Warlock Holmes--My Grave Ritual
Page 31
I think that was the moment Holmes proved correct— the moment my fascination became irreversible. Before then, if someone had asked me to describe my ideal match, I’d have spoken of upbringing, of an ideal living companion or a mother for my children. But no. I’d never known what my heart truly needed, until that day. Indeed, it would take years of reflection to finally come to admit what I truly desire…
To be bested.
Who could I ever respect more? No matter how I threw myself against her, no matter the stratagem I devised, I was never her equal. I strived to be, again and again, but… How frustrating! And yet, how exhilarating! I didn’t want to admit her brilliance, yet she forced me to at every turn. From that moment forth, there was no other girl who could command my attention for long. Only the Woman. Only Irene Adler.
Behind me, Holmes cleared his throat. “Though I have failed to deliver the desired photograph, I nevertheless claim my fee. The immediate danger to His Majesty is ended—the wedding can proceed. I therefore demand the return of my soul-blade and all the knowledge of binding magics I have been promised.”
Von Ormstein spluttered and protested, “By what right do you claim your full price, sir, when the full service has not been rendered?”
“Because I am yet in possession of an item His Majesty might wish returned to him.”
“Oh? And what might this item be?”
“His Majesty.”
“Ah… so you are.”
And that is where matters may have rested, if I’d been wise. Holmes and Von Ormstein both seemed happy to accept defeat and move forward. I could not say the same. Shaking the cobwebs from my mind, I sprang to my feet and cried, “No! Get up! Get your coat, Holmes!”
“I’ve still got my coat.”
“Good! We’ve got to… got to move!”
“Where? Why? Sit down, Watson.”
“No! She’s still in our grasp, don’t you see? Her every barb seems to be a parting shot, does it not? I believe she truly is leaving. What if she really does intend to take the steamer to New York? What if she intends to use that train car Norton hired?”
“By the twelve gods!” Holmes yelled, springing to his feet. “What is wrong with you, Watson? Exactly how many times do you need to be defeated in a single day?”
“I will not surrender! Not while there is still a chance for victory! Come on!”
“No! I’ll not be party to this,” said Holmes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Think of how easily she always bests you, Watson. Think of all you could have lost today. At least you’re alive, eh? Look, you’ve even still got all your arms and legs. Really, if I’d been betting on today’s outcome, I could never have been so optimistic. So leave off, won’t you?”
“No!” I shouted and started for the door. I charged down the steps to Baker Street and out into the gathering night. Twilight, already? What time did I have? Not much, to be sure. How would I find out which train, which car? I needed a moment to plan. Yet, it could wait. I must go back to St. John’s Wood. I could plan in the cab. I needed a cab. As I stepped to the curb to hail one, I bumped into a young fellow dressed in an ulster. Though the night was mild, he had the collar turned up and his hat pulled low, as if he expected a sudden deluge.
“Oh! Pardon me,” I mumbled.
“I just wanted to wish you a most imprudent ‘good night’,” he replied.
“Er… what?”
And he did. He reached up, grabbed my face, pulled me low and kissed me. I had only a fleeting instant to catch the flash of those mischievous green eyes, the slope of that perfect jaw, covered in painted-on stubble.
Kissing Irene Adler was nothing like kissing Violet Hunter. With Violet it had been, at worst, a transaction. At best, kissing for kissing’s sake. With Irene, it was kissing to a purpose. Oh, there was certainly the presence of unknown delights yet to come. But there was more than that. This was kissing as maneuvering. Kissing as a move in a game she was playing, the nature of which I could not guess.
But I didn’t care.
Even as I began to accept it—even as I began to pour myself into that kiss—she thrust me away and laughed in triumph. I stumbled back. My thoughts were confused, my whole body tingling. I was unsteady on my feet. The many romantic poems I’d been forced to read at school had informed me that these were signs of love, but I’d never expected to actually feel them. I stared down at her, in wonderment. She gazed back with winsome amusement, then reached into her pocket, withdrew a cloth and wiped away her lip-rouge.
Which was odd…
A master of disguise. A beautiful woman. Standing with a near-perfect approximation of male appearance.
And she’d chosen to wear lip-rouge?
Something wasn’t right. I blinked away my confusion and tried to focus my thoughts. But it was hard.
“Oh, John, you’re just too tenacious,” she said. “I gave you two chances to beg off. Two!”
What was she talking about? The wave of love symptoms I was currently suffering made it difficult to tell. And then, foggily, as if from a distance deep inside me, the doctor in me stepped forth to remind me that these were symptoms of more than only love.
Dizziness.
Numbness.
Confusion.
Loss of motor control.
“Oh! I’ve got it!” I cried, flush with victorious revelation. “Poison lip-rouge!”
She smiled at me with a strange mix of fondness, pity and regret, then confirmed, “Poison lip-rouge.”
I tumbled forward into the street. Through the haze of drug stupor, I could just hear the residents of Baker Street gathering round to express concern and rifle my pockets. I could not hear the Woman. I didn’t know if she had stayed to watch, or merely went upon her way. But there was nothing to stop her now. Nothing to prevent the most worthy nemesis I’d ever encountered from fading back into the shadows in possession of two of nine foci that could control this planet’s most powerful magical creatures and the disembodied rune of the man who would prove humanity’s destroyer. As the blackness closed over me, I think—I think—I managed to mumble:
“Miss Adler?
“Are you still there, Miss Adler?
“I am afraid I’m in love with you.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
THANKS TO MY SUPPORT STAFF: MIRANDA AND THE NEW baby! Stalwart Sam Morgan, who’s been with me through it all. Sam Matthews, who has stepped in to fill the baby-gap and edit this volume. Ah, everyone should have a couple of Sams.
Thanks to Sean Patella-Buckley, who’s getting so damn good I’m beginning to feel my words are just illustration-supporters.
Thanks to that bastion of Victorian dog-murder, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Seriously, that dude had a problem. And yes, I know I’ve killed three dogs in three books, but it’s not my fault! They were all in the originals. I guess ol’ Artie was a cat guy.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GABRIEL DENNING LIVES IN LAS VEGAS WITH HIS WIFE and two daughters. Oh, and a dog. And millions of micro-organisms. He’s a twenty-year veteran of Orlando Theatersports, Seattle Theatersports, Jet City Improv and has finally figured out to write some of that stuff down. His first novel, Warlock Holmes: A Study in Brimstone, was published in 2016, and the Booklist review said “Mashup fans will be eagerly awaiting more,” which is why he wrote the sequels.
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Sherlock Holmes is an unparalleled genius who uses the gift of deduction and reason to solve the most vexing of crimes. Warlock Holmes, however, is not. He may be a font of arcane power, but frankly he couldn’t deduce his way out of a paper bag. The only things he’s got going for him are the might of a thousand demons, the spirit of Moriarty trapped in his head, and his stalwart companion Dr. John Watson, who is always there to guide him through the treacherous shoals of Victorian propriety… and save him from a gruesome death every now and again.
Praise
for the series:
“I laughed like a loon”
James Lovegrove
“Irreverent, hilarious and a ripping good yarn to boot”
George Mann
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The game’s afoot once more as the long-suffering Dr. John Watson and a bedridden and somewhat pungent Warlock Holmes (though he’s getting better) face off against Moriarty’s gang, the Pinkertons, flesh-eating horses, a parliament of imps, boredom, Surrey, a succubus, an overly Canadian aristocrat, a tricycle fight to the death and the dreaded Pumpcrow. Oh, and a hell-hound, one assumes.
Praise for the series:
“A rich seam of black comedy”
SFX
“Funny, clever, and entertaining”
Kirkus
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WRITTEN IN DEAD WAX
A VINYL DETECTIVE NOVEL
ANDREW CARTMEL
He is a record collector – a connoisseur of vinyl, hunting out rare and elusive LPs. His business card describes him as the “Vinyl Detective” and some people take this more literally than others. Like the beautiful, mysterious woman who wants to pay him a large sum of money to find a priceless lost recording – on behalf of an extremely wealthy (and rather sinister) shadowy client. Given that he’s just about to run out of cat biscuits, this gets our hero’s full attention. So begins a painful and dangerous odyssey in search of the rarest jazz record of them all…
“An irresistible blend of murder, mystery and music… our protagonist seeks to find the rarest of records – and incidentally solve a murder, right a great historical injustice and, if he’s very lucky, avoid dying in the process.”
Ben Aaronovitch, bestselling author of Rivers of London
“The Vinyl Detective is one of the sharpest and most original characters I’ve seen for a long time.”
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