powerful enough to block the Glass.”

“If there really is a living god out there . . .” said Molly.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not convinced. This doesn’t feel right. I think we’re missing something. . . .”

“It’s the Horse,” said Coll. “It’s found me.”

“Shut up!” screamed Troy. “If you brought it here, then this is all your fault!”

“Easy, Steph,” said Morrison. “The enemy’s out there, not in here.”

“Maybe we should head for the back door,” I said. “The Fae Gate could get us all off the island.”

“You really think we can get to the Gate before the White Horse catches us?” said Coll.

“Come on,” I said. “It’s just a horse! How dangerous can it be?”

“You saw what it did to Phil,” said Morrison. “I served two tours in Afghanistan, and I never saw anything that brutal.” He glared at Coll. “You should have told us. We’d never have brought you here if we’d known. . . . Why don’t you go open that door? Go outside! You’re the one it wants!”

“Take it easy,” I said quickly. “If that really is a living god out there, the last thing we want to do is present it with a human sacrifice. So, let’s take a little time and think this through. Figure out exactly what we’re dealing with. No more stories, Hadrian; give us the facts. What exactly are we facing here?”

“It’s a living god,” said Coll, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. “An idea given shape and form and power, by those who worshipped it for so long.”

“Listen!” said Troy. “It’s stopped . . .”

We all listened. There were no more noises from beyond the closed front door.

“Is it gone, do you think?” said Troy.

“Either that, or it’s standing really still,” I said. “Want to go open the door and take a look?”

“What is the matter with you?” said Coll. “Why are you so eager to let the bloody thing in?”

“Sorry,” I said. “Danger makes me flippant.”

“If it’s there, I can hit it,” said Molly. “I ain’t afraid of no Horse.”

“You would be,” said Coll, “if you’d seen it.”

Morrison turned suddenly, and ran back down the hallway. Troy called out after him, miserably, but he just kept going. Didn’t even look back. I started to go after him.

“No!” Molly said immediately. “In situations like this, it’s always a bad idea to go rushing off on your own. It’s so much easier to pick off someone when they’re on their own.”

“But we have to find him!” said Troy.

“He could be anywhere, by now,” said Coll. “But you’re right, we can’t leave him to the mercy of the White Horse. Or the house . . . so, we split into two groups again, and this time we stick together. Troy, stay close to me. Molly, don’t let Shaman out of your sight. Whoever catches up with Morrison first shouts out and stays put. Molly, follow the house perimeter, see if you can get a glimpse of whatever’s outside.”

He led Troy off down the hallway. She stuck so close to him she was practically hiding in his coat pocket. Molly and I looked at each other, shrugged pretty much simultaneously, and set off.

Monkton Manse was a really big house. It took a long time for us to work our way round the perimeter, staring cautiously out of each window in turn. Darkness had fallen, and the light from the house didn’t penetrate far into the shadows outside. It seemed to me that a really big White Horse ought to show up clearly, but I couldn’t see anything. We checked every room we passed, just in case the Horse had sneaked in, somehow, but there was no sign of it anywhere. I’d never felt comfortable in Monkton Manse, and now I was starting to jump at every moving shadow or sudden noise. If we really were under siege from a living god, I wanted my armour. But I couldn’t call on it without betraying my true identity. I wasn’t sure that really mattered any more, but I was reluctant to throw aside my mission until I was sure there really was a living Horse god on the prowl around Monkton Manse.

The dead body had been real enough, but anyone can fake horse sounds. It bothered me that I hadn’t seen anything.

“If it is the White Horse, can you take it down with your armour?” said Molly, casually.

“Oh, sure,” I said. “I’d bet the strange matter in my armour against anything with four legs and hooves. Maybe we could offer it some sugar lumps.”

“A concept, made manifest, and then buried for centuries because its own priests grew frightened of what they’d created,” said Molly. “What do you want to bet, Shaman, that when the Horse woke up, it woke up angry?”

“But how powerful can it be after being asleep for so long?” I said. “That must have weakened it.”

“Unless,” said Molly, “it’s been quietly rebuilding its strength, all this time. I’m more concerned with its state of mind. Finally released from its prison, after so many years, and immediately someone tries to break it to their will, to make it their slave. . . .”

I looked at her steadily. “You were there, at the meeting, after they called it up. How much of that do you remember, now?”

“Still only bits and pieces.” Molly scowled fiercely. “I’m pretty sure I wasn’t there at the Working. My parents would never have allowed that . . . I can’t believe I forgot so much!”

“You were in shock,” I said. “You didn’t want to remember.”

“My past isn’t what I thought it was,” said Molly. “I’m not what I thought I was.”

“Yes, you are,” I said firmly. “You’re the wild witch, the laughter in the woods, kicking arse in the name of the good and the true. And I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

And then we both looked round sharply as we heard a scream. It sounded like a man, facing something truly horrible, and then the sound broke off, and stopped. Molly and I were already off and running. It didn’t take us long to find Joe Morrison, lying dead on the rucked-up, bloody carpeting. Torn and broken, his ruined flesh was stamped with hoof-marks. There was no sign of Troy or Coll anywhere. I checked the body, shook my head at Molly, and then studied the surroundings carefully.

“Odd,” I said. “I don’t see any hoof-marks in the carpeting, the whole length of this corridor. Or in the spilled blood around the body. Nothing to show anything else was ever here.”

“Apart from the very thoroughly trampled body,” said Molly.

“Well, apart from that, yes,” I said. “I suppose . . . if the White Horse is a supernatural creature, it wouldn’t have to make impressions on its surroundings if it didn’t want to.”

“Try the Merlin Glass again,” said Molly. “I really don’t like this place.”

“You could always teleport us out of here yourself,” I pointed out.

She shook her head quickly. “I already tried. This whole island is set inside a mystical null, remember? I can’t get my bearings. . . . The only way off Trammell Island that doesn’t involve a boat or a hell of a long swim are the established dimensional doors, like the Fae Gate. The Merlin Glass was powerful enough to get us in; I’m hoping it can get us out.”

I shrugged, and tried the Glass again. I murmured the activating Words, and the image in the looking glass changed immediately to reveal the Horse’s huge white head, filling the Glass. It shone out of the mirror like a spotlight, supernaturally bright. The long bony face glared at me, and then surged forward, as though trying to reach out through the Glass. The crimson eyes were wide and wild, and full of a terrible old knowledge. Great blocky teeth showed in its snarling mouth. Molly cried out. I shut down the Glass, shouting the words at the mirror, and the image disappeared. The hand mirror was just a mirror again. I put it away, in my pocket dimension.

“It was coming through,” said Molly. She sounded shaken. “And it felt . . . so much bigger than any living thing has any right to be.”

“Okay,” I said. My voice didn’t sound quite as steady as I would have liked, but I pressed on. “We are facing a very determined living god. It’s already killed two people, for reasons that aren’t clear yet. What does it want with us?”

“Not us, Eddie,” said Molly. “With me. It wants me, because I was part of the group that tried to tame it, and break it to their will.”

“But you weren’t a part of the Working! You didn’t know anything about it until it was all over!”

“I don’t think the White Horse cares,” said Molly. “You saw it, in the Glass. Did that look like a rational Being to you? No, it saw me. It’s marked me. And soon it will come for me. . . .”

“Well, tough,” I said. “It can’t have you. You’re mine.”

She smiled at me, and put a hand on my chest. “Am I?”

“Forever and a day,” I said, putting my hand over hers. “I know you’ve been through a lot, Molly, but you have to get a grip on yourself. It’s just a horse.”

“Yes,” she said. “It is. And I have faced far worse, in my time.” She seemed to straighten up, and her gaze sharpened. “Time to get back in the saddle . . .”

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s track the bloody thing down. I’ve got my armour, and you’ve got your magics; we can do this. Bloody horse isn’t going to know what’s hit it.”

“Damn right,” said Molly. “Been a while since I’ve punched out a living god.” And then she stopped, and frowned. “But I can’t help feeling . . . that just maybe the White Horse is the innocent party in all this. It didn’t ask to be buried, called forth, and used.”

“It’s killing people,” I said flatly. “And that crosses the line. My family exists to keep things like living gods from killing people.”

There was another scream. It sounded like a woman, this time. Horrified, hysterical, and once again cut off, abruptly. Molly and I ran through the narrow corridors, to find the next body lying crumpled in a doorway. Stephanie Troy, who only ever wanted to do good and protect people, had been trampled to a bloody pulp. Broken bones protruded in splinters through the torn flesh, and one side of her face had been completely smashed in, a single great hoof-mark obliterating half her features. Her one remaining eye stared helplessly out, at the world that had betrayed her.

I knelt down beside her, but didn’t try for a pulse this time. I couldn’t see the point. They were all gone now; three good-natured and good-intentioned young people, who would have been the next-generation leaders of the White Horse Faction. They had such great dreams; I should have taken them more seriously.

“I let them down,” I said to Molly. “I was right here, and I couldn’t even keep them alive.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” said Molly. “Blame the mission. We weren’t briefed for any of this. There’s no way we could have anticipated . . . what’s happened here. There’s nothing you could have done for any of them. We got here too late.”

“We’ve been too late all along,” I said angrily. “Always one step behind, while something else has been leading us around by the nose. I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this, Molly. I don’t think we understand what’s really going on here.”

I subvocalised my activating Words, and my armour spilled out of the torc to cover my face in a golden mask. And through the expanded senses of my mask, I studied every detail of Stephanie Troy’s corpse. Every wound, every impact, every impression of a great hoof. I zoomed in on every detail, using the mask like a magnifying glass and a microscope; checking and collating and comparing every last little bit of evidence.

Until quite suddenly, I spotted something interesting. All the hoof-prints were exactly the same. Same shape, same depth, same details. If this body had been trampled by a Horse, I would have expected four different and quite distinct hoof-prints. It might be a living god, but it was still a quadruped. Instead, there was the same single hoof-mark, over and over again. I called up several of the imprints on the inside of my mask, and superimposed them, one on top of the other . . . and they were all exactly alike. I dismissed my mask, stood up, and quietly explained my findings to Molly.

“The White Horse wouldn’t take the trouble to trample its victims to death one hoof at a time,” I said.

“So it’s not the Horse that’s been killing people,” said Molly.

“No,” I said. “Whatever else is going on with the White Horse, I don’t think it gives a damn about the next generation of the White Horse Faction. I think . . . we have ourselves a very human murderer, in Monkton Manse. And unless someone else has been hiding here all along, which doesn’t seem likely . . . we know who the killer is.”

“Hadrian Coll was my parents’ best friend,” said Molly. “It can’t be him. He taught me how to be a free agent!”

“He was a double agent, working for my family,” I said. “He betrayed people to the Droods, over and over again. He never was who you thought he was.”

“That was the job, all right,” said Coll.

We looked quickly round, and there he was, standing in a doorway, half hidden in shadows, smiling at us. I had no idea how long he’d been there. He looked entirely relaxed, even calm. Didn’t even glance at Troy’s body. He nodded to me. “I should have known you’d be the one to find me out, Drood.”

“How long have you known?” I said.

“From the moment I met you. Your torc is well hidden, but I am half Drood, after all. I inherited the Sight from your uncle James, the legendary Grey Fox. Who was always quick enough to father a child, but never wanted to hang around to see how they turned out. I take it you are his nephew, the equally legendary Eddie Drood? Molly’s fellow. What happened to the real Shaman Bond?”

“I took his place,” I said smoothly. “He doesn’t even know I’m here, using his name. But even with the Sight, you shouldn’t . . .”

Coll shrugged, almost angrily. “You can’t spend as long on the run as I have, with learning to See all kinds of things that you’re not supposed to be able to.” He looked at Molly. “You, with a Drood. Never thought I’d see the day. . . .”

“You don’t know me,” said Molly. “You don’t know anything about me. How could you, when you kept so much from me? How could you do this, Hadrian? How could you just murder these people, after they went to all the trouble of tracking you down, to give you a second chance?”

“It’s all about survival,” said Coll, entirely unmoved. “I never asked for their help, or their second chance. And I certainly never wanted to be found. Bloody fools. Survival always comes first, Molly. I taught you that.”

He stepped forward, out of the shadows of the doorway, into the light. Like the Regent had, so many years before. Coll carried a huge wooden club, with a steel hoof attached to the heavy end. The hoof, and much of the club, was soaked with blood and hair and gore. Thick crimson drops fell steadily from the club’s end to the carpet. A terrible, brutal weapon.

“I arrived on the Island first,” said Coll, smugly. “Long before you two, never mind the Faction. I watched you from the Manse, while I decided how to play this. It gave me quite a turn to see you, Molly, all grown up. I almost gave it up then . . . almost. Survival has no room in it for sentiment, or pity. I’d brought this nasty little toy with me, carefully designed to confuse the issue. I hid it here, in the house. I still hoped I wouldn’t have to use it . . . if the White Horse didn’t show up. But it did. I knew it would. The new Faction leaders had to die, in a sufficiently brutal manner that no one would even try to reassemble the White Horse Faction again.”

“But . . . why?” said Molly. “Why did they have to die? What did they do that was so much of a threat to you, that you had to bludgeon them to death?”

“They found me,” said Coll. “And I didn’t want to be found. Couldn’t afford to be found. It’s the Horse, you see. It’s been chasing me, all these years. Because I’m the last survivor of the Working that called the White Horse forth, and then tried to control it. Because I’m the only one who might be able to put it down, and put it back under its barrow mound again. That’s why I disappeared so thoroughly, ten years ago. Why I’ve been on the run ever since. Always on the run, never able to stop and rest for long, running from one bolt-hole to another, so it could never find me. Until those three young fools tracked me down.

“I still don’t know how they managed it. Someone must have talked. Someone always talks, eventually. But Troy and Adams and Morrison found me, and knocked on my door . . . when even the Droods didn’t know where I was.”

“My family stopped looking for you years ago,” I said. “You were never that important to us.”

Coll flinched, and then laughed. Briefly, and perhaps a little bitterly. “Oh, but I was important. . . . When the White Horse finally finds me, and has its revenge upon me, it will turn its hatred on all Humanity. For burying it under that mound for centuries. For the sin of not worshipping it any more. I’ve kept the world alive, all these years, by keeping the Horse’s attention fixed on me!”

“You do fancy yourself, don’t you?” I said. “It’s just a horse! My family will deal with it. We’ve dealt with worse.”

Coll laughed again, and shook his head stubbornly. He’d been the hero of his own story far too long to give it up now. Even with a murder weapon in his hand, dripping blood and brains from people who had wanted so badly to be his friend.

“I had to kill them,” he said, patiently. “Because if they could find me, then the White Horse could use them to find me. It wasn’t difficult. All I had to do was wait for one to go off on their own, and then just pick them off, one at a time. They never saw it coming. . . . Now I can just disappear again. Escape to somewhere else, become someone else . . . after I’ve killed you two. Sorry, Molly. I don’t have any choice. No witnesses left behind . . . so no one will ever know what happened here. Just a few more dead bodies, in a house with a bad reputation. One more mystery, in mad old Monkton Manse.”

“You’d kill me, Hadrian?” said Molly stepping forward. “You’d really kill me?”

“That’s close enough, Molly,” said Hadrian. “Glad to see you haven’t forgotten what I taught you. I am still fond of you, and very proud of what you’ve made of yourself. You’re . . . important to me; but not more important than me. It’s always all about survival.”

“You betrayed my parents to the Droods,” said Molly, and her voice was cold, so cold. “They were your friends!”

“I’ve had many friends, in many groups,” said Coll. “And left them all behind when I moved on. That was the job. I was only ever in it for the money. After all, you can’t hope to survive, and protect yourself properly, without money. So that always has to come first.” He turned his empty eyes on me. “The Droods promised me they’d take me in. Make me one of them, part of the family. I’d have been safe, as one of the family. Like my father. But they kept putting me off, saying, ‘just one more mission’ . . . until I finally realised they never had any intention of making good on their promises. Not while I could still be useful to them. So really, this is all your fault, Drood.”

“You actually think you can take me, Hadrian?” I said. “Your club with a bit of metal on it, against my strange-matter armour?”

“Oh, this is so much more than just a club,” Coll said earnestly. “I’ve invested a lot of really nasty magics in this old wood, soaked it in vicious aptitudes and powerful qualities, down the long years. . . .”

“Powerful enough to stand against my magics?” said Molly. And just like that, she no longer sounded like the girl who idealised her old tutor. She sounded calm and cold and very dangerous. Her old self again.

Coll didn’t look impressed. He held the club out before him. “You have no idea of what you’re dealing with.”

“Right,” I said.

I stepped forward to distract him, and when he turned the club in my direction, Molly stepped briskly forward and kicked Coll square in the groin. His face squeezed up, and all the breath went out of him. I hit him hard in the arm muscle with my fist, and his hand leapt open, dropping the club. Game over.

And that was when we all stopped abruptly, and turned our heads, to look around. Suddenly, we were back in the entrance hallway again. Even though we’d left it far behind, ages ago. We were half-way across the house, standing before the closed front door. Because something had called us there. And once again, we heard the sound of hooves approaching, outside. Coll forced his eyes open, past the tears streaming down his cheeks. He stared at the door with horrid fascination.

“No . . .” he said, almost pleadingly, like a child. “It can’t do that . . . it can’t!”

“It’s found you,” I said. “It’s not too late, Hadrian. I suppose my family does owe you a debt. Come with me, agree to accept what punishment and penance my family decides on . . . and I’ll stand between you and the Horse. Because I think there are still some things you’re hiding from Molly that she needs to know.”

But he wasn’t listening to me. All his attention was fixed on the closed front door, and the terrible purposeful sounds outside. Drawing steadily closer. The noises were very loud, very heavy, very close now.

“You can’t take me!” Coll screamed defiantly at the door. “You’ll never have me!”

“I told you it was here,” I said. “Molly and I heard it, down on the beach. Funny that it didn’t try to attack us . . .”

“It’s found me again,” said Coll. His eyes were bright, almost fey. “It always finds me. . . .”

“You’re not the man I knew,” said Molly.

Coll turned abruptly to face me. “You’ve got a deal, Drood. Everything I know, every dirty deal and trick I’ve been involved with, everything I know about the Regent of Shadows, and everything I haven’t told you about Molly’s parents. Just—protect me! That’s your job, isn’t it, Drood?”

I looked at Molly. “He’s right. It is. But this isn’t about me. It’s about you. What do you need, Molly? You tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it for you.”

“Oh, hell,” said Molly. “Let him live. He’s too pathetic to kill, now. And just maybe . . . he might know things that I still want to know.”

“Stand back,” I said to Coll. “Give me room to work.”

I summoned up my armour, and it slipped around me in a moment. I felt faster, stronger, sharper; more than enough to deal with a living Horse god. I moved forward, to stand facing the closed front door. The sound of hooves was very clear, very close. The sound of a massive, gigantic Horse. Its every step shook the floor. The sounds approached the door, came right up to it, and then walked right through solid wood without even pausing. The hoof sounds were right there in the hallway with us, advancing steadily, and still I couldn’t see the White Horse, even with the augmented Sight my armour gave me. Heavy steps filled the hall, shaking the floor and the walls. I looked back.

Coll hadn’t moved. He just stood there and stared at the sounds, his face deathly pale, his eyes wide. I think perhaps he saw what I couldn’t. I stood between him and the sounds of the advancing Horse. My hands clenched into golden fists, spikes protruding from the knuckles. Molly came forward to stand beside me, stray magics sparking and spitting on the air around her.

“You can’t have him,” she said, raising her voice. “He’s a thug and a coward and a murderer, but vengeance is mine, not yours.”

The horse sounds just kept coming; so loud now they hurt my ears, even inside my armour. The floor shook, and the portraits on the walls swung back and forth, slamming into each other. The White Horse had to be right in front of me now. I braced myself, ready to throw a punch the moment anything touched me. Molly raised her glowing hands. And the Horse went right through us, invisible, and intangible as a thought. The sounds were behind us. I spun round, just in time to see Hadrian Coll throw up his hands to ward off something only he could see. And then the light went out of his eyes, and he fell to the floor, and didn’t move again.

The sounds stopped. No more sense of something else, so much more than human, in the hallway. Silence. I checked Coll’s body. He was quite dead. Not a mark on him, anywhere, apart from the look of sheer horror on his face. The Horse had trampled his soul.

“It is a terrible thing, to look into the face of a living god,” murmured Molly.

“Coll isn’t the problem any more,” I said, getting up. “The White Horse is the problem now. We can’t let it run free. How do we stop something like that?”

Molly looked at the body of the man who had been her friend and her tutor, and there was nothing in her face. Nothing at all. She turned away.

“Do we really have to stop it?” she said, her voice entirely calm. “I mean, it’s just a horse. Let it run free. Like a wild thing should.”

“It didn’t end up under that barrow by choice,” I said. “Its own priests put it there. Like you said, we have to consider its state of mind. Imprisoned for centuries, then released by people who only wanted to control and use it. If it really has been building up its power, all these centuries, now it no longer has Coll to pursue. . . . It could trample the whole world under its hooves.”

We left Monkton Manse and went outside. We could hear the White Horse running down on the beach below. I led the way to the edge of the cliff, and we looked up and down the beach; but there was no sign of the Horse anywhere.

“I thought you could See anything through your mask?” said Molly.

“So did I,” I said. “I thought you could See anything with your witchy Sight?”

Molly frowned, thought for a moment, and then carefully pronounced a very old and powerful Word, not meant for human vocal chords. And just like that, the White Horse was there. Impossibly huge, bigger than Monkton Manse, running not on the beach itself, but several feet above it. Dazzlingly white, brighter than the moon, running wild in the night, its unnatural brilliance reflected across the dark waters of the heaving sea. Running for the sheer joy of running; beauty and grace blazing in its every movement. Just to look at such a thing seized my heart. A living idea, too pure and too perfect for this small and grubby world.

“All right,” said Molly. “Now we can see it. What are we going to do?”

I armoured up, covering myself from head to toe in gleaming gold. “We go down to the beach,” I said.

I led the way down the steps cut into the cliff face. Molly stuck close behind me, stray magics sputtering on the air around her. When we reached the bottom and moved off along the pebbled beach, the White Horse was still cantering along, ignoring us. It looked even bigger, up close. Wild and majestic, and utterly untamed.

“I have to wonder what it’s still doing here,” said Molly. “I mean, with Hadrian dead, all those who might have bound the Horse again are gone. If it’s so keen to trample the world, like you said, what’s it still doing here?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it’s just doing a lap of triumph round the Island. It doesn’t matter. The White Horse is a threat to all Humanity, and I have to stop it here, while I still can.”

“How the hell are you going to stop something as big as that?” said Molly. “Walk up and punch it in the ankle?”

“Drood armour isn’t just about strength and protection,” I said. “Watch, and learn. And keep your magics handy, just in case this all goes horribly wrong.”

I concentrated on the strange matter of my armour, and a long golden line fell from my right hand, more and more of it falling in coils, until finally I had a long gold lariat in my hand. I formed a noose, and threw it high up into the air and right over the head of the massive White Horse. The golden lariat fell into place before the Horse even knew what was happening. The noose tightened around its great white neck, and the glowing golden line snapped taut.

Immediately, I was pulled forward by the sheer impetus of the Horse; but I dug my golden heels deep into the pebbled beach. The Horse dragged me on, so that I left two deep channels behind me in the beach; but the strength and power of my armour was more than a match for any living god. The White Horse slowed, shrinking all the time, until finally it was just a horse; and then it came to a sudden halt—shaking and shuddering, and tossing its head. I walked steadily forward, keeping a steady pressure on the golden line. Just a man and a horse now, and the bridle I’d made to break its spirit.

I called the golden line back into my glove, a few feet at a time, as I came to stand beside the horse. It stood very still. The long white face turned to look at me, with old, dark, very wise eyes. We looked at each other for a while. I heard Molly hurrying up to join me, but I couldn’t look away. I reached slowly out, took hold of the golden noose around the horse’s neck, loosened it, and pulled it over the horse’s head. The golden lariat snapped back into my glove, and was gone. I armoured down, and nodded to the horse, as Molly came to stand beside me.

“You were never a threat to the world, were you?” I said to the horse. “Just to those few poor fools who were so scared of you, that they tried to break you to their will. The one thing a creature of the wild like you could never stand. That’s why your old priests put you under the mound; because you didn’t give a damn about being worshipped. You just wanted to run free. So, go. Run free, as you were meant to.

“My people are the Droods. If you ever get tired of running, and you’d like some company, come and find us. You’d be very welcome. We’ve already got a dragon. You would be safe there, I promise you; free from all harm. But for now . . . run free!”

The White Horse reared up, growing larger and larger, until he was as big as the night sky, and then he turned and ran off across the sea, his hooves pounding on the waves until he disappeared into the night.

“You old softy, you,” said Molly.

“I’ve always had a fondness for wild things,” I said. “How are you feeling now, Molly?”

“More like myself,” she said. “I wanted answers, and I found them here; just like the Regent promised. But I can’t say I’m any wiser, or happier. We have to go back, Eddie. I need to talk to your grandfather about all the things he did as the Regent of Shadows.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “I have a few questions I need to put to him myself.”

“I know he’s your long-lost grandfather,” said Molly. “I know how much he means to you, and I know he’s done a lot to redeem himself. But I still have questions.”

“Take it from me,” I said. “Answers aren’t everything. Are you ready to go?”

“Hell, yes,” said Molly. “I never want to see this place again.”

“Then let’s get out of the cold,” I said.

I took out the Merlin Glass, and this time it worked perfectly. I shook the hand mirror out to full size, big as a door, and concentrated on the coordinates of the Regent’s private office at the Department of the Uncanny. We both stepped through the dimensional door. And then we both stood very still, as the mirror snapped shut behind us.

We were standing in the Drood family Armoury, deep under Drood Hall, facing my uncle Jack, the Armourer. I glared at him.

“You interrupted the spatial transfer!” I said. “You diverted us here! I didn’t know you could do that.”

He smiled smugly. “I am the one who wrote out the operating manual for the Merlin Glass, remember? Which I am ready to bet you still haven’t finished reading yet. It doesn’t matter. Eddie, Molly—you need to come with me. You’re needed. All hell has broken loose.”

“Oh, not again,” said Molly.