Beasts of London

By Janina Woods

Darker than the night, like a piece of reality had been ripped out of the world to grant a view into the endless abyss of the void, a shape rose from the low hills of the moor, towering above all.
Sherlock Holmes, his brother Mycroft, and their associate Mary Morstan are some of the most adept mages in London, safeguarding the peace of the city. Their daily life of solving crimes is interrupted when an ancient threat rises in Dartmoor. The magical entity of London herself forces the Holmes brothers to throw themselves against the attackers to protect her citizens at the cost of their lives. Secrets and betrayal, heartbreak and blackmail force the trio apart, yet they can only stand against the Beasts of London together. The Hound is coming.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MX Publishing
• Release date: Feb 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781787058552

Book preview

Beasts of London

1

Death descended in the shape of a monstrous hound.

A maw of razor-sharp teeth grazed Mycroft’s arm as he tried to evade yet another lunge, crashing painfully into a wall. Despite the pain, he forced a large breath into his lungs and hummed a few low notes, carefully modulating the pitch. A localized blizzard appeared between his hands. It pushed the creature away, screeching. As the energy ran through his body, Mycroft was acutely aware of his wounds reopening, blood seeping into his torn clothes.

Out of nowhere a veil covered the sun, shrouding the alleyway in unnatural darkness. The shadows turned pitch-black. All colours were replaced by shades of violet and made the world seem like a particularly fearsome painting, sprung from the mind of a madman. Mycroft stared towards the sun; now merely a purple disc which had lost all brilliance, like observed through a heavy fog. The air had stopped moving. It smelled of burning wood, of the smoke rolling over the ground like it was alive.

The creature slipped into the shadows, concealing its dark form like they had always been one and the same. But it could not escape Mycroft’s enhanced vision. His pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked as black as the creature itself. He meticulously tracked the frantic violet trail through the shadows and around the alley until it came to rest on top of a deserted carriage.

Mary! That one!

A figure detached itself from gloom, its outline shining like the rising sun, beams of light breaking through a thunderstorm. The unnatural shadow retaliated as if it was alive, swallowing the light like a hungry snake.

Leave it to me! Mary shouted, launching a volley of brilliant gold projectiles towards a partially collapsed brick wall. With a shriek, the creature collapsed beneath the avalanche. It shone brightly in its agony, dark purple magic energy escaping in a rush only to be sucked in again with a mighty roar.

Mycroft murmured a few words under his breath as he pushed the floating body of the person he was tasked to protect further away from the action. The small man in question was unconscious, bleeding both energy and actual blood. Harmful spells had left their marks all over his body; the unique, dark pattern swirling around him like flies over a corpse. There had been no time for a proper mending spell. Mycroft had merely cast a protective shield that enveloped the man like a bubble, carrying him on clouds of ice.

It had not been a moment too soon.

Watch out! Mary exclaimed over the commotion.

Bricks were crushed against bricks. The creature struggled to surface. With a frustrated screech that sounded like nothing a living thing should ever be able to utter, it sent a shockwave through the air. Rubble rained down on the alley.

Mycroft raised his hands and conjured up a shield of ice, frozen shards raining down wherever the debris hit it. The energy stored in his cells rushed through his entire body, activated by humming a certain frequency. Moulded by Mycroft’s thoughts into the very spell he needed, it replenished the ice as fast as it was destroyed. He knew they couldn’t run. They had to eliminate the creature. It would pursue them with the single-mindedness of a summoned servant until its job was done.

Mary and Mycroft had followed the shadowy creature as it bounded through the city, in the hope to investigate its origins or, at least, its destination. London was home to an extraordinarily large population of mages, so trouble was never far away. This threat was new, unpredictable, and needed to be investigated. Mycroft prayed that they wouldn’t be discovered by any forces of the law – or the ruthless agents of the Diogenes Club. It was one thing to deal with these matters from the shadows, for the good of the people. It was another to be caught and punished for your involvement in magical fights in the city, no matter how well-meaning they had been.

They had stumbled upon a confrontation between the small man and a mage shrouded in a whirlwind of smoke, hood drawn over their face. The creature had pounced as soon as the duo entered the alley. It was an enormous black hound, made of shadows and living tar; powerful ink strokes come to life. Mycroft had seen the man on the floor, defending himself with bursts of blue energy which shattered against the hound like glass. Mary had acted first, pushing the creature away with a storm of golden leaves. They rained on its nightmare coat like acid. Mycroft reacted in turn, taking care of the protection spells as per usual. While they had been distracted, the strange mage vanished.

The darkness is making it stronger! Mary shouted from the other end of the alley, her voice the only thing audible over the growling of the hound. I’ll distract it!

Mycroft gnashed his teeth. What would she do? Mary was effective, but often unconventional. Unpredictable, even. A flash of golden light as bright as the sun illuminated the darkness and chased away the all-prevailing violet for a brief moment. The hound yelped in distress. It collapsed where it had dug itself out of the bricks. The next thing Mycroft could see was a flash of lightning. It was Mary herself, who shot through the air directly at the creature, her long blonde hair trailing behind like the streak of a comet. There was no time to lose. After another glance at the unconscious man, Mycroft reached out into the oppressive energy surrounding them, uttering a few guttural sounds under his breath.

An oily shimmer wandered over his eyes as he looked deep into the pattern of the veil, searching for a weak point that he could exploit. Dark patterns were especially vulnerable to this technique as their nature wasn’t as tightly woven as those tending towards the saturated spectrum of colours. As Mycroft finally pinpointed a tiny gap in the shadows, he let his own magic rush in and tear the very fabric of the spell apart. His energy spread like a disease over the black smoke and seemingly ate it up, leaving behind only icy crystals that fell to the ground as snow. Within moments the sky turned blue, and the colours of the world returned.

There was another bright flash, a desperate shriek, and the oppressive atmosphere that had surrounded the unnatural creature was gone like it had never existed.

Mycroft let himself be carried upwards by his magic, the energy continually flowing out of him, pushing downwards against gravity. He floated to the rooftops to look for the strange mage, but of course they were long gone. With a curse, Mycroft kicked the wall of a nearby house. Looking down into the alley, where Mary approached the unconscious man, he could feel the drain of the large counter spell as he slowly sunk back to the ground. Finally there was time to have a proper look at the person they saved.

He was at least a head smaller than Mycroft, with short light brown hair, wearing a suit that couldn’t have been more nondescript. Nothing about this man said anything of importance. In fact, Mycroft wouldn’t have given him a second glance if he’d passed him on the street.

Why do you think he was attacked? Mary asked.

Maybe he stole something? Mycroft mused. Whatever it was, it might be connected to the sightings of these creatures. This seemed rather personal.

Mary hummed. We best take him in.

Yes. Can you fly?

What a question, Mary laughed. I haven’t used even a fraction of my capacity.

Well, some of us aren’t golden. You take him, then. I’ll follow you on the street after I clean this up.

Almost no one is golden. Let me give you a refill, Mary quipped.

For the thousandth time – no, I’m not kissing you again. And before you bring it up: That was an emergency, and you know it. I’d rather walk.

Suit yourself.

Mary stood closer to the unconscious man, who was still floating in his protective shield, and held her arms out. Mycroft released his spell and dropped the body into her embrace.

He’s quite handsome.

You’re not serious. That moustache is hideous.

Don’t take too long, Mary said in lieu of an answer and rose into the air. If you’re not at Baker Street in half an hour I’ll come looking for you.

You’re insulting my skills.

She shrugged and was off. Mycroft followed her with his eyes until she disappeared behind the rooftops. He sighed deeply and looked down at himself. His suit was covered in dust and smoke, ripped in several inconvenient places. He pulled experimentally at his shirt and realised his arm was still bleeding, wet blood staining his fingers. Mycroft concentrated on a mending spell, which made him cringe as his flesh moulded itself back into shape. No matter how often you casted this particular spell, you never got used to the pain. Almost done, he felt a sharp sting in his arm as the spell was interrupted, as if a knife had been thrust into the muscle. He was somehow sure the wound would scar. With a rush of air, Mycroft’s nose was full of smoke. He coughed heavily.

The dark mage stood in front of him, arms crossed. The aura surrounding her presented itself in a deep purple.

You weren’t supposed to be here, she said.

Mycroft lowered his head in what he hoped was an apologetic gesture. I couldn’t stop her. It was an accident, you have to believe me.

"I do believe you, but only because I know what’s at stake for you."

Mycroft clenched his fists.

No matter now. You will kill the man.

What? No!

You don’t have any say in the matter.

I can’t.

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The mage laughed. Oh, but you can. It’s easy, believe me. He’ll be unconscious for at least one more day if no one interferes. Just take a blade. You don’t have to use your magic.

Mycroft looked up and tried to catch the mage’s eyes, but her face was shrouded in shadows. He knew better than to enhance his vision now… He couldn’t afford to anger her even further.

"I can’t because he’d know. He’d find out. And then you’ll lose me where you need me the most," Mycroft explained.

Ah, the perks of having a detective for a brother. Tell me, Mycroft, do you ever get to do anything in secret? Or does he see everything and blab it out? You probably can’t even visit a whore house without—

Enough!

Aren’t we sensitive today? she said with a slight laugh in her voice. I suppose it’s lucky that you wouldn’t visit one anyway. No, you’re faithful to the one man who doesn’t even know what you’re doing for him. Pathetic.

Mycroft balled his hands so hard that his nails drew blood. He was pathetic. He knew it. But his heart gave him no choice.

Bring him to me, then. Leave the body outside the house’s protective barrier, so I can pick it up. That will be sufficient.

What makes him so valuable? Mycroft asked.

"That’s none of your business. Either we have him or no one shall. It’s best if you comply. If you don’t, we will come for him regardless and the target of your misguided affection will suffer the consequences. It’s your choice."

Mycroft took a deep breath. He had killed before – that wasn’t the issue. The problem was the threat of discovery. He nodded to himself. First, he’d get to Baker Street. Assess the situation. Then he’d decide which path was viable. Maybe it was worth a murder to protect him.

At least help me with the clean-up, he said just as the female mage turned to leave. There are too many traces of our magic here.

There was a pause, in which the mage seemed to eye Mycroft intently. Then, a sigh.

Fine. But don’t expect this to happen again.

She grinned suddenly, her mouth the only thing visible under the hood. Mycroft winced. The wound on his arm stung as the pain spread from fingertips to shoulder. Hot blood ran down his hand as the gash widened, dark smoke worming itself under his skin. A sharp hiss escaped his lips. He should’ve known. Everything had a price.

His blood trickled to the ground. With a rush of air, smoke seemed to grow from it and engulf the whole alleyway. Mycroft instinctively jumped into the sky to get away – and not a moment too soon – as everything beneath him caught fire. Well, that was one way to overwrite a pattern. The mage was gone now, disappeared in the smoke. He hated her magic and the way it wormed into everything. Smoke and fire. The very opposite of the icy clouds that made up his own pattern. They were like two sides of a coin, completely separate, but irrevocably linked.

Well, not completely irrevocable. It would take one word to break the bond. But then Mycroft’s heart would burn up like the street below.

2

Mary knocked on the glass.

Who’d you pick up this time?

She could hear Sherlock’s voice through the partially open window. It wasn’t unusual for them to bring in the odd mage that they’d pulled out of a precarious situation – sometimes a client, sometimes a friend. And there were a lot of precarious situations in London these days. No wonder, with so many mages in close quarters. Lately there had been a tension in the air, an undercurrent of violence and anger that haunted the streets like miasma. Ever since the shadowy hounds had appeared, something was decidedly off.

Mary and Sherlock were responsible for almost everyone who came through Baker Street, seeking refuge in these protected walls. Mycroft had always been more reserved. He helped where he could, yet he seldom acted out of the goodness of his own heart, much less offered to take anyone in on a whim. Mary had known him for over five years, but still wasn’t sure what to think of Sherlock’s older brother.

I don’t know who he is. He was attacked, Mary replied to Sherlock’s question and pushed on the window with her foot. Use your eyes.

Sherlock sighed and opened the window entirely, his pupils already wide as they observed the man’s body, the stormy grey of his sharp eyes almost gone. Mary knew what he would see. The unknown man’s own unique pattern wrapped him in bright blue puffs of cotton, which had caught on glittery silver scales and been painted with streaks of pink. It was such a unique combination, gentle and beautiful like a sunset in early summer. Peaceful and full of hope. Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth before settling back on Mary as his pupils shrunk again.

Curious, he said.

My sentiment exactly. Let me put him down.

The detective stepped back from the window. His tall, lanky form fit itself between the wall and the curtain as he watched Mary descend into the room. He was clad in a dark suit, as was his custom, with a chequered dressing gown loosely draped over his shoulders. His long hair was tied back, so as to not disturb him while he worked. While he had foregone the suit jacket, he wore his street shoes, always ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

Mary commandeered a blanket and a few pillows, which she put onto the large sitting room table, then settled the unconscious man on top of the improvised bed. She knew Sherlock would long to examine him, but she wanted nothing more than to tend to his wounds. She had barely closed the window when the detective hastily bent over their guest, eyeing him intently, tongue darting out briefly to lick some of the smoke residue from his cheek. Sherlock frowned, tasting the skin again. He shook his head, then let both hands glide over the man’s whole body from head to feet, then frowned, and did it again.

The wounds are superficial. The spell is not. It’s woven into his very flesh… Like he is a relic, himself, Sherlock mumbled, shaking his head. Mary knew why.

To practice magic of this kind on living beings was not only unethical – it was entirely forbidden. A relic was a regular object that had been imbued with a spell to give it further use, like a magical light or a floating desk. To perform such an act on a human was intrusive and almost always done against the person’s will. It was torture to carry magic inside that was not your own, forcibly merged with your body. She felt pity for the man, but also wondered what he had done to receive this ill treatment.

Can you remove it? she asked.

Does the sun rise in the east? Sherlock mumbled and hummed a few notes, punctuated with a click of his tongue.

A darkness rose around the trio at the last sound, unnatural and complete, plunging everything in more than shadow. It was a total absence of light. Mary let out a groan. She hated this particular spell, which was very much a household technique of the Holmes brothers. It was necessary for their work, for any careful analysis, but she preferred not to be a part of it if possible.

Thank you for trapping me, she spat and crossed her arms – more for her own peace of mind, aware that Sherlock could not see it.

You’re free to leave.

And overexpose my eyes? I’ll be blind for half an hour…

Help me, then.

Mary sighed an even deeper sigh, but she couldn’t deny her own curiosity. She hummed the sounds to make her own eyes more sensitive, to perceive the unique pattern enveloping every mage, to see what lies below.

In the darkness, every aspect was clearer, shone brighter. Even minute traces were visible. Sherlock needed to expose the magic that had been forced inside the man’s body, see how it was woven, so that he could undo it. Mary couldn’t make out the detective in the darkness, but she could see his own unique energy pattern, which spun around like a flock of birds, trailing long red ribbons in their wake, leaving a path of gently falling flower petals. Sherlock left a red thread behind where he touched the man’s body, slowly walking around the table, like spinning him into a cocoon.

There, Mary said and pointed at a tiny purple flame, burning where the man’s left hand would be, barely visible against the black background. She wasn’t as good as the others when it came to analysis of magic, but her eyes had always been sharp. Sherlock followed her instructions. The place was marked by small golden flecks spinning through the air where Mary had moved.

Yes, very good, he said and reached into the flame, only to curse and stumble. In the absolute darkness all Mary could perceive was the noise of Sherlock possibly crashing into a chair. The few tangled red threads he left behind told the story of his fall.

Let me try.

Be my guest, Sherlock huffed.

Mary swallowed and approached the dark magic. If she was to help the man, she had to know what it was that kept him unconscious. Touching it like Sherlock had would not help. If it was the same magic as the creature, she would—

By Jove, stop this madness. Are you two out of your mind?

Mary felt a hand on her arm, holding her back from the flame. She instinctively knew it was Mycroft, soft-footed as always. Looking to her left, she could only see the snow fall where the older Holmes brother was standing.

Couldn’t wait five minutes for me, could you? Always the same with you…

Cut it out, Mycroft, Sherlock said from the other side of the table. You can’t expect me to sit still with such a delicious puzzle in my room.

Just let me solve this so you can continue to play, and I can get out of these clothes.

There was no better choice than to let Mycroft handle the analysis. He was the most adept, if also the most cocky, when it came to fine magic manipulation. The dark blue of his pattern was almost invisible in the shadows. As it came into contact with the purple fire, it flared to an icy turquoise. He neatly separated the flame from the body, let it float in order to examine it. After turning it about, Mycroft hummed tones in different frequencies until he hit the one that made the flame grow. Mary heard him huff in satisfaction. The next tone cancelled the flame out. The man on the table groaned in pain.

Got it?

Very clear, Sherlock replied. He sounded miffed. He always was when Mycroft stepped in and did the work for him. With a few more sounds, the darkness began to fade slowly to not overexpose their eyes to the natural light. Sherlock sat on the floor with crossed arms, staring at his brother. Mycroft stared back. Mary felt an argument brewing.

Did you manage to clean up the street? she asked to divert Mycroft’s attention.

He turned around to her, a frown on his face, then nodded and looked apologetic, for once.

Yes, I did. Unfortunately, it took most of my reserves. I will need to rest at least a day.

I can—

Again – no, thank you.

Mary shrugged and looked at the man between them on the table, slowly fading into view again. His face was distorted in pain, even though he was still unconscious. The more she learned, the worse she felt for him. Even before the light had returned completely, Sherlock was already rummaging through the victim’s pockets.

Black sand, he said gravely and held up his hand to let the grains run through it. They accumulated atop the blanket. Whatever he had with him was important enough for the extra effort required to destroy it.

Mary realised that Mycroft was still frowning. He looked conflicted.

Do you know him?

No. Why are you asking?

You look like it.

Mycroft shook his head. I was merely wondering why he was attacked. How he is connected to the creatures… The black hounds. It wasn’t the first we encountered.

It’s the first with the actual summoner present. I wish I’d heard him speak… I have a good memory for voices, Mary mused.

This man right here might be our key to finding the mastermind behind the creatures, Sherlock said. It’s imperative we wake him up.

Mary readily agreed and looked to Mycroft, whose face was as impassive as always. Sherlock had retreated to the man’s feet and experimentally hummed different tone variations of the one Mycroft had determined earlier. As he hit a particular frequency, the man groaned. Through the magic filter over her eyes, Mary could see the dark magic fizzling out slowly through his skin. To forcibly extract energy from the cells was as uncomfortable as inserting it.

Mycroft mumbled something under his breath and turned away to retreat into an armchair near the fire. It was a cold day this early in September, but that didn’t even matter. He was always freezing. Curious that he should be so sensitive to the cold, when his very pattern was ice personified.

This will take a while, Sherlock said absentmindedly. "I don’t want to injure him further. It has to