DO Y L E
Strange Ink
I F BAT T L E ’ S P O C K E T
watch was to be believed, Kramer had kept
them safely off the ward and out of the way for more than two
hours. (The doctor was all apologies: Elizabeth to look after, a new
admission to assess, yet another patient who required his imme-
diate attention, and blah, blah.) Now, having cleaned away dried
blood with a carbolic acid wash, Kramer ran a thumb over Black
Dog’s slavering maw. “What strange ink,” the doctor said. “The
color of the eyes is astounding. So
red.
These eyes are coals. Exqui-
site workmanship
.
Did you specifically request a Ghost Dog?”
“Ghost Dog?” Doyle had no idea what that was, and he was
distracted. The acid had made his raw flesh sing with new pain.
“Not that I recall. What is it?”
“Devil Dog,” Battle answered. “Bearer of Death. Or Hell-
hound, a guardian of the Underworld, depending. Cerberus was
of the same ilk, and there’s, of course, the Barghest of Yorkshire.”
He ticked it all off with the boredom of a teacher who’s taught the
same lesson more times than he can count. “It’s a very common
image and superstition.”
