Night Fall
The Matriarch walked unflinchingly forward, so, of course, Ioreth had no choice but to follow her. He did his best not to slow down as the defences sparked and sputtered, and discharged harmlessly against his armour. The Matriarch reached the front door unharmed, with Ioreth right there at her side, and the building’s defences shut down, with a sullen air of having done all that could reasonably be expected of them. The Matriarch looked back at her Droods.
“Stay here. Guard the door and watch the street. No one is to go in or come out till I have finished my little chat with Julien Advent. Ioreth, you’re with me. You too, Magnus.”
A short and sturdy Drood stepped out of the ranks to join them. Magnus had moulded his armour to resemble that of a medieval knight, complete with helmet, breast-plate, and greaves. He looked solid enough to walk through a wall without slowing. Ioreth didn’t know Magnus personally, but he had heard that the Sarjeant-at-Arms was seriously considering appointing Magnus as his second in command. And eventual replacement. Given that Ioreth knew for a fact Magnus had never once worked as a field agent, Ioreth had to wonder just what Magnus could have done to so impress the Sarjeant.
The Matriarch tried the front door. It wasn’t locked. She threw the door wide open and marched into Victoria House, and Ioreth and Magnus followed quickly after her.
* * *
• • •
The lobby turned out to be comfortably spacious and almost completely deserted, apart from a cubicle of bullet-proof glass surrounded by a pentacle of softly glowing blue lines. Ioreth could feel the power emanating from them, even at a distance. The Matriarch studied the single figure sitting quietly inside the cubicle before turning to Ioreth.
“The Night Times has many enemies,” Ioreth said quietly. “The receptionist is the building’s first line of defence. And from what I’ve heard about her, God help anyone who tries to get past her without an appointment. Please tell me you’ve arranged an appointment, Matriarch. I’d feel so much safer.”
“Man up, Ioreth,” said the Matriarch.
She headed straight for the cubicle, with Magnus right beside her, and Ioreth brought up the rear, wishing just a little wistfully that people would listen to him when he warned them about things. The Matriarch tapped loudly on the bullet-proof glass with a golden knuckle, and the little old lady inside put down her knitting, peered at the Matriarch through thick granny glasses, and smiled sweetly.
“I’m afraid no one gets in without an appointment, my dear. And I know for a fact Mr Advent is not seeing any Droods today. I am sure I would remember something like that.”
Ioreth studied the receptionist carefully through the sensors built into his mask and hoped the Matriarch was Seeing what he was Seeing. The little old lady was knitting with needles made from human bones, and behind the granny glasses, her faded blue eyes glowed with the same kind of light as the pentacle lines. Her pleasant smile showed sharply pointed teeth.
“I am the Drood Matriarch,” said the Matriarch. “I’m here to speak with Julien Advent.”
“Oh, he never sees anyone he isn’t expecting, dear,” said the receptionist. “Would you like me to make you an appointment? I’m sure I could fit you in for a quick word sometime next week.”
“Droods don’t do appointments,” said the Matriarch.
She nodded to Magnus, who smashed a hole clean through the bullet-proof glass with one blow of his golden fist. The glowing blue lines surrounding the cubicle disappeared in a moment, as though they’d been blown out by the simple presence of Magnus’ armour. Jagged cracks spread across the front of the cubicle, but somehow the glass still held together. The receptionist looked thoughtfully at Magnus, then picked up her knitting again.
“Go on up, Margaret and Ioreth and Magnus Drood. Mr Advent is expecting you.”
At the far end of the lobby, the doors to the elevator slid smoothly open. The Matriarch headed straight for them, not even glancing at the receptionist, and Ioreth and Magnus hurried after her. Magnus made a point of entering the elevator first, to check it out, and only then allowed the other two to join him. There were buttons for several floors, but only the top one was marked EDITORIAL. Magnus hit it with an extended golden finger, and the doors closed.
Even though there was more than enough room in the elevator for three Droods in their armour, Ioreth still felt distinctly uncomfortable and kept looking around for some new threat until the Matriarch told him sharply to cut it out. Magnus didn’t seem even a little bit bothered. The elevator took its own sweet time getting to the top floor and played Viennese waltzes at them the whole way. The Matriarch looked at Ioreth, who shrugged.
“Julien Advent’s favourite music as a young man. We all have a soft spot for the popular music of our youth.”
“I was always very fond of Meat Loaf, and Bat Out of Hell,” said the Matriarch.
Ioreth said nothing.
The elevator doors finally opened, with a bright and cheerful chiming sound, to reveal a long, empty corridor. There were no doors leading off, just one large and very solid-looking door at the far end marked EDITORIAL, so the Matriarch headed for that. Magnus wanted to lead the way, but the Matriarch was having none of it. Ioreth was quite happy to bring up the rear, so that whatever happened would be sure to hit the others first. The walls were lined with famous front pages from the paper’s long history, preserved under glass. Angel War Ends in Draw. Immortal Griffin Turns Out to Be Just Long-Lived. Walker Missing, Presumed Dead; Nightside Celebrates. When they finally reached the end, there was a sign above the door saying ALL THE NEWS, DAMMIT. The door itself was solid steel, deeply etched with protective signs and sigils. The Matriarch nodded to Magnus, who drew back a golden fist. The door opened on its own, and the Matriarch strode on through as if she’d expected nothing less.
Inside Editorial, it was utter bedlam. The long room was packed with people working furiously at their desks, bent over computers and shouting at one another pretty much non-stop. Urgent requests for information filled the air, along with gossip, insults, and some really foul language aimed at the kind of day it had been. Young men and women bolted back and forth between the desks, delivering important memos and updates, dropping off research material, and depositing jumbo-sized mugs of steaming black coffee. Magazines and papers were piled up everywhere, and whole rows of phones never seemed to stop ringing. The sheer volume was deafening and intimidating, but the editorial staff seemed used to it.
Display screens on one wall showed the current locations of new Timeslips, where the most powerful and celebrated personages were hanging out, and quickly changing images of breaking news. One screen showed a building toppled across a road, blocking the traffic. The Matriarch nodded approvingly.
The staff paused just long enough to take a good look at the three Droods in their armour, then went straight back to work again. Their attitude clearly said: Don’t bother us, we’re on a deadline. The Matriarch armoured down and gestured for Ioreth and Magnus to do the same.
“I think they need to see our faces, to be properly impressed,” she said.
Ioreth dismissed his armour, feeling quietly grateful that he’d found time to change out of his monk’s habit and into something more casual before he left the Hall. He glanced at Magnus and was startled to discover a short and sturdy woman standing next to him. Dark-complexioned and about his age, Magnus was possessed of a broad, pleasant face and a scowl that looked like it could cut through steel.
“You got a problem?” said Magnus, in a voice that sounded like she gargled barbed wire for fun.
“Who, me?” said Ioreth. “No. Almost certainly not. I’m fine. Really. How are you? Okay . . . Why, Magnus?”
“Because being called Kitty was holding me back.”
Ioreth was saved from further embarrassment by the arrival of a miniature tornado. A whirling cloud of disturbed air came bouncing down the central aisle to bob up and down im
portantly before them. Ioreth thought he could see something very like eyes deep inside the cloud. A cheerful voice issued from the tornado.
“Hi! I’m Otto! Indentured poltergeist and cub reporter! Always on call; no hands, no waiting. Follow me, and I’ll take you to the Editor. And don’t get too close to the staff; they bite.”
He bounced off down the central aisle, accompanied by raised voices on all sides as his winds blew papers off desks. Otto caught them all, juggled the papers inside himself, and dropped them back where they belonged. Mostly. All without slowing down and while singing snatches of Stephen Sondheim songs in a defiantly minor key.
Ioreth moved in close beside the Matriarch and kept up a running commentary on the various people they passed. Julien Advent had written a book about the Night Times, and Ioreth had read every page. Because he’d had a feeling it would come in handy one day and very definitely not just because he was a huge fan of the Victorian Adventurer.
“The semi-transparent manifestation to our left, talking on the memory of an old-fashioned telephone, is in communication with the spirit world. The two ravens perched on the computer monitor screen are called Truth and Memory, moonlighting as fact-checkers. The goblin drag queen in the orange evening dress that really doesn’t suit him, never mind the fluffy blonde wig that doesn’t even come close to hiding his horns, writes the horoscopes.”
The goblin waved cheerfully to them. “Hello, sweeties! I knew you were coming! Is it true what they’re saying, about Droods blowing up the Moon? Do you have any idea how that will affect the stars?”
“Just keep walking,” said Ioreth.
The Matriarch didn’t even glance around. Neither did Magnus. The goblin shrugged easily, then had to adjust one of his shoulder-straps. He was used to being ignored. You got no respect, writing the horoscopes. The Matriarch tapped Ioreth on the arm and nodded to an old Remington Standard typewriter clacking busily away on its own, filling sheet after sheet of paper with never-ending copy.
“Ghost writer,” said Ioreth.
They finally came to a sound-proofed room at the far end. Otto opened the door for them and bounced away, singing “Send in the Clowns” at the top of his voice. The Matriarch strode right in, followed by Magnus, and finally Ioreth. The editorial staff waited until the door had closed behind them, then launched into a vigorous betting pool as to the exact time trouble would start.
Julien Advent came out from behind a desk covered with papers to greet his visitors. He didn’t seem to mind being interrupted. He nodded pleasantly to all of them and made a point of shaking everyone’s hand. The Matriarch gave him her best formal smile.
“An honour to meet you, Mr Advent.”
“And you, Matriarch. Please, call me Julien.”
“Of course. And you must call me Margaret.”
Ioreth and Magnus glanced at each other but thought it best not to say anything.
Julien Advent was a tall and lithely muscular figure, apparently in his early thirties. Impressively graceful, in an entirely masculine way, he had dark hair and eyes and a face handsome as any movie star. His smile seemed genuine enough, but his gaze was serious and reserved. He was wearing the stark black and white formal wear of his Victorian days, which immediately reminded Ioreth of the Sarjeant. The only touch of colour was the purple cravat at Julien’s throat, held in place by a silver pin, personally presented to him by Queen Victoria herself. Ioreth had read a great deal about Julien Advent but still wasn’t prepared for the sheer impact of the man. Just being in the same room made Ioreth feel as though he’d just walked into King Arthur’s Court. The Matriarch introduced Magnus and Ioreth. Ioreth smiled and said how pleased he was to meet Julien and did his best not to gush. Magnus just nodded. Julien went back behind his desk and gestured for the Droods to sit on the visitors’ chairs set out before him. He waited for them to sit down before he did. The Matriarch faced Julien, with Ioreth on one side of her and Magnus on the other. Julien started to say something, then gestured to one side.
“I almost forgot! This is Bettie Divine, who’s just visiting.”
The Droods looked around sharply. Ioreth was frankly baffled as to how they’d missed her. Bettie was sitting in the far corner, tall and athletic and drop-dead gorgeous. Her navy blue cat-suit showed off a remarkable body with magnificent bosoms, and her legs were elegantly crossed to show off her knee-length leather boots. She had frizzy purple hair, a heart-shaped face with high cheek-bones, sparkling eyes, and a sultry mouth. She also had two cute little horns curling up from her forehead. Bettie laughed happily at the look on their faces.
“Bettie is a reporter for the Nightside’s very own scabrous tabloid, the Unnatural Inquirer,” said Julien.
“That’s me, darlings!” she said happily. “Bettie Divine, demon girl reporter. Daddy was a Rolling Stone on one of their Nightside tours, while Mummy was a lust demon on the prowl. No wonder I turned out a journalist. Don’t mind me, you just chat away! I could leave, but I’m not going to. This is all just too fascinating for words. I smell a story!”
“I could make her leave,” Magnus said to the Matriarch.
“Bet you couldn’t, sweetie,” Bettie said airily.
“She doesn’t matter,” said the Matriarch.
Bettie pouted. “Well really, darlings . . .”
The Matriarch gave Julien Advent her full attention. “We need to talk.”
“Indeed we do, Margaret,” said Julien. “So tell me. Why have the Droods come to the Nightside? As an occupying army in defiance of all the Pacts and Agreements.”
“You know why,” said the Matriarch. “The long night is spreading, overflowing its long-established boundaries. That cannot be allowed to continue. And you must have heard what happened at Strangefellows. One of us was murdered there, shot in the back in cold blood.”
“That’s not the way I heard it,” said Bettie.
The Matriarch ignored her, concentrating on Julien. “The whole Drood family has come to the Nightside to take control of the long night once and for all.”
“You can’t believe it will be that easy,” said Julien.
“Nothing worth doing is ever easy,” said the Matriarch. “But it is necessary, to make the world safe. We will also be taking over the Night Times, as of now. We can use you to get the word out, on the new order of things. What will be expected of everyone and what will no longer be tolerated. You can remain in place as editor, with one of my people at your shoulder. Just to remind you of the Drood party line, as and where necessary.”
Julien leaned forward across his desk, and his eyes were suddenly very cold. His presence turned in a moment from charming to dangerous. Magnus sat up straight. Ioreth wanted to say something, to stop it all going horribly wrong, but he’d known it was too late for that the moment they’d entered the building. The Matriarch stared steadily at Julien, and he chose his words carefully.
“The Night Times has a reputation for telling the truth.”
“And you still will,” said the Matriarch. “The Droods’ truth.”
“Censorship?” said Julien. “Propaganda? Not on my watch.”
“You have no choice,” said the Matriarch, entirely unmoved by the cold anger in his voice. “The Nightside belongs to the Droods now.”
“We always have a choice, here,” said Julien, settling back in his chair. “That’s the point.”
The Matriarch considered him carefully. “I would have thought that you of all people, with your background, would appreciate what the Droods stand for.”
“I still believe in most of the old-fashioned values,” said Julien. “I’m just not convinced you do. The Droods have a long track record for doing whatever they believe is in the best interest of the Droods. Drood law and Drood order, and God help anyone who dares step out of line. Eddie was the only one who ever tried to change that, and he isn’t in charge any longer.”
&
nbsp; “You will do as you’re told, Julien,” said the Matriarch. “Or I’ll have no choice but to replace you with someone who will. You know there’s always someone . . .”
“Not on this paper,” said Julien. He turned to Bettie Divine. “Buy me some time while I make my escape.”
“Love to, darling,” said Bettie.
She jumped to her feet. Magnus stood up quickly to face her, and Bettie Maced her. Magnus fell back, wheezing and choking and blinded by tears. Julien Advent was out from behind his desk and racing for the door while Ioreth and the Matriarch were still getting to their feet. Bettie proudly brandished her dinky little spray can.
“Infernal Mace, darlings. With added unholy water!”
“Ioreth, take care of her!” said the Matriarch. “Magnus, come with me!”
The Matriarch ran out the door after Julien. Magnus hurried after her, squinting savagely through puffed-up eyes. Ioreth and Bettie looked at each other.
* * *
• • •
The Matriarch burst out of the editorial cubicle to see Julien Advent sprinting down the long office, heading for the door. She armoured up and went after him. She didn’t manage six paces before Otto the friendly poltergeist materialised out of nowhere and engulfed her in his whirling winds. Buffeted this way and that, the Matriarch quickly lost all sense of direction. She closed her eyes, braced herself, and triggered the exorcism function built into her armour. There was a flash of light and a burst of speeded-up Latin, and Otto cried out shrilly as the forces holding him together were violently dispersed.
The goblin drag queen rose up from behind his desk, produced two heavy machine-pistols, and opened fire on the Matriarch. She stood her ground, her armour soaking up the bullets. Also back in her armour, Magnus picked up a desk and threw it at the goblin. The impact smashed him against a wall. The Matriarch went racing after Julien, only to be tripped by the invisible foot of the ghost writer. Magnus went to blast the ghost with her exorcism function, then realised she had no idea where to aim it. The Matriarch scrambled to her feet, but by the time she looked at the far door, Julien was gone.