The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(108)

“You say you can’t lift objects. So how do you explain that?” Murray declared, pointing to the slate, which had risen off the table and was now floating in midair.

They gazed at the hovering object, openmouthed. They had scarcely recovered from their shock when the chalk also took to the air, moving toward the slate to write something on it. Having done so, it landed on the table again, like a strange insect, and then the slate drifted over to them, pausing in front of Murray. On it he was able to read the words “Would you like me to caress you once more, my love?”

“Oh, Emma,” Murray gasped, gazing with infinite tenderness at the space above the slate where the face of his beloved should have been. “Of course, my love, I need to feel your hands . . .”

The message was swiftly erased from the slate, which returned to the table, where the chalk wrote a fresh message on it. Then it floated back over to Murray.

“I think killing you all would be much more fun,” Murray read aloud.

At that moment, the slate suddenly fell on the ground, as if whoever was holding it had hurled it to the floor with contempt, and a man’s bloodcurdling laughter rent the air. Everyone exchanged alarmed looks.

“What the devil . . . ?” Murray exclaimed. Realizing this was not Emma’s spirit, he instinctively wiped his cheek with his jacket sleeve, a look of indignant disgust on his face. Then, addressing the place where the slate had fallen, he roared, “Who are you, you son of a bitch?”

The laughter grew louder and more deranged.

“Let me, Gilmore. I have more experience with spirits,” said Doyle, pushing Murray aside and addressing an indeterminate spot in the dining room. “Who are you, you son of a bitch?”

A sharp voice cut the air like a scalpel.

“Shall I tell you who I am, Mr. Doyle? I am the purest form of evil! The most heinous villain you could ever imagine! But I assure you, your horror at my crimes, if you knew them, would be lost in your admiration at my skill.”

Doyle looked puzzled while those familiar words fluttered around in his head.

“It is easy to write about evil,” the voice went on, “but less amusing to confront it when it steps out of one of your stories, isn’t that so, Mr. Doyle?”

“Steps out of one of my stories? What the devil do you mean?” Then it struck him why the words were familiar: they were almost the very ones he had written in “The Final Problem.” “Oh, good grief . . . but that can’t be . . . Are you . . . Moriarty?”

“Oh, no . . . ,” the voice replied with a malevolent chuckle, “although my name does begin with M. Perhaps George would like to try his luck.”

Wells raised his eyebrows when he heard the creature utter his name. The voice fell silent for a few moments, and when it spoke again, Wells sensed it was in front of him and even thought he caught a whiff of its sour breath.

“Go on, George, who am I?”

A pair of invisible fingers tweaked Wells’s nose, causing him to stagger backward, taking with him Jane, who had been clutching him. Then, staring uneasily into the air, he ventured to pose the absurd and terrifying question that had been forming in his mind since the creature first began talking.

“Are you . . . the Invisible Man?”

“That doesn’t begin with ‘M,’ George,” whispered Doyle, who had positioned himself beside Wells.

“No, but ‘Man’ does,” Wells replied weakly.

“What is wrong with you authors? Does your vanity know no bounds?” the voice exclaimed sarcastically. “Moriarty! The Invisible Man! I am simply someone who has come here to take back what belongs to me, what the old lady stole from me. Does that story ring a bell with you, George?”

“And what is it that I am supposed to have that belongs to you?”

“No, no, George. Don’t pretend with me.” The voice had begun to circle round the company so noiselessly that the darkness itself seemed to be speaking. “The book, that’s what I’m after! The Map of Chaos! Give it to me, or I swear you will all die!”

“But I don’t have your book!” Wells protested.

He instantly regretted having raised his voice, for the creature responded with a furious scream.

“You asked for it, George!”

Thereupon there was a din of laughter and footsteps that seemed to come from every direction, as if the spirit were rampaging around the dining room. The candle flames sputtered one after another, mapping out the creature’s erratic path.

“The lovesick millionaire, the charming young lady, the Great Ankoma, the zealous Scotsman . . . Which would you like to see die first, George?”

Doyle broke away from the group.

“Start with me, you fiend—that is, if you are man enough!”

Scarcely had Doyle thrown down his challenge than there was a high-pitched whistle, and they all turned toward where the sound had emanated from—including Doyle himself, who managed to glimpse a silvery glint before he felt a stabbing pain in his right ear. He cursed, lifting his hand to his head, which felt as if it had suddenly burst into flames, while at his back he heard a dull thud. The group stared horror-struck at the wall directly behind Doyle, where, protruding from the forehead of an elegant gentleman in a ruff, was a sword, its blade still quivering. Doyle staggered back toward the others, suddenly pale as he realized it had been aimed at his head.