From Hell With Love: A Secret Histories Novel (49 page)

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Authors: Simon R. Green

BOOK: From Hell With Love: A Secret Histories Novel
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I charged forward, ploughing through the deep snow and sending it flying. The Hand of Glory slowly opened, and Molly fell to her knees on the snow, cradling her injured hand against her chest. Blood dripped steadily from her broken fingers, onto the accepting snow. I could hear Methuselah laughing. I moved quickly to put myself between Molly and the Hand, and knelt down beside her. She was breathing hard, her eyes wide with shock and pain. She hadn’t healed herself, and that told me all I needed to know about how much magic she had left.
Molly glared at me. “All right, you deal with the Hand. I’ll deal with Methuselah.”
“Works for me,” I said.
I heard heavy footsteps slamming through the snow, and looked round to see the Immortal coming right at us, wielding a glowing blade he hadn’t had earlier. Molly raised her good hand, and snapped her fingers fiercely. But though Methuselah flinched at the sound, it didn’t stop him. Either Molly had used up all her magic, or as an Immortal and a flesh dancer, he was immune. Either way, he was a lot closer now. So I rose up and went to meet him. I lashed out at him with a golden fist, but somehow he dodged it at the last moment. And while I was caught off balance, he lunged past me and ran on. It took me a moment to turn around in the heavy snow, and when I did, it was just in time to see Methuselah run Molly through with the glowing blade. It slammed in under her sternum, and punched out her back. Blood shot out of her contorted mouth. And then she grabbed the Immortal’s extended arm with both her hands, and broke it in two. The sound of the bone breaking was sharp and crisp on the still air. Methuselah screamed, and fell backwards into the snow. Molly grabbed the glowing blade, pulled it carefully out of her, and threw it away. She looked up to see me watching, and glared at me.
“How many times do I have to tell you? He can’t kill me! Now deal with the bloody Hand!”
Methuselah clutched his broken arm and gaped at Molly. “Cheat!” he said shrilly. “You’re all cheats!”
I ran through the snow towards him, and he scrambled back onto his feet again. His arm wasn’t broken anymore; the wonders of flesh dancing. He still backed away rather than face me. I knew I should be going after the Hand, but he’d tried to kill Molly. I hit him in the face with my golden fist, with all my strength behind it. The bones of his face collapsed inwards, and blood exploded out, steaming on the cold air. He didn’t fall, so I hit him again and again, until finally he did fall, into the blood-soaked snow. He glared up at me, eyes shining fiercely through the bloody mess I’d made of his face.
“It’s not fair! I’ve won, I’ve won! Look at the Door, you see? You’re too late! My Hand has done it!”
I turned and looked. The Door didn’t seem any different. Methuselah seized the moment to scramble back onto his feet, and run raggedly towards the Door. I went after him. And the Hand of Glory drifted slowly, almost thoughtfully, forward; and then knocked three times on the Door. The sound was impossibly loud, and carrying, reverberating on the air. And then the Hand closed, and fell out of the air like a dead bird. The Door started to open. It didn’t actually move, as such, but I could
feel
it opening. I put on a burst of speed, and ran right past Methuselah, sending snow flying in every direction. I slammed up against the Door, and put my golden shoulder against it. I dug my feet in, and strained against the Door with all my armoured strength. I could feel a growing pressure on the other side of the Door. None of the disturbing heat, or the voices Doctor Delirium had heard, just an increasing sense of pressure. Of something on the other side, moving slowly, relentlessly closer. Wanting
out
. I threw all my weight, all my strength, against the Door. I was a Drood, shaman to Humanity, and I would hold against all the hoards of Hell, or die trying.
And then Methuselah called my name. I looked around, and he was back with Molly. Only this time, he had the glowing blade pressed against her throat. He was grinning broadly, his eyes wide and no longer entirely sane.
“Get away from the Door!” he yelled. “Even a witch will die, if you cut off her head! Doesn’t matter where she keeps her heart then, does it? Get away from my Door, or watch your witch die, right in front of you.”
“She wouldn’t want me to do that,” I said.
“Yes I bloody would!” said Molly. “It’s all right, Eddie. Do as he says.”
“What?”
“Trust me, Eddie. You can’t stop the Door opening. So let Methuselah have what he wants.”
There was something in the way she said that. I looked at her closely, and she dropped me the briefest of winks.
Okay,
I thought, s
he must know something . . .
So I pushed myself away from the Door, and backed away from it. Methuselah waited till I was a safe distance away, and then headed for the Door, dragging Molly along with him, the blade still pressed against her throat. He hesitated by the Door, clearly wondering if he could cut Molly’s throat and get away with it, but in the end he just threw her face forward into the snow, grabbed up the fallen Hand of Glory, and pronounced one final, irrevocable Word. I ran forward, grabbed Molly, and hauled her away from the Door. She struggled fiercely in my arms, so I put her down, and we both turned to look at the Door.
“I’ve done it!” yelled Methuselah, dancing hysterically before the Door. “I’ve turned it, I’ve transformed its nature, it’s the Paradise Door now! I will take Heaven by storm, and know pleasures beyond bearing! Paradise is mine!”
The Door opened, just the slightest crack, and a brilliant light blasted out, so pure and blindingly brilliant that Molly and I both cried out, wanting to turn our gaze away but held where we were. The light incinerated Methuselah where he stood, reducing him to ashes in a moment. The Door closed, and all that was left of the Immortal was a few final ashes, spiralling slowly to the snow below. And then the Door just disappeared, turning in a direction my eyes could not follow—gone forever, leaving nothing behind but the crater of steaming water it had been standing in.
“Well,” I said finally. “The light of Heaven is not for mortals. And . . . somebody really doesn’t like gate-crashers.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Taking Care of Loose Ends
Afterwards
 
 
B
ack at Drood Hall, I paid a visit to the Infirmary. One of the closed-off wards, where we keep the lost causes. For those Droods injured or damaged beyond all hope of recovery, but somehow still alive. Because out in the field, a bullet can be the kindest threat an agent has to face. We never give up on them, because they’re family. And because every now and again, we win one. Alistair had a small private room all to himself, befitting his status as husband to the late Matriarch, my grandmother. He wasn’t my real grandfather; that had been the Matriarch’s first husband. Which might have been why I never cared much for Alistair.
He lay quietly on his bed, still wrapped from head to toe in bandages, even after all this time. Surrounded by the very latest medical equipment, apparently helpless to do anything more than monitor his condition. They made pleasant, efficient sounds at regular intervals, and lights made impressive patterns on their displays, but still Alistair lay there, held somewhere between life and death. He slept most of the time, I was told, waking up just often enough to take nourishment through a straw. He breathed slowly, evenly, without any help.
He’d been like this for months, ever since he tried to protect the Matriarch from me. He used a forbidden weapon, a witch-killing gun called the Salem Special. It fired flames called up from Hell itself, according to legend. I couldn’t let Alistair use it on Molly, so I made it backfire. I can still remember the way he screamed, the stench of his burning flesh, as the flames ate him up.
Nurses and doctors had given me hard looks as I headed for his room. They couldn’t deny me some time with the man, even though they blamed me for his condition.
I pulled up a chair, and sat down beside the bed. The heavy smell of antiseptic in the room bothered me obscurely, until I made the connection with the Red Room in Area 52, and pushed the thought from my head. I looked Alistair over. His bandages covered every visible part of him, the rest covered by a single light blanket. They were clean, white, spotless even, which suggested they were being regularly changed, at least. His face was as blank as any Egyptian mummy’s, with only dark holes for the eyes and mouth. He breathed slowly, not moving, and if he knew I was there, he gave no sign.
“Sorry I haven’t been to see you before,” I said. “But I never had a good enough reason, till now. All the Immortals at Castle Frankenstein are dead. They’re still dragging out the bodies, and piling them up. There are still some Immortals out in the world, scattered here and there, living their various lives as other people. But we’ll hunt them all down eventually. We have their computer records, and the Armourer swears he’s almost ready with a device that will always identify an Immortal, no matter how well they hide themselves. Isn’t that good news?
“The Matriarch is dead. Martha Drood, my grandmother, your wife. Murdered in her own bed, by someone she thought she could trust. But of course, you already knew that. Because you killed her. Whoever you are, inside those bandages. When did you make the swap? After the bandages, presumably, when no one could tell the difference. Who would ever suspect a helpless invalid like you? Did you kill Alistair, before you took his place, or had he already died from his injuries? I’d like to think you were responsible for his death, not me. Because he did try to be a good man, at the end.
“You had the perfect disguise here, and the perfect place to hide. Easy enough for you to reprogramme the machines when no one was watching, so they wouldn’t recognise your occasional absences. Were you planning on a miraculous recovery, at some point? It doesn’t matter. The moment I saw the name Alistair on the computer’s list of Droods who’d been replaced by Immortals, I knew you’d killed my grandmother. Who else would she trust, long enough for you to get close enough to stick a knife in her?
“There are so many things I could ask you. Things only you Immortals could know, about the infiltration of my family. I don’t suppose you’d care to volunteer which of you was responsible for the summoning of the Loathly Ones? No? It doesn’t matter. I have my list. One of you will talk.”
The bandaged head turned slowly on the pillow to look at me. I shot him twice in the head, with the Armourer’s special gun, that fired strange matter bullets. I needed to be sure. Who was he, really? It didn’t matter. Blood from the massive exit wounds had soaked the pillow. The machines fell silent, replaced by an alarm bell. I got up, and left the room.
For you, Grandmother. And you, Alistair. One last duty, one last service.
Later, in the Sanctity, I met with the rest of the Council. We were, after all, supposed to be running things in the Matriarch’s absence. The Armourer was there, the Sarjeant-at-Arms, even William the Librarian, though he seemed even more distracted than usual. Harry was there, with his partner the hellspawn Roger Morningstar. No one objected to his presence, or to Molly’s. With the Matriarch gone, we were all allowing ourselves a little more freedom from the old restrictions. I was relieved to see that Molly had recovered enough magic to mend her broken arm and crushed hand, though she still looked a little fragile to me. She was currently stuffing herself with mushroom vol-au-vents at the standing buffet.
Ethel’s familiar red glow filled the Sanctity, but the once refreshing and revitalising energies of her manifestation now seemed distinctly weakened.
“Ethel?” I said. “You seem a little off colour. Is everything all right with you?”
I don’t know,
she said.
Is it really over, Eddie?
“Pretty much,” I said. “It’s just down to mopping up, now. Taking care of the loose ends.”
There were traitors and murderers right here in the Hall, and I never knew . . . The Droods are under my protection. I failed you.
“We can all be deceived, Ethel. Happens to the best of us.”
I never knew humans could be so . . . deceitful. I’m going to have to think about that.
I left Ethel thinking, and headed for Molly and the buffet, only to be intercepted by Harry. We nodded to each other, warily. He pushed his owlish wire-rimmed glasses into place with a fingertip, and considered me thoughtfully.
“We’re going to have to talk soon, Eddie,” he said, in his most reasonable voice. “About who’s going to replace our dear departed grandmother. Someone has to take control of the family.”
“We’ll organise an election as soon as the family’s recovered from its various traumas,” I said. “We’ve all been a little busy, in your absence.”
“An election?” said Harry. “Yes, well, I suppose that’s one way of doing it.”
He drifted away to join Roger Morningstar at the buffet, where they kissed briefly before taking turns to feed each other delicate little rolls of sushi. I saw the Armourer standing on his own, staring suspiciously at something palely loitering on a cocktail stick. I braced myself, and went over to join him.
“Uncle Jack . . .”
“You killed him, didn’t you?” said the Armourer, not looking up.

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