Secret Histories 10: Dr. DOA

  “Yeah, right,” said Roxie.

  “Sorry, Enid,” I said, “but I need answers.”

  “Why?” said the Midnight Masque. “What could be so important to you that you have to put all of us at risk by trying to find him?”

  “Oh hell,” I said. “Why do you think?”

  Her voice softened immediately. “Oh . . . Oh, Shaman, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Of course, I get it now. You do what you have to.”

  She put a comforting hand on my arm and her face changed, taking on the familiar features of Molly Metcalf. Roxie smiled. I was careful to say nothing. The Midnight Masque took her hand off my arm, and Molly’s face faded back into the featureless black mask. The Midnight Masque turned away and disappeared back into the crush.

  “Okay,” Roxie said to me. “That was actually rather sweet.”

  “Not particularly helpful, though,” I said.

  Janissary Jane approached Roxie, ignoring me. Up close, she smelled of blood and death and quite a lot of gin.

  “Roxie, word is, the Twilight King is putting together an army of mercenaries to fight demons in the underverse. Good money, bad odds. You interested?”

  “Maybe later,” said Roxie.

  Jane passed her a card. “Contact information. It’ll be good for another thirty-six hours, and then we’re off.”

  “You’re going?” said Roxie.

  Janissary Jane shrugged. “It’s a war, isn’t it?”

  She moved away. I looked at Roxie. “She is dead, isn’t she?”

  “Died some time back, for us,” said Roxie. “I didn’t have the heart to tell her. Must be some Time-Travel thing.”

  “That’s the Wulfshead for you,” I said.

  Roxie tapped my arm and indicated with her head to where Monkton Farley had dispensed with his admirers and was now slow dancing with Waterloo Lillian. They seemed quite taken with each other.

  “Do you think he knows?” said Roxie.

  “Oh, he must,” I said. “Great detective like him.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t, he’s going to get a really big clue later on.”

  “You are an awful person, Roxie Hazzard,” I said solemnly.

  And then I looked past her, to where Harry Fabulous was standing at the edge of the crowd, trying surreptitiously to get my attention. Harry used to be the best Go-To Guy for absolutely everything you could ever want that was bad for you, physically and spiritually. You want someone to paint your portrait, or take your photo, like Dorian Gray? Want to smoke some Martian red weed, or be bitten by a vampire dominatrix in some underground BDSM club? Want to dance with the Devil in the pale moonlight? Then Harry Fabulous was your man.

  A furtive, seedy presence, in clothes so casual they were actually characterless, Harry looked like he dressed in a hurry while someone he didn’t want to meet was coming up the stairs. He looked like he could use a shave, and probably a bath. Apparently, he had a close encounter with something really nasty in the back room of some Members Only club in the Nightside, and now he was desperately doing good deeds, hoping against hope it wasn’t too late to redeem his soul. Harry never talked about what happened. And given some of the things he was prepared to talk about, whatever it was must have been really bad. I only knew as much as I did because the Droods know something about everyone. I said as much to Roxie.

  “Even what goes on in the Nightside?” she said.

  “Especially what goes on in the Nightside,” I said. “Know your enemy.”

  I made my way through the packed crowd to where Harry was waiting, with Roxie just calmly following on behind. I looked casually around. No one seemed to be paying us any attention, but this was the Wulfshead, after all. Harry nodded briefly, flashing his meaningless smile.

  “Hello, Eddie,” he said. “Molly.”

  “Hello, Harry,” I said. “Still running scared of the afterlife?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” said Harry. “My soul may be stained, but at least I still have one. Can a Drood say the same?”

  “My family is really going to have to do more work on the PR side,” I said.

  “Never mind that!” said Roxie, scowling heavily. “How do you know who we really are, Harry Fabulous?”

  He shrugged. “The club Management told me.”

  “Do they know what happened to you in the Nightside?” I said.

  “Why do you think I run their errands?” He glanced around quickly, and then leaned in close. “The Management have learned you’re looking for Dr DOA. Because you’re his latest victim.”

  “How do they know that?” said Roxie.

  “How do they know anything?” said Harry. “Because they’re the Management.”

  “Can they help me?” I said.

  “Come into the office,” said Harry, “and we’ll discuss it.”

  He led the way into the Management’s private office at the rear of the club. I’d been there once before, and it hadn’t changed. Just a bare room, with a desk and some chairs. No windows, and no other way in or out. Harry sat down behind the desk, and Roxie and I sat facing him.

  “I was sorry to hear about your condition, Eddie,” said Harry.

  “Who else knows?” I said.

  “Word is getting out,” said Harry. “I know some places where they’re holding celebrations and street parties.”

  “Eddie’s saved the whole world, more than once!” said Roxie.

  “Did you expect them to be grateful?” said Harry. “You can’t be a Drood, and do what Droods do, and not make a whole lot of enemies.”

  “Why are we here, Harry?” I said. “Do the Management have a cure for what’s killing me?”

  “No,” he said. “But they can help you find Dr DOA.”

  I nodded. “I can settle for that.”

  Harry looked up at the ceiling. “Do it.”

  The whole room shuddered for a moment, and then was still.

  “What was that?” said Roxie, ready to jump out of her seat.

  “Just activating the room’s security,” Harry said quickly. “Nothing to worry about. The door is locked, and the club’s protectors are watching over us.”

  “You mean the Roaring Boys?” I said.

  He nodded quickly. No one likes talking about the club’s mysterious and notorious enforcers. “They’re currently protecting this room from all forms of surveillance. Even Heaven and Hell would have a hard time listening in, with the Roaring Boys on the job.”

  “Have you any idea who or what the Boys really are?” I said.

  “No,” Harry said very firmly. “And I don’t want to know. You live longer that way.”

  “All right,” I said. “What’s this all about, Harry?”

  “The Wulfshead Management still owe you a favour, for cleaning up the mess made by MI Thirteen when they tried to bug the club.”

  Roxie looked sharply at me, silently demanding to know why I’d never mentioned this to her before. I gave her a look that said Later and she reluctantly subsided again. I looked back at Harry.

  “How can the Management help me?”

  “With your permission, I’d like to bring someone in on this,” Harry said carefully. “You aren’t going to like or approve of him, but I guarantee you really need to talk to the guy.”

  “I’m in no position to be choosy,” I said. “Right now, I’d accept help from my worst enemy.”

  “Funny you should say that,” said Harry. “But before I invite him in, you have to give me your word that you won’t kill him.”

  “This is going to be really bad, isn’t it?” I said. “Okay, you have my word.”

  Harry looked at the door. “Open!”

  The door unlocked itself, and a young man walked in. My first thought was that a homeless guy had somehow wandered in off the street. He looked even more of a m
ess than Harry. The door shut and locked itself behind the newcomer, and he glared at me sullenly. He looked like he slept rough, ate out of Dumpsters, and stole anything he could get away with. His grubby clothes came from charity shops, and his attitude was that of a dog kicked too many times. He glowered sourly at me, and then at Roxie.

  “Eddie Drood and Molly Metcalf. I can’t believe it’s come to this . . .”

  I looked at Roxie. “Some days, I don’t know why we bother . . .”

  “This is Django Westphalion,” said Harry.

  Roxie looked at the young homeless guy. “Really?”

  “No,” said Django. He looked at Harry. “Has he sworn not to kill me? Am I safe?”

  “With a name like that, probably not,” said Roxie. “Hey, why didn’t you ask me to swear as well?”

  “The Drood gave his word, Django,” said Harry. “And I’m sure he’ll stand between you and Molly, if need be.”

  He seemed to be enjoying the situation a little too much for my liking. Django sniffed loudly.

  “Bet you never thought you’d meet someone who’s sunk lower than you,” he said coldly.

  “It does warm the inner man,” said Harry. “Now, you wanted this meeting. Talk to the Drood.”

  Django fixed me with a challenging stare. “I can get you into Under the Mountain so you can meet with the Survivors. If anyone can save you, they can.”

  I sat up straight in my chair. “How?”

  His whole form changed, right in front of us. Becoming an exact duplicate of Harry, then Molly, then me, and finally back to Django Westphalion.

  “Because I’m one of the few surviving Immortals,” he said defiantly. “That ancient and glorious family the Droods massacred, at Castle Frankenstein. Because of you, there’s only a handful of us left now, scattered across the world, hiding in the shadows. On the run from everyone.”

  “Well, that’s what you get,” I said, entirely unconcerned. “For being a family of complete bastards and utter shits. You treated all of human history as your own private playpen and hunting ground. You can’t really be surprised that everyone wants you dead.”

  He sneered at me. “You can talk, Drood.”

  “Why are you willing to help him?” said Roxie.

  “I hate all the Droods, and him especially,” Django said sullenly. “But I owe the Wulfshead Management more than I can ever hope to repay. It has been made clear to me that if I cooperate, they are willing to wipe my debts clean, and not throw me to the Roaring Boys.”

  “Because the Management owe you, Eddie,” said Harry. “And they really don’t like being beholden to anyone.”

  “You want to talk to the Survivors,” said Django. “Well, I can arrange that, because I have a standing invitation to drop in anytime I feel like it. I’ve been allowing the Survivors to experiment on me. Because all the members of my family were shape-dancers, the Survivors hope to find something in my genetic makeup that can be transferred to them.”

  “Why would you agree to be their lab rat?” said Roxie.

  “Because they pay,” said Django. “It’s a hard life, when you have to go in fear of everyone.” He snarled at me. “I used to have the whole world at my feet, and now it’s at my throat. If it were up to me, I’d let you die, Drood. And then join the queue to piss on your grave.”

  “I’ll leave you to work this out,” said Harry, getting to his feet. “You don’t need me anymore. And you’re probably about to discuss things I’m better off not knowing.”

  The door opened and closed behind him. The rest of us were too busy glaring at one another to care.

  “So, how are you going to get us inside Under the Mountain?” said Roxie. She sounded suspicious. I didn’t blame her.

  “Only way in is by teleport,” said Django. “The Survivors’ base is set up inside a massive cavern, deep inside a mountain. No actual entrances or exits. They do like their privacy. And given some of the things I’ve seen them do to their lab rats . . . it’s just as well.”

  “Do you have a dimensional Door?” I said.

  “I have a personal teleport bracelet,” said Django. “Alien tech. Those in my family were always great beachcombers. How do you think I was able to escape your family’s massacre of my people at the Castle? And stay one jump ahead of all my many enemies?”

  He pulled back his filthy sleeve to show off a chunky brass bracelet on his wrist, studded with what looked like semi-precious stones for controls. Steampunk tech. Probably lifted off the body of some poor alien, trying to hide from his own kind among Humanity.

  “So what do we do?” I said. “Hold hands?”

  He sneered at me. “I’d rather die, Drood. No, just stand close, within the field of the bracelet.”

  We all stood together in the middle of the room. Roxie wrinkled her nose at Django’s rather pungent smell as his fingers danced over the controls, and then, just like that, we were somewhere else. Standing in a huge, brightly lit stone cavern, surrounded by dozens of heavily armed guards, all of them pointing weapons at us.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Good Living, and Bad

  There are times when having an awful lot of guns pointed at you can be a good thing. When you’ve been having a really bad day, for example, and you are definitely feeling the need to take it out on somebody. I took one look at the dozens of heavily armed and armoured guards training their guns on me and on Roxie, smiled nastily, and armoured up. Shocked gasps sounded from all sides, along with a pleasing number of involuntary noises suggesting awe, dismay, and stark terror. Reliable indications that a Drood was in the room. Roxie surrounded herself with a screen of fiercely spitting magics, and some of the guards actually started to back away. Others were already quickly lowering their weapons, while trying very hard to look like the whole thing had been some terrible misunderstanding. I turned to Django Westphalion, grabbed him by the throat with one golden hand, and lifted him off his feet.

  “Why did you warn them we were coming?”

  “I had to!” He clawed at my golden wrist with both hands, but couldn’t break my hold. “I had to give them advance warning so they could lower the security shields to let us in!”

  I hate it when they start being reasonable. I reluctantly let go of him, and he fell on his arse on the stone floor, breathing hard. One of the few good things about Immortals is that you never need to feel bad about assaulting them. Because you can always be sure they’ve done something to deserve it. Django scrambled backwards across the floor, glaring at me venomously.

  “You forget, I’m a shape-changer! I can turn into a monster and tear you apart!”

  “Really?” I said politely. “A monster? Like what, precisely? What have you ever been, or even seen, that you think could take a Drood in his armour? You don’t even have a weapon on you, do you?”

  He scowled sullenly. “The Survivors won’t let you in if you’re carrying any kind of weapon. They agreed to make an exception for your armour only because they’re so keen to get their hands on a Drood.”

  “Well,” I said. “That doesn’t sound at all ominous.”

  “Stand still!” shouted one of the guards. “I am in command here, and I order you to put your hands in the air and lower your armour!”

  I turned to look back at the guards. I’d actually forgotten about them, for a moment.

  “Does that even sound like something I’d do?” I said. “Get rid of the one thing that’s protecting me from your guns? Which, I can’t help noticing, some of you are still pointing at me. Never a good idea with a Drood. We take such things personally. Now, be a sensible chap and order all of your men to lower their weapons. And then nobody needs to get hurt, damaged, or horribly maimed.”

  “Right,” said Roxie, grinning broadly. “What he said.”

  Most of the guards were clustering together in little groups now, in the mistaken belief there w
as safety in numbers. I stared unhurriedly around me, letting them all get a good look at my featureless golden face mask. There’s something about its complete lack of eyeholes that really upsets people. Some of the guards had automatic weapons, some had energy guns obviously derived from alien-developed tech, and a few were putting their faith in magical artefacts. I glanced at Roxie.

  “You take the hundred to the left. I’ll take the hundred to the right.”

  “Love to,” said Roxie. “I hate being made to feel unwelcome.”

  “Surrender!” the guard leader said just a bit hysterically. “I demand that you surrender!”

  “You just can’t talk to some people,” I said.

  I took a step forward and all the guards opened fire at once, hitting me with everything they had. I stood my ground, quite casually, and let them get it out of their system. My armour soaked up bullets and the energy beams with equal indifference, and it took no damage at all. A few magical energies crackled on the air around me, trying to force their way in and failing. I put up with this just long enough to really discourage the guards, and then I launched myself at them.

  I was in and among them before they could even adjust their aim. I knocked them off their feet with great sweeps of my golden arms, tore weapons out of their hands, and threw them this way and that, and punched out anyone whose face I didn’t like. I picked guards up and threw them away, and they went skidding helplessly across the stone floor. Some kept firing, hoping point-blank range would make a difference. It didn’t. I picked these guards up and used them to hit others. From all around me came cries of rage and frustration, pain and horror, and it was music to my ears.

  It felt good to have something to strike out at. Somebody to punish for the rotten day I’d had. But I was still careful not to hurt any of them too badly. I came here to ask the Survivors for help, after all. Littering the arrival chamber with dead bodies would not make a good first impression. Besides, I didn’t do that anymore. No matter how brassed off I was feeling.

  But no one attacks a Drood and gets away with it. Some things just can’t be permitted.