She had the sinking feeling they would either try to stand their ground and be slaughtered, or flee and be slaughtered. If such formidable fighters as Selim, Agansing, Karamjit, and she had barely escaped with their lives when the creatures were not truly trying to kill them, a disorganized lot of gentlemen would be cut down out of hand.
“We need real fighters,” she said aloud. “With guns. I don’t think that thing has ever seen a gun. Didn’t you just suggest there is a limit on the size of a portal that can be made?” She looked over at Puck, who shrugged and spoke for the first time since they’d all sat down.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it does stand to reason. Making one takes a mort of power, and the bigger it is, the more power it takes. There has to be a limit.”
“So if we could convince someone that we need soldiers and guns . . . the thing can only send through so many at a time. Right?” Now she looked to Agansing and Karamjit.
“It would be like forcing our enemies to come through a narrow mountain pass,” Agansing agreed. “This is a good strategy. A very few men with guns have held off tremendous forces in this way before now.”
“And meanwhile, the White Lodge can be figuring out how to close and seal the portal?” Now she turned to John and Mary.
“I should think so,” John said slowly. “But . . . we need those soldiers and guns in the first place.”
But Sherlock had gotten a new expression of determination on his face. “If you can convince Alderscroft, I can virtually guarantee he has some way to get the assistance of conventional forces. And I will talk to my brother. The threat to Her Majesty will get his attention as nothing else will. John, Mary, I think you and I need to travel back to London, posthaste.”
“Nan!” Sarah said, suddenly. “I just thought of something! Surely Amelia can give us some warning if the thing is on the move!”
Nan wanted to hit herself in the head. Why hadn’t she thought of that? “I should think so, especially if Memsa’b and I work with her.”
“Alderscroft and I will have the girls moved to some place on the property where they will be safe, but which will also provide us with a more defensible position,” John said after a moment. “Damn shame it’s not summer—we could put them in a tent in the middle of a field somewhere.”
“If you move them too far, the thing might be able to tell,” Mary pointed out. “And then there is the chance it would abandon the group it has already created and start a new one.”
Holmes nodded. “We should not underestimate this thing. There is no harm in overestimating its cleverness, but—well, you see my point.”
“I’ll muster what I can,” Puck said, looking determined. “You have it right, John Watson; my folk are not warlike. But we will not surrender this island Logres! If this thing succeeds—well, it won’t, that’s all. It won’t.”
Agansing and Karamjit exchanged a look. “There are preparations we can make,” said Karamjit.
“Memsa’b and Sarah and I will work with Amelia,” Nan added. “We can telegraph Alderscroft if anything changes before you muster us all at the hospital.” Neville interrupted her with an imperious quork, and she looked down at him. “Or I can send Neville. That’s probably faster.”
“Right, then, I think we all have our tasks.” Sherlock rose, and the rest of them rose with him. His face was set in grim determination. “As our young friend has said, they shall not have our island. And there’s the end to it.”
17
ALEXANDRE dreamed. In his dreams lately, no matter what they were about, he was always cold. He had tried putting a warming brick in his bed, he had tried piling on more blankets, but he was always cold.
Most of the time, they were not easy dreams.
Tonight . . . while it was not an easy dream, at least it started out as being satisfying. He dreamed that he was beating his father with a riding crop, as he had so often longed to do, humiliating the man, chaining him to a doghouse in his best suit, and forcing him to eat out of a dish on the ground. “There!” he was shouting. “Call on Jesus, old man. Go ahead! Call on him! See if Jesus will save you!”
And then, just as the bastard broke into helpless tears, he sensed something behind him. A wave of the too-familiar cold washed over him. The sky turned dark, and the air became thin and hard to breathe—then he turned to see—It.
Behind him in the ground was that hole into nowhere. The deep, black void, which immediately became a pillar as soon as he turned, and as he stared at it in horror, it grew a hundred tentacles and seized him, and dragged him screaming toward it, and in his mind the words burned. Bring Us another! Bring it to Us now! Bring it! Bring it!
He started up out of his dream in a cold sweat, only to discover, to his continuing horror, that part of it, at least, was not a dream. It was somehow still here. The voice still echoed in his head. We need another! Now! Get it for Us now!
This isn’t possible. I just fed it! “You—you gave me seven days—” he objected, speaking into the chill darkness of his room, aware only that there was something horribly, terribly wrong with his bedroom door. It was . . . darker than it should be; there was just a black rectangle that soaked up all the light from the fire and reflected nothing. As if there wasn’t a door there anymore. “You can’t ask this!” he continued, his voice rising in panic. “You gave me seven days! For Godsake, I gave you six at once! You gave me seven days!”
And that has changed! We need the pure one and the food NOW!
And then the freezing temperatures of his bedroom abruptly warmed, the darkness where his bedroom door had been vanished, and the door returned. He found he was gasping for breath, his heart racing in panic.
And Alf was pounding on the closed bedroom door. “Guv! Guv! Yew oil roight?”
He was still too paralyzed with terror to move; fortunately, Alf was not. The doorknob rattled, as Alf tried it, then the door slammed open. “Guv! Oi ’eard yew yellin’, an’ th’ damn door wouldn’ open—”
“It was here,” Alexandre panted. “The thing. From the basement. It was here, in my room, I don’t know how it was here, I don’t know how it got out of the basement, but it was here. It isn’t happy, Alf! It told me it wants its next victims now!”
“Bloody ’ell,” Alf muttered, looked around in the light from the coal fire, spied the little ladder-back chair Alexandre sometimes used to drape his coats over at the end of the day, and helped himself to it. He sat down on it backward, with his arms over the top of it, and shook his head. “Cain’t be done, guv. Impossible. Last snatch was too much, coppers took notice and took it ’ard, an’ papers got aholt of it. Acrost th’ river’s ballyhooin’ ’bout it in all the papers. Heard tell the ’Murican Ambassydor’s yellin’ at the PM. Battersea’s crawlin’ wi’ coppers. Guv, Sherlock bloody ’Olmes was there! In Battersea! Crawlin’ all over where we left them gels. Ain’t safe t’grab a gel from anywhere in Lunnon, with or without thet thing’s ’elp.”
“Oh God,” Alexandre moaned, burying his face in his hands. “What am I going to do? It got into my room! If it can go there, it can probably go anywhere! Even if we cut and run, it can probably find us!”
“Likely,” Alf agreed, completely calm. “Likely it’s got yer scent. I’ve knowed that t’ ’appen with magical beasties. It’ll foller yew no matter where ye run. Yew could prolly cross th’ Channel an’ it’d find yew.”
He . . . didn’t say “us.” He said “you.” The bottom dropped out of his world as he understood that Alf—very correctly—was pointing out that he was the only one tied to the entity. He and he alone had summoned it. He and he alone had brought it the sacrifices it had asked for. He’d thought this would mean he and he alone would be rewarded when it was happy. He had not thought about the other side of that coin, that if he failed to please this thing, he and he alone was going to pay the price.
Alf, however, had obviously thought t
his out more thoroughly than he had. Was Alf about to abandon him, cut and run?
“Lemme think on this a minnit,” Alf continued, calmly, and Alexandre nearly wept with relief, understanding that Alf was not about to leave him. At least, not yet. Alf put his chin down on his crossed arms on top of the chair, and pondered. Finally he straightened up again. “Oi cain’t get ye a virgin ternight, an prolly not termorrow, but yew ’member I tol’ yew I c’ld git one from thet madame I know? Reckon, Oi c’n git one in four days, at most. An’ Oi c’n ’ire another boy.”
“I remember,” Alexandre said, feeling hope again. “Do you think she’d have one now? Is there any chance we can get one tomorrow?”
Alf made a face. “She pretty much always ’as one, but it’ll cost, cost yew dear, ’pending on ’ow ’andsome th’ gel is. Look, guv, thet’s dangerous. Pretty gel, she’ll hev bin looked over a lot. Lotta men’ll hev been lookin’ t’pay fer th’ privilege. Yew know.”
Indeed he did, having paid quite a high price for the “privilege” a few times in the past.
“So if th’ gel goes missin’ then turns up i’ th’ paper? Lotta men’ll recognize th’ pichure. They’ll know where she come from, an’ they likely won’t be shy ’bout tellin’ that ’Olmes ’bout it, though they’d not tell th’ coppers. An’ th’ madame ain’t gonna be shy about tellin’ th’ coppers ’bout us to stay outa trouble.”
“Damn,” he swore under his breath. Alf was right.
“But that’s a pretty one. One she’s already got in th’ ’ouse. Thing is, she c’n get another one easy, one that ain’t ’andsome, nor suited for th’ trade, an’ she won’t give two pins if the gel shows up in the papers, or in the river fer thet matter. So she ain’t gonna say nothin’ t’ nobody.” Alf tipped him a wink. “Thet thing on’y cares if it’s a virgin, don’t care if the gel’s so ugly yew need ter put a bag on ’er ’ead. So that’s ’alf the prollem solved. Other ’alf’s gettin’ rid of ’er. An’ I gotter ideer ’bout that, too.”
“Let’s hear it,” Alexandre said, clutching his blankets to his chest to stop his shivering. But he was feeling comforted. Alf clearly knew what he was doing, and had been able to think of a good plan. Surely he had just as good a plan for getting rid of the wench once the entity was done with her.
But Alf’s next words shocked him to the core. He grinned. “We takes ’er t’ coppers oursel’s.”
“What?” Alexandre was only able to get that single word out around his shock. “You can’t—”
Alf held up a hand, cutting him off. “Oi said, ’ear me out. We takes ’er t’ coppers oursel’s. This’s in all th’ papers naow. Oi’ll pick up one, when oi go talk t’madame. Madame’ll wrap ’er up nice’n’tidy drugged fer us, an’ we brings ’er ’ere in the coach. The thing takes ’er an’ spits ’er out. We dresses ’er up pretty, then calls a cab. We goes t’Battersea Perlice Station, all right’n’proper, wi’ th’ wench an’ th’ paper. Was comin’ ’ome from thee-ayter, an’ there she was in th’ middle of road, you sez. Loik in paper, see ’ere, you sez. Yessir, we did, I sez, all respekfull.” He winked. “An’ if they ask you Wut thee-ayter, yew ’em an’ ’aw an’ then tells ’em your moosic ’all. An they’ll grin an’ wink an’ think yer a roight ol’ dawg. An’ even if Sherlock Bloody ’Olmes comes along later an asks at the ’all if yew was there, yew know wut they’ll say.”
“I’ve heard them say it with my own ears,” Alexandre admitted. “That they don’t ask for bloody names at the door and it’s not their bloody job to memorize every customer’s face.”
“Heg-zactly. Ain’t nobody gonna suspect yer.” Alf cackled. “Woi should they? Didn’t yer bring th’ gel along loik a good liddle gennlemun? Ain’t yew got a good repewtation? Doin’ yer doody an’ all thet muck. Yew’ll get a pat on th’ back an’ sent ’ome, thet’s what’ll ’appen. An’ if Sherlock Bloody ’Olmes comes along askin’ where we found ’er, Oi’ll give ’im a good answer an’ ’e c’n go do ’is bloody detectin’ there.”
And, in fact, once his heart stopped pounding like a steam piston, he realized Alf was absolutely right. No one would suspect him, any more than they’d be suspecting anyone else in this street. He’d be commended for being a good citizen and sent away. And if Sherlock Holmes did turn up, why, there would be nothing connecting them to the girl.
“Alf . . . you are a genius,” he said fervently. “What time is it?”
“Not tew late fer me t’hev a talk wit’ th’madame,” Alf assured him. “But yew better go down an’ let thet thing know it ain’t gonna get nuthin’ naow, an’ if’t gets rid’a yew, it ain’t gonna get nuthin’ ever, ’cause it don’t got my scent an’ Oi ain’t gonna play no games with somethin’ what et my boss, Oi’m gonna leg it outa ’ere an’ lock the ’ouse up behind me. Naow lemme get dressed proper fer visitin’ th’ ’Ouse.”
Alf left, and shaking in every limb, Alexandre pulled on trousers, a dressing gown, and slippers—and went to the strongbox in his bureau. Loyalty like Alf’s needed to be rewarded immediately, so they both knew the consequences of both desertion and continued loyalty. He counted out ten golden guineas—he had no fear that Alf would have any trouble making use of a coin that large, for he had done so before, just not quite so many—and opened the door to find Alf pulling on an overcoat in the hall.
“Here,” he said, holding the heavy gold coins out where the hall light would catch their glow. “This is just for your cab fare out and back, and you keep all the rest for yourself. I’ll expect to pay the madame separately. And accordingly.”
Alf’s eyes gleamed, but he tugged on his hat brim. “Thenks, guv. I ’spect we’re both clever fellers, eh?”
“I certainly hope so, because I am about to test my cleverness against that . . . thing.” He squared his shoulders and swallowed. “Let’s just see how clever I am.”
Resolutely, he lit the lamp waiting on the hall table, opened the basement door, and if he didn’t exactly march down the stairs, at least he didn’t tiptoe, either. Better open with my strongest cards, he decided as he reached the bottom. He stood just out of tentacle reach (or so he hoped) and barked at the dark void in the floor, “You there! I have something to say to you!”
Nothing. Well, at least it didn’t strike me down for insolence . . . yet. He didn’t venture any nearer, but he raised his voice, and thought at it as hard as he could, “I said, you there! If you want any more sacrifices, you had better come out of that hole right now because we need to have a chat! You are in no position to be demanding any—”
He bit off the last word as the pillar of darkness suddenly loomed up, larger than ever, out of the hole. And there was something both hostile and edgy about it, although he could not have said what told him that if his life had depended on it. At least it didn’t sprout tentacles—or at least, not yet.
We told you—
“I know damned well what you told me,” he snapped. “And you’re not going to bloody well get it! You think virgins are lying about in the street for me to pick up? That last little delivery has sent the police crawling everywhere, looking for the abductor now! I’m of no damned mind to get myself hauled off and thrown in a cell because you are impatient to get your last ‘pure one’!”
There was a long—a very long—pause.
. . . what are Police?
“People that can and will lock me up and brick up this house, leaving you to starve alone until the end of time, my friend!” he snapped. “There are a lot more of them than you imagine, I promise you! They can seal this place up so you can never get out.” Unless they called on the White Lodge, that probably wasn’t true—but the odds had certainly changed, and they might. Now that Sherlock Holmes was on the case, they might! God only knew the kinds of resources that devil had at his disposal. He could probably have tracked the coach back here just from the cuts and dents in the wheels if the streets hadn’t been frozen as hard as rocks!
He felt something cold and alien crawling through his mind at that point . . . and this time, rather than being paralyzed, he thought, fiercely, about the worst possible outcome he could imagine. Holmes finding him. Being dragged off in a Black Maria and thrown into prison and hung. The White Lodge turning up and performing a ceremony of the sort he could only create out of imagination, full of clergymen and Elementals and lights and pure power, and sealing the house away inside something like a glass egg, only made of power.
He felt the thing withdraw from his mind. And there was silence for a very long time.
We need the final sacrifice, he heard, finally, and it was not his imagination, the voice was much subdued. We must have the final sacrifice, so that We may come fully into this world. There will be reward for you. Much reward. You will be a Great Master, greater than those in your mind. But to do that We must have the last pure one, or we will not have the power.
Well now, that was more like it. “I’ll get the sacrifices, but to do so without risk will take several days,” he said, stiffly. “You’ll have to wait. It shouldn’t take the full seven days, but it simply cannot be now. It’s not possible.”
He could sense that the thing was not happy, that it was very angry, in fact, but it had to accept what he had told it. Very well, it said. And the pillar collapsed down into the floor again.
“Oi’m orf,” said Alf from the top of the stairs. And Alexandre was left to go back up to his room, where he lay in bed, eyes wide open, until Alf returned. Only then could he manage to close his eyes and try to sleep.
But his dreams were not pleasant.
Nan and Amelia were in Memsa’b’s office, with Neville sitting on the back of Nan’s chair. It was . . . surreal, actually. She was completely aware of that whole other world, separated from her own by what seemed like the thinnest of veils. She knew that at any moment, with little to no warning, that world could break in on hers, with a terrible, potentially very powerful enemy pouring through that break to try and turn London into a copy of that world. She had fought off the denizens of that world herself; one of her best friends lay wounded and had nearly died.
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