For Heaven's Eyes Only (36 page)

It shouldn’t be too difficult to persuade them. The old have always distrusted and been jealous of the young. And the media has been demonising youth for decades. Blaming them for everything, mocking their beliefs, presenting them as a menace . . . Parents have become frightened of their own children. All the leaders of the world will persuade their adult populations that the current generation of children is rotten, corrupt, beyond saving . . . and a threat to civilisation itself. How much better, how much safer the world will be when they are all gone! They must die so that everyone else can live safely. They can always have more children, better children, in the future. . . . Once the adult population has been properly bombarded with propaganda and whipped into a suitable hysteria, the governments will put weapons into the hands of the adults, step back . . . and let nature take its course.

Blood shall run in rivers, and all that can be heard will be the screaming of children as the whole world takes part in the greatest mass sacrifice Humanity has ever known. It has to be done willingly; it has to be their choice or it won’t be a sin. Managed properly, the whole adult population of the world will damn themselves to Hell.

“We can’t intervene directly, but we can influence things, nudge them along. We have people working on a mind-influencing machine of great power, currently being updated by the weapons makers we so recently abducted from the Supernatural Arms Faire. Amazing how fast some people can work, once properly . . . motivated. Soon enough this machine will be completed, and then its influence will spread across the world. Not strong enough to change a mind in itself; that’s no use to us. But the machine will help people recognise the good sense of what’s being explained to them. We’ve been using the townspeople we abducted from Little Stoke as test subjects, with most encouraging results. Soon enough we’ll have the whole world dancing to a tune only we can hear; and oh, what a merry dance we’ll lead them. . . .”

He paused, and the whole crowd burst into ecstatic applause, cheering and clapping and stamping their feet. Molly joined in, to avoid standing out, but I couldn’t. I thought I’d been sick to my stomach before, but this . . . I had never heard anything so simply evil, so utterly appalling, so . . . inhuman, in my life. Parents killing their own children? A whole generation betrayed and slaughtered by the very ones supposed to love and protect them? I looked at Roger, and I’d never wanted to kill anyone so much in my life. I clamped down on my emotions and made myself think coolly, so I could work out what best to do next. First I had to get this information back to Drood Hall. The family had to know what was being planned: nothing less than the destruction and damnation of the whole human race. And then Roger started speaking again.

“I know, I know,” he said, holding up his hands, and the whole grotto went deathly still and silent again, hanging on his every word. “How does any of this benefit us? What do we get out of it? The purpose of this Great Sacrifice is to make a whole generation guilty of an unforgiveable sin. A despicable act that can never be taken back or atoned for. A whole generation lost to Heaven forever. It won’t be enough on its own to release our lord Satan from Hell; he can’t break the doors from his side. But with the power the Great Sacrifice will give us, we will smash all the Gates of Hell from this side and let Hell out. Satan shall come forth and rise up, and with him all the fallen and all the damned that have ever been. There will be Hell on Earth; governments shall be cast down, leaders butchered in their seats of power when we no longer need them; and all the populations of the Earth shall be subdued and made slaves, punished for their sins for all time. And all of you who have assisted in this great conspiracy shall be made kings of the Earth, to do with Humanity as you please. They shall suffer at your hands, for your pleasure, forever and ever and ever.”

The applause to that was truly deafening. It took a long time to die down, and when it finally did, someone else spoke out before Roger could. I knew it immediately. Isabella. She must have thought she could speak freely from the anonymity of the crowd.

“We’ve heard all this before, Morningstar.
When
will it happen?”

Roger Morningstar looked down from his debased pulpit and knew Isabella immediately. His glowing crimson eyes snapped back and forth and found Molly and me. He stabbed an accusing finger in our direction.

“A Drood!” he said loudly. “A Drood has come among us! And those treacherous Metcalf witches Isabella and Molly! Seize them! Drag them down!”

The assembled Satanists turned on us like a pack of wild dogs, driven out of their minds with rage at having been infiltrated so easily and having their great moment spoiled. They had been offered a taste of everything they’d ever dreamed of, and they were ready to kill anyone who might thwart that. They threw themselves at Isabella and Molly, howling and spitting, reaching for them with clawed fingers. But the two witches had already moved back-to-back, calling their magics around them. Wild energies sparked and sizzled round Molly’s upraised hands, and swirling magics stained the air around Isabella. Powerful magical shields slammed down around both of them, sealing them off, and the Satanists couldn’t get to them. There were witches and psychics and sorcerers in the crowd, but none of them were a match for the legendary Metcalf sisters.

Everyone else was looking for the Drood, but none of them were looking at me. They were expecting a figure in golden armour, because that’s what a Drood meant to them. They didn’t realise Roger Morningstar had pointed at Shaman Bond; why should they? Everyone knew Shaman. . . .

“Get out of here, Drood!” yelled Isabella, lightning crackling round her fists. “We’ll keep these bastards occupied!”

Molly threw fireballs into the packed crowd, and suits and dresses and hair immediately caught alight. Men and women screamed shrilly, banging into one another and spreading the flames around. Isabella threw lightning bolts this way and that, blasting men and woman into blackened corpses and throwing jerking bodies in all directions. Molly threw something that spit and fizzled at the debased pulpit, which exploded immediately, throwing Roger through the air and sending jagged wooden shrapnel into the crowd. Screams filled the grotto: shock and pain, horror and rage.

But Roger landed easily, unhurt, and there were so many in the crowd, too many for Molly’s and Isabella’s attacks to make any real difference.

In the confusion of so much happening at once, it was easy enough for me to armour up while no one was paying any attention to Shaman Bond. As far as the crowd was concerned, a golden-armoured Drood appeared among them out of nowhere. There were shouts and screams, and everyone around me backed hastily away. The Satanists looked at one another, not sure what to do, but perfectly ready for someone else to do it first. A sudden quiet fell over the grotto, broken only by the crackling of flames from burning bodies as Roger Morningstar walked forward to face me, and the whole crowd fell back to give him room.

Roger smiled at me and gestured grandly, raising his voice so everyone could hear. “Full protections are now in place, Drood! You can’t get out of here. All the entrances and exits have been sealed, and your precious Merlin Glass can’t make contact with the outside world anymore. You’re trapped in here with us.”

I laughed, and those Satanists near me fell back even farther. I turned my featureless golden mask on Roger. “Well, yes, that’s one way of looking at it. Another would be to say that you’re all trapped in here with me and the infamous Metcalf sisters. Come to me, Roger. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone as much as you.”

“Typical Drood arrogance,” said Roger, not moving. “You have no idea how much power there is in this place for us to draw on. In Under Parliament, in London Undertowen. This is our place, not yours, and you should not have come here, little Drood, little witches.”

Molly threw a fireball right at him. Flames spattered all over him and then ran away like so much fiery liquid to pool unnoticed at his feet. He looked at Molly and raised an eyebrow.

“Please, Molly, remember who and what I am. Fire holds no fear for me. You’re embarrassing yourself.” He turned his attention back to me. “Fight all you want, Drood. It’ll make it so much more satisfying when we finally drag you down. And when we eventually send your broken bodies back to Drood Hall, even the most hardened members of your family will weep and vomit at the sight of all the awful things we did to you before we finally let you die.”

The Satanists laughed: a low, mean, ugly sound. More animal than human. The sound of people lowering themselves to beasts and glorying in it. I was still separated from Molly and Isabella, the press of the crowd keeping us apart. The Satanists stood very still, watching with hot, eager eyes for any sign of weakness, for any opening they could exploit. There were an awful lot of them, but for the moment they seemed happy enough to follow Roger’s authority.

“Really don’t like the odds, Iz,” said Molly.

“Time to go,” said Isabella. “I think we’ve worn out our welcome. I had the foresight to set up a teleport spell in advance, before I came down here. Roger’s shields can’t block that, because technically it’s already happened. I have only to say the activating Word and we’re out of here. But . . .”

“I knew there was going to be a
but
,” said Molly. “But what?”

“The spell isn’t strong enough to take the Drood with us. It’s the armour. . . .”

“No!” Molly said immediately. “I won’t leave here without him!”

“Go,” I said. “I have armour. You don’t. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“I won’t leave you!”

“You have to! Get her out of here, Iz!”

And Isabella grabbed Molly, holding her tightly in her arms as she yelled the activating Word; and they were gone, air rushing in like a miniature thunderclap to fill the place where they’d been.

The crowd of Satanists made a loud, savage, hateful sound and turned all their attention on me. But I was already off and running. I lowered my golden shoulder and ploughed right through them, sending broken bodies flying to either side of me as I pressed on. I struck about me with spiked golden fists, tearing flesh and sending blood spraying through the air. I wanted to kill them all, wanted it so badly I could taste it; but I knew bad odds and a worse situation when I saw one. What mattered now was getting the information out. The family had to know about the Great Sacrifice.

Shrieking and howling men and women threw themselves at me, trying to block my way and drag me down, but they were no match for my armour. Bones broke and people fell as I slammed through the crowd, heading for the way I’d come in. I tried to reach Drood Hall through my armour, or even Ethel; but no one heard me. Roger’s shields saw to that. I was on my own. And then a voice came to me through my armour: Roger Morningstar’s voice, saying, “You can’t get out. You can’t get away. You belong to us now.”

I forced the voice out of my head and burst through the crowd, only to find the stone tunnel that led from the stairs to the grotto was no longer there; the exit had been sealed off with solid stone. I hit the wall with my golden fist, and the stone broke and fell apart, but there was only more stone beyond. I hit it again and again, but there was always more stone, as though the whole tunnel had been filled in. I spun round to face the waiting crowd. I’d seen other exits on the far side of the grotto, but I’d have to fight my way through the crowd to reach them. With no guarantee Roger hadn’t sealed them off, too.

The Satanists took their time closing in, jeering and taunting me in thick, spiteful voices. I’d spoiled their fun, their special event, and they meant to make me pay for that in blood and horror. They showed me their weapons, the awful things they’d brought down into London Undertowen with them. Some had Aboriginal pointing bones; some had glowing witch daggers; some had bone amulets. One had a Hand of Glory made from a mummy’s paw: a forbidden weapon. Some had black-magic charms, made from the bones and skin of suicides. One of them even had what looked very like a variation of my own Colt repeater. Which I hadn’t brought with me for fear of setting off the security alarms. I kept a watchful eye on the gun; it didn’t seem likely the Satanists would have access to strange-matter bullets, but you never knew. . . . The Immortals had them.

The crowd hit me with everything they had, unleashing all their weapons at once. Terrible energies crawled all over me, dancing on my armour, discharging in the air, unable to pierce strange matter. Magics fell away; curses failed, unable to get a hold. My armour rang like a gong and sounded like a bell from all the many impacts and concussions, but I felt none of it, safe from harm.

The armour absorbed bullets and shook off everything else. I stood firm, defying them all, letting them exhaust their weapons. The crowd quickly grew tired of that, and the braver of them surged forward to attack me directly. Glowing blades shattered on my armour, and magical weapons glanced aside harmlessly. I laughed behind my featureless mask, waiting for them to come within reach of my armoured hands. A part of me wanted to run wild and kill them all. To smash their hated faces with my spiked gloves, to kill and kill, sinking myself in rage. But I couldn’t do that. Wouldn’t do that. Partly because . . . that would make me just like them. But mostly because I still knew my duty: to wait for a chance to escape and get the information out.

And then suddenly, it all stopped. No more weapons, no more attacks, no more shouted threats and insults. The crowd was silent, backing away to allow Roger to walk through them to face me again. They didn’t want to, but Roger’s air of authority, and his sheer infernal presence, overpowered them. He stood before me, careful to stay out of arm’s reach. I studied him carefully from behind my mask. He knew I was Shaman Bond. Was he about to reveal and destroy my other identity? Because he could? I didn’t think so. . . . More likely he’d keep that knowledge for himself, for some future occasion of pressure or blackmail.