Daemons Are Forever

The Wulfshead Club is a well-known watering hole for all the strange and unusual people in the world. And for those just passing through…No one’s quite sure exactly where the club itself is located, and the very anonymous management likes to keep it that way, but there are authorised access points at locations all around the world, if you know where to look. And if your name’s on the approved list. This isn’t the kind of club where you can get in by bribing the doorman. Either you’re a member in good standing, or you’re dead.

I took a quick look around to make sure we were unobserved. The alley was empty, apart from general assorted garbage and a handful of rats with very strong stomachs. The only sound was the distant roar of passing traffic. It was barely early evening, but already the alley was heavy with shadows, dark and impenetrable. The stained brick walls were covered with the usual graffiti: dagon shall rise again!, vampires suck!, and the somewhat more worrying supersexuals of the world unite.

I moved over to the wall, said the right Words, and a massive silver door appeared in the wall, as though the door were shouldering the lesser reality of the wall aside. The solid silver was deeply etched with threats and warnings, in angelic and demonic scripts. There was no door handle. I placed my left hand flat against the disturbingly warm and sweaty silver, and after a moment the door recognised me and swung slowly open. I always find the wait just a tad worrying. Because if your name isn’t on the approved list, the door will bite your hand right off.

I looked at Molly. “Remember, my name here is Shaman Bond. Slip up and you could get us both killed.”

She smiled sweetly at me. “You know, it’s almost charming, this need you have to hold my hand and explain everything to me. But if you don’t cut it out sharpish, I will slap you halfway into next week.”

“After you,” I said, and followed her into the Wulfshead.

We walked into a savage blaze of light and a righteous blare of noise. Music was playing, people were drinking and dancing and making deals in corners, and the whole damned joint was rocking. Harsh lighting bathed the packed crowd in constantly changing primal colours, and the music never stopped. Molly and I made our way through the surging mass of bodies with a combination of smiles, charm, and a complete willingness to use our elbows in violent and unprovoked ways. We were heading for the high-tech bar at the far end of the club; a nightmarish art deco structure of steel and glass, complete with computerised access to more kinds of booze than most people even know exist. You want a strontium 90 mineral water with an iodine chaser? Or a wolfsbane cocktail with a silver umbrella in it? Or maybe angel’s urine with extra holy water? Then no wonder you’ve come to the Wulfshead.

Rumour has it the management keeps the bar stock in a different dimension, because they’re afraid of it.

The Wulfshead Club prides itself on always being totally up to the minute, if not a little beyond. The great plasma screens on the walls show constantly shifting glimpses of the bedroom secrets of the rich and famous, interspersed with tomorrow’s stock exchange figures, while go-go girls dance in golden cages suspended from the ceiling, wearing only wisps of feathers. For the more traditionally minded, lap dancers in black leather strips gyrate on raised stages and hump their steel poles into submission. Tonight, a group of Satan’s Harlots out on a hen’s night were line dancing up and down the long steel bar top.

You can find all sorts at the Wulfshead, if they don’t find you first, preparing for a caper or a war, or recovering afterwards. Janissary Jane drank here, in between her regular shifts as an interdimensional mercenary, because she found the place restful. Which tells you a lot about the kind of places she works in. I didn’t see her anywhere yet, or hear the telltale sounds of screams and gunfire, so I bellied up to the bar with Molly at my side. The bartender wandered unhurriedly over to serve us. I’ve never bothered to remember his name. There’s a dozen of them behind the bar, all of them clones. Or homunculi. Or probably something even more disturbing.

He nodded familiarly to both of us. “Hello Molly, Shaman; been a while. The usual?”

I nodded, and he fussed over an impressive collection of nozzles and cables behind the bar, before handing over a Beck’s for me and a Buck’s Fizz for Molly. (She believes the orange juice makes it healthy.) I felt a little relieved that my use name was still good here. As far as the Wulfshead crowd was concerned, I was just Shaman Bond, a small-time operator and familiar face on the scene, nothing more. I’d put a lot of time and effort into establishing my cover identity, and not just because no one here had any love for the Droods. In the Wulfshead, I was no one important, no one special, and nothing was expected from me. Which was really very liberating. Especially now.

Back at the Hall, most of my family either worshipped me, feared me, or hated me. Or any combination of the three. Edwin Drood had become the most important person in the most important organisation in the world. But here, Shaman Bond was just another face in the crowd. It was as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I put my back against the bar and looked out over the milling throng, nodding easily to a few familiar friends and faces. Harry Fabulous was sliding unctuously through the mob, working the crowd with a wide smile and a hearty handshake, your special go-to man for everything that was bad for you. Last time I was in, he was offering pirate DVDs of Muppet films from another dimension: Citizen Kermit and Miss Piggy Does Dallas. Lined up along the great length of the bar I could see a ghost called Ash, a minor Norse godling, and the Indigo Spirit, complete with leather costume, cape, and cowl, taking a brief break from his crime-fighting.

And finally, there was Janissary Jane her own bad self, shouldering her way through the packed crowd to the bar, in search of a fresh whiskey bottle. One of the bartenders was waiting for her, and she snatched the refill out of his hand and drank the cheap whiskey straight from the bottle. She looked like the soldier she was; tall and blocky with muscular bare arms, a ramrod-straight back, and black hair cropped close to her head so an enemy couldn’t grab hold of it in a fight. She might have been pretty once, but all that was left now was scars and character. Her army fatigues were scorched and torn and stained with dried blood, and I knew up close she would smell of blood and smoke and brimstone. The whiskey was actually a good sign; gin made her maudlin, and then she tended to shoot people. Mostly people who needed shooting, but it did tend to put a damper on the party atmosphere.

The Wulfshead has never objected to her presence. Apparently they feel she gives the place character.

I called her name, from a safe distance, and her head came around quickly, one hand dropping to the gun at her side. I stood very still until I was sure she’d recognised me, and then gestured for her to come over and join Molly and me. She took her hand away from her gun, nodded stiffly, and made her way down the bar, shouldering people aside when they didn’t get out of her way fast enough. No one was dumb enough to object. This was Janissary Jane. Demon killer, seasoned warrior, and complete bloody psychopath. She stopped before Molly and me, studied us both just a little owlishly, and then toasted us both with her whiskey bottle.

“Hello, Jane,” I said easily.

“Hello, Shaman,” Janissary Jane said pointedly. She was perhaps the only other person here who knew I was a Drood. “What do you want with me?”

“I’m organising a major operation against some demons,” I said. “I could use your advise and expertise. You’ll get the going rate for the duration, plus a generous bonus if we pull the thing off successfully.”