“I’ll say it again, for the benefit of the hard of thinking at the back,” said Harry. “Roger is with me. I vouch for him, and guarantee his behaviour while he’s here at the Hall. And he does have a right to be here. He’s family, just like me.”

“What?” said the Armourer. “Have you lost your mind, Harry? How can a thing of the Pit be family?”

“Because we share the same father,” said Harry.

Roger smiled widely. “Mother was a succubus, my father the illustrious James Drood. How about a big family hug?”

The Armourer shook his head slowly, dully, as though he’d been slapped hard. He looked suddenly older, and frailer. I have to say, it took my breath away. I looked at Molly, but she just shrugged, to show it was news to her too.

“That’s right,” Harry said brightly. “Roger is my stepbrother. And your nephew, Uncle Jack.”

“The old Gray Fox really did put it about,” said Molly. “But even so, a succubus? That’s just . . . tacky.”

“Lust demons are aristocrats in Hell,” said Roger. “Gathered souls are currency in the Pit.”

“Shut up,” said the Armourer. “Just shut up.”

“Yes, Uncle,” said Roger.

“It’s funny how Roger and I first met,” said Harry. “That was down to the family. Father and I were working together on a mission, as we often did when we ended up in the same part of the world at the same time. We were in Paris, tracking down that legendary thief and assassin, the Fantom, and father took me to a certain little out-of-the-way nightclub on the West Bank, where information of all sorts could be found, with a little effort. Grimy little place, called the Plus Ca Change . . . And that’s where I met Roger. We got to chatting, while father beat the necessary information out of a bunch of biker loups garou, and the two of us got on famously. Father and I never did catch up with the Fantom, but Roger and I kept in touch.”

“Then welcome home, Harry,” I said. “And you too, Roger. Come back to the Hall with us and we’ll get you settled in. But get out of hand even once, either of you, and I will knock you down and riverdance on your head.”

“It’s just tough love,” Harry said to Roger. “You’ll get used to it. It’s the Drood way. How is the dear old Sarjeant-at-Arms, Eddie?”

“Still running things with an iron fist in an iron glove,” I said, not rising to the bait. “Come along, and bring your swan with you, Harry. Waste not, want not.”

“Good to be home, Eddie,” said Harry. “Can’t say I’ve ever felt this welcome before. I suppose you and I have that in common, at least. We never were our family’s favourite sons.”