Tony Richards - The Astonishing Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in the Twenty-First Century

Next moment, though, he got an awful demonstration of it. The woman suddenly pinched off the tube, stopping the flow of gore. She picked up the goblet with both hands, raised it into the air in some form of supplication.

And then – to the detective’s horror – put it to her lips. And drank.

Even worse was to follow. Because the cup was passed on to the assistants who’d wheeled the man out. They each took a sip. And then the goblet was handed over to the people standing in the rows of seats, who began to follow suit.

It was as repulsive a sight as Holmes had ever witnessed. Behaviour so degraded it was barely human. Were these the depths to which this miserable rabble had been reduced? Did they genuinely believe that if they drank the fluids of a victor at the tables they would become winners too?

It defied credulity. But equally, it made no sense.

They might try this one time, out of utter desperation. But it surely would make not the slightest difference to their fortunes. Except that the grey-haired woman beside him was obviously a regular here. So were many others – it was beyond question. And what on earth made them keep coming back?

It was of no real importance, he decided. There was no accounting for the demented behaviour to which addicts stooped. The Oriental woman was preparing to drain her victim a second time. Holmes knew he had to put a stop to this.

He stepped back out into the aisle, drawing both his weapons. He aimed one at the crowd, and the other at the black-clad figure.

And then shouted, in his sternest voice, “You are not Oriental, are you, madam?”

All movement stopped. Every eye turned towards him. Only the flickering red light of the flames continued as it had before.

“Every description I’ve heard of you gives your origin as the Far East. But that is not the case. On closer inspection, you are a Native American. By the ritualistic scarring on your neck, a shaman. And by your very behaviour, not a benign sort, no. 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 the edges of his lips, 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 realised the quality of light in the whole room was changing. And, 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. And so … how could this be ?

The heavy smoke had formed a loosely rolling ball over the altar. And as Holmes watched, it began to change shape. A massive face appeared within its contours. It had pointed ears. Its mouth had fangs. And its eyes – each as large as a man’s fist – had slitted pupils and were glowing 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 insects. 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 drunk. And – 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. 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 by now. 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 realised 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! 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. And 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. And 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. And it would not be a normal physical assault. Could he survive it?

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, and 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 jewellery 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 colour 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.