Read From Hell With Love: A Secret Histories Novel Online

Authors: Simon R. Green

From Hell With Love: A Secret Histories Novel (50 page)

“Yes,” I said. “He didn’t give me any choice.”

The Armourer sighed briefly. “No. He wouldn’t.” He looked at me directly. “Tell me he died well.”

“As well as could be expected,” I said. “He stood his ground, and fought to the end.”

The Armourer shook his head slowly. “I thought that would mean something, but it doesn’t.” He popped the thing on a stick into his mouth, and chewed fiercely. “We took the dragon’s head out to the old north barrow, and buried it there. Apparently it had got quite used to being covered, and felt . . . exposed, in the open air. Took a dozen men a whole day to manage it, but then, that’s what lab assistants are for. Healthy exercise, I’m sure. Right now, our best historians are taking it in turns to sit and talk with the dragon, and take notes. That dragon has seen an awful lot of history in its time, before and after it was beheaded. A surprisingly amicable creature, I found, for a dragon. Spending centuries as just a head under a hill, winding down but unable to die, did a lot to mellow it. Now it’s just glad for some company.” He looked at me sternly. “But you can’t keep bringing home stray pets, Eddie. The thought does you credit, but we just don’t have the room.” He brightened abruptly. “On the other hand, theoretically speaking, it does seem possible that we might be able to grow back the rest of its body! And stick it back on, of course. We could really hold our heads up, with our very own personal dragon! Even those snotty London Knights don’t have their very own personal dragon! If only it hadn’t been dead for so long . . . Still, that just makes it a little bit trickier. I do so love a challenge . . .”

“Speaking of which,” I said, “how are you getting on with the Hand of Glory, and the remains of the robot dog?”

He positively beamed on me. “You’re spoiling me, Eddie. You don’t usually bring me back
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such wonderful presents. The Hand in particular has real possibilities . . . It seems to have exhausted all its magical properties, but it is still the hand of an angel.”

I gave him a hard look. “Tell me you’re not thinking of trying to grow a whole angel from the Hand.”

The Armourer smiled innocently. “It is tempting, isn’t it? But no, the last thing we need round here is another plague of frogs. I’ll just lock it away somewhere safe, until Someone turns up to ask for it back. And thanks for the robot dog. I love jigsaws. And I’ve always wanted a dog. I used to have one, a long time ago. But it exploded. Poor little Scraps.”

“Well,” I said. “As long as you’re happy.”

“I still want my devices back,” said the Armourer. “The cuff links and the ring. I want to run a whole series of tests on them; see how they stood up to use in the field.”

“In a while,” I said. “Molly and I have it in mind to run a few special tests of our own.”

“Ah, yes . . .” The Armourer gave me a knowing look. “I had the same idea. Ran some very interesting tests, with the assistance of four of the more open-minded female lab assistants.”

I could feel my jaw dropping. “You didn’t . . .”

He grinned. “You young people think you invented sex.”

He started to turn away, but I stopped him with one last question.

“Uncle Jack, why did Timothy call himself Tiger Tim? Was it something to do with Africa?”

“No,” said the Armourer. “Tiger Tim was his favourite character, when he was a child. I used to read to him from some old children’s books, in between rushing off to save the world in the Cold War. He always liked the Tiger Tim stories the best.”

We both looked round as the Sarjeant-at-Arms strode over to join us, chewing enthusiastically on a chicken leg. He nodded briskly to the Armourer, and to me.

“I’ve just put together a team of our best field agents, to track down the remaining Immortals. Wherever or whoever they are. You’d better get that detecting device finished, Armourer; the computer files from the Castle are far from complete. They’re still dragging bodies out of Castle Frankenstein, you know. That was a good night’s work. Not often you get to smite the ungodly in such great numbers.”

“And the team I had you send to Area 52?” I said, just to get a word in edgeways.

“They have blown up, burned out, and utterly destroyed every last bit of it,” said the Sarjeant. “The American government has made all the expected protestations, but I got the distinct impression that they were actually very relieved. It would appear previous administrations had rather let things get out of control.”

“Tell me your people thought to empty out the armoury before they blew the place up,” said the Armourer.

“Of course,” said the Sarjeant. “Acquired some very interesting pieces.”

I left them deep in discussion over their new toys, and slipped in beside William, standing at the buffet table staring at an empty plate. The Librarian seemed even more lost and distracted than usual. We’d found him a new assistant, a keen young chap called Iorith, and he was hovering beside the Librarian, ready to be of use at a moment’s notice. But William didn’t even seem to know he was there. I said a few kind words to the new assistant Librarian, and he brightened immediately.

“I do try to help,” said Iorith. “But I think he’s still getting used to me. Used to me not being Rafe, I mean. He still calls me by that name, now and again.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “Can I ask you, is it true, what they say? That there’s Something . . . alive, in the Old Library? I haven’t seen anything myself, but . . .”

“There’s definitely Something there,” I said. “But don’t ask me what. I was right there when it stopped the false Rafe from killing the Librarian, and I still couldn’t tell you what it is. But it does seem very keen on protecting William and the Old Library, so I think we should just let it be, and try very hard not to upset it.”

“I wonder what it is,” said Iorith. “Or perhaps who . . .”

William stirred suddenly, and looked at me directly. “I trusted him,” he said. “Rafe. I trusted him. He looked after me, and I was teaching him how to be a good Librarian . . . I liked him. Was the Rafe I knew always an Immortal? Did I ever know the real Rafe? We have to find him, Eddie. The real Rafe, I mean. Find him, and bring him home . . .”

“It’s in hand, Librarian,” I said. “We have people working on it. We never give up on family. You know that.”

“Yes, of course,” said William. He seemed to suddenly realise he was holding an empty plate, and put it down. He turned away, and headed for the door.

“Come along, Rafe.”

Iorith nodded quickly to me, and hurried after the Librarian. And having done my duty, and spoken to all the people I should have, I was now free to join my Molly at the buffet table. She grinned at me, mopping her mouth with a napkin.

“Family . . . Doesn’t it just give you a wonderful sense of security?”

“Don’t start,” I said. “I can’t wait for this nonsense to be over, so I can take you back to my room . . .”

“You have still got the cuff links, and the ring?”

“Of course. And then afterwards, I think I’d like to just lie down and snooze quietly for several weeks.”

“After what I’ve got in mind, you’ll need to.”

“Delightful wench. There’s still a lot of work to be done, you know. There are still some Immortals out there, hiding in deep cover. We’ll never feel properly safe until they’ve all been found and dealt with. And we still need to find out just how badly this fam ily’s been infiltrated. The list we found in the computer said it was complete, but I don’t think I trust it.”

And that was when the Sanctuary doors burst open, and Isabella Metcalf came storming in.

“Molly! I know who killed our parents! And yours too, Eddie!”

I stepped forward to hear what she had to say, and I was so caught up in the moment I didn’t see the knife in her hand until she buried it deep into my chest. I staggered backwards, blood gushing down my front. All the strength went out of my legs, and I sat down suddenly. I hit the floor hard but I didn’t feel it. I looked stupidly at the hilt of the knife sticking out of my chest. Blood bubbled around it. I could feel the pain, but it seemed very far away. I couldn’t seem to get my breath. I wanted to pull the knife out, but I still had enough sense not to. There was a lot of shouting going on. The Armourer was kneeling beside me, holding my shoulders, talking urgently, but it didn’t seem important.

I was looking at the Sarjeant-at-Arms, as he hit Isabella in the head again and again. Her head whipped round, blood flying on the air, and then she slumped to the floor. Harry and Roger were suddenly there. They grabbed an arm each, and hauled her up, and suddenly she wasn’t Isabella anymore. A teenage boy struggled in their grip, laughing breathlessly. He saw me looking at him, and laughed even harder.

“I got you! You killed my family, but I got you!”

Molly thrust her face into his. “Speak to me, you bastard Immortal! Where’s Isabella? What have you done to her?”

The Immortal laughed in her face. “You’ll never know.”

He bit down hard, and dark blood frothed around his contorted mouth. He fell backwards, convulsing so hard Harry and Roger couldn’t hold on to him. He was dead before he hit the floor.

“Poison tooth,” said the Sarjeant. “Hell with him. Where’s the doctor?”

Molly came running over to kneel before me. Her face was white with shock, as she made desperate magical gestures over me.

“Must have been poison on the blade too,” said the Sarjeant, looking over her shoulder. “He’s going fast.”

The Armourer was crying, as he held my shoulders gently in his strong engineer’s hands. “Hold on, Eddie. Help’s coming. Hold on . . .”

“Get a doctor in here!” screamed Molly.

She gave up on her magics, and held both my hands in hers. I couldn’t feel them. It hurt to keep trying to breathe, so I stopped. I looked at Molly. Tears streamed down her face. I tried to say something, but all that came out of my mouth was blood. I tried to smile for her. I felt cold. Colder than I’d ever been in the Antarctic. Darkness closed in, and the last thing I saw was Molly’s face.

Voices. I could hear voices.

“I’m sorry, Molly.” That was the Armourer. “I’m sorry. He’s gone. Eddie’s dead.”

“He can’t be!” That was Molly. “He can’t be! Eddie . . . !”

“I’m sorry. There’s no pulse. No heartbeat. He’s not breathing. We’ve lost him.”

“Then I’ll just have to go after him. And bring him back.”

And then—