The air was smoky and sour tasting as they got off the train and Sherlock coughed. Earlier when he awoke the Ghost was asleep and making sure not to disturb him he crept quietly from his seat. The top of the seat was dusty and Sherlock shrugged not knowing what it from. He used the loo in the back of the car, and creeping back to his seat, suddenly heard unearthly singing. He couldn't name the tune and he dropped to his belly and crawled closer. A woman was sitting there and the Ghost was as white as the mask he wore. She moved slightly and Sherlock gasped. She was a projection that could sing. It reminded him of someone saying that they heard the sweet voice of the angels above. She sang to a tune that only she could hear; yet it was the lyrics that chilled him.
" I am the voice of never-never land.
The innocence, dream of every man,
I am the empty crib of Peter Pan."
She suddenly disappeared taking the song with her. Sherlock heard the once strong unbreakable Ghost sobbing quietly. His heart wrenched out to the poor man who would and was spending his life on the search for this young lady whom he had a special bond with. An ache formed in Sherlock's heart where he knew only a woman could fill.
" You can come out of your memories now if your don't mind." The Ghost stated matter of fact. Sherlock shrugged and followed his guide to wherever they were going. The Ghost was looking, Sherlock could tell but for what he didn't know. Suddenly he felt an icy hand grab the crook of his arm. Sherlock yelped and turned to face a man dressed in the suit fashion with pale skin that seemed almost translucent.
" Alphonso I presume?" The Ghost appeared over Sherlock shoulder and the man nodded. The Ghost stepped out from behind Sherlock and followed this Alphonso to a carriage pulled by a pair of midnight black horses. Alphonso opened the carriage door for them and piling in, he felt the man's eyes run over his body. Sherlock shivered and picturing the worst, snuggled and hunkered to his coat. The man eyes only gleamed and he smiled wickedly. The Ghost's hand though, shot out and wrenching the door out of the man's hand, slammed it.
" Idiot." The Ghost snarled and he leaned back and got comfortable.
" You might want to relax. I don't know how long this is going to be and the person we are meeting wouldn't like us falling asleep on his doorstep. Also I wouldn't want to see the red color of blood spilling all over the floor."
Sherlock was horrified as he felt all the blood drain from his face. The Ghost smiled, a smile that Sherlock knew he would never forget. He settled back and leaned his head against the cold winter glass as he felt the carriage begin its trip to the place it came from.
" Wake up but don't make a sound" The Ghost suddenly felt Sherlock's hand over his mouth. The Ghost sat up and nodding felt Sherlock's hand release.
" They drugged us when we got in. But now I don't know what happened or where we are." Sherlock's frantic whisper made the air in the carriage feel tense as a drum skin. Opening the door, Sherlock stepped out with the Ghost behind, sword drawn. He eyed the sword, steel bathed in the cold light of silver. The Ghost could feel the weight of the metal and how his body moved with its motion, controlling it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up on the back of his neck and twisting the sword in an arc came face to face with a young man. Looking at least 30 years old, he was wearing a black suit that appeared from a lost era and had the features of a picture that was painted in the Opera House's chapel.
" I believe you are our host?" The man smiled and bowing in reply motioned to a door at the far end of the room.
" Will you join me in my parlor?" His voice was deep and heavily accented even though he spoke English fluently. The Ghost sheathed the sword and grabbing a curious Sherlock, who was, at the moment, reading Chinese of one of the blue painted vases, followed the man. Contrasted to the dark of the hall, the room was lit by a chandelier made of iron and decorated with candles. The room was warm and inviting, but the Ghost keen eyes saw that this office was rarely used. Motioning them to sit, he began by waving the door open. Two young women, dressed in very little, came in carrying trays made of pewter and offered the m cups of coffee. The Ghost declined but Sherlock didn't and taking a sip, found it to be overcooked. The Ghost smiled and asked the man who the women were.
" They are my wives. One of them is refusing to show though." He sighed and waved the women away. The Ghost heard the door shut behind him and leaning forward asked the one question he came for.
"Where is my Christine?" The man laughed. Teeth, sharp and pointed filled his mouth. The Ghost moved so fast for his sword he nearly cut of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock leaped back with a yelp, knocking over the chair allowing the Ghost to have more room and flinging the heavy desk away, placed the sword to the man's neck.
" Where is my Christine?"