Night Fall

  He stood before the huge building, studying the impressive frontage, the ever-open front door, and the barred windows to keep books from escaping. A steady series of determined if somewhat furtive-looking scholars plunged in and out of the front door, avoiding one another’s eyes. Because no one ever came to the H P Lovecraft Memorial Library looking for the kind of information anyone else would want them to have.

  It was strictly for the most discerning and the bravest of scholars, interested in forbidden knowledge, suppressed secrets, and incredibly dangerous books. The kind that would read the scholars if they weren’t careful. A Library for the most hardened of researchers, who wouldn’t be put off in their pursuit of awful truths by such little things as real and present dangers to their sanity and their souls.

  John considered the front door and decided against it. If people saw Walker entering such a place, word would get around. John didn’t want anyone knowing he was looking for the kind of answers you could only find in the H P Lovecraft Memorial Library. In particular, he didn’t want his mysterious adversary to know. Fortunately, John knew of a secret side-entrance, shown to him by the last Head Librarian, who’d owed John a really substantial favour.

  He drifted casually over to an unobtrusive side-alley and darted into it when he was reasonably sure no one was looking. He hurried down the side of the Library, into the darkening shadows of the unlit passageway. Anywhere else he might have worried about encountering mutant killer rats, or undead muggers, or any of the other regular hazards to be found in a Nightside alley-way, but the H P Lovecraft Memorial Library had its own defences. And they ate anything they considered a threat. They wouldn’t bother John because he wasn’t a threat to the Library and because he was Walker.

  He found the side-door easily enough, by the light of a flickering will-o’-the-wisp hovering above it, which was only ever visible to the Right Sort of Person. The sign on the door said HERE BE KNOWLEDGE in much the same way old maps used to say Here Be Monsters. He used his special key, courtesy of the previous Head Librarian, rest in peace wherever he was, and let himself in.

  The place hadn’t changed at all since John was last there. It never changed because it was what it was. Endless shelves packed full of enlightenment, ancient and modern, embracing science and sorcery and everything in between or beyond . . . stretching away for just that little bit farther than the human mind could comfortably tolerate. Waiting for someone brave enough to come along and test themselves against the kind of books that saw each new reader as a challenge. There were rows of reading-desks, because this was very definitely not a lending library. All of them occupied, with a clock ticking down the time left to each student because there was always a queue. Scholars from everywhere and everywhen sat in silent contemplation over the book of their choice, concentrating fiercely as they struggled to work out which of them was in charge.

  They were all so taken up with their studies, they didn’t even notice the infamous John Taylor as he passed them by, heading for the Really Restricted Section. Where the Library kept the kind of books most people didn’t even know existed. Books that shouldn’t exist in any sane and rational world. It took John some time to make his way there, following the colour-coded lines on the floor that only the most privileged visitors were allowed to see, until finally he stood before a heavily reinforced door crawling with unpleasant protections. John carefully pronounced the proper passWords, and the door opened. To reveal the ghost of the current Head Librarian, deliberately blocking the doorway so he could glare disapprovingly at John Taylor.

  The Ghost Librarian had been eaten by a book when he let his defences slip for a moment, then brought back by the other books because they missed him. He was now a thin, dusty presence in a faded suit, with dark hollows for eyes and no patience at all for anyone who made his job more difficult than it needed to be. John sighed inwardly. He couldn’t help feeling it would be nice if he could just bump into someone, now and again, who was actually pleased to see him.

  “What are you doing here, Taylor?” said the Ghost Librarian, in his dusty voice. “I thought I made it very clear on your last visit that I never wanted to see you in here again.”

  “I need to consult the books in this Section,” John said patiently. “I do still have my special clearance.”

  The Ghost Librarian smiled nastily. “It’s been revoked. You are not welcome here. You upset the books.”

  “I’m Walker,” said John. “Which means I can have you revoked.”

  The Ghost Librarian looked like he was about to weep dusty tears of pure frustration. “It’s not fair,” he said bitterly. “The barbarians have taken over the cathedral. Go on, then! Run amok in the stacks! See if I care . . .”

  He flickered out like a faulty light bulb. John entered the Really Restricted Section, and the door closed itself firmly behind him. He could hear any number of locks closing, with malicious intent. He allowed himself a small smile. Like that would make any difference. He set off confidently through the endless rows, stuffed full of books on all kinds of subjects. Including some that would make a sewer-rat puke with existential disgust. There wasn’t much light; the Section was kept deliberately gloomy in the hope it would encourage some of the more dangerous editions to continue sleeping. The reading-desks had their own specially shielded lamps, but all of them were empty.

  As far as John could tell, he had the whole place to himself. Which was a good thing but just a bit worrying. There was usually someone around, researching something they shouldn’t. Perhaps the Really Restricted Section had known he was coming and tidied up the place, just for him. John moved deeper into the stacks.

  There were books bound in human skin, elven skin, and dragon skin. Books written in blood and bile and brimstone. Some actually glowed in the dark because they were radioactive. Books in every language under the sun and the moon, from every culture and country, some of which didn’t exist any more, and some that never had. Because they had been made to have never existed. But then, that’s critics for you. There were books that spoke directly to the reader’s mind, and some that, given half a chance, would replace the reader’s mind and go walking out of the Library in the reader’s body. Books from before history began and from alternative futures of varying unlikelihood.

  Or so it was said. No one knew for sure, not least because most of the people who went into the Really Restricted Section never talked about what they found there.

  Some of the books stirred on the shelves as John passed, muttering querulously to each other. Some were singing. A few were growling. John kept going until he came to the Index, hanging on a side-wall. It was actually a repurposed Speaking Mirror, programmed with all available information on what could be found in the Really Restricted Section. If you searched hard enough, and something didn’t sneak up on you in the gloom while you were distracted. John planted himself before the Index, which immediately showed him a reflection of the back of his head, just to be awkward. John identified himself, and the Index groaned loudly.

  “I knew it was going to be one of those days. All right, tell me what you want, so I can tell you why you can’t have it.”

  “I’m Walker. I get to see everything.”

  “Well dip me in chocolate and throw me to the ladyboys. Colour me impressed. What do you want? I’m busy!”

  John paused. “What with?”

  The Mirror sniggered. “If you don’t know, I’d be a damned fool to tell you.”

  “I need to see the Nightside copy of the Pacts and Agreements between the long night and the Drood family,” said John.

  “Why on earth would you want to see them?” said the Index. “It hasn’t got any pictures, you know. Wouldn’t you rather look at something spicy? We’ve got all kinds of filth in here.”

  “I need the original Pacts and Agreements,” John said firmly. “Because it occurred to me that I haven’t got a clue what’s in them. I want to kn
ow all the details, all the limitations and obligations. Just in case there’s something I can use . . .”

  “Well, you’re no fun,” said the Index. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you with some nice hot, sweaty elf porn? Fifty Shades of Fae?”

  The Index sniggered loudly. John fixed the Mirror with a long, thoughtful stare.

  “How would you like me to smear your surface with soap?”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Try me.”

  “Bully!” hissed the Index. “All right, let me see, let me see . . . where are the Pacts and Agreements filed . . . Ah. Now that is odd.”

  “What is?” said John.

  “They’re not where they’re supposed to be,” said the Index. “As in, they’re gone. Someone has checked them out.”

  “Who?” said John, just a bit loudly.

  “I don’t know! Don’t shout at me; it’s not my fault! Whoever took them didn’t leave a name. Which is also odd because they shouldn’t have been able to remove them at all. Not without tripping all kinds of alarms. Which they didn’t. And why didn’t any of this bother me till now? I’m going to have to think about this.”

  “Hold it!” said John. “I’m not finished.”

  “Oh, what now? Are you still here? I can feel one of my heads coming on.”

  “You haven’t got a head.”

  “I might have. Somewhere. You don’t know.”

  John thought quickly. “Where can I find books on the Droods?”

  The Index snorted loudly. “All over the place. In every section, under every subject. Try being more specific. It might get you somewhere, you never know.”

  John thought some more. “Their history. In particular, I want to know about all the times the Droods have gone to war.”

  “Then you’re going to be here awhile. Follow the golden arrow. And don’t dog-ear any of the pages if you like having fingers!”

  The arrow appeared, floating in mid air. John followed it off into the stacks. The arrow kept darting on ahead, then waiting impatiently for him to catch up, like an over-eager dog. It finally stopped before one particular shelf and snapped off. John leaned in close, to study some of the titles. There were hundreds of books, about hundreds of Drood wars, in different places, different times, and even different dimensions. John picked out half-a-dozen, pretty much at random, and carried them over to the nearest reading-desk.

  He read carefully at first but was quickly reduced to skipping, in self-defence. It was as though the Droods had never met a war they didn’t like. They’d fought everyone, often more than once, and never lost. They’d come close on occasion, been badly hurt and terribly reduced in numbers, but they always came through in the end. And then rebuilt themselves into an even stronger force. Because all Droods were trained to be fighters from early childhood. It wasn’t just their armour that made them unbeatable.

  John sat back in his chair and thought some more. He couldn’t let a Drood be killed in the Nightside. The one thing all the books agreed on was that the Droods would follow a family vendetta to the last drop of their enemy’s blood. The Droods might not have faced an enemy like the Nightside before, but John wasn’t sure that would be enough to stop them. He’d seen the long night take on angered angels and insane gods and more than hold its own . . . but this was the Droods. Even if the Nightside could hold them off, it could end up destroyed in the process.

  So he’d better figure out a way to take down the first Drood to enter the Nightside that didn’t involve killing him. Preferably something so humiliating that no Drood would ever want to risk its happening again. That should be enough to buy both sides some time . . .

  And he had to figure out who the hell had stolen the Nightside’s copy of the Pacts and Agreements. More than ever it seemed there was something in them he needed to know.

  John looked at the shelf full of books. There had to be something he could use. If only he could find it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Deciding Who Dies

  The alley outside Strangefellows seemed particularly quiet and deserted as Eddie and Molly hurried away from the bar, as though the alley were holding its breath to see what would happen next. The shadows were very still and very dark. Molly stopped abruptly and looked back the way they’d come, so Eddie had to stop with her. He recognised the look on Molly’s face. It meant she was looking for someone to start something, so she could finish it.

  “We’re not running away,” he said quickly.

  “Are you sure?” said Molly. “Because it really does feel like that.”

  “There was no point in staying once your cover had been blown.”

  “That wasn’t my fault!”

  “I never said it was,” said Eddie. “So please put down those loaded fists. No one is going to be in any hurry to pursue the infamously bad-tempered wild witch. Who is looking even more wild than usual.”

  “Compliments? Really?” said Molly, looking at him for the first time. “That’s what you’re going with?”

  “I was just making the point that we have as much time as we need to think about what we’re going to do next,” Eddie said patiently.

  “You do the thinking,” said Molly. “I’m going to be busy for a while, laying down some really nasty booby-traps.”

  “Not necessarily a good idea,” Eddie said carefully. “You are going to want to come back here someday.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Molly. “Just a few unpleasant surprises, then. They’ll expect that. A girl has to think of her reputation.”

  “This mission is effectively over,” said Eddie. “Now everyone knows who Roxie Hazzard really is, no one will want to talk about anything else.”

  “You could stay,” said Molly. “People expect Shaman Bond to keep bad company.”

  “I don’t like how quickly it all went pear-shaped,” said Eddie. “What were the odds of someone’s just happening to turn up at Strangefellows who could see through Roxie to recognise you?”

  Molly nodded slowly. “You think someone sent her?”

  “Don’t you?” said Eddie.

  “But that would have to mean someone knew we were going to be at Strangefellows, as Roxie Hazzard and Shaman Bond.”

  “Exactly,” said Eddie. “That’s why I got us out of there so quickly. In case there was a part two to the plan. I always thought coming back here so soon was a bad idea, but now I’m starting to wonder if Blaiston Street was a trap too. Designed to put me in my armour. I need to get back to Drood Hall and talk to the Matriarch. About a lot of things.”

  He shook the Merlin Glass out to door size. Cheerful light from the grounds outside Drood Hall spilled through into the dark alley-way, and Eddie was convinced some of the nearer shadows flinched. Molly scowled at the great rolling lawns on the other side of the door, then turned her glare back in the direction of Strangefellows. She looked very much like she wanted to argue some more, so Eddie pushed her through the open doorway and hurried after her. The Merlin Glass disappeared, taking its light with it, and shadows filled the alley-way again.

  * * *

  • • •

  Molly turned on Eddie, to demand what the hell he thought he was doing pushing her around, and he was just getting ready to defend himself, by armouring up if need be . . . when they both realised they weren’t where they should have been. Instead of the wide-open grounds, they were inside the Hall, in the Sanctity. Facing the Matriarch, the Sarjeant-at-Arms, and the Council. Again.

  The Merlin Glass shrank back into a hand-mirror and forced itself into Eddie’s hand, as though it were frightened. Eddie put the Glass away, without taking his eyes off all the people staring at him. Molly was so startled she actually forgot about being angry. She grabbed hold of Eddie’s arm and murmured urgently in his ear.

  “What the hell just happened? How is this even possible?”

  “T
he very first thing I intend to ask,” said Eddie. “Once you’ve stopped cutting off the circulation in my arm.”

  “Want me to get us out of here?” said Molly. “I’ve got a new teleport spell that will blast us right through whatever shields they think they’ve got.”

  “Tempting,” said Eddie. “But save it for later. I want to know what’s going on here. Watch my back while I hit them with some pointed questions. But please don’t turn anyone into a frog without checking with me first.”

  “I don’t always turn people into frogs!” said Molly. “Though having said that, haven’t you ever wondered what a frog in golden armour would look like?”

  “Talk first, threaten later,” said Eddie.

  “You’re getting old,” said Molly. “You’ll be acting reasonably next.”

  “Let’s not get carried away,” said Eddie.

  “If you two have quite finished muttering to each other . . .” said the Sarjeant-at-Arms.

  Eddie ignored him and the coldly staring Matriarch and looked around at the assembled Council. He needed time to think. His first thought was that the Librarian appeared to be in even worse shape than last time. William’s clothes were a mess, his hair was all over the place, and his gaze was worryingly distant. As though he couldn’t be expected to maintain the appearance of normality, or even something resembling sanity, under so much pressure. Ammonia was sitting very close to her husband and glaring daggers at the Matriarch and the Sarjeant, who were both carefully avoiding her gaze. Presumably on the grounds that if they recognised how upset she was, they might have to do something about it. Anyone else would have had enough sense to be quite seriously worried at the thought of upsetting the world’s most powerful telepath, but the Matriarch was too busy being in charge, and the Sarjeant didn’t do worried. So Ammonia settled for holding William’s hand in both of hers and glowering in a way that strongly suggested she was planning future vengeances.