From Hell With Love: A Secret Histories Novel (11 page)

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Authors: Simon R. Green

BOOK: From Hell With Love: A Secret Histories Novel
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I could see this situation going to hell in any number of unfortunate ways, so I grabbed Molly from behind, heaved her over my shoulder, and strode quickly out of the Sanctity. She stiffened ominously for a moment, but didn’t struggle, and allowed me to remove her from the scene. Though I was pretty sure I’d be made to pay for the indignity later. Behind us, I could hear the Armourer laughing, and applauding. My back crawled, in anticipation of a bullet from the Sarjeant, but I’d been careful not to provoke him by armouring up. And besides, I didn’t think my grandmother would allow the Sarjeant to shoot me in the back. If she ever decided to order my death again, she’d want me to see it coming.
I left the Sanctity behind, and strode nonchalantly through the Hall, Molly still slung over my shoulder.
“Anyone else I’d have turned into a toad,” she said casually. “Or something small and squelchy with its testicles floating on the surface.”
“Yes,” I said. “But I have boyfriend privileges.”
“You are pushing it, big time.”
“I know,” I said. “Next time, you can carry me off.”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
After a while I put her down, and we went back to my room at the top of the Hall, and made up. Afterwards, we lay cuddled together on my bed, our clothes scattered everywhere, sweat drying slowly on our naked bodies. I could feel scratches from her fingernails smarting on my back. Molly rested her head on my chest, and made quiet noises of contentment. I let my gaze drift slowly around my room. It wasn’t very big, as rooms went, but it was bigger than most in Drood Hall. Even with four extra Wings added on down the years, space was always at a premium. The family gets bigger every year, and every year it gets harder to find somewhere to put us all. In the not too distant future, we’re either going to have to expand the Hall again, or move. But no one wants to talk about that, just yet.
The room had all the usual comforts, but little in the way of character. I was never around long enough to stamp my personality on it. Still, it seemed very peaceful, and quiet, just then, so far away from the rest of the family and all their many troubles.
“So,” I said finally. “What have you and Isabella been up to?”
“We went to see the Mole,” she said, not raising her head. Her lips brushed against my skin. “He’s still a rogue; prefers it that way. If he were to rejoin the family, they’d try and make him come home, and he just couldn’t. He’s been alone too long. He couldn’t stand being forced to mix with people again. It would kill him. Anyway, he wasn’t comfortable with anyone knowing where his hole was, so he moved. And this time he pulled the hole in after him. Even I don’t know where he is now. I can only talk to him via e-mail, bounced back and forth so many times it can never be traced. I figured if anyone knew the truth about what happened to our parents, it would be him. He didn’t know, but he thought he knew someone who might. He sent Isabella and me to this small town in the southwest of England, a place called Bradford-on-Avon. To talk to the oldest living human in the world: Carys Galloway, the Waking Beauty.”
Molly’s story:
Bradford-on-Avon is a really old town. It was the last Celtic town to fall to the invading Saxons in 504 A.D., and there are remains of an Iron Age settlement in the hills above the town. Strange creatures and stranger people live in this small country town, and marvels and wonders can be found there. Along with dark powers and darker secrets. Some of the people who live there have lived there so long they’re not even people anymore. And they know things no one else does.
It’s a pleasant place. Isabella and I left the train station and just walked around for a while, enjoying the many styles of architecture, from old thatched cottages to seventeenth-century weavers’ tenements, from manor houses to futuristic apartments. All of time, crammed together in one place. Reminded me of Drood Hall, a bit. Except the people were a lot friendlier.
The town looks perfectly normal at first, but once we raised our Sight, everything changed. It was as though just the act was enough to push us sideways, into a subtly different realm. We strolled across the thirteenth-century town bridge, over the river Avon, and passed an old stone chapel built into the bridge wall; just big enough to hold one or two people. Something inside threw itself against the confining walls, and a terrible scream filled my head, an inhuman howl of suffering and despair, rising and falling but never ending. Isabella grabbed my arm and hurried us on. I found out later it’s called the Howling Thing; one of the really old monsters. Impris oned there centuries ago, and still doing penance. It’s doing Time, every damned bit of it.
Wispy, multicoloured sylphs danced across the surface of the river, darting and speeding and leaping high into the air, leaving shimmering sparkling trails behind them. A dozen of them leapt right over the bridge, and when the shimmering trail fell across me, I was briefly touched by pure unadulterated joy. Other things moved on and in the slowly moving dark waters—creatures old and new, and some I would have taken an oath on a pile of grimoires didn’t even exist in the material world anymore. There were swans too, proud and majestic, moving unaffected among all the other magical creatures.
In the centre of town we found the memory of old gibbets, from when so many men had been hanged during the old Wool Riots. Ghosts could still be seen, hanging from their gibbets, chatting amiably with each other. They were more than half transparent, colours moving slowly over them like so many soap bubbles, but their presence felt harsh and almost brutal in the clear sunlight. I did offer to release them from the place of their death, and help them move on, but they declined. They weren’t trapped in the town; they had chosen to remain, to protect the town and their descendants. A few of them laughed nastily.
The town has enemies,
they said, laughing nastily.
Let them come. Let them all come.
Apparently if you stay a ghost long enough, in a place like this, it’s amazing how much power you can accumulate. They did offer to demonstrate, but there was something in their voices, and in their laughter . . . so I declined. I did ask where Isabella and I might find the Waking Beauty, and one of them directed us to an old pub called the Dandy Lion.
We found the place easily enough, right in the middle of town. It had clearly been around for some time. The painted sign above the door featured a lion walking upright, dressed in Restoration finery. It turned its head and winked at us as we passed under it. The oak-panelled doors swung open before us, revealing a carefully main tained old-fashioned ambience, with pleasantly gloomy old-time lighting, and a long bar stocked with every drink under the sun. It wasn’t until my eyes adjusted to the gloom that I realised there were flowers growing right out of the wood-panelled walls, their delicate petals pulsing like heartbeats. The music box was playing a Beatles song, but one I’d never heard before. The chairs at the traditional wooden tables politely pulled themselves out so people could sit down. A pack of cards was playing solitaire by itself, and cheating. And behind the long bar, a young woman in authentic sixties hippie gear was just cutting off a Yeti, on the grounds that he got mean when he was drunk. The big hairy creature slouched out of the pub, sulking, shedding hairs all the way.
We found Carys Galloway sitting tucked away in a corner, on her own, next to the window, so she could see anybody coming. She looked us over coolly before gesturing for us to sit down facing her. The chairs were very helpful. The Waking Beauty was a small delicate creature with a personality so powerful it almost pushed me back in my chair. She had a pointed chin, prominent cheekbones, a wide mouth and more than a hint of ethnic gypsy in her. Dark russet hair fell to her shoulders in thick ringlets, and her eyes were so huge and deep you felt like you could fall into them forever. And she smiled like she already knew everything you had on your mind. She had long bony hands, with heavily knuckled fingers, weighed down with gold and silver rings set with unfamiliar polished stones. Bangles on her wrists made soft chiming sounds with her every movement. She wore traditional Romany clothes, and wore them well. She could have been any age from her twenties to her forties, but even sitting there at her ease, her gaze hit me like a blow. She burned, she blazed, with a fierce unwavering intensity, like nothing human.
I let Isabella do all the talking. I know when I’m outclassed.
“Word is, you’re connected,” Isabella said bluntly. She waited for a moment, to give the Waking Beauty an opportunity to confirm or deny, but there was no reaction, so Isabella pressed on. “You’re supposed to be the oldest person in this town. In fact, there are those who say you’re older than the town. You draw your power from the many ley lines that cross here, and from never sleeping. Are you the oldest living person in this town, Carys Galloway?”
“Well,” she said, “There’s Tommy Squarefoot. But he’s a Neanderthal.”
“Are you immortal?” insisted Isabella.
“Who knows?” said the Waking Beauty. “I just haven’t died yet, that’s all. There are those who call themselves the Immortals, but I’m not one of that family.”
“Some say you made a deal, for long life and power,” said Isabella. “A deal you would like to break, if you dared. How am I doing so far, Carys Galloway?”
“I’ve killed people for knowing less than that about me,” the Waking Beauty said calmly. “Fortunately for you, I’ve mellowed these last few years. And I always did have a soft spot for Hecate’s children. Witches know how to have fun. So, Isabella and Molly Metcalf. Where’s Louisa?”
“Walking in the Martian Tombs, last I heard,” said Isabella, which came as something of a surprise to me.
“Why have you come to talk with me, my sisters?” said the Waking Beauty. There was a trace of warning in her voice, that made it clear we’d better have a really good reason.
“Our parents were murdered by the Droods,” said Isabella. “We were always told they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but there have been . . . suggestions, that there may have been more to it than that.”
“We think they were killed deliberately,” I said, unable to keep quiet any longer. “Someone in the Droods ordered their deaths. We want to know who, and why. And, whether there’s any connection with the death of Eddie’s parents.”
“Ah,” said the Waking Beauty. “I always knew that would come back to bite the Droods on the arse. Droods killing Droods . . . secrets within secrets, lies within lies to hide a terrible truth . . . But first, you need to know about the Apocalypse Door.”
Isabella and I looked at each other.
“We do?” I said.
“Unfortunately, yes, you do. Follow the trail, oh my sisters, from the Door to Doctor Delirium to the Immortals. And if you’re still alive at the end of it, you’ll get your answers. Quite possibly more answers than you can comfortably deal with. The Apocalypse Door is one of the thirteen true entries to Hell in the material world. Open this Door, and you can let loose all the inhabitants of Hell, to run loose on the Earth. Set the damned free, to do as they will, to trample the cities of men and slaughter their inhabitants. Hell on Earth, forever and ever, and the Triumph of Evil.”
“Has anyone . . . ever tried to open this Door?” said Isabella, leaning forward, fascinated.
“Usually, the owner of the Door only has to threaten to open it, and the world will give them whatever they want,” said the Waking Beauty. “They want to be persuaded, to be paid off. But there have always been a few, who for their own various reasons wanted to unleash Hell on Mankind. Famous names like Faustus, and a certain Doctor Ware, back in the 1960s . . . These people always come to bad ends. You can’t play with Hell and not get your fingers burned. The Droods, or someone else in the same line of work, always turns up just in time to stop these people, and stamp on their heads.” The Waking Beauty stopped, and frowned thoughtfully. “Theoretically, or theologically, speaking . . . should the Door be opened, and the contents of Hell let loose on an unsuspecting populace; then the forces of Heaven would be obliged to turn out to stop them. Though the conflict would almost certainly lay waste to the Earth and everything on it. So Apocalypse would seem to be the appropriate name, for this particular Door.”
“What has all this got to do with us?” I said.
The Waking Beauty smiled upon me, like a mother with a really dim child. “Follow the connections. All the way to the end.”
“You mentioned a name I didn’t recognise,” Isabella said suddenly. “A family called the Immortals.”
“Who are they?” I said.
The Waking Beauty sat back in her chair, her face slipping into shadow. Her bangles clattered softly. “A great many people would like to know the answer to that question. Well, here is wisdom, for those wise enough to receive it. If the Apocalypse Door has reappeared in the world of men, it can only mean the Immortals are close to revealing themselves, at last. They’ve been trying to get their hands on the Door for centuries, for their own inscrutable reasons, but somehow it’s always eluded them. However; just before the legendary Independent Agent died, he sold off many of his accumulated treasures, and one of them, to the surprise of many, turned out to be the Apocalypse Door. Apparently he needed a great deal of money at the end, for some last scheme . . . I have heard that a battle has just been fought over the Door in Los Angeles, involving Doctor Delirium, the Immortals, and one Eddie Drood.”

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