From Hades Lord of the Dead: the latest case has a supernatural element
Part 3 of 3
After the hospital physicians sewed up my hand, and gave me pain medication, I tossed and turned in a sweat until morning. My mind was bogged with feverish nightmares. That mouth of many teeth, deep and dark, plagued my mind. The terror of knowing that the giant creature was still out there, hidden somewhere in London, was too much. If I didn't have the wound on my hand and the mangled pistol as evidence, then I'm not sure if I'd have believed my own memories.
Lestrade met me at my bedside at dawn. "Dr. Watson, what happened last night?" He looked down at the fresh bandages wrapped around my arm.
"We found the killer," I said. "It escaped. Have you spoken with Holmes? Or Constable Newark?"
"I can't get a straight answer from Newark," said Lestrade. "He's out of his wits, convinced that he must have hit his head. Holmes is gone."
"Gone?" I said.
"Apparently he snuck out of the hospital at his first opportunity," said Lestrade. "Before dawn, after they patched him up. The doctor told me he almost lost his eye last night."
I recounted the tale of our nocturnal encounter in the garden. Lestrade listened stoically, finger tapping on the window. He had me retell the story twice more. Familiar with Lestrade's abrasive nature, I expected more doubts and inquiries, interruptions and exclamations of disbelief, but this case had done a number on him. He reflected for several minutes.
"Do you know where Holmes ran off to?" he said.
"No," I said.
"This is too much," said Lestrade.
"It doesn't feel real," I said.
"It's beyond me," said Lestrade. "Something out of a ghost story."
"Were any lives lost last night?" I said.
"No," said Lestrade. "None that I'm aware of."
"So, the plan worked, to a degree," I said. "We didn't catch it, but we kept London safe."
This gave me an inkling of hope. At the cost of our injuries, we'd managed to stave off the creature for one night. Lestrade left me to rest, seeking out the two men who were targeted by the creature. I could not fall back asleep after everything that I'd been through, especially knowing that Holmes was unaccounted for. Where had he gone? Baker Street? It wouldn't be the first time he refused medical services, confident in his ability to treat himself.
I caught a cab back across London, cold rain drizzling, chilling the nape of my neck. My hand throbbed from the fresh wound. A ginger touch to the handle of the carriage sent a stinging pulse down my arm. Holmes wasn't home. If he'd been back to Baker Street, then he didn't bother leaving a note. Mrs. Hudson was away visiting family, so I had no way of knowing if he'd stopped in. I waited for a bit, fixing myself a plate of bread and jam, and soft cheese. I ate in solitude, hardly tasting the food as I swallowed. I had little appetite. Visions of last night made me sick to my stomach—the pale face, the crunch of glass in a palm, the drunken man's scream. But I needed the energy, so I continued to eat.
The creature had known Holmes's name. Kholms. It was intelligent. I would have preferred a wild beast from the zoo. It was something out of folklore. I worried for Holmes's safety, and began to wonder if the creature was truly only active under the new moon. By midday, with no word from Holmes, I grew restless. My growing concern outweighed the pain in my hand. I took to the streets, checking Holmes's usual haunts: intersections and pubs where he met with informants, the Yard, the tobacco shop, the Diogenes Club.
Midday turned to afternoon, and afternoon to evening. The rain picked up, soaking through my hat and jacket, leaking in through my shoes. Cold wind stung my face. I needed a clean bandage on my arm. I found no signs of Holmes. My quest was fruitless. The thin sliver of the waxing crescent moon haunted me from above. It was the third night of the killer's cycle. Had Holmes fled London altogether? As a master of disguise, had he hidden the magnitude of his fear last night?
I returned to Baker Street under the setting sun. Ascending the stairs, I smelled Holmes's tobacco before I saw him. He was in the sitting room, puffing on his pipe, reclining in his chair by the window. He looked terrible. There was a bloodied bandage over his eye, and his arm was in a sling. He smelled of medical oils and ointments. Still, I preferred this sight over his corpse—my imagination was beginning to run wild. He winced as he shifted to look out the window. On the table at his side there was an assortment of items: a wide flask of colorless liquid, a slipper of tobacco, a cocaine needle, and a pistol. He was holding a small metal button in his hand, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger.
"Watson," he said as I entered. "You'll catch your death out there."
"Holmes!" I said. "I've been searching everywhere for you."
"And here I am," he said.
"But where have you been?" I said.
"Ruminating, researching, restocking," he said. "Making preparations."
Cryptic as ever. I removed my damp jacket and hat. "How are your injuries?"
"Manageable," he said. "And yours?"
I nodded in agreement. "My hand will heal. They did a good job with the sutures." I took a seat on the couch by the hearth, exhausted, but relieved to see Holmes.
"I must apologize for my behavior last night," said Holmes. "I'm sorry. My nerves got the better of me."
"No one can blame you for that," I said.
"I was afraid," said Holmes.
"As was I," I said.
"Thank you," said Holmes. "Truly. Thank you for getting me, and those two men, all of us, to the hospital."
"It's nothing," I said.
"Modest as usual," said Holmes.
"Do you intend to go back out tonight?" I said.
"No," said Holmes.
"What's all this?" I said, gesturing to the chemical flask and the pistol.
"Protection," said Holmes.
"Holy water?" I said.
"Sulfuric acid," said Holmes.
"Is that enough to protect from that thing?" I said. "What was that last night?"
"I have no name for it," said Holmes. "And, as for protection, I have no guarantee. In fact, I must advise you to leave at once. Leave London for a few days. Rest up."
"Leave you here alone?" I said. "I won't."
"I figured as much," said Holmes. He knocked the ash from his tobacco with one hand, straight onto the table, and repacked it with a hearty pinch. "But I had to ask. Just know, you're risking your life by staying here."
"I won't be returning to Limehouse this evening," I said.
"Even still, things have changed," said Holmes. "I think there's a chance the creature won't return to Limehouse either."
"Where will it go next?" I said.
"It recognized me, and addressed me by name," said Holmes. "I see no reason why it couldn't find our place of residence. It threatened to hunt me, after all."
I looked out the window, down at the windy, rainy street. The sun was almost at the horizon. The shadows were long. I imagined it lurking in every alleyway, waiting for a chance to strike. Our doors and windows wouldn't do much to stop it.
"I was surprised to hear it speak at all," I said. "It wasn't English, not entirely."
"Sounded like an old Bulgarian dialect," said Holmes.
"And you think it's seeking you?" I said. "Revenge?"
"And reclamation," said Holmes. "I have something that it may want back."
Holmes held up the metal button. Old and gray, it had the carved emblem of elk antlers. There was a small dent on its otherwise round edge. Holmes flipped the button like a coin, snatching it out of the air as it fell back down.
"This button fell off the creature's cloak last night," said Holmes. "By chance, I hit it with my pistol."
I recalled him collecting it from the ground before we raced to the hospital. At the time, I hadn't a clue what it was, as my full attention was on survival and medical care. "What do you make of it?" I said. "Recognizable heraldry?"
"No, nothing easily recognizable," said Holmes. "I spent a good several hours today trying to determine exactly that. It's nothing modern. It's a rare alloy, hard pewter composed of tin and bismuth, forged and carved using archaic techniques. Hundreds of years old, if not thousands. The creature originated from an exceedingly foreign time and place."
"What do you intend to do with the button?" I said. "For all we know, the creature is magnetically drawn to it."
"Yes, I considered that," said Holmes. "It's a lure."
"You expect it to come here, then?" I said. "You hope for that?"
Holmes nodded.
"You're mad," I said.
"Mad…" said Holmes. "Yes, I wonder. But these are mad times… In my madness, I've formed a theory. One last gamble."
"You'd gamble your life?" I said. "Both of our lives?"
"I told you to leave, didn't I?" said Holmes.
I put my head in my hands. "What is your theory, Holmes? Your gamble?"
"The creature is powerful," said Holmes. "Strong, fast, capable of killing with ease. It enjoys it. But it has a weakness."
"None that I'm aware of," I said.
"Why does it flee?" said Holmes.
"You shot it," I said. The dented button was evidence enough of a direct hit. Though, in that moment last night, the creature hadn't appeared particularly wounded.
"Yes, I shot it," said Holmes. "It was quick to disarm us, and I scored a hit before it fled, so one may assume that it fears gunfire. But I believe bullets are more of an annoyance than anything to this creature. The bite of a gnat. You saw how effortlessly it departed. It showed no signs of pain, and it left no blood behind. So, no, I don't think the creature is weak against ordinary bullets."
"Constable Newark, then," I said. "It ran when he entered the garden. It feared our reinforcements."
"In a way," said Holmes. "But consider, before Newark arrived the creature had the four of us on the backfoot. Bloodied and beaten. I find it hard to believe Newark would have done much to change our situation. I think there was something special about Newark specifically that warded off the creature, not just the addition of his firepower."
"His watch didn't malfunction," I said. "Something to do with that?"
"Yes, excellent," said Holmes. "An anomaly amongst anomalies. Why didn't his watch malfunction?"
"What a question," I said. "We don't know exactly why the other watches did malfunction."
"True enough," said Holmes. "It is a black box problem. We must examine inputs and outputs, without an understanding of the inner workings of the phenomenon. When the creature comes within range of a timepiece, the timepiece malfunctions. But when the creature came within range of Newark's timepiece, it did not malfunction. What was special about Newark's case?"
I closed my eyes and thought back to the scene in the garden. The creature was moments from taking a bite out of the drunken man, and presumably slashing out at Holmes to finish him off, when Constable Newark rounded the corner. The creature sniffed the air, and had a negative reaction. It fled. Newark himself didn't strike me as special, though perhaps he possessed some unseen quality. Did he give off a strange scent, only recognizable to the creature? Or perhaps his watch was imbued with some special characteristic.
"Silver," I said at last. "Newark's watch was made of silver. It's like an old fairy tale monster. Silver is harmful to werewolves and vampires, and all sorts of evil creatures. Something about the purity of it, I think. You think a silver bullet would do the trick?"
"Tempting conclusion," said Holmes. "But a bit cliché. Ignoring old myths for a moment, we can poke a hole in that theory. Recall that Mr. Moore's malfunctioning wristwatch was made of silver as well. The presence of silver did little to negate the creature's phenomenon two nights ago."
The scene of the Moore family massacre felt weeks old in my mind. "I suppose that's true. Speaking of which, why didn't the creature attack Ms. Halpine in the parlor? We never figured that out. Another weakness?"
"I think the same weakness," said Holmes.
"She was hiding behind the billiards table with a metal poker," I said. "She told us that the creature fled without fully entering."
"That's right," said Holmes.
"Then, the next night, the creature fled when Newark entered the garden," I said. "He was equipped with a pistol, a lantern, and a silver pocket watch." My medical mind grappled with the irrationality of the situation. "Holmes, I have no idea. A crucifix around the neck? Are Newark and Halpine descendents of a medieval witch? This is fantasy to me."
"Let's not overlook the third time the creature left before finishing its victim," said Holmes.
"Third?" I said. The only known survivors were Halpine, the two men at the garden, Holmes, Constable Newark and myself.
"To be fair, she died from her injuries not long after, but the creature's third Croydon victim was left mortally wounded," said Holmes. "Unlike the other victims, the creature didn't stay to devour any part of her."
"Yes, I remember," I said. "She bled out before receiving medical attention."
"There's a common element whenever the creature fails to finish its grisly work," said Holmes. "Canis lupus. It wasn't the silver encasing the gears of Newark's timepiece that protected them from the phenomenon, it was his glove around the timepiece. Specifically the fur lining. Gray and plush—wolf fur. In Croydon, some locals thought the third killing was the work of a wolf, partly owing to the wolves heard howling around the time of murder. The creature fled before finishing off and devouring its victim because of the howling wolves. In the Moore family parlor, the creature was dissuaded by the taxidermied wolf head above Halpine. It left her alive because it didn't want to approach the head of the gray wolf on the wall."
"It fears wolves?" I said. "Wolf fur negates the creature's powers?"
"As far as I can see, the wolf is the common element, present whenever the creature has faltered." Holmes took a long drag of his pipe, exhaling smoke through his nose. "Do you despise me, Watson? For gambling our lives on such a flimsy theory? Pure speculation. My hunch has no basis in known science. Given more time and resources, I would study this problem in far greater detail, but we don't have that luxury. There's something about wolves—their howl, their fur, their image—something that repels the creature, and negates its power."
The hands on the wall clock began to twitch.
I felt the familiar chill from the night before, deep in my bones. I heard no steps on the stairs, but something was at the door. The doorknob cracked as a monstrous torque was applied, and the door slowly swung open. Outside, the sun was fully set. A set of pale, slender fingers gripped the door, and from the shadows of the entryway the gaunt giant emerged. It ducked to fit through the doorway. I felt as though it carried the shadows in with it. Its thin, black lips curled into a grin. That pale face stared in at us, black eyes gleaming.
"Not a step further," said Holmes. He wasn't shaking like last night.
"You are a thief, Mistŭr Kholms," it hissed. "Kradets. Return to me what is mine." It raised a hand, and I braced for a telekinetic slash.
Holmes held the button out in his uninjured hand, hovering over the wide-mouth flask of sulfuric acid. He shifted the lit pipe in his mouth. "I'll burn it. Dissolve it in acid."
"Ti shte umresh," said the creature. "You will die."
"And you'll have lost your treasure," said Holmes. "Looks valuable."
"You are interesting one," it said with a cool chuckle. "Stranno."
"You speak well," said Holmes.
"I wonder how you taste, Mistŭr Kholms," it said.
"Where did you learn my name?" said Holmes.
It was like a black mamba coiled to strike. The creature stared intently at Holmes, mouth slowly widening, jaw unhinging. It produced a gradual echoing moan, unlike any human or animal I'd ever heard. The massive frame filled one half of the room, its presence overwhelming. Holmes stared back with calculating intrigue, the button dangling from his fingers.
A telekinetic slash would cause him to drop the metallic button into the flask of acid, dissolving it. What a tense stalemate Holmes had orchestrated. The creature needed to close the gap and take it from Holmes—I thought of the frightening speed it had exhibited last night. I dared not blink. I dared not breathe.
Holmes dropped the button.
The button only had a few inches to fall before touching the surface of the acid. The creature crossed the room, extending a long, slender arm. It snatched the button out of the air, a hair above the acid. It ended beside Holmes in his chair. Focused on saving the falling button, its precious treasure, it failed to react to Holmes as he extended his bandaged arm, up out of the sling, casting it away. The seriousness of his hand injury was a ruse. In his bandaged arm he held a cream-colored blade, hidden under the sling until now, and doused in ointments and oils to mask its smell. The tip was made of the carved fang of a gray wolf. Holmes's gamble: he created the briefest opening to strike. Holmes thrust the blade into the creature's side, cutting through the black cloak and deep into the body. It screamed out in horrible agony, rattling the Baker Street windows. The creature swept a long arm at Holmes, knocking him out of his chair with a backhand. The wolf-tooth blade flew through the air. The creature seemed to shrink in stature, hunched over in pain. Black blood poured out onto the floor as it writhed, limping back toward the door. Holmes groaned on the floor.
"Vŭlk!" the creature cried. "Mrazya vŭlka!"
"The blade, Watson!" said Holmes from the floor. "Finish it!"
I leapt up from the couch, grabbing the blade up off the carpet. The creature swung at me, slashing my chest with its invisible blade, cutting open my shirt and drawing blood. The slash stung, but in its weakened state the creature seemed unable to attack with as much speed and force as last night. The cut was shallow.
It was halfway to the door when I buried the wolf-tooth blade into its back. I plunged the blade deep, eliciting another scream, and a spray of foul black ooze. It continued to writhe under the point of the blade for a long minute, cursing in old Bulgarian, and swinging clawed hands back at me. I held firm until the thrashing ceased.
Taking no chances, Holmes and I wrapped the body in a thick wolf pelt. Sealed in a metal coffin, wrapped in a wolf pelt, injected with wolf blood, and staked with wolf fangs, the creature's body was buried twenty feet underground in an undisclosed location on the outskirts of the city. In its lifeless (if the term alive applied) state, the creature's timepiece-influencing phenomenon was no longer active. For good measure, we hid a clock above the secret gravesite to be monitored for future malfunctioning. Mycroft Holmes and his lot helped with the official story, leaking false details to the Times about a mass murderer drowning in the Thames. Inspector Lestrade was crying with relief when all was said and done.
We set a wolf fur rug by the hearth. Holmes kept the metal button in a wooden case, lined with wolf fur.