by Dana Cameron
He didn’t know Cousin Martha was an oracle. That was something, I suppose, but he knew entirely too much.
He drew something from his pocket. I did not wait to see if it was a gun.
Thinking how much I wanted, needed, to take the sword from them, my head cleared. I let myself sag and began to snivel. When Moran’s pistol dipped, ever so slightly, I leaped onto the long oak table and somersaulted, snatching up the sword in its wrappings. I lunged forward; the Professor seized my arm. I raked my nails across his face. He screamed and released me. I threw myself at the window in just the manner I’d been taught.
I was lucky; it broke under my weight. I felt the glass tear at my disguise, and timing the act as best I could, Turned halfway through my fall. It wouldn’t have done to Turn into a wolf-woman in front of so many who might not know as much as the Professor.
I hit the ground in my walking-wolf form, still feeling the pain of the glass and wood cutting me. No matter; I’d heal quickly. And now out of the room—and away from that horrible chemical compound—my head cleared even more.
I staggered up, and ran fast as I could, zigzagging through the streets, following a path no man could follow.
I ran with a kind of elation, an exaltation of the mind. This was the best part of my life. Dangerous, yes; violently fatal, inevitably. And yet, these moments where I could—must—throw off the shackles and conventions of Ordinary life were splendid, violent, wild, and joyful.
Then my nose picked out a familiar scent from the mélange of city dirt, horse droppings, garbage, and coal smoke: I detected Cousin Sherlock’s tracks. He’d been here very recently, and with Doctor Watson. He must have reached the same conclusion that it was Cousin Martha and the Baker Street house that were threatened, using logic where I had learned by spying. I followed his trail, which led to Regent’s Park just to the east of Baker Street.
As his scent grew stronger, so did the foul odor of men up to no good. Moran’s men were gathering, in cover of the park’s shadows, to descend on 221 Baker Street.
I ran faster—too fast to be seen. All that mattered was that I stop the army of thugs raised against the stronghold and stalwarts of my Fangborn Family.
I scaled the wrought iron fence with little effort and no noise at all. Cousin Martha would be proud of me: fast and stealthy. I landed, hid the precious sword under some bushes, and hid myself behind a tree to assess the situation.
My Cousin and the doctor were surrounded by seven men. Moran’s shortsightedness had been a critical mistake. I knew that others of the professor’s henchmen were on their way to aid them. I had to act quickly.
I pulled my cap down securely over my pointed ears and tied a dirty handkerchief across my face as a mask. It would not completely obscure my changed facial structure, but it would diminish the impact of a lupine jaw and nose. Gloves would only impede my claws, and with any luck I’d be moving too fast for anyone to see them.
I yipped several times to warn Cousin Sherlock that I was nearby and was coming to his aid. This was not the first time we’d used such a code. I vaulted into the fray.
The trick to our work is concealing our presence, so though my powers were greater than those of Ordinary humans, I had to mask the marks of wolf-bite and claw-rake as best I could. We’d spent a great deal of time practicing this, based on the various sorts of wounds found on murder victims. Sherlock had a comprehensive collection of such photographs in one of his many files.
I leaped onto the back of one man, using one claw to slit his throat so that it would look to the uneducated eye—those at Scotland Yard, say—to have been made with a knife.
I felt better as soon as he was dead, and caught up in the spirit of battle, searched for my next adversary. There was a man threatening Doctor Watson, who fought well against him but was clearly tiring. I kicked the man in the back so that he went down, giving the doctor a chance to pull his army pistol from his coat pocket. I kept running, fast and low, so that I could attack the man who was sneaking behind the doctor.
I dispatched that one with a quick twist of his neck, without the doctor’s ever knowing he was threatened from two sides.
Show me another young lady who ever had such fun, and all in the service of mankind and the greater good!
A quick glance showed that Sherlock was holding his own in his human form. I noticed he was using boxing, kicking, and baritsu, in his experimental form of hand-to-hand combat designed for use against several opponents at once. He incapacitated two of his attackers, using nonlethal means, and focused on a large brute who had the stink of true evil on him.
It was then that a carriage pulled up with nearly a dozen more of the professor’s men on its roof and clinging to its sides.
It had been a long day. We were getting tired and were now badly outnumbered.
I caught my Cousin’s eye and nodded; he nodded back. Now there were more important things than being observed in our other selves.
He assumed his snake-man form, his face flattening, his prominent nose and brow receding, to be replaced with a scaled and. serpent-like visage I could see the glitter of his dark eyes and the shine of his fangs. It did not bode well for our enemies.
Two sharp noises, very quick: Sherlock spat toxic venom at his large attacker. The man was under the influence of some drug, because he didn’t react to the sight of my Turned Cousin, and he did not seem to feel the poison. Two more cracks, and Sherlock’s venom was depleted. He would have to fight with fang and claw the rest of the evening.
Two more men descended on him as the others arrived, fresh and eager to avenge their fallen fellows. They were brought up short by the sight of the strange creature in front of them.
I heard a shout of fear and astonishment. “My God, Holmes—what has become of you?”
I realized what Doctor Watson had seen, possibly not for the first time. Sherlock’s soft workman’s cap was gone, along with his visible humanity. The doctor saw only that his friend had been replaced by a snake-like beast.
“Believe me, my friend,” Sherlock gasped. “I’m still my own man! On your left!”
The doctor, so amazed by the sight of Sherlock Holmes’s transformation, had let his guard down and was attacked by the newcomers.
In for a penny, in for a pound. Our disguises were of no use now. I ripped off my mask, which was hot and foul smelling, and began to fight with less finesse than before but with more speed and fury. I sank my teeth into the neck of one of the men, making sure that Doctor Watson understood that I was on his side.
“Good evening, Doctor!” I said after I spat out a mouthful of malefactor.
“Annie’s voice, but coming from a ragamuffin dressed as a dog?” he said, astounded. “What is happening?”
“Doctor, I will explain all later—look lively, to your right!” I ran after three men who were retreating, now terrified. I did not think anyone would believe their stories of fighting wolf-boys and long-fanged snake-men, but better to contain them until Sherlock could alter their memories.
I heard a shout: “Leave him to me!”
A figure on the carriage next to the driver—Moran—stood and raised a rifle.
Sherlock’s opponent stepped away, out of range.
“Sherlock!” I cried. “By the gate!”
As the words left my mouth, I was shoved aside. I moved to strike back but held: It was the doctor brushing past me, running to his friend’s aid.
A shot rang out.
That was when I realized that our grand plan might work, one day. The affection Watson had for Holmes was such that he willingly took Moran’s bullet in the leg for his friend, even when that friend resembled a monster.
I tackled the two closest men, rendering them unconscious. The third required a more permanent solution, and I reached up with both clawed hands and took his throat. I looked back; my Cousin’s uncanny reflexes had saved him; he still stood, fighting, side by side with the wounded Watson.
&
nbsp; I must reach the carriage. Moran could not be allowed to take another shot. The Baker Street household—indeed, my entire Family—required my last effort.
I tore through the dark of Regent’s Park. Luck turned her face on Sherlock just as she turned her back on me. The professor, seeing me advance, screamed, “The little beast is upon us! Shoot now, Moran, or we are dead!”
Moran swung the rifle from Sherlock to me.
I took another three steps, then jumped directly into Moran’s sights.
The horses caught a scent of me and, whinnying in panic, ran away, their driver unable to stop them.
I missed Moran. But he also missed me and fell back into his seat with a curse.
I landed on the foot rail of the carriage and slashed out. If not Moran, the professor would do.
He hurled himself out of reach. The carriage had hit a loose cobble, and I was thrown.
Collecting myself, I shook off my hurts. The carriage disappeared, rattling into the night. I turned my sharp eyes toward my Cousin.
All was well; Sherlock was wounded and the doctor was shot, but for now both were alive and safe. I recovered the sword I’d hidden and joined them.
We dispatched those whose evil required it. Sherlock whispered into the ears of the men who were wrongdoers but redeemable. Doctor Watson watched with awe as the detective convinced them that they had been at a brawl at a music hall and should never speak of it.
Sherlock turned back to Watson and resumed his human form. The wounds he’d sustained while fighting in that form remained; the wounds he’d received while in snake form were no longer visible.
“My friend, you have many questions, and I will explain all to you. But we need to make haste to Baker Street before a much greater harm is done! Will you help me a little more this night?”
The doctor was silent for a moment. “This . . . this is not the first time this has happened, is it?”
“No,” my Cousin said simply.
“Now that I see you—again, it appears—there are vague stirrings of memory. I am confused, but I do know this. I am your friend. I believed you remarkable before this . . . transformation. I will help you now.”
“Thank you.” Sherlock turned to me. “Our home may be under siege, and it is more than us at stake, Amelia.”
I nodded. “Cousin Martha and all the Fangborn in England depend on us.”
He nodded in turn, and with Watson’s permission, healed the doctor just enough to stop the bleeding.
And then we three ran.
When we arrived home, all was deathly quiet. No lights shone from any of the windows, and I knew that Martha had implemented the “castle protocol.” Hidden shutters of iron slid from inside the walls on clockwork springs and gears, locking in place; the fronts were painted to look like curtained windows. I knew all the doors were equally reinforced.
221 Baker Street was now a fortress.
We assembled: I with the ancient sword at the ready; the doctor, pale but steady, with his pistol; and my Cousin, tensed and ready to spring.
We exchanged an anxious glance, and Sherlock produced a key that only the three of us Family had. He inserted the massive key into a cleverly concealed lock, and with a clicking and whirring, the door opened as the iron barricades retracted into the wall.
A tiny red light hovered in midair. Sherlock’s breath caught a little, and his mouth twitched.
The entryway was dark. I smelled rough tobacco and human blood, some familiar. My hackles went up.
“It is all right,” Sherlock breathed to me. “We’re safe now, Amelia.”
“How can it be?” I hissed back. “I smell—”
“Blood, yes. Trust me.”
“Who’s there?” a deep, booming male voice demanded. “Who dares?”
“One who has every right,” Sherlock said, sagging a little with relief. “Brother Mycroft, will you give the countersign?”
“Enter and be safe; all is well,” came the voice, as from a kettledrum in a cavern.
The gaslights flickered on with a hiss. On one side of the hallway, I could see the massive form of Cousin Mycroft sitting in a chair. Directly in front of us was our Mrs. Hudson, with an enormous shotgun of her own modification. Bandoliers weighed down with shells were partially covered by a long driving coat. The servants didn’t dare go near her pantry, for fear of expulsion; she occasionally worked on her guns or filled her shells there.
Of course, it was all right. I cursed my fatigue and stupidity, and marveled once again at the quickness of my Cousin’s brain. Cousin Martha never would have lit her cigarette if all was not well inside the house.
I hoped one day to be as quick and observant as Sherlock Holmes.
And yet, my other Cousin was armed and ready. She was confident but never would risk anything without full proof. I must find the Latin for “No rest without proof,” for it seemed to be our household’s motto.
Mycroft carefully disassembled the two components of a dead man’s trigger, keeping their chemicals well apart. If he had been slain by the professor’s men, our house would fall, and all its Family secrets with it. I did not love explosions so much as to ever want to see this one.
Cousin Martha glanced into a mirror that, with a series of other lenses, reflected the outside situation. It told her we had not been coerced and that all was safe.
She nodded to us, and we entered.
“Well, we’ve had quite a night,” Martha said, matter of factly. “Those thugs had Billy Wiggins and threatened to kill him if I didn’t let them in. So I did, closed the doors behind them, shot the one with Billy, and helped the lad away, closing off the hallway with the rest inside.”
Hearing that Wiggins was alive, the doctor and Sherlock went to attend him.
“You gassed them?” I asked.
“Indeed, Amelia, I did. And as soon as they were out cold and the gas dispersed, I locked them in the cellar holding room.” She spoke with a certain amount of pride in this extraordinary brand of housewifery.
“We took out the rest,” I said. “But the two leaders escaped. Cousin Mycroft, sir, how do you come to be here? You seldom leave your haunts at Whitehall.”
“When Martha invited me for a late whisky, I knew there would be trouble.” He guffawed, and I swore I heard the windows rattling. His voice matched his body, which was necessarily of a size suitable to support his massive head and brain.
Cousin Martha nodded. “A sudden urge to see Mycroft here was so pressing, I realized we all were in danger and needed to close ranks. I paced and paced, inspecting the defenses and our weapons, never easy until I knew he’d arrived. We compared our visions. Then we readied the house for battle.”
The two oracles beamed at each other, their abilities similar—to protect their domains—but the scale and emphasis different.
When the Doctor and Sherlock returned, both looked drained. But the Doctor was now free to be curious about the stranger aspects of the evening.
“Holmes, I would not pry for the world—” Watson was saying.
“Whereas I do little else but pry.” My Cousin bowed ironically.
“—but you did offer me an explanation, and I confess myself curious. Very curious indeed.”
“Doctor Watson, if you would allow me?” Mycroft said. The doctor looked surprised. He had been so concerned first with Mrs. Hudson’s strange appearance and then the boys’ welfare, he’d barely noticed anything else.
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes. A pleasure to see you again.” The doctor extended his hand. “What is required?”
“Only this, sir,” Mycroft said as he took the doctor’s hand in both of his.
And then was a scene repeated many times since my coming to London and Baker Street: The doctor froze, perfectly safe, as Mycroft psychically communicated the whole, true history of his adventures with Sherlock Holmes. The nature and abilities of the Fangborn. That the only vampire in Sussex was Sherlock, that there was a la
rge, hound-like creature—me—present at the Baskervilles investigation. And on and on, all in but a few moments.
Mycroft finished aloud. “Everyone in this household is part of an experiment. It is even more dangerous and volatile than Sherlock’s test tubes and burners because the chemistry that we search for is . . . unknown. But we must not let that stop us. We four Cousins believe it is necessary that we must Introduce ourselves to the Ordinary populace. We are variously gifted, and Ordinary men have greater and lesser talents, so it’s only logical to combine our strengths to improve the world. It is our duty. We are all English, after all.”
A small ahem from Cousin Martha.
“Britons, I should say,” Sherlock corrected his brother.
Mycroft ignored them both. “As Sherlock works with his young Irregulars, training the unwanted and uneducated—I am doing something similar. I have foreseen that there will be ghastly changes in the coming century, that the gentlemanly way of warfare—if war could ever be called such—will yield to increasingly brutal weapons and tactics. I am creating a governmental information-gathering organization that will use—well, plainly, criminal techniques to get the information vital to preventing as much bloodshed as we may.”
He paused. “I’ve had a word in one or two ears about this plan. I have high hopes for a young aristocrat, half-American, name of Churchill. He will listen to me one day, I predict.”
The doctor, accepting the information that Mycroft had conveyed to him, aloud and in silence, was deep in thought. He turned to Sherlock. “I must ask you then: What is my part in this?”
“Sir, I have the honor to call you my friend.”
“And I yours, sir. But I am no homeless waif, nor am I a . . . spy.” There was obvious distaste in that last word.
“You are exactly the sort of person we believe would be amenable to our cause of peace. An Englishman, through and through; a doctor; a man of science. You are, with the exception of your wife, without any living Family now. You know excitement and adventure as a soldier and a gambler; you are loyal and a patriot who understands the need to fight and to sacrifice. You know how to speak to ladies in a way that I do not. Besides being my friend, you are the most perfect confederate I could wish for.”
