neck, you are some kind of shaman, and by your very behavior, not a benign sort, no. You are a practitioner of the dark arts!”
The woman’s face screwed up with fury, and she jabbed a pointed fingernail at him.
“Get him!” she screamed to the others. “Rip the unbeliever limb from limb!”
Some of those nearest him began to shuffle forward, but it was hardly a determined effort. These were people in the throes of a devouring mental sickness, after all. Two swift shots above their heads and they drew back.
The detective allowed a smile to tug at the corners of his mouth, swinging his attention back towards the gurney.
“I would not rely on ravaged souls like these to fetch my morning paper, much less save my hide. If this is your best defence, madam, then Death Row awaits you.”
The witch woman, however, seemed uncowed.
“You think that you are very clever, yes? You think you have this all worked out?”
A touch of recognition sprang into her dark eyes, her head tipping slightly to one side.
“I know who you are. That so-smart Englishman, who relies on logic and who laughs at death.” Her own lips curled, more fiercely than his. “Well laugh at this! Where is your logic now?”
She pointed again, but this time above her. Suspecting some kind of trick, Holmes refused to raise his head at first, but then he realized the quality of light in the whole room was changing. From the direction of the ceiling, he could hear some kind of rumbling noise.
When his gaze lifted towards it, he was rendered utterly numb. His heart seemed to freeze up in his chest. His limbs became like marble. He could scarcely breathe. He had lived by deduction and science his whole life. So … how could this
The heavy smoke had formed a loosely rolling ball over the altar. As Holmes watched, it began to change shape. A massive face appeared within its contours. It had pointed ears. Its mouth had fangs. Its eyes, each as large as a man’s fist, had slitted pupils and they glowed a baleful shade of carmine. Its expression was a twisted one of absolute malevolence.
At first, Holmes’ mind simply could not accept it. His thoughts darted around like some agitated hive of instincts. He was trying to explain this in a logical, sane fashion, and could not. This was not some trick of the light. Nor could he make out any hint of a special gadget or projector.
He had to accept it, finally. At least it explained why the congregants kept coming back.
“An evil spirit,” he concluded out loud, “called in these parts, so I believe, a Manitou. I should imagine it has wandered into Vegas from the bleak, surrounding desert, finding new believers here, and sustenance.”
He hated being forced to descend to this level of intellect, but had little choice. His eyesight was not lying to him. The true solution to this case was paranormal, not material. The creature had set up home in this abandoned building. The woman was either its servant or familiar. The congregants gathered here, there was a sacrifice, and human blood was consumed. By means of their Master’s otherworldly influence, these people would return to the casinos and finally win at the tables. Not an awful lot, Holmes supposed, or else they’d leave this city, but just enough to keep them solvent. Just enough to keep them hooked on this abominable practice.
Their needs were being partially fulfilled, and so were the monster’s. It had an audience of supplicants, and there were fear and pain and blood and dying, which had to be like meat and drink to the foul thing.
All of this the great detective realized in a flash, but there was no triumph accompanying the knowledge, rather, it filled him with a terrible dread.
The witch woman was grinning at him openly.
“Those are pretty impressive guns you’ve got there, but they do not impress him. Go on, try your hand! He laughs at bullets!”
He was being mocked. Holmes knew it, but common sense told him that he at least ought to try. He pointed both Glocks at the creature and let loose a fusillade of shots.
The rounds passed through, doing no damage. The thing began to grow larger, swelling against the background of the mildewed ceiling.
“You’ve had your chance!” the woman was chuckling. “Now, it’s his turn to strike back!”
Holmes did not know what she meant at first, but then he saw that it was not merely the head expanding. A neck and shoulders appeared. Then muscular arms, ending in broad hands tipped with savage claws.
In another few seconds, this monstrous entity would reach down and shred him like a sheet of tissue paper. It would not be a normal physical assault. It would be on a paranormal level. Could even he survive something like that?
Holmes wavered, uncertain what to do. He knew no spells. He had no knowledge of the magic arts. So how could he defeat this beast?
There was a humming noise as the air parted. The Manitou had lashed out. Holmes was forced to jump away; just in time. If he’d still been standing on the spot, he would have been ripped in two.
The beast continued growing. At this rate, it would become so large there would be no escaping it.
Desperately, Holmes glanced back at the woman. She was braying with laughter, quite unable to control herself. The insistent pressure on her lungs had doubled her forward; she was clutching at her belly. Then he noticed something else.
At the Paris casino yesterday, he had believed there was some item of jewelry hidden underneath her blouse. Now it had fallen clear, and he could see it. It was a pendant, a large, tulip-shaped gemstone on a silver chain and setting.
The translucent stone was the exact same color as the Manitou’s eyes, and had the same unearthly lustre. Were they somehow linked?
If he discharged a weapon at it, though, he’d kill the woman too. Even under such dire circumstances, he rebelled at the idea of shooting a member of the fairer sex.
The creature took another swipe at him. Again, he narrowly avoided it. Half a row of seating was disintegrated by the blow. Holmes stumbled back.
Then, he noticed a change come across the witch woman that altered his original frame of mind. The beast’s swelling shadow had spread across her, and in that vile penumbra, the true nature of her appearance was revealed.
All beauty fled, her face becoming leathery and wizened. Her eyes were sunken deep. Her open lips framed desolate gums, only a few rotted stumps of teeth remaining. Her body was hunched over and her fingers horribly gnarled.
She had to be hundreds of years old, a filthy hag, who had only kept herself alive by means of her dark conjurations. Holmes felt his resolve return. There was no further time to waste. His arm straightened. He took his shot.
His aim was true. The pendant burst into a thousand gleaming carmine shards and the woman was struck instantaneously dead, crashing to the floor.
The effect was immediate. An obscene wailing, followed by a sucking noise, made Holmes look up again. The Manitou was shrinking, disappearing, being siphoned away, almost certainly, into some other plane of existence in which only spirits dwelt.
As for the congregants, they took in what was happening and then — true to their debased natures — turned tale and fled, leaving the room by any exit they could find, in the same manner as a swarm of rats confronted in their nest.
It was over, thank God. Holmes used the sleeve of his raincoat to wipe perspiration from his brow. He remained where he was for half a minute, letting his breathing steady, and then he hurried down to help the kidnapped man.
A couple of hours later, Holmes and Capaldi found themselves sitting in front of the theatre. There was much activity around them, since the forensics boffins were still processing the scene. Two slim, attractive women, one auburn-haired, the other dark and slightly shorter, went past them into the building.
“We’ll get the others. They’ll be charged with being accessories,” the lieutenant assured him.
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
“Witch women?” Capaldi grunted. “Evil spirits? Man, that has to top even Moriarty.”
Holmes just became stiff-lipped. “Believe me, Lieutenant. Nothing, however inhuman or vile, ever quite
