Warlock Holmes--My Grave Ritual by G.S. Denning

Author:G.S. Denning
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titan

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Sadly, that luxury eluded us. Holmes and I returned to London and a frustrating lack of news concerning Violet Hunter’s progress.

Or, more likely, her demise.

To complicate matters further, Holmes got us embroiled in a new adventure. He brought that red-headed ninny Jabez Wilson to Baker Street and led us on a whole new meaningless campaign of self-endangerment. I will say little of the matter right now, but will make sure it is the next adventure this volume details. Suffice to say, it quite drove concerns over Violet Hunter to the back of my mind. In fact, she was hardly mentioned at all until Holmes and I found ourselves trapped in an underground vault, surrounded on all sides by hideous monsters, bound, bested and nearly helpless. Suddenly, as our attackers closed in for the final assault, Holmes shouted, “Oh no! Violet is in danger!”

“What?” I shouted at him. “What?”

“We’ve got to help her! But how?”

“Yes. Exactly. How, indeed?”

Holmes spluttered and fretted, lost for ideas. I think I became quite furious with him for I knew—deep in my momentarily doomed little heart—that he was spending zero thought or effort on our present situation. Then, in an instant, an idea came to him. His face broke into an expression of relief, he elbowed one of the monsters that held him slightly back then lunged for me and…

It was the first time I’d kissed a man.

And it was everything I’d dreaded.

To start with: it wasn’t particularly well aimed. The first sensation was of Holmes’s lips all over my cheek and chin, filling my stubble up with slobber. I had just enough time to scream in distress (and sadly not quite enough to punch him in the head) before his lips found mine.

The next instant, I was falling through a swirling void. All around me, I could sense the presence of demons. I had the distinct impression they were pointing at me and laughing. (Little bastards.) Even worse than the sensation of falling to an unknown fate was the realization that I no longer had control of my body. I could tell, because my repeated attempts to wipe my mouth were met by no sensation of touch, either from my arms or the spit-drenched, recently betrayed unwanted-kiss-reception-facility I called a face. Falling. Spinning. Screaming with no voice, until…

With a jolt, I found myself standing in a shabby little bedroom, staring at a periwinkle dress with wires all up and down it, laid out on a clean white bedcover. I think I tried to cry out or to throw my hands to either side to steady myself. But the hands did not move. The voice made no cry. Instead, I heard myself say, “Yes, of course, Mr. Rucastle. But a lady needs some time to prepare, you know.”

The voice was not my own. As I digested the strangeness of it, my head swiveled to one side and my gaze fell, for the first time, on the horrible avianesque abomination that was Jephro Rucastle. He looked sweaty and distraught.

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