The two of them caught up to Conan Doyle and Danny, Eve noting with admiration that the kid was handling himself well. Hawkins and Jezebel were standing back from the others slightly, and so Eve also hung back to keep an eye on them.
"You are certain this is the place?" Conan Doyle asked, glancing around. Despite the heat, he wore one of his dapper, old-fashioned suits. Thus far his only concession to the weather had been to remove his tie. Any moment she expected him to doff the jacket and roll up his sleeves. But, then, he was locked in this battle of wills with Gull, and that might be construed as a sign of weakness.
It was all ridiculous as far as Eve was concerned. Gull was deformed because he played with magicks he should have left alone. She figured Conan Doyle ought to be satisfied with that as a victory.
"Am I certain?" Gull asked. His wide nostrils flared. "Would I have dragged all you lot out here if I wasn’t? You know me better than that, Sir Arthur."
Their mutual dislike and rivalry was buried beneath the chivalric code of another era, but it was there nevertheless.
"How did you determine this to be the site of Phorcys’s grave? What led you here?" Conan Doyle asked, his tone modulated, more reasonable, as he stroked his mustache.
Eve glanced around the petrified forest. The place was impossibly quiet. In that moment it seemed the whole world had been fossilized. Something was not right. She had felt the supernatural force growing here and had told Conan Doyle as much. It was obvious that something was here. But despite the look of the place, it did not feel like a grave to her.
It felt hungry.
And no one knew what hunger felt like better than she did.
"I’ve been mapping the real-world locations of mythology for decades. You know that well enough. In my travels I located stone statues… victims of a Gorgon’s eyes. The Gorgons were Phorcys’s daughters. That in mind, it wasn’t difficult to find a spell that would use the stone remains of his daughters’ victims to create a Divination Box."
He reached into the first Range Rover and withdrew a small wooden box with no cover. On its sides were markings similar to others Eve had seen once before, ages ago in Babylon. Gull held it low so that they could all see inside. There were bits of stone within that must have come from one of the Gorgon’s victims as well as the small bones of some kind of bird and several dark-shelled nuts.
Gull shook the box. The contents rattled and jumped a bit, and then all of them rolled of their own accord across the bottom of the box, clicking on the wood as they gathered in one corner.
"Good as any compass," Danny noted, standing between Eve and Conan Doyle.
Gull’s misshapen face beamed at the kid. "Precisely, my boy. Precisely."
The bones and stones and nuts began to rattle again. At first Eve though nothing of it. Then she saw the alarm on Gull’s face. An instant later the contents of the Divination Box slid up the inside wall and jumped out, flying to the ground and bouncing and rolling across the barren earth, as if drawn by a magnet.
The ground began to buckle and quake. Eve was thrown against the Range Rover. Her companions began to shout, but she ignored them all, her eyes searching the darkness among the petrified trees for the place where those bones and stones had gone.
The earth heaved, shattered, and sprayed, and then collapsed in upon itself, a massive hole opening in the ground.
From it came a noise… hissing, as if of a thousand snakes.
Then the first hideous head began to rise, sickly yellow eyes glowing in the night as it sought them out.
CHAPTER SIX
A Hydra.
Danny Ferrick didn’t need one of Doyle’s musty old books to tell him what it was that had emerged from the dry, barren earth, its multiple heads snapping and hissing. He‘d seen enough movies and read enough Greek mythology to know exactly what now attacked them.
"Holy shit. A fucking real Hydra." he whispered with awe, frozen where he stood. He could not take his eyes from the serpentine monstrosity, its nine heads swaying hypnotically, as if trying to decide which of their number it would strike at first.
Conan Doyle stood beside Danny, his hands held up, a spray of emerald light flashing from them and spreading in front of the two of them like some sort of shield. The old guy seemed way too proper most of the time, but the second the magic started to spark from his eyes and that weird nowhere wind buffeted his clothes and ruffled his hair, he was almost more frightening than any monster. Power simmered in him, flowing off of him in waves.
"Eve," Conan Doyle called. "If you would be so kind as to get off your behind and lend a hand…"
The vampire had been thrown back against the Range Rover when the Hydra erupted from the ground, and now she pulled herself to her feet. "Right away, boss man," she said, shooting him the middle finger. "I live to serve."
The ground shuddered again, a tremor that all of them rode out as though they were on board a ship. The earth collapsed around the Hydra, huge chunks of volcanic soil sinking inward, entire stretches of that dusty ground erupting upward as the Hydra bucked and hauled its body out of its den beneath the dead earth. Each head was as hideous as the first, jaws gaping over, slavering venom spilling out onto the ground to sizzle like acid as it touched earth. Beneath its scales moved thick, ropy muscles, and its nine tails thrashed on the dusty ground.
Danny started forward, despite Conan Doyle’s magickal defenses. The mage reached out a hand and grabbed his shoulder.
"Not yet, boy."
Eve cautiously moved toward the monster that now swayed on its thick, muscular trunk. She drew its attention, and nine pair of eyes focused on her.
"What’s she going to do?" Danny asked.
Conan Doyle ignored him, muttering an incantation under his breath, even as Ceridwen entered the fray. The elemental sorceress pointed her staff toward the beast, the sphere of blue ice atop it crackling with growing power. Her violet eyes sparked, and she raised her arms
The Hydra struck. Despite Eve’s distraction, one massive head turned away from the vampire, and its jaws opened wide, vomiting a gray, noxious vapor. Ceridwen tried to ward off the billowing cloud, but it clung to her, coating her in a layer of ash.
Conan Doyle shouted her name, his face etched with fury as he unleashed a bolt of pure magickal force. But he had been distracted, and even as he ran to her side, the blast went wild, missing the monster and shattering a fossilized tree nearby.
Three of the Hydra’s heads twisted around to stare at the tree that the spell had destroyed. One set of jaws gaped open and hissed in the general direction of Conan Doyle and Ceridwen, but the others still focused on Eve. It had identified her early on as its main prey, and now it began to slither across the barren earth toward her.
This whole thing is going to shit, Danny thought. Deep shit. He started after the Hydra, but he remembered Conan Doyle’s caution, and turned to glance back at the man who led them. What the hell was he supposed to do?
Eve snapped a branch off of a petrified tree and as the Hydra twisted its body across the earth toward her, she prepared to use it as a club. "Is she all right?" she yelled to Doyle, who knelt at Ceridwen’s side, trying to remove the solidified ash that was crusted on her body.
The vampire had no time to wait for an answer. The Hydra darted toward her, quickening its speed, and while two of its heads feinted, a third lunged toward her, jaws spreading, venom drooling out.
Eve danced aside and swung the thick tree limb at its head. "Take that, you ugly prick."
The Hydra screeched in pain and fury, but even as one head sagged, disoriented, another long neck shot forward, jaws snapping. Once more Eve evaded the Hydra, but this time she jabbed one of its eyes with the end of the branch. The eye punctured, and putrid, gray fluid squirted out. But the Hydra was not nine separate beasts. Its injured heads had distracted Eve, and perhaps they had been meant to, for now a third and fourth serpentine mouth belched clouds of that noxious clinging vapor rather than attacking outright. Danny held h
is breath, his heart pounding in his chest, and every muscle tensed to join the fray. But Eve amazed him with her speed as she dove to the ground, rolling beneath the vapor, right up to the belly of the beast. She swung her club, this time striking the monster’s body. All nine heads bellowed its rage as the creature swiveled around and lashed at her with a pair of whip-like tails.
Eve could not dodge the monster forever. One of the tails caught her in the chest with such forced that the pop of cracking bone echoed in the air. She was thrown forty feet, landing in a tumble of limbs. She grunted with the pain of broken bones as she spilled end over end and at last came to a sprawling stop.
The Hydra eagerly moved toward its fallen prey.
This was a whole new life for Danny, this world of magic and monsters, but new as it was, it was his world. He was part of it. No matter what Conan Doyle said, he had to help Eve. The mage was helping Ceridwen, and Eve’s battle with the Hydra was slipping by in heartbeats, so quickly that it might be over before Conan Doyle returned to the fight. Danny had to do something.
He looked around. Where are Gull and his people? He saw them in the distance and shouted for them, but they ignored him.
A groggy Eve had just climbed to her feet when the Hydra attacked again. A head struck her, its mouth clamping onto her shoulder, long venomous fangs digging into her flesh. She clawed at its face with taloned hands to little avail and shrieked in pain as the creature held fast, sinking its teeth deeper, driving her to her knees. Another of the heads lunged, biting into the opposite arm, followed by yet another that saw the potential for a strike upon one of her thighs. She fought valiantly, but the serpents’ heads would not release her, lifting her from the ground, trying to pull her apart.
Danny breathed deeply, mustering all his courage, and sprinted across the hard, dusty ground, volcanic ash rising around him. One of the Hydra’s heads whipped around, and its hideous eyes locked on him. It bared its fangs and hissed.
The demon boy hissed back, and lunged for the monster.
The man who arrived at the scene of the second atrocity in Athens looked exactly like Yannis Papathansiou, walked and talked like him, even smelled like him. But the detective was elsewhere. It was Clay who wore his face, and he entered the building with Squire in tow. The hobgoblin was hideous, but he had passed for human before, primarily because people saw his ugliness and tried to avert their eyes out of politeness. When they did stare, they thought him some kind of freak. There would be those who would wonder about the gnarled little man with Detective Papathansiou, but no one would say a word in front of Squire.
"Let me handle this," Clay whispered to the hobgoblin.
"I think we’ve finally found the perfect look for you," Squire whispered, peering over the top of his dark sunglasses, even though dawn was hours away. The hobgoblin was wearing a baseball cap that had Kiss Me I’m Greek embroidered on it, with a pair of red, luscious lips emblazoned below. Clay had considered asking where he’d gotten such a hat, but knew he would probably regret the question, so he let it go.
The detective had called them at the hotel to inform them that another stone body had been found. Clay had instructed the old man to stay home, that he and his associates would handle the investigation. Yannis had at first protested, but when Clay had explained that a fresher victim might provide better clues to lead them to their quarry, he had at last acquiesced.
Clay and Squire moved past the Thesseion temple toward the small gathering of police officers and detectives. "Not a word," Clay warned the goblin again, as a broad shouldered man with glasses approached them. Papathansiou had told him that this detective was named Dioskouri, and the other, smaller man, who had yet to notice their arrival, was Keramikous.
"Lieutenant," Dioskouri said.
"Detective," Clay acknowledged dismissively, channeling every nuance of Lieutenant Yannis Papathansiou’s personality and body language. They were speaking Greek, which Squire did not understand very well, but in his masquerade, speaking English would have raised suspicions. He looked past Dioskouri, searching for the crime scene. "The body is where?"
The detective nervously adjusted his glasses as he turned and pointed through the darkness to a section of columns. "Back there, his wife found him."
"Time’s a wastin’, Zorba," Squire said, heading toward the crime scene.
"And you are?" Dioskouri asked in English, moving to block Squire’s way.
Squire sighed in exasperation. "Would you mind telling him who I am, Yannis, old chum?"
"This is Professor Squire from the Institute in Vienna," Clay explained in staccato Greek. "He’s been vacationing on the islands and was kind enough to offer his assistance."
Dioskouri looked down at the tiny man in confusion. His English was rough, but understandable. "I mean no disrespect sir, but you are an expert on the impossible? On men and women turned to stone?"
Squire clasped his stubby arms behind his back and rocked on the heels of his high top sneakers. "You’d be surprised, my boy, you’d be surprised."
Clay decided that it would be wise to get them to the body as quickly as possible and pushed past Dioskouri and Squire. "Keramikous," he called to the other detective, who was still conversing with two, uniformed patrolman.
"Yes, Lieutenant?" the man responded quickly, stepping away from the officers.
"Secure the area. Professor Squire and I are going to look at the crime scene."
Keramikous looked momentarily confused. "Professor Squire?"
"He’s from the Institute in Vienna," Dioskouri snapped, with an air of superiority.
"Carry on," Clay said, waving them away as he and Squire carefully navigated the stone pathway that would take them to the body.
"Where exactly is this Institute in Vienna?" Squire asked in a whisper from the corner of his mouth, amusement in his voice.
Clay shrugged. "I made it up. But neither of them seems interested in second-guessing their lieutenant."
"Did you know I’m this shy of a degree in massage therapy?" the hobgoblin asked, holding his sausage-sized thumb and forefinger apart less than an inch.
"You don’t say," Clay said as they approached the Doric columns around which yellow crime scene tape had been wrapped.
"Couldn’t find any place to accept my internship though," Squire grumbled. "I think it’s because I’m a guy trying to break into an industry dominated by chicks. What do you think?"
Clay pulled away the tape, maneuvering around the column, searching for the latest Gorgon victim. "I think I might be able to find you something in New Orleans, if you’re interested."
An unusually wide, toothy grin spread across the hobgoblin’s face. "Hey, you’d do that for me? That’d be sweet."
"Here we go," Clay said as they came upon the petrified body. It was just as disturbing as the others, the features wide with fear and despair.
"All right, let’s deal with this Gorgon bullshit and get home to the important stuff." Squire began to move around the crime scene, examining every shadow.
Clay smiled to himself. Now at least Squire would be focused. He wondered briefly how Graves was faring in his more spiritual investigation, haunting the streets of the ancient city for a spirit or two that might give them some information about the Gorgon’s whereabouts. Hopefully, working both the physical angle and the ethereal, they could make some progress and find the creature before it caused anymore harm.
Still wearing the shape of the overweight detective, he turned his attention to the ossified figure before him. Its terrified gaze was frozen, staring blankly in the direction of the two columns. "The Gorgon must have been standing somewhere over there," Clay said, turning toward the columns.
"Let’s see if it left anything of interest behind." Squire walked over to the columns, surveying the ground around them. "No conveniently dropped cigarette butts or anything," the goblin observed, "but that doesn’t mean it didn’t leave a scent behind."
Clay took that as his cue to alter his form aga
in. To track by scent he summoned the shape of an animal with an incredibly acute olfactory sense. The shape of Yannis Papathansiou melted away with a sound very much like the flapping of bird’s wings, to be replaced by a far more beastly form — a Dire Wolf, prehistoric relative of the common gray wolf, larger and more sturdy than its modern counterpart.
"Nice doggy," Squire said, stepping away.
Clay smelled it immediately, the aroma of something ancient and dangerous, hinting of desperation and unpredictability. It made the hackles of fur at the back of his neck stand on end.
"I’ve got it," he growled, altering the structure of the wolf’s mouth slightly to allow him to speak.
Squire jumped onto his back, grabbing a handful of thick, grayish fur. "Go fetch."
It was no simple thing to avoid the police already in the area, but Clay maneuvered in the shadows and the route of the Gorgon’s escape, neat the back of the ruins. Its scent was all over the place. The Dire Wolf leaped into the darkness. They paused a moment, waiting for voices to shout at them, but no one had noticed their exit.
Clay placed his nose closer to the ground and began to follow the trail, a path so obvious it was like following bread crumbs, or a line drawn with bright red crayon. The Dire Wolf and its passenger padded across the timeworn ground of the Agora, leaving the murder scene behind. The spoor was strong. At this rate, it would only be a matter of time before they found their prize.
A sound like the crack of a bullwhip filled the air as a bullet exploded from the barrel of a rifle. The steel-jacketed projectile slammed through the thick fur and muscle of the Dire Wolf’s neck, turning several of its vertebrae to powder. Clay flipped backward on his side with a roar of pain, bucking Squire from his perch. Already, the flesh was knitting as the shapeshifter assumed a more familiar guise, a human face.
"Squire, are you all right?" he hissed, altering the structure of his eyes, turning the darkness of night to the light of day and scanning for signs of their attacker.
Squire slunk up next to him in the shadows, an inch-long gash in his forehead. The two of them moved quickly against the face of a building, gauging the location of the shooter as best they could and hoping they would be out of the line of sight. Without another shot, Clay could only guess about the sniper’s location, and guessing would be dangerous.
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