It didn’t look like the Lady Faire ever responded to their entreaties, or talked directly to any of them. In fact, I couldn’t find a single instance of her communicating with anyone. There were just as many sites condemning her as everything from a Bad Example to a female Antichrist. Angry accusations, death threats, calls for jihad . . . It did seem that some sites were actually at war with one another, with mounting real-life casualties. These people took the Lady Faire very seriously. And yet, strangely, there wasn’t a single photo of her to be found anywhere. Not even on the most rabid and obsessive fan sites. Instead, there were any number of artist’s impressions, everything from court sketches to fully painted portraits.
And every single one of them different.
I finally ended up on the message boards. As Shaman Bond, naturally. Because the whole point of my cover identity was that Shaman could turn up anywhere and no one was ever surprised. I chatted with a lot of people who claimed to know the Lady Faire, or more usually knew people who knew her, but while everyone had heard about her annual Ball, none of them had any idea where it was being held. Until finally I made contact with Dead Boy.
Dead Boy came to the Nightside as a teenager and was immediately mugged and murdered. He made a deal he still won’t talk about, to come back from the dead and avenge his murder. But he should have read the small print. He’s stuck in his risen corpse, unable to leave, possessing his own dead body. At least until his body wears out. He’s something of a party animal, and he does get around.
I know where the Lady Faire’s Ball is being held, he said. I just got my invitation.
“Okay,” said Molly, her chin still resting comfortably on my shoulder. “The Lady Faire only gives out invitations to her lovers. Which means she, he, or it has had sex with Dead Boy. Who is, after all, dead. Now that’s just creepy. I mean, I like to think I’m open-minded about most things, especially if I haven’t got around to trying them yet, but even I draw the line at sleeping with someone who smells strongly of formaldehyde. Even if they are still moving around.”
“I am very pleased to hear that,” I said.
Get you to the Winter Palace, said Dead Boy. And beware the Ice Queen.
He withdrew completely from the OverNet before I could ask any questions.
I sat back in my chair, and Molly put her arms around me. I was thinking hard. The monitor hummed impatiently before me.
“Okay,” said Molly. “The Winter Palace . . . That name definitely rings a bell, but I can’t place it.”
“The Winter Palace is very exclusive,” I said. “Very elite. In fact, I think you have to own or run a small country just to get past the doorman. Never been there myself, but I have heard stories about it. From my uncle James.”
“He’s been there?”
“The Grey Fox has been everywhere.”
“Well, where is the Winter Palace?”
“Ultima Thule,” I said. “The last really cool place in the world. I hope you packed your thermal underwear.”
And then I broke off, as the monitor screen suddenly went blank. My first thought was some Trojan must have got past my filters, but then a gleaming golden Drood mask appeared on my screen, featureless and implacable, seeming to stare right out at me, as though it could see everything.
“What is that?” said Molly. “Eddie, what is that thing?”
“My family have found us,” I said numbly. “They’ve hacked into the OverNet connection. I didn’t think they could do that.”
“Then do something!” said Molly. “Shut down the computer!”
“I can’t!” I said. “It should have shut itself down the moment it realised something was wrong. My family have overridden the security protocols from their end.”
I hammered away at the keyboard, trying to call up something that would protect me, and as I did, the golden face started to talk to me.
“Where are you, Eddie? The family needs you to come home. You need to come home. Now. Eddie needs to come home now.”
I hunched my shoulders against the hypnotic words. “No, he bloody doesn’t,” I said.
“What is that awful voice?” said Molly. “It doesn’t even sound human . . .”
“Psychological warfare,” I said. “Don’t listen to it.”
I gave up trying to shut down the computer, and pulled the plug. Everything went dead, but the golden face was still on the screen, still talking. So I armoured up my fist and smashed the computer with one vicious blow. Sparks flew, and black smoke curled out of the collapsed sides of the machine. The golden face disappeared from the monitor screen, its voice cut off in mid-sentence. I hit the computer again, just to be sure. Broken pieces scattered across the desk.
I retrieved the glove to my torc, pushed back my chair, and got to my feet. Molly stayed with me, her hands on my shoulders, talking calmly but urgently, but I wasn’t listening. My family had found me. They’d be here soon to take me home. By force, if necessary. And this time I would never get away. Never be free again. They’d see to that. Even if it meant I ended up as the Drood in Cell 14.
All the house’s security alarms went off at once. Bells and sirens and flashing lights, in every room throughout the house. I hadn’t realised I’d installed so many. I shouted the various suppressing words, and one by one the alarms shut down. I turned to Molly.
“My family can’t be here already,” I said. “They just can’t.”
“Are you sure they didn’t know about this place?” said Molly.
“No one knew!” I said. “That’s the whole point of an underground bolt-hole! I only ever brought one other person here. And she wouldn’t have said anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s dead.”
“What happened to her?”
“A painting ate her.”
I hurried over to the study’s only window and looked down into the street. Molly crowded in beside me. Dozens of soldiers in dark uniforms were moving quickly from house to house, calling out the occupants and then hurrying them away. Soldiers with body armour and automatic weapons, being very professional, and not taking no for an answer from anybody. There had to be at least a hundred of them, a very efficient small army, anonymous behind black-visored helmets. Some of the people didn’t want to be evacuated from their homes, but when faced with even the slightest opposition or resistance, the soldiers went straight to brute force. Some of the students started shouting about their rights, and I winced as I saw rifle butts connecting with heads and ribs, and limp bodies being dragged away. Most people went quietly. Having an automatic weapon shoved right in their face does tend to take the fight out of most people.
Someone wanted the street emptied. Someone didn’t want any witnesses for what was going to happen next.
As fast as people spilled out of their houses, soldiers led or dragged them away to the far ends of the street, where more soldiers were waiting to move them on to a secure area. It was all very well organised. The whole terrified populace was emptied out in minutes, with no one left behind. Except Molly and me. My safe house was being conspicuously avoided by the soldiers. Left until last. But eventually the dark-uniformed soldiers came, and formed a crowd bristling with weapons before my door. Someone leaned heavily on the doorbell, and followed it up almost immediately with a loud, hammering fist.
“Who are these people?” said Molly. “SAS?”
“No,” I said. “Come on, Molly, we’ve seen these uniforms and tactics before. These are MI 13 shock troops. Remember when they attacked us outside my old flat in Knightsbridge?”
“Of course,” said Molly. “Silly buggers. They came in mob-handed, complete with helicopter gunships and armoured vehicles. Didn’t do them a whole lot of good against us.”
“We kicked their arses,” I said. “You’d think they’d know better than to annoy us again . . . Will you listen to the noise they’re making at my front door? Idiots. With the shields I put in place, they couldn’t break that door down with a depleted-uranium battering ram. But I suppose we’d better go down and talk to the uniformed thugs, if only to find out what they want. And how they knew we were here. I also wish to make a very strong complaint about how they’ve been treating the innocent people of this street. First rule of fights in the hidden world: it’s not supposed to spill over into the real world, and affect innocent bystanders. I will not have civilians hurt because of me.”