Part Two
The tunnel held only the murkiest of light, and the stench rose thick and foul from the water filling their shoes. Holmes noted that the lantern was nearly out of oil, and they were still nearly two miles from any metal ladder that would lead up to the street.
Watson was limping and trying to hide it; his bad temper was borne of pain rather than irritation, and Holmes wanted to get him out of the disgusting miasma that was filling their lungs.
"Not much further," he tried to jolly his companion and held the lamp up to see the way ahead. There were coming to a junction, Holmes realized with dismay.
"You said that a mile ago," Watson snapped. "Stop trying to make it sound as if we're on a jolly lark, traipsing through the cesspools for fun."
They reached the junction, and Holmes paused, trying to get his bearings. With no landmark, no scent, no sign to direct them, he had only the vaguest idea where they were. The last ladder they'd passed had been dangling by a single rusted bolt; they hadn't seen any others in nearly an hour.
Now there were two diverging tunnels before them, and Holmes hesitated as the feeble flicker of the bullseye lamp dimly illuminated the darkness that pressed in around them.
He froze, feeling an odd warning chill down his spine, and looked around quickly as Watson leaned against one of the slimy walls to rest his leg. "Watson, do you sense something?"
"I sense I'm going to need a bath in carbolic and that's if Mrs. Hudson will even let us back inside," he groused. "I thought you knew the streets of London blindfolded."
"The tops of them, certainly," Holmes murmured in a distracted way. He looked to the leftmost tunnel and the chill increased, running to the base of his spine and in the midst of his trepidation, he realized he was also becoming . . . aroused.
Two red pinpoints of light grew visible, and the shadow around them shaped into a small figure standing in the darkness of the tunnel. "Gentlemen, how sad to see you brought to these depths."
Holmes lifted the lamp higher, and noted Watson's pallor at the sound of the voice. Both of them knew the speaker.
"Dear God, the methane is giving me hallucinations," Watson muttered, pushing off the wall and staring. Holmes straightened his shoulders and kept his gaze forward. He tensed, keeping the dying lantern between himself and Irene.
"What are you doing here, Irene?" He asked.
"Rescuing you," came her saucy response. Irene stepped out, dressed in a man's evening clothes, her hair tucked up in a cap, her expression concerned. "What the hell are you doing here in Tower Hamlets?"
"You're . . ." Watson stammered, his eyes huge. "Holmes!"
"I know," Holmes replied evenly. "I didn't think we'd come that far. How do we get to the surface?"
Irene stood still, her gaze never leaving him. "There's a ladder half a mile behind me, but it's dangerous. You're going to need me if you intend to use it."
"You're dead!" Watson managed, "I checked. I—we—went to your funeral!"
"Thank you," she smiled, and finally looked his way, her eyes glowing crimson. "You always were the more mannerly one. And I am dead. I just happen to be in a different type of dead."
"Undead?" Watson flinched, and Holmes nodded slowly.
"It is still difficult for me to accept as well, old friend, but in the face of what we know and what lies waiting to be discovered and explained, here we are. Irene is not alive as we knew her, neither is she dead and returned to dust. Undead is as apt a state as any to describe her."
"Undead," Irene agreed, and half turned her head, listening behind her. "We're not safe. I need the two of you to stay behind me; understand? This is critical."
Holmes heard nothing, but his skin pebbled up as some older, more primitive part of his senses picked up on danger before his conscious thoughts did. He shifted, pulling Watson with him as Irene gracefully spun, her hand tightening on her walking stick.
A second pair of ruby eyes appeared a few feet away in the tunnel; larger eyes. A low, delighted laugh echoed off the dripping curved walls, eerie and sweet. "Compn'y! You didn't say you was expecting vis'tors, Miss A!"
"Joan." Irene returned simply, but there was a core of menace in her voice that Holmes hadn't heard in a long time. "They're with me."
"Greedy, greedy," the other voice replied with mock-disappointment. "After all, there be two of them, and you such a little thing, ain't you now, Miss A?"
The voice was Cornwall-bred, Holmes knew, and elderly; a woman although there were no footsteps sloshing through the water.
"They're protected, Joan. Go hunt topside and leave us be," Irene ordered.
"Such a selfish thing you are," Joan's voice went from gentle to sharp. "Thinking yourself so high an' mighty because you sang on the stage above ground, when all you are now is a chit of a fledgling. Well I like my drink hot, and I'm not afraid to step over you for it, Missy."
"They're protected," Irene replied firmly, raising her walking stick higher. "I don't want to fight you, but I will if I must, dear."
The old lady gave a wicked little chuckle that sent a chill up Holmes' spine, and she moved forward again, appearing at the mouth of the tunnel. She was a gray, shapeless little woman, as unremarkable as thousands of others all through London, Holmes thought; until you noticed those glittering ruby eyes.
"T'won't be much of a fight—" But before Joan could say anything more, Irene had taken the walking stick and thrust it hard into the old woman's chest, the glittering tip of the unsheathed silver sword burying itself between her low breasts. Joan gave a loud hiss, like an angry train coming into station. "Oh you tattered streetbitch!"
She struggled, but Irene locked both hands on the stick, keeping Joan impaled on it. Watson yelped, but Holmes gripped his sleeve and held him back from interfering as the two women splashed in the slimy water. It was hard to see; poor light and foul steam filled the air of the tunnel, and Irene was forcing her adversary back into the darkness.
"We've got to stop them!" Watson insisted. Holmes shook his head and kept his grip on the other man.
"I think not; Irene is more than capable of taking care of herself, and distracting her would be detrimental."
"But . . ." Watson spluttered, his chivalry and fear at war with each other. Holmes paid no attention and kept his gaze on the tunnel entrance as the hissing died away.
A small figure stepped out; Irene's eyes glowed brightly like rubies for a moment, and then she gave a shudder. "That was . . . nasty. I never liked Joan, but if she wasn't going follow the rules . . . . We need to go up, and get you a cab back to the streets. I'll introduce you to the rest of our merry little band." So saying Irene deftly dipped her walking stick into the water, and the glitter of the long silver shaft caught the light from the lantern. Watson tried to peer behind her.
"Is she . . . truly dead?" he demanded.
Irene pursed her lips and nodded. "Truly, this time. Come along, gentlemen, and stay close." She took the lantern from Holmes.
Holmes made Watson go first, so that he and Irene were protecting him, and the three of them passed through the tunnel Irene and Joan had been in. There was no sign of the old woman other than a thick swirl of muddy ash quickly dissolving in the murky water, and an acrid smell that lingered along the limestone walls. Watson pressed a handkerchief to his face, but Holmes merely held his breath as they moved along.
It took a while, but eventually they reached a dead end, and a chipped flight of stairs circled around the cul de sac of the tunnel, leading upwards in the gloom. Holmes noted that the ground was dry here, and that the smell was far less noxious. He watched as Irene mounted the first steps and held the lantern high, motioning them to come forward.
She spoke softly. "Despite the size of the cemetery, Bow has only five, sorry four vampires now. Myself you know, then there's Luc, Anna and Joseph. None of them will touch you since I will declare you under my protection."
"Forgive me, but that's not quite the reassurance I would have hoped for," Holmes replied dryly.
Irene managed a small smile, and the tips of her fangs peeped out when she did so. Watson stared at them, eyes wide.
"Dear God!"
"Sherlock, I have matters in hand, believe me. The four of us have reached a very practical arrangement and if I didn't have faith in it, I would have kept you in the tunnels until morning. You need to trust me on this."
"Trust is not a commodity we have much commerce in, Irene," Holmes reminded her, "and I am not willing to put Watson in danger."
"Sherlock, be reasonable," she chuffed, sounding human for once. "You know he's already in considerable pain, and forcing him to hike back to the center of London is going to make matters much worse. I'm offering you a chance to catch a cab here and head back to Baker Street in a more comfortable and timely manner."
He hesitated, knowing her argument was tempting, and Watson gave a low sigh. "We might as well; she's right."
Holmes gave Watson's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then looked up at Irene. The light put lovely shadows along her cheekbones, and the cut of her suit didn't hide the curves of her form. He felt himself stiffen, and coughed to hide it. "All right. But one false move by any of them, and we *will* go down fighting, Irene."
"It won't come to that," she assured him, and held the lantern higher.
They climbed, and eventually the stairs reached a rounded wooden door with a grille in it. Irene lifted the latch bar and opened it; beyond it lay sweet, cool night air. The three of them stepped out into a recessed doorsill set into a low rise of hill. Stretching out before them lay Bow Cemetery, ringed by dark woods. Overhead, the stars twinkled in the frost of the Milky Way.
"Air, what a lovely sensation," Watson gasped, managed a terse smile.
"There seems to be no one about," Holmes observed, and then as if to mock his words, three columns of mist rose up. "Ah. I am mistaken."