“Why?” said Diana, not taking her eyes off the dangerous dance at the end of the room.
“Because I need to cut bandages! And then you need to get Justine out of here.”
“What? Why me?”
“Because the rest of us have weapons, and you don’t,” said Mary. “For goodness’ sake, just do as you’re told for once! Lead Justine to the rendezvous place.”
“What rendezvous place?”
“Across the street! That alley where we all met. Just take her there.”
“Oh, all right. I never get to be in on the fun.”
“How is Watson doing?” asked Holmes, looking down for a moment.
“Not well,” she replied. “We need to get him out of here as soon as possible.” She cut strips of cotton from her petticoat and wound them around his shoulder as best she could, but the bites were fierce and deep. If they did not get him out of the warehouse soon, Watson would bleed to death.
Adam snarled back, as though he were an animal as well, and hit the Tiger Man once more across the face. The Tiger Man fell heavily, sending papers fluttering across the desk and to the floor. In the moment that gave him, Adam had unlocked the drawer and taken out a revolver. It shone, cold and metallic, in his hand.
Holmes aimed, but once again the Tiger Man had risen and was between them. He roared, and then there came another roar: Adam had fired the revolver directly into his mouth. The Tiger Man fell back onto the floor in a shower of papers. As he fell, his paws reached for a final purchase. One of them caught the lamp, which toppled and rolled over the desk.
“Oh no, you don’t!” shouted Adam to Diana. “You’re not taking her anywhere!”
Mary glanced back for a moment. Thank goodness—she could see Justine disappearing through the office door. How would Adam respond?
He was still standing behind the desk, revolver raised. There were papers on the desk, papers on the floor, and now—“They’re burning!” shouted Catherine.
Oil spilled from the lamp and spread across the desk. Suddenly, the desktop was in flames. Adam stepped back and raised his hands, as though to ward them off.
“We must get out of here!” said Beatrice. “The chemicals in those jars are flammable.”
“Out, now, all of you!” said Holmes. “Mary, can you support Watson?”
“With help,” she said. “It will have to be Catherine. He’s too weak to breathe Beatrice’s poison.”
“I’ll help,” said Hyde. Mary looked at him, startled. Why was he offering to help? No doubt so they would let him escape. . . .
“You’re not as strong as I am,” said Catherine contemptuously. She put her shoulder under Watson’s arm. Mary put her shoulder under the other, and together, they raised him. Holmes still stood with his revolver trained on Adam, who was almost invisible behind the flames on the desk and the smoke rising from them.
The papers on the floor had caught fire as well. Renfield was screaming, a high shriek like a teakettle on the boil. Something bolted out from under the operating table—the Orangutan Man. He ran toward Holmes. More quickly than the detective could respond, the Orangutan Man reverted to his animal nature and, on all fours, slipped between Holmes and the doorframe, then out the door.
“He’s not important,” said Holmes. “But you need to go! I’ll stay and see this through to the end.”
They filed out through the space behind Holmes: Beatrice first, then Mary and Catherine supporting Watson between them. Hyde tried to follow them, but “I don’t think so,” said Holmes. “You’re not leaving until I do.” As they left the room, Mary glanced back. Holmes raised his revolver and shot at the lantern hanging from the ceiling. The reservoir shattered, and oil spilled over the floor. In a moment, it too was in flames.
Then she saw Adam, in flames, lurching from behind the desk, across the room. How many bullets did Holmes have left? She had not kept count . . .
But she could not stay to help him. There was Watson to get out into the cool night air. She and Catherine followed Beatrice down the hall, stumbling out the door. They crossed the street, with Watson’s feet dragging on the stones between them. In the alley, Diana was waiting, with Justine and Charlie. And—
“Alice!” she cried. “What in the world are you doing here?”
Together, she and Catherine set Watson down, as gently as they could, against the brick wall of a warehouse. He was moaning and barely conscious.
“She’s from the Magdalen Society,” said Catherine. “How do you know her?”
“She used to be my scullery maid, is how,” said Mary. “Alice, what were you doing—”
“Look!” said Beatrice. Through the first-floor window, they could see that the warehouse office was filled with flames. And in a moment, they could see flames through the window on the second floor as well. Flames rose to the roof of the warehouse. Where was Holmes? Mary scanned the building anxiously.
“Don’t forget, we have a wounded man,” Beatrice reminded her.
“Of course.” He would be all right. He must be all right. Sherlock Holmes would not be defeated by Adam Frankenstein . . . would he? No, certainly not, she told herself. She turned to Charlie. “Can you find some way to get Dr. Watson to a hospital? He needs to be looked at immediately. A cab, or a cart of some sort.” Mary checked the bandages on his shoulder. They were already stained through.
“I’ll look, miss,” said Charlie, “though cabs don’t come to this part of the city, and I don’t know where I’m going to find a cart, this time of night.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Diana. “It’s better than waiting around here!” Before Mary could stop her, she followed Charlie into the darkness.
“Damn that girl! Will she ever learn to do as she’s told?” Mary tried to make Watson as comfortable as she could on the cobblestones. He moaned again and shook his head back and forth—it reminded her of the wounded Tiger Man. Had Holmes come out of the warehouse yet? Resolutely, she brought her mind back to the problem at hand.
“Someone is on fire!” said Justine. “Look—through the window. Is that him? Is that—Adam?” In the warehouse office lurched a form, massive, entirely engulfed in flames. The flames were so high and bright now, blazing through the windows and up from the roof, that they illuminated even the alley.
“It must be,” said Catherine. “Who else would be that tall?”
Two shots rang out—who had fired them? And then Holmes was running out of the building, with Hyde at his heels. Mary breathed a sigh of relief on seeing Holmes. But Hyde—for a moment, she wished he could have died in the fire. The thought was wrong, unworthy of her. This was her father . . . no, she was not ready to accept that. Not yet.
When they reached the alley, Hyde looked back at the burning warehouse. “I don’t suppose even Frankenstein’s creature can escape such a conflagration,” he said. “Wait, what are you doing?”