"Mr. Doyle wants to see everybody in the study."
Danny pointed to himself.
"You ,too, horny Joe," the hobgoblin said, turning to leave. "Go a little easier on the furniture downstairs, would ya?"
Danny followed Squire into the hall. "I’ll talk to you later," he called, waving to Julia, leaving her alone with Graves.
She didn’t know how to feel. "I love you, Ma," she muttered as she stood up from the bed looking for her purse, preparing to leave.
"Mrs. Ferrick . . . Julia," Leonard Graves said. She found her pocketbook and slung the strap over her shoulder, turning toward the ghost. He smiled at her reassuringly, raising his hand to hold a forefinger and thumb slightly apart. "Only a little bit of trust."
"It’s the least I can do," she answered with a smile, and then watched as his body became even more immaterial, dropping down through the floor until he was gone.
Leaving her alone with the weight of her decision.
From the window of his study, Conan Doyle watched Julia Ferrick leaving his home and striding purposefully toward her car, which sat in one of the few legal parking spaces in the affluent Beacon Hill neighborhood of Louisburg Square. His sight was perfect again, perhaps even a bit better than that. He was glad that he had decided to pay Fulcanelli more than was necessary for his efforts; the chemist had outdone himself.
He let the heavy curtain fall back into place and turned just as young Daniel Ferrick entered the room. Eve and Clay, the eldest of his menagerie, sat side by side on the sofa. Dr. Graves stood behind them with his arms crossed, not quite as translucent as usual. Graves was focused at the moment on the substantial world. Danny glanced around for a moment, an odd expression on his face as he regarded the furniture, before sitting himself on the floor, his back against the sofa.
The only one who had yet to arrive was Ceridwen, and Conan Doyle felt his pulse quicken at the thought of her. Silly git, he chided, surprised that the Fey sorceress could still have such an effect upon him after so long. What had been between them once was no more. They had become allies again, but it went no further. Must be getting soft in my old age.
Squire entered the room carrying a long serving tray, laden with a pitcher of ice water flavored with lemon slices, red grapes, crackers, and a selection of cheeses. He set the tray down upon a wheeled cart just inside the door.
"Have you seen Ceridwen, Squire?" Conan Doyle asked.
The goblin snatched up a piece of cheese from the tray and popped it into his mouth. "Saw her on the top floor about ten minutes ago and told her there was a powwow," he said, chewing noisily. "She was still working on reestablishing that doorway between the house and Faerie, ironing out the wrinkles and all. Said she’d be right along."
Conan Doyle nodded. It was powerful magic she was attempting alone, and he wondered if the sorceress might require his assistance. As soon as this meeting was concluded, he would seek her out.
From a cabinet of dark wood, he retrieved a crystal decanter of scotch and a glass tumbler. "May I interest any of you in something with a bit more bite?"
Clay declined as he rose and went to fill a plate with crackers and grapes.
"I’ll love a jolt, thanks," Eve said from the couch.
"Me, too," Danny added.
Graves glared down at the boy from where he hovered. "I think not," he said coldly.
"It was worth a try," the boy shrugged, getting up and going to the cart for some water.
"I’ll pass," Squire said, perching on the edge of the loveseat with a plate stacked with cheese. "Make it a point not to drink any hard stuff until after five." The hobgoblin had a bite of one of the cheese wedges. "Unless I’m already shitfaced, that is."
Conan Doyle sighed and rolled his eyes as he crossed the room to bring Eve her drink.
"Here’s mud in your eye," she said with a sly smile, raising the tumbler in a toast. "And speaking of eyes, the new one looks fabulous. Who did it for you, Agrippa?" She tossed the scotch back in one go, then ran her tongue over her lips comically. "Not as nutritiously satisfying as the red stuff, but not without its merits."
"Always the lady, Eve," Conan Doyle said. "No, Agrippa and I had a bit of a falling out so I decided to go with someone local. Fulcanelli in the North End; do you know him?"
"Only by reputation." She studied his newly acquired eye. "He does nice work."
Clay returned to the sofa and offered her a cracker. She declined with a wrinkling of her nose.
"So, what’s the scoop?" she asked Conan Doyle. "I’m sure you didn’t call this little meeting just to chitchat and show off your new peeper."
Conan Doyle crossed the room to an empty wing back chair in the corner, his chair, and sat down. He set his drink down and picked up a file folder from a small table beside him.
"I received a phone call from one of our informants in Athens," he said as he opened the folder. "As well as these digital photographs over the Internet shortly thereafter."
Squire got up, took the printed photos and brought them to Eve. "Pass ‘em down when you’re done."
She glared at him.
"Hey, if those don’t do anything for ya, I’ve got some back at my room that might be more to your liking," the hobgoblin winked salaciously.
"I think I’m going to be sick," Eve said, as Squire sauntered back to his seat.
"Before that, please peruse the pictures, if you would be so kind," Conan Doyle said picking up his glass and taking a sip of scotch.
Eve still had her sunglasses on, but now she removed them to examine the pictures more carefully. "Okay, I’m game. What’s up with the statues?" she asked, passing the digital printouts to Clay.
"They weren’t always statues," the shapeshifter said grimly, looking up to meet Doyle’s eyes.
"Precisely."
"Any idea what’s responsible?" Clay asked, rising to give the pictures to Graves.
Conan Doyle shook his head, resting his glass on the arm of the leather chair. "Nothing as yet. There are any number of supernatural causes ranging from a transmutation spell gone horribly awry to Basilisk poisoning."
"Let me see," Danny said, pulling the pictures away from Graves. "Oh, damn," he said, his red eyes growing wide. "These used to be people?"
"Tourists," Conan Doyle explained.
"Almost like people," Eve added.
"So I’m guessing we’re going to Greece," Clay said, rising from the sofa to set his empty plate on the cart.
Conan Doyle downed the last of his drink before answering. "Not all of you," he said. "I’d like you, Clay, to go to Athens to investigate, with Dr. Graves and Squire."
Clay nodded his acceptance of the mission, as did the spectral Graves.
"That sucks," Danny grumbled as Doyle got up to refill his glass. "I wouldn’t mind a trip to Greece."
Conan Doyle studied the boy a moment, still evaluating him. "Perhaps another time."
Eve cleared her throat. "So what about the rest of us?" she asked, crossing her long legs. "Are we free to go about our business?"
The ominous words of his old teahcher Lorenzo Sanguedolce echoed through Conan Doyle’s mind. The clock is ticking toward the fate of the world, the mage had warned, and Conan Doyle believed this to be true, but did not know when the metaphorical clock would chime. He did not want to be caught unawares.
"No," he responded. "The rest of you will remain here with me."
He poured himself another scotch. A double this time.
"Better to be safe than sorry."
CHAPTER THREE
Nigel Gull stood in the customs line at Logan International Airport and waited to show his passport to a security guard. The long flight from Athens had been a test of his patience, thanks to the rudeness of his fellow passengers, but he had been relatively comfortable in the first-class section. Over the years he had grown inured to the stares of those who were ignorant or insensitive. He did not need a mirror to remind him how freakish his appearance was, his skull so misshapen that
his face looked more like a horse’s than a human’s. No, every idiot who stared at him was his mirror. He saw himself in and through their eyes. Once upon a time there had lived in England a man named John Merrick who was publicly referred to as the Elephant Man, because it was believed he had a rare condition called elephantiasis. In subsequent years Merrick’s actual ailment had been debated, but the name remained.
The Elephant Man.
Gull had been repulsed by the circus that had surrounded Merrick. He knew the source of his own freakish appearance but had no desire to be paraded around London as the Horse-headed man, or some such. He was a human being, despite the equine influence that was evident in his eyes and ears and the length and shape of his head.
No, all in all, the flight had been innocuous enough. Now, though, as he and his two traveling companions made their way down the long corridor toward the customs area, they were herded along with the rest of the passengers, as well as those from two other flights that had arrived nearly simultaneously. Logan Airport was the hub of air travel not only in Boston, but in all of New England, particularly for overseas travel. There were plenty of gawking children, adults who alternated between open astonishment and averting their gaze, and a pair of teenagers with so little breeding that they actually clutched one another, pointing and laughing.
"Oh, shit. What is up with that?" one of them crowed, a dark-skinned boy in an oversized basketball jersey.
Gull ignored them. He felt his companions stiffen, however. They walked on either side of him as though they were his bodyguards, when in fact they were his friends and associates. On his left was a distinguished, silver-haired gentleman, well-dressed in a sport coat and trousers. Nick Hawkins looked as though he had just left a fitting at the tailor’s rather than just disembarked from a six-hour transatlantic flight. At first glance, women were taken by the man’s chiseled features and insouciant smile. Then they saw the cold emptiness of his eyes.
Hawkins had proven himself an asset time and time again. He had gifts he had only begun to tap in the employment of the British government, but he had chosen to work with Gull instead. The benefits were far greater. Anything Nick Hawkins could imagine, his association with Gull could enable him to achieve. And Hawkins had quite an imagination.
Gull’s other companion drew nearly as many stares as he did himself, though for far different reasons. The girl was fifteen — or perhaps sixteen, he could not recall her age at her last birthday — and quite stunning. Her hair was a rich cinnamon, her eyes ocean blue, and she walked with the confident strut that was part dancer, part prizefighter. Her jeans hung so low on her hips it seemed impossible for them to remain in place, and her top came down to just beneath her breasts, leaving what seemed to be yards of beautiful pale abdomen and a tiny dimpled navel exposed for public view.
Jezebel was a force of nature. Gull’s heart filled with pride at the sight of her. She swept the attention of others in her wake, commanding them without a glance. But even her radiance was not enough to draw all eyes from Gull’s hideousness. When the pair of teenaged boys laughed and pointed at him, she and Hawkins had both tensed. The suave gentleman turned gray, soulless eyes on Gull, who shook his head. But Jezebel was not so easily discouraged.
"Come on, then," she said playfully, linking her arm with his as they moved up in the customs line. "Let me hurt them. Just a bit of a scorching ought to do for the lads well enough."
Gull frowned. "Do nothing, Jez. You cause any trouble and we may have to wait ‘round til it gets sorted. I can’t have that, yeah? You just be my good girl. I promise you’ll have plenty of fun later on."
Jezebel rolled her eyes, tucked a lock of cinnamon hair behind her ear, and spun around to face him, walking backward in the line. "As long as you promise. I’ll be good. I’m always good, aren’t I, Nick?"
The girl enjoyed baiting Hawkins, but the man was stone-faced. His years with British Intelligence had honed him to such a fine edge that he was too sharp, too dangerous, even for them. One nubile girl was not going to dull his edge. No matter what else she might be capable of.
"You’re always good, love," Hawkins replied at last, but Jezebel had already turned to hand her passport to the customs agent.
Gull waited for his turn, Hawkins taking up a position behind him. The teenagers continued to snicker and made rude comments under their breath. The tall, malformed man lifted a large hand and scratched at his chin. His brows knitted in consternation. For well over a century he had endured such idiocy. But sometimes he ran out of patience. He glanced back at Hawkins and nodded. The handsome man remained expressionless as he reached into his jacket pocket in search of his British passport. As he withdrew it, he fumbled it, and it dropped to the floor not far from the two boys.
Hawkins stepped out of line, closing the distance between himself and the teens. He crouched to pick up his passport, and as he did, he let the fingers of his left hand brush the shoe of the nearest, a slight boy with delicate features.
If Gull had not had exceptional hearing and been paying close attention he would have lost Hawkins’s words in the susurrus of voices in the terminal. But he was able to decipher them, lagging a bit even as Jezebel finished with the customs agent.
"Your friend here is going to get pinched for smuggling drugs later this year. He’s going to sell you out. In prison, you’ll be shanked in the shower, cut wide open so your intestines are hanging out, and while your blood runs down the drain, they’ll take turns raping you, so the last thing you know will be the pain of your rectum tearing and the weight of a murderer with heinous breath upon your back."
The silver-haired gentleman held up his passport, brandishing it so that Gull could see it, as if letting his companion know there was no problem. As if he had said nothing. He smiled an empty smile and returned to the line, even as Gull handed his own identification to the customs agent.
"Fuck! You’re a fucking nut! Sick fucking freak!" the teen was shouting.
But no one else had heard Hawkins speak, and all they saw was an ill-mannered lout of a boy screaming at a distinguished businessman. Hawkins shook his head as though the boy’s behavior was beneath him to even acknowledge and waited patiently for his turn with customs.
Fifteen minutes later they had retrieved their luggage from the baggage claim. Jezebel secured a cart and helped Hawkins load it, and now they wheeled it in silence through the busy terminal as travelers moved out of their way. The electronic doors parted to make way for them, and they emerged onto the sidewalk in front of the airport, where a line of limousines and taxicabs waited.
Cold rain swept down from dark skies heavy with thunderheads. It was midafternoon, but the gloom pretended evening. The cars that rolled beneath the overhanging roof that kept the emerging travelers dry dripped with rain, leaving damp tire tracks in their passing.
Nigel Gull paused on the sidewalk, his distended nostrils widening. It had been raining lightly when they landed, but the storm had gotten much worse in the subsequent forty minutes. He snorted in displeasure.
"A singularly unlovely day."
Jezebel had slipped on her burgundy leather jacket. Now she left the luggage cart and stood beside him, gazing out at the storm. Her left hand gripped his arm, and she lay her head against his shoulder.
"No," Gull began. "Jez, love, you don’t have to —"
"Hush," the girl said.
Gull’s heart swelled. Such a sweet child. He would never have a daughter of his own, but in Jezebel he had found a girl who was everything he could ever have wanted as a legacy. How he loved her. As he watched, her beautiful, delicate face became dark and cruel. Her eyes were closed tightly, her features lined with intensity. She shook, and her grip on his arm tightened. A drop of blood bubbled out of her right nostril, steaming, and when it fell to the sidewalk it evaporated on contact with the concrete.
Her eyes flickered open. A mist seemed to rise off of those orbs, the same ocean green as her irises. Then a smile blossomed on her face and she
went impossibly rigid beside him. Gull was at once fearful for her and enchanted. She was never more beautiful than in the throes of her power. Her personal magic.
Her grip relaxed, and she slumped against him. Gull put an arm around her shoulders and at last tore his gaze from her. As far as he could see, the rain had ceased. The black clouds were thinning, burning off, and in several places the sun peeked through, revealing a hint of blue sky beyond.
"It will be nice now," Jezebel said, her words slurring. "Spectacular, even." She glanced around for Hawkins and spotted him a few feet away, studying the line of limousines that stood at the curb, their drivers standing in front of them, each holding a sign scrawled with the name of their client.
"Nick, lovey, get us a car, won’t you? I need somewhere to fall."
Hawkins glanced at her, then at Gull. He said nothing, for Jezebel was irritating him on purpose. She knew full well that he was already in the process of choosing their transportation. Women passing by watched him appreciatively as they dragged their wheeled baggage toward waiting taxis. But despite Jezebel’s exhaustion, Gull had no interest in a taxi. He would not ride in one in London, nor would he do so here in the States.
"Only a moment, Jez," Gull promised her.
But the girl had already closed her eyes again and seemed on the verge of falling asleep where she stood, leaning on him.
After another moment, Hawkins began to walk along the line of limousines, idly brushing his fingers against each of them as he passed. At the third — a long ghost-white model — he paused. Gull thought he saw a tiny smile flicker across Hawkins’s face, but it might have been his imagination.
"Mr. Gull," Hawkins said, beckoning to him.
With Jezebel staggering somnambulently at his side, Gull grasped the handle of the luggage cart and wheeled it toward the limousine. He reached it just as Hawkins was approaching the driver, who stood in front of the vehicle holding a small white cardboard sign stenciled with the name E. POWELL.
Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie) Page 5
