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"If we were to declare open war," I said slowly, "our enemies would just band together for protection against a common threat, and we’d be vastly outnumbered. We’ve survived as long as we have only because we understand the virtues of divide and conquer."
Jacob shrugged. "Youngsters today; no patience. No taking the long view. It’s all instant gratification now. I blame MTV and video games. So far, older and wiser heads in the family are keeping the new faction firmly in its place, but everyone’s talking about it…Also, your cousin William’s been stirring things, just so he can get plenty of good footage for the documentary he’s been making about the family. Though God alone knows who he thinks is going to see it. Could be a big hit, mind, with all those people who watched The Osbournes. Meet the Droods: an even more dysfunctional family, only far more dangerous…
"The Matriarch’s stepped up security around the Hall. Again. You probably noticed the extra measures on your way in. Of course, they can’t keep me out. It’s hard to keep secrets from the dead. We’re natural voyeurs. Shall we take a look at what our beloved leader is up to at the moment?"
He snapped his fingers at the empty television set before him, and the old episode of Dark Shadows that had been ru
"He’ll be here soon," said Alistair. "What are we going to tell him?"
"We’ll tell him what he needs to know, and no more," said the Matriarch. "That’s always been the family way."
"But if he even suspects…"
"He won’t."
"We could tell him the truth." Alistair stopped pacing and looked directly at the Matriarch. "We could appeal to his better nature. To his duty, to his love of the family…"
The Matriarch sniffed loudly. "Don’t be a fool. He’s far too dangerous. I have determined what needs to be done, and that’s all there is to it. I have always understood what’s best for the family. Wait…Someone’s listening in! Is that you, Jacob?"
She turned abruptly and stared right out of the screen at us. Jacob gestured quickly and the picture disappeared, replaced by an old episode of The Addams Family.
"Told you she’d stepped up security," said Jacob. "What do you suppose that was all about?"
"I don’t know," I said. "But I don’t like the sound of it."
"Something’s going on," Jacob said darkly. "Something the Matriarch and her precious i
"Hold it," I said. "Attacks? No one’s told me anything about any attacks. What kind of attacks?"
"Powerful ones." Jacob stirred uncomfortably in his chair. "Even I didn’t see them coming, and that’s not like me. Nothing got through, of course, but just the fact that someone or something felt confident enough to launch a direct attack on where we live speaks volumes. In my day, no one would have dared. We’d have tracked them down, ripped their souls out, and nailed them to our outer walls. But it’s all politics now; agreements and pacts and truces. The family isn’t what it was…I don’t know why they’ve called you back, Eddie, but it sure as hell isn’t to pin a medal on your chest. Watch your back, lad."
"Always," I said. "Anything I can do for you, Jacob?"
He leered at me in a frankly unsettling way. "If that headless nun is still haunting the north wing, tell her to get her ectoplasmic arse down here, and I’ll teach her a whole new way to manifest."
"But…she hasn’t got a head!"
"It’s not her head I’m interested in!"
And he wonders why the rest of the family won’t talk to him.
Out in the bright sunlight again, under a perfect blue sky, with gryphons prowling watchfully on the perfect lawns, while butterflies big as my hand fluttered through the flower gardens, I found it hard to believe that the family could be in any real danger. Or that I might be. I might not always have been happy here, but I always felt safe in the Hall. The power of the Droods depended on the fact that no one could touch us. I looked up at the Hall towering over me, ancient and powerful, just like us. How could anything be wrong in such a perfect place, on such a perfect day?
I walked in through the main entrance, and there in the vestibule was the Sarjeant-at-Arms, waiting to meet me. Of course he was waiting; hours before the gryphons would have told him the exact moment I’d arrive. The Sarjeant was never surprised by anything or anyone. That was his job. He inclined his head stiffly to me, which was about as much welcome as I’d expected. In the Drood family, the prodigal son was always going to be in for a rough ride. The Sarjeant-at-Arms wore the stark black-and-white formal outfit of a Victorian butler, right down to the stiff and starched high collar, even though he had the build and ma
He had a face that might have been chiselled out of stone. He didn’t looked at all pleased to see me, but then, he never looked pleased about anything. Gossip had it smiling was against his religion.
"Hi there, Jeeves," I said just to wind him up, because we both knew he was far more than just a butler. (There are no servants, as such, in the Hall. We all serve the family, in our own way.) (Or at least, that’s the official line…)
"Good morning, Edwin," said the Sarjeant in his voice like grinding gravel. "The Matriarch is expecting you."
"I know," I said. "I wish I could say I was glad to be home again."
"Indeed," said the Sarjeant. "I wish I could say I was glad to see you again, boy."
We sneered at each other for a moment, and then, honour satisfied, I allowed him to lead the way through the shadowy vestibule and on into the great hallway. Light streamed in through hundreds of stained-glass windows, filling the extended hallway with all the colours of the rainbow. Old paintings and portraits showed honoured members of the family: Drood men and women sitting and standing in fixed and formal poses, in the dress and fashions of centuries past, staring out at their descendants with stern, unwavering eyes.
Drood service and tradition goes back a long way, and none of us are ever permitted to forget it. By the time we got to the end of the hallway, the paintings had given way to photographs. From the first shadowy images to sepia tones to the garish colours of modern times, the fallen dead stared proudly out at the world they made.
I stopped to consider one photo in its silver frame, and the Sarjeant stopped reluctantly beside me. The photo held two faces I knew like my own. A man and a woman stood together, proudly erect as befitting Droods, but there was a clear warmth and affection in their smiles and in their eyes. He was tall and elegant and handsome, and so was she, and they looked every inch the roistering adventurers everyone said they were. Charles and Emily Drood; my father and my mother. Murdered on a family mission in the Basque region, while I was still just a small child. Looking at them, so young and full of life, I realised I was older now than they were when they died.
The Sarjeant-at-Arms hovered silently close beside me, making me aware of his impatience with his proximity, but I wouldn’t let myself be hurried. Hello, Dad, I thought. Hello, Mum. I’ve come back. But I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I just nodded to them and moved on.