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
