in the mood.”
“Understandable,” said the Armourer.
Gregor Vodyanoi turned the full force of his glare on Jack. “You do not wish to be a part of this, whoever you are. Go now, or we will not be answering for the consequences. We are being werewolves, and very hungry.”
“Always hungry,” said Sergei. “Go, and let us be about our business. And maybe we won’t chase you.”
“Okay,” I said. “Not funny at all.”
I straightened up and moved away from the Armourer, standing on my own, unsupported, doing my best to seem dangerous. I armoured up my right fist and held it out before me. Nasty golden spikes rose from the knuckles. The Vodyanoi Brothers stood very still, looking at the golden glove as though fascinated. And then they looked at me, and from the expressions on their faces I knew that to them at least, I didn’t look tired or hurt or vulnerable any more. I looked like a Drood. The Vodyanoi Brothers looked at each other.
“It is still only the one of him,” said Gregor. “We will never be getting a better chance, little brother.”
“Got to be worth a try,” said Sergei.
And then the Armourer stepped forward, putting himself between the Vodyanoi Brothers and me. And just like that, all the colour dropped out of Gregor’s and Sergei’s faces, replaced by looks of utter shock. They fell back, clutching at each other in their panic, frightened and appalled by what they were seeing. The Armourer was suddenly an overpowering presence in the night, terrible and threatening. I was behind him, so I couldn’t see what the Vodyanoi Brothers were seeing, but I could still feel enough of it that all the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. This wasn’t the Uncle Jack I remembered. What had happened to him when he died? The Vodyanoi Brothers suddenly turned and bolted, plunging back into the crowd and shouldering people out of their way, until they disappeared in the distance. No one else seemed affected by the Armourer’s presence, and when he turned around to smile at me, he was just my uncle Jack again.
“Come along, Eddie. We must be going.”
I pulled the golden strange matter back off my fist and into my torc, and almost collapsed. I hadn’t realised how much difference just a little of my armour could make, but without its support there was hardly enough of me left to stand upright. I hadn’t realised . . . how bad my condition was. I nodded slowly to the Armourer.
“We need to get the hell out of here, Uncle Jack,” I said. “Get off the street, disappear, go to ground. Until we can find someone willing to help us.”
“No one can help you now but me,” said the Armourer.
“All right; I’m hurt! I’m hurt badly, I get it! But there are hospitals, secret underground medical centres, for all the people, and other things, of the hidden world. Places people like us can go when we need help. Somewhere you can be sure no one will ask awkward questions. I’m thinking of institutions like the Sisters of Conditional Mercy, the Hidden Hospice, Médecins Sans Frontières . . .”
I stopped, trying to think where the nearest of these sites might be, and then realised I didn’t know. I knew of them—everyone in our line of work did, or at least knew stories about them—but I’d never needed to visit one before. Thanks to my marvellous armour. I knew the odd place or two in Harley Street, because of a case I followed there some years back . . . assuming the Hospice of Saint Baphomet was still there, and that someone had rebuilt Dr Dee’s House of Exorcism. . . . but I had no idea how far away they were. I had no idea where I was any more. I looked at Jack, and he shook his head slowly and deliberately.
“None of those places can heal you, Eddie. You’re beyond any help they could offer.”
“I wish you’d stop saying things like that!”
“Would you rather I lied to you?”
“I’m starting to think so, yes.”
“It wouldn’t help. You need to come with me, Eddie. I’m your only hope.”
“Oh hell,” I said. “I’m too tired to argue. Let’s go. Before something really nasty turns up to take a bash at me. There’s lots of things worse than the Vodyanoi Brothers; the kind who’d give their left nut, or more likely someone else’s, for a chance to take down an injured Drood. The kind who