“Johnny,” said Fran carefully, “that young woman has snakes instead of hair.”
“Yes,” said Jonathan. “You’ve met gorgons before. Remember Clark, from the train? He was a Pliny’s gorgon. The Kalakos family are lesser gorgons.”
“The snakes are bright orange.”
“That’s what I just said. Lesser gorgons.”
Asta passed them, removing her kerchief as she walked. The red and orange striped snakes atop her head promptly uncurled, stretching before settling into a more languid position. “It’s Johnny Healy,” she informed the other girl, sounding almost smug. “He got married.”
“No!” The girl with the orange snakes looked to Jonathan and Fran and asked, “What is she?”
“She’s human,” said Jonathan, sounding amused. “Hello, Chruse. We have a reservation for the honeymoon suite?”
“I saw that, but I thought it was your folks coming out for a little getaway.” Chruse pushed a ledger across the desk toward him. “Sign in here, I’ll get your keys, do you need any help with your luggage?”
“This is a pleasure trip,” said Jonathan. “We didn’t bring much.”
“Not planning to work while you’re here?” There was a slight tension in her voice, like she feared his answer.
“No, and if I were, I wouldn’t be staying at the Carmichael.” Jonathan smiled reassuringly. “You know I’d never bring that to your home on purpose.”
“That’s part of why we like you.” Chruse handed him a key. “Mr. and Mrs. Healy, welcome. If there’s anything you need, someone will be at the desk at all hours. My family is delighted that you’ve honored us with your presence, and we thank you for your patronage.”
“It’s lovely to see you, too, Chruse,” said Jonathan. “Please let your parents know that we would be delighted to take a meal with them at their convenience.”
“I will,” said Chruse. Asta waved, and the pair dissolved into giggles as Jonathan led Fran toward the stairs up into the hotel proper.
“Sisters?” she guessed, once they were out of earshot.
“From the same clutch,” said Jonathan. “Lesser gorgons are oviparous, and they tend to lay multiple eggs at one time. The children will resemble each other to such a degree that, were they human, they would be considered twins or triplets.”
“Huh,” said Fran. “It’s a funny world.”
Jonathan smiled at her. “Yes,” he said. “And we’re fortunate enough to live in it.”
The room was large and beautifully appointed, with a view of the lake. Not that they had much time to look at it; they had barely been in the room a minute before Jonathan was closing the curtains and Fran was unbuckling her shoes, and then the pair—who had had precious little privacy at home, even before Daniel came along to complicate things further—fell to the mattress, and paid no mind to their surroundings for a while.
Finally, when they were both pleasantly exhausted, Fran slid out of the bed and began to collect the knives that had been scattered around the floor by the process of her disrobing. Jonathan remained on the bed, propping his head up with one hand as he watched her. “You like the view?” Fran asked, glancing back over her shoulder at him.
“Yes, very much,” said Jonathan. “Come back to bed.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be showin’ me Chicago right about now?”
“Yes. This hotel room is in Chicago. If you look outside the window, you will see even more Chicago. I have thus shown you Chicago. Now come back to bed.”
Fran straightened up, turning to waggle one of her throwing knives at him. The menace of the gesture was perhaps slightly undermined by the fact that she was naked as the day that she was born. “I don’t think you’re taking this tourism that we’re supposed to be enjoying exactly seriously. I’ve never been to a city this big before. I’d like to enjoy it while I have the opportunity.”
“I thought you were enjoying it,” said Jonathan, looking wounded.
“Now don’t you make those big sad eyes at me, Jonathan Healy, I know better than that, and so do you. Of course I was enjoying myself, and I will enjoy myself again in the week that we’ve got here, but there’s a whole city outside this hotel that I want to see.”
Jonathan sat up in the bed, squinting at her. Then he grinned and sank back down into the pillows. “You just want to get a better look at our hosts.”
“I do not!” Fran protested.
Jonathan raised an eyebrow.
“...all right, maybe I do a little, but can you blame me? Gorgons are old hat to you, but the only other one I’ve ever met was the conductor on that train, and we didn’t really have time for small talk, what with the impending doom and all.” Fran picked up another knife before walking over to sit down on the edge of the bed. “I promise not to stare or ask them inappropriate questions, but I really, really want to see them up close for a little longer.”
“So that you can ask me inappropriate questions?” guessed Jonathan.
“Oh, yeah. Like why do they have titties when they got snakes growing out of their heads? Can’t they make up their minds on whether or not they want to be mammals?” She shook her head, looking frustrated. “Snakes don’t have titties.”
“Ah. That, I can answer. Snakes belong to the biological class Reptilia, making them true reptiles. Gorgons—all types—belong to class Synapsida, making them ‘mammal-like reptiles.’ They are reptiles which display mammalian traits. In the case of the lesser gorgon, these mammalian traits include feeding their young. Hence the ‘titties’ you mentioned earlier.”
Fran eyed him dubiously. “You saying they’re mammals, and not mammals, at the same time?”
“Yes. Much like the Questing Beast.”
“I didn’t care much for the Questing Beast.”
“Since you killed it, I don’t think it cared much for you, either.” Jonathan glanced at the tiny crack of sky that was visible through the closed curtains, sighed, and reached for his trousers. “I suppose you’re right, however: we should get dressed if we’re intending to go down for supper. Unless you have a better—”
Fran’s mouth finding the side of his neck cut off his sentence before it was fully formed, and demonstrated that she did indeed have a better idea.
They did not make it down for supper.
“Well, wasn’t that just a thing?” asked Fran, one arm looped demurely through Jonathan’s as they left the dim foyer of the Adler Planetarium for the brilliant light of the Chicago morning. “They put a whole sky in one room just so we could look at it without needing a sleeping bag.”
“Sometimes you are willfully uncultured,” said Jonathan.
Fran beamed at him. “Yup. Other times, I’m just crass.”
“And that’s why I love you.” He kissed her temple before starting down the planetarium steps. “The next honeymoon activity is yours to select. Thank you for indulging my shameful interest in our universe.”
“I’m tolerant,” said Fran, beaming. “Why don’t we go for a walk down by the water? Some folks were talkin’ about the construction that’s going on while we were waiting in the lobby, and I’d like to see it.”
Jonathan looked at her dubiously. “Are you hoping for the opportunity to knock me into a large mud puddle?”
“Maybe,” said Fran sweetly. “Now come on.”
It was a beautiful day, and the pair of them looked anything but dangerous: Fran was wearing a ladies’ walking dress in heavy blue cotton, with button sleeves that went all the way down to her wrists, and Jonathan was in another of his ever-present brown suits. The casual observer would have found them to be quite the modern pair. The casual observer would have, by necessity, overlooked the twenty or so knives which Fran had concealed on her person, along with the three guns, six knives, packet of poisoned needles, and chloroform that Jonathan was carrying.
Appearances can be so deceiving.
It was little trouble to hail a cab heading back toward the city. They left the peninsula where the planetar
ium was located and rode to what they were assured was a particularly picturesque slice of the river walk. During the drive, Fran oohed and aahed at the boats and scenery, while Jonathan peppered their driver with questions about the ongoing construction. In the end, the man was quite pleased to receive his payment and get them out of his cab.
Back on the street, Jonathan took Fran’s hand decorously in his and led her onto the narrow gravel river walk. It was clearly intended for fishermen and running enthusiasts, not women in proper shoes and men in long pants, but neither of them exhibited any discomfort. They had both dealt with far worse in their time.
Once they reached the water, Fran paused, looking to Jonathan. “The construction is supposed to be going on in both directions, based on what those folks were sayin’. If we head down that way,” she pointed south, “we’re likely to find where they’re really tearing things up.”
“Are you basing this opinion on someone saying that we should, under no circumstances, go that way?”
“Yup.”
Jonathan shook his head. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Come on, city boy, it’ll be fun.” Fran resumed walking, a little faster now. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve been cooped up enough these past few days to last me for a lifetime. I want to get out and do things.”
“Like looking at enormous mud puddles.”
“If that’s what I have available, then yes.” Fran looked out at the water and frowned. “Does that look dirty to you?”
“A bit,” Jonathan admitted. “Silt kicked up by the construction, no doubt. No matter how careful you’re trying to be, when you work next to water, you’ll always wind up changing things. The river will recover.”
“Huh.”
They walked in silence for a little while. Jonathan frowned, studying Fran’s pensive expression. Finally, he asked, “What aren’t you saying?”
“Every time the circus would roll into a new town, we’d have to set up. About half the time, we’d be in some fallow field that the farmer wanted cleared for the season. We’d be free labor, in addition to paying rent. And thing was, we’d wind up kicking up all kinds of weird stuff. Turtles and snakes and jackrabbits and once a whole family of what I would’ve sworn were cactus cats, if cactus cats actually—” She paused. “Cactus cats exist, don’t they?”
“They do,” Jonathan confirmed. “Your point is a very good one. Construction on this scale is likely to, ah, ‘kick up’ quite a few things—”
“I mean, they were cats, but they were green, and they had spikey bits all over ’em. What kind of self-respecting feline goes and lets their fur get matted like that? The kind that wants to look like a cactus, that’s what.”
“—so it’s probably best that we’re going in for a closer look.” Jonathan’s mouth thinned to a hard line. “Well, at least our honeymoon won’t be boring.”
“Oh, like that was ever a risk,” said Fran, and laughed.
They walked on.
They were coming around a bend in the river walk when there was a loud splashing noise from up ahead. It was followed, barely a second later, by someone starting to scream. Jonathan and Fran exchanged a look before breaking into a run. Fran, whose skirt and shoes both conspired to slow her down, was quickly outpaced by Jonathan, who had no such impediments. By the time she made it around the bend, he was already scrambling down the rocky bank toward the water, where three hunched-over shapes were in the process of dragging what looked like a hogtied man toward the water.
“Best honeymoon ever,” she said, and charged down the bank after him.
As she got closer to the hunched-over shapes, she saw that they were women, sort of, if your idea of “women” involved a lot of the attributes usually associated with frogs and toads. They had long, matted hair, and their skins were a mottled gray-blue color that gleamed slickly in the light. One of them turned and hissed at her, revealing a mouthful of jagged, razor-sharp teeth. She didn’t have much in the way of a nose, and her eyes were small and mean, set deep under a bony brow.
Jonathan had produced a gun from inside his jacket, but wasn’t firing at the creatures. Instead, he seemed to be lining up his shot, taking his time about getting into position.
The hogtied man, on the other hand, was going wild now that the cavalry had arrived. He bucked madly, trying to break away from the webbed hands that were dragging him, inch by unyielding inch, toward the water.
“Johnny?” asked Fran. There were throwing knives in her hands. They hadn’t been there a moment before, and even had someone been looking, they wouldn’t have been able to see her draw. No one was faster with a knife than Frances Healy. “I’m confused. Are we rescuin’ this man or not?”
“These are river hags,” said Jonathan. “Note the length of their claws, and the spurs on their heels. Those are venomous, so keep clear.”
“Not answering my question,” Fran snapped.
“Wait for my signal.” Jonathan steadied his aim. The river hags continued dragging their prey toward the water.
Less than a foot to go. “Johnny...”
“Wait for it.” There was a note of urgency in his voice that she found difficult to ignore. Fran adjusted her grip, waiting for the signal to fling her knives and save this poor man—who certainly didn’t look happy about his predicament—from the hags.
Wait.
He didn’t look happy, but... “Johnny, why isn’t he screamin’ anymore?”
“That was my question as well.” Jonathan suddenly spun around, firing at a spot behind him. Someone shouted, and rocks fell down the bank as whoever he had just shot at—or, more likely, shot—ran away. Fran was too busy running toward the man on the beach to check. The river hags had hissed and fled into the water at the sound of the gunshot, leaving him half in, half out of the river.
He was also, she realized when she got close enough, gagged. He couldn’t have been their screamer. Making her knives vanish back into her jacket, she grabbed him by the shoulders and began hauling him back onto dry land. A few seconds later, Jonathan joined her, and together, they were able to get the man to safety.
Fran pulled one of her knives back out and knelt on the rocks. The man’s eyes widened when he saw what was in her hand. He began to thrash, prompting Fran to scowl at him.
“Do you want this gag off or not?” she asked. “Right now, you’re makin’ me think we should let you figure out what comes next by yourself.”
He stopped thrashing.
“Good man.” Fran grabbed the gag and sliced it cleanly off before starting to work on the rest of the ropes. “You’re welcome.”
“Thank you,” wheezed the man. His eyes darted back and forth between the pair, apparently unsure of who he should be watching. Jonathan had straightened up and was scanning both the beach and the surface of the lake for potential dangers. As for Fran...
“Whoever tied you up really did it good,” she said, almost cheerfully, as she sliced through another knot. “I guess when you’re getting torn to pieces, it doesn’t matter so much if you can be untied later.”
“Something like that,” agreed the man. He pulled his arms free of the loosening rope and sat up, rubbing his wrists. “Who are you folks?”
“I’m Jonathan Healy; this is my wife, Fran,” said Jonathan, still scanning. “Tell me, who was trying to kill you, and why?”
“My Johnny’s not big on social niceties, which is funny, since I’m the one who was raised by circus folk.” Fran stood up, knife vanishing again into her jacket. “Still, those are good questions. I’ve got a third one: who are you?”
“My name’s Arturo Gucciard,” said the man. He climbed to his feet. Neither of them moved to help him. “What were those things?”
“River hags,” said Jonathan, finally lowering his pistol. “Mr. Gucciard, it is of the utmost importance that you tell us who was trying to kill you, and why.”
Arturo shook his head. “I would if I could, but that’s the problem. I honestly don’t know.”
Jonathan sighed. “Of course you don’t. That would be too easy. Well, then, Mr. Gucciard, I suppose we should go and find ourselves a nice place to get a cup of coffee.”
“What?” Arturo blinked. “How do you figure that?”
“The screaming we heard was intended to attract and enrage the hags. That meant that you weren’t merely intended to drown—you were meant to be eaten. With that in mind, it seems that you may be unsafe on your own. Hence, friends.”
Arturo paled. “I, uh, know a nice diner near here.”
Jonathan smiled. “Good man. It’s time for lunch anyway.”
Meanwhile, and not that far from the beach, two men were loading their wounded companion into the backseat of their car. He had blacked out from the pain shortly after he was shot, and he wouldn’t stop bleeding all over everything.
“The boss ain’t going to be happy,” muttered one of the men, getting into the drivers’ seat.
“The boss never is,” said the other.
The first man hit the gas, and the trio vanished into the streets of Chicago.
Arturo’s “nice diner” proved to be a hole in the wall that Jonathan and Fran would have walked past without a second glance if they had been on their own. Inside, it was shabby but scrupulously clean, with a scuffed tile floor and a painted frieze of the Italian countryside covering the walls. The hostess—who was also the waitress and, Jonathan increasingly suspected, the cook—hadn’t spoken a word of English since they arrived. Arturo had conducted a brisk conversation with her in Italian, and somehow this had resulted in the three of them being tucked away in a back corner booth with cups of remarkably strong coffee and a basket of steaming rolls.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of ordering the house special for all three of us,” said Arturo, taking a roll.
“Is it deep-fried frog eyeballs or somethin’ else foreign?” asked Fran.
Arturo blinked at her, clearly unsure whether she was making a joke or being sincere. She looked back at him guilelessly, and he finally said, “It’s foreign, yes, but Italian food generally doesn’t go in for frog eyeballs. It’s a seafood stew.”
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