generators kicked in. The new subdued lighting made the club look like a cave with far too many shadows in it.
“Sorry,” I said to Indigo. “But my armour isn’t technology. As such.”
The Indigo Spirit had stopped backing away. He stood defiantly between Charlatan Joe and me, his leather gloves creaking as he clenched his fists. “Sorry, Drood,” he said calmly. “But you’ll have to strike me down to get to him. And I don’t think you can do that without killing me. And I don’t think you’re the kind of man who could do that to a man who’s only doing what’s right.”
“On any other day you’d be right,” I said. “But not today.”
“Then let’s dance,” said the Indigo Spirit.
I did try to take him down easily and relatively painlessly, but Indigo wasn’t having any of it. He attacked me with every skilled move, practiced blow and dirty trick he knew, moving faster than I could, even in my armour. He struck at me again and again, searching for weak spots in my armour, trying to turn my own strength against me. But he only damaged his hands against the hard, unyielding strange matter. I tried to take him down, but somehow he was never there when my fists sailed through the air. He was so very skilled. I kept speeding up, drawing more and more on my armour, until finally . . . his skill didn’t matter anymore.
I crowded him up against the bar so he had nowhere to go, and then he took a terrible beating from my golden fists. I hit him again and again, but he wouldn’t fall. I beat him horribly, saw his blood fly and heard his bones break; but he wouldn’t cry out and he wouldn’t stop fighting. There were no spikes on my gloves, no extruded blades. I didn’t want to kill him. But in the end, because he wouldn’t give in, I ran out of patience. I moved in close, broke his ribs and his collarbone and then both his arms. And as his arms hung uselessly at his sides, I clubbed him to the ground with blow after blow to the head. His cowl protected him from the worst. At least, I hoped it did.
He made one hell of a good showing, like the hero he was. But he never should have got between a Drood and his prey.
I looked at him, sitting slumped on the floor with his back to the bar, his chin resting on his chest, blood streaming from his crushed nose and mouth. Blood bubbles formed from one nostril, and I hoped a rib hadn’t pierced his lung. He was my friend, but I was too angry, too coldly determined, to be stopped. I’d apologise to him later. I’d care about what I’d done later. I had to have some measure of revenge for what had been done to Harry and Roger. Because I’d left them there to die. Because I hadn’t gone back to rescue them, like I promised. Because I’d never liked them. And because revenge was all that was left. All I could do for them. I had to do
I looked around at the remaining patrons of the Wulfshead Club, huddled together in tight little groups, staring at me as though I were the monster.
“Go,” I said. “Leave. I’m not here for you.”
They left as fast as they could. Charlatan Joe called pitifully after them, but no one even looked back. They’d seen a Drood in his anger, the monster was loose, and they wanted nothing to do with him. Joe made a small move toward the nearest exit, but I was already there, blocking his way. He cringed back against the bar. I looked over the bar, at the staff hiding there.
“Don’t interfere,” I said.
“No danger of that,” said the nearest bartender. “But you’d better be quick. The management knows what’s happening here. They’ll have already put in a call to the real security people. And you know who they are.”
I nodded. I knew. “The Roaring Boys.”
I turned to face Charlatan Joe, so close now I could reach out and touch him whenever I felt like it. He was so close his breath could have fogged up my mask. He was a pitiful sight: terrified, trembling, his features white and pinched, his eyes huge and rolling like those of a panicked animal. When I placed one golden hand on his shoulder, he cried out sharply and wet himself. The sudden smell of urine was shockingly clear on the still air. His legs started to buckle, and I had to hold his shoulder more firmly to keep him from collapsing.
He’d been my friend for years. We’d known good times together. And I had reduced him to this.
“Who gave you the information about the satanic conspiracy gathering at the Cathedral Hotel?” I said. “And who told you to pass it on to Isabella Metcalf?”
“Oh, God,” Charlatan Joe said miserably. “You know I can’t talk about that. They’d kill me!”
“What do you think I’ll do if you don’t?” I said. “Good Droods, good men, are dead because of you.”
“I didn’t know!” said Joe. “I just did what I was told! That’s what people like me do. I can’t tell you. . . .”
“I can make you tell me,” I said.
“You’re going to beat the information out of me? Torture me? Is that what Droods do these days?”
I’d had enough. I placed the tip of one golden finger in his left ear.
“Talk to me, Joe,” I said. “Or I will send razor-sharp filaments of my armour through your eardrum and into your brain and tear the truth right out of you. You’ll still be alive afterwards, but what’s left inside your head won’t be much use to you.”
I was bluffing, but Charlatan Joe didn’t know that. After everything he’d seen me do, he believed me. He started crying, great, shuddering sobs that racked his whole body. Snot ran out of his nose. I told myself I’d make it up to him later. Shaman Bond would make it up to him. But I think I knew, even then, that some things can never be undone.
“The source for the information was Sir Terrence Ashtree,” said Charlatan Joe, in between crying and gasping for breath. “Big man in the city. He’s part of this new satanic conspiracy. Because it’s good for business. He told me what to say to Isabella Metcalf when she came around. And how to tell it to her in such a way that she wouldn’t remember it until the conspiracy wanted her to remember. Ashtree. He’s your man. He’s the man you want. Not me . . .”
I didn’t ask him whether he’d been paid, or pressured, or even threatened into doing it. It didn’t matter.
I knew Terrence Ashtree. Part of an old business family, all of them leading lights in the establishment. Except that Terrence had never been all that successful in his own right. I didn’t know much about the man himself. That had always been Matthew’s territory, back when he was the main field agent in London, and I mopped up the crumbs that fell from his table. But then Matthew betrayed the family, and was killed by the family, and I became the main London agent. Which I thought was what I’d always wanted. Our dreams betray us by coming true.
I always meant to do a tour of all the big city names, and put the fear of God into them. But I’d barely made a start, only got as far as Ashtree, when the Hungry Gods war kicked off . . . and then there were the Immortals, and I was so busy. . . . City cases, business cases, seemed such small fry compared to the end of the world. Of course, that was before we found out what the bankers were really up to. . . .
Sir Terrence Ashtree, also known as Terry the Toad because of his complete willingness to screw over anybody in pursuit of a deal or because they were in his way. Not that his ruthlessness had ever done him much good, as such. Until recently . . . Word was, Terry the Toad was on the way up, a man to be reckoned with, which, at his middle age, was something of a surprise. Cutthroat business is a young man’s game. I’d been vaguely aware of changes in the city recently, but hadn’t paid it much attention. I hadn’t known about the satanic conspiracy then.
I turned my attention back to Charlatan Joe. He’d almost stopped crying. His eyes were red and puffy, his mouth loose and trembling.
“Where’s Isabella Metcalf right now?” I said.
“I don’t know! I don’t know! I swear, I don’t! The conspiracy has her; everyone knows that . . . but I don’t know anything! They don’t tell people like me things like that. If only so people like you can’t beat it out of people like me.”
He had a point. I stepped away from him, lowering my hand, and he almost collapsed in sheer relief. He smiled and nodded at me, eager to show his gratitude, and I almost wanted to hit him for being so pathetic. For making me feel like such a monster.
“Why?” I said. “Why did a small-time con artist like you get in bed with the Satanists in the first place?”
“For the money,” said Charlatan Joe. “That’s what I do. And the money was really good. . . .”
“Vanish,” I said. “Go on; get out of here. Lose yourself somewhere in the great wide world where no one will
