• • •
Angela Drood led her armoured company toward the ancient church known as St Jude’s. She strolled along, head up and shoulders back. She was enjoying herself. As part of the Operations Room team, she didn’t normally get to leave Drood Hall and go out into the world. Now she was in the Nightside and facing appalling people on all sides, Angela had discovered in herself unsuspected capacities for extreme violence. It felt good to be able to strike down the bad guys in person instead of spending all her time sitting at a desk, sending other people out to do all the fun stuff. But still, of all the missions the Sarjeant could have sent her on, she wished it hadn’t been this one.
The legend of St Jude’s had spread far beyond the Nightside. It would probably have been a tourist attraction if not for its fearsome reputation. Supposedly, someone had been turned into a pillar of salt just for taking a selfie inside the church. But Angela had her orders, to take control of St Jude’s, and Angela always followed orders. Particularly if there was a chance she would get to beat someone’s head in for getting in her way.
She’d been following her special compass for some time and was starting to wonder why it insisted on leading her away from all the more civilised parts of the Nightside. The streets were increasingly empty, the buildings deserted, and there were no traces of resistance anywhere. Almost as though the Nightside didn’t think St Jude’s needed protecting. Angela marched along, concentrating on all the wonderfully violent things she would do when she got to the church; so the sudden ambush by heavily armed nuns caught her completely by surprise.
They came swarming out of the shadows from all sides at once, surrounding the Droods in a matter of moments. Dozens of nuns, in traditional black robes and starched wimples, carrying all sorts of guns. Angela yelled for her people to stand still and, above all, not start anything. She lowered her armour, smiled encouragingly at the nuns, and looked around for someone in charge.
“Hello? I’m Angela Drood. What’s going on here, please?”
A burly figure in billowing robes stepped forward. The face under the wimple was entirely unsmiling.
“I am Sister Josephine. I lead the Salvation Army Sisterhood. The only order of nuns committed enough to tackle the long night on its own terms.”
“Nuns with guns?” said Angela.
“First, you have to get people’s attention,” said Sister Josephine. “We’re all about saving sinners, but we have to stay alive long enough to do it.”
“Why are you stopping us?” asked Angela, very politely. “I would have thought you of all people would support our mission to bring the Nightside under control and put an end to all the evils here.”
“The Salvation Army Sisterhood exists to save sinners, not slaughter them,” said Sister Josephine. “Except under extreme conditions. We’ve heard about what you’ve been doing.”
“Only what’s necessary!” said Angela.
“You murdered the rogue vicar Tamsin MacReady as she tried to argue for peace,” said Sister Josephine. “She wasn’t one of us, but we admired her courage and her faith.”
“I don’t know what happened there,” Angela said carefully. “I wasn’t at the Mammon Emporium. But I’m sure there was a good reason . . .”
“Sinners always have excuses,” said Sister Josephine. “You will make a fine example, to show your family there is a line which must never be crossed.” She stepped back and looked at the other nuns. “Kill them.”
“No!” said Angela.
The nuns opened fire. Blessed and cursed bullets tore through Drood armour, punching through golden chests and gleaming face masks, and the Droods crashed to the ground like toppled statues. Until only Angela was left. She stood trembling, wide-eyed and trying not to cry, in the middle of the carnage. She couldn’t believe it had all happened so quickly. She hadn’t even had time to put on her armour. She jumped, startled, as Sister Josephine spoke to her. The nun was holding up a withered human hand whose fingers had been made into candles. Blue flames blossomed from the fingertips.
“A Hand of Glory,” said Sister Josephine. “Made from the severed hand of a martyred Saint. Powerful enough to hold even a Drood in place.”
Angela tried to move and found she couldn’t. She whimpered for a moment, then reminded herself she was still a Drood, and made herself face the nuns steadily.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Do you want me to take a message to my family? Is that it?”
“You will be the message,” said Sister Josephine. “When they see what we have done to you, they will know to stop their excesses.”
“But I didn’t kill the vicar!” said Angela. “I’m not responsible for her death! Please, don’t hurt me. I’m a good Christian.”
“Then you should be ashamed of what you’ve done,” said Sister Josephine. “You might not have killed Tamsin MacReady, but how many others died at your hand? People who knew they had no hope of defending themselves against your armour but fought anyway, to defend their homes?”
“Please,” said Angela. “I’m sorry!”
“Well,” said Sister Josephine. “That’s a good start.”
She spoke a Word, and the Hand of Glory clenched like a fist and crushed the life out of Angela Drood. All her bones broke at the same moment, and blood spurted thickly. Sister Josephine looked at the human wreckage hanging on the air before her, and said another Word. The body fell to the ground, to lie with the others, and Sister Josephine said a prayer over them. Then she put the Hand of Glory away and led her sisters out into the Nightside, to look for more Droods.
* * *
• • •
The main body of Droods was still under the command of the Sarjeant-at-Arms. He was heading for Strangefellows when word reached him of what had happened to Angela and her people. He quickly changed direction and headed for St Jude’s. Because no one killed Droods and got away with it. He made sure his people knew exactly what had happened, of what the Nightside was capable of if you showed weakness even for a moment.
They found the dead Droods lying just where the informants said they’d be. Bullet-ridden golden bodies left piled together, without respect or dignity. The Sarjeant armoured down and knelt beside Angela’s crushed and broken body. He knew her: one of Howard’s people, from Operations. He’d put her in charge of the group despite her youth and inexperience because he admired her enthusiasm. He should have known better. The Nightside was an unforgiving place to learn how to be a soldier.
He got to his feet and used one of his security Words to send the dead Droods’ armour back into their torcs. Then he had his people absorb the torcs into their own armour. After that was done, the Sarjeant dropped molecular-acid bombs on the bodies, destroying them right down to their DNA, so that absolutely nothing was left behind to betray Drood secrets to the enemy. Standard procedure for Droods who fell in the field. There would be a funeral in their names on the Drood grounds, when the war was over.
“This is why you can never show mercy,” the Sarjeant said to his people. “Now move on.”
But the Droods were looking past him, staring down the street. The Sarjeant turned and found himself facing two very familiar figures: Julien Advent and Jessica Sorrow the Unbeliever. The Sarjeant looked back at his people.
“Hold your ground. Yes, I know who she is; now hold your damned ground!”
Down the street, Julien turned to Jessica.
“I didn’t think there’d be so many of them.”
“Numbers don’t matter,” said Jessica.
“I came here hoping to negotiate,” said Julien. “To make some kind of deal, to save St Jude’s, but . . .”
“The Sarjeant-at-Arms will not negotiate,” said Jessica. “And he will not be turned away from what he sees as his duty. You should leave now, Julien. Leave this to me.”
“Jessica . . .”
“I will show the Droods the full for
ce of my Unbelief,” she said calmly. “But since I have never tried it on Drood armour, there’s always a chance you could be hurt. So off you go, Julien. I believe I’m about to be very busy.”
Julien looked at her, then at the Droods. He turned away and hurried down the street, and didn’t stop until he was around the corner and half-way down the next. Because one way or another, something really bad was about to happen. He would have liked to see it, after what the Droods had done at the Hawk’s Wind, but it was never safe to be around Jessica when she really cut loose. The whole street could disappear.
Jessica walked unhurriedly forward to confront the Droods. She was quietly surprised they weren’t already running. The Sarjeant summoned a gun into his hand and shot her. Jessica didn’t believe the bullet would hit her, and it disappeared in mid-flight. She smiled easily at the Sarjeant and let loose her Unbelief on all the Droods standing before her. Her power shot down the street like a tidal wave, an unrelenting power stronger than the building-blocks of reality itself. Everything apart from the ground and the walls disappeared, dismissed by her disbelief. And then it hit the gleaming golden armour, rebounded and flew back and hit Jessica; and just like that, she was gone.
The universe didn’t believe in her any more.
The Droods whooped and cheered. The Sarjeant let them get it out of their system, then raised his voice.
“Move out.”
Julien heard the cheering, and the heavy tramp of armoured feet coming his way, and set off down the street. He had to get to St Jude’s and warn them what was coming. And say a quiet prayer for a fallen friend. He didn’t have far to go when his phone rang. He was tempted to just shut it off, but very few people had his number, and none of them would use it unless it was important. He answered the phone without slowing down.
“What?”
“This is Brilliant Chang, Julien. You need to get to the Hospice of the Blessed Saint Margaret right now. They need you.”
“I have to get to St Jude’s,” said Julien. “The Sarjeant-at-Arms is leading his Droods there.”
“A hospital full of wounded needs you more. St Jude’s can take care of itself.”
“Why can’t you help the hospital?” said Julien.
“Because I’m busy,” said Brilliant. And the phone went dead.
Julien sighed heavily, put away his phone, and changed direction.
* * *
• • •
Harry Fabulous, the man who could get you anything, for a price, went walking through Uptown. The very best part of the Nightside, Uptown was home to all the most exclusive and expensive night-clubs, where the show never ends and you can dance until your feet bleed. Where parties go on forever, and the piper is never paid. And in some of Uptown’s special Members-Only Clubs, there are very private back rooms, where you can find everything that’s hot, everything that’s cool, and absolutely anything that’s bad for you . . . but oh so delicious. There was a time when Uptown had been Harry’s stalking ground and second home, making deals and taking chances and always coming out on top. Harry Fabulous had been the Go To Guy, and everyone knew it.
The Droods hadn’t penetrated this far, but even so, most of the clubs were closed. The owners and club members were off in the wind, keeping their heads down and waiting for the storm to pass. The street was wide open and utterly deserted. Harry had never known the area to be so quiet. It looked cheap and tawdry, without its customary glamour, like a working girl without her war-paint.
He stopped before one particular night-club. Heaven’s Doorway had been infamous in its day as the very best place to find pleasures beyond belief. But that wasn’t why Harry remembered the club. This was where it had all gone wrong for him. Back when Heaven’s Doorway had been the club everyone went to, to get the kind of highs no one else could deliver. Taduka and tanna leaves, Martian red weed, and the Really Deep Fix; and the kind of mushrooms that only grow on supernatural corpses. Now it was just another deserted building. They hadn’t even bothered to lock the door, just left it hanging open. The madder music had been stilled, the dance was over, and the party had moved on. But Harry was pretty sure that what he was looking for would still be there, in the back room only a few people knew existed.
He went inside, walking steadily down a corridor full of memories and on into the empty ball-room. The great open space was disturbingly still and silent, the floor scattered with the kind of things people leave behind when they’re in a hurry to get away. There was a spattering of dried blood on the dance floor, but that was just business as usual. The ball-room smelled of old smoke and perfume that had gone off, and the need to have a good time no matter what. The atmosphere was dead, the illusion shattered. Harry thought it was like looking at a corpse’s face before the mortician slapped on the make-up.
He strode quickly across the ball-room, his footsteps loud and impatient in the quiet, shouldering aside the ghosts of good times past, and made his way out the back and up the narrow stairs to the top floor. It was darker there, but then, it always was. He stopped before one particular closed door and took a deep breath to steady himself. The door had no number, no description or warning; you either knew what lay in wait or you had no business being there. Harry stood very still, remembering.
The last time he’d been here, all those years ago, it had been because the room was such a great secret; and he prided himself that no one kept secrets from Harry Fabulous. He made his way up here without telling anyone, or seeking anyone’s permission, and just opened the door and strolled in. To find himself facing an angel with broken wings, trapped inside a pentacle with glowing red lines. Just the sight of her took his breath away.
The angel could have been male or female, both or neither, but was really too beautiful for that to matter. Harry chose to think of the angel as female because of the effect she had on him. She looked like a work of art come to life, like a dream walking, like everyone you ever loved that you just knew you weren’t worthy of. Locked in a cage and suffering.
Harry took awhile to find his voice, then asked the angel why she was being kept prisoner. She answered him in a voice like liquid gold, like birds of paradise singing, telling him she had been imprisoned because there was a market for angel’s blood, wing feathers, and tears. And because there were always those who would pay good money for the chance to have sex with an angel. For the first time in his life, Harry’s heart had been touched. He’d asked what he could do to free the angel. And she told him the only way to break the prison was to spill the heart’s blood of one of the people who had made it. Harry asked the angel for a name, and she provided one. It was a woman Harry knew, but that didn’t stop him.
He tracked the woman down and killed her, then went running back to the angel to tell her she was free. The angel laughed in his face. He’d been conned. She was a Fallen angel, and she had just tricked Harry into murdering a perfectly innocent person. He’d damned his soul to Hell, just to amuse the angel. She was in the pentacle because she chose to be, so she could destroy all those who came to her.
Harry ran away with the angel’s laughter still ringing in his ears and never went back. He spent the rest of his life doing penance, while always knowing it could never be enough.
And now here he was, back again. Come to make a deal with the Fallen angel because that was what he did. He opened the door and went in, and she was still sitting in her pentacle of glowing red lines, magnificent as ever. She didn’t look in the least surprised to see him, just smiled slowly, and when she spoke, her voice was like a razor blade in an apple, like the pain of a loved one.
“Hello, Harry. I always knew you’d come back to me.”
Harry looked at the angel, saying nothing, controlling himself. This would be the most important deal of his life if he could pull it off.
“Why are you still here?” he said finally.
“Why would I want to leave?” said the angel. ??
?As long as I remain, there will always be fools like you to play with.”
“But the Droods are on their way,” said Harry.
“I know,” said the angel. “I’ve been watching their progress and delighting in the slaughter. There’s nothing Hell enjoys more than good people doing bad things for what they think are good reasons. One of them is bound to come here, eventually. I shall enjoy seducing a Drood and teaching them all the ways of corruption.”
“I have a better idea,” Harry said steadily. “How would you like to kill some of those notoriously worthy and morally inflexible Droods? How would you like to kill a whole bunch of them and teach that family the true meaning of terror?”
The angel looked at him. “Are you tempting me, Harry?”
“Here is my offer,” said Harry. “The last deal I’ll ever make. I will allow you to possess me, in return for enough strength to fight Droods and strike them down with my bare hands. I need to hurt them, to stop them, but I can’t do it on my own.”
“I thought you worked for them, Harry?”
“They betrayed me by not being what they claimed,” said Harry. “They’re just as bad as everyone else. They tricked me, and I will have my revenge. Well, what do you say? Wouldn’t you like to leave that pentacle and walk up and down the Nightside in my body? I’m offering to sell you my soul in return for power.”
“You’re already damned, Harry,” said the angel, smiling happily. “You murdered an innocent.”
“Yes,” said Harry. “I did. But I’ve spent years doing penance. I could have redeemed myself. Do you want to risk that? I could still go out into the streets and die heroically.”
“Enough strength to fight Droods, for the duration of the invasion,” said the angel. “Release me, and we have a deal. Dear sweet Harry.”
He produced a stoppered phial from inside his coat. Holy water from St Jude’s; acquired through several removes, so no one would know it was him. He opened the phial and poured the contents across the glowing red lines, and they vanished as though they’d never been there. The angel rose to her feet, smiled dazzlingly at Harry, and launched herself forward. She dived inside him, like a swimmer plunging into a deep pool. Harry cried out in shock as the Fallen angel took up residence inside him. He hadn’t expected Hell to burn so cold. But he also felt strong and powerful enough to do anything . . .