Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [17]
I realized what was going on, and began to hop around Peter in the best imitation I could contrive of my friend Delphine Tremlow’s Ancient Grecian Dances that she teaches shop-girls.
“Fascinating,” Nightcrow murmured, not disconcerted in the least. “You can’t do a thing to me, you know. We are neither in reality nor the dream world, and this enclave has its own laws. I look forward, Holmes, to observing you here over the next several years. As for Peter Pan — the Peter Pan — Well! I have a number of experiments I am eager to try—”
“Silence, fiend.” Peter paused in his chanting. “I am weaving your Doom.”
“I await it,” smiled Nightcrow sarcastically, “with bated breath. I’ve heard about you, of course — Did you come because young Viscount Mure was calling for you? He did, you know. For years now I’ve sought the secrets that lie within the realm of Dreaming, and now they’re within my grasp. My dear young lady, I hope your parents…”
At that point, summoned by Holmes’ piping, the terrible Gallipoot emerged from the darkness behind Nightcrow in a rush of sulfur stench and the wailing of a thousand chewed-up fragments of souls, and devoured him down to the last morsel. When the Thing Cold and Empty rolled, surged, oozed away down the corridor and vanished once again, all that was left of Nightcrow was his spectacles, his watch, and the key to the cell, lying on the stone floor a few inches outside the bars, in a puddle of Gallipoot slime.
“You did tell him to run away,” said Peter, in a satisfied voice. He knelt to retrieve the key. “Grown-ups never listen, do they?”
“Never,” lamented Holmes.
There is a crossroads on the borders of the ocean of sleep, a tiny islet of rock and sand in the vast archipelagoes of the Neverlands that stretch into eternity, and from there I could see, far away across the darkness, my bedside lamp burning low, and John asleep in a chair beside my bed.
If I turned my head I could see the other way, toward the Neverlands, world after world of forests and rainbows, of mermaid lagoons and pirate ships, of castellated islands and magic horses and caves full of enchanted books. Peter and Bobbie stood hand in hand where the gray arm of the crossroad led in that direction: “I’ll have him back at the stone circle in two days,” said Peter. I guessed that if Peter forgot, the King of Dreams would remind him.
“It was Mr. Gower, you know,” said Bobbie to Holmes. “Mr. Gower’s our business manager — Father’s, I mean. I never liked him — he was always asking questions about the fairies, and the Neverlands. When I came back through at the stone circle last time, he was there, he and Nightcrow…”
“He shall be dealt with,” promised Holmes, with grim quiet. “He will be gone, by the time you return.”
“If we see the King of Dreams,” said Bobbie, “I’ll tell him you’ve taken care of the problem.”
“You’re sure you won’t come with us?” asked Peter, looking up at Holmes. “Your tree’s still there, and Old Chief Walking Wolf would love to see you again.”
Holmes smiled, and shook his head. “I have to go deal with Mr. Gower,” he said. “To make sure that the Neverlands will still be open, the next time Bobbie — or your friends Wendy and John and Michael — wish to come through. But do indeed give my regards to the Chief, and to Melegriance the White Wizard, and to the Evil Queen of the Night Island, and all the others. And thank you.” He held out his hand, and Peter shook it, very man-to-man.
Peter said, “Any time,” though Holmes and I both knew how quickly he would forget.
After Peter and Bobbie had gone, I asked softly, “Were you one of Peter’s Lost Boys?”
Holmes gave me a sidelong look. “Certainly not. How would I have come to be Lost in the Neverlands?”
“How