Instead of appearing in Holmes’s hand, the handle of his black and burning blade appeared in the sheath at Moriarty’s waist.
“Hey!” Holmes cried, staring at the magical scabbard Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein had used to bind Melfrizoth a year ago. “Where did you get that?”
“From a mutual friend of ours, who is more afraid of me than you,” said Moriarty.
My eyes went narrow. How was that not magic? I suppose it did have to do with an enchanted item, and Moriarty had said it would take this place a few days to drain the power from one. But… by God, it was so hard to puzzle this through without knowing—without feeling—the truths of magic that were available to the other two men. If only I had got a dose or so more of Xantharaxes, I might have known.
Moriarty then extended his own left hand and called, “Kullek!” His own soul-blade appeared.
I nearly giggled.
And sure, mine wasn’t much to write home about—a tiny sliver of bone. Yet—for a nemesis as terrible as James Moriarty, who had engineered such perfect and irresistible ruin over and over again—I had expected a bit more.
The damn thing looked like a butter knife. Slightly pointier, I suppose. Maybe the edge was sharper than average. You know, for really hard butter. But compared to the demon-killing, gold-cleaving, life-drinking horror Holmes could summon, Moriarty’s blade was risible.
Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can say: I should have expected it. It was, after all, the physical manifestation of Moriarty’s rage and hatred. And—though he did certainly have a capacity to do great harm—Moriarty was not a vengeful sort. Sure, he was preparing to kill everyone he’d ever met. But he didn’t hate them. He understood them too well to hate them. In fact, if his own plans should ever come to fruition (as I fear they will in a few days, as I write this) he is going to gain the ability to be them. He’s going to end existence in exchange for the possibility of moving forward and back through everything and everyone. Why would he hate anybody, when he looks forward to reliving their entire life?
Ugh. I just realized. He’s going to be me, some day. He’s going to ride along in my body, feeling everything I’ve ever felt. That means there will come a moment when he’s me, and I’m looking at Mary, thinking it’s Mary, when I’m really looking at him and… by God… the little bastard’s going to be laughing his head off.
Ahead of me on the path, Moriarty wiggled his funny little blade at us. Despite its comic appearance, Holmes seemed rather dismayed to see it.
“You know what I can do with this, Holmes! You’ve felt its touch before!” Moriarty cried. “I have you bested close up, and I have you ranged. Now, give me that box!”
With a look of apology, Holmes stepped forward a few paces, placed the Fasces box on the muddy path, and stepped back. Moriarty crept forward, cautiously. “Ves, Kullek,” he said, and the blade disappeared from his hand. Keeping his eyes on Holmes, he bent forward and snatched up his new treasure. He retreated a few steps back with a look of smug joy on his face. Well… on Mary’s face. There was something very male about the expression, somehow. It made me squirm a bit.
“You know…” he mused, “recent events have made it far too dangerous for me to open this box and confirm its contents. So I suppose I’ll just have to ask you, Holmes: is the Fasces in here?” He focused his razor-sharp gaze on my friend’s face.
Holmes gave a crow of triumph. “Ha! Knowing that you were likely to lay traps for me, I took the time to hide the—”
“Yes, it’s in there,” Moriarty decided.
“Damn!” Holmes muttered.
I sighed. “Poorly done, Holmes. The best thing you could have done was chuck it in the falls. He’s got what he wants. So now he shoots me.”
“Do I?” Moriarty said, in a lilting look-at-me-pretending-to-wonder-what-to-do voice. “I suppose I should. Providing, of course, I have everything I want.”
He let the Webley drift to the left. Then, without warning, squeezed the trigger and sent a bullet straight into Holmes’s hip. Holmes cried out and fell to the ground, clutching his wound. I grimaced. It looked like the shot had gone straight to bone—which is to say: it looked structural. Even if he stayed conscious, Holmes would be unable to use that leg. There was no way he was walking out of here.
Especially because Moriarty pointed the pistol at Holmes’s head, then directed his gaze to me.
“Now it is your turn, Dr. Watson,” he said. “I am very pleased to be holding one of the nine foci. But then again, it is only one of nine. Though I have not been at my best, of late, I know you’ve had contact with Adler. I know you’ve had a number of little adventures with magical creatures and items. That is to say, Dr. Watson, it is possible you know something regarding the whereabouts of the others. Tell me what you know and I’ll happily hold off shooting Holmes while we speak.”
He fixed me with his steel-cold eyes, watching me, appraising. I met his gaze, keeping mine as neutral as I could.
“No?” he said, after a moment. “Well… it is as I said. You and I are planners; you were not going to fall prey to the same spur-of-the-moment weakness Holmes displayed. There was just the chance you would have, you know. You’re a very devoted friend, after all.”
He continued to stare at me. I continued to stare back.
After a moment, he asked, “No bargaining, even?”
I gave a scornful snort. “Professor Moriarty, what bargain do you imagine that I imagine I might possess that would tempt you?”
“There are
