Read Book 1 - The Man With the Golden Torc for Free Online

hear that the troll problem’s getting worse in the
Underground train tunnels," said the Indigo Spirit. "Nasty things; all teeth and
appetite and no manners. Word is, they could be getting close to swarming
again."
    Janissary Jane brightened. "Always good money to be made during
a cull. I’ll contact my agent, see if anyone’s hiring. The city better not have
tendered it out to Group Forty-two again; those bastards always want to see the
heads as proof of kill. Last time I came up out of the Underground like Santa
Claus with a sack full of goodies."
    "Got some new videos in, if any of you are interested," said
Charlatan Joe. "I know this guy who knows this guy who claims his television set
is receiving transmissions from the future. He’s selling best-of compilations on
VHS and DVD, and I can get my hands on some for a really reasonable price…"
    "I wouldn’t," I said. "I’ve seen that tape. Just a bunch of guys
in weird clothes, showing their bums to the camera and giggling a lot.
Technology is just wasted on some people."
     
    So we drank and talked and drank some more, and the evening
passed pleasantly enough. Charlatan Joe put it all on his tab, since he was
still flush from his latest sting. Janissary Jane tried to chat up some guy in
chain mail, and then shot him in the arse when he turned his back on her. The
Indigo Spirit offered to show me his secret cave, but I politely declined. The
Blue Fairy passed out cold and lay snoring on the floor at our feet. "Don’t step
on him," Charlatan Joe said wisely, "Or it’ll rain for forty days and forty
nights."
    At some point, the conversation got around to the latest
sightings of the infamous Drood family and their golden agents, and I shut up
and paid attention. Never know when you might learn something useful. There are
always sightings of my family at work, most of them apocryphal or wishful
thinking. If a Drood agent’s done his job properly, no one but the victims
should even know he was there. But we’re a bit like crop circles and cattle
mutilations; we get blamed for all kind of things that are nothing at all to do
with us. The current sightings included action in Moscow, Las Vegas, and Venice.
That last one was particularly nasty; no one seemed to know precisely what
happened, but the city was fishing bodies out of the canals for hours
afterwards. I made a mental note to check up on that one, though it sounded
rather sloppy for us.
    My family gets a lot of credit (or blame) for things we haven’t
actually done, but we never confirm or deny anything. It’s enough that the world
is protected; they don’t need to know family business. Besides, it’s all good
for the reputation.
    The company is usually good at the Wulfshead, but there’s always
one in every crowd. A large figure loomed suddenly over us, brandishing a pint
of lager and insisting on joining our conversation. He had to be seven feet
tall, with shoulders to match, in a battered oversized biker’s jacket and
scuffed leather trousers. This, it turned out, was Boyd, Bodyguard to the Stars.
A newcomer to the Wulfshead, young and strong and stupid enough to believe the
club’s rules didn’t apply to him. He was obviously a Hyde, using a distillation
of Dr. Jekyll’s old formula. Potent enough to keep him big and brutal while
diluted enough that he was able to maintain control.
    He just talked right over us, insisting on telling us all about
his new job as bodyguard to a major Hollywood actress. Who, if Boyd was to be
believed, couldn’t do a thing without him there to supervise it. He also dropped
heavy hints that he’d sampled her famous body when he wasn’t guarding it.
    "Really?" said the Indigo Spirit. "I always thought she was a
Friend of Dorothy."
    "Don’t know if I’d go that far," I said. "But if they were
shorthanded, she’d probably help out."
    Boyd glared at me. "That’s just tabloid trash. Gossip and spite.
She’s all woman, and I