Because no one carries a grudge like my family.
I moved along the front row, and a chill ran through me as I came face-to-face with my grandmother Martha, the previous Matriarch of my family. Sitting beside her, dressed in his Sunday best, was her first husband. In my world Arthur left the family to run the Department of Uncanny, and never came back. Apparently that wasn’t the case here. Beside them sat the Blue Fairy, in a remarkably conservative outfit, for him. Half Drood and half elf, he must have embraced my family’s heritage in this world.
He’d ended up as a scarecrow in the grounds of my Hall. So his decision hadn’t made that much difference, in the end.
I looked at Molly and she looked at me.
“Why would anyone do this, Eddie? What’s the point of all this?”
“They must be here for a purpose,” I said. “My family never does anything without a reason, and usually a very upsetting one . . .”
I broke off, as one by one all the preserved bodies turned their heads in a series of slow, jerky movements to look at me. Making stiff creaking sounds, like machinery forced into motion after being left idle for far too long. Dust fell from their faces in sudden streams. Their eyes were open now, fixing me with cold, unwavering stares. I glanced briefly behind me, to make sure there was nothing between me and the open door. Molly made a low disgusted sound. Grandmother Martha’s mouth dropped open, like a ventriloquist’s puppet’s. She made a series of exploratory noises, and then her voice sounded harshly on the still air.
“Edmund. You have come back to us.”
I half expected dust to puff from her mouth in a small cloud, like some ancient mummy disturbed in its tomb. I started to correct her with my proper name, but Molly’s hand clamped down on my arm again, stopping me. I nodded to her, and she let go. I took up a position standing directly in front of the dead woman, and all the other heads moved to follow me.
“Hello, Grandmother,” I said carefully. “You’re looking . . . very like yourself. Can you answer questions?”
“Of course,” said Martha. Her voice sounded distant and just a bit artificial, like an old recording. “That is what we’re here for.”
“What are you?” I said. “Why did the family . . . preserve you like this?”
It wasn’t until I’d finished speaking that I had second thoughts, and winced. Edmund would probably have known these things. But Martha showed no surprise at my questions, and answered me steadily.
“We are the family’s advisory Council. Not zombies; just a lifetime’s knowledge and experience conserved against the ages. History in the flesh. So that nothing of value might be lost to the family.”
“Is anything of you in there, Grandmother?” I said.
“No.” The voice issuing from the stiff grey lips was quite firm. “I am everything Martha knew, but nothing of who she was.”
“That’s something, I suppose. How did you survive the Great Invasion?”
“Because only the Matriarch can access the advisory Council,” said Martha. “No one else can even see the door.”
Molly stirred at my side, as though she wanted to say something, but I hushed her with a look. I stepped back to join her and murmured in her ear.
“I know; I’m not a Matriarch. But I did run my family for a while, and apparently that’s enough to meet the requirements. Edmund never returned to his family, so he never got to be in charge . . . So he never knew about any of this and couldn’t betray them to the invaders.”
“Makes sense,” said Molly. “Go on, ask her things!”
“All right!” I said. “It’s not easy talking to a dead relative.”
“Easier than talking to some of the live ones,” murmured Molly.
I knew she was trying to lighten the mood. It didn’t help, but I appreciated the effort. I turned my attention back to Martha.
“You called out to me, or the room did. Why do you need to speak to me?”
“You were heading for the Library. We could tell. You must not release the prisoner in the Old Library. After so many years of impressed servitude, his wrath would be a terrible thing.”
“So there was something unnatural in there!” said Molly.
“I never doubted it,” I said. “Now hush, please.”
“Only because you said please.”
Martha didn’t react to Molly at all, as though she weren’t there. Because Molly wasn’t a Drood.
“Who is this prisoner?” I said.
“All our sins remembered,” said Martha.
“All right,” I said. “This is all very interesting, not to mention deeply disturbing, but that’s not why you called out to me, is it? What do you want me to do, Grandmother?”
“You must destroy us,” Martha said flatly. “It is necessary. Strangers have entered the Hall and moved back and forth in it. There is always the chance someone will find a way past our safeguards and discover us. The advisory Council must not come under the control of outsiders. Our knowledge must not fall into the hands of our enemies.”
I thought about that.
“Well?” said Molly. “What’s the problem? Think of all the really bad things Kali-worshipping Droods might know. You really want that running loose in the world?”
“But have we the right to destroy so much knowledge?” I said.
“They’re not the people you know,” said Molly. “Let the evil they’ve done die with them. Wipe the world clean of this family once and for all.”
I nodded reluctantly and looked back at Martha. “Will any of you . . . suffer, if I do this?”
“No,” said Martha. “We are all of us dead and gone. Nothing but repositories of old knowledge. Books that need to be closed forever.”
“How am I supposed to destroy you,” I said, “if you’re already dead?”
“Fire,” said Molly. “Fire is always good.”
“My family would have thought of that,” I said. “You can bet this room is lousy with protections. Grandmother?”
“You have Drood authority, or you wouldn’t be here,” said Martha. “Just say the Words.”
“What Words?” I said.
Every dead body in the room lifted one arm and pointed steadily at a book laid out on a side table. I looked at it for a long moment, because I was absolutely sure neither the book nor the table had been there just a moment ago. Or perhaps I just hadn’t been allowed to see them until now.
“We cannot read the Words of unbinding ourselves,” said Martha. “They only have power if spoken by the living. By the head of the family.”
“Now, that is pushing it,” I said to Molly. “It’s been some time since I was in charge . . .”
“Once a Patriarch, always a Patriarch,” Molly said briskly. “Like the dead thing said: If you weren’t qualified, the room wouldn’t have called you.”
I moved over to the table and looked at the book. It lay open, revealing oversized pages of blocky type. The language looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Molly crowded in beside me and then drew in a sharp breath.
“Oh shit . . .”
“What?” I said.
“This is bad stuff,” said Molly. “And I mean seriously bad stuff.”
“You know what this is?” I said.
“The Book of Morgana La Fae,” said Molly. “Greatest witch of all time. She helped bring down King Arthur’s Camelot. Killing Morgana was the last great thing Merlin ever did, and the effort nearly destroyed him. She knew things no one else knew, or would want to know. This looks to be the Eighteenth-Century edition; as close to an unexpurgated version as you’re going to get. It’s written in an ancient form of Enochian, the language men use when they want to talk directly to angels or demons. Eddie, I was a supernatural terrorist for years, and I never even saw a copy of this book. It’s hideously dangerous; the occult equivalent of a backpack nuke. The
re are Words in here that could blow the earth apart like a firecracker in a rotten apple. You do not want to mess with this.”
The two open pages were covered with a thick layer of dust, apart from one section low down on the left-hand side. The half-dozen lines of revealed text seemed almost supernaturally clear and distinct.
“Are you sure this is Enochian?” I said. “I can usually read that, while just looking at the text here is giving me a serious headache.”
“This version far predates the form discovered by Dr Dee,” said Molly. “I saw something like it once before, in the Nightside. In one of Merlin’s books. I was supposed to steal it, but I wasn’t dumb enough to get Merlin Satanspawn mad at me. Eddie . . . I have no idea what those Words are or what will happen if you speak them.”
I looked back at the dead men and women on their chairs, still pointing steadily at the book.
“You think they’d lie to me?”
“Hello!” Molly said loudly. “Kali-worshipping Droods, hated by the whole world! What do you think?”
“I think Martha is right. We can’t leave them here, knowing what they know. They’re the real backpack nuke. I have to do this, Molly. Maybe you’d better step out of the room, just in case.”
“Hell with that,” Molly said immediately. “If something should go wrong, I’m the only real chance for survival you’ve got. Get on with it. I’ll rehearse a few emergency prayers.”
I spoke each Word carefully in turn. I could feel a growing presence in the room, as though it was filling up with something unseen but horribly powerful. There was a presence in the book, and in the room, of life and death and everything in between, lying in the balance.
As I continued reading, the correct pronunciation became easier, as though the book was prompting me. The moment I spoke the last Word, the tension in the room broke and was gone. The dead bodies all sighed once, in unison, and then just crumbled away. Collapsing in on themselves, becoming dust and less than dust. Until nothing was left but rows of empty chairs in an empty room. Molly sighed heavily.
“Just when I think your family can’t get any more disturbing . . .”
“What do we do with the book?” I said.
“What book?” said Molly.
I looked back at the table, but the book was gone. Only an outline in the dust remained, to show where it had been.
“Where did it go?” I said.
“Nowhere we would want to follow,” said Molly. “Trust me, Eddie, we are well rid of it.”
“Maybe it’s shelved itself in the Old Library,” I said. “Let’s go take a look.”
“You’re just full of really bad ideas today, aren’t you?” said Molly.
We backed out of the room, because neither of us felt like taking our eyes off it, and I closed the door firmly. The door then vanished, taking the wall with it. I can’t say I was thrown. I’ve seen stranger things in Drood Hall.
“Magic that cleans up after itself,” Molly said approvingly. “Best kind.” She frowned. “Though I have to wonder . . . A prisoner, in the Old Library. Could it be someone like your Drood in Cell Thirteen, who had to be locked away forever, for everyone else’s safety?”
“I think we’re about to find out,” I said.
• • •
The route turned out to be remarkably straightforward, as though the Hall wanted us to get there. But when we arrived at the official Library the door had been smashed in. It hung crookedly in its frame, barely hanging on by one hinge. I gave it a push and the door tore itself loose, crashing full length on the floor. Molly and I looked quickly around, but there was no response. I moved cautiously forward and found the Library had been ransacked, just like the Armoury. Nothing left but overturned wooden stacks, smoke-blackened walls, and a few unwanted books on the floor.
“I’m sure the Library wasn’t this empty the last time we were here,” I said.
“We’ve been gone a while,” said Molly. “The vultures must have descended in our absence.”
“Knowledge is power,” I said. “And, sometimes, currency. My family spent generations collecting secret histories, forgotten knowledge, and compendiums of acquired alien lore. We like to know things, especially things no one else knows. All these empty shelves, all this forbidden knowledge out in the world, almost certainly in the hands of people who can’t be trusted with it. No wonder the advisory Council was so determined it had to be destroyed.”
“I don’t think this world was any safer under the Droods,” said Molly. “You’ve got to stop thinking of them as good guys, Eddie.”
We made our way slowly through the Library, stepping carefully around the overturned wooden stacks. There was a smell of old smoke on the dusty air.
“I think someone tried to start a fire in here,” I said. “But it didn’t take. The looters must have been worried in case they missed something, and didn’t want anyone else to have it.”
Molly stared around her, frowning into the gloom. “Wooden stacks and bare floor-boards . . . This should have gone up like a bonfire. Must be more protections in place.”
“Of course,” I said. “The Hall can look after itself. Except . . . Edmund was supposed to have shut down all the Hall’s protections before he let the invaders in.”
“He couldn’t know about everything,” said Molly. “He had been away for some time.”
“At least he didn’t get to destroy everything,” I said. “Okay. The unreal light is back. I’m going to assume that’s standard and not following us around, because that would be just creepy.”
“Could parts of Drood Hall still be alive?” said Molly. “Still functioning, on some level?”
“Not one of the most reassuring thoughts you’ve ever had,” I said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I know.”
The painting that gave access to the Old Library was still hanging in place on the farthest wall. The original Drood library, long forgotten to all but the highest members in the family. Until I brought it back in my world. The painting seemed entirely untouched by fire or smoke. I was surprised the looters hadn’t taken it, but perhaps it had hidden itself. The painting showed a view of the Old Library’s interior, so exact and detailed it might almost have been a photo. Eight feet high and five wide, the colours so distinct they seemed almost to glow in the gloom. I frowned, leaning in for a closer look. Something was just a bit different compared to the scene I remembered, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“You’re frowning again,” said Molly. “Stop it. You’ll give yourself wrinkles.”
“Something’s wrong with this painting,” I said.
“Something’s wrong with this whole damned Hall,” said Molly. “As long as the painting can still get us into the Old Library, I don’t give a rat’s arse. Get on with it.”
I hesitated. “Molly, can you See . . . Is someone standing there in the stacks, right at the back?”
Molly leaned in close. “Where?”
“There! Right there!”
“Eddie, pointing doesn’t help. Whatever it is you’re seeing, I’m not seeing it. I was never any good with those Where’s Wally? things. All right, what’s wrong now? You’ve got that look on your face again.”
“A thought has just occurred to me,” I said slowly. “Edmund must have spent a lot of time running around in my Hall, unsuspected. Could he have gone searching through our Old Library for knowledge to use against us?”
“Okay, as disturbing thoughts go, that is right up there in the top ten,” said Molly. “But do you really think Edmund could fool the Librarian into believing he was you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”
“Eddie, we can’t worry about every possibility or we’ll never get anything done. We have to stick with what’s in front of us, the things we can deal with. There are more than enough of tho
se to keep us busy. Like hoping there really is an Old Library on the other side of that painting. Do you still have your key?”
“Of course,” I said. I reached into the pocket dimension I keep in my trousers and fished around until I found my key ring and hauled it out. I like to hang on to keys; you never know when they might come in handy. I found the small silver key, took it off the ring, and put the other keys away. One of the many useful things about a pocket dimension is that you can dump as many things in it as you want and it’s never going to weigh your trousers down. I hefted the silver key. The last time I’d had to use it, I was still rogue . . . and so many of my immediate family were still alive.
A small keyhole had been artfully hidden in the silver scallops lining the top of the painting’s frame. I eased the key into the lock and turned it carefully, and just like that the painting was no longer canvas and paint and a work of art. It was an opening in the wall, an entrance into the Old Library itself.
I put the key away and stepped through the gap, with Molly crowding right behind me. The last time we’d been here, it had been so dark Molly had to conjure up a witchlight for us. But now the Old Library was full of a grey, lifeless light that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
“More unexpected light,” I said. “Only even more unnerving.”
“You’re never satisfied, are you?” said Molly. “I could conjure up something more comforting, if you like.”
“Better not,” I said. “It might attract attention.”
“From whom?”
“Exactly,” I said.
“You’re thinking about the prisoner, aren’t you?” said Molly, glowering around her.