“And what use is your youthful confidence in the face of all my years of experience? I’m back, Eddie, and I’m going to run circles around all of you.”

“That’s the torc speaking,” I said. But I wasn’t entirely sure.

We both looked around sharply as one of the other figures came striding across the landing pad to join us. She stopped a cautious distance away, looked us both over, and smiled widely.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Honey Lake. CIA. Don’t everyone cheer at once.”

She had presence, give her that. Honey Lake was tall, Amazonian, with a splendid figure, dark coffee skin, and closely cropped hair. She wore a tight-fitting pure white jumpsuit under a long white fur coat and thigh-high white leather boots. I was sensing a theme. She had strong pleasant features, with high cheekbones, a broad grin, and merry eyes. Her sheer physical presence was almost overwhelming, like being caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. I’d have been impressed, if I believed in being impressed, which mostly I don’t. The best agents go unnoticed, walking unseen through the world; standing out in a crowd just makes you a better target. I let my gaze drift over her, making it clear I wasn’t dazzled, and just happened to notice that she had enough heavy gold rings on the fingers of her left hand to double as a knuckle-duster. She also wore a silver charm hanging on a chain around her neck, bearing the sign of the Eye of the Pyramid. As I looked at the charm, the Eye winked at me.

Honey Lake was studying me just as openly, grinning like a child who’s just been given a new toy to play with.

“Wow,” she said. “A Drood! Colour me impressed . . . so that’s what a torc looks like. I’d always thought it would be more . . . impressive. Still, an actual Drood! Not often we get to meet one of you face-to-face.”

“We prefer to keep to the background,” I said. I stepped forward and offered her my hand, and she shook it briefly with a firm grasp. Up close, she smelled of musk and perfume and gunpowder. Not an unpleasant combination.

The Blue Fairy cleared his throat meaningfully. “Hi. I’m—”

“Oh, I know who you are,” said Honey, not taking her eyes off me.

“I’m Eddie Drood,” I said. I was starting to feel just a bit uncomfortable. Honey was doing everything but hit me over the head with her sexuality. Which was probably the point; it’s an old trick, to keep a man off balance. “So,” I said as casually as I could manage, “you’re CIA? Might have known the Company would insist on a presence here.”

“Oh, I was chosen,” said Honey. “Personally selected by the Independent Agent himself. And I’m only sort of CIA.”

I had to raise an eyebrow at that. “Only sort of?”

“You know how it is, Eddie. We’re like an onion; no matter how many layers you peel away, there’s always one more underneath. I work for one of those departments within departments that don’t officially exist. Our remit is to protect the United States from all threats of an . . . unusual nature. By all means necessary.”

“Does that include the Droods?” I said.

“Of course! We don’t trust anyone who isn’t one hundred percent American. Hell, we don’t even trust most of the people who work for the CIA. On really bad days, I don’t trust anyone but myself.” She smiled brightly. “I love the smell of paranoia in the morning. It’s so . . . bracing.” She turned abruptly to look at the Blue Fairy, who was standing stiffly to one side like the guest at a party no one wants to talk to. “I didn’t know the Droods had a half-breed elf lurking in their woodpile.”

“We don’t,” I said. “He stole his torc.”

Honey Lake raised an elegant eyebrow. “And you let him live?”

“It’s . . . complicated,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s like that, is it?”

“You tell me,” I said. “You’re CIA. You know everything.”

She laughed. “If we did, we wouldn’t need field agents. It really is fascinating to meet you, Eddie. In the flesh, so to speak. Normally we only get to see Droods in action, from a distance, wrapped up in your amazing armour. And then only if we’re very lucky. You’re the urban legends of the espionage field. Often talked about, rarely glimpsed, never sticking around to accept praise or answer questions. Who was that masked man? we cry, and never a response. The CIA has massive files on you Droods, but we don’t trust anything that’s in them. You wouldn’t believe some of the stories we hear about you.”

“Believe them all,” I said solemnly. “Especially the really weird ones.”

“I met the Gray Fox once,” said Honey. “In a bombed-out bar in Beirut. Such a gentleman. Stole the courier I was escorting right out from under my nose.”

“Uncle James,” I said. “He always was the best of us.”

“What happened to him?” said Honey. “I heard he died, but . . .”

“He turned his back on the wrong woman,” I said. “It’s what he would have wanted.”

“Why don’t you tell her who killed the Gray Fox?” said the Blue Fairy.

“Shut up, Blue,” I said, not looking around.

We all jumped a little as another figure joined us. He was just suddenly standing there with us, though none of us had heard him approaching. And I’m really hard to surprise. He looked . . . very much like the typical City gentleman, in his smart expensive suit, old school tie, bowler hat, and rolled umbrella. He seemed entirely unprepared for the cold mountain air, but if it affected him at all, he didn’t show it. He was average height and weight, middle-aged but still in good shape. Sharp, stylish, and sophisticated, with a calm smile and cool watchful eyes. He nodded to each of us in turn and actually tipped his bowler hat to Honey.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m Walker. From the Nightside.”

For a long moment, none of us said anything. It’s not often I’m genuinely impressed, but we’d all heard of Walker. The Nightside is the hidden dark heart of London, where bad things live and worse things happen. Where it’s always night because some things can thrive only in the dark. Where gods and monsters plot and war and often frequent the same swingers clubs. The Nightside has the best bars and clubs in all the world, but the door charge can be your soul, and you’d better find what you’re looking for before it finds you. By ancient treaty, the Droods stay out of the Nightside. We’re not barred, as such; we just choose not to get involved. The Authorities used to run the Nightside, inasmuch as anyone did or could, and Walker was their man on the spot. It was his job to keep the lid on. And no one ever messed with Walker. Even gods and monsters walked lightly when Walker was on the prowl. But now the Authorities were dead and gone, and Walker . . . was here. Which was . . . interesting. He smiled easily around him, very polite, very courteous.

Like a crocodile in a Savile Row suit.

“This is a day of surprises,” said Honey Lake. “I can honestly say I wasn’t expecting to see anyone from the Nightside. You people don’t tend to play well with others. In fact, there are those who say the fate of the whole world will be decided there someday.”

“No,” said the Blue Fairy. “You’re thinking of Shadows Fall.”

“I try very hard not to,” said Honey, still not looking at him. “The elephants’ graveyard of the supernatural, where legends go to die when the world stops believing in them? That place gives me the creeps.”

“So,” I said to Walker. “What brings you out of the dark and into the light?”

“The imminent passing of a legend,” said Walker, leaning casually on his furled umbrella. “Rumour has it the Independent Agent knows things that even the Nightside doesn’t know. Knowledge and secrets lost and forgotten by the rest of the world. He offered me a place in his little game, and I really couldn’t say no. I have been promised something, you see; something even the Nightside can’t provide. And I want it.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “I should have known there’d be a Drood here. It wouldn’t be an honest competition without one.”