James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

“You’re through, whoever you are,” said the explorer as he grappled with them. “Whatever this is, it ends tonight. The police are on their way.”

The masked, robed figure laughed. “You’re bluffing, sir. You two fools have no idea what you’ve stumbled onto this night. But I am sorry, gentlemen. I can’t let you alert the authorities.”

Abberline thrashed in the cultists’ grip. Burton watched helplessly as one of the biggest men he had ever seen came toward him with a raised pitchfork.

Burton tried to break free and bolt, but there were too many of them, and he wished he had brought a gun.

Fool! Not going heeled into the Cauldron.

Abberline continued to writhe in the grasp of the masked man’s followers, but it was no use.

“You should not have come here,” said the man called the King in Yellow. “Instead of acolytes, you will become sacrifices. Tonight you shall be offered to Father Dagon and Mother Hydra.”

“Not so fast, you yellow blighter.”

Burton, Abberline, and everyone else turned at the sound. A large, bearded man in poorly fitting cult robes stood brandishing a pair of pistols.

“Challenger!” Burton smiled.

The big zoologist raised a pistol into the air and fired, the loud report sending cultists scurrying in every direction. The men holding Burton and Abberline released them, and Burton gave a fleeing cultist a solid punch in the mouth for good measure.

Abberline chased one of them around the flaming baptismal font as Challenger fired more shots, this time into the crowd.

“Stop it!” said Burton, ducking behind a crumbling pew. “You’ll hit their leader, whoever he is. We need him alive.”

The King in Yellow screamed as the first shot went off and ran up onto the tabernacle, pushing one of his cult members and knocking him into two more. The three robed degenerates fell in a crimson heap.

Challenger joined Burton, a playful sneer on his bearded face. His twin barrels smoked, the acrid smell of gunpowder stinging.

“He’s getting away,” said Challenger. “Let’s go.”

Burton and Challenger moved toward the tabernacle.

“Frederick,” Burton called to the policeman. “Don’t let him get away.”

The inspector nodded, looking around behind the abhorrent statue rocking back and forth overhead.

One of the cult members came up behind Abberline, a heavy wooden post raised over his head like a cudgel.

“Fred, look out!” Burton called.

Abberline turned just as Challenger squeezed off another shot, hitting the man dead center in his chest. He stumbled backward, dropping his weapon and falling onto the burning baptismal font, flames alighting his loose-fitting robes. His weight pushed the thing over, sending burning kindling into the pews, which quickly turned the entire space into one vast pyre.

“Where the hell is he?” said Challenger.

Burton peered through the growing smoke. “There,” he pointed. “There’s a passage behind this damned tabernacle.”

The three men watched as the yellow-robed figure disappeared behind a panel in the wall.

“Go!” said Challenger.

Their way was blocked by more fleeing cult members, who somehow had the presence of mind to protect their master’s escape. Fortunately, none of them seemed to be armed. Burton punched his way through them, and Challenger used his guns as twin cudgels when they were empty of ammunition. Abberline did his part in spectacular fashion. Burton watched, amazed, as the inspector felled one of the cultists with a throat chop, then kicked another in the groin.

“Bismillah!” cried Burton as they reached the no longer secret passage.

“It’s called Bartitsu,” said Abberline. “The art of gentlemanly combat.”

Burton arched an eyebrow. “You must show me sometime.”

“Later, gentlemen,” said Challenger as he opened the thin wooden door. “Our prey is escaping.”

Abberline slid into the passage, followed by Burton and Challenger.

The passage was little more than a tunnel, low-ceilinged and rough hewn. They all ducked to move through it, which made for slow progress. Burton fumbled with their lantern, getting it lit and passing it up to Abberline.

The tunnel ran straight, and after ten minutes of painful crouching, they reached a wall with a similar crude door. Abberline pushed on it, and the trio emerged in a darkened tenement.

The place was dank and foul-smelling. They heard the faint scurry of rats, and vermin bulged behind the crumbling, faded wallpaper.

“Where is he?” said Burton.

“We should search this building,” said Abberline.

Challenger winced as he stretched, his back creaking loudly. He doffed his cult robes and tossed them to the floor.

“I’m glad to see you,” said Burton to the zoologist. “Now what are you doing here?”

“Mycroft Holmes’ invitation did not fall on deaf ears,” said Challenger as he followed Burton and Abberline from room to room in their search for the mysterious King in Yellow. “I just wanted the pretentious fop to think I was ignoring him.”

Abberline went up a set of rickety stairs to check the upper floors.

“I must admit my curiosity got the better of me,” Challenger continued. “I thought investigating this weird cult would explain the changes I’ve witnessed since our return. Changes no one else seems to register.”

“Like the madness of the mediums never occurring?” said Burton.

Challenger nodded. “That was one thing, yes. But my wife is also…different. Less understanding of my…idiosyncrasies.”

Burton turned his head to conceal a grin.

“I know I am not the easiest man to get along with, but she acts as if this is somehow new to her. It’s as if I came home to a stranger. Until I realized it is I who is the stranger to her.”

“We changed something when we went back through Time,” said Burton. “My fiancée Isabel is…gone. Disappeared in Hyde Park shortly before I returned. I have no clear memory of this. Except…” His mouth tried to say something else but failed.

“I remember returning home to the news, but I also remember going to my club as soon as we disembarked, and finding my friends and colleagues transmogrified into hideous creatures. A hallucination obviously, but…”

“I know what you mean,” said Challenger. “I have had similar experiences. Almost like deja vu .”

Burton nodded. The pain of her disappearance was once again gnawing at his breast.

Challenger placed a hand on his shoulder. “I am glad our paths have crossed once more.”

“No one up there,” said Abberline, bounding down the stairs. He stopped next to Burton, staring up at the large man who had rescued them.

“Well? Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“Fred, Professor Challenger. Professor, Chief Inspector Frederick George Abberline.”

Challenger gave the policeman a hateful sneer of a smile. “So you’re Mycroft’s lap dog, hey?”

“Nice to meet you, too,” said the policeman. “I’ve read about your South American expedition in the papers.”

“And what did you think?” asked Challenger.

“I think you’re a con artist,” said Abberline. “Or bollocks.”

Challenger stared down at him for a long moment before bellowing laughter. He clapped both men on the shoulder, and in another moment Burton and Abberline were laughing too, even though they had no idea why. It wasn’t an appropriate response after what they had just been through, but at this moment it felt like the most appropriate response in the world.

“You still haven’t explained how you infiltrated the cult,” Burton said when the laughter died.