Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie) (6 page)

No matter how many times Julia saw the ghost of Dr. Leonard
Graves, she couldn’t get used to it.. He was a kind man, and had been a noble
example of humanity while he lived, but that was the problem. Dr. Graves was
dead.

"Is everything all right?" the specter asked, his
gaze shifting from Julia to her son, who now knelt before his demolished
dresser.

"Danny?" Graves drifted closer to the boy, and
Julia noticed how much warmer it was without him near.

"I’m cool," Danny said, reaching down to touch the
broken dresser. "My mom and I were just discussing how it would be best
for me to go back home with her and live in the basement."

Julia sighed. "I said no such thing," she said
wearily, bringing her hands to her temples in an attempt to massage away the
throbbing agony in her head.

"It’s completely understandable if you don’t quite
trust us yet," Graves said, turning his focus on her and drifting closer. "We
are quite the unusual bunch."

"It’s not that I don’t trust you per se . . . damn it
this hurts," she moaned, and stumbled slightly to one side, sitting down
on the end of the bed.

"She called you all a freak show," Danny said with
contempt.

Julia started to deny it, but gave up, the pain inside her
skull taking away her strength to defend herself. She grimaced. "If you
can believe it, I meant it in the nicest way possible."

Her eyes were closed, but she felt Graves approach, the
temperature in the air dropping dramatically as he drew nearer to her.

"No offense taken," the ghost replied. "You
have another headache, Mrs. Ferrick?"

She slitted her eyes open and saw that he was leaning
forward to study her. Though a ghost, Leonard Graves was still quite handsome. He
was a man out of time, a man of another age, but he had rugged, determined features
that reminded her of Denzel Washington . . . only transparent. Julia couldn’t
believe she was thinking such things about a dead man and chalked it up to
insanity caused by the pain inside her head.

"It’s Julia, Doctor, and yes, I’ve got a hell of a headache."

Danny stood, holding a piece of the dresser top in his
hands, and looked at her with concern. "She gets them when she’s stressed
out. Mom, do you want us to pull the curtains and let you lie down for awhile?"

"No, I’ll be fine. Maybe a couple of Aleve from my
purse will . . ."

"Squire often gets tension headaches," Graves
stated. "And I’ve developed a slightly unusual, yet effective technique
that helps to diminish his pain."

She began to feel herself growing nauseous. "Does it
involve sacrificing a virgin or cutting the head off a chicken?" She
ventured a tremulous smile.

The ghost chuckled. "Surprisingly, it doesn’t."

"Would I be a candidate for this treatment, or does it
only work on trolls?"

"Squire is a hobgoblin," Graves said. "Quite
different from trolls actually, far better hygiene, and, yes, if you’re
willing, you would be a candidate."

"I’m willing," she croaked, the acid in her
stomach churning from the intensity of the ache in her skull.

"All right," the ghost said. "If you’d be so
kind as to remain seated and lean forward."

Julia did as she was told. The headache was coming on hard
and fast now, and the pain was such that if Graves had said that a very sharp
axe would now be needed, she would have helped him search for it.

"Now don’t be alarmed, you’re going to feel something a
little strange."

The icy sensation at the back of her neck was almost
pleasant, at first numbing, but then it grew intensely warm. Five points of
heat pressed on the cluster of pain inside her skull. Though her eyes were
closed, Julia suddenly understood what Dr. Graves was doing to her; she could
see it in her mind. He had put his hand — his ghostly fingers — inside
her head and was taking her headache away.

"That should do it," the doctor said, as she
slowly straightened.

Julia opened her eyes and ran a cautious hand along the back
of her neck. "It’s gone," she said, not without a little surprise. "That’s
incredible." She smiled. "I feel great."

Danny stood beside the apparition of the former adventurer. "Not
bad for a freak, huh, Ma?"

"Most headaches are caused by constriction of blood
vessels inside the skull," Graves explained. "A little hot and cold
therapy applied directly to the clusters is usually enough to alleviate the
symptoms."

"I feel as though I should write you a check or
something," Julia said, relishing the relief from her agony.

"The only payment I ask is that you extend the trust
you gave to me to the others of this household."

What he was asking her to do was likely to pain her far more
than any headache ever could, but deep down she knew that it was indeed best
for Danny. Besides, how could she be steered wrong by the one of the world’s
most famous scientists and adventurers? Ghost or not, this was Dr. Leonard
Graves. Not trusting him would be like calling Elliot Ness a crook.

Julia smiled at the comparison, these two men from the
annals of twentieth-century American history.

"You’ll have to call me every other night," she
told her son.

Danny nodded. "I can do that."

"And I want to be able to visit. Nothing crazy, just to
be able to see that you’re doing all right."

"That can be arranged as well," Graves responded. "I’ll
see that you are given a key. And you’ll have a guest room at your disposal
whenever you like."

"So does that mean I can stay?" Danny asked.

"Let’s just say I’m willing to try it," Julia
answered, trying to quell a slight twinge of unease.

There came a knock at the door, and it swung open. Squire
ambled into the room without an invitation.

"Sorry to interrupt. Hey, love what you’re doing with
the place," he said sarcastically, nodding his potato shaped head at the
dresser. "Fuckin’ kids today," he added with a disgusted grumble.

"What can we do for you, Squire?" Graves asked,
distracting hobgoblin from glowering at the boy.

"Mr. Doyle wants to see everybody in the study."

Danny pointed to himself.

"You ,too, horny Joe," the hobgoblin said, turning
to leave. "Go a little easier on the furniture downstairs, would ya?"

Danny followed Squire into the hall. "I’ll talk to you
later," he called, waving to Julia, leaving her alone with Graves.

She didn’t know how to feel. "I love you, Ma," she
muttered as she stood up from the bed looking for her purse, preparing to
leave.

"Mrs. Ferrick . . . Julia," Leonard Graves said. She
found her pocketbook and slung the strap over her shoulder, turning toward the
ghost. He smiled at her reassuringly, raising his hand to hold a forefinger and
thumb slightly apart. "Only a little bit of trust."

"It’s the least I can do," she answered with a
smile, and then watched as his body became even more immaterial, dropping down
through the floor until he was gone.

Leaving her alone with the weight of her decision.

From the window of his study, Conan Doyle watched Julia
Ferrick leaving his home and striding purposefully toward her car, which sat in
one of the few legal parking spaces in the affluent Beacon Hill neighborhood of
Louisburg Square. His sight was perfect again, perhaps even a bit better than
that. He was glad that he had decided to pay Fulcanelli more than was necessary
for his efforts; the chemist had outdone himself.

He let the heavy curtain fall back into place and turned
just as young Daniel Ferrick entered the room. Eve and Clay, the eldest of his
menagerie, sat side by side on the sofa. Dr. Graves stood behind them with his
arms crossed, not quite as translucent as usual. Graves was focused at the
moment on the substantial world. Danny glanced around for a moment, an odd
expression on his face as he regarded the furniture, before sitting himself on
the floor, his back against the sofa.

The only one who had yet to arrive was Ceridwen, and Conan
Doyle felt his pulse quicken at the thought of her.
Silly git
, he
chided, surprised that the Fey sorceress could still have such an effect upon
him after so long. What had been between them once was no more. They had become
allies again, but it went no further.
Must be getting soft in my old age.

Squire entered the room carrying a long serving tray, laden
with a pitcher of ice water flavored with lemon slices, red grapes, crackers,
and a selection of cheeses. He set the tray down upon a wheeled cart just
inside the door.

"Have you seen Ceridwen, Squire?" Conan Doyle
asked.

The goblin snatched up a piece of cheese from the tray and
popped it into his mouth. "Saw her on the top floor about ten minutes ago
and told her there was a powwow," he said, chewing noisily. "She was
still working on reestablishing that doorway between the house and Faerie,
ironing out the wrinkles and all. Said she’d be right along."

Conan Doyle nodded. It was powerful magic she was attempting
alone, and he wondered if the sorceress might require his assistance. As soon
as this meeting was concluded, he would seek her out.

From a cabinet of dark wood, he retrieved a crystal decanter
of scotch and a glass tumbler. "May I interest any of you in something
with a bit more bite?"

Clay declined as he rose and went to fill a plate with
crackers and grapes.

"I’ll love a jolt, thanks," Eve said from the
couch.

"Me, too," Danny added.

Graves glared down at the boy from where he hovered. "I
think not," he said coldly.

"It was worth a try," the boy shrugged, getting up
and going to the cart for some water.

"I’ll pass," Squire said, perching on the edge of
the loveseat with a plate stacked with cheese. "Make it a point not to
drink any hard stuff until after five." The hobgoblin had a bite of one of
the cheese wedges. "Unless I’m already shitfaced, that is."

Conan Doyle sighed and rolled his eyes as he crossed the
room to bring Eve her drink.

"Here’s mud in your eye," she said with a sly
smile, raising the tumbler in a toast. "And speaking of eyes, the new one
looks fabulous. Who did it for you, Agrippa?" She tossed the scotch back
in one go, then ran her tongue over her lips comically. "Not as
nutritiously satisfying as the red stuff, but not without its merits."

"Always the lady, Eve," Conan Doyle said. "No,
Agrippa and I had a bit of a falling out so I decided to go with someone local.
Fulcanelli in the North End; do you know him?"

"Only by reputation." She studied his newly
acquired eye. "He does nice work."

Clay returned to the sofa and offered her a cracker. She
declined with a wrinkling of her nose.

"So, what’s the scoop?" she asked Conan Doyle. "I’m
sure you didn’t call this little meeting just to chitchat and show off your new
peeper."

Conan Doyle crossed the room to an empty wing back chair in
the corner,
his
chair, and sat down. He set his drink down and picked up
a file folder from a small table beside him.

"I received a phone call from one of our informants in
Athens," he said as he opened the folder. "As well as these digital
photographs over the Internet shortly thereafter."

Squire got up, took the printed photos and brought them to
Eve. "Pass ‘em down when you’re done."

She glared at him.

"Hey, if those don’t do anything for ya, I’ve got some
back at my room that might be more to your liking," the hobgoblin winked
salaciously.

"I think I’m going to be sick," Eve said, as
Squire sauntered back to his seat.

"Before that, please peruse the pictures, if you would
be so kind," Conan Doyle said picking up his glass and taking a sip of
scotch.

Eve still had her sunglasses on, but now she removed them to
examine the pictures more carefully. "Okay, I’m game. What’s up with the
statues?" she asked, passing the digital printouts to Clay.

"They weren’t always statues," the shapeshifter
said grimly, looking up to meet Doyle’s eyes.

"Precisely."

"Any idea what’s responsible?" Clay asked, rising
to give the pictures to Graves.

Conan Doyle shook his head, resting his glass on the arm of
the leather chair. "Nothing as yet. There are any number of supernatural
causes ranging from a transmutation spell gone horribly awry to Basilisk
poisoning."

"Let me see," Danny said, pulling the pictures
away from Graves. "Oh, damn," he said, his red eyes growing wide. "These
used to be people?"

"Tourists," Conan Doyle explained.

"Almost like people," Eve added.

"So I’m guessing we’re going to Greece," Clay
said, rising from the sofa to set his empty plate on the cart.

Conan Doyle downed the last of his drink before answering. "Not
all of you," he said. "I’d like you, Clay, to go to Athens to
investigate, with Dr. Graves and Squire."

Clay nodded his acceptance of the mission, as did the
spectral Graves.

"That sucks," Danny grumbled as Doyle got up to
refill his glass. "I wouldn’t mind a trip to Greece."

Conan Doyle studied the boy a moment, still evaluating him. "Perhaps
another time."

Eve cleared her throat. "So what about the rest of us?"
she asked, crossing her long legs. "Are we free to go about our business?"

The ominous words of his old teahcher Lorenzo Sanguedolce
echoed through Conan Doyle’s mind.
The clock is ticking toward the fate of
the world,
the mage had warned, and Conan Doyle believed this to be true,
but did not know when the metaphorical clock would chime. He did not want to be
caught unawares.

"No," he responded. "The rest of you will
remain here with me."

He poured himself another scotch. A double this time.

"Better to be safe than sorry."