Book 3 - The Spy Who Haunted Me (49 page)

“I don’t think we should just go charging through the rooms at random,” murmured Walker, “in the hope of just running into Alexander and Peter . . . There are bound to be protections, alarms; probably even booby traps for the unwary and those in a hurry.”

“Searching this place thoroughly could take forever,” I said. “I’ve a better idea. Make a lot of noise and make them come to us.”

I drew my Colt Repeater, the gun that doesn’t need to be aimed and never runs out of ammunition, and I fired it again and again, calmly and coldly destroying everything of value in the room. Anything that looked important, or expensive, or hard to replace. Ancient china blew apart, glasses and mirrors shattered, and the room was full of vengeful thunder. Photos of Alexander’s old cases and triumphs jumped off the walls, precious memories destroyed in moments. The photos showed him posing with the great and the good, the famous and the infamous. Smiling faces, blown away. I shot holes in objects of historical significance and artistic merit, and I didn’t give a damn. I destroyed antique furnishings and modern furniture and stamped the pieces under my feet as I raged around the room. The continual roar of the gun in the confined space was almost unbearable.

Some things had their own protections. An oversized clock whose hands swept steadily backwards faded away before my bullets could reach it. An ancient black runesword mounted on the wall began to sing menacingly in no human language. My bullets couldn’t touch it, so I moved on. And a huge stone hand in an impenetrable glass case gave me the finger. I didn’t care. There were still many good things left to destroy.

It did occur to me that I was probably destroying or at least vandalising important relics of spy history, but none of that mattered. Not with Honey’s blood still drying on my clothes, from where I’d held her close as she died. Not with the Blue Fairy’s death message still fresh in my mind. And not while Alexander and Peter still lived.

I finally ran out of things to shoot and slowly lowered the Colt Repeater. It felt heavy in my hand. The echoes from the continuous gunfire died away, and Walker removed his hands from his ears. The room was destroyed, bits and pieces everywhere, but no one came to investigate.

“Odd,” said Walker, entirely unmoved by the destruction all around him. “No alarms? No bells or sirens or those annoying flashing lights that always give me a headache? And no attempt to protect most of the items? Try this in the Collector’s warehouse, and the security robots would be picking up bits of you for weeks afterward. I think we have to assume that Alexander and Peter know we’re here and have no intention of exposing themselves to danger . . . Which is understandable. If I was out here after me, I wouldn’t show myself either. You know, this could be a trap.”

“I don’t care,” I said.

“Don’t care was made to care,” said an angry, familiar voice.

I looked around sharply, and there they were, the three of them, standing in a tense threatening row on the other side of the room. Coffin Jobe, the Dancing Fool, and Strange Chloe. My three fellow conspirators from the raid on the Tower of London. It all seemed so long ago now . . . a different world. But here they were now, and they were clearly not on my side. Coffin Jobe, the necroleptic, who died and came back to life so frequently he saw the world so much more clearly than the rest of us. The Dancing Fool, who created his own martial art based on Scottish sword dancing, and won every fight because he knew what you were going to do even before you did. Déjà fu. And Strange Chloe, the Goth’s Goth, with her black and white markings tattooed on her face, who could make anything in the world disappear if she just hated it enough. And she had a lot of hate in her.

Friends of a kind. Colleagues, certainly. All of them with good cause to want me dead. Life’s like that, sometimes.

“Guys,” I said. “This really isn’t a good time. Could we do this some other time?”

“What’s the matter, Eddie?” said the Dancing Fool. His voice was harsh, vicious. “Forgotten all about us, had you? The three friends you betrayed and left helpless for the authorities in the Tower of London? The colleagues you stabbed in the back and then left to rot? If Alexander King hadn’t stepped in to rescue us, we’d still be behind bars!”

“Alexander?” I said. “Damn, how long has he been watching me . . . ?”

“Get over yourself, Shaman!” said Strange Chloe. “This isn’t about you! It’s about us!”

“Only Shaman isn’t your real name, is it?” said the Dancing Fool. “Not even close.”

“Drood,” said Coffin Jobe in his gray, deathly voice. “Bad enough that you betrayed us, Shaman . . . But you’re a Drood too?”

“You have to admit,” said Walker, “this is an excellent defence stratagem. Making you fight your way through your own colleagues to get to him. Alexander King made his legend by always being one step ahead of everyone else . . . It’s almost an honour to see such talent at work.”

None of us were listening to him.

“I saved your lives!” I said to all three of them. “Big Aus was planning to kill all of us once he’d got his hands on what he was really after. You didn’t seriously buy into that nonsense about the ravens, did you? He was after the Crown Jewels!”

“Yeah, right,” said Strange Chloe. “And my arse plays the banjo. You’d say anything to save your own skin, wouldn’t you?”

“I thought you were my friend, Shaman,” said Coffin Jobe. “And now you’re a Drood?”

“How could you turn out to be one of
them
?” said Strange Chloe. “The professional killjoys, the bullies and spoilsports, dedicated to taking all the fun out of life! You pretended to be one of us when you were really one of them . . . Well, here’s where you get yours,
Drood
.”

“Alexander brought us here so we could take our revenge on you,” said the Dancing Fool. “He knew you’d try to smash in here to steal the prize you couldn’t win honestly. Typical Drood. And we all jumped at the chance for a little justified payback!”

“You don’t know what’s going on here,” I said as steadily and calmly as I could. “He’s using you, just like Big Aus. You’re only here as another way to hurt me, by making me fight my way through my friends to get to him.”

“This isn’t about you!” Strange Chloe shouted, all but stamping her foot. “Not everything is about you just because you’re a bloody Drood!”

“This is,” I said, and something in my voice stopped her. I looked at the three of them and felt more tired than anything. “Do you really think you can stop me?” I said. “I’m a Drood, with a Drood’s armour and a Drood’s training. You know what that means.”

The three of them looked at each other, uneasy for the first time. They knew what a Drood can do.

“Always wanted a chance to show what I could do against a Drood,” the Dancing Fool said finally.

“Always wanted a chance to stick it to a Drood, the way they’ve always stuck it to me,” said Strange Chloe.

“I thought you were my friend, Shaman,” said Coffin Jobe. “Friends are all I’ve got left . . .”

I could see the confidence growing in them as they talked themselves into it. The Dancing Fool was actually smiling.

“When word gets out I’ve taken down a Drood . . . I’ll be able to double my fees,” he said.

“And have my family come after you?” I said. “You never were the brightest button in the box, Nigel.”

Coffin Jobe and Strange Chloe turned their heads to look at the Dancing Fool.

“Nigel?” said Coffin Jobe.

“That’s your name?” said Strange Chloe. “You real name? Bloody Nigel?”

The Dancing Fool glared at me, so angry he could barely speak. “You bastard,” he said finally. “You promised you’d never tell.”

“Sorry, Nigel,” I said. “But needs must when the Devil’s in the driving seat. And it’s not as if you’re a genuine martial arts master, either. Hell, you’re not even Scottish! You just added a minor talent for precognition to some moves you picked up watching Bruce Lee movies. Whereas I . . . really am a Drood. I’m here to kill the Independent Agent, for good reason. If you knew half the things he’s done, you’d help me do it. Don’t let him screw you over like he did me. I will walk right through you to get to him.”

“Typical Drood,” said Strange Chloe. “Think you can talk your way out of anything. Well,
Nigel
here may not be the real deal, but I bloody well am. I’m going to hate you right out of the world, Drood; I’m going to stare you down until there’s not one little bit of you left to remind me how much I hate you.”

“Friends of yours?” murmured Walker. I’d forgotten he was there.

“Sometimes,” I said. “More like colleagues. People I work with on occasion. You know how it is . . .”

“Only too well,” said Walker.

“Do you know who everyone is?” I said. “I could introduce you . . .”

“No need,” said Walker. “I know them all by name or deed or reputation.” He studied them with his calm, cold gaze, and they all shifted uneasily. “Small-time operatives with minor talents. Their kind are always turning up in the Nightside, looking to make a reputation for themselves. They don’t usually last long. Most of them end up like this, crying into their beer because the big boys play too roughly.”

“You bastard,” said Strange Chloe. “I’ll show you who’s small-time!”

“You stay out of this, Walker,” said the Dancing Fool, stabbing a finger at him. “Our business is with the Drood. Don’t get involved, if you know what’s good for you.”

“And if I do choose to get involved?” said Walker, smiling just a little.

Strange Chloe sneered at him. “You don’t have your Voice anymore. Everyone knows that.”

“And without the Voice, you’re just another killjoy in a suit,” said the Dancing Fool. “So stay out of it.”

“Whatever you say, Nigel,” murmured Walker.

“Guys, please, don’t do this,” I said. “Don’t make me do this. I’ve already lost three colleagues to Alexander King; I don’t want to lose any more.”

“See, we were never friends,” said the Dancing Fool. “Just colleagues.”

“Then why are you so upset over the thought of being betrayed?” said Walker.

“Shut up! Shut up, Walker! You don’t scare me anymore!” The Dancing Fool’s face was dangerously red with rage. “Without your Voice you’re no better than us . . .”

“I don’t have my Voice,” said Walker. “But I do have other things.”

“Oh, please,” said Strange Chloe. “I could put you through a wall with my eyelashes.”

“Chloe,” I said. “You don’t want to do this. I’m the one who persuaded you out of that grubby one-room flat, found you work, found you friends.”

“You didn’t do it for me,” she said. Her voice was flat, cold, emotionless. “It’s all shit. Everything. Just like I always said. Why should you have been any different? Everyone lies.”

“That’s the Goth talking,” I said. “I liked you better when you were a punk. You had more energy. And the pink mohawk suited you.”

“Bastard,” said Strange Chloe.

“You were a punk?” said Coffin Jobe.

“Shut up, Jobe.”

“We all have our secrets,” I said. “Get over yourself, Chloe. This is more important than your hurt feelings.”

“Nothing is more important than my feelings,” said Strange Chloe.

She stepped forward and glared at me. I could feel power building around her. I hastily subvocalised my activating Words and armoured up. Coffin Jobe and the Dancing Fool gaped at me; they’d never seen a Drood take on his armour before. Not many have and lived to tell of it. Strange Chloe didn’t care. Her rage seethed and crackled on the air between us as she took another step forward. The impact of her gaze hit me like a fist. That was her gift and her power and her curse: to make anything disappear that dared not to love her. Strange Chloe’s stare slammed against my armour, terrible energies filling the space between us as she concentrated, the unyielding power of her fury straining to find some hold, some purchase, against the impenetrable, more than normal certainty of my strange matter armour. I took a step forward, towards her, and her face became almost inhuman in its concentrated rage.

Things close to us began to disappear, driven out of reality by the overspilling energies of Strange Chloe’s stare. Objects and trophies and pieces of furniture just vanished, one after the other, air rushing in to fill the gaps left behind. Rich deep carpet faded away and was gone, leaving a slowly widening swath of bare boards between us. Strange Chloe glared at me, scowling so hard it must have hurt her face, but all I had to show her in return was my featureless gold mask. I was almost close enough to reach out and touch her when her power broke against my armour and blasted back at her. The full force of her gaze was reflected by my unyielding armour, and Strange Chloe screamed silently as she faded away and was gone.

I armoured down.

“Sorry, Chloe,” I said to the empty air where she’d been. “I hope you’re happy now, wherever you are.”

“You killed her,” said the Dancing Fool.

“Her own power turned against her,” I said. “And don’t you dare sound so outraged, Nigel. You know damn well you never liked her. Not really. Don’t you dare pretend she was ever your friend. You just let her hang around because she was useful: a big gun you could pull on people who weren’t impressed by your fighting skills. She was always more my friend than yours.”

“You were never her friend,” said the Dancing Fool.

“Sometimes . . . you just don’t have the time,” I said.

The Dancing Fool laughed briefly. There wasn’t any humour in the sound. “You’ve robbed me of one of my colleagues. Seems only fair I should rob you of one of yours. Never did like you, Walker.”

His long lean body snapped into a martial arts stance as he turned on Walker, clearly expecting to take him by surprise, but Walker was already waiting, gun in hand. He smiled briefly and kneecapped the Dancing Fool, shattering his left kneecap with a single bullet. The Dancing Fool made a shocked, surprised sound as the impact punched his leg out from under him, and he fell to the floor. Tears streamed down his face as he clutched his bloody knee with both hands as though he thought he could hold it together by sheer force. His breathing came short and hurried as the pain hit him in waves, each one worse than the one before.