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Holmes: The White Death: Holmes, #11
Holmes: The White Death: Holmes, #11
Holmes: The White Death: Holmes, #11
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Holmes: The White Death: Holmes, #11

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Men are dying.

Horribly.

Guts torn out.

A young woman is victimized by the horror of the crimes and becomes a suspect.

Holmes steps in to discover the truth of the deaths that happen in the snow. The White Death!

LanguageEnglish
Release dateMay 25, 2018
ISBN9781386389484
Holmes: The White Death: Holmes, #11

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    Book preview

    Holmes - Michael John Light

    Prologue

    Beware the wild hunt ,

    The narrow and the straight

    The pursuit that never ends

    The heart that never mends.

    Torn between hope and grief

    Between love and despair

    There are failings that come to be

    That are never quite what they seem.

    For the wild wolf.

    The white hound of death and destruction

    Shall surely hunt down the oppressor

    And bring justice for their crimes

    Whether it be in the sunny realms

    Or the windy blasts of wintry climes.

    Beware the white wolf of London.

    Doctor John Watson

    Chapter One: Wolf

    W hite? Inspector Bloodstone blasted his constable, who pulled back, fear on his face.

    Sir, that’s what I saw. White as snow.

    A wolf?

    If ever I saw one.

    Have you ever seen one?

    Constable Simmons, a slender man with a right cheek that twitched under stress, looked down at his hands, which were trying to be still, but failing badly.

    Sir?

    I asked you...have you ever seen a wolf?

    Constable Simmons looked up. His face was drawn and tense. The memories of the sighting were still stark in his mind, terrorizing and unfriendly. He wouldn’t sleep with a window open now for the rest of his life.

    Yes.

    Where? When?

    Constable Evans started to reply, then choked for a moment before answering. My grandmother. She was eaten by one.

    Inspector Bloodstone backed off a bit, his face softening. This was delicate territory.

    When?

    I was ten. Coming back from school in the Golden Forest, in the Scots.

    Go on.

    The thing was as black as the devil and hatred spewing from a murderer’s mouth.

    The Inspector sighed. What jinni had he just let out of the bottle with this man?

    He glanced at his son. His face was expressionless. He always looked that way when he was considering the truth of what someone was telling. He was such a good kid. So kind and thoughtful. His son. He smiled briefly, then leaned across his desk, listening intently as Constable Simmons spoke rapidly, his face blanched white with fear as he recalled the night's events. And sir, it was like the thing was human or something, the way it watched me, its eyes seeming to almost consume my soul as they gazed into mine.

    The one of your childhood or the one you saw?

    Both!

    Inspector Bloodstone leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and then motioned to the Constable. Go home. Rest. Let my men clean the site.

    Constant Simmons looked relieved. Then you don't blame me, Sir?

    Inspector Bloodstone shook his head. How could you stop a wolf from its own nature? I consider you lucky to be alive. Now go home and rest.

    Constable Simmons relaxed then. He saluted and left the office.

    He came back in suddenly and said, Do you believe in werewolves, Inspector?

    The Inspector said nothing.

    Constable Simmons said, You should.

    He hurried back out, the sound of his footsteps diminishing as he left.

    Constable Evans, looked at his father from the opposite side of the office, his arms crossed and relaxed. He had been leaning against a wall of wanted posters, listening quietly.

    You believe him?

    Not really. But how else could someone have their throat torn out like that and their intestines ripped from their stomach and strewn across snow like streamers on a New Year's Night?

    I don't know, father. But there are no wolves in London.

    And that’s the only thing we can be certain of.

    Constable Evans nodded.

    Or not, his father added, a glum look on his face.

    Chapter Two: White Death

    "I t is with the deepest of regret that I must write of the passing of a very dear and near friend. She was a lady of kind heart and excellent thought. She shall be missed." —From the Journals of Doctor John Watson

    "That which was shall never more be.

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