Night is when terrible things emerge from their sleep and seek soft flesh and hot blood. Night is when unseen beings with no regard for what our people have built and no place in what we have deemed the natural order look in at our world from outside, and think dark and alien thoughts. And sometimes, just sometimes, they do things.
~Harry Dresden, The Dresden Files, Turn Coat, narration, by Jim Butcher
Ninth: Seize the night, seize the day
"I'm too old for this," I heard McCoy grumble as I fixed my disguise.
"Ebenazar, you are the same as you were sixteen years ago during the Krakatoa eruptions. Don't lie, I know it was you," I heard Father Strauss chide gently.
I swallowed a lump that had somehow appeared and got out of the cab, fully disguised. "S'cuse me, gentl'men, any of ya got a swig?"
All three stared at the figure I had become. "I think," Langtry, the first to recover, said, "that that potion has become unnecessary, Ebenazar."
"Aye, Artie, laddie, I know," McCoy's Scottish brogue began to make its appearance as he smiled and waved, walking off backwards. "Godspeed then."
I took a deep breath and prepared to infiltrate the nest of bloodthirsty creatures of the night for any sign of my wizard friend. Indeed, interesting times.
The clinic, despite it being free, smelt faintly of ammonia and disinfectant and just a bit more alcohol than most alcoholic beverages. A few men and women of all ages from the lower, harsher walks of life milled about, waiting, possibly for treatment. I did get my wound sewn up, but the doctor's blank expression tipped me off. As I stepped into the waiting room, the truly disconcerting sight was the empty, blank expression of all those people. I had never known the human expression to be completely empty until now, and the sight would be there to stay, always lingering in the back of my mind and the forefront of my nightmares and possibly unto my dying day and a bit of change after.
As I sneaked off, delving further into the heart of hostile territory, I began to mentally criticize the security measures that they had put into place. The very fact that I had not been spotted sneaking off was already significant that they were relying more on secrecy and the veil of silence to hide rather than a reliable door and guards to keep watch. Quite lax, in my opinion, but then again, in such squalid surroundings, none here, be it patient or doctor or nurse, would notice anyway. The added advantage was that only people whop believed in vampires (and that was parts of the East End) would notice, and even then, they would have more than enough sense of self-preservation to stay away.
As I moved closer, I heard a muffled thump and what sounded like a groan of pain. Immediately, I moved further into the heart of their territory, down a hallway with cracks and peeling paint on the walls. Doubtless, this building had been built by a third-grade contractor who had never heard of the word 'stable'. This did not bode well for anyone inside, be they vampire, human, or wizard.
And yet, as I passed cracked, peeling walls, the walls gave way to occasional doorways, here a storage place, there a swinging door leading to a privy, no other place could stink this bad, another a closed door, and so on. As far as I could determine, the place was made in an L-shape, the last room directly at the end of the longer line. Then, as I neared the last door at the end, I heard Watson's voice.
My heart almost stopped as I shuffled nearer, wondering if the vampires could hear my shuffles as I came closer to the door. The entrance in question was a solid affair, though inexpensive, and clearly made to seal tight, to keep either occupants in, or intruders out. I betted on the latter; I could discern no doorknob from this side, and there must be a way to open the door.
Unless the vampires in question could turn into mist, but no; I had learned from Langtry that only older vampire sorcerers could so blithely ignore the laws of physics so as to turn themselves into mist, and the required energy meant that such an option was typically reserved as a last resort. The rest of the vampires of the Black Court, as that type of vampire was known as, were little more than bloodthirsty rotting corpses that were moving, and moving quickly, when they shouldn't be. I had been on the receiving edge of one before, not an experience I cared to repeat, and now I could appreciate why most assaults on the Black Court was dealt in daylight, when they were weakest. Truly, even for an agnostic and realist such as I, I could appreciate that this...this...monstrosity was terrifying.
Out of nervousness, I was about to shuffle back when I heard Watson's distinctive brand of cursing. Believe me, the sounds of fluent curses in several languages known in Europe and the Middle East could only belong to a veteran soldier. Added was curses in a Scottish brogue addressed to me, and that could only be Watson.
I never knew that he could curse so fluently in Gaelic. I didn't even know that there were so many colourful words in the Gaelic language.
"Frankly, I have no idea what applies to the exorcism of vampires," I heard Watson speak through a crack in the wall, so deep it was that the other end could be heard, if not seen, "but I think 'sod off' applies in this case."
"Idiot young mageling," A sibilant voice, all rasp and sandpaper, that made the short hairs on my neck stand on end whispered audibly. "Give us the coin, or I will break your limbs."
Watson, in a credit to his courage, laughed, albeit weakly. "My dear sir," he articulated, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "we both know that you cannot bend my will, because I don't care what you do to me. I also know that if you were to do anything more than threaten and posture to what is mine, I would sooner throw the coin into the Thames. That much running water would make it impossible for any of your kind to retrieve it, and to retrieve a single denarius in five miles of river would require divine intervention. It all comes to a test of wills- you can't risk harming those I care for, because if you do, then you risk losing the coin, and I can't risk letting you harm them, either directly or indirectly, for I will never forgive myself if that happens. The question now is, who would have the stronger will?"
The voice hissed. "Mageling, I will take delight in your screams for mercy when I get the coin. You might as well not delay the inevitable."
"You want the Hellfire, don't you?" the non sequiter must had thrown the voice off, for it took some time to recover.
"You need the fire of destruction, or the coin's power, to be able to walk in daylight," Watson continued. "If even a single vampire were to be able to walk in daylight with its full strength, survival would be much assured, and you would be able to expand the scourge. Find a way to take over London from the domain of the fae. Spread your disease through the heart of Empire, and possibly Whitehall. And those who control the British Government control the Empire, which would be an awful lot, wouldn't you think? So, no."
The vampire gasped, for a moment, and then, that eerie voice laughed. Laughed.
"You are unaware of the power of the angel within, Doctor," the vampire spoke, empty of any positive emotion. "Why take over a human empire when I could strike at its heart? My dear doctor, you are sorely mistaken of the motives of one who seeks the angel who created the worst destruction ever recorded in the Old Testament."
Watson choked. I would have too, but I was too preoccupied with trying not to be found out.
"Lupiel was once a lieutenant of the Watchman, ordered to bring down the wrath of God on the two cities of sin," the vampire cackled. "If I were to destroy the heart of London, what do you think would happen? Your ineffectual government would find the cause of it. Then, we have anarchist groups across the Channel ready to strike, no? War will reign, and with it chaos amongst the mortal and supernatural alike, order will e destroyed, and once it has, I will step in and restore the balance, with myself, of course, as the ruler of the Black Court."
"And in the resulting chaos, you plan to seize power?" Watson spoke, disbelief evident in his voice. "That is insane. Many will die if a war was to start, and all so you could move up in the Black Court?"
"It is not minor, I grant you," the vampire replied dismissively. "And if they die, what of it? Humans die all the time, while we of the Black Court will remain, as we have, ever since the dawn of human memory."
I clapped a hand over my mouth and began to make a hasty, silent retreat, silently moving until I had stepped out of the free clinic and reached the rendezvous point. As I made my way, another figure came out of the shadows and fell into step beside me.
"Always on short notice," I heard Langtry grumble. "At least it wasn't like New Madrid, stupid earthquake..."
"There are currently zero constables patrolling about thanks to yours truly," McCoy cheerfully announced, fixing together what looked like a gun, a huge pump action shotgun. Nevertheless, I asked what were the strange bullets assembled beside the gun.
"A mix of steel shot and rock salt, which work on weaker vamps. Oh, and Emile just went to get some things." McCoy replied, now polishing a staff that shone a glossy black in the half-light.
I as about to ask what when Father Strauss came into view, lugging a small barrel over his shoulder, dressed in what I thought could be an extremely heavy set of antique knight's armour. How anyone could move in that was quite beyond me, until he moved closer and I saw that the armour was made of steel plates closely woven together such that the plates overlap, forming a sort of light armour that glinted in the half-light.
"My colleague says that he will be praying, and comments that this was the first time anyone asked him to bless a five-gallon drum into holy water," the priest commented as he set the barrel down with a solid thump, and then straightened. "I've also retrieved those bottles and tubes you wanted, Ebenazar."
"Good. Did you get the garlic?" Langtry spoke, opening the drum as Father Strauss handed him the tubes in question, filling the tubes before sealing them with corks and slotting them into a belt with odd loops and pockets which I assume held other odds and ends for magic.
"Sadly, no, but I did relocate our driver," Father Strauss spoke, and I swear that he was smiling slightly.
"Good enough, we'll just have to improvise," McCoy grumbled, loading the gun before he picked up his staff. "Okay, Mr Holmes, please give us information that should probably help us survive this thing."
I bristled but did so accordingly, and so, we formulated a plan that to me still sounded insane, but we did so anyway.
If only all went well.
The street was silent, silent as a grave, I dare say, as I heard Langtry's cry of 'Castellum!' before I saw the dull orange glow of fire, and a sort of hum in the air. The urge to leave the carriage was strong, but I waited by it, restraining our spirited carriage as the fire spread faster than natural means, The resulting cries of mortals and quite a few screams too loud to be human from within. As many fled, I saw a glimmer of metal and a flash of black enter the building. A few moments later, the distinct bangs and sounds of guns sounded, much like a few pops here and there, the dull orange glow always increasing in intensity to bright orange, red and yellow, but mostly a guttering shade very much like what I thought Hellfire would be.
And then, as the few mortals with their wits and self-preservation instinct still about them fled into the shadows, more inhuman fast figures began to make their egress, only to either be burnt by more of Langtry's fire, which took on the shape of orange needles as it flew through the air, striking its target alight unerringly, or to be shot down by mine and McCoy's guns, their special shot seeming to work. Then, hell-beasts, if there were indeed such things, ran out, to be set on fire or squashed by mysterious forces that I knew could only be the work of either Langtry or McCoy or Watson.
I fervently hope that Watson never has cause to use that on me. I don't think Scotland Yard could put down 'squashed by mysterious forces' under 'cause of death'. Also, it would, in the words of certain country squires, blow goats if I were to die of such a ridiculous cause of death. The afterlife would be bad enough without my ancestors of years past going on about how I died. Oh, the horror. I could just imagine Mycroft going on about it.
Set the clinic on fire once sunlight approaches. Although the resulting fire would be weakened due to the presence of sunrise (much like the very same reason Watson goes over the door with the paint mixture every day), the result would be sufficient to get aware patients and personnel out of the way. No free clinic provides wards for their patients; at least, none that I am aware of. Also, judging from the words of the wizards, the Black Court had been feeding off of these people, which then confirmed my opinion that the Black Court should burn in hell.
I heard a harsh, alien howl, and the horse neighed in slight panic, followed by several more howls, amongst them the shrill ring of the police whistle as a constable who had just arrived led the evacuation of the surrounding area. The place was a tinderbox, after all, so I really shouldn't be surprised at the ease that the constable carried out his job. Although, if he had paid attention to the flames, he would notice that they did not spread to the surrounding buildings, something which I believe was due to Langtry.
Magic. Previously speaking, I would have dismissed it as mere superstition. Now... I'm not too sure.
Then, I heard someone shouting. Someone I would know, even in my sleep, even if I were near death.
And the flames erupted. Their orange, guttering light flared out against the weak sunlight that came pouring, the smell of rotting eggs harsh and cloying, and it felt a lot like standing next to a volcano. Or standing very close to the metaphorical place with demons and burning sulphur. Whichever comes first.
Then, three figures came stumbling out, melding with the chaos of the fire, no one save me noticing as the figures stumbled to the carriage, two of them holding the third between them. They stumbled into the carriage, and I snapped the reins, driving off towards home.
Even over the clattering of the hansom's wheels and the horse's hooves upon the London cobblestones, I could hear their conference, mostly concerning Watson's impromptu setting fire to most of the clinic that hadn't already burnt.
"He's a danger, especially with Hellfire," Langtry firmly said. "Who knows how many have died in those flames."
"Artie, you've said it yourself, he's new to all this," McCoy went on tiredly. "Anyway, he only did it because that vampire was going to shoot Emile here. He killed three vampires with that fire alone, and we took care of the remains. Now the remaining concern is Mitton."
"The most dangerous vampire in England is still running around?" Father Strauss commented.
"Make that the only vampire in London," McCoy commented. "And now that it's sunrise, he's isolated. And look," he cheerfully said. I did not see what he had gotten, but the sound of disgust from Langtry and Father Strauss was quite enough to convince my curiosity that the nightmares were not worth knowing what did McCoy get.
"We can track him as soon as high noon approaches, when he is weakest," Father Strauss said.
"Weakest but still capable of movement," McCoy pointed out. "Also, he might escape into the Nevernever. It's happened before, you know."
"That would happen at a graveyard, which is not likely. Furthermore, we've established that Mitton needs to secure his power in London. The other Black Court vampires would tear him apart if he tried to return to Eastern Europe," Langtry said harshly. "We kill him...as soon as we secure the doctor in Baker Street. He's exhausted, and Holmes has agents watching the place. Plus, it's Sherlock bloody Holmes's place. He'll be a nutter to try to break in in broad daylight."
Langtry had a point, no matter how disturbing. Although how did Mycroft see fit to deploy agents there, I do not know.
"I never knew that magic could appear in a forty-something old man," McCoy noted. "Maybe we could put him under an apprenticeship when this is over. Or we could send him to an exorcist. That works too."
"The Church would be happy to aid Doctor Watson in exorcising the Fallen," Father Strauss spoke up. I had a vision of Watson spitting out some substances I cared not to name while priests in black robes continued speaking the holy words. It was disturbing, to say the least. "We would also be happy to help the Doctor set aside his power..."
"Like hell you will," Langtry said, an edge to his voice. "He's been given a not modest talent. This certainly isn't that of a hedge magi. In a few more years he could make the White Council, and we're always looking out for such talent. This power isn't something one could quickly set aside, no matter what the Church says."
"Beg your pardon, Emile," McCoy added in, "but if the Doctor tries to set it aside now, the power would probably try to control him, and we end up with a Mordred on our hands. Or maybe even Morgan La Fey."
I do not know what to think of my Watson being compared to the villain of Arthurian legend.
"He has to learn control, or that building débâcle would happen again." Langtry firmly said, indicating the end of the conversation. "This time, in Baker Street."
That very declaration sent shivers up my spine.
The next chapter: Holmes ponders on what to do!