Black City Demon

by Richard A. Knaak

  It wasn’t doing Claryce and Claudette much good either. I felt my link to them separate, come together, separate, and so on over and over. They were trying to cling together as best they could, as if their failure to do so would put everything in jeopardy.

  Then, I had to focus again on Holmes, who, despite Kravayik’s sacrifice, still swelled with what he’d stolen. His body radiated a dark green that reminded me of Feirie. There wasn’t much of anything that looked like the dapper “doctor” we’d met. Holmes was now very much the demon, the Beast, he’d always been in his black soul.

  He laughed. I’d heard some evil sounds before, but this was one of the worst.

  “Dead or alive, they all must obey me in the end,” he rasped.

  I didn’t know what he meant until I caught a glimpse of something detaching itself from him. A moment later, I felt it slip beyond us to where the others were.

  Where it settled on Lysander’s broken form.

  Holmes chuckled madly. “Killing him only made him more mine to control. . . .”

  Like a marionette pulled up by its strings, Lysander rose behind the suffering Kravayik. There was a hint of the haughty elf I’d seen in the eyes, yet an also monstrous glassiness.

  The image rippled, then faded away. There was only Holmes and me again. The Beast and me.

  The wake is receding.

  It was Joseph’s voice, but as ever heard only because of the connection Claryce/Claudette created. I understood then that they were battling to keep that link strong. Unfortunately, that link in part existed because of Holmes himself.

  Still . . . the wake was receding.

  Then I saw Claryce fire at Lysander, drawing his attention. As he turned, she fired again, striking him in the heart. It shook him, but didn’t stop him.

  Lysander reached for Kravayik, but Claryce took two steps forward and shot a third time.

  But instead of shooting at Lysander, she fired directly at Kravayik.

  Nick! she shouted in my head. Just Claryce, not Claudette. She told me to shoot him now!

  Her voice and the image faded away. I didn’t have to ask why. Claudette’s ghost formed near us and did an odd thing. She bared her throat toward me.

  There was no doubt in my mind what she wanted, and I thought I knew why. However, it meant putting myself at risk at a vital moment, a risk that, if I failed, would grant Holmes everything he’d murdered so many for.

  I released my grip on him and immediately rolled toward her. Holmes stumbled forward. Our minds were still tied together, but the distraction caused by Claryce and Kravayik had taken his attention for a crucial breath.

  Michael had whispered that the sword was good, but the heart was better. I think if he’d finished, he’d have said that better yet was using both together. At least, that was what I felt at that moment. Kravayik’d sacrificed for all of us, but especially Claudette’s ghost. Claryce had done so for me. I couldn’t do any less.

  And it didn’t surprise me when Her Lady’s gift slid close enough for me to reach. Slid close thanks to Fetch . . . battered and drained, but still apparently conscious despite appearances . . . making use of the fact that he, too, had gained strength from the Frost Moon’s wake. Strength enough to remain conscious despite what Holmes’s unearthly slaves had done to him. Fetch, who’d been no doubt instructed by Kravayik on what to do and just when to do it. I hadn’t seen him crawl the short distance to the sword, but neither, evidently, had Holmes, and that was the crucial point.

  Taking a tremendous risk, I transformed to human, took up the sword, and, praying as quickly as I could, drove it through Claudette’s throat.

  She didn’t scream. She just gasped, then smiled reassuringly to me. Her body shimmered, and, as the sword always did, the elven weapon flared and absorbed her. I wanted to stop it, but Claudette only shook her head before being sucked inside.

  Holmes’s sanctum shuddered. Walls creaked. Metal groaned.

  As that happened, Holmes slashed into my back with his claws. It hurt. It hurt a lot. If I’d been a normal person, I would’ve bled to death right there and then. As it was, I had to struggle to keep conscious, much less maintain hold of the sword.

  “For thirty years, I languished in the ground, forced to wait for my rightful immortality,” Holmes rumbled. “I have waited long enough!”

  “Thirty years?” I managed to retort. “Talk to me again when you’ve waited centuries.”

  Straining, I whirled and thrust Her Lady’s gift in his direction.

  He dodged easily.

  I continued lunging, driving the sword into the midst of the ghostly throng.

  If it’d been a basic weapon, I’d have been attacking empty air. But just as with Claudette, each spirit Her Lady’s weapon touched was almost immediately swallowed by the sword.

  Holmes groaned as his slaves . . . and thus his access to the source of his power . . . were torn away. Some of the dragon faded from him. He briefly clutched at his heart, then grabbed for my wrist. “Stop that!”

  Evading him, I swept into the crowd. With each loss, Holmes grew more and more human again.

  Then, suddenly the rest of the throng faded away. I swore, well aware it wasn’t due to the sword’s efforts.

  Holmes chuckled darkly. “That will be enough of that—”

  Fetch seized him from behind. “Master Nicholas—”

  As weak as he was, Fetch couldn’t maintain his grip. Holmes shook him off with terrible ease.

  But it was all the time I needed to turn Her Lady’s gift around and this time drive it into Holmes’s chest.

  He stood there, his gaze first on the blade, then on me. He was almost completely human by this time, but, I knew, no less dangerous.

  The ghosts still under his control returned to surround Holmes defensively. There came that awful smile. “He did describe you well. Fighting nobly until the end. . . .” Holmes laughed. “And often fighting futilely.”

  I didn’t answer. I just commanded the sword to release what it’d taken.

  It wasn’t a thing the weapon liked. It wasn’t a thing I could do often. I’d done it only a couple of times in sixteen hundred years, and both times I’d nearly gotten myself killed in the process. It hadn’t done much good for the sword, either, which meant that if I’d guessed wrong, we were all in more trouble than ever.

  The blade turned an icy white. Holmes shrieked as I’d only heard one other. That one’d also been pierced by the blade when I’d attempted this.

  But where that adversary had melted before my eyes . . . literally melted . . . Holmes maintained his form and even kept conscious. He did waver almost as a ghost might, the only sign that perhaps I’d done some damage.

  Something was wrong. I’d been certain that Claudette’d directed me to use the sword to draw her and some of Holmes’s other slaves into it in order to weaken him enough for a fatal strike to work. I could feel differences in the energies radiating from Her Lady’s gift that seemed to verify that suggestion.

  Yet, while Holmes’d been hurt, he’d hardly been stopped. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the blade by the edge and started to pull free.

  The blade shone brighter, the iciness nearly blinding in its dread glory.

  And suddenly, the howls of ghosts resounded loudly in my head. They no longer cried out of pain, but anger. Anger . . . and freedom.

  What remained of Holmes’s gathered slaves faded as one. Holmes jerked as if struck. Still, he didn’t fall nor did the sword do him any other damage. So long as he could draw from the Frost Moon’s wake, he was still a threat—

  I pulled the sword back. It slipped out of Holmes with an unsettling moist sound. The moment the point left, his wound began to seal.

  But while that was still happening, I turned the point down and thrust as hard as I could.

  Her Lady’s gift bore through Holmes’s left foot, bore through leather, flesh, bone, and more and kept going deep, deep into the floor below.

  Holmes let out an inhuman r
oar. An invisible force hit me hard. I went flying several yards, landing with a very painful thud.

  As I tried to rise, Holmes, teeth bared, tried to grip the hilt. But only a few could actually hold the weapon, much less wield it. Her Lady’d surprised me by making it possible for Claryce to use the sword, which she’d done ably against some of Oberon’s Feirie servants.

  His hand missed the hilt. He tried again with the same result. He could’ve tried a hundred times with a similar lack of success.

  The wake is receding. The voice wasn’t Joseph’s this time, but either Claryce’s or Claudette’s. Just who it was didn’t matter. What mattered was that Holmes apparently heard the same thing.

  “No . . . no . . . no . . .” he muttered. The Beast of Chicago took another grab at the hilt. He almost succeeded, which was part of the weapon’s cruel nature. For once, I wasn’t bothered by that. I wasn’t so saintly I didn’t mind watching a monster discover his worst fear realized. Holmes was afraid of death, even more so than most. Maybe he knew enough about the afterlife to understand the punishment waiting for him, or maybe he was afraid there’d be nothing but oblivion.

  Holmes suddenly looked up toward the ceiling. I couldn’t help following his gaze, but saw nothing. However, whatever he saw made him snatch at the hilt once more, this time with great vigor but with still no luck.

  Eye can let us see! Let us see! Let us!

  I didn’t know how much good it’d do, since without Joseph we’d not originally been able to make anything out, but I let him give me his eyes. The world turned emerald—

  —except for where it was now divided between a distinct edge of darkness quickly being pushed away by a bone-white glow.

  The glow of the moon . . . through the ceiling.

  I might not’ve been able to see it until now . . . but Holmes certainly’d been able. He’d also had a good view of how the edge of what remained of the wake was rapidly approaching a point where he’d be beyond its shield.

  I’d had a suspicion when I’d pinned him with the blade that once the wake faded, Holmes would be in trouble. I’d not expected the waning to be so abrupt, so distinct, though. I wasn’t complaining, mind you.

  Holmes gave up trying to grab or move the sword. Instead, he began pulling on his leg. There should’ve been a good deal of blood from his efforts, but, like the twins, he didn’t seem to have much inside.

  “Damn you!” he cursed at his foot. “Damn—”

  He looked up again. With increasing speed, the shadow’s receding edge had crossed most of the chamber already. It’d left me behind, left Fetch behind . . . and finally reached the sword and Holmes’s foot.

  “Damn you. . . .” He tugged harder.

  Her Lady’s gift shook slightly.

  I wasn’t about to let our chances slip away at the last second. Throwing myself forward, I set all my weight on the hilt and pressed down. The sword steadied.

  Although now completely human in appearance, Holmes was still a wielder of power. He planted a palm against my face. An incredible dryness overtook me, as if every ounce of water was being drained from me. My legs started to buckle, but I held on, praying that I was right about how much time was left.

  The glow of the moon . . . the impossible glow of the moon . . . receded from the sword, from Holmes’s foot, and then his leg. Like a wild creature, he growled and fought to pull away. If he could’ve bitten his leg off, I suspected he would’ve done just that.

  But all he could do was cry out as the shadow left him fully revealed to the bone-white illumination.

  At that point, Holmes’s body began to flicker. He pulled his hand back and grabbed at his throat. A tiny part of him tore free. As that happened, Holmes’s voice shifted. His scream turned deeper, older . . . as if he was now someone else.

  Behind him, one of the ghosts who’d earlier vanished briefly reformed. It stayed long enough for me to see the immense expression of satisfaction as it seized that piece of Holmes that’d come free and held it against where its heart had once been.

  Another bit ripped free from Holmes. His voice grew higher pitched, feminine. A translucent female hand materialized around the stolen . . . or perhaps retrieved . . . essence and then faded with it as the first ghost’d done.

  And then, faster and faster, dozens of ethereal hands gathered around Holmes. Old hands. Young hands. Male and female. Each and every one of the spirits that he’d bound to him with their horrific murders. I caught glimpses of the murky forms of elven spirits among them. Human or Feirie folk, they were united by an urge. I’d have called it justice. Someone else might’ve used the word “revenge.” The ghosts had the right to make of it whatever they wanted.

  Holmes contorted with each portion ripped away. In his eyes, I could see the growing horror as he, too, understood what was happening. No longer bound to him and with the shadow of the wake gone, they were the ones with the power. Each cry he made was a repeat of the helpless agonies inflicted upon them by the Beast of Chicago decades ago . . . with Holmes clearly reliving those tortures in rapid succession.

  The hands pulled his body in a hundred directions. Holmes now looked like some macabre creation made of taffy. His suffering continued unabated even as he turned less and less substantial. Despite that, though, he still could not pull his foot free, not end his torment . . . and the ghosts’ final judgment.

  And as Holmes faded, so, too, did his sanctum. The glow of the moon ate away at the Murder Castle. More and more, the empty rooftop began becoming the true reality around us.

  As Holmes’s world lost cohesion, Claryce solidified. I couldn’t see Kravayik and had no time to wonder what’d happened to him. From what I gathered he’d done . . . using Joseph’s work and his own body to keep the array from feeding everything to Holmes, there was a good chance Kravayik was dead. It was a notion that bothered me more than I would’ve thought, and I knew that despite the secrets he’d kept from me . . . especially his Claudette . . . he was still someone I trusted more than most.

  Which didn’t mean that I’d forgiven him yet.

  The sword shook despite my weight on it. Holmes’s foot slipped free, but only because there wasn’t much left of it but faded shadow. Her Lady’s gift lost most of its iciness as several translucent forms flowed from it.

  The last to emerge but the first to take form was Claudette.

  If I’d been the focus of the expression on her face, I have to admit I’d have been more than a little shaken. I didn’t want to imagine that expression coming from Claryce, but it was impossible not to.

  Fortunately for me, it was Holmes who was the target of not only her fury, but that of the remaining specters. Holmes himself barely looked more cohesive than them, and if I squinted, I could just barely see through him.

  He’d lost all his cockiness, all his damned coldness. The Beast of Chicago looked at least as frightened as I imagined any of his victims once had, hopefully a lot more so. He was free of the sword, but didn’t have the strength to chase after the receding shadow, which had already slipped past the rooftop, anyway. There was just a vague hint of his maze remaining. It’d been designed by magic and maintained by magic, and without magic it was becoming less of a memory than the exposition.

  The first of the ghosts from the sword dove into Holmes. He cried again as it emerged, its hands gripped around its prize. Holmes writhed, his voice becoming several different ones, both male and female.

  The remaining specters poured into him. As loud as his shrieks were, I knew that they didn’t carry into the mortal world. Only I, Fetch, and maybe Claryce could hear his suffering.

  Well, the three of us and the ghosts.

  I swallowed as the Nilssons formed next to Holmes. I could still see the slash marks. They took a glance back my way, their faces devoid of all emotion. I didn’t know what to make of that and was more than grateful when, as one, they looked down at Holmes and took from him as the others had before.

  Then, there was only Claudette. She glanced
at me and for a brief moment, her supernatural rage transformed to sadness . . . and love.

  Kravayik, she mouthed.

  I nodded. “I’ll see to him. . . .”

  I was rewarded with a smile that contorted into rage again as she faced what little remained of H. Webster Mudgett, aka Dr. Alexander Bond, aka Dr. Henry Howard Holmes, aka the Beast of Chicago. He tried to crawl from her, but lacked both the physical and ethereal power to move quickly.

  Claudette lunged at him. Unlike the other ghosts, she didn’t just dive through Holmes, but rather seemed to take him on like a suit. I could see her within him and see that when he suddenly stood, it was because of her choice, not his.

  Finally, like a hound shaking off a heavy layer of snow, Claudette, her face now one of calm, relieved herself of her hideous “coat.” Holmes broke into thousands of tiny flakes, each of them screaming in a different voice that ceased as the bits themselves dissipated in the air around her.

  Her hands cupped, Claudette disappeared. With her went the last hints of Holmes’s sanctum.

  And, of course, right then the sounds of police sirens filled the air.

  CHAPTER 29

  With Holmes’s sanctum no more, we were back in a fully mortal world where despite the biting, snowbound weather and the dark of night, the Chicago Police were proving oddly diligent in seeing just who’d been shooting at whom.

  And somehow, I had the suspicion that once again, Cortez would be with them.

  Joseph sat on the edge of the roof, cheerfully watching the snow. There was only one remnant of the struggle and that was the body of the late, very unlamented Lysander. Even now, Claryce was pulling free something I saw had worked a lot better on his shambling corpse. The blessed dagger.

  She wiped it off once on her arm—even though the blade was clean—then returned it to where she’d secreted it on her leg. The revolver was already gone, having no doubt been put away after it was found to be useless. “I drew him toward me with a couple of shots, then used this. I was hoping it’d work the way I thought.”

  “I didn’t know it could,” I answered.