Free Sherlock Holmes in 2012: LORD OF DARKNESS RISING by Mohammad Bahareth Page B

accurately some 120 years ago.
    “Because, Watson, it is the only reasonable answer to this quandary. David Penny is not the al Qaeda stooge that every one suspects him to be, no, he’s much more than that. I believe he’s a puppet in the hands of some other sombre evil-doer.”
    “But, Mr. Holmes, how would my daughter know that? She was only six years old.”
    “Your daughter is an extraordinary child, Watson, never doubt the fact for one moment. If no one told her, perhaps she saw the man in a dream and maybe that dream is what makes it so real in her eyes.”
    “What are you saying – that my daughter has visions?”
    “No, not at all. I would believe that she saw someone in a nightmare or a dream and that person was responsible for the bombing in 2006. In her mind, perhaps this man doesn’t even have a face, but he definitely hurt her mother, and that’s why she can’t forgive him.”

 

    In the lower recesses of his enormous mansion, the outer walls of which stretched high toward the darkened sky, and which was for ever shrouded and surmounted of ominous clouds, located somewhere in a world that none of us easily understand or even contemplate could exist on this planet; Lord Mobius was reading his journal of prophecies, a diary of things to come. The tragedies and Machiavelli disasters he could concoct or imagine and even plan for the people living through times eternal, were all written and described in this book. His demonic mind was lodged in a head that resembled that of an ugly dog, with teeth as sharp as those of a shark – sunken eyes glaring the crimson of blood and shallow cheeks tinted of the grey of death – he was frightful. Hunched over his reading stand, he chortled and grumbled at the thought of the evil catastrophes he could bestow on the innocents roaming an already disgruntled world.
    The lone torch light that illuminated some of the sombre surrounds of the room stood upright in a sconce hooked on a far wall. The brownstones of this dungeon were damp to the touch, some mildewing water seeping from the cracks in the mortar. The only other piece of furniture that decorated the space was a huge desk carved of wooden posts and a table-top that reflected the torch light strangely.
    The eerie shadows that danced along the walls intermittently seemed to wait to be called and respond to the lord’s bidding. They moved incongruously in response to the rhythmic flickers of the flame.
    The hearth of the huge fireplace was alight with burning wood and glowing embers – although the emanating heat from the blazing fire would never be enough to warm the blood of anyone visiting this room. Evil was present in this place.
    Tonight Lord Mobius was waiting for someone. He had summoned the man to his enclave and expected him to descend the stairs leading to his den momentarily. He strode from his reading stand to his desk, wrapping his body with the long robe that scarcely enveloped his tall and gaunt figure. He sat down in the imposing high-back chair and focused his gaze onto the last steps of the stairwell-opening on the opposite wall.
    When the young man appeared, Lord Mobius welcomed him with cackled laughter and urge him to approach the desk. “What have you to report, my son?” he asked in a cavernous voice.
    David Penny – a name that he only adopted at the Lord’s insistence, and meaning ‘the penny that Mobius had saved, would be the penny he would have earned and kept’ – seemed to have shrunken in size since he had left his London abode in a hurry. Although attired of one of the latest designer’s suits, the young man displayed all of the signs of someone whose apprehension had managed to overwhelm him. His blond curls, moistened with perspiration, hung limply around his boyish face while his hesitant grin did nothing to hide his frightened eyes. “I have succeeded in driving Sherlock Holmes out of the States and he is now residing in Wellington, New Zealand with his new