I HAVE SAID BEFORE THAT I OFTEN FELT TOWARDS VICTIMS of magical mischief the same way I felt towards my medical patients: that they had suffered an unfairness. That they must be aided and comforted. That—even if it was a battle that could not be won—I must do my utmost to put things right for them. Never, I think, has that feeling been more in evidence than in the curious case of Garrideb Grub.
He came to my attention through my wife. As I have reported, Mary had made us host to a number of diverse gatherings. These were necessary to sustain her social standing, but it was rare for her to show personal interest in them. It therefore struck me as odd that she glowed with anticipation when she announced she would be needing the drawing room one Thursday night, for she had at last convinced Old Garrideb to come and lecture on his antiquities. The malicious smile she wore when she said it had nothing—I was certain—to do with antiquities. There was motive behind that smile.
“Oh?” I asked her. “What kind of antiquities?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, ancient paintings? Ancient sculpture? Ancient politics?”
But she cut me off. “Just antiquities, John!”
“Very well.”
My regular habit was to make myself scarce before Mary’s festivities began, spiriting away to my private chambers to read or plan my patients’ care. Yet, on this occasion I made sure to tarry long enough to catch a glimpse of my wife’s mysterious guest. By God, the man was practically a ghoul. Garrideb Grub must once have been very tall, but age and the practice of bending over his curios had stooped him grotesquely forward. He had the pallid, anemic complexion of a man to whom exercise was utterly foreign and yet the gaunt, bony-jointed frame of one to whom food was a stranger, too. His hair and beard were long and feral—gray streaked with brown. The only effort he had made to govern them was to pull his hair back and tie it with a ribbon—in abeyance to what style, I could not say. The man’s eyes burned with fanatical zeal, as a disturbing preacher’s might. As he entered, he decreed in a high, wavering voice that he would begin by teaching Mary’s assembled cretins the finer points of Japanese vases of the Edo period. This, despite the fact that the object he waved about at them was actually a teapot of recent manufacture. Said cretins thrilled with pleasure at the announcement, though I could not fathom why. It seemed to me the lecture they were about to endure could be either boorish or maniacal, but nothing else.
I’d seen enough. I retreated to my chambers to read Herodotus. If I must spend my evening in contemplation of antique studies, let my teacher at least be the father of history, rather than one of London’s more loquacious madmen. And yet… I could not concentrate. For all of Herodotus’s flash—and he certainly knew how to bait an audience—I could not help but notice that something was very wrong downstairs.
They were laughing. Everybody. Just laughing and laughing and clearly having a grand old time. Was Mr. Grub really such an accomplished speaker? I tried to push it from my mind—tried to cast myself as one of Herodotus’s noble Athenians, charging the superior Persian force at Marathon. What must it have felt like, to run down at that wall of wicker shields and spears?
And why was everybody down there laughing so hard? Egads, from the hooting that drifted up through my floorboards, it was easy to imagine three or four of Mary’s guests must be actually rolling about on the floor.
In went the bookmark. The father of history found himself plunked unceremoniously onto my end table. And I, John Watson—presumably master of the house—crept silently to the top of my own stairs to peep down at the festivities below. No good. I had to get closer. I slipped down the steps as casually as I could—as if I needed nothing more than a biscuit to go with my tea, but had not wanted to trouble any of the servants for it. Not that they’d have heard me. Mary’s gathering had reached a fever pitch. Peeping at last through the double doors into our sitting room, I saw why.
Wild-eyed Garrideb Grub stood amid a circle of laughing celebrants, displaying a tarnished coin in his upturned palm. “Syracusan—of the best period. They degenerated greatly towards the end. At their best, I hold them superior to the Alexandrian.”
“Superior?” scoffed one of Mary’s regulars. Artie Arthurs was his name and he seemed to have been given a seat of honor on the dais with Grub. At first, I could not guess why. “Superior in that you can get one for tuppence?”
Mary’s gang of idiots roared with laughter.
“But, no. Look at the quality of the die!” Grub retorted. “Such standardization was not accomplished again until—”
“Do you know, I think I’ve got an Alexandrian you might have borrowed,” Artie mused. “Funny story how I got it. Word got around that Sotheby’s was to offer a pristine Alexandrian coin of the first Egyptian striking. And not just any old auction house, mind you, but Sotheby’s! So, of course, a dozen of England’s richest collectors came out to try each other’s mettle, to see who would carry off the prize. A dozen men of means and—and—one penniless old pensioner, who rather thought that if he stopped eating for a week, the money he saved on groceries might just be enough to win the day!”
Artie Arthurs struck a heroic pose as he said it, waving his wine glass above his head like a sword and slopping a little sherry down onto my rug. As the crowd howled their appreciation, Arthurs added, “I say, Grub… that wasn’t you, was it?”
Garrideb Grub colored with fury and embarrassment. “My collection may not boast many items of particularly high monetary value—”
“We like your dirty old teapot, though!” one of the attendees interjected.
“—but I shall be the Hans Sloane of my age!”
“Who’s that?” asked one of Mary’s rabble. “The man who empties the rubbish bins?”
And that was it; I’d had enough. I knew there to be an unspoken rule that I was never to interfere in Mary’s events, but I simply could not stand there and watch that poor old collector be pilloried in that manner. Thrusting my way past a few giggling philistines, I reached Garrideb Grub and declared, “Yes, well, thank you, Mr. Grub, for your insights this evening—”
A fresh wave of laughter.
“—but I fear your words have fallen on unworthy ears.”
“Ooooooooh,” said a few of Mary’s friends, in that mocking oh-dear-it-sounds-as-if-father’s-displeased-with-us tone.
“Oh look,” came Mary’s scornful voice, “here comes my noble husband to save Mr. Grub. He’s very good at saving people, you know. Why, the next time any of us lays eyes on Garrideb Grub, I shouldn’t wonder that he’ll be thirty years younger and have a collection to rival the British Museum.”
Another wave of laughter.
“And maybe even a haircut,” Mary added.
I tried to ignore her. “Here, let me help you gather your things,” I told Grub. “Have you a carriage waiting?”
The idea that this shabby gent might have a carriage drew fresh hoots and I inwardly cursed myself that I had thrown more fuel on the fire of this man’s public shaming.
“No, no, of course,” I said. “A cab, then. Let me secure you a cab, sir.”
As I dragged him from the room, he shouted, “You may laugh at me now—”
“All right!” somebody shot back, and they all did.
“—but the True Garrideb will be here soon! Days! Days only! And the rewards he brings will be vast, I am told! Why, by this time next year, my collection will be a thing of wonder!”
The neighborhood wags seemed to doubt that very much. I continued pushing him towards the door, saying, “Is this your bag, Mr. Grub? Yes, it must be, of course. Come along now. I shall see you out. Oh, are you… are you owed anything for tonight’s presentation?”
“No, that’s the thing,” Artie Arthurs crowed. “He agreed to do this for free!”
As I shoved Garrideb Grub clear of the latest tide of ribald laughter, there did seem to be some mild disappointment that I had robbed the gathering of the evening’s entertainment. But what did it matter, really? Were there not several dozen bottles that needed emptying, while everybody savoringly repeated every foolish thing to have left their lecturer’s lips?
Twenty seconds later I was in the street with my hand in the air for a cab while my honored guest gathered himself on the walk behind me, trying—I was certain—to keep from crying. Fortunately, cabs were never far off on the nights of Mary’s revels, for they knew there would be no shortage of foolish, rich drunks to cart home. I had one in a moment and—though I suppose I could simply have loaded the old fellow in and paid the fare—I found myself climbing guiltily up beside Mr. Grub. Was it not the least I could do, to see him safely home? As the cab pulled away, I found myself stammering, “Now, Mr. Grub, are you… um… sure you are not owed anything for this evening’s presentation?”
“No!” he shouted, with wounded pride. “I came, sir, I came because I care for learning, and for art! I came to speak of this world’s wonders! But those people are cretins, sir! Cretins, imbeciles and fools!”
“Well, yes. Obviously. I could have told you that,” I said, then mumbled, “By God, I wish I’d had the chance to tell you that.”
He gave me a queer sort of look. “Who are you, sir?”
“My name is John Watson. The host—Mary—she’s my wife.”
A look of fresh fury broke across Garrideb Grub’s face, so I quickly raised one finger and added, “Which is not my fault! It’s all to do with black magic, so let’s not go thinking that I had anything to do with what happened tonight. I would never. Really, Mr. Grub, I feel terrible. Are you sure there is no way I can compensate you for tonight’s misuse?”
With a defiant sniff, he said, “Quite unnecessary.”
“But perhaps… some item you’ve had your eye on, for your collection?”
“Unnecessary, I tell you!” he said, pounding the seat of the cab beside him. “I was in earnest when I said that my fortunes are about to reverse themselves. That damned Mr. Arthurs is not wrong when he says I’ve been known to spend my grocery money at Sotheby’s or Christie’s. And what is the result? Perhaps I have not the means to compete with some, but I have built an expertise, sir, a knowledge of true quality—both in items of great expense and of small! And when the True Garrideb brings my reward, I shall be able to build a collection of unimpeachable renown!”
Something about the way he said it made me deeply uncomfortable. “Yes, I believe you mentioned him before. The… er… the True Garrideb?”
Garrideb Grub only nodded.
So I continued, “I cannot help but reflect… that’s a rather strange name, isn’t it—the True Garrideb? Whatever can it mean, do you think?”
“Well, I don’t know,” he harrumphed. “I’ve never met him.”
“And yet, you feel he’s bringing you a treasure of some sort?” I pressed. Four years previously, I would have dismissed such claims as the rambling of an unfortunate old madman. And I wasn’t sure that might not be wisest. But my time in Holmes’s company had taught me to have a care with such things. I could not help but feel a tug of genuine worry.
“That’s what Mr. Winter says.”
“Mr. Winter? Who is he?”
“James Winter—an American gentleman. I only just met him. Funniest thing…” for a moment, Mr. Grub hesitated, wondering if he should confide in a stranger. And yet, why not? It was not as if I could interfere with his fortunes, was it? It was not as if I was a Garrideb. “He came and found me in my rooms on Little Ryder Street—I am always in my rooms. I seldom like to leave them. My doctor chides me for never going out, but why should I when I have so much there to occupy me? When we arrive, I could show you a single cabinet of artifacts, the adequate cataloguing of which would take me three good months! Ha! Go out, indeed! For no reason?”
“Mr. James Winter?” I reminded him.
“Ah, yes! Well, he came and found me in my rooms, cleaning off a Cro-Magnon skull—quite the specimen, nearly complete! He said he was very glad to have tracked me down, for I was the last of the Garridebs he required. I, of course, asked him why he required Garridebs. He said a certain individual had come to his attention—the True Garrideb. This fellow was willing to come share a great deal of wealth, but he could only be coaxed out of his dwelling when the three men he wished to meet were present. I well understood that, for I don’t like to leave my own rooms. I don’t know if I mentioned.”
“You did.”
“In fact, I expressed my trepidation about leaving to meet the other two Garridebs he had found. It is a rare name, you know, but Mr. Winter had located a man named Garrideb Treat in his home country of America and a Chinese fellow—now living in France—by the name of Garrideb Chow.”
My eyebrows went up. “Grub, Treat and Chow? So, in effect, each of you is named ‘Garrideb Food’?”
Garrideb Grub spluttered out a little laugh. “Oh! I hadn’t realized! Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
“Hmmph! Ha! Amusing! I shall have to relate that to the others when I see them. For, you see, I was in luck. After looking about my quarters for a few moments, Mr. Winter was of the opinion that I needn’t leave my rooms at all. He said he thought I was residing at the focal point and that the other Garridebs must be brought to me. So I didn’t have to go out. I do not care to be far from my rooms, you know. Happily, Mr. Winter is now on a steamer with Mr. Treat, on their way to France to collect Mr. Chow. When all are gathered, we shall meet in my chambers and be joined by the True Garrideb! Come to think of it, they must be almost on their way back by now! Oh, I can hardly wait!”
The zeal with which the old man said it left me in no doubt that he was convinced. Myself, far less so. Yet care for his feelings dictated that I choose my next words carefully.
“Mr. Grub, your story sounds… well… does it not seem perhaps a bit far-fetched?”
“Noooooooo,” he protested in a high-pitched, meek sort of whine. “I mean… there may be aspects of Mr. Winter’s story that seem… unlikely…”
“Then why on earth are you trusting him?” I wondered.
“Because it feels right,” he said. “It feels like this has always been my purpose—hidden just out of sight for all my life—and that it has finally been revealed to me. Just as it feels natural for me never, ever to stray far from the ancient sigils carved into my floor.”
“Pardon me, I thought you just said ancient sigils?”
“Hmm. One of the many artifacts under my curation.”
“All right. I would very much like to see those.”
“I don’t see why not,” said Grub, with a shrug. “We’re nearly there, after all.”
And so we were, though that is not to say the way was clear. Mr. Grub seemed to have misplaced his keys—whether at my house, or whether he had simply forgotten to pick them up before he left his own, he could not say. We had to wake up the old lady who ran the place to let us in. Though it was only rarely that Mr. Grub went out, this seemed to correspond exactly to the number of times he forgot his keys. The frizzy-haired matron spared no lack of colorful language expressing just how pleased she was with the phenomenon. Garrideb Grub countered that the modern, self-latching door handle was a burdensome monstrosity. I tried to placate the two of them, stating that the keys could well have been left at my home during the confusion. But the landlady told me she knew perfectly well where they’d be—a little pedestal she’d placed beside Mr. Grub’s door to keep his keys on, so he’d never forget. That’s where they were. Every time.
As the harangue continued, Garrideb Grub became visibly distressed. Yet not by her words—I could tell he was not listening to her. He clenched and unclenched his hands and shifted his weight back and forth on his feet, desperate to return to his rooms. The instant his landlady had the door open, he barged past her, past his keys (which, yes, were just on the pedestal by the door), ran to the center of the room, and heaved a deep sigh of relief.
Well, I say the center of the room. What I mean is: the center of the sigils. Mr. Grub lived in the cellar room. It was unusually tall, or should I say deep, as the room was cut down into London’s bedrock. Two small, rectangular windows looked out at street level and during the day must have let some light in. By night, this was accomplished by four spluttering gas lamps that looked as if they weren’t overly pleased by the career path they had selected and were putting in the absolute minimum effort. By their flickering light, I could make out the innumerable cabinets and shelves that held Mr. Grub’s precious collection. Carved into the floor were a number of lines and symbols. There were three bowl-like depressions, linked by shallow channels through the stone. These, in turn, were linked to words, in some language of utterly foreign provenance. The area emerged in an arch shape out of the rough-hewn wall.
Carved into that wall was the image of a door. Though it was depicted in crude, somewhat vague lines, one could just make out a rocky landscape beyond, lit by a large and ominous pair of suns.
Garrideb Grub ran to the central depression in this strange arrangement and sat down in it. With visible relief, he drew several deep breaths as his fingers traced the lines on either side of him and all the strange words within his reach. By the practiced, yet unconscious expertise of his movements, I could tell this was a ritual long rehearsed.
“Okay. Right,” I noted to myself. “Not normal.”
I walked up in front of my host, knelt down, placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “Mr. Grub, your case has captured my interest.”
“Hmmm?” he asked, barely willing to look up from his beloved sigils. “What case?”
“Oh… I mean… your rather unique circumstances. I want to know the next time Mr. Winter contacts you. Will you do that for me? Will you tell me?”
He made no answer.
“May I call on you, to inquire?”
But he was beyond my words. He was at that strange tipping point in the human psyche where relief turns into exhaustion. His voice became heavy and slow. “Eh? Inquire? I’m sorry, Mr. Watson, but… such an hour, you know? I think I shall sleep here tonight. Yes. Just here.”
He patted his beloved runes, then got clumsily up. In one corner of the room, partly obscured behind a few racks of curios, stood an old bed with a cheaply made metal frame. It bore a thin mattress, a single threadbare blanket and a pillow that looked as if any benefit to human comfort it had ever possessed must have been exhausted at least a decade before. Garrideb Grub began feebly tugging at the bed in an attempt to move it towards the center of the room. It budged only a few inches. Grudgingly—wondering if it was wise—I went and helped him pull it over his beloved sigils. This accomplished, he fell down into it with a satisfied sigh.
As I tucked his blanket down around him, a strange feeling began to overtake me. Jealousy. Here I was, getting Garrideb Grub into his right place, but that meant I was away from mine. A horrible, gnawing emptiness began to grow in me. I needed to be with Mary. I needed to rush home and tell her to kick all of her friends out and just come upstairs and hold me. I knew she would do it, too, for the curse seemed always to affect us equally. Oh, I was sure she would properly castigate me for intruding on the evening’s festivities, but what did I care for that? I would endure it. I would endure anything. I had to.
The spell pulled so heavily that night I was staggering when I left Grub’s room. My hand shook as I raised it. My voice cracked as I shouted for a cab.
I worried about Garrideb Grub all the next day. I had a very busy caseload, but my mind kept returning to him. Most reasonable men, I realized, would simply dismiss him as an old quack. Anyone who did investigate would assume some kind of confidence scheme—the unsubstantiated story of riches somehow being promised by joining three men of the same rare name smacked of fraud. But that is not what I thought. Perhaps my time with Holmes had transformed my worldview more acutely than I’d realized.
Because, for the life of me, I was certain James Winter was going to feed Garridebs Grub, Treat and Chow to a demon named the True Garrideb.
Certain.
I did not call on Mr. Grub that day, but I went to bed thinking of him and hoping nothing untoward had happened in my moment of indecision.
The next day, I resolved to check in on him. I fabricated an excuse: I’d decided to purchase an Imperial Roman denarius and needed an expert’s guidance. This, however, proved unnecessary. The very moment I arrived home for lunch, Joachim told me, “Thir rethieved a methage earlier.”
“All right,” I said, my hand on my brow, “we need to do something about that accent. Please tell me it is an easily dropped affectation.”
“I’m afraid not, thir.”
“Damn. Well, what was the message, anyway?”
“Winter ith coming.”
“What? But that makes no… Oh! Give me back that coat, please. Tell Mary I shan’t be joining her for lunch. If any of my patients ask, say I have been called away on an emergency.”
“It didn’t theem tho,” Joaquim mused. “That old gentleman ith having a medical emergenthy?”
“If I’m not careful—yes.”
* * *
One cab ride later, I was in Little Ryder Street, hurrying into the shabby building Garrideb Grub called home. Being as the hour was not so late this time and the building—as I said—rather bohemian, the outside door was not locked or even properly closed. I let myself in and walked down the hall to the little stair that led to Grub’s cellar. With the head of my cane, I rapped upon his door and called, “Mr. Grub? Are you in, sir?”
From within, I heard him start in surprise, then his eager voice came to my ears. “Mr. Winter? Mr. Winter, is it you?”
“No, it’s John Watson. We met the other day.”
“Oh, yes of course. How silly. Yes, I spoke to your butler…” Shortly, there came the shuffling, rattling noises of Garrideb Grub trying to figure out his door latch. Finally, the door opened to reveal the old fellow clutching a wrinkled letter. “Look what I’ve got! Word from France! Mr. Winter has collected the other two Garridebs and shall be arriving here tomorrow!”
“But then wouldn’t you have known it was not him knocking on your door just now?” I asked.
Mr. Grub waved away the question. “Oh, I got excited, is all. Just think: tomorrow! Tomorrow!”
“Yes, I might try not to get too thrilled about it,” I muttered.
He was hardly listening. Indeed, I think he only came to tell me of the news because he needed somebody to crow to. By the state of the paper it looked as if he had not let go of the telegram since the moment he’d received it. Rapturously, he declared, “I shall go tomorrow afternoon, at four, to the Southampton docks to receive them. And by evening we shall all be met, right here! Isn’t it exciting?”
“Indeed, but I wonder, Mr. Grub, might I be allowed to meet Mr. Winter and the other Garridebs? And, um… before you bring them to these rather worrisome sigils?”
Grub instantly recoiled. “Why, Mr. Watson! No! I mean… I do not wish to be rude, of course, but this is a private matter. A long-awaited turn of fortune. No, no. This is my purpose, sir! It always has been! Tomorrow I shall know my destiny; I can feel it!”
Though I wheedled and cajoled, Mr. Grub would not be swayed. Still, I became evermore certain that ill deeds were afoot and that it would be unconscionable of me to leave matters to their course. But how could I effect to intrude myself? As I turned to leave, an opportunity presented. There, on the pedestal near the door, sat Mr. Grub’s oft-forgotten keys. As I left, I casually swept them into my pocket.
It was one of two guilts that gnawed upon my conscience as I walked towards home. The other was this: I knew Holmes would not approve of me involving myself in such matters. But come! The man was not my keeper! I was an adult, was I not? Bound and responsible to plot my own course through life.
Still…
He was going to be mad when he found out.
If he found out.
Perhaps he would only know because word might reach his ears in some future day that his old chum Watson had gone and done something inadvisable and gotten himself eaten by a demon.
Was there any danger of that? I had my pistol, which might be of use against human antagonists, or poor demonic ones, such as Bannister or Staples. But what might I be facing?
My hope was to stop things before any demons became involved, yet I had to admit, my expertise in such areas was slight.
Ought I to tell Holmes? Was it simply weakness to think so? Or was it foolhardy to go into danger, ignoring my mightiest ally? I dithered. I wondered. I wandered. Finally, I stepped into the local telegraph office and sent a quick note.
Have become convinced that Mr. Garrideb Grub of 136 Little Ryder St W. is going to be fed to a demon tomorrow night. Will be sneaking into his home around 5pm. Come if you wish.
—Watson
* * *
At 5:12 the next evening, with my patients all attended to and my revolver in my pocket, I slid the larger of Mr. Grub’s two keys into the street door of 136 and slipped inside. As I walked the hall, I fired nervous glances at every stair and corridor I passed. I knew Mr. Grub could not have made it back so soon, but was Holmes nearby? Was the landlady? If I should encounter her, would she recognize me? At last I reached Garrideb’s rooms, inserted his other key, swept open his door and stepped inside.
Or I would have, if the doorway hadn’t been filled with Angry Holmes, his arms crossed over his chest, staring down vengefully at me.
“Watson! What on earth are you doing here?”
“The same thing you are, I suspect,” I spluttered, “breaking and entering. So perhaps we could keep our voices down? Or have this discussion inside?”
He grabbed me by the front of my jacket, pulled me in, and slammed the door behind me.
“You know what I mean, John! By the Twelve Gods, after all the trouble I’ve taken to keep you safe… and the very moment I look in on you, what do I find? You’ve been scouring London for every piece of magical mischief you can possibly get yourself into!”
“No, I haven’t!”
“Ha! These occurrences are rare, John! Very rare! It is beyond the scope of probability that you should find yourself entangled in so many such events, merely by chance.”
“But I have.”
“You just happened to stumble into ‘The Adventure of the Man with the Twisted… Everything’?”
“Yes! If you recall, Holmes, I was there to help Isa Whitney. I was quite surprised to find you there.”
“Oh… yes… but that man with his thumb off…”
“Came to me as a doctor, Holmes, because his thumb was off. I did not seek him out.”
“All right, but in the case of Culverton Smith—”
“You summoned me and tried to fool me. You did that.”
“Oh… right. But do you expect me to believe that you just happened to bump into a human sacrifice, wandering the streets of London?”
“No. He came to one of Mary’s parties and I could not help but realize something was wrong. Look here, I haven’t done anything dangerous yet, Holmes. And I made sure to inform you before I did. Though, I must say, you’re making me rather regret that decision.”
Consternation crossed his brow. For a moment it looked as if he could not decide whether to be angry, worried or confused. Finally, he asked, “Well then, why do you continue to come across these things? Remember how many magical events you encountered before you met me? None, probably, which is the average number for most fellows. Why so many now?”
To be honest, I hadn’t thought of that. Why, indeed? I let the question roll about my mind, in search of an answer. At last, I mused, “I don’t know, Holmes. Although… remember, long ago, you told me of the brimstone thread? How your life ran right along with it, and how you were therefore likely to encounter strangeness and mysticism? Perhaps in my time with you, my own life became closer to that thread, too.”
Holmes recoiled as if I’d struck him. “But… no, no, no! What do we do, Watson? How do we save you? Egads, what if simply living with me has doomed you beyond all repair?”
“Don’t worry about it, Holmes.”
“Don’t worry? How can you say that, John? Are you hearing yourself? Just look at that portal!” He thrust one finger towards the doorway, drawn upon the far wall.
“I know. It’s rather disconcert—Oh! Look! It’s changed! Holmes, it wasn’t like that before!”
Its basic shape was the same. And yet, somehow, it was more evident, more real, than it had been. The twin suns visible in the realm beyond had more warmth in the lines of their carving. A soft light radiated from them—one in purple, one in orange. The alien landscape seemed to have more depth to it. And if one stared too long, one began to get an idea of the wind that must have swept it—a xenogenic miasma of toxic gases in which nothing mortal might endure. I marveled a moment, then wondered aloud, “Why is it like that?”
Holmes rolled his eyes. “Because something bad is about to come through it, Watson. Something powerful. And something smart. I can feel the strength that’s been pushing from the other side—pushing to make that door real. And not recklessly. Not battering its way through. Whatever is coming has been exerting impossible pressure against that doorway for years. It is patient. It is calculating.”
“What is it?” I asked.
Holmes shook his head. “Something capable of causing the death of thousands, I shouldn’t wonder. Anyway, something capable of chewing through you and your little pistol pretty quick, and here you are, traipsing in to face it alone. Well done, by the way.”
I gave an uncomfortable little shift and mumbled, “I… er… I thought, if I could stop the summoning ritual…”
“No, you aren’t listening, John. Maybe there will be a ritual to feed it once it gets here—to keep it strong, or to keep that portal open—but there is no need to call it. It is coming. Nothing will prevent that.”
“What should we do?”
Holmes raised an eyebrow at me. “We? Nothing. I shall face it. You shall go home, where you belong.”
“Oh, come on, Holmes!”
“No. Nothing shall dissuade me!”
This latest prognostication proved to be false, as at that moment the doorknob rattled. In an instant, every vestige of the masterful commander was gone from Holmes’s features, replaced by the panic of a misbehaving schoolboy. “Agh! Quick! Hide!” he hissed. He disappeared behind one of Garrideb Grub’s larger curio cabinets.
I ran to join him, but had taken only two steps before I realized I had another deed I must accomplish first. I turned back to the very door that must momentarily open to reveal Winter and the three Garridebs. Drawing Mr. Grub’s keys from my pocket, I slipped them onto the pedestal, then hastened back to Holmes’s side. I threw my back up against the curio, reached into my pocket and withdrew my Webley-Pryse.
From beyond the door, I could just hear the tones of the housekeeper, who sounded fairly displeased to be called to this task for the second time in only three days. Finally, the door gave way and I could hear her saying, “—erfectly ridiculous! They shall be on the pedestal, where they always are!”
“But no,” came Mr. Grub’s voice. “I tell you, they were missing!”
Yet his protestations were cut short by his landlady’s triumphant “Ha! Ha! Look! Just there!”
No doubt she had just beheld my latest handiwork: Mr. Grub’s keys, returned to their right place. Grub spluttered his disbelief. “How is this possible?”
“It hardly seems to matter,” said a calm, commanding voice. His accent was American, yet I found he chose his words more like an Englishman. “We are in. Thank you for your help, Mrs. Swann.”
I could practically feel the landlady’s suspicious glare burning its way through the curio behind me. “Just who did you say you gentlemen were, again?” she demanded.
“Not that it’s any particular business of yours, but we are friends of Mr. Grub,” said the American.
“Mr. Grub ain’t got no friends!”
“And yet, here we stand. It would seem you have underestimated your lodger. Now good day, Mrs. Swann.”
As soon as the door closed, the three Garridebs broke into excited titters. At first, I thought this was in salute for Mr. Winter’s handling of Mrs. Swann—and perhaps some of it was—but the majority rose from another source.
“Oh, oh, look! It’s marvelous!” said a strangely accented voice—tinged with both French and Chinese influence. “This is it! This is where I’m meant to be!”
I could hear Grub, Chow, Treat and Winter spreading out into the room. It sounded as if the three Garridebs were each hovering near one of the bowl-like depressions in the floor and one man—who must have been Winter—was standing by the hewn wall, near the carved portal door. Holmes looked over at me with panic in his eyes. I think his main concern was that there were now several men spread out between us and the only exit. I still find it funny when I reflect how impossibly powerful Holmes was and yet how often his natural inclination was to run, hide, or escape.
Silently, he mouthed, “What do we do?”
I gave a smug little grin, stepped out from behind the curio, leveled my revolver, and said, “James Winter? I’m afraid I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”
It was perfect. I was behind him. I had the drop on him. He was unawares, unprepared, and had a pistol pointed at his back. And what was the outcome?
The little bastard shot me!
By God, he was quick. Hardly had the first word left my lips than he was spinning towards me. As his right arm shot forward, from within the sleeve of his coat a glint of silver metal sprang forward also—a derringer! A tongue of flame leapt forth from Winter’s pistol, the air filled with the smell of burning powder, and I felt that familiar, searing heat of a bullet tearing into my flesh.
“Agh! I’m shot!”
“Watson! No!” Warlock cried, springing from behind the curio, right for James Winter. The look in his eye was that of a man unhinged. And if there was any doubt as to the depth of his concern, the next instant removed it.
Warlock completely lost control.
Never had I seen Holmes’s demonic alterations come all at once. Green fires lit his eyes. Dark, curling horns exploded forth from his brow with such violence that they coated the room before him in a spray of blood, the drops of which sizzled and smoked where they fell. Holmes’s charge came in irregular jerks, for no sooner had he begun it than the bones of his legs began to elongate and shift, yanking themselves into that goat-like shape I’d first seen at Baskerville Hall. The black blade, Melfrizoth, appeared unbidden in his left hand, burning with demonic fire. This, no doubt, caused his right hand to feel that left hands got to have all the fun in situations like this and that—upon further reflection—it had decided to be a left hand, too. The bones began to shift about with enthusiastic autonomy beneath his skin, until all his fingers bent the wrong way. This accomplished, Holmes leveled his new left hand at James Winter’s chest, gave a roar much more demon-ish than human-ish, and snapped his fingers shut. In the wrong direction, over what had been the back of his hand just moments before. The image was—shall we say—unsettling. But if this was not enough to turn one’s stomach, the effect it had on Winter must have been. Every bone in his body contorted and deformed. His arms and legs wrenched themselves into impossible new shapes. His spine twisted. His jaw yanked itself down and to the right, as if it were trying to leap straight off his face. His ribs curled and elongated, spearing out through the skin of his torso at all angles. I was sure a number of them must have pierced his lungs and heart on the way. I think he tried to scream, yet he never got the chance. Holmes’s true left hand shot forward, driving Melfrizoth through James Winter’s open mouth, out the back of his skull, and deep into the stone of the wall behind him, pinning him in place beside the demonic portal. The blade’s green hellfire flickered and cracked eagerly, licking up either side of Winter’s face to scorch away his flesh.
The three Garridebs proved themselves alike not only in name, but also in thought, as they each chose exactly the same way to express their feelings regarding recent events. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaigh!” they all opined, running back and forth across the cellar, waving their arms in the air.
And there I stood, behind it all, feeling utterly shocked. And stupefied. And not a little bit guilty. At last I gave a polite cough and muttered, “Ah. Well, you see… now I wish I’d clarified. I’m shot… a bit.”
“Eh?” said Holmes, spinning back to look at me.
“Just here. In the leg.”
“Oh?” said Holmes, his eyes alight with happiness and hope and… you know… hellfire. But after a moment, his expression dimmed. His gaze shifted back to the wrecked form of James Winter and he added, “Oh.”
We both stood there, watching the burning face meat drip down onto the floor.
Warlock cleared his throat a few times. “So… you’re going to live, Watson?”
“Oh, most definitely. It was just a derringer, after all.”
“Ah. Good news… good news… erm… and we think you’ll keep the leg?”
“Holmes, I think I’ll keep these trousers.”
Holmes nodded, hooked both thumbs over his belt, stared up at the ceiling a few minutes while he rocked back and forth on his heels, then idly wondered, “I don’t suppose there’s anything you can… um… do for him?”
“What? No! That man has been very killed!”
“Well, it’s your fault, Watson.”
“Oh?”
“When you stop and think about it.”
“I suppose that would be my soul-blade jammed through the victim’s mouth, then?”
“Don’t be silly, Watson.”
“I don’t think I am the one who is being silly, Holmes.”
And we might have gone on like that for a while, if the border between worlds had not cracked. If the light of the twin suns of Tord’Th’Orath had not suddenly spilled in upon the room. If a quick wave of burning, sulfurous wind had not intruded from a realm we should never have seen. And, of course, if a nine-foot-tall battle demon had not come to visit.
Nine feet, not even counting the horns. Even the extraordinary height of the room was hardly sufficient to accommodate him. With one hand, he dragged a bag made of interlocked chains, padded with the still-bleeding skin of some unknown unfortunate. Within the bag were several huge blocks of gold, which clinked as he pulled them through the portal—they must have weighed several hundred pounds. His hide was red, and thickened in places, with callouses so dense they seemed like armored plates. His eyes were deep black pools, flecked with amber. His limbs, preposterous knots of muscle. His hands bore claws that looked as if scything through torsos would be a much easier exercise for him than… let us say… picking up a toothpick. His jaw was strong and broad, but more notable for its length—jutting forward an extra foot or more, just so it had room to accommodate all of his teeth. The function of which, by the way, could not be mistaken by any reasonable observer.
As he entered, he proclaimed, “Weep, denizens of my new realm, for your master has arrived. Those that live will serve me. Those that feel will fear me. I am Garrideb the Devourer. My reign will—Oh! Woah! Ohmigosh! What happened here?”
He had caught sight of Holmes’s latest handiwork and recoiled in disgust. The three human Garridebs peeped out from behind cabinets and cases all around the room to stare at the demon. Strange—though fear was present upon their faces, more notable was a brand of stupefied worship. Holmes gave the invader a grim look. I… well, I just stood there, I suppose.
As nobody was answering his question, the demon lifted his bag of gold up and displayed it. “I’m… um… supposed to be meeting a guy named Jimmy,” he spluttered. “He’s bringing me dinner and I’m bringing him this bag of gold. Not sure why he wants it; it’s really heavy. But… um… is Jimmy here?”
Holmes’s eyes flicked towards the mutilated corpse, pinned to the wall. Garrideb the Devourer followed his gaze.
“Wait! No! That’s Jimmy? That’s Jimmy? Ohhhhhhhhhh, what happened?”
In a tone hardly louder than a whisper, Holmes replied, “He displeased me.”
Garrideb’s eyes went wide and he stared at Holmes in gobstruck horror. It rather looked as if he was about to cry. “Um… do you know what? I think I’ve come at a bad time. Are you busy? You look busy. Maybe I’ll just… go.”
But Holmes thrust his hand forward and called, “Hie, Melfrizoth!” The black blade yanked free from the wall and sped to Holmes’s hand, dumping the earthly remains of James Winter to the floor and drawing a squeal from Garrideb the Devourer.
“Demon!” Holmes roared. “Invader to this world! Now you will face me!”
“No thank you! No. I think I’ll just—”
Holmes sprang forward to the attack, shouting, “Defend yourself!”
Which Garrideb did. A bit. He tried to slap Holmes away with one hand. There was a certain panicked-five-year-old-swatting-at-a-bee flavor to it, I must confess. Still, as the hand in question was huge, mighty, and currently clutching a chain-y skin bag with several hundred pounds of gold in it, even such a rudimentary effort was not without an element of threat. The bag spun towards us in a huge arc, smashing several of Garrideb Grub’s discount artifacts and spraying us all with debris. It would have bashed Holmes to paste, if he had stood his ground. Instead, there was a loud crack and when the bag passed through the space where Holmes had been, there was nothing but a swirl of black smoke. The same instant, Holmes appeared behind Garrideb the Devourer. He was facing the same way he had been when he left—which is to say, away from the demon—but he must have known exactly how matters stood, for he lashed out with a graceful back swing. The flaming blade sang through the air behind him and Garrideb cried, “Aaaagh! M’ leg’s off!”
Holmes slashed back the other way.
“Owww! There goes the other one!”
And finally, Holmes spun to face his foe, lashing out a third time.
“Urk—” was the only noise Garrideb the Devourer made, for Holmes’s final blow struck his head from his shoulders and sent it bouncing onto the be-sigiled floor. One interesting aspect of the demon’s physiognomy was this: he had no blood, or indeed any fluid within his body that seemed to have an even remotely blood-like function. Which was fortunate, really, for I’m sure it would have gone just everywhere.
Holmes looked rather pleased with himself for just one moment, but then the portal behind him gave a tortured groan.
“Ah!” he cried. “It’s closing! Quick, Watson, we’ve got to get everything from that other world back through that portal!”
“Are you sure, Holmes? That’s rather a lot of gold.”
“Get it out! Get it out!”
“Oh, very well.”
Holmes jammed Melfrizoth into the floor, tore open the chain bag and began hurling bars of gold through the doorway. I busied myself with demon chunks, marveling just a moment at Garrideb’s monstrous head before I pushed it through. Though, it soon became apparent we had a problem.
“Good lord, Holmes! This leg weighs as much as I do! I don’t suppose you might have cut him up into smaller pieces.”
“Well, I didn’t see you helping!”
“Yes, and speaking of helping: human Garridebs, what say you come over and lend a hand, eh?”
None of them moved an inch. They all stood about in the back of the room in stunned silence. And do you know what? Disappointment. Which, in an odd way, I could understand. One of the strange burdens of humanity is lack of purpose. If most of us have one, it is difficult to know what it may be. Oh, all the world’s religions will say they have the answer, but only if one is willing to suspend his disbelief and try to place his faith there. These three men did not have to. They—alone among humans—had possessed a purpose.
All right, not an enviable one. Getting chewed up by a demon is not a fate most people aspire to, but it is a purpose nonetheless and it must have come as quite the shock to see Holmes carve up their destiny before their very eyes.
Grunting and straining, I dragged one of Garrideb’s legs to the portal and shoved it through. Holmes kept tossing brick after brick of gold, as fast as he could. Leaning down and straightening back up to throw with rhythmic regularity, like some sort of overly charitable member of a bucket brigade. Though a few hundred thousand pounds worth of gold had spilled out, he’d gotten the bag empty. I helped him drag it over and push it through, horrified by the otherworldly blood that coated my hands.
“His body! Did you get the body?” Holmes asked.
“Are you joking? The thing must weigh two tons!”
Holmes gave a little nod to concede the point, then gestured towards the demon’s corpse and made a little grunting noise. The body rose and flew through the portal like a disgusting meat-missile. The instant it went through, the portal changed. The light of the twin suns grew dim and the air beyond seemed to coalesce into jelly. This was aptly demonstrated by the next brick of gold, which flew though the portal, wedged itself in to the air beyond, and began to slowly sink.
“How very outré,” I noted.
“Hurry!” Holmes urged.
The next few bricks splatted into thickening air. The one after that barely went in at all. Holmes had to lean on it and kick it to get it to sink in. The final brick clinked off solid stone and fell heavily to the floor. I looked down at it distrustfully.
“Erm… so am I to gather that’s… not great?”
“Not especially,” said Holmes, staring down at it with a pained expression. “I mean, it does seem to be ordinary gold—which at least occurs on this plane of existence. So that’s good. I’m just trying to decide which would be more damaging: to allow it to stay here, or to tear a hole through reality to put it back.”
“Ooh. I know I don’t have your level of expertise in such matters,” I told him, “but I have always included myself in the please-don’t-tear-holes-in-reality camp, as it were.”
Holmes sighed. “And it’s not as if we don’t have a use for it.”
He grasped Melfrizoth by the handle, pulled it out of the floor, walked to the fallen brick, and used the tip of his soul-blade to cut the gold into three sections—as easily as if he were dividing up a soft cheese. This accomplished, he muttered, “Ves, Melfrizoth,” and the blade vanished. The fire in his eyes cooled. His horns retracted. His legs shifted back to normal human form. And finally, his right hand gave up and admitted that really, when one paused to reflect on things, that’s exactly what it was—a right hand.
Holmes stooped, gathered up the pieces of gold, and walked over towards the human Garridebs. “All right, you three,” he said. “I know it’s been a bit of an odd day. I know you feel strongly drawn to this place and… er… what was supposed to have happened here. But that’s all done, now. It’s not going to happen. So just take this, all right, and go do whatever you want to do with your lives.”
He gave each of them a gleaming bar of demon gold. At first, none of them seemed to understand what Holmes was doing. Of them, Mr. Chow was first to recover his senses. He stared dumbly at his bar of gold a few moments, then at the other Garridebs. Finally, he gave a little sidewise glance at Mr. Grub and muttered, “His is bigger.”
“Well maybe by a tiny bit,” Holmes huffed. “Look, I had a demon-killing blade, all right? Not a wealth-reapportionment device! Besides, this is Mr. Grub’s house, isn’t it? This is the wreckage of his precious collection we’re all stomping around in, so let’s try to have a little charity, shall we?”
This, at last, shook Garrideb Grub from his stupor. The antique antiquarian jerked back suddenly, as if he’d just recognized what he was looking at, gave a terrible cry of dismay, threw down his block of gold and flung himself to his knees to assess the damage to his beloved collection.
Let’s just say: it was vast.
Poor fellow. I went and laid a hand on his shoulder, saying, “There, there, Mr. Grub. It could have been worse, you know. True, some of your artifacts have been injured, but now you have the funds you need to fill some of those gaps that had frustrated you so. And with the demonic threat lifted, I’d say the whole thing’s gone rather well.”
This seemed to infuriate Holmes. “Rather well? Oooooh, you bloody bastard!”
“What? Me?” I protested.
“Yes, you! Look at you, Watson! You’ve been shot! Again!”
“Well… slightly…”
“Unacceptable! Do you know the trouble I’ve gone through to keep you safe? And yet you continue to insinuate yourself into every adventure you can find! Sometimes it feels like you aren’t listening to me at all!”
“Erm… no. I do confess it: I’ve been doing my utmost to ignore you, Holmes. But for good reason! These men needed my help.”
“Actually, my help, I think you’ll find,” Holmes countered. “Unless it was you who just chopped up that demon. You are not a monster-slayer, John. You’re barely a monster-appetizer! By the Twelve Gods, you almost just got knocked down by a man with a pistol! Do you realize how preposterous that is? You cannot keep placing yourself in danger! This will stop! Right now!”
I threw my hands to my hips and huffed, “No, it will not! I will not ever turn away from a person who needs my help.”
“Oh, yes you will!” Holmes declared, then bent his hands into grasping claws, shot them towards the sky and howled, “Rhett Khan! Rhett Khan, mighty one, hear my call!”
I gave a cry of horror! Well did I remember the last time Holmes invoked that name. Rhett Khan was a powerful demon with the ability to rewrite reality, but not one a fellow should resort to lightly.
“Wait! Holmes, Wait! What are you doing? You asked me to remind you! Remember? Rhett Khaning a thing always causes more problems than it solves!”
He ignored me.
“A person has occurred which displeases me!” Holmes intoned. “Undo him, Rhett Khan, and replace him with a better one!”
There was a terrible rushing sensation—as if reality itself were sweeping me away. I tried to push back against it, but what could I do? How does one resist the flow of… everything? How does one defend oneself against absolute fact? Especially when the fact is: one simply does not exist.