“Hello. You have reached the Department of the Uncanny. Please state your name, and the office you wish to be connected with.”
“This is Eddie Drood, on Trammell Island,” I said. “Put me through to the Regent.”
“Please wait. Please be patient. Your call is important to us.”
The face continued to smile, while the eyes remained lifeless. Orchestrated versions of old Britpop classics played remorselessly in the background.
“This is what happens when you go to work for the Establishment,” I said. “Every chance they get, they do their best to bland you to death.”
“Are you still happy you did the right thing in leaving the Droods for the Department?” said Molly.
“Yes,” I said. “My family lied to me one time too often. Not least about the Regent of Shadows. They should have told me my grandfather was still alive. Hell, they should have told me my parents were still alive! I’m not sure how much trust I put in the Regent, or the Department, they’re both too close to the Government for my liking . . . but I need to put some space between my family and me. And how could I turn down a chance to work with my parents, and my grandfather?”
“Very good,” said Molly. “Now try saying all that like you mean it.”
I had to laugh. “Let us look on this . . . as an extended vacation. Getting away from it all in favour of cases that actually mean something to us. Are you happy to be working alongside me, Molly?”
“I go where you go,” said Molly. “Forever and a day, sweetie.”
I smiled, but didn’t say anything. I knew Molly came with me because the Regent promised her the truth at last about what really happened to her parents all those years ago. She’d always believed her parents were killed by a Drood field agent in a shoot-out with the White Horse Faction. A dangerous supernatural terrorist organisation. The Regent promised her the name of her parents’ killer. But I of all people knew better than to believe the official version of any event. No matter whose official version it is. Facts could be slippery things in the secret agent business. Especially where my family’s concerned. But how could I stand between anything that mattered so much to my Molly? I needed to be there with her when she finally learned the truth, whatever that turned out to be. And do my best to put the pieces back together again afterwards.
Molly had spent years at war with the Droods and everything they stood for. Fighting them on every level, opposing them with a fierce and unrelenting rage. Until she and I ended up on the same side, working to reform the Droods from within. And we became an item—much to our mutual surprise. I’d done everything I could to convince Molly that my family was a force for good in the world, mostly; but it was hard going. My family has more hidden sides and secret motives than a barrel full of Hollywood lawyers.
The two of us had only just accepted the Regent’s invitation to come work with him at the Department of the Uncanny, when he hit us with our first official mission. He wanted us to infiltrate the newly reformed White Horse Faction. As Shaman Bond and Molly Metcalf. The Faction would gladly accept Molly, because of her parents’ importance to the old Faction. And they’d accept Shaman, because the whole point of him was that he could turn up anywhere. Molly and I went along because the Regent promised us there were answers to be found, within this new White Horse Faction, as to who actually killed Molly’s mother and father.
The false face on the laptop disappeared abruptly, replaced by an image of the Regent of Shadows himself. An elderly man in a scruffy suit with leather patches on the elbows, sitting comfortably behind his desk in his office. He had iron grey hair, a neatly clipped military moustache, a charming smile, and piercing blue eyes. He seemed affable enough, but you had to meet his steady gaze for only a moment to see the iron backbone in the man. He nodded easily to Molly and me. If he was at all concerned about sending Molly to investigate a group that her parents had once believed in and died for . . . he didn’t show it.
“We’re on Trammell Island,” I said. “Inside Monkton Manse. Spooky bloody place. No sign of anyone else yet. Are you sure this new White Horse Faction is a real threat? I know the old group were supernatural terrorists, back in the day; hard-core protectors of Mother Earth and all that . . . but all the information I could dig up on this new version suggest they’re really just a bunch of non-violent New Age hippie tree-hugger types.”
“Well, that’s what you’re there to confirm, isn’t it?” said the Regent, in his usual calm and untroubled voice. “Just work your way in, old boy, and see what’s what.” He looked at Molly. “I promise you, my dear; the true nature of your parents’ death can be found among these people.” He looked back at me. “This new iteration of the White Horse Faction may present themselves as a less threatening alternative to the bad old ways, but we need to know the truth. Talk to them. Get them to open up to you. I have to say, my boy, that I have my suspicions.
“Reports have reached this Department that this new generation of the Faction have reached out to the one surviving member of the old group. A certain Hadrian Coll, also known as Trickster Man. A most untrustworthy fellow, with a long history of moving from one dangerous group to another, stirring up trouble, persuading them into violent and destructive acts, and then moving on. Always managing to disappear just before the ordure hits the fan.”
“I remember Hadrian,” said Molly, frowning. “He was a close friend of my parents, and a tutor to me. He wasn’t like that! He was a freedom fighter, a constant defender of noble causes. He was a good man!”
But her frown deepened even as she was speaking, as though she was troubled by conflicting, newly surfacing, memories.
“Yes, well,” said the Regent, entirely unmoved, “that was then; this is now. The current leadership of this new White Horse Faction are on their way to Monkton Manse to debate their future, and the nature of future tactics. I am concerned that they’ve invited this Hadrian Coll, this Trickster Man, to be a part of their debate. Whatever happens on Trammell Island, hidden from the eyes of the world, will decide what direction the next generation will take. It’s up to you . . . to help guide them in the right direction. You are authorised to take whatever action may be necessary to deal with the Faction in general, and Hadrian Coll in particular.” He looked steadily at Molly. “Coll was a very violent man, back in the day. And he was very definitely present when your parents died.”
“Of course he was there,” said Molly. “He was their friend. He wouldn’t abandon them.”
“He claims to have reformed,” said the Regent. “That he’s no longer the man he used to be. And, that he doesn’t want the White Horse Faction to be what it used to be. Which is all very nice and as it should be. But, has he really embraced non-violence? Or is he still the dangerous Trickster Man, ready to say whatever it takes to have influence over the next generation of Faction leaders?”
“I’ll find out,” said Molly. “He wouldn’t lie to me.”
“Someone’s coming,” I said. “Talk to you later, Grandfather.”
I shut down the laptop, whipped out the golden filaments, and made both my armour and the laptop disappear. I turned quickly to face the open front door, Molly standing stiffly at my side. I wanted to put a hand to the collar at my throat. The golden torc isn’t normally visible to the everyday eye. Normally, you have to possess the Sight, or at the very least be the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son (exceedingly rare in these days of family planning), just to be able to detect the torc’s presence. But Monkton Manse didn’t feel like a normal place, with normal conditions. If they found out I was a Drood . . . this whole situation would deteriorate faster than an argument about who didn’t have a starter in a row over a restaurant bill.
And I needed this to go well, for Molly’s sake. So she could get to the truth, at last, and put it behind her.
Footsteps approached the open door from outside, and then suddenly there they were. The three leaders of the next generation of the new White Horse Faction, standing together in the doorway, staring blankly at Molly and me.
• • •
They stood very still, clearly under the impression that they’d been the first to arrive on the Island. Certainly not expecting anyone to have got to the house ahead of them. They appeared alarmed, then suspicious, and finally distinctly annoyed. They looked Molly and me over, taking their time. I gave them my best confident, charming, and in no way dangerous smile, and Molly . . . did her best. It wasn’t that she lacked in people skills; it was mostly that she just couldn’t be bothered. The three next-generation leaders glanced at each other, exchanged a quick flurry of smiles, raised eyebrows and shrugs, and then turned back to present Molly and me with a united front. Doing their best to look as though they were in charge, and full of authority. But their lack of experience was against them; neither of them had progressed very far into their twenties, and there was no overlooking the way they stood very close together, for mutual support.
The young woman suddenly stepped forward. “Hi,” she said, just a bit ungraciously. “I’m Stephanie Troy. I know who both of you are, of course. We’re happy to have you here with us on this auspicious occasion. The rebirth and regeneration of the White Horse Faction! It’s an honour to meet you, Molly Metcalf.”
Troy barely gave me a second look, but then, that was how it should be. Shaman Bond has a history with most supernatural organisations, usually as a supplier of information, but no reputation at all for getting personally involved in dangerous action. Unlike the infamous Molly Metcalf . . .
Stephanie Troy was tall and fashionably slender, and positively blazed with nervous energy. She had short-cropped honey blonde hair, flashing eyes, and a tightly pursed mouth. She wore a smart grey suit with sensible shoes, minimal makeup, and no jewellery. I was pretty sure she would consider such things distracting, and frivolous. This was a woman who had given herself to a cause, and everything and everyone else would always come second to that.
She darted forward and grabbed Molly firmly by the hand. Molly suffered her hand to be shook, and nodded amiably enough.
“Hi!” I said. “I’m Shaman Bond! Happy to be here; glad to help out.”
“I know who you are,” said Troy, reluctantly releasing Molly’s hand. “Your reputation precedes you.” She didn’t make that sound like a good thing. And she didn’t offer to shake my hand.
“I’m Phil Adams,” said the shortest member of the next generation. He stepped forward, shyly and deferentially, and made a point of shaking my hand as well as Molly’s.
He was barely medium height, far more than medium weight, with a constant little smile and an evasive gaze, wearing a baggy shapeless jersey over grubby blue jeans that looked like they’d been through several wars. His heavy boots were held together with two different-coloured sets of shoe-laces, along with a certain amount of knotted string. He wore his long mousey-coloured hair in untidy dreadlocks, and sported a stubbly and not particularly successful beard. He had a calm, easy manner, but didn’t seem to want to look directly at anyone. I’d seen his kind before. More at home with animals than people, he loved Nature so much there wasn’t a lot left in him for people. He would almost certainly turn out to be the heart and soul of the group, but he’d always leave it to the other two to do the talking.
The last one to come forward announced himself loudly as Joe Morrison. He was a big one, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, wearing a hooded jacket of indeterminate colour over designer jeans and cowboy boots. Given the way he moved, and the way he held himself, I got the feeling he was probably ex-military. Or at the very least, ex-bouncer. He looked like he would have enjoyed saying
No trainers!
and
Your name’s not on the list.
He was dark and not particularly handsome, and gave every indication of knowing and not giving a damn. He nodded to Molly, clearly pleased to see her, but just as clearly not as impressed by her reputation as the others. He glanced at me, and sniffed loudly.
“I did my research, once I knew you two would be here,” he said. “Everyone knows Molly Metcalf is the real deal, but I couldn’t get anyone to agree on what you are, Shaman. Have you ever believed in anything, I mean really believed, in your whole crooked life?”
“I believe in getting paid,” I said easily. “And Molly is paying me really good money to watch her back, while she’s here. What do you believe in, Joe Morrison?”
“I believe in protecting Nature, and Mother Earth,” said Morrison. In a way that suggested that hadn’t always been the case. There’s nothing more fervent and more dogmatic than a recent convert.
For a while, we all just stood there in the hallway, and looked each other over. These three may be the next-generation leaders of the White Horse Faction, but Molly and I were the only ones with real reputations. We’d actually done things. In the end, Troy nodded briskly to Molly, and favoured her with a brief smile.
“We’re really glad you’ve come back to the White Horse Faction, Molly. Your parents left a hell of a legacy. We admire their commitment, and revere their contributions, even though we have chosen to follow a different path. I’m sure we’ll have lots to discuss. What we decide here, in this place, will change the world.”
And then she looked at me. I smiled calmly back at her.
“I know,” I said. “I’m just a dilettante in all this, and I’ll never be a true believer. But as long as Molly is putting money in my pocket, you can depend on me.”
“To do what?” said Troy, bluntly. “What can you bring to the cause?”
“I can open doors for you,” I said. “I know people. I can make connections, get you whatever you need. For a very reasonable percentage, of course.”
“Parasite,” said Morrison. He gave Molly a hard look. “What’s he doing here? Is he your . . . significant other, these days?”
“Hardly,” I said smoothly. “Dear Molly’s just the boss lady. I am here . . . because this is a bad place. Which you’d know, if you’d done your research.”
“I wouldn’t have thought the infamous Molly Metcalf would need a bodyguard,” Adams said quietly, tugging reflectively at a dreadlock. “And didn’t I hear you were stepping out with a Drood these days, Molly?”