Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie) (7 page)

Nigel Gull stood in the customs line at Logan International
Airport and waited to show his passport to a security guard. The long flight
from Athens had been a test of his patience, thanks to the rudeness of his
fellow passengers, but he had been relatively comfortable in the first-class
section. Over the years he had grown inured to the stares of those who were
ignorant or insensitive. He did not need a mirror to remind him how freakish
his appearance was, his skull so misshapen that his face looked more like a
horse’s than a human’s. No, every idiot who stared at him was his mirror. He
saw himself in and through their eyes. Once upon a time there had lived in
England a man named John Merrick who was publicly referred to as the Elephant
Man, because it was believed he had a rare condition called elephantiasis. In
subsequent years Merrick’s actual ailment had been debated, but the name
remained.

The Elephant Man.

Gull had been repulsed by the circus that had surrounded
Merrick. He knew the source of his own freakish appearance but had no desire to
be paraded around London as the Horse-headed man, or some such. He was a human
being, despite the equine influence that was evident in his eyes and ears and
the length and shape of his head.

No, all in all, the flight had been innocuous enough. Now,
though, as he and his two traveling companions made their way down the long
corridor toward the customs area, they were herded along with the rest of the
passengers, as well as those from two other flights that had arrived nearly
simultaneously. Logan Airport was the hub of air travel not only in Boston, but
in all of New England, particularly for overseas travel. There were plenty of
gawking children, adults who alternated between open astonishment and averting
their gaze, and a pair of teenagers with so little breeding that they actually
clutched one another, pointing and laughing.

"Oh, shit. What is up with that?" one of them
crowed, a dark-skinned boy in an oversized basketball jersey.

Gull ignored them. He felt his companions stiffen, however. They
walked on either side of him as though they were his bodyguards, when in fact
they were his friends and associates. On his left was a distinguished,
silver-haired gentleman, well-dressed in a sport coat and trousers. Nick
Hawkins looked as though he had just left a fitting at the tailor’s rather than
just disembarked from a six-hour transatlantic flight. At first glance, women
were taken by the man’s chiseled features and insouciant smile. Then they saw
the cold emptiness of his eyes.

Hawkins had proven himself an asset time and time again. He
had gifts he had only begun to tap in the employment of the British government,
but he had chosen to work with Gull instead. The benefits were far greater. Anything
Nick Hawkins could imagine, his association with Gull could enable him to
achieve. And Hawkins had quite an imagination.

Gull’s other companion drew nearly as many stares as he did
himself, though for far different reasons. The girl was fifteen — or
perhaps sixteen, he could not recall her age at her last birthday — and
quite stunning. Her hair was a rich cinnamon, her eyes ocean blue, and she
walked with the confident strut that was part dancer, part prizefighter. Her
jeans hung so low on her hips it seemed impossible for them to remain in place,
and her top came down to just beneath her breasts, leaving what seemed to be
yards of beautiful pale abdomen and a tiny dimpled navel exposed for public
view.

Jezebel was a force of nature. Gull’s heart filled with
pride at the sight of her. She swept the attention of others in her wake,
commanding them without a glance. But even her radiance was not enough to draw
all eyes from Gull’s hideousness. When the pair of teenaged boys laughed and
pointed at him, she and Hawkins had both tensed. The suave gentleman turned
gray, soulless eyes on Gull, who shook his head. But Jezebel was not so easily
discouraged.

"Come on, then," she said playfully, linking her
arm with his as they moved up in the customs line. "Let me hurt them. Just
a bit of a scorching ought to do for the lads well enough."

Gull frowned. "Do nothing, Jez. You cause any trouble
and we may have to wait ‘round til it gets sorted. I can’t have that, yeah? You
just be my good girl. I promise you’ll have plenty of fun later on."

Jezebel rolled her eyes, tucked a lock of cinnamon hair
behind her ear, and spun around to face him, walking backward in the line. "As
long as you promise. I’ll be good. I’m always good, aren’t I, Nick?"

The girl enjoyed baiting Hawkins, but the man was
stone-faced. His years with British Intelligence had honed him to such a fine
edge that he was too sharp, too dangerous, even for them. One nubile girl was
not going to dull his edge. No matter what else she might be capable of.

"You’re always good, love," Hawkins replied at last,
but Jezebel had already turned to hand her passport to the customs agent.

Gull waited for his turn, Hawkins taking up a position
behind him. The teenagers continued to snicker and made rude comments under
their breath. The tall, malformed man lifted a large hand and scratched at his
chin. His brows knitted in consternation. For well over a century he had
endured such idiocy. But sometimes he ran out of patience. He glanced back at
Hawkins and nodded. The handsome man remained expressionless as he reached into
his jacket pocket in search of his British passport. As he withdrew it, he
fumbled it, and it dropped to the floor not far from the two boys.

Hawkins stepped out of line, closing the distance between
himself and the teens. He crouched to pick up his passport, and as he did, he
let the fingers of his left hand brush the shoe of the nearest, a slight boy
with delicate features.

If Gull had not had exceptional hearing and been paying
close attention he would have lost Hawkins’s words in the susurrus of voices in
the terminal. But he was able to decipher them, lagging a bit even as Jezebel
finished with the customs agent.

"Your friend here is going to get pinched for
smuggling drugs later this year. He’s going to sell you out. In prison, you’ll
be shanked in the shower, cut wide open so your intestines are hanging out, and
while your blood runs down the drain, they’ll take turns raping you, so the
last thing you know will be the pain of your rectum tearing and the weight of a
murderer with heinous breath upon your back."

The silver-haired gentleman held up his passport,
brandishing it so that Gull could see it, as if letting his companion know
there was no problem. As if he had said nothing. He smiled an empty smile and
returned to the line, even as Gull handed his own identification to the customs
agent.

"Fuck! You’re a fucking nut! Sick fucking freak!"
the teen was shouting.

But no one else had heard Hawkins speak, and all they saw
was an ill-mannered lout of a boy screaming at a distinguished businessman. Hawkins
shook his head as though the boy’s behavior was beneath him to even acknowledge
and waited patiently for his turn with customs.

Fifteen minutes later they had retrieved their luggage from
the baggage claim. Jezebel secured a cart and helped Hawkins load it, and now
they wheeled it in silence through the busy terminal as travelers moved out of
their way. The electronic doors parted to make way for them, and they emerged
onto the sidewalk in front of the airport, where a line of limousines and
taxicabs waited.

Cold rain swept down from dark skies heavy with
thunderheads. It was midafternoon, but the gloom pretended evening. The cars
that rolled beneath the overhanging roof that kept the emerging travelers dry
dripped with rain, leaving damp tire tracks in their passing.

Nigel Gull paused on the sidewalk, his distended nostrils
widening. It had been raining lightly when they landed, but the storm had
gotten much worse in the subsequent forty minutes. He snorted in displeasure.

"A singularly unlovely day."

Jezebel had slipped on her burgundy leather jacket. Now she
left the luggage cart and stood beside him, gazing out at the storm. Her left
hand gripped his arm, and she lay her head against his shoulder.

"No," Gull began. "Jez, love, you don’t have
to —"

"Hush," the girl said.

Gull’s heart swelled. Such a sweet child. He would never
have a daughter of his own, but in Jezebel he had found a girl who was
everything he could ever have wanted as a legacy. How he loved her. As he
watched, her beautiful, delicate face became dark and cruel. Her eyes were
closed tightly, her features lined with intensity. She shook, and her grip on
his arm tightened. A drop of blood bubbled out of her right nostril, steaming,
and when it fell to the sidewalk it evaporated on contact with the concrete.

Her eyes flickered open. A mist seemed to rise off of those
orbs, the same ocean green as her irises. Then a smile blossomed on her face
and she went impossibly rigid beside him. Gull was at once fearful for her and
enchanted. She was never more beautiful than in the throes of her power. Her
personal magic.

Her grip relaxed, and she slumped against him. Gull put an
arm around her shoulders and at last tore his gaze from her. As far as he could
see, the rain had ceased. The black clouds were thinning, burning off, and in
several places the sun peeked through, revealing a hint of blue sky beyond.

"It will be nice now," Jezebel said, her words
slurring. "Spectacular, even." She glanced around for Hawkins and
spotted him a few feet away, studying the line of limousines that stood at the
curb, their drivers standing in front of them, each holding a sign scrawled
with the name of their client.

"Nick, lovey, get us a car, won’t you? I need somewhere
to fall."

Hawkins glanced at her, then at Gull. He said nothing, for
Jezebel was irritating him on purpose. She knew full well that he was already
in the process of choosing their transportation. Women passing by watched him
appreciatively as they dragged their wheeled baggage toward waiting taxis. But
despite Jezebel’s exhaustion, Gull had no interest in a taxi. He would not ride
in one in London, nor would he do so here in the States.

"Only a moment, Jez," Gull promised her.

But the girl had already closed her eyes again and seemed on
the verge of falling asleep where she stood, leaning on him.

After another moment, Hawkins began to walk along the line
of limousines, idly brushing his fingers against each of them as he passed. At
the third — a long ghost-white model — he paused. Gull thought he
saw a tiny smile flicker across Hawkins’s face, but it might have been his
imagination.

"Mr. Gull," Hawkins said, beckoning to him.

With Jezebel staggering somnambulently at his side, Gull
grasped the handle of the luggage cart and wheeled it toward the limousine. He
reached it just as Hawkins was approaching the driver, who stood in front of
the vehicle holding a small white cardboard sign stenciled with the name E.
POWELL.

"Hello there, are you Bob, then?" Hawkins asked
the driver.

The young man with the black suit and the E. POWELL sign
flinched and then looked Hawkins up and down in frank appraisal.

"Can I help you, sir?" the driver asked.

"You are Bob, yes?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Ah, excellent," Hawkins said. "I apologize
for keeping you waiting. I missed my flight and had to take the next one. I
know you’ve been here for quite some time . . . two hours, is it? I’ll make
sure to add a large gratuity to the company charge."

Bob smiled in relief. "You’re Mr. Powell," he
said. "I was beginning to wonder if I was in the wrong place. I called in,
and they said to wait another twenty minutes or so. Truth is, I was about to
leave."

Hawkins glanced over his shoulder at Gull and Jezebel. "Well,
then it seems we’ve arrived just in time."

The driver frowned, glancing once at the others but then
trying his best not to
see
them, Gull because of his hideousness,
Jezebel because of her beauty. "Oh. I didn’t realize there were three of
you. The slip said one passenger."

"Is that a problem?"

"No. No, of course not. There’s plenty of room, Mr.
Powell."

Then he smiled and opened the door for Gull and Jezebel. They
climbed into the expansive rear of the limousine, and she stretched out full
length on one of the seats, instantly asleep. Moments later Bob was sliding
behind the wheel and Hawkins was climbing into the rear of the limousine, and
then they were drawing away from the airport.

Above them, the clouds had all but disappeared. The sky was
clear and blue, and the sun shone warmly down upon the limousine as it made its
way toward the heart of Boston.

"Oh, Bob," Hawkins called.

"Yes, Mr. Powell?"

"Change of destination, my boy. We’re going to be
staying with a local associate this trip."

"Whatever you say, sir. So, where are we headed?"
the driver asked.

"Beacon Hill," Gull replied, his mind darkening
with memory now. "Louisburg Square. I’ve come to visit an old friend."

"Yeah," Bob said, nodding sagely. "That’s
nice. Visiting old friends."

Gull gazed out the window, but he could no longer see the
beautiful day that Jezebel had given him. His eyes stared, instead, into the
shadows of the past.

The ninth of August 1902. Coronation Day. But Nigel Gull
had neither the inclination nor the invitation to attend Edward’s installment
as king. Even if he had, he had spent the day and the evening performing a
different service to the Crown. It was long after dark, now, when sensible
people were in their beds. Gull rarely slept.

The rail station at Clapham Junction was dark and
deserted as he made his way along the platform, gaze plumbing the shadows all
around. It had begun to rain an hour or two before, and the storm cast a shroud
upon everything it touched. Gull’s eyesight was keen, however, and the rain
would not inhibit him. He could see, for instance, that nothing moved in the
gallery on the far side of the tracks, where passengers would await the morning
train come dawn. Within the station itself, all seemed still and undisturbed. Yet
he could feel it. In the damp air there were traces of malign magick, echoes of
a sinister presence. Gull thought the author of such dark deeds was no longer
at the scene, but caution guided him, nevertheless.