Inhaltsangabe
The eleventh novel in Mercedes Lackey's magical Elemental Masters series reimagines Sherlock Holmes in a richly-detailed alternate 20th century England
Psychic Nan Killian and Medium Sarah Lyon-White--along with their clever birds, the raven Neville and the parrot Grey--have been agents of Lord Alderscroft, the Elemental Fire Master known as the Wizard of London, since leaving school. Now, Lord Alderscroft assigns them another commission: to work with the famous man living at 221 Baker Street--but not the one in flat B. They are to assist the man living in flat C. Dr. John Watson and his wife Mary, themselves Elemental Masters of Water and Air, take the occult cases John's more famous friend disdains, and they will need every skill the girls and their birds can muster! Nan and Sarah's first task: to confront and eliminate the mysterious and deadly entity that nearly killed them as children: the infamous Haunt of Number 10 Berkeley Square. But the next task divides the girls for the first time since they were children. A German opera star begs Sarah for help, seeking a Medium's aid against not just a single spirit, but a multitude. As Sarah becomes more deeply entwined with the Prima Donna, Nan continues to assist John and Mary Watson alone, only to discover that Sarah's case is far more sinister than it seems. It threatens to destroy not only a lifelong friendship, but much, much more.Die Inhaltsangabe kann sich auf eine andere Ausgabe dieses Titels beziehen.
Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor
Mercedes Lackey is a full-time writer and has published numerous novels and works of short fiction, including the best-selling Heralds of Valdemar series. She is also a professional lyricist and a licensed wild bird rehabilitator. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband, artist Larry Dixon, and their flock of parrots. She can be found at mercedeslackey.com or on Twitter at @mercedeslackey.
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Prologue
A feller did not survive as a London street Arab for long, let alone prosper, if he couldn’t keep his wits about him under any and all circumstances. And he didn’t rise to the heady heights of the front ranks of the Irregulars and the good graces of the guv’nor without having nerves of steel wire and a mind like a rattrap, ready to snap on any bit of information that came his way. Wiggins himself trusted Tommy as his right-hand man, and the guv’nor trusted no Irregular more than Wiggins.
With that sort of regard resting on his shoulders, a feller had to be smart, quick, and steady as Windsor Castle. A feller couldn’t let himself get the wind up about anything, no matter how spooky it was. There was more than enough peril in the alleys and shadows without letting your imagination make more.
But Tommy Grimeshad to admit to himself that the toff he was following through fog-wreathed streets was giving him a lot of goose bumps. That was strange, because there wasn’t much that put the hair up on Tommy’s head, and he’d poked into more nasty places than most. And it was strange, because so far, the gent had only acted a bit peculiar, and Tommy followed fellers who had acted quite mad before without getting collywobbles about it. So, he was getting the cauld grue, and it was for no obvious reason that he could see.
It wasn’t how the blighter looked; he was well dressed, in a long, double-breasted dark coat and matching trousers; without an overcoat, which wasn’t unusual tonight, but without a hat, which was. His graying black hair was cut longer than most, wavy, and a bit disheveled, but in a manner a lady would likely say was “artistic.” As gents went, he’d probably be reckoned handsome, by ladies anyway. Except for his hair, everything about him was fastidiously tidy. No one was giving him a second glance as he passed by. But then, this was a nice neighborhood; good thing it was dark and no one could see the tattered state of Tommy’s clothes. Not that people like this paid any attention to a lad like him anyway, so long as he didn’t get within an arm’s length of ’em, on account of if he got close, they’d likely think he was about to stick his hand in their pockets. This toff, though, he fit right in and only occasioned a slight smile from a lady, or a nod from a gent as they passed each other on the street. Simple politeness among the gentry.
Not that there were many of the gentry out at this time of night. Folks what lived around here were all asleep, trusting to their locks, their servants, and the police to keep ’em safe. Mostly they were asleep in their own beds, though sometimes they were in beds where they didn’t rightly belong, but that was none of Tommy’s business, ’cept when the guv’nor made it his business.
But this toff had caught Tommy’s attention on account of Tommy could tell he wasn’t just strolling, but paying right close attention to whether or not there was anyone about. Once the street was clear, he stopped dead still, inclined his head as if he was listening to someone—nodded, and then whispered a word or two back—and then continued on his way with the determined step of someone who knew exactly where he was going. Tommy’d thought maybe the old gent was a bit barmy, until he did it a couple more times, and each time he did, it was pretty obvious he was getting directions. But directions from what?
The second time he’d listened to something that weren’t there, Tommy knew his instincts hadn’t been playing tricks on him, and there was something even the guv’nor might not be able to explain going on. He thought about breaking off at that point and letting the gent go on his way, but you never knew what scrap of odd knowledge might be worth something to the boss. Maybe not the boss, though. Maybe the Major. Talkin’ to things as ain’t there’s more his line. That was all right. The Major paid just as well as the boss did.
And, as they got closer and closer to the Thames, and the respectable types gave way to loungers and drunks and whores, no one but Tommy saw him make tiny little gestures and whisper a few more words, and then go on as completely unmolested as if he was invisible. That made Tommy go cold all over and think again about continuing to follow the man. Surely he had enough, even for the Major.
But it didn’t seem that the man knew he was being followed, so Tommy gathered his tattered courage about him and put everything the boss had taught him about tailing agent into immediate use. Because the Major would pay more, a lot more, if he knew what the man had been getting directions to.
But when it became very clear that the gent was heading for the waterfront and the docks themselves, Tommy grew very unhappy indeed, and for a whole different set of reasons than just unchancy behavior. This wasn’t his lay; another set of gangs ruled the waterfront, and they didn’t much like the Baker Street boys cutting in. Sure, some of them answered to the boss, but plenty more didn’t, and no telling who was in which until there was a knife looking for your liver and you found your luck had run out.
But whatever was making the fancy toff invisible to the gangs seemed to be working for Tommy, too. No one harassed them; the waterfront was uncannily quiet. The man’s path took him away from the taverns and alehouses, down silent, darkened byways Tommy would have got lost in on his own, avoiding anything other than the occasional night watchman. On they went, first to and then under the docks. And oh, even to Tommy’s nose, inured as he was to smells, this place stank. Sewage warred with dead fish, which in turn warred with the smell of rotting things best not guessed at. The tide was going out; it was the hour of the mudlarks, as the Thames left its odorous leavings on the mud-banks, and anything could be found, from a silver coin from the time of the eighth Henry to a deader, though most of what washed up was rags and bits of wood and rotten stuff. Needless to say, the deaders outnumbered the silver coins by quite a lot. There was the suicides, of course; there was always one or two of those a night. But there was also them as hadn’t gone into the water of their own free will. And accidents, though it was hard to tell them from the ones that was pushed.
Tommy didn’t dare follow the gent out into the mud (though somehow he wasn’t sinking ankle-deep in the stuff like any proper human would), but he skulked in the shadows on the rocks under the docks and watched with all his eyes as the gent went straight to—something—lying asprawl in shallow water in the silvery moonlight.
The gent turned the thing over with a curious air of reverence, and a particularly strong beam of moonlight revealed a white, white face and long golden hair, and a fan of pale dress splayed out on the mud like so much seaweed.
“Perdóname, querida,” said the gent, and the blade of a very sharp knife flashed for a moment in the moonlight.
Tommy felt horror grip him. It was one thing to cut up a man who meant to cut you up. It was quite another to cut up the dead. The dead should be left alone.
Then clouds covered the moon, and as Tommy found himself caught in a paralysis of terror, the man . . . did something to the corpse. Tommy heard a roaring like the sea in his ears, and everything went dark for a moment, and when he came to himself again, clutching at the wet, barnacle-covered support he’d hidden behind, the gent . . . was gone.
Quite gone, as if he had vanished right into thin air, like a conjurer. Except...
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