Property of a Lady Faire (A Secret Histories Novel) (18 page)

“I know what she got up to in Soho, in the Sixties,” I said. “I was the Drood field agent in London for several years, remember. And they were still telling stories about her conquests and exploits, some fifty years after she left. Most of which I prefer not to believe, for my own peace of mind.”

“Believe them all,” said Molly. “Especially the really bad ones. Because they’re the ones she’s most proud of. I used to be a real party animal, back in the day . . . But the word was and is that no one can party like the Lady Faire.”

I frowned. “She’d been around for quite a while, even before Soho in the Sixties . . . So how old do you suppose she is?”

“She’s one of the Baron Frankenstein’s creations,” said Molly, shrugging. “She could be alive, or dead, or any number of states in between.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “But where do we look for her now? Where can we go where they’d know?”

“The Wulfshead,” said Molly. “They always know the very best gossip. And I could use a drink.”

“Never knew you when you couldn’t,” I said. “But I was just there, remember? They’ve got their own problems, cleaning up after the MI 13 intrusion. I doubt there’ll be many patrons around for a while.”

“Strangefellows!” said Molly, clapping her hands together delightedly. “Everyone goes to Strangefellows!”

“Only because no one else will have them,” I said. “I keep telling you: Droods can’t go into the Nightside. And I’m not letting you go in there alone.”

“Why not?” said Molly, immediately bristling. “I can look after myself!”

“Wouldn’t doubt it for a moment,” I said. “But you are just a little bit too prone to temptation and getting distracted, in the Nightside.”

“Well, yes,” said Molly. “That’s what it’s for . . . But there are a great many powerful and determined people and organisations looking for us right this minute. And the Nightside is the one sanctuary and neutral ground that everybody recognises.”

“I can’t go in as a Drood,” I said. “People would notice. And the whole point of our current situation is that we don’t want to be noticed. By anyone. Not until we’ve got our hands on the Lazarus Stone, and got my parents back safely.”

Molly pouted sulkily. “You could always go in as Shaman Bond.”

“No, I couldn’t,” I said. “They’d know.”

“You’re right,” said Molly. “They would. It’s the Nightside.”

“Wherever we go, someone is bound to recognise one or both of us,” I said. “Shaman Bond’s reputation might be smaller than yours, but it’s just as widespread. And no matter how fast an in and out we make it, word will get back to my family, and they’ll come after us. Along with all the other organisations in our line of work, everyone from the London Knights to the Soulhunters. I’m not sure it’s safe for us to show our faces anywhere.”

Molly smiled, and rested her head against my shoulder. “Takes you back, doesn’t it? To when you and I first got together? On the run from everyone, with the whole world at our backs and at our throats?”

“Only you could get nostalgic about that part of our lives,” I said. “I really hoped we’d put that behind us. I’m not built for running. No, we need a plan. And for that, we need information. And for that we need . . . the OverNet.”

“Oh bloody hell,” said Molly, stepping away from me and looking down her nose in disgust. “Really?”

The OverNet is the dark, shadowy side of the Internet, a secret overlay unsuspected by even the fiercest hackers, dealing exclusively with supernatural and super-science matters. The kind of sites even the most feral conspiracy nuts have never dreamed actually existed. All the information on the hidden world is there, somewhere, on the OverNet. If you can find it, if you can find your way in, and if you can get back out again with your mind and your soul still attached. An endless repository of strange facts, unnatural gossip, and really secret shit, everything you ever wanted to know that most people have enough sense to leave strictly alone.

“The OverNet can be very useful,” Molly said carefully, in her best tactful tone, “but it’s not exactly
reliable
, now is it? I mean, a lot of it is just nasty people, and other things, dishing the dirt on one another.”

“I know,” I said, “But it is a very good place to ask questions. Someone will know something about the Lady Faire, or point us in the direction of someone who does. It’s the best place to start. Now, I can’t log on through any of my usual Drood connections, and even the most secure underground cybercafes won’t be safe for us, under current conditions. I can’t even use the computer in my London flat; the family will be looking up all my known addresses and setting people to watch for us. The Voice said no talking to my family. I think I’ve already pushed that as far as I dare.”

“We could always go back to my old place in Ladbrook Grove,” said Molly. “I sublet it to myself, under an assumed identity, just in case I ever needed to go back. Or one of my sisters needed somewhere to crash in a hurry. Because I didn’t want them staying with us. There’s a Door here in the wild woods that will take us right there.”

“No,” I said. “We can’t do that. My family has that address on file; it’s how I found you in the first place. They’re bound to have the place staked out by now.”

“Hold everything, hit the brake, go previous,” said Molly, just a bit dangerously. “Your family has a file on me?”

“Of course,” I said. “We keep files on everyone who is anyone.”

“But I’m almost a part of your family now! I’m with you!”

“We keep files on everyone. Especially members of the family.”

“Droods are weird,” said Molly.

“Why do you think I left, first chance I got?”

“All right, where do you think we should go?”

“I think we need to go to one of my underground safe houses,” I said. “One of my off-the-map and under-the-radar addresses that aren’t in any file. Very secure bolt-holes that I maintain just for occasions like this. When I don’t want anyone to know where I am, very definitely including my family.”

“Are we talking deniable operations again?” said Molly.

“Yes,” I said. “Because the world’s like that sometimes. Especially the world of the secret agent. When the left hand mustn’t know who the right hand’s killing.”

“Like my parents?” said Molly.

I just looked at her. I had nothing to say. There was nothing I could say. In the end, Molly looked away.

“Am I to understand that you still have several of these . . . safe houses?”

“Yes,” I said. “Scattered here and there and all over the place. Because you never know when you can’t go home again. Like right now.”

And then I stopped, and looked thoughtfully at Molly. She looked right back at me.

“What?” she said suspiciously. “You’ve got that
I’m only doing this for your own good
look on your face. You should know by now it’s not going to get you anywhere.”

“This mission is all about getting my parents back,” I said steadily. “And the only way to do that is by stealing a major Object of Power from a living legend. Even if we do bring it off, the odds are we’ll end up paying for that crime for the rest of our lives, one way or another. You don’t have to be involved in this, Molly. I’d understand, I really would. You could sit this one out, safe here in your forest, till it was all over. I can take the blame, for the death of my grandfather and of everyone else who died at the Department of Uncanny. For once it really is all about me, and my parents. You don’t have to take the fall with me.”

Molly sighed heavily, and stepped forward to stand right in front of me. And then she slapped my face, hard.

“I go where you go,” she said fiercely. “Now and forever. You should know that.”

My face stung, and my ears were ringing, but I still couldn’t help smiling. “I do know that,” I said. “I just need to be reminded now and again.”

“Kiss it better!” Molly said brightly, and kissed me happily on the mouth. “So!” she said, bouncing eagerly up and down on her toes. “Where are we going?”

“You won’t like it,” I said.

I took the Merlin Glass out again, doing my best to treat it perfectly normally. I gave it the coordinates for a particular safe house I hadn’t used in years, and the Glass immediately jumped out of my hand and swelled up to Door size, hanging on the air before me. A grim grey street scene showed on the far side of the Glass, and Molly and I stepped through the Door and into the city of Newcastle upon Tyne, in the far North of England.

• • •

The first change I noticed was the light. The golden summer of the wild woods was cut off abruptly, replaced by the dour, overcast, and somehow grimy light of a city street on a dark and gloomy autumn afternoon. A cold wind went scudding down the street, blowing leaves and other small things along the pavements. Two long terraces of mostly anonymous housing swept up and down the street.

Molly and I were standing in the middle of Bayswater Road. Rumbling sounds of distant traffic replaced the wild birdsong. The only bird noises you were likely to hear in this neighbourhood were the pigeons, coughing consumptively. Molly shuddered suddenly. I understood. It wasn’t the grey light or the cold wind; it was how dark and oppressive and claustrophobic the city felt, after the wild, open freedom of the forest.

“Everything’s so grey,” said Molly. “Even the air. We’re up North, aren’t we?”

“Newcastle,” I said cheerfully. “A big bustling modern city, with impressive nightlife and a thriving cultural scene.” I looked around. “Not here, particularly, which is part of what makes it such a perfect place to hide.”

I looked carefully up and down the street. Everything seemed calm and normal enough. No traffic, and just a few nondescript individuals trudging along the pavements, intent on their own business and paying no attention at all to their surroundings. Not even a twitch of a curtain at any of the windows, from someone looking out.

“This is an area mostly occupied by students,” I said to Molly. “So people here are used to seeing new faces all the time. Just another reason why I chose this place. This way.”

I led Molly down the street, counting off the terraced houses in my head, until I came to a door that looked familiar. It also looked cheap and shabby and uncared for, which was sort of the point. I didn’t want anything that would stand out or attract attention. Best of all, who would look for a Drood in a setting like this? I produced a key ring I didn’t use every day, and searched through the assorted keys until I found the one that unlocked the waiting front door. The lock turned easily enough, but the door had settled into its frame and didn’t want to budge. Molly looked on, smirking, as I had to put my shoulder to it. The door finally stopped resisting, and let us in. I hit the switch just inside, and was quietly relieved when the light came on. I had set up direct debits for everything through a shell company, but you never know.

The long, narrow entrance hall was gloomy, quiet, and dusty. It clearly hadn’t been used for quite a while. Which was as it should be. The air was still and dry. I looked carefully at the bare wooden floorboards and saw that the thick layer of dust was entirely undisturbed, apart from some rat scratchings and what looked like recent droppings. No one had been here.

I moved quickly from room to room, slamming open the doors and checking out the rooms. My footsteps sounded loud and carrying on the quiet, as though the house resented its long peace being disturbed. I came back out into the hall, and Molly was standing exactly where I’d left her, looking around in a way that made it very clear she had no wish to go anywhere else until somebody did some serious cleaning. I didn’t blame her. There was no carpeting on any of the floors, no prints or posters or decorations on any of the bare plaster walls, and the secondhand furniture had been chosen for its cheapness and utility.

“Yes, it’s a dump!” I said cheerfully. “You’d probably have to spend serious money on an upgrade before it was good enough to be condemned. That’s the point.”

“How can you stand to live in a place like this?” said Molly.

“I don’t,” I said. “This isn’t a home, it’s a bolt-hole. A place to hide out that no one would want to look inside. It has four walls and a roof, and a door I can barricade. That’s all you need in a bolt-hole.”

“I don’t like to think of you living in places like this,” said Molly. “The cold and seedy side of the secret agent life.”

“For years, places like this were all I knew,” I said. “Hiding in unlit rooms, watching unobserved, checking out secrets or people, until it was safe to move on. Not a lot of glamour in the life of a Drood field agent. Until I met you.”

She smiled briefly, and then wrinkled her nose. “What is that
smell
?”

“Any number of really unpleasant answers cross my mind,” I said. “I find it best not to inquire. Don’t get comfortable. We’re not staying here long.”

“Best news I’ve had so far,” said Molly.

I armoured up and looked around through my golden mask, checking the house’s security settings. None of the booby-traps had been tripped, and none of the shields and protections had been forced. Everything seemed to be just as I’d left it. I had to stop and think for a moment to work out that it had been eight years since I was last here, bodyguarding an art historian who’d found something nasty living in an old painting. Eight years . . . probably not a good idea to look inside the fridge. I armoured down again.

Molly made her way steadily down the hall, peering through the open doorways and quietly expressing extreme disgust for everything she saw. I didn’t blame her. It was all cheap and cheerful, where it wasn’t damp and dusty. There were cobwebs in the corners, and the sound of small scuttling things.

“It is a bit of a mess, I agree,” I said. “Just a little more than I was expecting . . . I used to have this cheerful little Pixie who kept the place spic and span, but as I haven’t paid her in years . . . Look, we won’t be here long. I just need to access the computer, and then we’ll be on our way. Hold your nose if you think that will help. Or your breath. I can’t open a window; that would tell the whole world someone was here.”

Molly stood in the middle of the hallway, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Never a good sign.