“Arthur,” Ceridwen said, her voice low as she touched his arm and moved nearer to him. “What, precisely, is going on here?”
The question made Sanguedolce smile and glance at Conan Doyle as though he hoped for an answer to the same question.
Many of the members of his Menagerie had recently taken a decidedly hesitant stance on the issue of trust. More specifically, Conan Doyle had become aware that they did not precisely trust him. The ghost of Dr. Graves had spent decades lingering in the fleshly world upon the promise that Conan Doyle would help him solve the mystery of his own murder, but upon at last solving the mystery himself, Graves had discovered that Conan Doyle had known the truth for ages and not shared it with him. He had kept it secret in order to save the ghost from heartbreak, but that explanation did not sit well with Dr. Graves. The demon child, Danny, looked at the mage with the wary eye any teenager has for the authority figures in his life. Clay had come to doubt the purity of Conan Doyle’s motivations during the situation with Graves.
Jelena was an unknown element. Of them all, only Ceridwen, Eve, and Squire would normally trust him without hesitation.
Yet now, even those three—even the woman who loved him—fixed him with a doubtful stare.
Conan Doyle stroked his mustache and returned his focus to Lorenzo Sanguedolce, the man who had transformed him from magical dabbler into archmage. The most dangerous man in the world. If Conan Doyle often kept his own agenda close to the vest and was reluctant to take even his allies into his confidence, Sanguedolce had set the example.
“What’s going on here, Arthur?” the ghost of Dr. Graves asked. He still brandished his phantom guns and showed no interest in returning them to their holsters.
“Arthur?” Clay prodded.
Squire crossed his arms.
“Yes, Arthur,” Sanguedolce said. “By all means, enlighten us. What is it that you find so elementary about my arrival?”
Conan Doyle slid his hands into his pockets and glanced a moment at the horizon. In the distance he could see a small mountain and a waterfall spilling down its face. The birds had begun to return to the thickest parts of the Garden. The darker hue that had tinged the sky cleared and the light of Eden shone down fully once more, bringing out the colors of the flowers more vividly than ever.
“You have dogged our steps every moment since we helped to release you from the amber sarcophagus within which you had imprisoned yourself,” Conan Doyle said.
“When you doomed the world of men, you mean?”
Sanguedolce said, one corner of his mouth lifting in the semblance of a smile. “If not for your misguided heroics, the Demogorgon would never have located Earth.”
“So you say,” Conan Doyle replied with a wave of his hand. “Be that as it may, you’ve used every opportunity since your revival to keep watch over us, and to use our activities to your advantage. Among your prizes have been the Eye of Eoghain, the Forge of Hephaestus, and a renewed acquaintance with Mister Gull, who I note now seems to be your aide-de-camp.”
Gull sniffed in derision and stared at Conan Doyle.
Though it was clear he had become nothing more than Sanguedolce’s lackey once again—this afflicted sorcerer who shared Conan Doyle’s status as one of the most powerful mages in the world—Gull would never have admitted it.
“Yet you couldn’t have expected our arrival here,” Sanguedolce replied, curiosity lighting his eyes. “You’ve never been nearly as clever as you think you are, nor as cunning as the detective in your scribblings. I only learned of Eve’s predicament and your journey to Eden on a visit to your home. I had a little chat with young Master Ferrick that was quite fascinating.”
Conan Doyle turned to Ceridwen and smiled. He touched her cheek and gazed into her curious, violet eyes. Normally he was not one to express his affection publicly, but he needed her to see in his own eyes that nothing had changed in his heart or his mind. For the moment, he ignored the narrowed eyes and knitted brows of his other comrades. Among them, only Jelena smiled, amused by the interplay between the two old mages.
The winds of Paradise carried the rich aromas of earth and flower, of fruit and musk.
When Conan Doyle gazed at Sanguedolce again, he abandoned all pretense that this was nothing more than repartee.
Indigo magic crackled around his fingers and shimmered in his eyes so that his vision was shaded blue.
Gull stiffened and raised his hands, ready for a fight.
Sanguedolce cautioned him with a raised hand. It seemed as if the entire Garden took a breath and held it.
“It doesn’t take a genius or a detective, Lorenzo,” Conan Doyle said. “You’ve been keeping tabs on us all along. You took advantage of Gull’s obsession with Medusa in order to get your hands on the Forge of Hephaestus so that you could make weapons that might actually do some damage against the Demogorgon. You manipulated us, left us at the mercy of mad gods in order to achieve your goals. Bravo, you bastard.
“When Abaddon and Jophiel gathered so many of our enemies together and snatched Eve, I had no doubt that you would become aware of our current circumstances and that you would realize, as I did, that they might very well be correct in their presumptions about Eden. It only stood to reason that you’d be along shortly. Frankly, the only thing that surprised me was that you didn’t wait until the battle had been fully decided to make your appearance.”
Sanguedolce executed a curt, low bow. “We came as fast as we were able, Arthur, to aid you if we could.”
Conan Doyle did not extinguish the magic that churned around his fists. “I very much doubt that, but no matter. You’re here now. I suspect your allies have already carried the Forge into Eden. Soon enough, the production of weapons and armor will begin—”
“Oh, it’s begun already,” Sanguedolce confirmed. “You didn’t think these past months I’d been idle?”
“Of course not. Nor has Squire, I assure you.”
The hobgoblin grunted in confusion and stared back and forth between his employer and Sweetblood. “What the hell are you two talking about?”
“About you, Master ’Goblin,” Sanguedolce replied. “I’ve got the Forge, yes, and have done as well as possible with the making of new weapons, just as Arthur says. But I know of no weaponsmith who can match your skill, and we’ve been the poorer for the lack of your participation.”
Squire shot a hard look at Conan Doyle. “Boss, what the fuck is this about? Translate that for me, will you?”
The mage glanced around the gathering of his friends, allies, and enemies and saw confusion, anger, curiosity, and fear.
“Simply put, Squire, the demon Abaddon and his confederates have done us all an enormous favor. In fact, they might have saved our lives and given us the key to saving the human world and every plane of existence that borders upon it.”
All along, Eve had been listening carefully, studying him.
Conan Doyle had felt the weight of her regard and of her expectation.
Now she stepped forward, fingers still lengthened into deadly talons, and put herself almost between him and Sanguedolce. The vampiress stared at Sweetblood, then turned her gaze to Conan Doyle.
“All of this? What they did to me, and to the rest of you, and—hell, Doyle, listen to yourself—to Eden . . . you’re saying this is all a good thing?”
He did not blink or turn from the intensity of her gaze.
“It is.”
“Just how do you figure?” Danny sneered, crouched on his haunches, eyes gleaming. The hellhound, Shuck, sat beside him, silently watching the proceedings with his tongue hanging from his mouth.
“Isn’t it obvious?” the ghost of Dr. Graves asked.
“It should be,” Conan Doyle replied, nodding to him. He spread his arms, taking in all of Eden with the gesture. “The demons and their allies were correct, you see. The Garden Gate can be closed again, and we can control when and if it opens. With the will of the Creator Himself protecting this place, Eden may be the only sa
fe spot in the universe from the Demogorgon. It’s the perfect staging area for a war against the Devourer. The perfect place to establish a beachhead, to gather allies and to plan, and to stoke up the Forge of Hephaestus and try to make sure we’re prepared for its arrival.”
Clay moved past Jelena and stood across from Eve, effectively creating a smaller circle of four—the two mages, and the two oldest living beings to walk the world of man, both of whom had begun their lives in Eden.
“And you expect us to work with Sweetblood?” the shapeshifter said. “After everything he’s done?”
Sanguedolce did not so much as glance at him, his eyes locked on Conan Doyle’s. “Petty differences must be put aside for the good of all. If there isn’t a world left, what then is the point of squabbling over how we live in it?”
Conan Doyle glanced at Ceridwen. He saw the distaste she felt for the entire conversation, but she gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Agreed,” he said, and he held out a hand.
Sanguedolce shook it, and the pact was made.
After all that had happened, it seemed that they themselves had become the invaders of Eden. Intruders in Paradise.
Silence reigned. Gull wore a grim expression on his equine face that perhaps only Conan Doyle, who knew him better than anyone, would have recognized as smug. A susurrus of whispers began among Sanguedolce’s followers, but they were carried off by the wind, and Conan Doyle ignored them. The members of the Menagerie did not object, but he could not fail to see the tension in his comrades. He had made this decision without their approval and hoped that they would come to realize that there had really never been any other choice. Allies and enemies alike would stand or fall side by side when the Demogorgon came. They would help one another live or help one another die.
“All right,” Eve said, nodding grimly. “I get it. Long term, it makes sense. I don’t like it, but I get it. Before we all go running hand in hand through the fucking poppies, though, let me ask you one question.”
Conan Doyle felt much of the tension go out of him. The magic diminished around his hands and eyes, then vanished altogether, drawn back into himself. If Eve backed him, the others would go along, even if they had their doubts.
“What is it?” he asked.
Eve nodded toward Sanguedolce. “This asshole set us up to die for his convenience in Greece not too long ago. And I know he talked to Danny, and that makes it look like he just got the bright idea about fighting our little war from here not too long ago. But how do we know that’s the truth? Were Abaddon and Jophiel clever enough to figure that out on their own, the idea of hiding out here from the Demogorgon, or was it maybe suggested to them by someone a whole lot more devious? How do we know the whole thing wasn’t a setup from the start?”
Conan Doyle stroked his mustache again, contemplating this.
Gull snorted, and Eve turned to glare at him.
“An excellent question,” the mage said with his twisted mouth. “But even if it was a setup, how do we know who orchestrated the situation? Arthur could have manipulated us all just as easily as Lorenzo. How do we know, really?”
“We don’t,” Conan Doyle replied, then turned to Eve.
“And for now, it doesn’t matter. As long as we all want to stay alive, how we do so matters not at all. Believe me, Eve, I have no intention of investing any trust in Sweetblood beyond our mutual goals.”
Sanguedolce laughed darkly, the Eye of Eoghain glittering with the blackest of magics.
“Well said, Arthur. I see that we understand each other perfectly.”
“We do,” Conan Doyle replied. “All too well.”
The mages stared at one another. A gust of wind danced around them, carrying the distant sound of a demon’s anguished cries from somewhere in the wilds of Eden. The voice, Conan Doyle knew, belonged to Abaddon, who had achieved precisely what he’d set out to do and gotten exactly what he deserved.
EPILOGUE
EVEN with the light breeze blowing in from Boston Harbor, the spring night was unseasonably warm. Not a cloud hung in the sky, leaving it clear enough to see an endless array of stars in spite of the city lights. Quincy Market was alive with the laughter and chatter of milling tourists, twenty- and thirtysomething professionals, and the infinite horde of college students who had become Boston’s trademark.
Glasses clinked in the patio restaurants, and street performers busked, playing guitar and juggling, riding unicycles and singing a capella.
No clowns, though. That was good. Most people hated mimes, but they didn’t bother Eve much. Her enmity was reserved for clowns. Greasepainted freaks. And those eyes—always seemed bigger than human eyes. She’d face down an entire pantheon of gods or demons, but clowns just freaked her out.
“Wow,” a voice said, as she walked past.
Eve glanced back to see a couple of college boys checking out her ass. She smiled and put an extra swing into her step. This was exactly the kind of night she needed. Lost in the swirling current of humanity, bathed in the scents of a dozen restaurants, an outdoor florist, and the chocolate chip cookies baking at the Chipyard, she felt the kind of contact with humanity that she’d been cut off from ever since Abaddon had come back into her life.
Lovers walked hand in hand. Two twentyish girls, one black and one white, had stopped outside a restaurant whose open doors let the music from their live entertainment sail out across the cobblestones of the marketplace. They danced together, fingers intertwined, kissing gently and laying their foreheads against one another. An older couple looked their way. Eve expected them to scowl in disgust, but instead they only smiled knowingly and slid their arms around each other while they walked.
This place—this world—was alive. These people had hearts and souls and ideas. Right here, this was worth fighting for. This was worth dying for.
At a small bar on the corner, where the glass walls had been accordioned back to let the warm spring night breeze through, a piano player sat and tapped out a jazzy version of “East of the Sun, West of the Moon.”
Story of my life, Eve thought.
For a long moment she stood and listened. The piano player noticed her out of the corner of his eye and looked up.
As he sang, he smiled, appreciating her. Eve gave him a flirtatious wave, but she really wasn’t in the mood to start anything tonight, so before he could finish the song, she turned to continue her stroll.
Clay stood a dozen feet away, watching her with his hands jammed into his pockets, leaning up against one of the trees that grew up out of squares of dirt in the cobblestone street.
He wore jeans and imported leather sneakers and a light cotton, button-down shirt. His chin was lightly stubbled. The human face he chose to wear most often was damned handsome, something she’d been unable to stop noticing of late.
Eve blinked. He had to have followed her from the house.
For a fraction of a moment she felt herself growing annoyed, but then it passed. In the time since their return from Eden, they had become very close. They had wandered several cities scattered around the world together, sharing the memories that their experiences in Eden had unlocked. In that time, they had learned how much they truly had in common.
Clay and Eve were both God’s castoffs, at least the way they saw it. From the Sacre Coeur in Paris to the Hagia Sofia in Istanbul and the gardens of Kyoto, they had discussed the central question of their lives, which was whether the Creator had a plan for His nomadic outcasts, or if He was simply an absentee God who’d forgotten them the moment He’d abandoned them.
“Hey,” Clay said, as Eve strode toward him.
“Hey.”
“You took off. Did you want to be alone, or would you like some company?”
Eve gave him a half smile that lifted one corner of her mouth. In all the worlds, no one could ever understand what she had endured. But Clay could come damned close. For the two of them to go on, to keep living their eternities, they had to believe that there was a plan.
They had to have faith.
Having Clay around made that easier for Eve, and she knew that her presence did the same for him.
“I’d love company,” she said, offering her arm. He linked arms with her, and they started off across the cobblestones.
“You know what I’d love even more, though?”
Clay raised an eyebrow and glanced sidelong at her.
“What?”
“Chocolate chip cookies. I mean, damn, do you smell those? I’m practically moist just thinking about them. There oughta be a law.”
“You want cookies?” He grinned.
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, by all means. Never let it be said that I didn’t give a lady what she most desired.”
“Are you flirting with me?” Eve asked.
“Could be.”
“Cookies,” she demanded.
“As you wish.”
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