The Spy Who Haunted Me

CHAPTER TWO Summoned to Judgement, Summoned to Tourney

So; previously, in the Secret Histories . . . My family used to be ruled by a Matriarch, my grandmother Martha Drood. But I discovered that the family had become corrupt and divided under her rule and that she was party to an old and terrible secret at the heart of the Droods’ So power. So I turned against my family, brought my grandmother down, destroyed the awful Heart from which our power came, and took over running the family myself. I replaced the alien Heart with an interdimensional traveller that preferred, for inscrutable reasons of its own, to be called Ethel, and I did my best to change the way the family did things, introducing democracy for the first time.

I organised free and fair elections to decide who should run the family, and they voted overwhelmingly for Martha Drood.

I did consider killing her, blowing up the family home, scattering the Droods to the four corners of the earth, and generally acting up cranky, but basically . . . I couldn’t be arsed. They’d made their choice; let them live with it. I had overthrown the Zero Tolerance faction within the family, destroyed the evil Manifest Destiny conspiracy outside the family, and saved all of humanity from the invasion of the Hungry Gods . . . and I just didn’t have it in me to fight another war.

Besides, Martha did have the experience, and she had mellowed, and the Heart was gone, so . . . I just let her get on with it. I went back to being nothing more than a field agent again, with no more crushing duties and responsibilities and decisions—which was, after all, what I’d always wanted.

I was still part of the Matriarch’s advisory council, to which she was, technically, obliged to explain herself and if necessary answer to. The family insisted. Thanks a whole bunch, family. And if Grandmother should go to the bad again, I could always kill her, burn the place down, scatter the family, etc.

The advisory council consisted of myself, my uncle Jack the Armourer, my cousin Harry, and William the Librarian. But not my girlfriend, the wild witch of the woods, Molly Metcalf, even though she had served with honour on the previous council, during the Hungry Gods War. In the end the Droods wouldn’t accept her in a position of authority over them, because she wasn’t family. If she were to marry me, that would be different, of course. But Molly is a free spirit and not the marrying kind. So she left the Hall and returned to her own private wood. I could have gone with her. I wanted to. But I had my duty, to my family and to the world, and through everything that’s changed I still believe in the importance and necessity of what I do.

Molly understands. She’d never been happy in the Hall anyway.

I have my own room in the Hall, with a good view, and I also happen to possess a handy little item called the Merlin Glass that allows me to jump straight to where I’m needed. It’s also a direct doorway to Molly’s wild woods. I spend as much time there as I can. Distance and family and duty are not enough to separate or divide us.

Molly and I love each other. In an ever-changing world, it’s the one certainty I can rely on.

I was always happiest working alone, as a field agent. My only responsibility to the job, and to the mission. All the time I was running the family, I couldn’t wait to put it all behind me and go back to my old job. Which only goes to show. Always be wary when the fates give you what you ask for. It means they’re setting you up for something really bad . . .

So, anyway, after the Tower of London affair, the family called me back from London. Come home, they said. You’re needed. Most urgent, most secret, get your arse back here right now. But don’t use the Merlin Glass. “Most urgent and most secret” means the fat is already in the fire and melting fast, and not using the Glass meant . . . someone was watching. I got my new car out of its garage and set course for the southwest countryside of England. It was a pleasant enough run down the motorway and then into the narrow roads and winding lanes that lead to a house you won’t find on any map. The Hall has been home to the Droods for generations, and we take our privacy very seriously. Anyone who comes looking for us won’t find us. Or if by some unfortunate chance they do, no one will ever see them again.

We might protect you from all the monsters in the dark, but we don’t like to be bothered. We’re your bodyguards, not your mother.

My new car, a Rover 25, had been carefully chosen to be anonymous and everyday. It was bright red; in fact, it was so red it was Red! Every time I got into it I was reminded of the old adage about a car being just a penis extension. I was tempted to paint the bonnet purple and sculpt some veins down the sides. Do I really need to tell you I didn’t choose this car?

Still, it came complete with all the usual extras, courtesy of my uncle Jack. Armed, armoured, and faster than a rat up a drainpipe, this particular Rover 25 could do 300 mph in reverse, fly at Mach 2, and even, in an emergency, go sideways. The Armourer was very keen for me to try that out, but I didn’t like the look in his eye when he said it. He’s still mad at me for messing up his beloved racing Bentley. The Rover 25 had all the usual hidden weaponry, protections, and nasty surprises for the ungodly, plus an ejector seat that could blast an unwanted passenger straight into the next dimension but three.

The gateway to the massive grounds surrounding the Hall is only there if you’re a Drood; to the rest of the world it’s a very solid stone wall. I aimed the Rover 25 at the wall and put my foot down, and the car sailed through, the ancient stonework brushing briefly against my face like so many cobwebs; and then I was driving up the old familiar path that led through the long rolling grounds to the Hall . . . and everything that was waiting for me.

The sweeping green lawns stretched away in all directions for as far as the eye could follow, maintained by sprinkler systems that contained more than a touch of holy water, just in case. My family has a lot of enemies, but anyone who comes after us where we live deserves every nasty thing that happens to them. Robot machine guns rose smoothly up through the grass from their concealed bunkers to track the Rover 25 as it passed, but I didn’t take it personally. I was being considered and identified by a hundred invisible security systems all the way to the Hall. We Droods haven’t survived as a force for good all these centuries by taking anything for granted.

Winged unicorns frolicked gracefully overhead in the clear blue sky, so pure a white they left shimmering trails behind them, while down below aristocratic swans drifted unconcerned across the smooth dark waters of the lake. There are undines in there too, but they mostly keep themselves to themselves. Two really ugly gryphons were humping enthusiastically up against a large Henry Moore statue, and getting muck and mess all over it. I didn’t give a toss. Never did like that statue: ugly great thing. And the roses were out again, blossoming red, white, and blue.

The Hall stood tall and broad and firm on the horizon, heavy with the weight of history and obligation and sacred cause. A huge manor house in the old Tudor style, with four great wings added on somewhat later, plus other things too. Strange lights burned in many of the windows, accompanied no doubt by the usual odd noises and the occasional rumble of an explosion. We’re a lively family. I passed the old hedge maze, giving it plenty of room and a distrustful glance. It covers half an acre and is fiendishly intricate in its layout, but we never use it. The maze was designed and built in Georgian times to hold and contain Something, but no one now remembers who or what or why. When your home contains as many marvels and wonders as ours, a few things are bound to fall through the cracks. Sometimes literally. Now and again we throw into the maze someone we don’t like very much, just to see what will happen. So far, none of them have ever come out again.

A rocket-assisted autogyro blasted off from one of the landing pads on the roof, leaving a long contrail behind it, while someone in a jet pack glided in for a landing. And no, in case you were wondering: no one in this family has used a broomstick for centuries. The Droods live very firmly in the present, not the past.

I slammed the Rover 25 to a halt in a shower of flying gravel and parked the car right outside the front door just because I knew I wasn’t supposed to. I stepped out of the Rover and looked the old place over. It hadn’t changed in the six months I’d been away, but that was the point of the Drood family home: it never changed. Like the family, it maintained, sometimes in the face of everything the world could send against it. The car door locked itself behind me, and I heard the defences powering up. Good luck to anyone who tried to move it; my car had a few protections even the family didn’t know about.

I like to keep my family on their toes; it keeps them from taking me for granted.

I headed for the front entrance, and the huge door immediately swung open before me, revealing the cold, grim face of the new Serjeant-at-Arms. The old Serjeant went out in a blaze of glory during the Hungry Gods War, and the new guy just didn’t have his brutal and despised predecessor’s effortless air of menace and imminent violence. He tried hard, though. The new Serjeant-at-Arms was squat and broad and muscular and, in his immaculate formal butler’s outfit, looked very much like a nightclub bouncer at a funeral. His face was dark and craggy and had clearly never once been bothered by a smile. Not surprising, when you considered the importance of his duties. Not only was he the first line of defence against any attack on the Hall; he was also responsible for internal discipline within the family. A good Serjeant-at-Arms may be respected, even feared, but never liked. It’s probably part of the job description. Thou shalt not be popular. The Serjeant maintains family discipline by enforcing every law with open brutality.

He does not spare the rod with the children.

The new Serjeant-at-Arms’ name, never used anymore in public, was Cedric. There’s something about certain names that pretty much ensures that particular child will be teased and bullied by his peers all through childhood. Sometimes I think the parents do it on purpose, to ensure their precious progeny will grow up tough and hard. With a name like Cedric, the guy was destined to be Serjeant-at-Arms someday. That, or a serial killer.

He stood firmly in the doorway, deliberately blocking my way. He glowered at me, his arms folded tightly across his impressive chest. I considered him thoughtfully. While I was running the family I was exempt from family discipline, but now I was just a field agent again . . . I was still exempt, as far as I was concerned. I’ve never got on with authority figures. Even when I was one. I’m a firm believer in rules and discipline within the family, as long as they don’t apply to me. I was tempted to hit the Serjeant with my one remaining mellow bomb, just to see what would happen. I quite liked the idea of seeing Cedric sitting naked on the lawns, hugging the gryphons and singing show tunes to them. But . . . I had promised myself I’d be good, at least until I’d found out just what was so important I had to be summoned back so urgently.

And how deep I was in it.

“Hello, Cedric,” I said. “Getting much?”

“Move the car,” he said. His voice was little more than a whisper and all the more menacing for it. His cold, unwavering gaze would have reduced a lesser man to tears.

“You move it,” I said cheerfully. “Really; I’d love to see you try. Anyone who tries to shift that motor against its will, dear Serjeant, will almost certainly find bits of themselves raining down all over the lawns, covering a wide area.”

“Parking in front of the Hall is against the rules,” said the Serjeant. He really did have a very impressive stare. Probably would have worked on anyone else.

“So am I,” I said. “Now shift your incredible bulk out of my way, or I’ll tell the Matriarch you were mean to me. I’m here to meet with her and the council.”

“I know,” said the Serjeant. “And you’re late.” He leaned forward slightly, his great form towering over me. “I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done; you mess with me and I’ll make you permanently late. You’ll be the late Edwin Drood.”

“See, there you had to go and spoil it,” I said. “Never hammer a threat into the ground, Cedric.”

His expression didn’t change, but he stepped back to allow me to pass. I strode in with my nose in the air, back into the Hall that was my home, like it or not. Back into the cold embrace and dangerous entanglements of my beloved family.

I made my way unhurriedly through the long corridors and passageways, the great open chambers and galleries, surrounded on all sides by the acquired loot of ages. To the victor goes the spoils, and we have spoiled ourselves. The Hall is stuffed full of accumulated treasures, including masterpieces of art and famous statues by immortal names. Gifts from grateful governments, and others. Or perhaps tribute to the secret masters of the world. Presented just as prominently were suits of armour and weapons from centuries past, and not a few from the future, all with their own legends and histories, all of them bright and gleaming and ready for use at a moment’s notice. There were fabulous carpets and rich hanging drapes, and long shafts of sunlight poured like slow time through tall stained-glass windows.

They were waiting for me in what used to be called the Sanctity: a great cavernous chamber that once contained the Heart that gave the family its armour and its power. A single massive diamond as big as a bus, with a million gleaming facets, the Heart turned out to be an other-dimensional fugitive from justice that fed on pain and horror and death, until I destroyed it. These days the Sanctity is empty, and the family’s armour and power derives from another extradimensional creature with rather more friendly motives. She insists on being called Ethel, though God knows I’ve tried to talk her out of it. Ethel manifests in the Sanctity as a soothing shade of red, suffusing the whole chamber with its happy presence and the scent of roses.

The council were waiting impatiently at an ancient oak table set in the middle of the chamber. It would have looked small and even insignificant in such a setting if not for the importance of the people sitting around it. I strolled across the chamber, head held high, maintaining an ostentatious serenity under the accusing weight of their stares. My footsteps echoed loudly in the quiet. I sat down, and smiled easily around me.

“So, who’s got the cards?”

They didn’t smile. Not all the council were there; just the Matriarch and the Armourer. Martha Drood sat straight-backed in her chair, tall and elegant and more regal than any queen. She had been a famous beauty once, and you could still see the force of it in her strong bone structure. She wore country tweeds, twin set, and pearls, and her long gray hair was piled up on top of her head in the style of times past. My grandmother, though she’d never let that get in the way of doing whatever needed to be done. She’d tried to have me killed, but we’d got over that . . . mostly. She had to be in her early seventies now, but there wasn’t an ounce of weakness in her. She studied me with calm, calculating gray eyes, waiting for me to acknowledge her, so I deliberately nodded cheerfully to the Armourer.

A bald, middle-aged man with thick tufty white eyebrows and a permanent scowl, Uncle Jack looked sulky and put-upon, as he always did when called away from his beloved Armoury. Devilishly talented when it came to creating dangerous and devious devices, but he just couldn’t be bothered with people skills anymore. He used to be a field agent, and a great one in his day, but he rarely left the Armoury now.

I prefer things to people, he once told me. You can fix things when they go wrong.

The long lab coat wrapped around his spindly frame had presumably been white once, but it was now disfigured with rips and tears, chemical stains and burns, and the occasional splash of someone else’s blood. And what might have been mustard. Under the lab coat, the Armourer was wearing a grubby T-shirt with the legend Weapons of Mass Destruction R Us. He had large, bony, engineer’s hands and kind eyes.

“Hi there, hi there, hi there!” said Ethel, her words seeming to burst out of everywhere at once. “Welcome home, Eddie! Great to have you back; everyone else here is so stuffy! They just don’t know how to have fun, the great bunch of stiffs. The Hall is always so much more lively when you’re around. How was London? How was the Tower? Did you bring me back a present?”

“I never know what to get you,” I said. “You’re so hard to buy for, but then I find that’s true for most immaterial other-dimensional entities.” I ignored Ethel’s giggles and looked at the Matriarch. “Where’s the rest of the council? Are we waiting for them?”

“No,” said Martha, her voice calm and even and utterly devoid of any kind of warmth. “For the time being, we are the council. Your cousin Harry is out in the field with his partner Roger Morningstar, infiltrating one of the more dubious Paris nightclubs in pursuit of the notorious Fantom. I can’t believe that madman’s on the loose again so soon after we put him away. If the French authorities can’t build a prison strong enough to hold their most notorious and appalling criminal, I shall have the Armourer build them something special. And make them pay through the nose for it.”

“I thought we blew the Fantom up last year,” said the Armourer, frowning.

“We did,” said the Matriarch. “It didn’t take. Harry and Roger will be back when they can.”

“And William?” I said.

“The Librarian is hard at work, in the old library,” said the Armourer. “Hardly ever leaves the place. Got a cot set up in there, and a chemical toilet, and has all his meals sent in.”

“Normally I wouldn’t allow such behaviour,” said the Matriarch. “But we need him.”

“It’s not healthy,” the Armourer said firmly. “I mean, I love my Armoury, but at the end of the day I lock the door behind me and go home.”

“William is doing good and necessary work,” the Matriarch said. “And that is all that matters.”

“To us,” said the Armourer. “But what about him?”

“Hush, Jack.”

“Yes, Mother.”

I nodded glumly. “I did hope he’d improve, after I got him out of that asylum for the criminally insane and brought him home, but . . . the Heart really did a number on his head. Give him time; he’ll bounce back. He’s a tough old stick.”

“Of course,” said Martha. “He’s a Drood.”

“And we’re never more dangerous than when we’re crazy!” said the Armourer, waggling his bushy eyebrows.

“Jack . . .”

“Sorry, Mother.”

“So,” I said thoughtfully. “Just the three of us. How cosy.”

“Four!” said the crimson glow reproachfully.

“Sorry, Ethel,” I said. “Four. Now . . . just what is so important that I have to be dragged all the way back here, with absolutely no advance warning? And why did I have to drive down? Why couldn’t I just transport myself directly here through the Merlin Glass, like I normally do?”

“We can’t risk word of this getting out,” the Matriarch said steadily. “I’ve never entirely trusted the Merlin Glass. I mean, look who made it. You did bring it with you?”

“Of course,” I said. “It’s safely locked in the boot of my car.”

“Good,” said the Armourer. “That means no one can listen in through it.”

“I see the family’s paranoia is well and thriving,” I said. “Look, either someone gives me a really good reason for my being here, or I am driving my nice little car straight back to the more civilised comforts of London. I am not in charge of the family anymore, and only a member of the council when I absolutely have to be; I am a field agent again, and I like it that way. I have just saved the Crown Jewels from being stolen and protected the whole of England from a terrible disaster, and I am owed some serious downtime.”

Give the Matriarch credit, she didn’t so much as blink an eye at my tirade, even though no one else in the family would have dared talk to her in such a way. “Have you finished?” she said calmly.

“Get to the point or I’ll set fire to your shoes,” I said.

She smiled thinly. “So I’m only in charge of running this family when it suits you, Edwin? I don’t think so. You accepted the result of the election. You stepped down in my favour. You gave up overall duty and responsibility, in return for your . . . independence. You agreed to accept my authority as Matriarch; or do you now intend to remove me by force? Again?”

“Depends,” I said darkly. “Why am I here?”

“First, there is urgent council business that must be discussed,” said the Matriarch just a bit triumphantly, and I could have wept. She was going to do this her way, and all I could do was go along. Because she was in charge now, and because she really wouldn’t have summoned me back so urgently unless it was important. She didn’t want me back, undermining her authority and setting a bad example, any more than I wanted to be here.

The Matriarch nodded to the Armourer, and he sat up straight in his chair and launched into a prepared speech. “There are a great many questions left over from the Hungry Gods War,” he said, scowling more deeply than ever. “We never did find out who the traitor and damned fool in the family was who first summoned the Loathly Ones into our reality and opened a door for the Many-Angled Ones, the Hungry Gods. We’re sure now it wasn’t any accident. The traitor insisted on bringing the Loathly Ones through to use as weapons during World War Two, when there were many other, and far safer, options. So why did he do it?”

“There is . . . some evidence suggesting the traitor may still be alive and a part of this family,” said the Matriarch. Her voice was very cold now. “He would have to be over a hundred years old and extending his life through unnatural means. It seems . . . he has killed another member of the family and taken over their identity.”

“How is that possible?” I said, actually shocked. “When we’re all crammed together in this place, how the hell could he do it without being noticed? One of the reasons I was so glad to get out of the Hall was because of how closely we all live on top of each other.”

“No clues, no hard evidence, not even any real theories,” the Armourer said grimly. “Nothing definite, just . . . whispers. But whoever he is, he’s still making trouble. We’re pretty sure he started the Zero Tolerance faction in the family and founded and manipulated the Manifest Destiny group outside it. That faction still has its supporters in the family, muttering that we should be more proactive against our many enemies. Don’t look at me like that, Eddie. I know better than to believe such nonsense, but it’s what some people are saying.”

“Fools,” said the Matriarch. “We protect humanity by keeping its enemies off balance, playing one against another. We stick to the old ways because they work and have done for centuries.”

“Still,” I said, thinking hard. “A traitor, very old and very powerful, embedded deep inside the family. Like we don’t have enough problems . . . Are there any family members left who were active during the thirties and forties? They might be able to help us.”

“Don’t look at me,” said Martha. “I was but a child in those days. William is currently searching through family records in search of . . . gaps or anomalies.”

“Droods don’t tend to live long lives,” said the Armourer. “We live hard, we carry heavy responsibilities, and we burn out early. Which is why I’ve been thinking about a new kind of device: a whole new way to call up the recently dead and ask them questions.”

“No, Armourer,” said the Matriarch very firmly.

“All right, my last try was a bit of a disaster, but this one would work! I’m almost certain we could reach departed Droods from the thirties—”

“I said no, Jack!” The Matriarch glared at him until he lapsed into rebellious silence. “It is against family policy to encourage ghosts, or we’d be hip deep in revenants by now. You know very well that even the most dearly departed cannot be trusted. The dead always have their own agenda.”

“There’s always been a few manifestations in the Hall,” said the Armourer just a bit sulkily. “Why don’t we try them? I mean, Jacob may be gone, but there’s still the headless nun in the old gallery . . .”

“Good luck getting her to answer questions,” I murmured.

“All right then, what about—”

“The dead are out of bounds,” the Matriarch said loudly. “We will move on. We still don’t know who killed Sebastian. Or rather, what was left of him after he’d been infected and possessed by a Loathly One. He died in one of our most secure holding cells, inside an isolation tank.” She gave the Armourer a hard look, and he fidgeted nervously in his seat. “I was given to understand those tanks were impregnable.”

“They are!” said the Armourer. “I designed them myself. Be fair—he didn’t escape, did he . . . ? Whoever killed Sebastian walked right through all our defences, past all of our surveillance systems, scientific and magical, without setting off one alarm, and apparently was able to murder Sebastian without even entering the isolation tank. My people have gone over the whole damned area with every investigative tool we’ve got, including several I made up specially, and turned up nothing. Of course, if my best isn’t good enough for you . . .”

“Don’t sulk, Jack. It’s unbecoming in a man of your age. And sit up straight; you’re slouching again.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Edwin . . .”

“Don’t try pulling rank on me, Grandmother. I’ll slouch if I want to.”

“I was about to say, it always comes back to there being a traitor in this family. Someone with access to all our secrets.”

“Secrets,” I said. “Could this traitor . . . be the same traitor who gave up the secrets of the Hall’s defences so the Heart could be attacked? We never did find out who was behind that. And given what we now know about the sick and evil nature of the Heart, could those attacking forces have been good guys all along?”

“Ethel?” said the Matriarch.

“I keep telling you,” the disembodied voice said reproachfully, “I really don’t know. I know many things. Secrets of the universes. If you knew what pyramids were really for, you’d spit and go blind. But the Heart . . . made a lot of enemies before it came here. Destroyed whole worlds, whole civilisations, for its pleasure. I wasn’t the only one trying to track it down for justice and vengeance.”

“And your first contact with this dimension was through the Blue Fairy,” I said thoughtfully.

“Yes; he went fishing through the dimensions and happened to catch on to a very small part of me.”

“He opens dimensional doors,” the Matriarch said slowly. “And we brought him here, into the Hall, during the Hungry Gods War. On your recommendation, Edwin.”

“He betrayed my trust,” I said. “But he couldn’t be our traitor.”

“Why not?” said the Armourer. “What do we really know about him? A half elf, product of an elven father and a human mother. We have a pretty good idea of who the father was, but I don’t think anyone ever identified the mother . . . Could she have been a Drood? It would help explain why the Blue Fairy was so desperate to steal a torc from us.”

“I once discovered the Blue Fairy lurking in the old library,” I said. “Maybe he was looking for evidence of his family roots . . .”

“We need to talk with William,” said the Matriarch. “Ethel, establish a communication link, please.”

“Oh, sure! No problem! I love doing stuff like this. You know the material laws of your dimension are really easy to mess with. Basically because they’re not so much laws as local agreements. I could—”

“No, you couldn’t,” I said quickly. “Contrary to anything you may hear us say, we actually do like things the way they are. Just give us a window to the old library, please.”

Ethel sniffed. “You’re so unadventurous. And you never did get around to explaining this sex thing you all do . . .”

“Later, Ethel. The window, please . . .”

The air shimmered before us, and a pair of heavy plush velvet purple curtains appeared. There was a loud trumpet fanfare from nowhere, followed by a roll of drums, and then the curtains opened dramatically to reveal a view into the old library. Hard to tell where, exactly; one tall stack of dusty old bookshelves looks much like another. The light was a dull golden glow, like a patina of age impressed upon the air itself. William appeared abruptly before us, thrusting his angry face right at us, a bit like one of these three-dimensional images gone feral. With his heavily lined face, fierce eyes, and lengthening gray hair and beard, William looked a lot like one of those Old Testament prophets, the ones who specialised in predicting really bad things happening anytime soon.

“There is absolutely no need to ring an incredibly loud bell at this end when you want to talk to me! I am crazy, not deaf! You know I don’t like loud noises. Or squirrels . . .”

“Report your progress, Librarian,” said the Matriarch, cutting across what promised to be a lengthy diatribe.

William scowled at her. “Say please.”

The Matriarch sighed. “Edwin, would you like to be head of this family again?”

“Just say please to him and get it over with,” I said.

“Oh, very well. Please,” said the Matriarch.

“Didn’t sound like you meant it,” William said cunningly. “Say pretty please.”

“Pretty please!”

“Very good, Matriarch! Now try disestablishmentarianism in Krakatoa east of Java.”

“William . . .” I said.

He pouted. “No one knows how to have fun in this family. All right; progress report.” He sniffed a few times and blinked his eyes just a bit vaguely. “I’m still putting together a list of all the books missing from the old library. Some quite important volumes and documents are not where they should be. Mostly to do with our own family history . . .”

“That’s it?” said the Armourer. “That’s all you’ve done? You’ve had months!”

“Don’t shout! Or I’ll have a mood swing. You know I’m still not properly myself yet.” The Librarian clasped his hands together tightly, perhaps so we wouldn’t see how badly they were shaking. “Being in the old library helps. I feel safe here. Secure.”

“We have prepared a very comfortable room for you in east wing,” said the Matriarch. “It’s got a view. Not much of a view, perhaps, but still . . .”

“No! No . . .” William shook his head jerkily. “I’m not ready to be with other people. Not yet. Had enough of that in the asylum. It’s easier to be me when I’m not . . . distracted. I like it here, among the books. I trust them. You know where you are with books . . .” He stopped and looked around him uncertainly for a moment. “Though sometimes I still see things out of the corners of my eyes . . . Might be real. Might not. I don’t take chances anymore . . . Eddie, good to see you again! Always good to see you. Yes . . . Did you want something?”

“The books that have gone missing from the old library,” I said patiently. “You said they concerned Drood family history.”

“One hundred and twenty-seven items, so far,” the Librarian said instantly. He was immediately more precise and focused, once he was on safe ground again. “Books, folios, even original manuscripts. Some I can only identify from their titles or from gaps left on the shelves. No idea about the actual contents. We really must assemble a proper index, as a matter of urgency. There are some gaps on the shelves I can’t explain at all . . .

“My first thought was that the books might have been taken by the Zero Tolerance faction, to hand over to Truman’s Manifest Destiny group . . . but I am told a thorough search of their abandoned bases has failed to turn up a single volume, so . . . I’ve been working on the assumption that the traitor in our family is responsible. Perhaps he intended to sell them to our enemies. Perhaps they contained clues to his true identity . . .”

He stopped again to look jerkily about him. “This is the old library,” he said slowly. “Long thought lost and destroyed. Not the library I used to run before the Heart destroyed my mind . . . No. This is an old place, older than you think. Older than anyone thinks. Listen to me, Martha. I may not be the man I once was, and I may have trouble with my memory, but I am not crazy. Even if I sometimes play it, just to watch that vein throb in your forehead. I can say I am not crazy with some confidence, because I have been crazy, and I know what it feels like. This . . . is different. There’s something in here, with me. Hiding in the stacks, in the shadows, in the gaps . . . Watching. Waiting. I don’t know what it is or how long it might have been here. Maybe it’s always been here. Sometimes I think it’s a good thing, sometimes not. Maybe there was a good reason why the old library had to be lost . . . And maybe, just maybe, when we reopened the old library, we woke it up again.

“I’m pretty sure there’s something inside the Merlin Glass too. You should be careful, Eddie. Check the reflection for things that shouldn’t be there . . .”

He broke off as his young assistant Librarian, Rafe, appeared beside him in the window. Rafe had been made family Librarian in William’s absence but immediately stood aside on William’s return. Rafe was the first to admit he wasn’t in William’s league. He patted William comfortingly on the shoulder. Rafe had a kind, almost clerical face and a first-class mind when he concentrated.

“There you are,” he said chidingly to William. “I take my eye off you for ten minutes . . . You didn’t take your medication again this morning, did you?”

“Turns my piss blue,” grumbled William. “Never trust anything that turns your piss blue.”

Rafe looked out the window at me. “Is this anything I can help you with? The Librarian really isn’t strong, you know. He should be having his rest period now.”

“I am not a child, Rafe,” said the Librarian. “I do not need a rest period.”

“All right then,” Rafe said patiently. “Why not come and have a nice sit-down, then? I’ve just made a fresh pot of tea.”

“Are there Jaffa Cakes?” said the Librarian.

“Of course there are Jaffa Cakes. And a few chocolate chip cookies.”

“That’s more like it!” said the Librarian cheerfully. “Nothing like a good cup of tea to sharpen the wits and clean out the kidneys. I shall address my thoughts to the problem, Matriarch, and inform you when I have an answer.”

He marched away, not even looking back. Rafe watched the Librarian go and sighed quietly.

“He has his good days and his bad days. He has a remarkable mind when he’s . . . himself. The work he’s done here has been exceptional. We’re months ahead of where I thought we’d be. But he’s still . . .”

“Distracted,” said the Matriarch.

“Well, yes. Sometimes. But he is a lot better than he used to be. Really.”

“Of course, Rafe,” said the Armourer. “We understand. Can you tell us anything about the missing books or the identity of our possible traitor?”

“Nothing that William wouldn’t already have said. I really thought we were onto something when we discovered the Zero Tolerance faction had had access to the old library, but Callan’s been very firm that he hasn’t found anything in all of the Manifest Destiny bases he’s been through.”

“Keep looking,” said the Matriarch. “And keep an eye on William.”

She gestured sharply, and Ethel closed the window. She didn’t bother with the curtains or flourishes this time. Perhaps even Ethel could sense when the Matriarch really wasn’t in the mood.

“How is Callan these days?” I said carefully.

“Recovering,” said the Armourer. “He’s adapted well to his new torc, but we’re all keeping a watchful eye on him. No Drood has ever survived having his torc ripped off him before.”

“There’s no denying he’s been behaving . . . oddly,” said the Matriarch. “But then, Callan always did. He insisted on returning to the field the moment he was physically capable, and none of us had the heart to say no. But since then, he’s been a driven man. Working every hour God sends, either to prove to us that he’s still the man he used to be or to prove it to himself.”

“The family has always asked a lot of us,” I said.

“Only when necessary,” the Matriarch said immediately. “For the good of the family, and the world.”

“At least tell me Callan’s not out there on his own,” I said.

“Of course not!” said the Matriarch. “We partnered him with Subway Sue. Another of our spiritually walking wounded. Each of them thinks they’re there to look after the other, and so far it seems to be working. They’re currently down in Tasmania, investigating a new outbreak of devil worship.”

“He sent us a postcard,” said the Armourer. “Quite a rude one, actually. I’ll show it to you later, Eddie.”

“It is vital to the family that we recover the stolen torc,” the Matriarch said forcefully. “We cannot allow our most powerful weapon to remain in the hands of an enemy.”

“The Blue Fairy said he was taking it to the Fae Court,” said the Armourer. “And the only direct route to the world of the elves these days is in Shadows Fall.” The Armourer shuddered briefly. “Don’t know which of those places disturbs me the most.”

“Well, somebody’s going to have to go and get it,” said Ethel. “I can’t reach the torc myself, and it’s not for want of trying. It’s part of me and I want it back. But I can’t just reach into the elven realm; it’s too different. And believe me, I know from different. The Fae Court would put my teeth on edge. If I had any.”

“Hold everything!” I said. “If that’s why you called me back, you can forget it. I am not going to the Fae Court. It’s dangerous! Besides, they hate me!”

“They hate everybody,” said the Armourer, not unreasonably. “They’re elves.”

“Yeah, but I killed a whole bunch of elf lords and ladies on the M4, remember? I turn up before Oberon and Titania, and they’ll turn me into something. Probably something soft and squishy that squelches when it moves. You do remember that attempt on my life, Grandmother? You did arrange it, after all.”

“I have apologised,” said the Matriarch. “I don’t see what else I can do.”

“No,” I said. “You wouldn’t. Look, for this you need a diplomat. Someone they’ll talk to. Or at the very least listen to.”

“Trust me,” said the Matriarch. “I would never send you on any mission where diplomacy was necessary.”

“Even when you say something nice, it sounds like an insult,” I said. “Come on, people, you’ve been around and around the bushes so many times you’ve worn a trench in the ground. Why am I here?”

The Matriarch and the Armourer glanced at each other. “Forgive us for coming at this in such a roundabout way,” the Armourer said finally. “But we thought it important you understood and appreciated the situation the family is in. Traitors within, enemies without, and far too many questions we can’t answer. On top of that, we’re stretched far too thin. We’ve had to send out too many new field agents to replace those who died during the Hungry Gods War. Often without proper training, because there just wasn’t time. Many of them are going to die, but we had to send them anyway, because we have to reestablish our presence in the world. Remind everyone that the Droods are still a force to be reckoned with.”

“The family cannot afford to be perceived as weak or divided,” the Matriarch said flatly. “For the moment, most of the world gov ernments are still impressed, if not actually grateful, that we were able to save the world from the invading Hungry Gods. So everyone’s behaving themselves and playing nice. But it won’t last.”

“And all the usual troublemakers are still out there,” said the Armourer. “Dr. Delirium, the Kali Corporation, the Djinn Jeanie. So . . . when someone comes forward and offers us the name and current identity of the traitor within the family . . . we have to take them seriously.”

“We have received . . . a communication,” said the Matriarch, her thin mouth compressing as though tasting something bad. “From Alexander King, the legendary Independent Agent. Yes, I thought you’d recognise the name, Edwin. The single greatest spy the world has ever known.”

“Damn right!” I said, sitting up straight in spite of myself. “You used to tell me stories about him when I was just a kid, Uncle Jack. Hell, everyone knows stories about the Independent Agent!”

“Impress me,” said the Matriarch. “Show me you paid some attention during your lessons. What do you know about Alexander King?”

“There have always been other intelligence agencies in the world,” I said, “doing the same work as us. Some political, some religious: the Regent of Shadows, the London Knights, the Salvation Army Sisterhood. And any number of individual agents playing the great game for their own reasons: the Walking Man, the Travelling Doctor, the Old Wolf of Kabul, John Taylor in the Nightside . . . But the best of them has always been Alexander King. He’s taken on every rogue organisation, faction, and Individual of Mass Destruction and run rings around all of them. He’s worked with or against pretty much every government at one time or another, but always on his own terms. He’s even worked with us a few times. Didn’t he and Uncle James once . . . ?”

“Yes, he did,” said the Armourer. “And we still don’t talk about it. The point is, the Independent Agent has no loyalty to anyone other than himself. He’s worked for every country, every cause, every organisation, and always strictly for cash. He’s saved the world nine times, to our certain knowledge, and come close to destroying it twice.”

“I always thought he did it for the challenge,” said the Matriarch. To my surprise she was smiling just a little, and her usually calm and cold voice had just a touch of the wistful in it. “To see if he could do it, when no one else could. Alexander has been the best spy in the world for almost seventy years now. He admits to being ninety-one years old but could be even older. The point is, he became increasingly choosy about his missions, turning down most people. He said it was because there were no real challenges left anymore, but age catches up with all of us, even the incredible Independent Agent. In fact, he’s been quiet for so long most of us thought he’d retired.”

“He did contact us during the Hungry Gods War, to offer his services,” said the Armourer. “But that was when Harry was running things, and he said no. I don’t think he wanted to be overshadowed. Of course, that was before we realised just how serious the whole affair was . . .”

“The point is,” said the Matriarch, glaring sternly at the Armourer until he sank back into his chair, “Alexander King has contacted us. He says he’s dying. And is therefore prepared to divulge a lifetime’s hoarded knowledge and secrets to whichever present-day agent can demonstrate that they are worthy to take his place when he dies. To ascertain this, he is summoning the six most promising agents in the world to his home deep in the Swiss Alps. And he says he wants you, Edwin.”

“What? Me?” I sat bolt upright, honestly shocked. “Why would he want me?”

“He probably wants you because you took on the whole Drood family and won,” the Armourer said dryly. “And just possibly because you led us to victory against the Hungry Gods and saved all humanity. Anyway, he was most firm. He wants you, for this . . . competition of his.”

“You have to go,” said the Matriarch. “For the pride of the family, and to make sure the Independent Agent’s accumulated treasure of secret knowledge doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. That cannot be allowed to happen, Edwin. Alexander King knows things that no one else knows. The kind of suppressed truths that can bring down governments, start wars, and quite possibly set the whole world at each other’s throats. Any individual or organisation with that kind of knowledge would be a real threat to the Droods, particularly in our current weakened state.”

“And, of course, because there’s always the chance they might not use that knowledge in the world’s best interests,” said the Armourer.

“Well, yes, that too,” said the Matriarch. “Only we can be trusted with information like that.”

“Some of these hypothetical people might do a better job than us,” I said.

“Don’t be silly,” said the Matriarch. “No one does it better than us.”

“Of course,” I said. “What was I thinking?”

“King says he knows who our traitor is,” said the Armourer. “You have to go, Eddie, and you have to win. For the sake of the family, and the world.”

“You will win, Edwin,” said the Matriarch. “Whatever this competition turns out to be. We’ll give you whatever support and assistance we can, but . . . in the end, you must win. By any means necessary.”

“I suppose so,” I said. I still had a whole shed load of reservations about practically everything involved with this competition, but I wasn’t going to waste my breath discussing them with the Matriarch. She was right about one thing: we had to find out who our traitor was, for the sake of the family and the world. Everything else . . . I’d have to think on my feet. As usual. I nodded slowly. “Do we at least know who the other competitors are?”

“No,” said the Armourer. “King is playing his cards very close to his chest for the moment. Typical of the man. We’ve been making some discreet enquiries, but no one significant has dropped out of sight . . . You’ll receive your instructions at King’s private head-quarters, some old ski lodge in the Swiss Alps. Very private, very well defended. It’s called Place Gloria; you might remember it from a rather famous spy film they shot there in the sixties.”

I shook my head. “I never watch spy films. I can’t take them seriously.”

“You’re expected to make your own way there,” said the Armourer. “Part of proving your worth, I suppose. The Merlin Glass could drop you off right at his door . . .”

“But you can’t take it with you,” the Matriarch said immediately. “Far too important to the family to risk it falling into enemy hands. On the other hand, Alexander King is supposed to have a quite magnificent collection of objects of power and influence in his own private museum. Spoils of the world’s secret wars . . . Some of which he stole from us. We’d quite like those back, if you can manage it.”

“Along with anything else you can get your hands on,” said the Armourer.

“I remember Alexander . . .” said the Matriarch. Her voice was definitely wistful this time, and her eyes were faraway. “I had a bit of a fling with him, in the autumn of 1957. In East Berlin, right in the shadow of the Wall. We used to meet at this perfectly awful little café that smelt mostly of boiled cabbage and served its vodka after the Russian fashion, with a little black pepper sprinkled on top. The idea being that as the pepper grains sank to the bottom of the glass, they’d take the impurities in the vodka with them. You really could go blind, drinking that stuff in East Berlin in 1957. Awful vodka, awful food, but I still have fond memories of that little café . . . or at least of the room we used to rent above it. Ah, yes; Alexander . . . This was before I met and married your father, Jack, of course.”

“Of course, Mother.” The Armourer looked more than a little uncomfortable at the thought of his mother getting it on with the Independent Agent, so I moved in.

“What were the two of you doing in East Berlin, Grandmother?”

“Oh, some nonsense about a Persian djinn being buried under the Berlin Wall to give it strength. We never did get to the bottom of it. But . . . you might mention my name to Alexander, Edwin, just in case he remembers me. A most charming fellow. Don’t trust him an inch.”

“Of course not,” I said. “He isn’t family.”

And that was the end of the council meeting. I was going to the Swiss Alps to meet a living legend who was dying and take part in a competition I didn’t understand, with people I didn’t know, all for a prize I wasn’t sure I believed in. And, no, I didn’t get a say in the matter. Business as usual, in the Drood family.

There was no way the Armourer was going to let me go off on a mission without the benefit of his very latest gadgets of mass distraction. So down to the Armoury we went, set deep in the bedrock under the Hall, so that when the place finally did blow itself up through an excess of imagination and optimism, there was at least some chance the family home would survive. As always, the huge stone chamber was jumping with activity and lab assistants running this way and that, sometimes in pursuit of an escaping experiment, sometimes because their lab coats were on fire. It took nerves of steel to work in the Armoury and a definite lack of the old self-preservation instinct. The Armourer strode through the chaos, entirely unmoved, while I stuck close behind him. If only to use him as a shield.

“How did the mellow bombs work out?” the Armourer tossed back over his shoulder, ducking slightly to avoid an eyeball with wings as it fluttered past.

“Oh, fine!” I said, stepping quickly to one side to avoid a lab assistant arguing fiercely with a plant in a cage. “Though the effects did seem to fade away pretty fast.”

“I’m working on it; I’m working on it!”

We passed a huge plastic bubble of clear water inside which two overenthusiastic lab techs were trying out their new gills and clawed hands and going at each other like Japanese fighting fish. Up above, a rather fetching young lass with new bat wing grafts was flapping along with a blissful smile on her face. Another technician appeared and disappeared and appeared, shouting, “How do you turn this bloody thing off?”

In the Shooting Alley, half a dozen interns were trying out their new gun prototypes and making a real mess of the Alley in the process. Someone else had just finished showing off their new invention: a knife that fired its blade at your opponent while the hilt stayed in your hand. Afterwards, the blade would return to the hilt to be used again. Didn’t seem to have gone too well. As the Armourer and I left the Shooting Alley behind us, the technician was being led away sobbing while his friends tried to gather up his fingers.

A man-sized cocoon stood leaning against one wall under a sign saying DO NOT DISTURB. I didn’t ask.

The Armoury has provided the family with many useful weapons, devices, and gadgets of quite appalling nastiness down the years. The armour can’t do everything. But when you have an unlimited budget, an unlimited imagination, and a complete lack of scruples, you’re bound to wander into some fairly unusual areas . . . We use just the good stuff in the field and accept the occasional explosion or unfortunate transformation as teething troubles. It is, after all, a dangerous and downright treacherous world, and the Droods need every advantage we can come up with if we’re to hold our own. Besides, I like new toys to play with as much as the next man. And there’s always something new in the Armoury. Uncle Jack and his nasty-minded coworkers see to that.

Use the same tactics too often in the field, and your enemies will have an answer waiting.

The Armourer sat down at his workstation, brushing aside piles of paper, half a dozen unfinished devices he was still tinkering with, and a small bottle marked Nitroglycerin; handle with care, dammit! He gestured for me to sit down opposite him, and I did. Somewhat cautiously, because you can’t even trust the chairs in the Armoury.

“We’ll start with this,” the Armourer said confidently, handing over a simple golden signet ring with runes engraved all along the inside. “Slip it on your finger. No, the other finger. Now, to activate, just press the fingers on either side against the ring, twice. Don’t do it now! That is a Gemini Duplicator; gives you the option of bilocation. Don’t, Eddie. I have already heard every possible variation of any joke you might have been about to make involving the word bi. In this case, it means being in more than one place at the same time. Great for establishing alibis. I’m told it’s rather confusing, doing two different things at the same time in two different places, but it’s really just multitasking raised to the next level. I’m sure you’ll soon get the hang of it. But be warned; if one of your duplicates should happen to be killed, the psychic shock could finish off both of you.”

I considered the ring, being very careful not to squeeze it. “What happens if I use the ring to make more than two of me?”

The Armourer frowned. “The more of you there are, the harder it will be for you to keep track of yourselves and think clearly. Over-extend yourself, spread yourself too thinly . . . and at best, all your selves will slam back into one. Which will hurt, big-time.”

“And at worst?”

“You’d end up lost in the crowd. Unable to reintegrate yourself.”

“Got it,” I said. “Stick to two. Could add a whole new dimension to a threesome, mind.”

The Armourer sighed heavily. “Now, the new Colt Repeater. I’ve made a few improvements. Not only does the gun still aim itself and have an infinite number of bullets to call on; now it can draw on wooden, silver, and holy-water-tipped ammunition, as well! If one of those doesn’t kill your opponent, you’re probably better off running anyway.”

He handed over the heavy silver gun and its standard-issue shoulder holster, and then looked away so he wouldn’t have to watch me struggle to get the damn thing on.

“No reverse watch for you, this time. No one’s been able to make the damn thing work since you burnt out the last one.” He sniffed loudly but couldn’t stay mad at me for long, not while he still had so many new toys to impress me with. He handed me a small black box with a flourish. I accepted it, just a bit gingerly, and opened the lid with great care. The box held two very nice silver cuff links.

“Very nice,” I said innocently. “Solid silver, are they?”

“They are the Chameleon Codex,” the Armourer said sternly. “Programmed to pick up trace DNA from anyone you just happen to brush up against, and then store the information so that at a later date you can transform yourself into an exact duplicate of the original. Doesn’t last long, admittedly, but the opportunities for spycraft, deceit, and general mischief should be obvious.”

“Male and female?” I said hopefully.

He glared at me. “Can’t keep your mind out of the gutter for one minute, can you? Yes, male and female. Thanks to some rather exhaustive testing by one of my lab techs . . . Don’t put the cuff links on till you leave the Hall. Things are confused enough around here as it is. Finally, this is a skeleton key, made from human bone, and if you’re wise you won’t ask whose. Opens any physical lock. Almost as good as a Hand of Glory and a damn sight less obvious. Never liked the Hands anyway; nasty, smelly things. Try to get by with the skeleton key; we’re running low on Hands at the moment. We need to hang some more enemies . . .”

I made the box and the bone disappear into my pockets, and then looked thoughtfully at the Armourer. “What do you know about the Independent Agent, Uncle Jack?”

He smiled coldly then, as though he’d just been waiting for me to ask. “Your uncle James knew him better than I did, though we both worked with Alexander on occasion. We were a bit overawed at first, two young Droods out in the field for the first time, working with such a living legend. He was all that was grand and glamorous about spying, and we both learnt a hell of a lot from him. James and I took all kinds of damn fool risks, trying to impress him, but in the end it was James who Alexander took under his wing. I was killingly jealous, for a time . . .

“Alexander trained James: encouraged him, taught him discipline and determination. Helped make James into a spying legend in his own right: the Gray Fox. Whether that was a good thing in the end . . . I couldn’t say. But if anyone made James the man he was, determined to win at any price and to hell with what or who it cost . . . it was Alexander King.”

The Armourer looked at me steadily. “If you get the chance, Eddie, kill him. The whole world will rest easier for knowing that bloody-handed old sinner is dead and finally paying for his many crimes.”

I went outside to retrieve the Merlin Glass from my Rover 25 . . . and found my car just where it had been but now crushed and compacted into a metal ball some six feet in diameter. I stood there, looking at it, and only slowly realised that the new Serjeant-at-Arms was standing beside me, waiting for me to notice him.

“You were right, Eddie,” he said easily. “I couldn’t move your car. So I thought of something else to do to it. Here’s your Merlin Glass. I made a point of removing it first. The Matriarch said you’d need it, on your mission.”

I took the Glass from him, and for once, I couldn’t think of a thing to say. The new Serjeant-at-Arms leaned in close.

“I’m not my predecessor. I’m sneakier. Welcome home, Eddie.”

I have my own room in the Hall, even though I have a very nice little flat in Knightsbridge. The Merlin Glass allows me to commute back and forth. The centuries-old hand mirror can function as a doorway to anywhere. I made a point of studying my reflection carefully. William had spooked me more than a bit with his suggestion there might be someone or something trapped inside the Glass. Watching, and waiting. But everything seemed as it should be, so . . . I said the activating Words, concentrated on a destination, and the Glass leapt out of my hand, growing in size to become a doorway between the Hall and the place where Molly Metcalf lived.

The wood between the worlds.

Through the doorway I could see tall trees, and rich green vegetation, and long golden shafts of sunlight. The oldest wood, the first wood, blazing with all the bright primary colours of spring. The trees seemed to stretch away forever, and there were glades and waterfalls, rolling hills and rocky promontories. I’d spent a lot of time exploring the wood with Molly. The wild wood was her home, where she belonged, and the only place where she and I could be together and still have a little privacy. Apart from all the local wildlife, of course, who seemed to find Molly and me endlessly fascinating.

The wood between the worlds is an ancient place, untouched by civilisation, and never entirely a comfortable place to be. I was welcome there only because Molly vouched for me. The animals were always easy in Molly’s company, but they accepted me only because she did, and many remained cautious and watchful. This was where the really wild things ran free, including many species that had long since vanished from the earth. There were huge boars with great teeth and ragged tusks. There were dire wolves and black bears, and older, stranger, more mythical creatures too. Some I knew only as glowing eyes in the gloom between the trees. Molly treated them all with equal ease and affection, just slapping them away if they crowded her. The first time she did that with a twelve-foot bear, I nearly had a coronary. There were all kinds of birds too, filling the scent-rich air with their songs, and whole clouds of multicoloured butterflies.

There were other insects too, and lots of flies, but none of them ever bothered us. When I asked Molly why, she just said, They wouldn’t dare.

She came running to greet me as I stepped through the Merlin Glass and into her world. My Molly Metcalf, the wild witch, the laughter in the woods, glorious and free. A gorgeous, wonderful woman just a few years younger than me, with pale skin and jet black hair, like a delicate china doll with big bosoms. She had eyes deep enough to drown in, more dark eyeliner than a panda on the pull, and a bright red rosebud mouth made for sin and laughter. She was wearing a long pastel green gown with a golden belt and half a dozen flowers pushed haphazardly into her hair. She threw herself at me, almost knocking me off my feet, and I held her like I’d never let her go.

Love came to me late in life, and unexpected. The Droods believe in marriage rather than love. Marriage binds you to the family; love just gets in the way. The family never wants anything in your life more important than your duty to the family. Everyone has to know their place. Molly, bless her contrary heart, has never known her place, and that’s just one of the reasons I love her so much.

She ground her breasts against my chest as we kissed. She knows I like that. Butterflies fluttered joyously all about us as we ripped the clothes off each other.

Some time later, we lay side by side on a grassy bank, the sweat slowly drying on our cooling bodies, snuggled happily together. I’d brought Molly up to date on my latest mission, and now she was sulking just a bit because she couldn’t go with me.

“You know we work best as a team, Eddie. Who’s going to watch your back if I’m not there?”

“I did survive as a Drood field agent for years, before we became an item,” I said, amused.

“It’s a constant wonder to me you lasted even one year. You’re far too trusting.”

“The invitation from the Independent Agent is for me alone,” I said patiently. “It’s his game, so he gets to set the rules.”

“Why choose you anyway? I mean, I’m sorry, sweetie, no offence and all that, but why you, out of all the Droods? Why not someone with more experience and closer to his generation, like your uncle Jack, perhaps?”

“Because I saved the world from the Hungry Gods, apparently. You do remember that, don’t you? I mean, you were there. Helping.”

“Don’t pout, Eddie; it doesn’t become you. Of course you deserve this honour; I just can’t help wondering if this is all some kind of trick or trap. Not necessarily just aimed at you. What if . . . What if this is all just an opportunity to get the six best spies in the world together in one place, and then kill them all off? One final coup for the Independent Agent: to prove he’s still the best, after all these years.”

“What a wonderfully suspicious mind you have,” I said fondly. “You’re quite right, of course. Wouldn’t surprise me at all if this turned out to be some kind of devious plot or scheme. But I still have to go. The price he’s offering is worth the risk.”

“Is it?” Molly rose up on one elbow to consider me, frowning worriedly. “I mean, what information could this man have that the amazing Drood family doesn’t already have? Secrets don’t stay secrets long.”

“Some do,” I said. “And Alexander King has been around . . . He might not have made history, but he certainly helped shape it from behind the scenes. There’s no telling what a man like that might know. In the hidden world of spies, there are often secrets within secrets. If anyone might know what we don’t, it would be Alexander King.”

“So, you have to go.” Molly sat upright, hugging her knees to her bare chest, deliberately looking straight ahead so she wouldn’t have to look at me. “All right; I get it. Duty calls, even after all you’ve done for your family, and all it’s done to you. You always were far too loyal for your own good.” She turned abruptly to fix me with her huge dark eyes, and then reached out and tweaked my left nipple hard, to make sure she had my full attention. “You stay sharp, Eddie, and do whatever you have to to win this bloody game. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to some of my friends and allies. People who wouldn’t talk to the infamous Droods. See what they have to say about Alexander bloody King.”

“Of course, Molly. You can let go of my nipple now. Please.”

She let go and looked away again. “I may be out of touch for a while. I have some family business to take care of.”

“It’s not your uncle Harvey again, is it?” I said. “The one who thinks he’s a giant rabbit?”

“No, it’s my sister, Isabella. She says she has news. She says she might, just might, have a lead on why my parents were killed by your family. The real reason, not the rubbish they fobbed you off with.”

“I have been trying to get at the truth,” I said.

“I know you have, sweetie.”

“In a family business the size of the Droods’, there’s often a lot of stuff going on where the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing. Things are done because they need to be done and are only officially authorised afterwards. If at all. A lot of the records from that period are a mess, thanks to interference by the Zero Tolerance faction.”

“There’s more,” said Molly. Her voice was very serious. She still didn’t look at me. “Isabella says the death of my parents is linked to the death of your parents. That they were killed for the same reason: because of something they both knew.”

I didn’t know what to say. My parents were Drood field agents, killed in action in the Basque area, largely due to insufficient advance planning and unreliable intelligence. Or that was what my family told me. But like so many other things where my family was concerned, that might or might not be true.

“You be careful,” I said to Molly finally. “If my family finds out that you’re digging into Drood history, into secrets so awful they’re still hiding them from me . . . You be really careful, Molly. You have no idea what my family is capable of when it comes to protecting itself. What makes your sister so sure about this? Who’s she been talking to?”

“I’m not going to tell you,” said Molly. “You wouldn’t approve.”

“Molly . . .”

“Eddie, trust me; you don’t want to know. Now leave this to me. You concentrate on the Independent Agent and winning his stupid game. When it’s all over, come back here to me, and I’ll tell you what I’ve found out. And then we’ll decide together what to do. To avenge the murder of our parents.”

“Yes,” I said. “We will do that. The guilty will be punished. Whoever they turn out to be.”

We lay back down on the green grass, side by side. The birds were singing, and a pleasant cool breeze gusted across our naked bodies. The air was rich with the scents of grass and earth and living things. I stared up at the sky and thought of many things.

“If, by some foul treachery, you don’t win,” said Molly Metcalf. “If you don’t come back . . . I will kill Alexander King for you.”

“Yes,” I said. “You do that.”