From Hell With Love: A Secret Histories Novel (3 page)

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Authors: Simon R. Green

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“After everything I’ve done?” I said, innocently.
He wanted to splutter and raise his voice. I could tell.
“I know your reputation,” he said doggedly. “It doesn’t impress me. You’re impetuous, you’re unnecessarily aggressive, and you’re sloppy! How many times have you been seen in armour in public? That’s not how we get things done!”
“I saved the entire world from the Hungry Gods,” I said.
“And got a lot of good Droods killed in the process. You’re not getting me killed, rushing in where devils fear to tread. This is my territory, and we’re going to do things my way. Either you agree right now to follow my orders, or I’ll kick you out of town and deal with this problem myself. And to hell with the Matriarch’s instructions!”
I considered him thoughtfully. “If my girlfriend was here, she’d make all your pubic hair fall out, just by looking at you in a Certain Way. I’m not as subtle as she
˚
is. So either you agree to work with me, as a full partner . . . or I’ll just punch you repeatedly in the head till your eyes change colour.”
“You see! You see! This is what I’m talking about! You can’t operate like that in a city like this!”
“Pretty sure I can,” I said.
He glared at me for a moment, and then his face went studiously blank, his eyes cold and calculating. “Is it true?” he said. “Did you kill the Grey Fox?”
“Yes,” I said. “I killed my Uncle James. And he meant a lot more to me than you do.”
“I knew James,” Luther said flatly. “Worked with him on a few missions, back in the day. He was a good man, and a real agent, and a credit to the family. I knew your mother, too. Your father, less so. They got themselves killed by rushing in without first . . .”
“Don’t go there,” I said, and something in my voice, or perhaps in my eyes, stopped him dead.
“Things were better the way they used to be,” Luther said finally. “Back when the Droods were a real power in the world, and the world did what it was told. For its own good. Now, countries and governments and organisations all go their own way, and the Droods . . . are just one more force among many. Used to be, when we spoke people paid attention. Now all we do is run around playing catch-up, occasionally snatching victory from the jaws of defeat.”
“We were never meant to rule the world,” I said, just a bit tiredly. “Just protect people from outside forces and from themselves, when need be. I know things were easier for us in the past, but the price we paid was too high. Or have you forgotten that our old armour was made from the imprisoned souls of sacrificed Drood babies?”
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” said Luther. “But you have to admit, we did a better job when our hands weren’t tied behind our backs.”
“A better job?” I said. “Two World Wars and a decades-long Cold War, in the last century alone? No, we spent too long holding Humanity’s hand; it’s well past time they grew up and took responsibility for themselves.”
“And how many of the sheep will die, because the shepherd won’t intervene?”
“We protect them from wolves. Everything else is up to them.”
“I didn’t become a field agent to see people get hurt on my watch!”
“That’s how children learn. We’ll still be here, to pick them up when they fall.”
“Nice words,” said Luther. “Pity about all the blood and suffering and death.”
“You’ve spent too long in Hell A,” I said. “You’ve got far too used to being in charge of people. For their own good, of course. You’re a bit old to be a field agent, aren’t you, Luther? Most of us get called back in once we hit forty. And you’re forty-nine. I checked your file. So what are you still doing here? Could it be you see them all as sheep now, unable to cope without your benevolent authority?”
“I have a good record here,” said Luther. “Done a good job, down the years. I’ve made good local connections, carefully maintained and nurtured, with important individuals and organisations. In LA, and in Hollywood especially, it’s all who you know. Who you can get to take your call, and then do what you tell them to do. The right names, the right relationships, can open doors here that would stay shut to anyone else. Even another Drood.”
“I was right,” I said. “You have gone native.”
“Training a replacement, and rebuilding all the connections and relationships would take years! The Matriarch knows that. She’s just . . . looking for the right man, for me to train. Besides, I’m not ready to give up yet. Not nearly ready to go back to the Hall, and sit behind a desk, pushing paper around. I’ve got years left in me yet! I’ve given my life to this job, to this town!”
“Doesn’t mean you own the job, or the town,” I said. “They sur vived before you, and they’ll do just fine after you’ve gone. We go out into the world to serve the family, and Humanity, and when we stop forgetting that, it’s time to go home.”
“I’ve thought of nothing else, since they said they were sending you,” said Luther. “They never sent anyone before.”
“I’m not your replacement, Luther.”
“No, you’re my wake-up call.” He smiled briefly, mirthlessly. “I’d miss the excitement of this place—all the larger than life people and places—but I have no roots here. No people who’d actually miss me if I disappeared tomorrow. We’re not allowed to have friends or loves or real relationships, out in the field. Because the family doesn’t allow it. That way your only loyalty is to the job, and the family. All these years I’ve fought being called back home, but I don’t have anything here I couldn’t pack into a suitcase.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why you need to come home, to the Hall. Because things are different there, now.”
“I’m forty-nine,” said Luther. “Old-school Drood. Different . . . scares me.”
“That’s good,” I said. “That’s how you know you’re still alive.”
“Spare me the platitudes,” said Luther. “This is LA. I can get them wholesale here.”
“Sorry,” I said.
We stood together, hidden from the people passing by behind the protection of our unfolded map. Men and women went on their way and noticed nothing unusual, because Droods are trained not to stand out. Even when in the midst of an emotional crisis. It’s not easy being a field agent. Or a Drood. But then, nothing worth doing is ever easy. Across the street, the Magnificat Hotel stared calmly back at us, smugly expensive and exclusive, ready for its Grand Opening tomorrow morning. It was a really big building. Just looking up at the top floor made me dizzy and unsteady on my feet, as though at any moment I might lose my footing and be snatched up into the sky, falling up and up into the endless brilliant blue. So I stopped looking up, and made myself concentrate on all the colourful bunting and banners that had been draped across the hotel front like so many ribbons on a present. Large signs proclaimed parties and ceremonies and even awards, along with the promise of various big stars and names and celebrities. None of whom would have been seen dead at a hotel opening if their careers were really going as well as their publicists said.
(Molly has an insatiable appetite for the glossies and the gossip rags. I have therefore acquired a certain amount of celebrity information through sheer proximity and osmosis.)
“We have to get in and out before the media coverage starts,” said Luther.
“Oh sure,” I said. “Plenty of time yet. Hours. I still can’t believe we’re here because of that loser, Doctor Delirium. You are sure he’s here, in the city, waiting for his moment?”
“Quite sure,” said Luther. “He’s been keeping his head down so far, with about thirty of his people. I’ve got some of my people watching them. The Doctor can’t make a move without us knowing. Why did the Matriarch send you in particular, Eddie? When has it ever taken more than one Drood to handle Doctor Delirium?”
“I have a history with the Doctor,” I said. “I ran an operation in London, some time back, to deny him funding for some new scheme of his, but he got away. Reluctantly, I am forced to admit that I don’t have nearly the financial acumen of the late departed Matthew Drood. He really knew the City. But, unfortunately, he turned out to be a part of the Zero Tolerance insurrection and a traitor to the family.”
“So you killed him,” said Luther.
“No,” I said. “Though he’d probably have been better off if I had. Anyway, we still haven’t found anyone to replace him, so I’m handling London all on my own. And without Matthew’s insider knowledge, I betrayed my hand a little too early and it all went to rat shit in a hurry. Doctor Delirium set his mercenaries on me, and while I was kicking them around he made a swift exit. He always did believe in letting others do his fighting for him. We still don’t know exactly what he was up to in London, or what precisely he needed so much new money for . . . He’s never been short of cash in the past. Anyway, I was really . . . quite upset, when he got away from me, so when we learned he’d turned up here, I persuaded the Matriarch to let me come and assist you in taking the Doctor down.”
“Ah,” said Luther. “So this is nothing to do with me, and all to do with you. You’re only here because the Matriarch favours you. Because she’s your grandmother.”
I had to smile. “Shows how little you know her.”
I didn’t take Doctor Delirium seriously. Nobody did. He had a secret base and a private army only because an uncle left them to him in his will. Ever since, the man who used to be a decent small-time research chemist has been hamming it up big-time as a mad science villain, Doctor Delirium, and building up his army with small ads in the back of
Soldier of Fortune
magazine. He’s based somewhere in the Amazon rain forest, after being hounded out of every civilised country, and the Nightside, and spends all his time now plotting grand schemes and revenges against all of civilisation. A little man with lots of money and resources, and serious delusions of grandeur. Always a bad combination.
He might have become a real problem, if he hadn’t been such a prat.
His usual modus operandi was to work up some awful new disease in his secret laboratories, and then threaten to unleash them on the world, if all the various governments didn’t agree to pay him off, in rare postage stamps. I suppose once a collector, always a collector. But the Doctor was such a sloppy operator we always managed to find some weak spot in his organisation, and then we’d just squeeze the knowledge we needed out of some poor sod at the bottom of the food chain, get our hands on a specimen of his new disease before he’d even finished testing it . . . and by the time he got around to issuing his threats, we already
˚
had a cure or a vaccine. End of problem. On a few occasions, we have found it necessary to bomb his secret labs, but he always escapes and sets up somewhere else. The Amazon rain forest is a really big place.
“Who’s the field agent in his area, these days?” said Luther.
“Conrad Drood,” I said. “Good man, old African hand, very experienced. But he has a lot of ground to cover, and limited resources. And, he has to be very careful every time he ventures into the rain forest area; Timothy Drood’s still in there somewhere.”
“Tiger Tim?” said Luther. “That crazy bastard? He’s still alive? Why hasn’t someone killed him yet?”
“Because he’s still a Drood, for all his many faults. And we are notoriously hard to kill. Talk to me about Doctor Delirium. How long has he been here? What do you know, about why he’s here?”
“Not much,” Luther admitted. “He’s only been in town a few days, holed up in a motel with his mercenaries. Word is, he’s here to attend a very private auction, being held on the top floor of this very hotel, tonight. Before it officially opens. It’s hard to get any real information; my people are using every listening device and surveillance spell at their command, but the Doctor’s defences are first class. But, it seems he’s come all the way here, so far from his heavily protected comfort zone, because he’s desperate to acquire one of the items at this auction. Doctor Delirium wants the Apocalypse Door.”
“I read that name in your last report,” I said. “There’s no record of such a thing in the Hall Library, or the Old Library. Which would normally suggest it can’t be anything that dangerous, or significant, because if it was we’d have heard about it.”
“Possibly,” said Luther. “But any use of the word Apocalypse has to be just a bit worrying.”
“Either way, the Matriarch has decided that Doctor Delirium is not to be allowed to get his hands on this Apocalypse Door, whatever it might turn out to be. We are to put a stop to his efforts, give him and his people a good
˚
kicking, and then send him home with a flea in his ear. If only for being such a bloody nuisance.”
“Why don’t we just kill him?” said Luther.
“You’ve been in LA too long,” I said sternly. “Watching too many cop shows. We’re supposed to be agents, not assassins. Otherwise there’d be no difference between us and the forces we fight. It’s enough that we protect Humanity; we don’t get to bully them. Besides, Doctor Delirium really is a scientific genius, when he can be bothered. We might just need his help some day. Right now he’s a menace, but one day he might be an asset. Droods have to take the long view. So, we spank him and send him home crying. Tell me more about this auction.”
“On the top floor, strictly private, cut off from the rest of the hotel,” said Luther. “One night only, before the hotel officially opens, very definitely By Invitation Only. Lots of armed guards in place, security people everywhere, trespassers will be disappeared. The auction’s being run by the Really Old Curiosity Shoppe people; long established firm, very good reputation. Of a kind. They specialise in acquiring rare and unusual items, with or without their owners’ permission, and then offering them up at their very private auctions for the delectation of interested (and extremely wealthy) parties. No questions, no provenance, and absolutely no guarantees or refunds. But, they can get you things no one else can, things from the Past, Present and Futures. Sometimes things no one ever really thought existed, and a few that just plain shouldn’t.”

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