...Hmm?

Oh. Hello there. I didn't see you. Please, come into my parlour.

(Said the mouse to the...ahem)

Where would you like to go? I might seem like a country mouse, but trust, I am quite worldly. Otherworldly, even!

Though, I suppose, that is par for the course here, in the Nightside.

What is that? You did not come here for a door? What for, then?

...

A story, you say. Well, my shop is not a club for swapping stories...but then again, neither are my doors windows, though that does not stop me from peeking through them. They show me what is, was and may be; and what should and should have never been, or could have. What story would you like?

A Drood story? Why, of course I know about them! Their history is not as secret as they would like you to believe, if you catch my drift...

***

The name's Drood. Eddie Drood. The very secret agent. Only my oldest relatives call me Edwin. To most of the seen and unseen worlds, I am Shaman Bond, rogue about town, always looking for a spot of profitable trouble to get in. Helps distance me from my work life, and the stress and guilt that come with it. I like to say I'm an agent, not an assassin, but...when you've been fighting for as long as I have, the deaths add up. Both those you cause, and those you endure. And, we Droods? We know all about fighting the long war.

My family has been defending the world since Roman times, and putting down every kind of monster, human-shaped or otherwise, alien and evil organisation you can imagine, and several you'll never have to, thanks to us.

There is another, darker side to this story of long service, but don't worry. We've straightened ourselves out. You've got me to thank-curse, depends on the generation- for that.

***

You know how cops say only dumb or unlucky criminals are caught, because no one ever hears of the smart ones? My family is kind of like that. We usually work subtly, quietly, efficiently, in the shadows. When we make mistakes, they're spectacular, flashy, sometimes even metaphorically so.

Take Alpha Red Alpha, for example. Made by one of my crazy ancestors(not to be confused with the mad ones, which is what we call the ones known for anger), this engine is supposed to take our gothic nightmare of a family Hall and drop it in another reality, in case we are too overwhelmed and/or hated to remain in this one.

Now, Drood Hall is not a small house. I've got thousands of relatives, and we all have our things, not counting the ones we've been collecting for millennia. It's also filled with irritable old animals that should have been put down long ago, and don't get me started on the pets.

As such, it's really, really embarrassing when the Armourer accidentally turns the machine on during maintenance, whisking all us hapless saps away to God knows where, cut off from the hundreds of Droods out on the grounds or away on missions around the world.

My girlfriend wasn't there when it happened, either...and I just knew she'd kick my arse for this.

One moment, I was asleep, grinning my way through an inane dream about a small family, living in a small house, with no enemies, when the bed jumped off the floor, sending me into the ceiling. Thanks to the alterations made to our bodies, minds and souls to help us synchronise with our torcs, I only got dazed instead of having my skull smashed open. That wasn't what woke me up, though. No, that dubious honour went to a sound so deep, I almost couldn't hear it, instead feeling it in my bones.

And it was coming from below...of course.

I was out of bed and on my feet in seconds, subvocalising the words that caused my golden armour to flow out of the torc around my neck. Even when not being actively stealthy, the torc can only be seen by supernatural beings or other Droods. Or, at least, the seventh son of a seventh son.

There aren't a lot of those around, these days. I blame family planning.

But right now, I was aiming for speed, not stealth. I was out of my room so fast my feet tore up the floor, and my shoulder sent the door flying off its hinges, straight into someone's face.

The Sarjeant-At-Arms is our family's keeper of order, most skilled fighter, and the nightmare of all my younger cousins. I guess you could call him the Drood Hall monitor.

The Sarjeant, I realised with slight horror as I ground to a halt, was unarmoured while going to traumatise a child for breathing wrong, which meant he took the flying door straight to the face.

At least he wouldn't have to look long for wooden teeth...

The Sarjeant staggered back, cursing and kicking the fallen door, sending it sliding several metres away, into the feet of an empty suit of armour. It clanged, but I wasn't worried. It was all knight.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The Sarjeant turned his flinty stare to me, and, to my horror, I realised he was just as ugly as before. The door had been unable to change anything.

'You're a bloody idiot, Edwin,' he spat, nose a little red, looking like he wanted to run a hand through his close-cropped, greying hair, but was too dignified to do so in my presence.

Can you tell I was his boss for a wee, little while?

'You don't put on the gold inside for no reason outside of training, sparring, Armoury tests, or-'

'Speaking of the Armoury,' I gestured for him to either get out of the way or get run over if he didn't armour up, too. 'That racket sounded like it came from there. Got a handle on it yet?'

The Armoury spans the ground under Drood Hall and, since it's where all our best weapons, besides the armour, are built, we all feel it when our tinkerers get excited.

'Alpha Red Alpha...malfunctioned. Your help would be appreciated,' he said grudgingly. 'The Armoury is flooded.'

My face fell. 'Please don't tell me we're in the China Sea or something. I don't want them to try and nuke us again.'

'No one wants that, Eddie.'

***

Good news: We weren't anywhere close to China.

Bad news: We weren't anywhere close to Earth, either.

Worse news: As far as our best sensors and psychics(I'm being generous to the latter; I wouldn't trust them to guess my weight) could tell, the planet we were was almost all water, save for the islands scattered over its surface, and the supercontinent that spanned it from pole to pole.

"Actually, Eddie, Earth is mostly water too. And, if you were to combine the continents into one landmass shaped like this..."

Yes, uncle William, fascinating. I was sure our homesickness had been cured by the parallels you were able to draw between our world and this one. Just don't do it on the tablecloth, next time.

I swear, this was mostly why we didn't let him out of the Library...

With Alpha Red Alpha sleeping off its most recent beating with the science stick, and the Armourer's assistants tripping over each other to come up with innovative water-removal solutions(I'd heard everything from pocket reality balloons to buckets connected to the void of space to something called a "mobius sucker", which, if it was going to be half as disturbing as its name, would probably scare the water away just through its presence).

'I can't believe I'm saying this,' the Sarjeant said, voice distorted by his armour's golden, featureless mask, as he placed a few more supplies into my boat. 'But I wish your witch was here.'

'I can't believe you just said that, either.' I gave him an incredulous look. 'Molly would never say that about you, but I'm glad you're taking the first step.'

His reply was far longer than necessary, and almost hurtful, if I dare say so.

'Remember,' he held up a hand, thumb and index finger pinched together. 'If you feel you are about to be overwhelmed, and can return, do so. The boat's programmed to bring you back to Drood Hall. Don't die away from home.'

'Knew you'd want to see it,' I grinned, before armouring up myself. Better safe than sorry. And, according to our analysists, the weather patterns of this planet were almost as insane as they were random, especially the further you sailed along the supercontinent or the "belt" of islands that spanned its equator.

Which was our current plan. Send Eddie, the most controversial and expendabl-skilled and reliable field agent to scout out the new world, put down potential threats, if he can, note anything of interest, and come back after a few days. The family wouldn't even mind if I was still alive.

The sleek, black motorboat steered itself, leaving me nothing to do but lazily stare out of its bulletproof glass half-sphere that served as a shield and window. The boat was maybe the size of a double-decker bus, and, thanks to the Armourer's skill at shrinking things, as well as probably literal lack of taste, I wouldn't run out of bland nutrient cubes or water for the next five days.

The supercontinent seemed to be nothing but a range of endless red mountains, taller than any on Earth. And yet...I had seen no island, no sign of civilisation, since the hours of leaving Drood Hall behind, bobbing in the sea on the world's heaviest floaty.

Of course, Drood luck being what it is, my bored staring contest with the horizon wasn't cut short by anything friendly.

In fact, the massive ship that entered my line of sight, looking straight out of the Age of Sail and bearing the figurehead of a sabertooth tiger, was flying a Jolly Roger.