Black City Demon

by Richard A. Knaak

  Holmes grunted. A brief look of anger crossed his mustached face . . . a look that quickly faded.

  “Two against one? I believe I can outdo those odds. I’ve been building up to this for over thirty years, after all.”

  And as he spoke, I sensed others forming around us, half-seen figures gathering mostly behind and beside Holmes.

  “Never waste. Always save,” the Beast of Chicago remarked cheerfully. “Did you think I just let them wander around for no reason?”

  The ghosts gathered. Each and every victim of Holmes since he’d started his monstrous quest. Even the dread dark spirits of the Wyld who’d crossed his path.

  “Two against one? How about two hundred against two?”

  I didn’t know if they numbered two hundred or not, only that there were many, far too many. Worse, I recognized two among them, two who’d only been recently added.

  The Nilssons.

  Like the rest, they stared at me with begging eyes, as if they still suffered the agonies of their deaths. The pair had an arm around each other, perhaps to draw some small comfort.

  I hadn’t expected them among the ghosts, but, then, I hadn’t thought about the extent of the Frost Moon’s wake. It’d clearly reached all the way to the Nilssons at that point.

  My guilt surged . . . and almost did us in. I caught a slight glimmer in Holmes’s eyes and knew he’d intended just that. I barely strengthened our wall in time to prevent him from reaching through.

  “Oh, I’ve only begun, Saint George,” he mocked. “They’ve not even joined us.”

  And then the dragon and I experienced the full force of Holmes’s captive spirits.

  It was like standing against a tidal wave or earthquake. We were battered hard, mentally thrown about as if rag dolls.

  “Give in, Saint George. The shadow amplifies my power further. Why would you want to be bound to the Gate as it is? Haven’t you railed against your captivity for centuries? Doesn’t Heaven owe you enough already? You’ve suffered enough! Let me take your burden. . . .”

  My hands felt like they were on fire. A sense of displacement began growing inside me. Simultaneously, Holmes seemed to look a little more solid, a little more alive.

  “Give in,” Holmes pressed. “This is my world now. Just look at it with its gang wars and rivers of blood. You’re part of a time, of a belief, so rustic, so abandoned. Heaven awaits you . . . and if you give in now I just might let it have you. The dragon’ll be enough.”

  “You wouldn’t . . . like his company . . . for very long,” I managed.

  “Oh, I think he and I are much alike . . . and I have another gift for him when he’s mine. One you’d like, too. I can see he hates you dreadfully, and I don’t doubt you hate him in turn. With the dragon mine, I won’t need him anymore.”

  I had no idea what he meant and didn’t really care. It was becoming harder and harder for us to keep the wall strong. The dragon was with me the same way that Holmes’s supernatural slaves were with him. Under most circumstances, only one of us could have real substance in the world and, thus, real power. He could either augment or supersede me. There wasn’t much middle ground, at least not for more than a limited time. We could never be half and half.

  Actually, there were ways to make that happen, but to draw from the Gate in such a way was to risk a far greater danger than Holmes threatened . . . so far. Oberon’d attempted to use the Gate to meld the two realms into one; what I’d need to do was just as likely to open an abyss that would swallow much of both sides and leave a pit big enough to fit at least three or four Chicagos, including Lake Michigan.

  There will be destruction no matter what. . . . Eye say do it! We are the Gatekeepers . . . it is our choice . . . our duty. . . .

  No, not exactly what I’d want to be forced to do, the dragon’s opinion to the contrary. The deaths of thousands wouldn’t touch him, but all of those losses would be added not only to the ghosts under Holmes’s awful sway, but the many I’d let down long, long ago.

  And yet, the strain became impossible to withstand. Once again, Holmes ate away at our defenses. Our wall crumbled in places, allowing him to feed on us.

  Then, something stirred among the swirling energies. A slight shift that revealed another presence kept hidden nearby. Blinking away tears, I tried to focus on Holmes, who stood very close to where I thought the other presence materialized.

  The ever so sharp black point thrust out through Holmes’s chest. The Beast let out a gasp and stared down at the needlelike spear sticking more than a foot out of his body.

  Lon, fully shifted into his stick figure shape, pulled the bloody point back through Holmes. Holmes shuddered and let out another gasp as the weapon withdrew.

  As he pulled his sinister appendage free, Lon transformed into the shape I knew better. For the first time, I thought I saw what looked like an expression of deep satisfaction on the murky, skeletal face. This was what he had been born to do. This was his purpose, as Feirie had for millennia dictated.

  Holmes shook. His eyes widened. He gasped a third time—

  And then the wound sealed. Just like that. At his strongest, the dragon couldn’t have healed it faster or more thoroughly. Even Holmes’s shirt, vest, and coat mended.

  “That might’ve worked . . . once,” he whispered.

  Another Holmes materialized behind the Feir’hr Sein. He immediately seized Lon by the approximate location of the neck.

  The Feir’hr Sein let out a mournful howl as a bright glow originating from the second Holmes’s hand engulfed him. Part of Lon literally burned away.

  The second Holmes tossed aside the badly scorched creature. The Holmes combating me smiled wider yet. “You see? It’s all becoming possible for me! I’ve done it, and I have you to thank for all of it, whatever he thinks of himself!”

  I didn’t say anything. In the moment when Lon’d used me as a distraction to aid his own attack, Holmes’s control had slipped ever so slightly. Yeah, it’d been pretty impressive for him to be in two places at once as opposed to casting illusions, but it’d taken a tiny bit more out of him than I think he realized.

  But equally important was that someone chose that moment to give me a hand up from behind . . . two hands, actually, as they helped me stand straight.

  We give what we can when we can, a voice I couldn’t identify but felt I knew said in my head. But as strong as the sword is, the heart is stronger . . . because it is All. . . .

  I felt the dragon’s presence recede as that happened, as if the voice startled him in a way few things did. I couldn’t say that I blamed him.

  Holmes abruptly glared at something behind me. “Who the hell are . . . Joseph?”

  “Be our protection against the wickedness . . .” Barnaby’s son replied much too cheerfully.

  I’d heard that phrase before. It wasn’t in the Bible, but it had to do with it. In fact, I knew it because it’d only been added a few years before the exposition by Pope Leo XIII as part of a prayer to one saint in particular. Not me, of course.

  Michael. Now the voice in my head made sense. I’d heard it once before . . . at Saint Boniface . . . when the “son” had spoken with me.

  “I fixed it,” Joseph whispered as merrily as ever. “He said I was good. Said my father would be proud. Is it time to board the express?”

  “Not . . . yet. . . .” I did my best to shield Joseph as Holmes threw himself into the attack again. Despite not being as cheerful as before, he’d lost none of the tremendous power at his disposal. In fact, it seemed if anything he was stronger. I wondered if Joseph’d fixed things the wrong way where I was concerned.

  The ghosts didn’t look as if matters had changed for the better for them, either. Their expressions had turned even more agonized, and now I could swear I heard some of their screams in my head. Bad enough that most had been tortured in life before he’d killed them; now they had to suffer by his will in order to grant him greater power.

  “Your nigger friend’s come and
gone fast,” Holmes muttered, “and done nothing for you. And don’t think this addle-headed math prodigy will be of much good! I sense what he’s done, but he’s only made it easier for me to draw everything together!”

  If I’d had any question about what he meant, it was answered a breath later as I felt a fire burning in me that had nothing to do with the dragon. It grew rapidly, and I began to wonder just what Michael’d been thinking with his little intrusion into my very desperate situation.

  Then, among the ghosts, I saw Claudette. Compared to most of the rest, she was pretty composed still. There were tears streaming down her cheeks, but she’d managed to keep from screaming. I wondered what made her different, then realized that she hadn’t suffered directly at Holmes’s hand as the others had. She’d avoided his torture, his dark experiments.

  Michael’s words—or at least the words that I was fairly sure that damned elusive archangel’d muttered in my mind—came back to me. The sword was good, but the heart was better. A lot better.

  It’d pushed me before. Maybe it could push a ghost to miracles.

  She’d been staring at me all that time. I knew somehow that she’d become aware of what part she was in my life, that she’d been the incarnation of the woman I loved. The woman who died before me each time, rending my own heart in the process.

  But she wasn’t really seeing me. Of all the incarnations, this one did not see me, but another.

  And so I mouthed the name Claudette would find in her soul instead of mine. I mouthed Kravayik.

  Her expression didn’t alter. I mouthed his name again, but still nothing happened.

  Nothing, except that Holmes became less and less human and more like a mad mix of man and dragon such as I didn’t think even I’d ever become. If I had, I prayed that, assuming we survived, Claryce would never see me like this.

  He still wore the damned bowler hat and still paraded his thick mustache, but his skin had grown scaled and slightly green and his eyes had taken on a narrower, reptilian cast with which I was all too familiar. His grin hadn’t changed . . . if you didn’t take in account that his teeth were longer and sharper, better for tearing flesh.

  “Yesss,” Holmes murmured with more sibilance than even the dragon ever used. “The way isss almost clear! The way isss almost mine. . . .”

  There’d been times in my existence that I would’ve gladly traded places with him, let him have the Gate and all its troubles. However, through the centuries, I’d gradually come to realize just what it would’ve meant if, say, someone like Galerius, Napoleon, or Hitler had had control. It made me wonder on occasion if it’d all been so accidental, my being the one.

  Inside, there came a scream. The dragon. I’d never heard him like this before. He sounded distant, disjointed. I understood then that the fact that Holmes’s transformation had continued meant that whatever there was of the dragon had, through Holmes’s spellwork and the Frost Moon’s wake, been ripped in part from me. The dragon was caught between both of us now and suffering as terribly as any of Holmes’s victims.

  I knew only one way to prevent more of it from happening. I finally urged the transformation upon me. The dragon did his best, throwing what remained of his power into the change.

  “Aah, there you are!” The Beast of Chicago chuckled. “My, what a sight! Do I look like that?”

  In response, I embraced the dragon’s nature and exhaled.

  Holmes did so at the same time. We bathed each other in primal flames to no avail.

  “I know as you know!” he rumbled. “Nothing you do will have effect!”

  A chorus of mournful cries accompanied his declaration, the ghosts’ pain renewed as Holmes grew more powerful. I couldn’t help but look at them for just a moment . . . and noticed then that Claudette no longer stood where she’d been. I didn’t know what that meant, if anything.

  Behind me, Joseph was having a mumbled conversation with himself. There was no looking for aid from Lon, who continued to burn.

  He’s here, I tell you! He’s right here!

  Fetch’s voice came from within and around me, yet there was no hint of him. I knew then that he and Claryce hadn’t fully melded with Holmes’s foul domain, that they were in this very chamber but unable to locate us.

  Holmes either couldn’t sense them or paid them no mind. It didn’t matter which. They couldn’t do anything as they were, even Fetch.

  It’s all right, Fetch, I heard Claryce respond in a surprisingly calm tone. It’s all right, Kravayik.

  I shouldn’t have paid any mind to the last. It wasn’t surprising that Kravayik might be with her, though I’d been concerned if he’d be able to survive Lysander. Yet, the way she responded to Kravayik reminded me of something else.

  It’s all right, Nick.

  And suddenly Claryce was in my mind. Claryce, adding an incredible strength of will that braced me like steel.

  Claryce . . . and yet . . . not Claryce.

  Claudette and Claryce together.

  CHAPTER 28

  “Claudette,” Joseph greeted the empty air. “I missed you. I haven’t seen you since I was last here. I’m glad I was able to come back to say hello. Hello.”

  “Nick,” came Claryce’s/Claudette’s voice. “Nick . . . I can see you now.”

  Where is he, Mistress Claryce? begged Fetch from somewhere. Where?

  Seize her hand! another voice . . . Kravayik’s . . . commanded. Seize it!

  Suddenly, the three of them stood to our side, Kravayik worn and his garments in rags, Fetch cut and bleeding, but still in his true Feirie state. Claryce stood between them, holding a hand with each.

  “Claudette,” Joseph repeated, slipping past. “I wish we’d met when you weren’t a ghost, but that was too long ago. But we’re still friends, right?”

  Holmes jerked. His gaze darted to Joseph, to Claryce, then back to me. I knew then that he couldn’t strike at them so long as we were locked together. We’d created a balance that for a moment meant defeat for whoever lost his concentration first.

  “Yes, Joseph, we’re still friends,” Claryce called back with a smile. “Come.” She let go of Fetch who, despite being bereft of her touch, remained solid.

  Joseph vanished, materializing beside Claryce and taking up a spot next to Fetch.

  “Claudette,” Kravayik whispered from Claryce’s other side, revealing just who now dominated the body.

  Yet, as Joseph took her hand, she looked at me again. “Nick . . .”

  I knew it was Claryce . . . but she was willingly sharing her consciousness with Claudette.

  She, Joseph, and Kravayik vanished.

  Fetch stalked toward us.

  “Stay back!” I warned him.

  “Nay, Master Nicholas,” he returned, baring his fangs and raising his claws. “The mistress bade me do what I could at all cost if need be. I promised her scout’s honor I’d do just that.”

  He lunged at Holmes, but suddenly froze in the air. A second later, several of Holmes’s ghost slaves materialized around him, their spectral hands having no difficulty grasping the shapeshifter. Fetch let out a pained grunt as the translucent fingers enveloped him . . . and then went limp as if dead.

  “A noble gesture,” Holmes croaked. “A futile gesture.”

  But it wasn’t as futile as he claimed. The slight shift in Holmes’s concentration enabled me to reinforce my will. I shoved him back a step.

  Hold on a moment more, Nick! Claryce pleaded. Hold on! Claudette begged.

  In my head, a vision appeared of the other chamber as seen through her/their eyes: Joseph fiddling with the array while Kravayik climbed up to where Lysander hung limply. There was a slick black line across Lysander’s throat where apparently Kravayik had finished off his fellow elf with some sharp blade. I tried not to think why Lysander’s blood should be a caky black as opposed to what usually spilled out.

  Kravayik tossed Lysander unceremoniously to the floor. He glanced toward me . . . Claryce/Claudette. He must be ready! Tell
him!

  Joseph! Finish! she/they implored.

  This is wrong here. Let me . . . Is it time to board the express?

  The vision shimmered. I felt an intrusion . . . and realized too late I’d left the vision open to Holmes.

  He hissed. “They waste our time. . . . There’s nothing they can do to forestall the inevitable.”

  The ghosts holding Fetch threw him at me. I didn’t dare move.

  I’d always considered Fetch light on his feet, but he certainly wasn’t light when he hit. I tried to keep from moving, but it was too much. I lost my footing.

  Nick! Claryce called. Kravayik! Claudette cried.

  I had a fragmented glimpse through their eyes of Joseph stepping back and then of Kravayik . . . Kravayik . . . half-hooked into the spell array.

  That should be right, Joseph commented with his usual cheer. The moon is waning, the wake is receding, the express is flying high. . . .

  Holmes loomed over me as we grappled. He’d lost his bowler at last, and his mustache had turned into twisting, twirling tendrils as I’d seen on some images of dragons . . . but not the one true one I knew. His clothes hung in tatters, no longer able to contain his half-transformed body. At the moment, he was more bound to the Gate’s power than I was.

  But that was only for a moment. Then, the chamber rippled. Literally rippled.

  Holmes let out an angry, startled roar. “That fool! And her—”

  Even as he shouted, I felt something of what he did, all the energies gathered and magnified by both the array and the Frost Moon’s wake swirling in an entirely different manner. I felt them regathering, coalescing, in the chamber where Kravayik had now strapped himself as best as possible.

  And where Kravayik also now screamed in agony from far too much power coursing into and out of him at a rapid rate.

  But where Lysander’d been drawing the stolen energies of both realms together in the mistaken belief that he and Holmes would share them, now those energies were spilling out through Kravayik and back to where they belonged. The process of doing so was ripping Kravayik apart, though.