Crashing Paradise

by Christopher Golden

  He yearned to step off that balcony, to drift across the harbor—the Adriatic still vivid blue, even after dark—and walk the streets of that old, dignified city. But for what purpose? If he intended to remain here, in this world—and his heart winced at the idea of departing, of leaving Julia behind in the tangible plane—then he vowed never to linger among flesh-and-blood beings simply to haunt them with his longing.

  Diaphanous curtains billowed around him, and Graves turned to see that the breeze that blew them came from within the house. It could only be Ceridwen, carrying Clay back from France on a traveling wind. Dr. Graves bristled, a tremor passing through his ectoplasmic form. Conan Doyle claimed that Clay could not have been the one who attacked them at the mage’s Louisburg Square brownstone in Boston, and perhaps that was true. Still, Graves would be on guard.

  He moved in through the open French doors—feigning a stride, though he did not actually need to walk—and passed through the curtains as though it were they that were insubstantial.

  Conan Doyle stood with Ceridwen and Clay in the center of the room. The mage seemed no worse for the trials of the previous twenty-four hours. He smoothed his mustache idly with one hand as he listened intently to whatever Clay had to say. Graves paid no attention. He focused on Clay’s face—on the shapeshifter’s eyes. No, not his face, the ghost reminded himself. His true face is not human. They were friends, the ghost and the malleable being who was, in truth, the oldest creature on the face of the Earth. Or, at least, Graves had thought them friends after Clay had helped the ghost to solve his own murder, sixty years after the fact.

  But he’d once considered Conan Doyle a trusted friend.

  Of late, he’d begun to realize that he had a tendency toward naïveté that was embarrassing. Conan Doyle remained an ally but could not be trusted. He thought himself too clever by far and kept his confederates in the dark, keeping his own counsel, far too often.

  Ceridwen and Doyle looked up as the ghost came across the room toward them. Clay turned slowly, a strange and uncertain regret in his eyes.

  “Leonard,” the shapeshifter said. “I’m told you have some questions for me.”

  The specter drifted a bit from side to side, studying Clay’s eyes. Something in those eyes seemed true and real and present in a way that the eyes of the assassin who’d tried to kill Danny and Julia had not.

  “Do you have an explanation for what happened in Boston?”

  Clay shook his head. “There’s only one of me. There are bits of sorcery that can change form and appearance, but nothing like me.”

  “The thing altered itself at will, fluidly. I didn’t have the sense there was any magic to it at all. In that moment, I felt sure it had to be you. We all did.”

  Conan Doyle and Ceridwen had fallen silent, just watching the exchange, letting the two of them work it out on their own. Clay spread his hands wide, his gaze sorrowful.

  “I was in Villefranche with Eve, Len. I can’t be in two places at once. That’s not possible, even for me.”

  “You’re sure about that?” Graves asked.

  Clay arched an eyebrow. “Entirely.”

  “It’s a shame Eve isn’t here to back up your story. A cynic might say that was awfully convenient.”

  The shapeshifter seemed to deflate, disappointment coloring his gaze. “Are you that cynical, Dr. Graves?”

  The ghost hesitated. He glanced at Ceridwen and Conan Doyle, both of whom studied him with a kind of clinical detachment.

  He’d never realized how perfect the two were for each other until that moment.

  With a sigh, the phantom shrugged. His manifestation had been nearly complete, a full body of spectral substance, but now he faded slightly, his anger dissipating.

  “Not yet, apparently. If not for these other attacks, I might be harder to convince. But for the moment, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. You’ve earned that, at least.”

  Clay nodded. “It’s appreciated. What worries me, though, is that if we’re all here, the house is unprotected.”

  Conan Doyle strode to a side table and picked up a small wooden case, in which he kept his pipe.

  “Not entirely. Daniel is there. He makes a formidable sentinel. And I’ve sent Squire back to—”

  “To do nothing,” a voice said, from a shadowy corner.

  The hobgoblin stepped out of the darkness. He never looked good—his kind were some of the ugliest creatures in any world—but his leathery flesh seemed pale, and his eyes were wide with fright that he was trying hard to hide.

  “What are you doing here?” Ceridwen asked.

  Squire sniffed. “ ’Scuse me, your highness. Just didn’t wanna miss the touching reunion.”

  Conan Doyle took out his pipe and set down the case.

  “Ceridwen is correct, Squire,” he said, setting the pipe between his lips. “I sent you back to Boston for a reason. You and Shuck can be most helpful to us—”

  “Crap,” Squire replied.

  Conan Doyle flinched. The ghost of Dr. Graves could not but smile.

  “I beg your pardon,” the mage said, gripping the back of a chair.

  “You just don’t want me traveling the Shadowpaths cuz of the snake slithering around in there. I appreciate the thought, but we’re under attack, boss. You need all the help you can get. I can’t let a shadow serpent scare me off a fight.”

  Ceridwen glanced incredulously at Clay and Graves, then turned to Squire. “You hate combat.”

  “Nah,” Squire replied, brushing at the air. “I hate getting hurt. I don’t mind combat when I’m doing the hurting. Look, you’re going to need the weaponsmaster in action. Someone’s got us in their sights. I’m going to have to play armorer, even if I’m not actually fighting. So far I’ve been able to give the shadow snake the slip. If I’m lucky, I’ll stay two steps ahead of him, never go through the same patch of darkness twice. Meanwhile, Shuck’s back at the house with Danny and Julia. If there’s any trouble, he’ll come fetch me.”

  Dr. Graves slid through the air toward the hobgoblin.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Squire. Particularly with this shadow serpent searching for you every time you travel through the dark. Shuck may not reach you, or you may not get back in time if something goes wrong.”

  Conan Doyle lit his pipe with a purposeful flourish, as though the sound of the striking match was meant to interrupt them. Graves felt sure that had been his intention.

  The mage puffed on the pipe to get it going and looked at the gathering of his Menagerie. Ceridwen wore a grim expression that somehow made her all the more beautiful, her hair wild and her violet eyes bright and alert. Clay seemed ordinary, but his every muscle tensed with the desire for action.

  Squire had gone uncharacteristically quiet.

  They all waited on Conan Doyle.

  “I suspect that our friends in Boston will be perfectly safe for the moment,” the mage said. “The attacks were coordinated too well to be coincidental. Old enemies resurfacing. The Red-legged Scissor-man, Duergar of the Fey, and now comes word that the vampires that attacked Clay and Eve in France were merely a distraction so that the true enemies might get their hands on Eve.”

  “True enemies?” Graves asked.

  Conan Doyle puffed on his pipe. “Clay discovered two vampires looking through Eve’s things at their hotel in Villefranche. He dealt with them and made certain inquiries.”

  Squire sneered. “I hope you tortured the fuckers till they begged for mercy.”

  Clay crossed his arms and leaned against the wall beside the fireplace. “They received none, I’ll tell you that.”

  Ethereal and lovely, Ceridwen moved among them. Her gaze seemed far away, and her gown rustled as though the elemental spirits who provided her traveling wind had not completely released her from their grasp. She looked at Squire a moment, and then turned to Dr. Graves.

  “Jophiel, an angel who has long plagued our Eve,” the Faerie sorceress said, “and Abaddon, the demon
responsible for turning Eve into a—”

  Ceridwen stopped herself from completing the sentence.

  Dr. Graves stared at her. “A monster.”

  “Abaddon is the thing that caught Eve after she was banished from Eden, that made her what she became,” Conan Doyle said.

  Squire sat down heavily in a chair and pressed his palms against the sides of his head as though afraid it might fall apart. “Son of a bitch. You’re saying these two fuckers are working together?”

  Everyone in the room looked at Clay. “So it appears.”

  “And you’ve no idea about this other shapeshifter?”

  Ceridwen asked.

  Clay narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “I’ve said as much, time and again.”

  “Did the bloodsuckers tell you anything else?” Squire asked.

  Graves studied Clay, moving nearer to him. “Yes. Was there anything else, anything about what the angel and the demon planned to do with Eve, why they wanted her in the first place?”

  Conan Doyle clenched his pipe in his lips a moment, then took it out and held it in his hand. “They were foot soldiers, you said. Not involved in planning, more than likely, but their type listen carefully, searching for any bit of information that might help them advance in the hierarchy. Anything they said might be important.”

  Clay crossed his arms, brow creasing. “I’m well aware of that. Contrary to opinion, you didn’t actually invent deductive reasoning.”

  In spite of his own concerns about Clay, Dr. Graves couldn’t help but smile. Conan Doyle’s arrogance was as much a part of him as his soul or intellect, but that did not mean it could easily be forgiven. Clay had reminded the mage of his shortcoming, and the ghost silently applauded him.

  “My apologies,” Conan Doyle said, with a curt nod. “No offense intended.”

  Clay brushed the words away. “Never mind. I know we’re all on edge with what’s happened to Eve. Finding her is our only priority. As for the vampires in Villefranche, they couldn’t tell me much beyond the names of a handful of the old ones they’ve been working with and the identities of the angel and demon behind it all. There is one other thing that you might be able to make something of.”

  Conan Doyle and Ceridwen regarded Clay expectantly.

  Squire stood beside the ghost of Dr. Graves, tapping his foot. After a moment, he threw up his hands. “Spit it out, already!”

  “When I tried to get them to tell me where to start looking for Eve, where Jophiel and Abaddon might have taken her, they were clueless.”

  Dr. Graves felt a tremor go through his spectral essence.

  He narrowed his eyes. “What else would they say?”

  Clay shot him a hard look. “Trust me, Leonard. They were not attempting to mislead me. If they knew where Eve was, they would have told me. It’s far from the first time I’ve had to get information from someone who didn’t want to give it up.”

  “Go on,” Ceridwen said.

  A crackle of energy—tiny slivers of lightning—sparkled in her violet eyes.

  “My point is, they didn’t know where Eve would be taken. But I did get them to backtrack for me, providing a list of everywhere they’d journeyed with Abaddon since he started recruiting vampires for this assault. We’ve got to start checking out those locations and see if we can find the trail, or better yet, find Eve.”

  The gauzy curtains billowed with a breeze that swept up from Dubrovnik harbor. Down in the old city, the church bell rang. The five of them stood in that dimly lit room, the nighttime encroaching at the windows at French doors, and gazed around at one another. They were five creatures of different breeds and worlds with nothing in common but friendship and a willingness to put themselves between innocence and the evil that threatened to destroy it. Conan Doyle had christened them the Menagerie for a reason.

  The mage gestured toward Clay with his pipe. “Is there a pattern to their travels?”

  “I’m not sure. The two I dealt with hooked up with the group in the Ala-dagh Mountains in Turkey. They mentioned a river in Belgium, a city in Iraq, Sri Lanka, Ethiopia, and the Seychelles.”

  Ceridwen held her wood-and-ice staff and studied Conan Doyle’s face.

  “What the hell’s all that about?” Squire asked, patting his pockets as though looking for his wallet. A second later he pulled out a chocolate bar and tore the wrapper. “Vampire world tour? These guys torch in sunlight, and they’re running around some of the hottest, sunshiniest places on Earth. Doesn’t make any sense.”

  Dr. Graves felt another ripple pass through him. He studied Clay, then looked at Conan Doyle.

  “Actually,” said the ghost, “it may make complete sense.”

  “Agreed,” the mage said, reaching up to stroke his mustache with his free hand. While his true age would never show, in that moment his eyes and the lines on his face made him seem older than he’d looked in years. “There’s only one thing I’m aware of that connects all of those places. Combined with the abduction of Eve, I fear that something terrible is imminent.”

  Ceridwen touched his arm. “What is it, Arthur?”

  “Yeah,” Squire said, “don’t keep us in suspense, boss.”

  Graves and Conan Doyle stared at one another.

  “Eden,” said the ghost.

  Clay stared at him. “What are you talking about? Eden hasn’t touched this world since shortly after the dawn of man. Don’t you think I would have traveled there if I could have? There’s no way to get into Eden from the human plane.”

  Conan Doyle crossed to the French doors and gazed down onto the city below. “That may not be entirely true. Certainly, it appears that neither Jophiel nor Abaddon believes it. The Scheldt River, near Antwerp, is a landmark for one story of the Garden’s location. Other claims are as varied as a town in Florida and the island of Java, but include all of those places Clay named. It would seem that Abaddon and Jophiel were searching for the original location of Eden and, I presume, the placement of the Garden Gate.”

  Ceridwen reached up and, with a gesture, the moisture in the air formed a small sculpture of ice showing a massive gate of stone and wood. Graves studied it.

  “The Garden Gate is known to the Fey,” the sorceress said, but she narrowed her gaze when she turned to look at Conan Doyle. “But it doesn’t exist on this plane, either.”

  “No,” Graves agreed. “But though historians and theologians disagree on the location of the historical Eden, many of the stories conclude that there must be some kind of entry point still here in our world.”

  Clay shook his head. “I’d sense it. I would know.”

  “Would you?” Conan Doyle asked. “How can you be certain? It would be well hidden, of course, and it would be guarded carefully.”

  Ceridwen waved a hand, and the ice fell to the floor in a sprinkle of rain. “Oh, it is. I don’t know if a passage exists between the Blight and the Gates of Eden, but the plane upon which Eden rests is not unfamiliar to my people. The Fey have walked between worlds many times. But there is a Guardian—it may be part sentinel and part barrier—which keeps anyone from even approaching the Garden Gate, or even entering the realm where the Gate stands.”

  Conan Doyle smiled at her. “So we don’t need to find the door in this dimension. If we can find a dimensional matrix point we can use to journey into Faerie—difficult enough in itself these days—we’ll be able to find a door from there?”

  “A door, yes. But how we’ll get past the Guardian, I have no idea.”

  “We don’t have to get past it,” Squire said. “We just have to make sure the assholes who took Eve don’t get past it, either.”

  The ghost of Dr. Graves drifted toward Conan Doyle.

  “You think they took Eve because they believe that she can help them get past the Guardian?”

  “Or through the Gate. Or both,” the mage replied. “And with the allies they’ve brought together on this, Duergar and the shadow serpent and whatever the thing was that mimicked Clay’s abilities, it�
�s obvious to me that they’ve been planning this for quite some time.”

  Clay seemed to have deflated. His distant gaze drifted, as though once again he was seeing into some other world, perhaps all the way back to the Creation itself.

  “The Guardian will stop them. But we can’t take any chances. They can’t be allowed to enter Eden. Their evil would taint the place forever.”

  Dr. Graves studied him, still not entirely trusting. “Clay, it seems to me there’s been evil in the Garden before, and it survived just fine.”

  “No,” Clay said. “It survived barely. Just barely.”

  Squire licked chocolate from his fingers and crumpled up the candy bar wrapper. “So the fuckers are crashing paradise. They’ve got brass ones, I’ll give ’em that. I take it we’re going to track ’em down, get Eve back, and trounce on their heads.”

  Conan Doyle smiled. “You can rest assured, my friend. There will be copious amounts of trouncing.”

  Graves glanced at Squire and Clay, then studied Conan Doyle and Ceridwen closely. “Last I’d been aware, most points of entry into Faerie had been closed off. Do you plan to unseal the door in your home back in Boston?”

  Ceridwen seemed about to answer in the affirmative, but Conan Doyle shook his head.

  “I think not. Entering that way will undoubtedly draw the attention not only of King Finvarra, but whatever enemies trouble him presently. We can’t afford to become embroiled in the difficulties brewing among the Fey as yet. No, I’ve an old friend who lives not far from here, just up the coast, who ought to be able to guide us along another path. If I’m correct, we won’t even need to enter Faerie at all.”

  “Which old friend?” Ceridwen asked. “Not Jelena.”

  Conan Doyle tapped out his pipe, set it on an end table, and smiled. “Hold my hand, love. A traveling wind for us all, I think, if you can manage.”

  Ceridwen took his hand, but she did not look at all pleased. Squire had long expressed a dislike for traveling via magic, but with the shadow serpent awaiting along the paths, he seemed to have gotten over his fear. He stood beside the elemental sorceress as she raised her staff and began to summon the spirits that would create the wind. Squire clutched a handful of her dress. Clay took her other hand.