“I don’t know! How about the Blue Fairy? He owes me. Maybe he could fish for a cure. He found one for himself.”
“We can’t trust him. All elves have an agenda.”
“Well… maybe Giles could take you with him, back to his future,” I said desperately. “Who knows what kind of cures and medical technology they have then?”
“You heard the man,” Molly said sadly. “His is a strictly scientific future. His people probably wouldn’t even be able to recognise what was wrong with me. And anyway, we can’t unleash the Loathly Ones and the Hungry Gods on the future. They have to be stopped, here and now.”
I had to smile. “Am I hearing this right? The infamous Molly Metcalf, developing scruples and morality at this late stage?”
She turned around and managed a small smile for me. “Everyone has to grow up eventually. All it took for me was an other-dimensional parasite infecting my body and eating my soul.”
I sat up on the bed and looked at her thoughtfully. “Now you’re one of them… Are you part of their hive mind yet? Can you hear them? Can you listen in on the Loathly Ones’ communications?”
Molly frowned, concentrating. “There is something… on the edge of my thoughts. Far away, a background sound. But it’s just babble, a meaningless gabble of noise. Not human… alien. Perhaps I’ll come to understand it, as I become… more like them. Will my thoughts come to sound like that? So alien, so intrinsically other… as to be beyond human comprehension?” She looked at me intently. “We have to stop them, Eddie. While I’m still me. Maybe… if we drive them all back out of our reality, the infection will go with them.”
“Yes,” I said kindly. “Maybe.”
“I’m scared, Eddie. Scared of becoming less and less me, and becoming something that won’t even care what it’s lost. I won’t even care that I don’t love you anymore… If there is no cure, if there is no hope left, kill me, Eddie, while I still know who you are. If you love me, kill me.”
“Yes,” I said. “I can do that.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Peace and War
All Droods are fighters. It’s in the blood, and the training. We’re all born to the torc, and raised to fight the good fight from childhood on, even if most of us never get to leave the Hall, or ever see a hand raised in anger. Because the family has always known that a day like this might come, when all the Droods must go to war in defence of humanity, and the world.
Cry Havoc, and let loose the Droods of war.
Janissary Jane taught us a lot, but Giles Deathstalker taught us something else. Under his harsh instruction, we learnt not just how to be warriors, but soldiers in an army. When Jane was running things, she put us through war games. Giles ran his manoeuvres like the real thing, with half the family set against the other half, so we could learn how to fight as part of a group. It wasn’t enough for us to be warriors any more, nor even heroes; we had to be an army. Giles taught us strategy, and tactical thinking, instead of relying on our usual one-on-one philosophy. To think of the operation as a whole, and not just our own individual part of it. We caught on quickly. We’re used to training.
And so there we all were, out on the great grassy lawns, shining bright and savage in our golden armour as we all did our level best to kill each other. Every Drood man and woman, save for the absolute minimum specialists necessary for running Operations, the War Room, and the infirmary, charging this way and that under Giles’s strict commands. We slammed together, body against body, pushing our muscles and nerve to their limits. The sound of combat was deafening as golden blades sought golden chests, and armed fists hammered into armoured heads, and voices rose in fury and passion and eager exhilaration. The gryphons hauled themselves up off their haunches and sulked away in search of somewhere more peaceful, soon followed by the peacocks and other wildlife. Even our resident undine poked her head up out of the lake to see what the hell was going on before quickly disappearing again. Ranks of children excused from lessons watched us make war, and cheered and applauded excitedly from a safe distance. They were there so they could learn too.
Because we all knew, though no one ever said it out loud, that even if we won this war a hell of a lot of us probably wouldn’t be coming back. And the next generation of Droods might have to step into our shoes a lot earlier than any of us had intended.
I was there, right in the middle of the action, training alongside everyone else. Running back and forth on the increasingly churned-up lawns, taking turns leading and being led in the various battle groups. I was far too used to being a lone wolf, and that was a luxury I could no longer afford. So I charged again and again, running madly till my lungs ached and black spots flickered in front of my eyes, growing long golden blades from my armoured hands, and throwing myself into yet another savage, brutal mêlée.
I ached in every limb, and my heart pounded so hard I thought it might leap right out of my chest. And this was just a rehearsal for the real thing.
Apparently Giles had known something very like living battle armour in his far future time, because he had all kinds of ideas on how to make our armour a weapon in itself. During the short breaks between his carefully choreographed campaigns, he lectured us on how limited the family had always been in its thinking, where the armour was concerned. It didn’t have to be just a defence, a second skin to protect us and boost our strength and speed. James’s trick with the blades showed the armour could be made to respond to our thoughts and needs. If a sword, then why not a battle-ax? If I could raise spikes on my knuckles, why not all over my body? The armour was the shape it was only because it had never occurred to us that it could be anything else.
If you already have a miracle, why try to improve on it?
It took an outsider like Giles to make us see the armour’s true capabilities; that the possibilities were limited only by our lack of imagination. Once the idea took hold, there was no stopping us. It took a lot of concentration, but the strange matter of our armour moulded itself under the force of our various desires. Golden hands grew all kinds of weapons, and gleaming faces became scowling gargoyles, howling wolves, monsters, and angels. Pliable body shapes twisted and transformed, taking on mystical shapes and legendary forms. A few even grew golden wings from their backs and flapped awkwardly into the air. We couldn’t hold our new shapes for long, not yet; it took too much concentration. But who knew what might become possible after long practice?
I watched the fierce shapes and impossible transformations strut back and forth before admiring audiences, and wasn’t sure I entirely approved. Right now we needed an army with every weapon at its command. But what would become of us, after the war? When there was no more need for golden monsters and gleaming gladiators? Under normal conditions, all the family ever needed to keep the peace was a limited number of specially trained field agents, like I used to be. Would these golden soldiers be ready to give up these exciting new possibilities?
And what if… what would happen if the armour itself started responding to unconscious impulses as well as conscious commands? Might we all become monsters from the id, ravening creatures driven by personal demons? Perhaps even trapped inside our own armour, as it responded to deep unconscious needs and ignored our conscious, horrified pleas to stand down?
Nightmares for another day. Right now, my job was to make sure the world would see another day. First win the war, then worry about the peace. So back to battle I went, armour clashing against armour, all through the long hot day. And before my eyes the Drood family quickly became something else, something fiercer and finer and more concentrated in its purpose. Giles Deathstalker was cranking the family up to eleven.
And we loved it.
During another brief break, I sat exhausted on the grass drinking a wonderfully chilled Becks straight from the bottle. The Matriarch had come out to observe how the manoeuvres were going, and had very thoughtfully brought a picnic hamper with her. I got first crack at it because rank has its privileges. So I chewed on cold chicken legs, enjoyed my nice Becks, and ostentatiously ignored the cucumber sandwiches. Sometimes I think Grandmother takes the whole county aristocracy bit far too seriously.