Suzie drew Wulfsbane. The future Suzie smiled at her. “And that, right there, is where I was born.”
She disappeared. Suzie stared at the empty space for a long moment, then put the sword away.
“I really don’t see the point of that visit,” said John, keeping his voice carefully steady. “I mean, she didn’t try to do anything to stop me. Didn’t tell me anything I could use, didn’t so much as threaten me . . . So what was the point?”
“She sounded like me,” said Suzie.
“But she had an injured face!” said John. “And yours was healed long ago. So she can’t be your future.”
“Who knows what might happen between now and then,” said Suzie. “I’m going outside for a while. To think.”
“Before that, don’t you need to . . . ?” said Alex.
“More than ever,” said Suzie.
* * *
• • •
Sometime later, she was standing in the back alley, some distance away from Betty and Lucy Coltrane, who wanted nothing to do with the sword on her back . . . when two Droods came walking down the alley in their armour. Betty and Lucy hefted their sledge-hammers and did their best to look confident. Suzie put a hand on Wulfshead’s hilt, then stopped as the Droods came to a halt and lowered their armour. Revealing a middle-aged blonde and a younger woman with dark skin. They stood together, doing their best to look not at all threatening.
“I am Dr Mary Drood,” said the older woman. “This is my colleague, Dr Indira Drood. We’re here because we can’t support what our family is doing.”
“The Matriarch isn’t in charge any more,” said Indira. “The Sarjeant-at-Arms has taken control, and I honestly think he’s lost his mind. All he wants to do is kill people.”
“But we are doctors,” said Mary. “So we walked away.”
“We couldn’t fight our own family,” said Indira. “So we came here to offer our assistance.”
“How did you find this place?” said Suzie.
“We just followed the injured,” said Mary. “And if we could do that, you can bet it won’t be long before someone else does the same thing.”
Suzie’s hand closed around Wulfsbane’s hilt. The sword was murmuring in her head, reminding her how many people were dead and dying because of the Droods, and how good it would feel to make some Droods pay for that. So Suzie took her hand away from the sword, just to make it clear she was in charge.
“Go down into the bar,” she said. “See what you can do.”
The two Drood doctors made their way down the metal stairs and quietly introduced themselves to John Taylor. He took them to see Persecution Psmith. The old Puritan Adventurer had been around so long he could look into anyone’s heart and see the truth there, which was why he so rarely got invited to parties. Not that he would have gone, anyway. He took one look at the two Droods and vouched for both of them, so John just left them to it.
Dr Mary and Dr Indira rolled up their sleeves and got to work. Not letting the extent of the carnage and suffering get to them. They’d feel guilty later, when they had time. They quickly used up the half-dozen medical blobs they had on the worst cases. They weren’t used to working without their usual medicines and support tech, but they’d both had field training, where you learned to make do with what you had. And it helped that they could quietly shape their armour into all kinds of surgical instruments. They concentrated on saving lives and didn’t think about anything else. It got in the way of doing the job.
* * *
• • •
Augusta and Agatha Moon were the next notable faces to arrive at Strangefellows. Augusta, the middle-aged supernatural trouble-shooter, was still wearing her tweed suit from the Adventurers Club, even though much of it was spattered with other people’s blood. She’d lost her monocle, and the silver top of her heavy walking-stick was caked with dried blood and matted hairs. She strode up to the bar with her sister, Agatha, at her side, and Alex immediately found a reason to be very busy at the other end. John Taylor felt like running away too but made himself stand his ground. Because Augusta would only chase after him, tackle him, then sit on him while she told him what she wanted.
“Hello, Augusta,” he said resignedly. “What are you doing here?”
“I had to walk out of the Adventurers Club,” she said briskly. “Damn fools still can’t make up their minds as to which side they should be on. It all got a bit loud, and the next thing you know, there are blood and teeth flying on the air. I don’t mind a bit of boisterousness in the bar, but you can’t beat good sense into someone else’s head, no matter how big a stick you use. I know, I’ve tried. So I decided to come here. Only other decent bar in the Nightside. And what I saw on the way here was enough to convince me that the Droods have lost it, big time. I called my sister and told her to meet me here. So we could decide what to do about it.”
“I thought I was being invited out for a quiet drink,” said Agatha. “Not a trip to a slaughter-house.”
A renowned business woman in an elegantly tailored suit, Agatha had short dark hair, a striking face, and a superior expression. Which she was having a hard time maintaining in the face of so much death and suffering.
“Hello, Agatha,” John said politely. “Looking for Alex?”
“You know better than that.” She scowled around her. “This used to be my favourite drinking-place when I was younger. Augusta and I came here all the time. Look at what the Droods have made of it.”
“This is where you met Alex,” said Augusta. “I introduced you.”
“And I still haven’t forgiven you,” said Agatha. “Hold everything. What is that?”
John looked. “That is Alex’s pet vulture. And next to her is the egg she laid, sometime back. Most of us are still having trouble coming to terms with the idea that anything was willing to have sex with the scabby-looking thing, and there is quite a lot of betting going on as to what will eventually emerge from the egg.”
“But the egg is bigger than the bird!” said Agatha.
“I know,” said John. “It grew. Intriguing, isn’t it?”
“Does the bird have a name?” said Augusta. “Would it like a cracker or something?”
“Don’t try to feed her,” John said quickly. “She’ll have your hand off. Her name is Agatha.”
“What?” said Agatha Moon. “Alex named his pet vulture after me?”
Augusta almost doubled over, she was laughing so hard. When she finally straightened up, she had to wipe tears from her eyes before she could say anything.
“Guess you really shouldn’t have cheated on him, Agatha. And definitely not with Merlin Satanspawn, who had to possess Alex’s body so he could do it.”
Agatha shrugged. “I always did have a thing for older men.”
“Talk to Alex,” Augusta said firmly. “Go on, girl. Make your peace with him. We may not have much time left.”
Agatha sighed and went down the bar to join Alex. He nodded to her.
“Relax,” he said. “I’m too tired to be properly mad at you. And our small problems don’t seem that important compared to what’s covering the floor of my bar.”
“Where’s your young bit of stuff?” said Agatha.
“Cathy Barrett is on her way here,” said Alex. “I just hope she’s being sensible and avoiding the trouble spots. Have you got anyone in your life?”
“No one who stayed,” said Agatha.
“Well,” said Alex. “I am a hard act to follow.”
And that was when the Sarjeant-at-Arms came stamping down the metal stairs into the bar, followed by half his remaining troops. The other half were still trapped in the alley-way, fighting Suzie Shooter and the Coltranes. The Sarjeant had come to Strangefellows because everyone else he’d sent had got diverted and because he felt the need to achieve at least one clear victory.
He stepped
away from the bottom of the stairs and gestured for his Droods to spread out on either side of him. And then he armoured down so everyone could see his face. Half of it was torn apart, only held together by dried blood, and his gaze was very cold. If it bothered him at all to be confronted by so much suffering and death that he was responsible for, it didn’t show. Dr Mary and Dr Indira Drood stood up to face him, quietly defiant. The Sarjeant dismissed them with a glance and fixed his attention on John Taylor at the bar. Augusta Moon moved to stand beside John, hefting her stick. Alex produced his glowing baseball bat from behind the bar. And still more golden figures came hurrying down the metal stairs to join the Sarjeant and fan out across the bar.
John took a step forward, and everyone looked to him, to see what he would say and do.
“How did you know I was here, Cedric?” he said finally.
“I didn’t,” said the Sarjeant. “I’m just here to take control of the bar. Your death will be a fortunate bonus.”
“This is a hospital,” said John.
“I don’t care any more,” said the Sarjeant. “All I care about now is winning. After everything I’ve been through, everything I’ve seen and had to do . . . I have to win. Or all of it will have been for nothing.”
He looked around sharply, at the sound of a single set of footsteps descending the metal stairs. Everyone turned to look as Suzie Shooter descended into the bar. She had Wulfsbane in her hand. Blood dripped thickly from the long blade. The Droods fell back to give her room. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
“Where are the rest of my people?” the Sarjeant asked.
“Dead,” said Suzie.
The Sarjeant shook his head slowly and turned to his remaining troops.
“Kill them all,” he said. “Kill everyone in this God-forsaken place.”
And that was when the great black egg on the bar cracked open, and a miniature dragon blasted its way out. Bright green, with a proud head and wide membranous wings, it flew across the bar and breathed flames on the Droods. Dragonfire washed across golden armour in endless streams until it melted and ran away. The Droods struggled to get back up the metal staircase, and the dragon swept back and forth above them, bathing them in its fiery breath. One by one the Droods fell and did not move again. Only those nearest the foot of the stairs were able to escape, pushing the Sarjeant ahead of them because he didn’t want to go.
The dragon flew back to settle on the bar, where the vulture cooed maternally over it. And everyone else went back to work, helping those they could.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Who’s Missing from This Photograph?
The war raged on, devastating the Nightside, and the bodies piled up. Blood and horror filled the long night, and still neither side seemed any closer to winning. So, unbeknownst to each other, both sides decided it was time for extreme measures. In order to finally put a stop to the fighting, they would do the unspeakable, the unthinkable. In their own way, and for their own reasons, both sides decided it was time to bring back the dead.
The Matriarch called for a meeting with the Sarjeant-at-Arms. The Droods were still having problems with torc-to-torc communication, so the Matriarch chose one of her most reliable messengers, a young man named Ruan, and sent him off to find the Sarjeant. The Matriarch waited with her people, resisting all attempts to continue the fighting, until Ruan finally returned with word from the Sarjeant. The word was that the Sarjeant was far too busy to come to her. He had ground to hold and attacks to organise, so if she wanted to speak with him, she would have to follow the messenger back to the Sarjeant.
The Matriarch took pains to nod calmly, as though this was only reasonable and nothing more than she’d expected, and seethed inwardly. She couldn’t afford to let her people see how angry she was at having her authority thrown back in her face. She would go to the Sarjeant and make him pay for his defiance. She nodded stiffly to Ruan, who had delivered the Sarjeant’s words with a definite air of Please don’t shoot the messenger for the message, and he set off quickly, with the Matriarch striding along behind. Silently rehearsing all the many pointed things she meant to say to her Sarjeant-at-Arms to remind him which one of them was in charge.
Ruan led her through burned-out ruins and blood-spattered streets, and she wouldn’t let herself look away from all the corpses. The stench of blood and slaughter hung on the night air like a ground mist that refused to dissipate. None of it was her intention, none of it what she’d wanted.
The Sarjeant’s words had been the closest he’d come so far to open defiance. She was the Matriarch; her word was law. He lived only to serve her, and through her, the family. That was the way it had always been. So what the hell did the man think he was doing? Yes, she’d put him in charge of the invasion, with responsibility for all practical matters, but she was still the Matriarch.
Ruan led her through wrecked streets, full of deserted buildings with smashed windows and kicked-in doors. There was no sign of resisting Nightsiders anywhere. They’d learned that tackling the Droods head-on rarely got them anywhere. The Matriarch kept a careful eye out for hidden attacks and ambushes, but no one moved in the dark alley-ways. A thought struck the Matriarch and chilled her to the bone. The Sarjeant couldn’t have killed everyone in the area, could he? She followed Ruan through places where all the street-lights had been smashed, the ever-present neon signs were dull or broken, and only a shimmering blue-white illumination from the oversized moon was left to light their way. The Matriarch moved in close beside Ruan, who seemed grateful for the company.
“Why has the Sarjeant put so much effort into destroying everything?” said the Matriarch. “I haven’t seen any evidence of real resistance for some time: no bloodstains, no bodies . . . So what happened here?”
“The Sarjeant disapproved of this entire area,” said Ruan, staring straight ahead. “We are in Rotten Row, Matriarch, where people go to have sex with gods and monsters, aliens and computers, ghosts and demons and some of the livelier versions of the walking dead. Rotten Row, where sex isn’t just a sin and a sacrament, it’s an obsession.”
“I see,” said the Matriarch. “That was rather more information than I needed . . .”
“The Sarjeant had a lot to say on the subject,” said Ruan. “And I really didn’t feel like interrupting him. Should I continue?”
“There’s more?” said the Matriarch. “More importantly, is it relevant?”
“It is, if you want to understand why the Sarjeant ordered all of this,” said Ruan. He waited for her to nod stiffly and carried on. “When the Sarjeant came here he didn’t like what he saw, so he had his troops drag people out of the buildings. And when he found out what they did here, and about some of the people and things they did it with . . . He said Rotten Row was an affront to everything the Droods believed in.”
“How many people died here?” said the Matriarch.
“All of them,” said Ruan.
They continued on in silence. The long street stretched away before them, as empty and silent as the dark side of the moon. When they finally reached the end, it widened out to form a great open square, and there was the Sarjeant and his troops. Rows and ranks of golden figures, the largest remaining part of the Drood invasion force, waiting patiently while the Sarjeant argued with his advisors over where to go next. Apparently the Droods were now so far off what few maps they had that even the Armourer’s compasses didn’t work. No one seemed too sure of where anywhere else was in relation to where they were now. The Sarjeant wanted to know where he could find the Authorities, because once he had them, he’d have control of the Nightside. But no one had anything useful to offer. The Sarjeant was growing angrier by the moment, while the people standing before him looked increasingly nervous.
Ruan led the Matriarch through the standing Droods, and row by row they armoured down. Normally she would have taken that as a sign of respect, but what she saw in their revealed face
s wasn’t so much an acknowledgment of her authority as simple curiosity. Their main reaction seemed to be: What is she doing here? As though she had no right to interrupt the Sarjeant, or the important work they were doing. The Sarjeant waited until the Matriarch had almost reached him before he turned abruptly to face her. Ruan stopped dead and let the Matriarch continue on her own.
The Matriarch was shocked to discover that half of the Sarjeant’s face was a bloody mess; dark dried blood crusted over deep and nasty wounds. It looked like some animal had tried to claw his face off. He didn’t even nod to the Matriarch, just waited to see what she had to say. She kept her voice carefully calm and business-like.
“What happened to you, Sarjeant?”
“I let a traitor get too close,” he said flatly. “Where were you, Matriarch? We were supposed to meet at St Jude’s, but when I got there, you’d already moved on.”
“Is that where . . . ?”
“No. Where were you?”
“I had business elsewhere,” she said steadily. “People I needed to talk to.”
“You were talking. I should have known.” The Sarjeant made a sharp, dismissive gesture. “What do you want, Matriarch?”
His voice was flat, openly disinterested. The Matriarch met his cold stare with an even colder glare of her own.
“What have you been doing here, Sarjeant? I didn’t order any of this.”
“Just what needed doing.”
The Matriarch pressed on. “I have been talking with Charles and Emily. As Heads of the Department of Uncanny, they have been able to provide an outside view, and it’s clear to me that my plan for the invasion has failed. I wanted a bloodless coup, or at the very least, an absolute minimum of death and destruction. This mass butchery is not what I intended. More importantly, it isn’t helping us win. And we did come here to win, Sarjeant, not just stamp out everything you disapprove of. We came here to solve the problem of the expanding boundaries!”