Save 50% buying all Angel Hamilton stories in one collection! Racy science fiction fantasy. A detective every client wants to seduce.
The Complete Angel Hamilton
Angel Hamilton is a detective who just can't keep out of trouble, or stay in money. Between girlfriends who are bloodsucking vampires, and unicorns that he has to fend off, he spends the rest of his time battling supernatural creatures called the Hellbound, whose sole mission in life is to destroy him and all humanity.
This is a collection of all six tales that have been written in the Angel Hamilton series.
Follow Angel from when he was used as an experiment that opened his mind and eyes to the supernatural that exists among us
Experience the challenges he faces when he has to help supernatural clients who are in trouble with the Hellbound who don't want to be noticed as they set about destroying human lives and will do anything to stop Angel from helping the innocent.
Had you bought all these stories individually, it would have cost you almost twice as much! But now you can get all of them in one bundle.
Dark Son, Dark Father 1,99 for over 160 pages.
The adventure continues in this fourth and even more exciting urban fantasy, science fiction, detective novel of the series.
The mastermind behind all the terror and death in London is exposed. But can he be stopped?
Mister Dark finally meets his father. Who is the one most to be feared?
The battle to stop the terrors haunting London has intensified. Is anyone safe from the Dark Son and Dark Father?
Sherlock Holmes and Watson, joined by their friends of the Brotherhood face the most deadly and murderous challenge of their lives.
Sherlock Holmes Dark Son, Dark Father – the battle continues!
Sherlock Holmes and Watson like you've ever seen them before. A new novel in the Baker Street Universe series of stories that take Watson and Sherlock Holmes to an alternate reality where all the authors who ever lived and all their creations live at the same time.
Dark Son, Dark Father 1,99 for over 160 pages.
Private Investigator, Cross. Reckless Persuasion Death by John Pirillo. In a world of scoundrels you make do or go out fighting.
Reckless Persuasion Death.
P.I. Cross Tale.
By John Pirillo.
Call me Crossbones. Everyone else does. Seems like every time I show up somewhere, there's heads rolling, legs torn off, chests burst open and general mayhem and death and dying. Pretty sad situation for a guy who just wants to make a living, even if it is a lousy one. Being made the symbol for everything that's not sugar and nice is just downright frustrating to say the least.
My real name is Cross. Henry Cross. I was born somewhere in California. I forget where because my father moved us around so much as a child I never stuck there long enough to remember any names. Friends were like cold showers. They woke you up, but were gladly forgotten. Most of my friends hated me because I was so honest. If they asked what I thought of their toy. I explained in no uncertain terms exactly what I thought. Parents were afraid to let me into their houses because I would answer and ask questions they didn't want to even consider...like how many heads can dance on the head of a pin, why aren't marshmallows put in the mouths of victims of cannibals, and why do vampires only have two teeth. You know the ordinary kind of questions a young kid asks who's dumber than an outhouse.
Yesterday I hit a new low, or high depending on which end of the pain spectrum you live. I was helping out Mother Darling. She lives about two blocks down the street. I always wave at her when I return from my office at night. She's usually seated on her front porch smoking a torch. That's what I call cigarettes because they scar your mouth, teeth, tongue, throat and lungs...not to mention those ugly stains on the fingers that hold them. "Hey Mom!" I greeted her.
She shook her torch at me. That was her best day with me. Usually she said something like, "Get the hell outta here before I call the cops on you!"
I would answer back. "But I am a cop!"
"Shit you are!" She'd laugh, and then toss her torch at me.
I'd duck it, then head on up the street.
If you get the idea that I live in a tough neighborhood, you wouldn't be wrong. But what makes it worse is that it's not all...you know...like her.
Once past her I had to dodge the alley Troll, he's a bum that lives in the alley next to my block. If you're not quick enough he grabs you and shakes you down for all your cash and if you're not carrying and he's hungry...well then...tough luck. I hadn't been bitten yet, but I had my butt kicked once. Literally. The Troll. His name was Angst, because that's what he gave everyone who had to cross his alley. Angst was in a good mood and when he snatched me on a Good Friday. I had actually made two bucks helping an old lady cross the street. She'd tipped me. He shook me down and instead of biting me he had laughed and just kicked me in the butt. Man that hurt!
But I'm not your average kind of P.I. That's Private Investigator to all you not know-its out there. But the ones in the know also knew that P.I. stood for Paranormal Investigator too. Yeah. I shone on both sides of the grave. And made about as much money. Nada. Zilch. Zero and Kaput. How do I make a living then? Well every once in a great while I stumble into a case that pays off. Literally. The person or thing or being that hires me pays me off. Not to help them but to stay out of their way so someone else can.
How in the world did I get into such a lousy line of business? I blame it all on my Dad. He was a know it all and a do nothing. He did everything. To not do anything and made a great living at it. He dabbled in magic. Lots of magic. He had ways of conjuring up cash that was real until the person who got it turned their back, and then it disappeared back into his pocket for further redistribution as he called it.
I laughed at that thought. The Old Man was still alive. Bitter and well in a high rise he owned. He was filthy rich. I was filthy poor. Never would the two meet. Not that he wouldn't help me. He would in a rabbit's leap, but I had too much pride. That's probably why my girl Sassy Lassie, yeah her real name, hadn't shown me the good times yet. She was waiting for a miracle. Me to grow up and get rich. She wasn't a gold digger, just a beautiful blonde who liked the finer things in life I couldn't finger for her or buy.
"Hey Angst!" I greeted as I passed the alley. He looked up from the trash can he was eating from and belched. "Crossbones. How's it hanging?"
"Not so good." I answered.
"That's great." He replied, and then went back to munching on KFC bones he had found in a tossed family carton.
Times had sure changed. He used to hassle me every time I passed, but lately he'd gotten...well...kind of friendly. Maybe that's because I also practice a little...uh...protection these days. I took my hand off the pentacle coin in my pocket and its soft glow diminished as I let go. It was a ward against evil. At least the kind like Angst. It didn't do much good against Flits, Vamps, Wolves, Invisibles, Ghastlies and Zombs, but not much did unless you fast, lucky and armed with silver. I was. I felt thee comforting pressure of the silver daggers up my right and left sleeves. I never left for anywhere without them and a coat and long sleeves to hide them. Not just silver, but tipped with Holy Water. So I sizzled, sliced and diced anyone stupid enough to try to sip, dip, slick, pick, and slice or dice me with my twins...a name I gave them, since I usually did with them both at the same time.
I also had a string of rosary beads around my neck of pure Sandalwood. Not for the creatures I've already named, but for the ones I have no name for that come from such places as India and China, or Tibet. Yeah. Raving mad monks armed with spear toes and mace fingernails and all that good stuff, as well as flying dragons with bad breath that could make you gag for a week.
"Hey Toots!" I greeted the Fairy who hovered above her balcony, putting up her wash to dry. She blew some fairy dust at me in greetings and I felt my cares lift from me a moment. She also gave me the usual come on with her wings, but I don't do wings, and I don't do Fairies. Too dangerous. They never get tired and they can kill a man with pleasure, that's why so many of them hired out in the Blue Zones of the city. If an occasional unlucky stiff got the happy city kick off from too much loving, well, the police thought at least the stiff got sent off in style. So no crime with them, but definitely high octane dangerous.
I reached my building and stepped up the six flights of stairs to the front door. Each step had an invisible pentagram marked on it, courtesy of the Resident Wizard, who was also the landlord. Wizards, who don't make it to the big colleges, usually powder out into running apartment complexes and Seven -Elevens. They still had power, but not the big bang stuff. Still, I wouldn't want to get on their wrong side. They could curse your underwear pretty good and no one likes that snug a fit!
My Resident Wizard sat on the top step, eyeing me sternly as I reached his level. "Rent!"
I reached into my pocket for cash. He grabbed my arm. "What?"
"Not that money."
Oh crap! He remembered the last ten times I'd stiffed him with vanishing cash. Now I had to use up my bundle. Oh well. I reached into my jacket and pulled out a diamond. A cute gal up on 5th had given it to me from her wedding ring. She didn't want it any more. I had found out her boyfriend was having an affair with a gay vampire and she had given him the boot and her ring thanks to me. Easiest cash I'd earned yet.
And in case you haven't figured it out yet. It was a bad economy. Rotten bad. Sunk into Netherlands of the deepest hell, of which there were many unfortunately. Our last president had gotten us into a war that lasted three decades and finally America had gone Tinkle like a magic crystal ball with too much voodoo on it. Now most Americans were scrambling to pay bills, put food on the table, and figure out some way of sticking it back to the Feds, the banks and the Corporate Magicians who had trotted in with that idiot President to tank our economy and country.
And to remind me how good his memory was my Resident Wizard gave me back a handful of fifty cent pieces. About two bucks worth. I stared at it blankly a moment. He grinned. And to show you there's no hard feelings I'm removing the curse on your goods.
I felt this instant relief in my underwear. The constant inflammation and itch in my crotch and penis had vanished as if they had never been t here. Even the stink which had killed the acquaintance of several customers was gone...just like that. So like I said earlier, never get on the wrong side of any wizard, even a Resident Wizard, they're just nasty!
I gave him a smile of relief and entered the building. It was old wood and plasterboard walls with dingy paintings strung up the staircase I climbed. No elevator. No electricity. No one but the rich used it anymore. If anything, people bottled Tangs and Gnit Flies. Magical creatures that gave off a lot of light if fed properly. You can keep the Gnit Flies though; they're nasty little things that poop just about everywhere. Never let one loose just because you like a lot of life, it ain't worth it!
I reached my door. 666. Yeah. Sign of the Devil and all that good stuff. Oh did I mention that my nearest relative is related to him. Yeah. We have the Devil here too, but he's on down times like the rest of us, his demons beggars on the street corners, promising to give back pieces of souls if everyone behaves and gives them a break. The Devil himself is a likable enough guy. He's nothing like the one portrayed in all the old stories of stripping people of their souls. He never buys them. Just rents those until the person can pay up. If the person doesn't pay up, he rents the souls out to Magicians who need help and that unlucky person gets to work off his debt in service to them. Which could be a bad or a good thing, depending on your sex, and the inclinations of that particular wizard.
"Hey Gant!' I greeted the Ogre who guarded my hallway. He was a tall Shrek looking guy with a nose that hung to the floor. He used his nose to catch people and believe it or not it worked. Great! Trouble was most people had to wait a year for the stench to come off if he made a mistake. Which sometimes he did if you didn't tip him once a month. It was that once a month for me.
I dipped into my pocket for my magic money and he started to twirl his nose. Damn! Everyone is on to me, I thought. I shrugged, gave him my best who me? Smile, then tossed him the fifty cent pieces the Resident Wizard had given me. He smiled, dropped his nose and faded back into his favorite dark corner to eat it. Yeah. Ogres like the taste of money. It feeds their body and soul. Strange world, right? My world though.
I stuck my finger into the keyhole of my apartment door and it shrunk down, took a tiny nip from the tip of it...don't ever lock yourself out, it takes a lot more then...and opened the door for me. I slipped inside, shutting the door before any loose Gnats or Gnits could fit inside. They were great for free light, but who wanted their poop all over the floor. I had enough to do to keep my apartment clean already.
I pulled up my favorite easy chair. No dinner tonight. My stomach grumbled angrily. "Not my fault!" I told it. "So shut up!" It screamed at me, hurting like hell.
I held out and it eventually shut down, which worried me more, because that meant it was going to keep me awake all night. I talk like it's human, but I know my limitations and an empty stomach is the loudest complainer on the damned planet.
I waved my right hand and the TV flicked on, awakened by the spell embedded in my right wrist. I could do that with most of my apartment appliances. A buddy Wizard of mine had installed it for me for a favor. I had tracked down his girlfriend and found out she liked beasties more than him. He wouldn't have minded so much, but the beast turned out to be a white gorilla with a penchant for chocolates. He hated chocolates. He hated gorillas. The idea of sharing his girl with a gorilla was too revolting. I helped him pack her stuff and toss it off the balcony where she found it next morning when she returned home after another fling with her friendly gorilla. Those gorillas get all t he loving I sighed. Ugly as hell but so damned sexual that most gals didn't care about their looks. What a crazy messed up world!
"This is Gorgeous George for Nightly News." Announced a dude with hair that danced on his forehead in shades of red, blue and green. He wore trifocal glasses that changed his eye color every few seconds to match his hair. "Be on the lookout for a Monkey Bite. It has been spotted near Elmhurst and Main. It's a mean one."
I switched off the TV. Nothing but bad news. This was doing that. That was doing this. And none of it was ever a good thing. What happened to the good things? Again, I cursed that idiot President, the banks and the corporations that had caused this depression and sold us out to the Dark Dimension for cash on the dollar.
Yeah. You heard it right. America never had magic until that idiot got us into that war. To pay for it our next Presidents had to make deals with anyone who had cash. Unfortunately, the only ones with cash were just itching to upset our cart with magic. Maybe they originally had good intentions. No one knows, because our American scientists, bright as they are, figured out the magic and turned it on the loaners. They had been vanquished back into the Dark Dimensions, but now the genie was out of the bottle.
"Oh hell!" I muttered as my stomach growled in protest again.
I got up, kicked off my shoes and socks, and then threw myself down on my sofa. Oh did I tell you I had a studio with no bed. Only thing I could afford. No one wonder Miss Sassy Lassie doesn't want to sleep with me. Who would want to sleep with a broke guy who sleeps on a sofa with springs popping out of it. Give you a hernia.
I threw a worn blanket over my clothes, closed my eyes, and waved my right hand and all the lights went out. One more day gone. I wonder if tomorrow will be fun too. Then I was out like a light.
Case of the Golden Monkey. A Sherlock Holmes Tale. A Baker Street Universe Adventure by John Pirillo. Death by foul!
Case of the Golden Monkey
A Sherlock Holmes Tale
A Baker Street Universe Adventure
By John Pirillo
The Carriage dated back about thirty years. It had the usual Blackwood trim and high railings for luggage, as well as steps up and down for the passengers and the driver to get to his station. There was even a sidebar so that Constables could ride them to protect anyone of importance. The biggest difference between this coach and the other older ones was that the horses were strange. Very, very strange.
Their legs seemed too thick, their eyes too far apart, almost giving them an insectile look, and were hooded to shield the eyes, or perhaps prevent them from inspection. The tails of the horses were split into two, and appeared to be born from two distinct buttocks, rather than in-between as was the usual place for a tail to go. The bellies of the horses appeared unusual as well, if anyone were to get that close. The bellies had a series of four large recesses, that seemed to have gold screws in them.
What made the carriage and the horses stand out even more was the Driver, who sat atop his station, looking more like some kind of alien being than a human, with his face wrapped in a colorful scarf, through which dark eyes peered that when they moved, appeared to be surrounded by blood. His hands were hidden in gloves that came to a point at each finger's end. His collar was a huge muffler that hid his throat. There was no bare skin anywhere.
And strangest of all is that he just sat there frozen like a statue while his ride stepped down and entered the home of Lord and Lady Berkeley, custodians of the Royal History. They had received a message from one Lord Tyndall of Fallowsbridge, a remote province in the hinterlands, near the White Cliffs of Dover. It was well known to all that the Lord was an eccentric man, as well as a dabbler in the arts.
Some whispered rumors of him having once been a student of the great Merlin, while others said he was the devil's spawn. So once it became known that he was visiting the home of Lord and Lady Berkeley, it became widely spread that the devil would be arriving in London and for all to receive communion and pray for their souls.
"Lord Tyndall, it's good to see you." Mister Berkeley greeted at the door of the large home. Usually his butler met guests, but this guest was important and he couldn't afford any protocols of etiquette being dismissed or set aside once the butler met his guest.
Lord Tyndall eyed Mister Berkeley without any form of emotion on his severely scarred face. "Is it ready for me?"
Lord Berkeley half inclined his head and stepped aside for Lord Tyndall to enter. Before he closed the door he noted the strange Driver at the top of the coach. When he saw the oddness of his appearance and the horses, he crossed himself several times, and then withdrew into the home, shutting the door behind him.
A Constable walking his route across the street paused to eye the carriage and its odd Driver. A gentleman with a lovely young daughter on his right arm was strolling past the carriage. A milk man was pulling over his van, run by a new Tesla engine, and turning it off when a horrible scream emitted from the home of the Berkeley's. It set the hair on end of all who heard it.
The Constable ran for the front door, but the Driver chose that moment to turn his horses so that the path was blocked.
The scream didn't stop for one long minute.
The Constable ducked around the horses and ran up the stairs to the home. The front door was unlocked. He flung it open and ran inside. A second and then a third series of screams were heard. Then a long silence.
"I really don't know what you mean, old fellow." Sherlock said to Watson, as he tamped tobacco into his pipe for smoking. "Just because things have quietened down doesn't mean nothing is happening. You know how many dark secrets are veiled under normalcy here."
"Indeed I do, Sherlock, but I still find it strange after so much activity by the Dark Lord, that it has become as quiet as a Sunday picnic and as safe as a walk through one's own home in the city. Not one new monster sighting. No demons. No ghosts. No vampires. No mention of zombie pirates. No hordes of the undead clamoring for attention and blood."
Sherlock eyed Watson, who had been pacing near the fireplace. "One hearing you might assume you truly looked forward to such ghastly occurrences."
Watson stopped and gave Sherlock a grimace. "Must you shoot so low, Holmes?"
Sherlock smiled. "Be of peaceful heart, dear fellow, Mrs. Hudson will be returning quite soon now."
"Never soon enough if you ask me." Watson said with a loud grumbling voice. He flung himself into his chair and watched the flames, which were burning low, play along the edges of the wood in the fireplace. "If you ask me, she's staying there so long because she can't bear being with me anymore."
Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Watson. John!"
Watson turned to look at him, surprised at the use of his first name, which Sherlock seldom used. "This is truly not you speaking. What is eating at your heart?"
"I'll give you one guess. Should be enough for the great Sherlock Holmes." Watson said nastily.
Sherlock ignored Watson's tone. "You're jealous, aren't you?"
Watson started to deny it, and then gave Sherlock a guilty look. "Go on."
"You wanted to go with her, not so you could be together, but so you could keep an eye on her. Dear fellow, which just won't do. Won't do at all. Should she suspect such unseemly thoughts in you, you might create everything you feared could go wrong between you."
Sherlock reached across the gap between them and tapped Watson's arm in a friendly manner. "Time to get back to work."
Watson gave Sherlock a confused look. Then a loud rapping came from the front door. He went to the window. Constable Evans stood below. He looked up. "We need you and Mister Holmes!"
Watson felt a tug of relief in his belly. He nodded.
Even a doctor like Watson, who had performed numerous surgeries and autopsies found the scene in the living room of the Berkeley home quite distressing. Mister Berkeley hung from the ceiling, his back smashed through it, the broken wood above holding him in place. His eyes were popped out and dangling by their nerve stems.
Far worse was the Constable. He was dangling from the right wall, just above the fireplace, his eyeballs also dangling out of their sockets, an expression of utter horror on his face. His hands clutched something and were knotted into fists.
Sherlock reached up with tweezers and plucked some of the substance clutched in the Constable's hands, then placed it in a vial and stoppered it. He handed it to Watson, who labeled it quickly, then handed Sherlock another.
"I suspect we'll find the same thing on Mister Berkeley." Watson suggested.
"I suspect you're right." Sherlock replied, taking a sample from the man's dangling right hand, which was also clutched into a fist.
Constable Evans entered the room, having come from the second floor of the rather large home. "We don't need to look for Mrs. Berkeley." His face was green. Finally, he couldn't hold it in any more and dashed for the front door. He didn't make it. He threw up over the entrance until he was gasping in pain, heaving over and over and over.
Sherlock gave Constable Evans a compassionate look. "See to the Constable, Watson, will you? I'll take care of Mrs. Berkeley."
Watson nodded and gave Constable Evans a shoulder to lean on, he was now so weak from his body upheavals, and brought him outside into the fresh air.
Sherlock climbed the circular staircase, his eyes sweeping the carpeting upon it as he did so. He stopped once and unstoppered a new vial, then placed a sample within it with his tweezers from the carpet. He got back to his feet and continued to the top floor, which had beautifully varnished wooden walls and beautiful original oils of flower gardens on both sides. He turned to the right and entered the bedroom of Mrs. Berkeley. She was embedded in the floor, just her legs and right side visible. Blood oozed from the exposed body parts and coagulated in a large puddle about her body.
Sherlock put a hanky to his nose, unstoppered a new vial awkwardly, then stooped and gathered a sample from the blood.
Finished, they strode about the room, searching its walls and floor avidly, and then satisfied, he strode back into the hallway, down the stairs, and to the doorway where Watson and Constable Evans stood.
"Constable, would you mind ever so much taking a small ride with us?"
"My father ordered me to stay here with the bodies once I'd contacted you."
"I will speak to your father for you." Sherlock stated. "The Inspector will listen to reason."
Constable Evans laughed.
Sherlock smiled. "He will. I will see that he does."
"Oh, also, on the way to our objective, I'll need you to gather a few people to help us out."
"Certainly, Mister Holmes." Constable Evans replied.
Lord Tyndall's castle was known throughout the hinterlands as the Black Cloud, because it always seemed to have dark soot like air about it, flaring from its many windows and basement bars. A simple moat surrounded it, but was dry and now filled with weeds and wild grass. Its walls were singed from ancient fires and pockmarked from cannon fire, with pieces missing and some sections barely clinging together, but yet the castle held firm, despite its many deficiencies.
It stuck out on the hilltop of dark rock it commanded like a poisonous monster poised to strike its enemy down. It didn't merely sit on the crown of the hill, it commanded it, suppressed it with a dark energy that the villagers below feared greatly. Most of them said prayers every time they looked the fearful sight, and yet they served its dark master for fear of no livelihood otherwise. A village enthralled by poverty had to accept a dark master.
As Sherlock, Constable Evans and Watson stepped from the Constable's Wagon, a dozen other Constable Wagons drew up.
Constable Evans stepped out and his father, the Inspector, climbed out of the closer of the wagons. They began ordering the drivers to encircle the castle. Once the wagons were positioned, Constables climbed out, armed with rifles and bayonets.
The Inspector came up to Sherlock. "Why all this armament?"
"I would hope for a better outcome. But I suspect a lesser one. Ready, Inspector?"
The Inspector touched the bulge in his coat and nodded. Sherlock looked to Watson, who didn't even bother hiding his own weapon. He'd learned that caution was a one way street when dealing with monsters and evil.
Sherlock stepped across the small bridge that crossed the moat and took up the huge door knocker there and slammed it home. A huge gong struck within the castle and reverberated throughout its depths. The door remained closed. He struck the knocker home again. Again, the entire castle reverberated with the sound.
"Inspector, if you please?" Sherlock requested.
The Inspector nodded, and then jerked a hand towards the door. Four Constables came running up with a door ram.
It took them four tries, but finally the old wood shattered, sending the four of them flying through the opening they had made. They recovered, dropped their ram, and retrieved their service revolvers, scanning for trouble. None was forthcoming.
Sherlock and his friends entered. Sherlock didn't stop. He headed for the main hall, which had a gigantic evil looking dragon over its entrance, its mouth open revealing sharp teeth, and a throat straight from hell, clutching victims within it. As they passed beneath it, drops of something red struck the men.
"What the devil!" Watson uttered, and then fingered the wetness. He eyed it closely, and then gagged.
The Inspector got it immediately. He turned about. "Constable, see that our men take down those caught within its mouth!"
Immediately, Constable Evans had deployed a dozen men with ladders from their wagons and tools. As everyone watched, a series of body parts were disengaged from the dragon's mouth, and brought down to be placed in a massive mound of gore and grossness.
Sherlock, however, did not remain to watch, or Watson. They entered the main hall. The Inspector followed, his weapon at the ready.
Sherlock turned to him. "There's no need for a weapon, Inspector."
"There could be a villain lurking about..."
Sherlock shook his head. "This is no villain we are seeking. No ordinary person at all, but a Warlock of the First Ranking. A Druid Master."
Sherlock didn't have to answer. He went to a table set with empty plates. Upon the table was a book. He hefted it and eyed its spine, which had its title. "The Queen's Treasures."
"Why would the Lord Tyndall seek that of all things?" The Inspector demanded, confused by the book being there.
"Because the book is not of earthly treasures, dear Inspector."
Sherlock handed the book to Watson, who placed it in his black bag. "I'm afraid we have once more been too late in the game."
"What do you mean?" The Inspector demanded, starting to get angry with the evasiness of Sherlock's answers.
Sherlock turned to face him fully. "When I surveyed the home of the Berkeley's, I noticed one thing missing in common from their library. This book and one other, which the Queen had entrusted to them to guard and keep secret from the masses."
"This one and the Golden Monkey."
"Golden Monkey?" Watson declared. "What in God's name is that?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and recited:
"When darkness flails and Light does wail
The door to darkness will open
Beware the teeth of the Golden Monkey
His bite will cause all to be broken."
"Drat it, Holmes. Stop riddling me. What does the Golden Monkey have to do with any of this?"
"The Doorway to Hell." Sherlock answered. "And I'm afraid the Count now has the way to open that door."
"Your move, Watson." Sherlock said, eying the Queen he had put into play.
Watson eyed the Queen, and his King who was now exposed. He moved his rook. "Rook to King's guard. Your move, Holmes."
Sherlock didn't move, instead he leaned back and clasped his hands on the table. "Watson, we must consider other options in this war."
"There are no other options."
"There is the option of you and good Mrs. Hudson escaping to the Fairy Realms with Lord Graystone. He has offered shelter there to all who wish it."
"I will not give up that easily." Watson said grimly.
Sherlock nodded. "I knew you wouldn't. None of us shall. We shall fight these dark souls with our dying breaths if need be."
"Hello! Anybody home!" Mrs. Hudson's voice hollered from below.
Neither Sherlock nor Watson had heard the door being unlocked and opened.
Watson jumped to his feet, knocking over his men. He dashed downstairs and enfolded Mrs. Hudson in his arms. They clung to each other, both sobbing with relief and job to be together again.
"I've missed you so much." Watson told her in her right ear.
"And I you, John." She whispered back.
Above them Sherlock went to the window that overlooked Baker Street. He saw Lord Graystone and Lady Shareen climb into their Tesla coach and it drive off. As he watched he thought of all the good that existed in this world. He clenched his hands into fists as he heard the laughter of Mrs. Hudson and Watson below. "I shall not fail this time, Watson." He promised, his eyes as hard as rocks.
It wasn't supposed to happen.
Everyone feared it might.
And then it did!
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