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

it
upstairs.
    So, report over, mission concluded. Time to repair to a
civilised hostelry and get utterly rat-arsed.
     
    I left the Internet café, nodding good-bye to Willy, who was
busy sending anonymous hate e-mail to Bill Gates. I shut the door firmly behind
me, and then looked casually up and down the side street to make sure no one was
about. The afternoon was shading into evening now, the shadows growing darker
and deeper. The side street ended in a grimy brick wall, covered with faded
graffiti. I stood before the wall, said certain Words, and a door appeared in
the brickwork before me. A door of solid silver, deeply etched with threats and
warnings in angelic and demonic script, and with absolutely no trace of a
handle. I placed my left hand on the silver, and the door swung open before me.
Try that when your name isn’t on the approved list and the door will bite your
hand right off; but one of the things I like most about the Wulfshead Club is
how jealously it guards its privacy and that of its patrons.
    The club isn’t actually in London; you can enter it from any
city in the world, as long as you’re a member in good standing and know the
current passWords. I’m not sure if anyone knows exactly where (or indeed when)
the Wulfshead is really located. Which makes it the best of all possible places
to go when you need to get away from the world and its demands.
    I stepped through the door into dazzling light, pounding music,
and the roar of people determined to have a good time, no matter what. The
Wulfshead is very up to the moment, very high-tech. All neon strip lighting and
furniture so modern half the time you can’t even tell what it’s supposed to be.
The walls are giant plasma screens showing dramatic views from around the world,
constantly changing. Every now and again they flash up the bedroom secrets of
famous and important people, covertly recorded by Peeping Toms with access to
far too much technology for their own good. The music slammed and pounded, while
girls in hardly any clothing at all stomped and strutted on the spotlit
miniature stages, dancing their hearts out till the sweat flew from their
flailing bodies, and the bass lines shuddered up through the floor.
    The club was crowded, as always, full to the brim with the most
interesting people you’ll find anywhere. The Wulfshead is where all the weird
people go to relax and to enjoy a drink and a chat with their own kind. The
club’s membership includes the supernatural, the superluminal, the
super-scientific, and all the rest of the superhuman crew. It’s a cosmopolitan
mixture, embracing good guys and bad guys and all the strange people in between.
Deals are made, people and others get laid, the odd murder or transformation
occurs, and a good time is had by all. Got a hell of an atmosphere.
    The club is neutral ground, by long tradition, but the
occasional brawl is only to be expected. It’s just high spirits. The bartender
keeps order with a steamhammer, and the bouncers are golems, so they can’t be
bribed or intimidated.
    I made my way to the long bar at the back of the club: a
gleaming high-tech structure that looked more like a piece of modern art than
anything functional. The club prides itself on having anything you can name on
tap; everything from absinthe to human blood to steaming nitric acid with an LSD
chaser. In fact the choice is so wide that most of us believe the club keeps its
stock in a pocket dimension attached to the bar by a hyperdimensional link. It’s
still best to avoid the house wines, unless you’re already on your third
stomach.
    The bar snacks are appalling, but then bar snacks always are.
    I nodded and smiled at old friends and familiar faces as I eased
my way through the press of bodies. They know me only as Shaman Bond; just
another face on the scene. None of them even suspected I might be a Drood, and I
was determined to keep it that way. We protect the