A Scandal in Battersea Read online

  “Limited,” Mary replied sadly. “Our power is mostly in our Elementals, and—” she shivered. “There’s nothing I know that I can sense, and I don’t think I would dare to try to call whatever passes for an Air Elemental here.”

  “We’re not limited,” Memsa’b and Sahib said together, and glanced at each other. “And you can see the rest of our troupe is no weaker here than at home,” Sahib added.

  “Wish I had my revolver,” John muttered. “I almost dropped it in my pocket before we left, but I didn’t.”

  “The longer we stand here, the more likely opposition will form,” Karamjit pointed out, with inescapable logic.

  “Our turbaned friend is right,” Holmes proclaimed. “Regardless of who is responsible for abducting the victims on our side of that door, the thing he is feeding is here. Cut that off, and we end this.” He looked each of them in the eyes. “If you are ready, we go.”

  “Do,” urged Puck. “The longer we stay here, the worse our peril.”

  With Selim and Karamjit in the lead, Nan and Holmes flanking, and Agansing and Sarah bringing up the rear, they moved out. “Fly?” suggested Neville, still on Nan’s shoulder. She glanced up at the starless sky, and shook her head.

  “We don’t know what’s up there,” she pointed out. “It could be bigger and much meaner than you. I don’t want to risk you or Grey.”

  “Rrrr,” he agreed. When Nan glanced back at Sarah, Grey bobbed her own agreement.

  The were limited in what they could see by the amount of light cast by the orb floating over John’s head. Nan was just as glad. What was visible was bad enough.

  The streets themselves were strewn with the rubble of utter destruction. Broken buildings hemmed them in on both sides, and they often had to climb over loose drifts of shattered brick and stone, but what was even more unnerving were the remnants of what looked like ordinary life. Furniture, kitchen things, even toys mingled with the rubble—and it appeared that the only plant-like material surviving was a sort of fungus that blotched these articles of everyday living, crept down the walls, and hung in grisly festoons from dead tree branches. Holmes tried wrapping some of that around a chair leg and setting it on fire, but all it did was emit a choking smoke, not create the torch he was hoping for. While there probably were rags of fabric here and there, the torn curtains they could see were well out of reach, and it seemed imprudent to hunt for bits of cloth when they could be ambushed at any moment.

  There was a strange, bitter smell in the cold air that Nan could not identify. Just out of range of their light, they could hear skittering sounds in the wreckage, and occasionally see the red gleam of an eye. Those “hounds” were almost certainly following them, and possibly other things as well. Her heart was in her throat, and she almost wished something would attack, because the tension was nearly unbearable.

  It was a good thing that Holmes had some idea where he was going, because Nan was disoriented and lost within minutes. Only by looking back and seeing the steady, healthy green glow of Puck’s beacon was she able to keep herself oriented at least to their escape route. The light shone even above the wrecked buildings, which eased one of her fears—that they’d get separated and be unable to find their way back. That green light must have been how Fensworth found them in the first place.

  As they drew nearer to “St. Paul’s,” or whatever you would call this hellish analog, she realized two things. First, she was actually able to make out the shattered dome against the dark sky by the fact that it glowed, faintly, like foxfire. And second, that the skittering now surrounded them on all sides, and had been joined by faint snarls, panting, and chittering noises. Fear rose in her, overwhelming the Celtic Warrior for a moment, and leaving her feeling very small and very frightened. Then she took a long, deep breath between one step and the next, and the Warrior came surging back.

  “We seem to have an escort,” Holmes said dryly. “I would give a great deal for one of those modern Maxim guns.”

  Nan kept her grip on her sword firm, but not a clench. The Celtic Warrior did not recognize any of those sounds out there, but she also did not flinch from them. She had been, in the deep past and another lifetime, a warrior not pledged against the common foes of other tribes or even Romans. She had fought monsters, directed by the Druidic leaders of her clan. This was nothing new to her, even if it was to Nan.

  The nearer they drew to St. Paul’s, the closer those creatures out in the dark came. Now they began darting into and out of the light, growling or snapping, and making sure the humans could see them.

  “I believe we are being herded,” Sahib said, in a conversational tone. “I have seen this in India, when our enemies wished to drive us in a particular direction.”

  “And I in Afghanistan,” replied John Watson tightly. “We have lost any element of surprise, if we ever had one.”

  They turned a corner and came into full view of the wreckage that was this world’s version of St. Paul’s Cathedral, Christopher Wren’s masterpiece. If it had not been for the surroundings, it would have been beautiful still in its ruin. The elegant lines of the building had been shattered by something impossibly powerful—Nan could not imagine what could have brought such a monumental work down.

  The two towers at the front were nothing but drifts of rubble. The great dome had been cracked unevenly off, as if someone had shattered a soft-boiled egg with the bowl of a spoon. The whole was covered in a thicket of black, ropy, leafless vine. That was, perhaps, the most unnerving part. The stems near the ground had to be the size of three or four tree-trunks put together! She had seen monstrous trees and vines in Africa, but nothing like this! Where had this thing come from, and how had it come to cover the face of St. Paul’s as if it was trying to strangle the building?

  There was a center path up the steps to the entrance; that path was clear of rubble and vine. Unnervingly clear, actually, since it was obvious that it was used regularly. And standing on the mounds of rubble on either side were . . . horrors.

  Shoulder to shoulder, with ranks behind them, were hybrid monsters—the spider-dogs they had already seen, enormous naked, flightless birds with the heads of lizards, rats the size of mastiffs with wolf-heads, ape-like creatures, and things Nan couldn’t even really make her mind understand. And what was most unnerving about them . . . was their utter silence. Not a snarl. Not a squeak.

  No one spoke. It was clear now they had made an enormous mistake and completely underestimated their unknown foe, but it was too late to turn back. Even the Celtic Warrior within Nan was cowed, and as for Nan—she was petrified. Neville huddled down on her shoulder, making himself as small as he could, his eyes darting everywhere.

  They entered the gaping holes where the doors should have been and walked into the nave. The roof was intact here, although the huge columns on either side were chipped and cracked. The aisles to either side were filled with rubble, but the nave itself was clear. The checkered marble floor was a ruin, the tiles shattered or buckled, the few intact stretches caked in mud. At the end of the nave, beneath where the apex of the dome would have been—was something. Another huge pile of rubble, of course, but there was something large sitting on it, as if it was a throne, and the entire thing, rubble pile, creature, and all, glowed like foxfire.

  Inside was only silence, a silence so profound that it made Nan’s ears strain to try and hear anything other than the sounds of their own footsteps.

  They paused and looked at one another, but no one said anything. What was there to say? That they were trapped? That it was quite likely none of them were going to get back to Puck alive? That coming here had been the biggest mistake any of them could have made? That they were going to vanish from the face of the earth, and if they were lucky they would die here—and if they were not, their soulless bodies would be spit out and they’d join those unfortunate girls in the hospital?

  I won’t believe that, Nan thought to
herself and set her chin, warring within herself against the terror that threatened to take her over, body and soul. There had to be a way out of this.

  But right now, it looked like the only way was forward. So forward they went.

  With every step they took, the creature sitting on the pile of rubble grew clearer. Or at least, the long robes and hood it had draped itself in grew clearer. The shape beneath the robe, not so much, although Nan fancied she saw movement in places under it where there would be no movement if the thing was actually humanoid. It was roughly ten feet tall, and sitting about ten more feet above the floor.

  “You may stop there,” it said, when they were about twenty feet away. It had a curious voice—absolutely expressionless, and impossible to describe as male or female. Loud without sounding loud. It had no accent at all, as far as she could tell. “We have allowed you to come this far without devouring you, because We wish you to carry a message to your world.”

  They said nothing. The oppressive silence filled the space beneath the shattered dome. Nan lowered her mental shields slightly and reached tentatively for Sherlock’s mind.

  Only to find he was thinking one fierce thought at her. You are the strongest telepath. Tell the rest to say nothing. We will get more information out of this creature if we give it nothing to react to.

  Quickly, she did as she had been told, passing on to Sherlock the fact that everyone knew as soon as she was done. Immediately his mind became occupied with a chess problem—the tactic she had shared with him of how a non-telepath could shield his mind from telepathic probes. She took her cue from him, and immediately put up the strongest protections she had.

  When the creature spoke again, there was just a touch of annoyance in its otherwise neutral voice. “We are soon to enter your world. When We do, it will be well if you do not resist.”

  Although (at least for Nan) the temptation to shout defiance at the thing was overwhelming, no one uttered so much as a sigh.

  Its voice rose a little. “Those who do resist will be torn apart by Our minions. Those who do not will live. The pure will serve in Our Communion, and We will grow strong, until We conquer all of your world.”

  That . . . was a very odd thing to say. The pure will serve in “Our Communion”? What on earth does that mean?

  “We will conquer your world!” the creature said, its tone now distinctly shrill. “We will have the victory that has been denied Us! We will feed on your terror and despair, and grow mighty! All this shall come to pass! All this shall come to pass!” It had risen from its seat, and towered over them—and what was inside the arms of its robe were definitely not anything like human arms. No human arms moved that . . . bonelessly.

  “Go!” the thing shrieked in fury, in tones that hurt Nan’s ears. “Go now! Return to your world and bear Our message, those of you that survive the passage!”

  “Don’t run,” Sherlock said quietly.

  16

  THEY walked, quickly and steadily, back down the nave to the exit. Nan could feel the thing’s fury behind her. Somehow the fact that they had not reacted to it had sent it into a blind rage. And the fact that now they were not pelting as fast as they could for the exit had enraged it further. That, and that alone, was what was keeping her from disobeying Sherlock and racing for Puck and the passage out as fast as she could run.

  When they reached the exit, Sherlock held out his hand, and they all paused. Nan had expected that the monsters would have clogged the path down the stairs—but no. They were still arranged up on the hills of rubble, snarling and slavering, but making no move to charge them.

  “If we run, we become prey,” Sherlock said quietly. “As long as we show no fear, they may leave us alone out of fear themselves.”

  “Like jackals or pariah dogs,” murmured John, and Karamjit, Selim and Agansing all nodded in agreement. “They’re used to chasing things that run away from them. When they encounter something that doesn’t do that, they can’t think how to handle it. A couple of them may gather up enough courage to rush us. Be ready for that, kill them as quickly as you can. That will make the rest even more cautious.”

  “Mary and Sarah, I would like you in the middle of the group,” Sherlock said. “The main attacks will come from the side. Nan, I would like you and Agansing on the left and Karamjit and Selim on the right. Sahib Harton and I will lead, John and Memsa’b Harton, put your backs to Mary and guard the rear. We will proceed slowly in this fashion until we are past the gantlet of enemies, if that seems to be a good strategy to you, John.”

  “I was just an Army Surgeon,” John replied with a shrug. “Agansing? Karamjit? Selim?”

  “Letting go the fact that it will force you to walk backward, this is a sound strategy,” Karamjit agreed, and drew his sword, which never left his side. For his part, Agansing drew his two Gurkha long knives, the curved Kukri knives that were nearly as long as a sword. Selim nodded and drew his saber.

  They formed up. “I have changed my mind about using my power. I’m going to see if there is anything here I can control,” Mary said in an undertone. “But don’t worry, I have no intention of doing anything that will bring yet more trouble down on us. I’m just going to . . . well, try and carefully feel things out. I can do that while we are moving, easily.”

  “If you find something friendly, don’t hesitate to call it,” John advised. He got a firm grip on his stick—or rather, club, since that was what it resembled rather than Holmes’ singlestick. “We can use all the help we can get.”

  Nan wished there was some way to tell Puck the danger they were in. He would surely be able to send them some aid from “their” side of the portal, if only he knew they needed it.

  They made a few tentative steps down the staircase. By the time they reached the bottom of it, they were moving more confidently, as a single body. “Stand as if you are absolutely ready to fight back, but don’t challenge them,” Holmes advised, as they slowly edged their way down the middle of the street between the two mounds of rubble.

  There was a strange, dry, bitter-green scent in the air. It was cold—but not as cold, Nan thought, as “their” London. Somehow Memsa’b seemed unaffected by the chill even though her tunic left arms and legs bare. A half-seen mob of creatures crowded the top of the hills of rubble on either side of them. They didn’t make much noise—nothing seemed to make much noise in this place, actually. There was some angry chittering, snarls, growls, and the scuffling of clawed feet on slippery rubble, but other than that—nothing.

  Nan edged sideways with the rest of them and wished she could see the amorphous mass clearly. John’s light was not helping much. There was something more unnerving about a moving mound in which the occasional eye reflected back the light from that meager orb, like a will-o’-the-wisp over John’s head, than there would have been in seeing a horde of monsters.

  Her stomach and throat were clenched tightly with fear. She held her sword two-handed, her gaze flickering above, to the rear, then ahead of them. How long was it going to take them to get to the portal this way? Longer, surely, than it had to get here in the first place.

  “Curse this,” John muttered. “Sherlock, unless you tell me not to, I am putting up a better light. I can’t take much more of not being able to see these things clearly.”

  “It’s probably better if you do that,” Holmes admitted. “We’ll be able to move faster too. Make it as bright as you can; with luck it will blind any of them that can hurl things at us.”

  John needed no further encouragement. He muttered something under his breath, and a few moments later, a miniature sun blossomed over their heads, flooding the area with light.

  Some of the creatures on the tops of the ridges squalled and slid down the back of the rubble pile, avoiding the light, like cockroaches or mice scuttling for cover. But others stood there, half-paralyzed, blinking in the unexpected brightness. These were all the half-seen creatu
res from before, squinting and looking stunned. Nan felt her fear ease just a little. “We’ll move a little faster,” Holmes muttered quietly. “We’ll take advantage of their being stunned.” And suiting actions to words, he did pick up the pace.

  And for a while, Nan began to hope that the light alone would keep the monsters at bay. It looked as if most of them were about the size of a mastiff—if they attacked one at a time, she thought the group could deal with them handily, but if they rushed in a pack . . .

  The rubble-mounds slowly decreased in size, which unfortunately brought the monsters nearer. A glance to the rear told Nan that there would be no escape back toward St. Paul’s—as if that had ever been an option—because the things had closed ranks and filled the street behind them. Now they were darting in and out of the ruined buildings on either side of the street, still unnervingly silent. Then they turned a corner, and the dim, beautiful green glow of Puck’s staff shone at the end of the street, showing that he was still there, and the portal was still held open.

  That was when the first of the beasts got enough courage to make a rush for them.

  Without John’s little sun, they’d have had no warning. Even with it, there wasn’t much warning; just sudden tension in one of the wolf-headed things, and then it was hurtling toward Nan as Neville erupted in an earsplitting scream. The scream shocked it just as it reached their group, and the Celtic Warrior’s reflexes did the rest. In the next instant the head of the creature was rolling toward the others across the rubble, and the body tumbled tail-over-blood-spurting-neck into a pile of wrecked furnishings.

  She heard Selim shout something in his own language, and John cursing, but there was no time to take any of that in, because one of the spider-things was racing toward her and Agansing was fending off a second, chopping at the too-many-legs striking at him.

  She swung at a black, hairy leg ending in a wicked claw or talon that arced down at her; she manage to cut off the end of it, but another whacked at the sword as she was recovering from the stroke and, to her horror, sent it hurtling straight up into the air as Agansing finished his spider and carved up hers.