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“Please, Monsieur Holmes. I need your help.”
Sherlock sat back with a huff. “I don’t do missing persons cases, Madame LaFleur.”
John had sat silently as Madame LaFleur had told her tale. Her youngest son had gone on a holiday with a few friends for his eighteenth birthday. They’d planned to stay at a hotel on Jersey and visit Ecréhous and a few other Seafaris attractions. They’d checked in and had dinner, but hadn’t been seen since that first night. There are stories about Jersey, local legends that entice paranormal researchers and enthusiasts. That was the most likely reason Sherlock was avoiding the case. He’d never been one for such nonsense.
“I think we should take it, Sherlock,” John finally spoke up.
Sherlock turned to stare at John, his eyes moving over the older man’s face rapidly. After a moment, he nodded and turned back to their client. “Return to your home, Madame LaFleur. We’ll find out what happened to your son.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Holmes, Docteur Watson. I’ll be awaiting contact from you.”
John showed Madame LaFleur out the door and to her car before returning to make Sherlock a fresh cup of tea. In the short time he’d been gone, Sherlock had moved across the room and now lay on the couch with his hands pressed together and resting under the curve of his lower lip. John slipped into the kitchen and set the kettle to boil as he danced around the detritus of Sherlock’s latest experiment. With a fresh cuppa in each hand he returned to the living room.
“Shall I book us a room?” he asked as he set Sherlock’s cup down on the coffee table and picked up his laptop.
Sherlock hummed a response and produced a black card which John grabbed before settling in his chair with his own cuppa and laptop. He found the hotel’s website and booked a double before setting the laptop to the side and picking up his cup. The liquid had cooled enough he could enjoy it properly and he sipped as he watched Sherlock working through his mind palace.
***
Jersey was lovely and John was a bit sad to not have the time to explore it, but they were here for a case and The Work came first. He followed Sherlock into the hotel foyer and stood back a bit as the detective checked them in using impeccable Jèrriais. Room acquired, the duo headed towards the lifts.
“Interesting,” Sherlock mumbled just loud enough to catch John’s attention. He looked up at Sherlock with curious eyes but didn’t say anything. As soon as they’d entered their room, Sherlock turned to John. “We’ll start the investigation tonight. Mr. Laveau told me a Miss Sarkozy offers ghost tours of Grosnez Castle starting at eight. We’ll leave to meet her at six thirty.”
John nodded as he unpacked his suitcase. He collected his toiletries and retreated to the loo to freshen up. As short as the plane ride had been, he still felt the wariness of their travel.
***
Lizbet Sarkozy was a beautiful woman. She had an athletic figure with decent sized assets. Her deep auburn hair was pulled back in a high ponytail and her bright blue eyes shown with excitement as Sherlock and John introduced themselves. Aside from the two, there were a couple with their teenaged son and a group of three business associates looking for some amusement after a busy day at work.
“It’s a real pleasure, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Big fan of your blog,” according to Sherlock, her accent placed her as being born and raised in Witheridge.
John smiled congenially, giving her hand a quick, firm shake before allowing her to move on to greet her other clients. His eyes examined their surroundings, narrowing in on a spot of movement in one of the windows at the top of the castle. He pointed it out to Sherlock without making it obvious what he was doing. They’d need to come back later to investigate without the crowd.
***
“Mrs. Sarkozy? What are you doing here?” John had literally run into the woman as he tried to find a way into the castle. Sherlock had run off shortly after they’d arrived and at three o’clock in the morning it was too dark for John to see without using a torch, which would give away that he was there.
“I could ask you the same, Dr. Watson.”
John stared at her a moment before shaking her head and moving further along the wall. His fingers had just met wood when a hand on his forearm had him jerking back and biting down on his tongue to keep from letting out a scream.
“John, this way,” the deep baritone of his flat mate carried in a rough whisper.
“Jesus, Sherlock. You know I hate it when you do that.”
Sherlock looked past him to the woman, his brow raised in question. “What is she doing here?”
“Don’t know, didn’t say. You think…”
“No,” Sherlock cut him off. “She’s MI6, investigating the disappearance of Lord Rochester’s eldest, if I’m not mistaken, and you know how rarely I am.”
Lizbet nodded, “Yes. Your brother did warn me about you, Mr. Holmes. You’re not near as bad as he made you seem.”
“That’s because you haven’t spent enough time around him yet,” John cut in.
Sherlock shot John a sharp look before turning back to the door. He pushed it open and entered slowly. Further up the corridor there was a faint glow and mumbled words echoing down the hall. The three made their way towards the glow, creeping as silently as they were able.
John couldn’t understand what was being said, but he was sure if he were to ask later, Sherlock would be able to translate it verbatim. He stood with his gun ready just behind the taller man and waited for some sort of signal.
“So glad you could join us, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,” a voice called out and Sherlock stepped into the light. John pressed his fingertips into Lizbet’s forearm before following, a silent signal for her to stay out of it for as long as possible. “You’re not as young as I prefer, but you’ll have to do. I need two more or the spell will not be complete.”
“Spell?” Sherlock sorted as he rolled his eyes. “Rubbish.”
“You are right to doubt what you have never before witnessed, Mr. Holmes. Tell me, would you believe me if I told you I was a thousand years old?”
Sherlock scoffed. “Not possible. At most I would say you were thirty-seven.”
The woman hissed at him, her eyes flickering an orangish-red which had John’s breathe catching. “I assure you Mr. Holmes I am a thousand years old. It’s my birthday, you see, and I need the two of you to complete the spell by the time the blue moon reaches its highest peak.”
“Then all we have to do is avoid being used for the ‘spell’,” he used his fingers to make air quotes as he rolled his eyes, “until midnight and we’re good? Simple.”
“Not as simple as you may think, Mr. Holmes. You see, if I can’t use you, I’ll simply do as I did with that lovely group of boys that came the weekend past. They were delicious and so easy to trick into exploring the castle on their own.”
“Cannibalism? Is that what this is?” John asked, his eyes going wide.
The woman looked as though she’d swallowed a sour grape whole. “Disgusting. No, Dr. Watson, I simply devour their spirits.”
The ground began to rumble as the woman began to chant once more. Another voice joined hers and from a door at the far side of the room they stood in came a young man, roughly twenty-three to John’s estimation. He was tall, nearly as tall as Sherlock, and had scraggly mouse-brown hair. He wore a pair of trousers and nothing else; no shoes, no socks, no shirt. His voice carried into the night around them, mixing with the woman’s as their voices rose in volume.
“What are they saying?” John whispered to Sherlock who merely shrugged as he studied the two before them.
John jumped when he felt something tugging at his leg. He glanced down then back up at the two, then his eyes shot back down to the rotted flesh covered hand that had a rather tight grip on the leg of his blue jeans. “Um... Sherlock?” John breathed out as he tugged at the sleeve of the Belstaff.
“Not now, John,” Sherlock hissed.
“Sherlock,” John tugged again and the taller man turned to him with a glare only to see that he wasn’t being paid any mind. He followed John’s line of sight and stared with wide eyes and open mouth.
“What the hell is that?” Sherlock asked.
“I think…” John licked his lips and started again. “I think it’s a zombie.”
“Not possible,” Sherlock hissed.
“You say that and yet…”
Sherlock prodded at the hand with his foot and let out (what he would later refuse to admit) and shrill shriek as another hand popped from the ground beneath them and clamped onto his foot.
“Get out.”
“Leave here.”
“Run away.”
Sherlock and John turned their heads to look all around them as the words were whispered. It seemed as though they were coming from everywhere and right beside the two men at once. The hands disappeared quite swiftly when the man and woman stopped chanted, drawing the attention of the duo. John gasped as he looked at the cat creatures that now stood before them.
“What the devil are those?”
“I believe the term used in fictional writing is werecat.”
“Says the man denying the existence of zombies when one has a hold of his foot.”
“Shut up, John.”
John raised his gun and pointed it at the woman, “Right, games over.”
A flash of movement to the side had John’s attention and before Sherlock managed to shout at him another cat creature had raked its claws down his arm, disarming him. John cried out in pain, wrapping his other hand around the wound to staunch the flow of blood. It was a deep cut and should be treated quickly, but John knew they were nowhere near being safe enough to deal with it just yet.
“John,” Sherlock breathed and he turned his head just a bit, making sure to keep an eye on the three creatures. “Run. Run and keep running.”
John nodded and turned towards the way they had entered. He needed to make sure Lizbet got out as well. He ran as fast as he could, reaching out and grabbing ahold of Lizbet as he passed her. She stumbled a bit as she was pulled, but got her feet back under herself quick enough. They raced through the passages of the castle, turning this way and then that as they tried to shake whatever creature may have been trailing them. It took John a moment to notice that Sherlock wasn’t with them.
“Shit. Damn,” John stopped and leaned against the wall a moment to catch his breath. “Damn it, Sherlock.”
“What?” Lizbet asked.
“He’s still there.”
“What?”
“He’s still there. The idiot.”
John left Lizbet in one of the rooms off the main hall and made his way slowly back towards the chamber they’d been in. When he got there he realized he was looking at the room from a different direction. Sherlock lay unconscious on the floor, his skin paler than normal.
“I don’t care what it takes, find him. We need them both or the spell won’t take.”
“Yes, mistress.”
John watched as the two male cat creatures moved out of the room using two other doors. He crept forward, inching his way closer to where Sherlock lay. He reached out a hand from the shadows, brushing it along Sherlock’s wrist enough to catch the faint pulse there. He breathed a low sigh of relief and pulled himself up. His eyes landed on the black candle with a purple flame.
The woman turned, her eyes settling on his crouched figure. “Good. Yes, this is very good. Come, my pet.”
John moved towards her slowly. He had to time this just right. As he got to the halfway point, he turned and kicked out his leg, knocking over the candle and dousing the flame. The woman screeched in anger, lashing out and clawing at John’s chest. He hissed in pain as he fell backwards towards Sherlock.
“Fool,” the woman yelled. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
John watched with wide eyes as the woman stalked towards him. He scrambled to his feet and was setting himself into a fighting stance when the first bell tolled. Both of their heads jerked up as the bell tolled a second time.
“No,” the woman shrieked as she ran towards John. John threw a punch and didn’t land it. He opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) to see a pile of dust inches from his feet.
“Apparently,” Sherlock said as he pulled himself into a sitting position with a groan, “her time was up.”
Lizbet reappeared a moment later. “You should see this,” she told them before she turned back towards the hall.
They followed her back to the room John had locked her in. Inside were several corpses. John counted forty-eight in all. He and Sherlock would have made fifty.
“I don’t understand,” John turned to Sherlock looking for an explanation.
“These are the people that have gone missing over the last month,” Lizbet explained.
Sherlock and John stared at her for a moment before Sherlock turned and left the room. John turned after another minute and followed him. “What do you suppose that was all about?” he asked.
“I think…” Sherlock paused both walking and speaking. He turned to give John his full attention. “I think I need to do more research into this so-called paranormal rubbish.”
John nodded. “Right, yeah. But what about that?” John gestured to the room down the hall from them.
“I think she was using the souls of youths to regenerate her body. She was cursed and forced to kill every so many years in order to both stay alive and maintain her semi-youthful appearance. We should go. We need to contact Mrs. LeFleur and her friends. Let them know what happened.”
John nodded and followed.