I stared at the vile blade, considering what he’d told me. “What’s it made of?” I wondered.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Holmes shrugged. “This bit is the handle; that is the blade. Most of it’s done out of this black stuff. Don’t know quite what it is, but let me tell you, Watson, it drinks life and magic in much the same way I do. Oh, and it’s got this green fire stuff all over it, which is how you can tell it’s mine. See? It’s the same as in my eyes.”
The blade did indeed share the same otherworldly light as Holmes’s eyes displayed when he was angry or about to do something magical and inadvisable.
“But the real question is,” said Holmes, pointing the tip of his newly reclaimed blade at our visitor’s face, “how did you get it?”
“I will not speak of it,” Von Ormstein said. “Not while the blade is bare. If you wish to know, sheath it first in this.”
He struggled to remove his sword belt, then slid it across the floor to Holmes. Warlock scooped it up, slid his wicked blade inside and said, “Well?”
“Ha!” Von Ormstein cried. “You fool! It is mine again!”
“What do you mean? It is a part of myself and no thing of yours,” protested Holmes. As he spoke he gave the handle a jerk, as if to pull his weapon free and display it as proof. Only, he could not. The blade stuck fast, within the strange white scabbard.
“Huh…” said Holmes, then thrust his hand theatrically towards his sword and cried, “Ves, Melfrizoth!”
Nothing happened.
“Why isn’t it disappearing, Watson?” he asked me.
“I’m sure I’m not the fellow to ask, Holmes.”
But if I could not answer him, our guest could. He struggled to his knees and triumphantly declared, “It is bound! Bound to me, as it has been these many years! Fool! Binding magic is the particular specialty of the Von Ormsteins! Everybody knows it!”
“Hey! What? Give it back!” spluttered Holmes.
“No.”
“You’d better!”
“Or what? What would you do?”
Holmes’s green eyes lit with angry flame. The cheerily burning log within our hearth suddenly heaved itself on end and issued forth a gout of black and stinking smoke. From this miasmic ball, several tendrils of inky black vapor flowed forth, into our room. In a trice, they converged upon the frightened Von Ormstein, wrapped around him and began to tighten. They yanked his arms and legs flat against his torso then pulled him—bound and struggling—into an upright position, his face a few inches from Holmes’s.
“I’m not sure what I’ll do,” Holmes growled, “but I’ll bet you won’t like it.”
“Wait! Wait! Please!” His Majesty begged. “We can work this through together! Let us be friends!”
I gave a polite little cough and reminded him, “You did come here to kill Holmes, did you not?”
“I didn’t want to,” the cowardly, invertebrate-faced aristocrat wailed. “I had to! I am in her power, don’t you see? I wished to appease her, by removing an enemy. And if that enemy had been Holmes, how could she refuse me? She would give me back the picture—I know she would.”
I had no idea which woman he might be speaking of. Or which picture he meant. Or why he was so anxious to recover it. But his tone of desperation was unmistakable. Here was a creature caught in the grip of a terrible dilemma. With a defeated sigh, I realized that he was more than just an assassin. He was a client. Holmes and I traded looks.
“I’ll make the tea,” I said.
* * *
We trussed Von Ormstein’s arms and legs with rope and got him settled on the couch. I sat near the imprisoned beast and fed him sips of tea while he told his tale and intermittently complained of his wound. I gave it a cursory examination, of course, but his flesh was stringy and filled with unfamiliar structures.
“Er… yes… let’s just leave this for someone else, shall we,” I decided.
Still, I thought he was in no immediate danger— in fact, he was barely bleeding. His powers of cellular regeneration were remarkable and the blackish glop that oozed from the wound seemed to be binding the tissues back together, even as I watched.
Regarding his identity, our guest would not budge from the stance that he was Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary king of Bohemia—a Germish nobleman. As to what type of creature he was, he insisted that he was a Bohemian.
I had my doubts.
“You see, I am about to be married,” Von Ormstein told us. “My bride is Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meiningen, second daughter of the king of Scandinavia. It is a strictly principled family, you know. If it were to come to light that I had been… improprietous… in my youth, the match would be broken and the balance of European power might suffer for it.”
I rolled my eyes at this feeble deception, but listened on.
“But you see, to my shame, I had become entangled, some years ago, with Irene Adler, a well-known—”
“Human?” I volunteered.
“Adventuress,” he said. “Holmes knows of her.”
Holmes gave a helpless shrug, to indicate that he’d been overestimated again. Yet, the name stuck in my mind as important. It took me a moment to recall the connection. Adler! Last year, Alexander Holder had told me the names of three of Moriarty’s trusted lieutenants: Moran, McCloe and Adler!
“Adler?” I said. “Moriarty’s accomplice?”
This was enough to jar Holmes’s memory too. He gasped and said, “The toymaker?”
I was just about to protest that James Moriarty hardly seemed the sort of fellow who would employ a toymaker, but Von Ormstein nodded and said, “No, no! His granddaughter.”
“What? But she was merely a child, twenty or thirty years ago.”
“Which would make her a grown woman now, Holmes,” I reminded him.
“Oh, she is wonderful. Wonderful!” Von Ormstein enthused. “And despite the way she used me, I confess I love her still. Unfortunately, our time together has not left her without certain artifacts. She is in possession of a picture of me that—if it were to come to light—might be just cause for the Von Saxe-Meiningens to cross the match and bar me forever from their house and lands.”
“Merely a photograph?” I reflected. “Just how is ‘Your Majesty’ implicated in any wrongdoing?”
“It bears an inscription, in my own handwriting…”
“Which you could easily dismiss as forged,” I reasoned.
“And my royal seal…”
“Faked.”
“Plus, Miss Adler and I are both in the photograph.”
“Well, you know, you might have just started with that.”
Von Ormstein wrung his face tentacles and sighed, “We’ve tried stealing it. I’ve sent men to waylay her. Burgled her homes. Raided her banks. We have had no luck. She has bested us at every turn.”
“Bet you I could get it,” said Holmes, grinning.
Von Ormstein’s face brightened. And by that, I mean that—in the manner of other octopuses—he could change his color to match his surroundings or his mood. He turned a vibrant orange and looked hopefully up at Holmes.
“No!” I said, leaping to my feet. “Holmes, this man has begun his plea by trying to cut you in half and furthered it by stealing a weapon which you claim is a part of your own self. We have no reason to trust him or to help him!”
“Hey! Yeah! That’s right!” Holmes remembered.
“The blade!” Von Ormstein cried. “I will happily pay you your weapon, if only you will retrieve the photograph.”
“You propose to buy my services by giving me a piece of my self?” Holmes roared.
“And money!” Von Ormstein quailed. “Or… I don’t know… a shiny ring? I have a shiny ring.”
He racked his squishy little mind for a moment and decided, “Information! My family holds undisputed mastery of binding magic, Mr. Holmes. Who else could steal your blade from you and hold it? Who else can tell you about the bonds that
hold Moriarty’s spirit within you? I can teach you.”
Holmes tapped his lips a few times with his slender finger and mused, “Milverton. The soul-binder, Milverton. Did you know him?”
“I knew of him,” our visitor said.
“Could you tell me how he did it?” Holmes asked. “How he bound and unbound fates—even while he was far away from the subjects of his mischief? Could you tell me that?”
“Yes! Yes! In a few words!”
“Then Your Majesty has engaged my services,” said Holmes, with a smile.
“Ah, thank the gods!” Von Ormstein sighed.
“Now, tell me all you know of this Irene Adler,” said Holmes. “Where might I find her?”
“She is here, in London; that’s why I came. She is currently residing at Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”
“How shall I know her?” asked Holmes.
“I have a photograph of her, here in my breast pocket,” Von Ormstein replied, gesturing with his horrid face tentacles.
Holmes nodded at me and I bent forward to retrieve the photo. As I drew it forth, I gave a gasp of dismay. I nearly dropped the thing.
It was her.
Her.
Even in the faded black-and-white facsimile, her piercing green gaze was unmistakable. She’d fooled me before, but this time I knew her in an instant. My murderess. My nemesis.
Irene Adler.
The Woman.
Holmes must have seen my look of incredulity, for he asked, “What is it, Watson?”
By way of answer, I turned the photo towards him. It took him a few moments to recognize her. At first he just squinted at it and then at me as if I were insane. His gaze wandered back and forth a few times, then suddenly his eyes widened. He sprang up and yelled, “Oh, hey! No, no, no! We don’t want this one! We don’t want this case!”
“Holmes!” I hissed. “Yes we do. This may be our chance, don’t you see?”
“The only thing I see, Watson, is the most dangerous girl I’ve ever encountered. She’s beaten my magical defenses. She utterly embarrassed your powers of reason. She melted Eduardo Lucas to brown stink-sauce! Really, we don’t want this one.”
I turned to Von Ormstein and said, “Pray, give us a moment, won’t you? I just need to consult with my partner.”
I grabbed Holmes and dragged him down the hallway towards the bathroom. Keeping my voice low, I hissed, “She is in possession of the Moriarty Rune. She’s killed two people. She’s struck us here at home and now we have her name and a chance to move against her. How could we pass that up?”
“Because she’s scary?”
“Holmes, cowardice must not cost us the initiative.”
“Initiative? What do you mean? We are not at war with Irene Adler, Watson. She took nothing from us in that burglary that we did not want gone. I’m rather pleased to see the back of Moriarty, let me tell you. And did you love Milverton so well? The spy Lucas? Who cares if she killed them?”
“It’s murder, Holmes.”
“Well, what if it is? There are plenty of murderers in London, John. What disturbs me is your fascination with this particular one!”
“Fascination? What a thing to say, Holmes. Do you pretend we should let her embarrass us and then walk away?”
“Yes. That sounds wonderful. Can we please do that?”
His look of pleading desperation touched my heart. There was something in Holmes, when he begged, that could make me feel like a doting father. I reached out to touch his shoulder and said, “Holmes, she is the most effective agent we have so far encountered. As yet, we have no idea who she is working for or what her goals might be.”
“I don’t care!”
“What if she’s working for Moriarty, eh? What if she— even now—is planning to put that foul person back into a human body? What if she’s going to get him into the prime minister, the queen or the head of the Bank of England? What if she’s planning to get him back into you? She’s too dangerous to leave unchallenged, Holmes.”
“But…”
“We must act.”
He gave me a pained look. “I just don’t like the amount of attention you pay to her, John. I would swear that every time you think of her or speak of her, you get just a little more doomed. I can see it growing on you. That woman is likely to be your destruction.”
“Well, if she is, she will not find herself unopposed,” I replied.
Holmes sighed and asked, “How should we proceed?”
“With utmost caution. She has laid traps for us before, and I don’t trust the ease with which this opportunity has fallen to us. What if she sent Von Ormstein, eh? Or even if she did not, what if he runs off and warns her, in an attempt to ingratiate himself and reclaim his indiscreet photo? We must lay a plan to engage her as carefully as we can.”
Holmes nodded. The two of us moved back to the sitting room, where Holmes told Von Ormstein, “Good news, Your Majesty. Watson and I have decided to take your case. In exchange for the return of Melfrizoth and information on binding magics, we will undertake to reclaim your portrait from Irene Adler.”
Von Ormstein’s relief was visible. “Excellent. Excellent. I shall return to my quarters and await news. I shall be staying at the Langham Hotel, under the name of Count Von Kramm.”
“Oh no,” said Holmes, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “You will be staying in Watson’s wardrobe, under the name ‘Hey, Squidface’.”
* * *
As we situated Von Ormstein in my wardrobe, his true nature became clear to us. One might be forgiven for assuming he was a monster. Or an assassin. Or even a nobleman. But no, the chief occupation of our guest was this: he was a whiner.
“…It’s dark in here.
“…It’s dusty.
“…Am I to be alone?”
As we closed the door on him, I remembered, “Holmes, he’s got that carriage waiting. It’s been quite some time now.”
“Ah. I’d best head down and deal with it, Watson.”
“But what will you say? What story will you concoct?”
“Hmmm… None at all, I think.”
Holmes gave me a sly wink, went to the doorway, pulled on his greatcoat and went down to see the driver with naught but slippers on his feet. I could hear the muffled sounds of voices. Then raised voices. Then a sudden, shuddering boom echoed through the neighborhood, followed by the screaming of horses, the screaming of the driver, and the clatter of hooves. A few moments later, Holmes came back in and said, “Done.”
The matter thus resolved, I settled in to slumber.
Only, I couldn’t.
For I knew on the morrow, I would see her. Would I surprise her? Had Von Ormstein been sent as a lure? Had she missed me at all? How should I make my approach? A thousand half-considered plans intruded themselves on my repose, damning my hopes of slumber.
And they weren’t the only things. Holmes elected to noisily pace the hallway, betwixt the bathroom and sitting room, mumbling to himself.
Von Ormstein kept asking, “…Are you out there?
“…Hello?
“…Is anybody there?
“…Hello?”
“Yes! God! I’m here! What do you want?”
“…I need a pillow.”
Rising from my bed, I snatched one of the pillows up, threw open my wardrobe door and declared, “You’re lucky I have two!” I flung the pillow on Von Ormstein’s lap and stormed back to bed.
“…Wait… um… are you still there?
“…Hello?
“…Anybody?”
“What?” I howled.
“…Well, I’m still tied up so I can’t get it under my head.”
Even when I had helped Von Ormstein to get more comfortable, I still could not sleep. Holmes hovered in my doorway, staring intently at my face, as if trying to read some great secret writ upon it.
“What do you want, Holmes?”
“Nothing, nothing. Disregard me.”
“Well, that’s a bit difficult. I am not accustomed to being leered at as a part of my bedtime routine.”
“Nevertheless, disregard me.”
And then, faintly, from my wardrobe, “…I need a blanket.”
I have no idea how long it took me to fall asleep. Holmes made an attempt to obfuscate his sudden fascination with me, ducking behind the doorway and only looking in every minute or so, to see if I was sleeping. Eventually, he retreated to his room, but stood in the darkness behind his open doorway, staring across the hall at my bed.
Oh, and Von Ormstein needed at least nine glasses of water.
Nevertheless, I must have eventually drifted off. I know, because I was wakened in the pre-dawn hours by a sudden cry of triumph from Holmes. I jerked to wakefulness, to find him sitting beside me. He’d pulled up a chair and apparently spent some hours leaning in over me, staring at my face as I slept.
“Watson, try ‘Ossifer’,” Holmes suggested, eagerly.
“What? Eh?”
“Say, ‘Ossifer’.”
“Ossifer?”
No sooner had the word left my mouth than a terrible pain wracked my right arm deep, ragged and hot. I could perfectly feel the shape of the long bones of my forearm, outlined in pain. I cried out and sat up, thrashing the bedclothes away from my wounded limb to see what was amiss. Yet, by the time I had a clear view of the situation, the pain had gone. There in my hand was a three-inch-long irregular-shaped white rod, sharp at one end.
“Bravo, Watson! Bravo!” Holmes cried, clapping his hands.
“What has happened? What is this?” I stammered.
“Your soul blade, Watson! I told you it would come, if only you knew its name. I have helped you find it!”
“Soul blade?”
“Yes. Your inner weapon. All the anger and danger and murder that is in you, given shape.”
“But… it’s barely a toothpick!”
“I suppose it’s because you are not a very murderous fellow.” Holmes shrugged. “Congratulations on your gentility of character.”
“But why did it hurt so much to call it?”
“I don’t know. That is odd,” said Holmes. He reached down and pulled the little thing from the palm of my hand. He turned it this way and that, examining it. In a moment, he gave a gasp and said, “Watson! This is bone!”
Warlock Holmes--My Grave Ritual Page 27
