Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie) (25 page)

"What about you?" she asked. "Don’t even
think about telling me you plan to stay here because —"

"I will hold them off so you can get a healthy head
start. Please, when my magick fails, take Ceridwen and Danny away from here."

Eve came around to face him. There was rage and a hint of
fear on her beautiful yet tired features. "What the hell is wrong with
you?" she screamed, the birds outside riled even more by her display of
anger. "You’re an arch mage for Christ’s sake, and you’re going to allow
some metal fucking birds to end your life?!"

Conan Doyle shook his head sadly. "My magick is not
working as it should here. The power in this place is different, more ancient. Cerdiwen
cannot wield the elements of this place as she should. They are not eager to be
tamed, they fight her at every turn. And the magick is similar. Unfamiliar to
me."

He looked into her eyes and saw that she was speechless, a
rarity for her. Then Eve nodded. "I’ll get them out. But then I’m coming
back for you."

He was weakening far faster then he would have imagined. All
they had were moments, and he looked to see that they were ready. Eve held
Ceridwen in her arms and Conan Doyle’s heart was wrenched by how frail the
sorceress looked.

The magick fought to slip away from him, and he fell to his
knees, straining to hold on to his control. The Stymphalian Birds continued to
swarm around the sphere, screeching excitedly, as if they knew that their
dogged patience was about to be rewarded. But then, above their cries of
savagery, Arthur Conan Doyle heard something else.

A voice raised in song.

The magickal shielding fell away with a fleeting whisper,
but somehow they remained safe.

"Should we be running?" Eve asked, warily watching
the swarm of razor-feathered birds that flew above their heads.

"Listen," Conan Doyle said.

The song grew louder, stronger, and he could just about make
out the words. Its message was one of peace and serenity, and it was sung in a
language that even the Stymphalia could understand. Where the sky had once been
filled with winged death, it was now suddenly clear, the razor birds darting
into the distant shadows of the cavern, convinced to be elsewhere. Conan Doyle
could still hear their screeching cries, but they were far away now.

And though the threat had been dispersed, the song continued
to fill the air and Conan Doyle watched as Nigel Gull, singing out gloriously
in the voice of Orpheus, approached, his Wicked following like obedient dogs at
his heels.

"Hello, Arthur," Gull said. He could not help but
smile. To see Conan Doyle so helpless, it was absolutely priceless.

"Nigel. I suppose we owe you a bit of thanks."

Gull waved his words away. "Not at all, old friend. You
were in a fix, and I was happy to oblige. Would you not do the same for me?"

"Of course they would have," Hawkins agreed.

Jezebel giggled, biting at a fingernail with her dainty
mouth.

Conan Doyle remained silent, ignoring the commentary, and
turned to check the condition of his people. Despite his words, Gull wondered
if the man would have left him and his operatives to the mercies of the razor
birds had the situation been reversed. For in truth he would not himself have
bothered with saving Sir Arthur and his Menagerie if he did not still need
something from them. He would have quite enjoyed watching them all die
horribly.

Gull watched as Conan Doyle took Ceridwen from Eve’s arms
and laid her upon the ground. He caught the demon boy watching him with a
steely, untrusting gaze.
This is one to watch,
Gull thought, returning
his attentions to Doyle and his lover.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked with an
attempt at concern. It was
so
difficult to muster.

"Nothing that leaving this place won’t cure,"
Conan Doyle said as he rose from Ceridwen’s side and stalked toward Gull. "Why
are you here, Nigel? What purpose could you possibly have in this damnable
place?"

Hawkins chuckled as he moved to stand beside his employer. "The
old man knows you well, sir," he said with a sneer. "Type of bloke
thinks he’s smarter than all the rest. Two steps ahead of everyone else."

Conan Doyle barely acknowledged the silver-haired man, his
eyes boring into Gull. "Why?" he asked again.

Nigel gazed around at the black, gnarled trees that grew
sparsely across the charcoal gray earth of this place. There were other
landscapes here — the terrain changed almost constantly as one traveled
through the Underworld — but this place was almost pretty in comparison. "There
is something I need, here. Something that will help me gain a prize I’ve long
been denied."

Conan Doyle laughed disdainfully and it took all the
self-control that Gull could muster to not slap the condescending smirk from
his face.

"What is it now, Nigel?" the mage asked. "What
forbidden treasure has tempted you beyond the limits of rational thinking this
time?"

Gull wanted to tell him. To explain that there was no
ancient book or scroll, or object of power to sell to the highest bidder. Instead,
he swallowed painfully, the dry air of the Underworld making his throat ache,
and stepped closer to the man who had insulted him so.

"Matters of the heart, dear boy," he whispered,
leaning forward slightly so that Conan Doyle was sure to hear. "Matters of
the heart."

Conan Doyle’s face screwed up in confusion, and Gull was
certain that the infuriating man wanted to know more, but Gull’s patience was
gone and they had to move on.

"What the devil are you talking about man, matters of
the . . ."

Gull raised a misshapen hand to silence him. "I’ve said
enough and wasted too much time with you." He scanned the skies of the
forbidden world. "In case you haven’t noticed, this can be quite a
dangerous place, and to stay put for too long can mean your demise."

His stare locked with Conan Doyle’s. "We have to leave."

"And where are
we
going?" his adversary
asked grimly, straightening his jacket as though he could look presentable down
in this ancient hell.

Gull cleared his throat, preparing to once again sing. "You’re
not going anywhere. I require only Eve."

Alarm flashed in Conan Doyle’s eyes and a crackle of golden
light flared from his fingertips, but Gull would have no such resistance. He
sang out a single note in the voice of Orpheus, freezing the Menagerie where
they stood. Conan Doyle gritted his teeth, attempting to fight the paralyzing
command of that song, but to no avail.

Gull paused to rest his vocal cords, gesturing toward Eve. "This
way, dear lady. We have an appointment with the Erinyes."

Hatred burning in her eyes, fighting the movement of every
muscle, Eve stepped away from her friends.

"I’ll kill you for this, you know," she hissed,
showing Nigel her fangs, and he sang several soft notes that sapped away all
her aggression.

I’m sure you would
, he thought
. But I’m not fool
enough to give you the chance.

Then he looked at Jezebel and Hawkins. "Take her,"
he ordered. The girl took one arm, and the man the other and they led Eve away.
Gull returned his attentions to Conan Doyle and the remainder of his team. "I
want to say a proper good-bye."

"Will you kill us, Nigel?" Conan Doyle asked,
swaying on his feet, still under the sway of the Orpheus song. Ceridwen moaned
on the ground behind him, the demon boy kneeling by her side.

"What do you take me for?" Gull asked, feigning
horror. "We have far too much history for that." Again, he looked to
the dark, ocher skies of the Underworld, and filling his lungs, sang out a
lilting verse, long and powerful. A song of summoning. "I cannot kill you,
Arthur, but this place . . ."

Gull cocked his head, listening for a particular sound and
found it. It was the sound of flapping wings far off in the distance — but
growing closer.

He smiled, turned on his heel, and left them to die.

Squire scurried along the shadowpaths.

To others it was only darkness, but to the hobgoblin it was
a vast network of tunnels leading to any place on the planet, and even beyond,
where the slimmest touch of shadow was the means to travel great distances. All
shadows were connected, and Squire knew their secrets well. He jogged through
the dark, instinct guiding him toward his destination.

In his mind, he began to review the list of items Clay had
asked him to bring from the brownstone. He stopped for a moment, removing the
bundled titanium netting from his shoulder and dropping it to the shadowpath. "Let’s
see," he grumbled. "Got the netting, of course. Can’t catch a beastie
without a good net."

He picked up a small box and opened it to reveal a clear,
glass vial. He took the container from its case and admired the milky fluid
inside.
A whole lot of South American tree frogs gave up their skin to
produce this bottle o’ bad business. Should knock’er on her ass.

The hobgoblin put the narcotic back into its protective case
and turned his attentions to the tranquilizer rifle. Normally he would have
preferred weapons with a more archaic flavor — knives, swords, crossbows,
axes — but in this case he was willing to bend a bit. From what he could
see, the rifle was in good working order and he slipped it back under the
netting until it was needed.

Then he caught sight of the brightly colored Skittles
package. "There you are," he said with an enormous grin, snatching up
the package of candy. "Come to Papa." He tore open the package with
his teeth, tilted his head back and dumped most of the candies into his open
maw.

"Oh that’s good," he grumbled, as the multiple
flavors exploded in his mouth. "It’s been too long." He tried to
remember the last time he had satisfied his nasty sweet tooth. Close to two
days, probably a record.

He was in the midst of a euphoric sugar rush when he thought
he heard Clay’s voice. Squire paused in the stillness of the shadows, gooey wad
of sour candy in his cheek.

" . . . ire hurry up, damn it!"

It was Clay all right. "Shit," the goblin muttered
beneath his breath, pouring the rest of the Skittles into his mouth and
gathering his things. He tossed the candy wrapper and hauled the net filled
with
stuff
over his shoulder, trudging down the appropriate shadowpath.

He knew by the ruckus wafting into the ocean of darkness
that he had reached his destination. The exit was a small one, a tight squeeze,
but that didn’t matter to a hobgoblin.

Squire forced his way into the opening, bones bending to
accommodate the tiny space. The cool touch of shadow clung to his flesh as he
emerged from an oval-shaped patch of shadow thrown by a cast iron trash barrel:
first his head, followed by his short, muscular body. It was kind of like being
born, minus the death of his mother and the attempts of the midwife to kill
him, but there was no time for sweet nostalgia. He hauled the netting out of
the pool with a grunt.

The hobgoblin quickly scanned his surroundings, searching
for his friends, but found only bad news instead. What they had feared had
happened. He was at a train station, squatting beneath a glass overhang that
would have protected him from the elements if necessary, and where commuters,
tourists, and the like should have been awaiting a train, there were now only
cold statues of stone.

"Damn it," he hissed, throwing the net over his
shoulder and moving out from beneath the overhang. Squire scanned the area, his
sharp eyes taking in every inch of the place
. Where the hell are Clay and
Graves?
he thought, carefully moving around the poor saps who had simply
been waiting for a train when Medusa decided to pass through town.

"You see a big guy that can change himself into
monsters?" Squire asked a large man who had been frozen to stone as he
looked up from his morning newspaper. "He had a ghost with him."

And all was eerily silent.

Until the mastodon came crashing through a wall at the far
end of the platform, destroying a mosaic depicting famous Athenian landmarks.

"Never mind," Squire told the stone man. "I
think I found him."

The attack had come without warning.

Clay and Graves had been in pursuit of the fleeing Medusa,
hopeful that she would steer clear of the more populated locales. But the
Gorgon seemed not to consider her surroundings, intent only upon her
destination. Clay had grown certain of that. Following her path, it was obvious
to him that she moved with purpose, as though she knew exactly where she wanted
to be.

Like she’s following a trail.

That trail had taken her to the Theseum train station on the
west side of Athens, at the beginning of the rush hour commute. She moved with
incredible speed, slinking along the city streets near the edge of the train
station, reminding Clay of a sidewinder snake, slithering across the desert. They’d
almost lost track of her a few times, but Graves had always managed to find
her, sensing the ectoplasmic piece of himself still imbedded inside her.

They tried their best to catch up, hoping to stop her before
she reached the station, but Medusa only moved faster, as if spurred on by some
unknown lure. Squire would have muttered something rude under his breath, some
obvious joke about the monster needing to catch a train. The thought, though
foolish, rang true. Why else come to a train station? Clay dropped to all
fours, flesh shifting, bones reknitting, all in a single instant so that by the
time he hit the ground the fur had sprouted on his body and his tail whipped
behind him. He needed speed. As a cheetah, now, his claws tore at the ground
and he sprinted into the station.