Live and Let Drood

you know it the vultures are turning up with knives and forks and their best bibs on. That’s what those trucks were. A convoy of scavengers. Come to loot and ransack whatever was left of the ruined Hall while the charred timbers were still warm.
    I ran out into the main drive and stopped, taking up a position between the lead truck and the Hall. I struck an authoritative pose and held up one hand to signal the driver to stop. Did he, hell. He just sounded his horn and kept on coming. So I called up my armour. I didn’t need the old activating Words; I just had to think, and there itwas. The rogue armour swept over me in a moment, sealing me in from head to toe. I didn’t cry out at the cold this time. I was growing accustomed to the new armour. I wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not, but with a massive big truck bearing down on me and showing absolutely no signs of slowing, I was glad to have the armour about me.
    The driver in the lead truck took one look at the Drood in his armour who’d just appeared out of nowhere right in front of him (when presumably he’d been promised he’d never have to face any such thing) and slammed his foot hard down on the brake. The truck skidded to a halt amid screams of burning tyres and unhealthy-looking smoke issued out from under the wheel arches. Gravel flew in every direction as the front of the truck skidded back and forth, the driver fighting to bring it under control. It finally slammed to a halt so close to me, I could have reached out a hand and prodded the radiator grille. There was more screeching and skidding from all the other trucks farther down the line as they were forced into equally sudden halts.
    I folded my golden arms across my golden chest and studied the white-faced driver in his raised cab. And then Molly Metcalf stepped out into the drive to stand beside me, and the driver looked even more upset.
    For a long moment the driver stayed in his cab, looking down at us, clearly lost for what to do. I’m sure he was hoping that if he just sat there long enough, we would disappear or go away…but when it became clear that wasn’t going to happen, he sighed heavily, turned off the engine, opened the side door and dropped down into the gravel to join us. He looked back at the long line of suddenly parked trucks, took a deep breath and walked slowly and very unhappily forward to face Molly and me. An average height, average weight, middle-aged guy with male pattern baldness and a sickly smile, wearing a much-used workman’s outfit. He crashed to a halt right before me, his uncertain smile losing confidence by the moment.
    “Hello!” he said with desperate conviviality. “Nice to be here! Isn’t it a great day? Very…summery! Yes. I’m Dave Chapman, head of Plunder, Incorporated.”
    “Oh, bloody hell,” said Molly, cutting across his words mercilessly. “I know who this is. You used to be the Road Rats, didn’t you?”
    Chapman winced. “We did operate under that trade name, yes, but we have recently upgraded. Gone upmarket, as it were.” He was trying for dignity and not even coming close. “Might I enquire…whom I might be addressing?”
    “I’m Molly Metcalf.” She gave Chapman her very brightest and most dangerous smile, and all the colour dropped out of his face.
    “Oh, shit.”
    “You’ve heard of me,” said Molly, pleased.
    Chapman glanced back over his shoulder, clearly debating whether to just break and make a run for it, and then he reluctantly stood his ground and looked at me.
    “And I am Edwin Drood,” I said, not wanting to be left out of the intimidation. Chapman made a high whining noise and looked even more upset, if that were possible. His feet shifted nervously, disturbing the gravel, as though he desperately wanted to be excused.
    “ Oh, shit ,” he said, miserably.
    “Well, quite,” I said. “What are you doing here at my home, on Drood grounds, Mr. Road Rat Chapman?”
    Given his piteous condition it was hard to stay mad at him, but worth the effort. I had only to look at the long line of trucks come to haul away my family’s heritage, and my blood started boiling all over again.
    Chapman gave up looking at Molly and me and looked down at his steel-toed workingman’s boots currently digging little holes in the gravel, as though he hoped to find some answers there. Or at the very least, a large and comforting hole he could disappear into. He glanced up again, saw that Molly and I were still