Oh, and the fucker was hungry. She knew that, too. The Demogorgon was a demon of legend, one of the oldest references to demons in ancient texts. Milton and Dryden had discussed it, but it went back at least to Lactantius in the fourth century.
The Demogorgon was a god-eater. It lived in what legends called the terrible abyss, a darkness beyond the veil of the reality humanity understood. It had been to Earth once before, at the dawn of civilization, but it had moved on to the deepest recesses of the universe and had forgotten all about the human world. Then Lorenzo Sanguedolce—aka Sweetblood—maybe the most powerful mage in the world, had used magic to expand his consciousness, to reach out into the cosmos in search of greater powers, in search of magic and gods and monsters. His consciousness had touched the Demogorgon. He’d sensed it out there…
And it had sensed him. The careless bastard had accidentally sent up a flare and drawn the Demogorgon’s attention. It wasn’t just a god-eater, it was a magick-eater, and after thousands of years of wandering, it had a new focus for its hunger. It had turned toward the Earth and begun its long journey here. That had been in the seventeenth century, and the Demogorgon had been making slow but certain progress across eternity ever since. Sanguedolce had hidden himself away for long decades, hoping to cut off the beacon he had provided, but still the Demogorgon was on its way. It intended to consume not merely all magick on Earth, but all life…or maybe it would just scarf down the whole planet. Eve realized she was fuzzy on that detail.
She didn’t know when the Demogorgon would arrive. She just knew it was coming, and with it, the end of the world. Unless someone could stop it.
But that wasn’t today’s biggest worry.
Unless today was D-Day. Demogorgon Day. That would be bad. It was a thought she had multiple times a day. Not this morning, she’d think. Or not tonight. We’re not ready. The trouble was, she didn’t think they’d ever be ready.
Eve picked up her phone to check the time, wiping away the rain spatters that had settled on the glass. It had started to rain when she first arrived, but the weather seemed to have settled down.
She was supposed to be meeting a friend.
In her very long life upon the planet, Eve had managed to accumulate only a handful of people she would genuinely consider friends. Many had passed on through the attrition of years, while others, similar in nature to herself, managed to linger. Those friends—special individuals—were amongst the people attempting to stop the Demogorgon’s arrival.
There had been as many failures as there had been victories, no sure thing that this band of misfits, this Menagerie as Mr. Doyle often called them, would be victorious.
But that wouldn’t keep any of them from trying.
She finished her coffee, and was considering going inside for another when her friend arrived.
One minute she was alone, and the next—
She had seen the large bug as it flew around the chair, never suspecting that Clay had arrived.
The insect had vanished, and her friend was sitting in the chair opposite her.
“There you are,” Eve said, looking at her phone again. “You’re late. I was starting to get worried.”
Something passed between them as they locked eyes, a message that confirmed she hadn’t been joking about her concern.
Clay leaned back in the chair, eyes darting around the patio seating and taking in the cars on Tremont Street. He wore a black, short-sleeved t-shirt, and for a split second she watched the skin of his arms shift and shimmer with the gleam of an insect’s shiny carapace. Then the moment had passed and it was just ordinary human flesh.
“I wanted to be sure we weren’t being watched,” the shapeshifter said.
“And are we?”
“Not that I could see.”
“Have you heard from any of them?” Eve asked, dreading the response. Mr. Doyle and their other friends had gone mysteriously silent, which was not a good thing when fighting a war.
“Not a word,” Clay said, returning her gaze. “You?”
She shook her head.
Clay sighed heavily, leaning back in the chair, continuing to check out their surroundings.
“It’s all falling apart. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it.”
“I feel it,” Eve agreed. “Now we just need to figure out what we’re going to do about it.”
“We need to check the brownstone.” Clay leaned forward, elbows on the table, an intensity in his ageless stare. “Doyle always said the brownstone would be the final refuge if the worst happened.”
“Then we shouldn’t waste any more time,” Eve said, her lithe body unfolding from the chair.
A tremor of dread ran up her spine. A terrible, formless premonition had taken root, and it grew now with every step.
“How were the dragons?” Clay asked, as they walked down Tremont and entered the Public Garden. “Still slumbering?”
They had each been given an assignment, a task that would aid them in some way in their battle against the coming storm. Doyle had sent Eve on a mission to the Gagra District of Abkhazia, a breakaway region of Georgia, to the Krubera Cave, the deepest known cave on the planet, and the resting place of the last surviving blaze of dragons.
“Stirring,” Eve said, waiting at the crosswalk for traffic to slow down. “They’re feeling the Demogorgon’s approach too, and it’s waking them up.”
“That isn’t good,” Clay said, as the two of them crossed the street together.
“It isn’t,” she agreed. “I spoke with the High Master Wurm—”
“High Master Wurm?”
“I don’t name them,” Eve reminded him. “I met with the one dragon who remains awake to guard over the sleeping pride.”
“Master Wurm?”
“High Master Wurm. There’s a difference.”
“Do tell.”
They walked up Charles Street, on the way to Beacon Hill. “The High Master wears a crown made from the sloughed off scale of the Master Wurm.”
“No crown for the Master Wurm,” Clay said. “Got it.”
“The High Master Wurm is greatly concerned by the current situation due to the whole dragon prophecy and all.”
“Another prophecy?” Clay questioned. “Just what we need.”
“I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think it’s got something to do with the last of the dragons awakening from their slumber and burning the world to cinder and ash, or something to that effect.”
“And that wouldn’t be good.”
“Nope,” Eve said. “If the Demogorgon arrives, they might try to fulfill their prophecy in a hurry, just so they can get it in. Y’know, burn it all before the Demogorgon can eat them and everything else on Earth.”
“So where did you leave it?”
“Asked the High Master Wurm to calm his brethren,” she said. “Keep them sleeping. Give us a chance to set things right.”
“Typical bullshit,” Clay said with a quick nod.
“Exactly,” Eve agreed. “How did it go for you?”
They left the sidewalks and black wrought iron gates behind, crossed the street, and headed up a narrow street into the residential part of Beacon Hill, one of the oldest and most exclusive neighborhoods in Boston.
“It’s hard to say,” Clay explained. “There’s definitely panic out there amongst the Darkling races. I’m not sure what I said meant a whole lot to them.”
“Panic makes Night Things even dumber than they usually are,” Eve added. “I’m sure we’ll be dealing with some unwelcome alliances once the shit really starts hitting the fan.”
Clay grew thoughtful. “I’m sure you’re right. It was weird, though. Seeing them like that.”
“Like what?”
“Afraid. The monsters were afraid.”
As she let the words sink in, it struck her how bad things really were. Sure, they’d been in bad spots before, but they’d always managed to squeak by with a win, no matter how messy. A win was a win. T
his time she wasn’t quite sure how it would all shake out.
They turned onto Louisburg Square, a tiny, blue-blood enclave on Beacon Hill. Old money here. The kind of money that had been flowing in the veins of this city since the first cobblestone had been laid. In the middle of Louisburg Square, it wasn’t difficult for a man who never aged, to hide. Nothing seemed to age here. Of course, it helped if that man was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, one of the great mages of history and the self-proclaimed leader of the Menagerie.
They slowed their pace, warily approaching Doyle’s brownstone.
“Remember when there were demon cats for security?” Eve asked, staring up the stairs at the heavy wooden doors.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Wonder what happened to them?”
“Maybe they found a nice home.” Clay walked up to the first step.
Eve stared intensely, causing him to look at her.
“What?”
“When you change . . . shape-shift . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Your brain changes size and shape, too—right?”
Clay thought momentarily before answering. “Yeah, that’s right. Why?”
Eve slowly nodded, acknowledging what she was thinking.
“Thought so.”
Clay continued to look at her, temporarily confused, not noticing the smirk twitching at the corner of her mouth.
“We going in?” she asked, placing her booted foot on the first step.
“Got nothing else planned for the rest of the day,” Clay added, joining her in ascending the steps up to the front door. “Also, it’s why we came.”
She’d felt it as soon as they’d approached, even more so after touching foot to step. The house was reading her—them—checking to see if they belonged. It was a far less conspicuous system then a pack of demon cats loitering about the property.
“It’s quiet,” Clay said. “And if you say it’s too fucking quiet, I’ll punch you.”
Eve smiled, despite how unsettled she’d become.
They arrived at the door. She knocked instead of trying the bell. Knocked hard. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Clay shifting, worriedly. They studied the façade of the building, stared up at the windows, glanced around Louisburg Square. Knocked again, harder.
The house knew they were there, or at least the hexes Doyle had put in place recognized them.
“Don’t you have a key?” Clay asked her.
Eve did have a key. She had hoped she would not need it.
Now she drew it from a zippered pocket inside the lining of her thin leather jacket, slipped the key into the lock, and turned it.
When she opened the door and stepped inside, the shadows within were hollow and silent, yawning before them. She gestured to Clay, who closed the door behind them.
Eve breathed in deeply, catching every scent the house had to offer. Being the Mother of All Vampires gave her senses more acute than any human who had ever lived. Conan Doyle wasn’t in the house, nor was Ceridwen of Faerie, his mate. No sign of the half-demon Danny Ferrick or Squire, the hobgoblin who served as their armorer. Even the ghost of Dr. Graves, who normally haunted these halls, was not at home.
But the brownstone breathed. It whispered with motion.
None of their friends were at home, but Eve and Clay were not alone here.
There were intruders.
Eve glanced at Clay, smiled, and stepped through the short entry corridor. She called out for Doyle and Squire and the others, knowing all the while that they were not in residence.
She and Clay moved deeper into the house, watched by the eyes of strangers.
When she turned to Clay again, her smile revealed her fangs. He nodded. Ready to fight. Ready to kill for answers.
Nobody fucked with the Menagerie.
Clay didn’t have Eve’s vampiric senses. He could’ve shapeshifted into a wolf or a tiger and improved his sense of smell dramatically, but he had Eve to play bloodhound. They moved together into the grand foyer that formed the heart of Mr. Doyle’s home. An enormous chandelier hung overhead. Victorian furniture, pristine and preserved from Doyle’s history, decorated the room. Paintings of people the man had loved and lost hung from the walls. The grand foyer was open two stories over their heads. A grand staircase rose to the second level, as well as a smaller stairwell off to their left. The elegant, carved balustrade that ran around the second story of the grand foyer gave the place the feeling of the sort of hotel American millionaires built in the 19th century.
A layer of dust coated the entire room. Cobwebs hung from the chandelier. How long had he and Eve been gone, he wondered? How long had Doyle and Ceridwen and the others been gone? Even the ghost of Dr. Graves had abandoned this place.
The house felt hollowed out.
But Clay knew this was a mirage. The home of Arthur Conan Doyle had magic woven into its fabric, built into its structure. He’d come to know the feeling of that magic, the strange frequency in which it vibrated. Most visitors would never notice it. They’d feel a bit of pressure in the center of the forehead or the base of the skull. Perhaps their teeth would ache. But Clay knew it well.
It was gone.
Or, if not gone, then somehow subdued. Muffled, as if a blanket had been draped over it like the sheets the elderly sometimes put on their furniture when they weren’t expecting guests.
“What is it?” Clay asked.
Eve prowled the room, head slightly dipped. She cocked her head to one side and then the other. Clay glanced around the room, staring at the shadows. Dusty light came in through the windows, motes drifting through every sunlit space, and it gave the shadows a golden glow.
Eve, though, did not bother to search the space with her eyes. She listened. Head tilted, she inhaled.
“I hope you did your stretches this morning,” she said quietly, without looking at him. “You’re about to get some exercise.”
Clay heard the whisper of movement before he saw them. And when he did see them, it wasn’t that they emerged from the shadows as he’d expected. No, they’d been there all along, keeping perfectly still on the steps and beside the furniture, crouched in corners and hanging from the balustrade.
“Fairies,” he said, his voice turning to a growl as he let his flesh flow and his bones pop, as fur sprouted from his skin and his clothing transformed with him.
A lion, first. Because apes and bears were strong, but not fast, and fairies were goddamned fast.
They came in twos and threes. They had swords and shields and spears, and they were ready to kill. Eve lunged to meet them, her fingers elongating, nails turning to slashing claws. She slashed open a fey warrior’s throat and punched through another’s chest even as a spear caught her shoulder and spun her around.
Clay pounced on the one nearest him. Its green-tinged skin seemed inlaid with branches and veiny leaves. He clawed it open with his back paws even as he jumped toward another, twisting his jaws and biting off its head with a single snap of his teeth.
They were screaming then, the fairies. Tribal screams. War cries. One of them appeared within the chandelier and jumped down at Eve. Clay leapt and caught it in mid-air, shapeshifting into a gorilla as he barreled across the room. He wanted hands, now. Powerful hands. The mountain gorilla landed on a settee that shattered to splinters beneath him, but he was up a moment later and he tore the fairy warrior’s arms from their sockets.
Blood flew. More of them came from the second story, leaping down to join the fray. Eve went silent, killing one after another. When Clay glanced at her one moment, she had a red-haired fairy swordswoman by the face—her long fingers pushed through the dead fairy’s eyes. When he’d swung an attacker into a pillar holding up the second story balcony, shattering its bones with such force that blood sprayed from its mouth and nose, he glanced at Eve again to see a sword jutting from her back, though she fought on.
Arrows thunked the floor all around Clay. Half a dozen punched into his flesh and he s
taggered back toward the center of the grand foyer. A heartbeat later, he was back-to-back with Eve, that sword still jutting from her.
“Hold!” shouted a woman, a green-tinted fairy sorceress, who stepped from the shadows with vines twined in her hair and a green-black lightning dancing around her fingertips. Bruises that looked like the knots on trees dotted her naked flesh, something like sap oozing from them.
Clay had seen one like her before. “Careful,” he said to Eve. “The goop is poisonous.”
“There’s not a lot that could kill me,” she reminded him.
“Then what are we—”
With a gesture from the sorceress, the archers raised their bows, arrows pointing toward the ceiling. The fairy warriors took a step back, lowering swords, disengaging for the moment.
“We’re here for Doyle and the traitorous bitch, Ceridwen,” the sorceress declared.
“Don’t you mean Princess Ceridwen?” Clay asked, taunting them.
“She hates that,” Eve whispered.
“I know.”
The sorceress held out one hand and that black-green lightning crackled in tendrils across the floor. Nothing burned, but the floor smoked and something sparked from the chandelier overhead. Clay doubted it would kill him, but it would definitely hurt. He’d been through worse. That sap, though…he didn’t want to taste that poison again. He’d puked for days.
Clay held up his hands, still a gorilla. When he spoke, it was in a growl. “We’re here for them, too.”
“For a different reason, obviously,” Eve said. “We hadn’t heard from them, and we were supposed to. Trust me, if Mr. Doyle was here, none of you would be alive. You wouldn’t have been able to get through the door in the first place.”
Clay glanced around. He and Eve had killed nearly twenty of the fey already but there were still twice that number. She was right. They’d never have been able to invade like this if the home’s owner had been in residence.
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