“We can’t be sure they’re behind this,” said Callan. “Not yet. More important, we haven’t a clue how they did this. That’s why I called in the Armourer.”
He looked hopefully at my uncle Jack, but the Armourer shrugged without looking up from whatever he was working on.
“Would even Drood armour be enough to protect me in such an environment?” I asked him.
Molly looked at me sharply. “You’re not thinking of going in there, are you?”
“There could be survivors,” I said. “People trapped in there. What do you think, Ethel? It’s your armour.”
“I don’t know!” Ethel’s voice sounded definitely troubled, issuing from somewhere above us. “It ought to, but this is all new to me. I can’t see inside the dark circle, but from what you’re seeing . . . I’ve never encountered such extreme conditions before; and I’ve been around. But I designed your armour to survive whatever your reality could throw at it. And since strange matter comes from my domain, not yours . . . Roll the dice, and see what happens! I can’t wait to find out!”
“Sometimes her endless enthusiasm can get a bit creepy,” murmured Molly.
“I heard that!”
“Somebody’s got to go in there,” said the Sarjeant-at-Arms, moving forward to glare at the images on the screen. “We have to figure out how this was done, before the conspiracy does it somewhere else. Next time they might go for a city. And yes, Edwin, we do need to check for possible survivors as well.”
“You’re all heart, Cedric,” I said.
“But . . . why pick a nowhere place like Little Stoke?” said Callan.
“To test their new weapon,” said the Armourer, looking up from doing something unnatural with a bunch of silicon chips and some mistletoe.
“Then why remove the people before they unleash the weapon?” said Molly.
“Maybe they want them for test subjects for other weapons,” said the Sarjeant.
“I don’t like the way we’re playing catch-up with the conspiracy,” I said. “Always one step behind. I say we storm Lightbringer House in force, use every field agent available. Smash through their defences, grab everyone there and ask them a whole bunch of really pointed questions.”
“Way ahead of you, as always.” The Sarjeant-at-Arms sniffed. “We sent our people in while you and the Armourer were off playing tourist at the Supernatural Arms Faire. But the Satanist conspiracy people were all long gone. Their files with them. And no, they didn’t leave a forwarding address. They stripped the place clean and vanished into the undergrowth the moment you and the Metcalf sisters left the premises. Some of our best people are currently tearing the whole building apart, in case they missed something, but right now there’s no sign anyone was ever there.”
“Hold it,” I said. “No booby traps?”
“They left in a really big hurry,” said the Sarjeant.
“Something must have frightened them,” Molly said artlessly. “But then, Iz and I always did believe in making an impression.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t leave skid marks,” I said solemnly.
“Try to be serious, Edwin,” said the Sarjeant. “This is a serious situation.”
“I know,” I said. “Someone has to go into Little Stoke and see if anyone survived.”
“Of course,” said the Sarjeant. “I’m sure survivors could provide us with valuable information as to what happened.”
“No,” I said flatly. “We go in and rescue them, because that’s what Droods do. We exist to stand between the innocents and the horrors of the hidden world.”
“Ah, Eddie,” said Harry, drifting over to join us. “Always intent on the small things, and missing out on the big picture. Anyone who got left behind in that town wouldn’t survive long under those conditions. It’s already too late for them. Which means we need to concentrate all our resources on working out how this appalling attack was orchestrated. Here’s your tea, Callan. They were all out of Jaffa Cakes.”
Callan accepted his tea with bad grace and sipped at it suspiciously before grudgingly nodding approval. “Always said you’d make a good tea boy, Harry.” And then he looked round sharply as a far-seer farther down the row called out to him urgently. We all hurried down to join the young man at his station, and he goggled for a moment, overwhelmed at having so many important members of the family all staring at him at once. But give the man credit; he recovered quickly and nodded jerkily at the monitor screen before him.
“Virgil Drood, at your service. Don’t blame the messenger. I picked this up off the feed we’re intercepting from the CIA satellite. What you’re looking at is a hill outside the dark circle. Conditions there are completely unaffected by . . . whatever’s happened in the town. It seems we have observers, just teleported in. Ten men, three women, some of them . . . familiar faces.”
We all crowded in around him, studying the screen. Thirteen people were standing on top of a grassy green hill overlooking what had been Little Stoke, chatting cheerfully among themselves. It was only a visual image—no sound. One of the men was Alexandre Dusk, leader of the Lightbringer House Satanists. And standing right next to him was Roger Morningstar, son of the legendary James Drood and a lust demon out of Hell. The half-breed hellspawn who fought alongside the Droods because he’d fallen in love with one of us. And now there he was, standing quite chummily with Dusk, nodding and smiling as they looked down on the dark circle below. They both seemed quite pleased with what they’d done. Harry turned to Callan.
“We need sound. We need to hear what they’re saying.”
“I’m sorry,” said Virgil. “We’re lucky to have visual under these conditions. Getting sound is going to take some time.”
“Then get a lip-reader in here! We must have one somewhere. We need to know what they’re saying!”
Alexandre Dusk looked round suddenly, and seemed to stare right out of the screen at us. I don’t think he could See us, but he knew someone could See him. He smiled a wintry smile, snapped his fingers, and the image disappeared from the screen. Virgil worked his controls fiercely and then sat heavily back in his chair with frustration.
“We’ve lost the feed.”
“Then get it back!” said Harry.
“You don’t understand! The feed is gone because the satellite is gone. It isn’t there anymore. Something blasted it right out of orbit. And according to my readings, the observers are gone, too. I suppose it’s too much to hope that they might have blown up, too.”
He tried an uncertain smile on us, but none of us was in the mood for even the slightest of jokes. We all looked at one another, and then we looked at Harry, who’d moved away a little to be on his own. He was rubbing his chin with jerky, shocked movements, thinking hard.
“I didn’t even know Roger had left the Hall,” he said almost plaintively. “He didn’t tell me he was going anywhere. Ethel, when did Roger Morningstar leave Drood Hall?”
“Right after the last council meeting, when you were all together,” said Ethel. “He left on his own, through a dimensional door he created on the grounds.”
“Didn’t you ask him where he was going?” said Harry.
“Not my place,” said Ethel. “You people do so value your privacy, even if I still don’t understand why.”
“Once a hellspawn, always a hellspawn,” the Sarjeant-at-Arms said heavily. “I did warn you, Harry. Everyone warned you. Never trust a hellspawn.”
“Roger’s been . . . different ever since he returned from Hell,” said Harry. “The trip you insisted he go on! Maybe they did something to him there. . . .”
“The question is,” said the Sarjeant, talking right over Harry as he addressed the rest of us, “how long has the hellspawn been working against us? How long has he been conspiring with our enemies, passing on secret information, including details of our missions?”
“No need to rub it in, Sarjeant,” I said.
“He was present at council meetings!” said the Sarjeant. “Because of you, Harry! Think of all the things he knows about this family! I’ll have to reset all the security measures, change all the codes and passwords, beef up our defences . . . and recheck every piece of information acquired from every mission he was involved with!”
“He fought alongside us against the Hungry Gods, and the Accelerated Men, and the Immortals!” said Harry. “He risked his life to fight in our cause, because of me! There must be a reason for this. . . . I have to go to Little Stoke.”
