Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie)

by Thomas E. Sniegoski Christopher Golden

  Gull wanted to tell him. To explain that there was no ancient book or scroll, or object of power to sell to the highest bidder. Instead, he swallowed painfully, the dry air of the Underworld making his throat ache, and stepped closer to the man who had insulted him so.

  "Matters of the heart, dear boy," he whispered, leaning forward slightly so that Conan Doyle was sure to hear. "Matters of the heart."

  Conan Doyle’s face screwed up in confusion, and Gull was certain that the infuriating man wanted to know more, but Gull’s patience was gone and they had to move on.

  "What the devil are you talking about man, matters of the . . ."

  Gull raised a misshapen hand to silence him. "I’ve said enough and wasted too much time with you." He scanned the skies of the forbidden world. "In case you haven’t noticed, this can be quite a dangerous place, and to stay put for too long can mean your demise."

  His stare locked with Conan Doyle’s. "We have to leave."

  "And where are we going?" his adversary asked grimly, straightening his jacket as though he could look presentable down in this ancient hell.

  Gull cleared his throat, preparing to once again sing. "You’re not going anywhere. I require only Eve."

  Alarm flashed in Conan Doyle’s eyes and a crackle of golden light flared from his fingertips, but Gull would have no such resistance. He sang out a single note in the voice of Orpheus, freezing the Menagerie where they stood. Conan Doyle gritted his teeth, attempting to fight the paralyzing command of that song, but to no avail.

  Gull paused to rest his vocal cords, gesturing toward Eve. "This way, dear lady. We have an appointment with the Erinyes."

  Hatred burning in her eyes, fighting the movement of every muscle, Eve stepped away from her friends.

  "I’ll kill you for this, you know," she hissed, showing Nigel her fangs, and he sang several soft notes that sapped away all her aggression.

  I’m sure you would, he thought. But I’m not fool enough to give you the chance.

  Then he looked at Jezebel and Hawkins. "Take her," he ordered. The girl took one arm, and the man the other and they led Eve away. Gull returned his attentions to Conan Doyle and the remainder of his team. "I want to say a proper good-bye."

  "Will you kill us, Nigel?" Conan Doyle asked, swaying on his feet, still under the sway of the Orpheus song. Ceridwen moaned on the ground behind him, the demon boy kneeling by her side.

  "What do you take me for?" Gull asked, feigning horror. "We have far too much history for that." Again, he looked to the dark, ocher skies of the Underworld, and filling his lungs, sang out a lilting verse, long and powerful. A song of summoning. "I cannot kill you, Arthur, but this place . . ."

  Gull cocked his head, listening for a particular sound and found it. It was the sound of flapping wings far off in the distance — but growing closer.

  He smiled, turned on his heel, and left them to die.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Squire scurried along the shadowpaths.

  To others it was only darkness, but to the hobgoblin it was a vast network of tunnels leading to any place on the planet, and even beyond, where the slimmest touch of shadow was the means to travel great distances. All shadows were connected, and Squire knew their secrets well. He jogged through the dark, instinct guiding him toward his destination.

  In his mind, he began to review the list of items Clay had asked him to bring from the brownstone. He stopped for a moment, removing the bundled titanium netting from his shoulder and dropping it to the shadowpath. "Let’s see," he grumbled. "Got the netting, of course. Can’t catch a beastie without a good net."

  He picked up a small box and opened it to reveal a clear, glass vial. He took the container from its case and admired the milky fluid inside. A whole lot of South American tree frogs gave up their skin to produce this bottle o’ bad business. Should knock’er on her ass.

  The hobgoblin put the narcotic back into its protective case and turned his attentions to the tranquilizer rifle. Normally he would have preferred weapons with a more archaic flavor — knives, swords, crossbows, axes — but in this case he was willing to bend a bit. From what he could see, the rifle was in good working order and he slipped it back under the netting until it was needed.

  Then he caught sight of the brightly colored Skittles package. "There you are," he said with an enormous grin, snatching up the package of candy. "Come to Papa." He tore open the package with his teeth, tilted his head back and dumped most of the candies into his open maw.

  "Oh that’s good," he grumbled, as the multiple flavors exploded in his mouth. "It’s been too long." He tried to remember the last time he had satisfied his nasty sweet tooth. Close to two days, probably a record.

  He was in the midst of a euphoric sugar rush when he thought he heard Clay’s voice. Squire paused in the stillness of the shadows, gooey wad of sour candy in his cheek.

  " . . . ire hurry up, damn it!"

  It was Clay all right. "Shit," the goblin muttered beneath his breath, pouring the rest of the Skittles into his mouth and gathering his things. He tossed the candy wrapper and hauled the net filled with stuff over his shoulder, trudging down the appropriate shadowpath.

  He knew by the ruckus wafting into the ocean of darkness that he had reached his destination. The exit was a small one, a tight squeeze, but that didn’t matter to a hobgoblin.

  Squire forced his way into the opening, bones bending to accommodate the tiny space. The cool touch of shadow clung to his flesh as he emerged from an oval-shaped patch of shadow thrown by a cast iron trash barrel: first his head, followed by his short, muscular body. It was kind of like being born, minus the death of his mother and the attempts of the midwife to kill him, but there was no time for sweet nostalgia. He hauled the netting out of the pool with a grunt.

  The hobgoblin quickly scanned his surroundings, searching for his friends, but found only bad news instead. What they had feared had happened. He was at a train station, squatting beneath a glass overhang that would have protected him from the elements if necessary, and where commuters, tourists, and the like should have been awaiting a train, there were now only cold statues of stone.

  "Damn it," he hissed, throwing the net over his shoulder and moving out from beneath the overhang. Squire scanned the area, his sharp eyes taking in every inch of the place. Where the hell are Clay and Graves? he thought, carefully moving around the poor saps who had simply been waiting for a train when Medusa decided to pass through town.

  "You see a big guy that can change himself into monsters?" Squire asked a large man who had been frozen to stone as he looked up from his morning newspaper. "He had a ghost with him."

  And all was eerily silent.

  Until the mastodon came crashing through a wall at the far end of the platform, destroying a mosaic depicting famous Athenian landmarks.

  "Never mind," Squire told the stone man. "I think I found him."

  The attack had come without warning.

  Clay and Graves had been in pursuit of the fleeing Medusa, hopeful that she would steer clear of the more populated locales. But the Gorgon seemed not to consider her surroundings, intent only upon her destination. Clay had grown certain of that. Following her path, it was obvious to him that she moved with purpose, as though she knew exactly where she wanted to be.

  Like she’s following a trail.

  That trail had taken her to the Theseum train station on the west side of Athens, at the beginning of the rush hour commute. She moved with incredible speed, slinking along the city streets near the edge of the train station, reminding Clay of a sidewinder snake, slithering across the desert. They’d almost lost track of her a few times, but Graves had always managed to find her, sensing the ectoplasmic piece of himself still imbedded inside her.

  They tried their best to catch up, hoping to stop her before she reached the station, but Medusa only moved faster, as if spurred on by some unknown lure. Squire would have muttered something rude under his breath, some obvious joke about th
e monster needing to catch a train. The thought, though foolish, rang true. Why else come to a train station? Clay dropped to all fours, flesh shifting, bones reknitting, all in a single instant so that by the time he hit the ground the fur had sprouted on his body and his tail whipped behind him. He needed speed. As a cheetah, now, his claws tore at the ground and he sprinted into the station.

  Medusa had already climbed the stone steps up onto the platform, and he could hear the screams of those who had caught sight of her.

  They didn’t scream for long.

  The cheetah bounded up the station steps, and above the final cries of Medusa’s victims, he heard a sound that filled him with dread.

  This hiss of a train as it pulled away.

  He sprang onto the platform, just in time to catch sight of Medusa leaping onto the last car of the departing train. Clay watched in horror as the Gorgon tore off a door with a shriek of metal and tossed it aside. Then she disappeared inside, that nest of snakes upon her head coiling excitedly.

  "Damn it!" Clay snarled even as his flesh altered again and he stood upright, unfolding into the body of a man. Already the deaths of those at the train station weighed on his conscience, but now there was the train. He tried not to wonder how many passengers were aboard.

  The air shimmered beside him and Dr. Graves appeared, phantom guns drawn. His shirt cuffs were rolled up and through his transparent form Clay could see the X where his suspenders criss-crossed his back like bandoliers. He had always cut a heroic figure, but just then there was nothing heroic about the dread etched upon the spectral features of Leonard Graves.

  "We have to catch that train," the ghost said. "I can do it, but you’ll need real speed."

  Clay swore under his breath. He nodded and his flesh began to flow once more, becoming malleable . . . but he never completed the change. A figure clad entirely in black appeared from among the stone people on the platform and let fly with a throwing blade. Clay turned, but not fast enough, and the thin blade bit deeply into his shoulder. He tried to shift back to his more human state, but was wracked with an excruciating pain that radiated from the wound. In a form between cat and man, he leaned forward and tore the blade from his flesh with his mouth, tossing it to the ground. His own blood glinted off the strange sigils etched on its surface. He heard his attacker laughing, the sound of joy muffled by a cherubic mask. The effect of that childlike mask on the killer’s face was profoundly unsettling.

  Blasts of ectoplasmic gunfire filled the air and Clay watched Graves descend upon their foe.

  The baby-faced figure danced among the gunfire, eluding the phantom bullets with a disturbing grace, and as he moved, Clay saw that he had taken a cylindrical canister from a pouch on his belt and was spreading its grainy contents in a circle below the ghost’s floating form.

  "Graves!" Clay warned, but it was too late. The ghostly adventurer began to scream, his normally translucent form, beginning to fade.

  "What have you done to him?" Clay growled, finally able to take on his natural, earthen form, but only for an instant. He was eager to show their attacker that he had messed with the wrong people.

  The figure in black let loose with another blade, this one sticking in the center of Clay’s orange, cracked flesh. He tore it away with a snarl and ran toward the assassin. In his mind he saw the image of a powerful silverback gorilla, and willed his body to become it. Again he was stricken with an incredible bolt of pain, driving him to his knees.

  He glanced up at the dwindling form of Dr. Graves. "The dirt," the ghost moaned. "It’s from my grave . . . it binds me . . . calls me back there."

  Another throwing knife pierced Clay’s flesh and the masked man giggled. He was playing with them. Enraged, Clay forced his protesting flesh to assume the shape of the gorilla and lunged at their attacker. The man tried to avoid him, but this time Clay was faster, knocking him savagely to the ground. He roared, tossing back his head and shrieking to the heavens, his fists beating on his broad chest.

  "We’ve underestimated you," the man said. His voice from beneath the disturbing cherub mask was a dry whisper, like the rustling of leaves. "Thought the knives would have shut you down by now."

  The silverback brought its arms down upon the man’s chest as though they were clubs. The man made not a sound as he was pummeled. Clay reared back, staring down at the body of his attacker. The man looked like a broken rag doll, arms and legs askew, the eerie baby-doll face looking up at the pale, blue Athenian sky.

  The places where Clay had been stabbed burned as if touched by acid and he looked away from his foe for an instant to check on Graves. The ghost was gone, only the circle of earth upon the ground remained.

  "Finished with me already?" the whispering voice said mockingly, and before Clay could react, the man was up from the ground and had climbed upon his back, locking himself in place with his legs and arms about the gorilla’s throat.

  Impossible. He was dead. Bones shattered.

  Clay roared, hurling himself to the side, thrashing about in an attempt to dislodge his attacker. He considered changing his shape again, to become something even more powerful. For a moment, he hesitated, the memory of the awful pain giving him pause. The knives were imbued with some sort of sorcery, a spell meant to prevent him from changing his shape. Whoever this guy was, he knew things about Conan Doyle’s Menagerie, ways to stop them. Ways to kill them.

  Another knife bit into the thick muscle of his shoulder blade and the silverback roared. He reached over his shoulder, powerful arms attempting to pull his attacker from his back, but could not do it. The man was stuck like a tick on a dog.

  Clay threw himself to the ground, rolling across the train platform, crashing into the stone bodies of Medusa’s victims. The bodies toppled to the ground, crumbling into pieces, but still the man in black held tight.

  His thoughts raced. He had to do something.

  "Squire, hurry up, damn it!" he bellowed, directing his voice to the nearest patch of shadows though he doubted it was possible for the little bastard to hear him. If there was any time that they could have used the hobgoblin’s assistance, it was now.

  As he rolled across the hard ground of the station, the image of another animal filled his mind — something big. And his body began to change. Clay quivered and shook. The pain was unbelievable, and for an instant it almost stopped him.

  Almost.

  The silverback was gone now, replaced with body of a mastodon, and Clay tossed its huge head back, tusks gleaming, and blew a triumphant blast through his trunk. The pain had infected his entire form, it was absolute agony retaining the shape, and the intensity of what he was experiencing drove him wild.

  The mastodon thrashed its mighty body from side to side. Clay could still feel the man clinging to his back, almost as if he had burrowed beneath his flesh. Blinded by agony and rage, he surged forward with no concern as to what was in his path.

  The massive pachyderm plowed through the back of the decorative mosaic wall, shattering it to rubble, and for an instant he felt the man’s grip on him lessen. Sensing an opportunity, Clay pitched its massive head forward. The assassin was flung from his back, and upon striking the ground rolled to his feet, seemingly unfazed. He held more of those enchanted throwing knives in his hands.

  "This should do it," he hissed from behind his cherub’s mask.

  The assassin lifted a hand, about to fling more blades. Clay braced for the savage bite of those knives . . . but then his attacker’s head snapped viciously backward. He staggered, daggers dropping from his gloved hands to clatter upon the ground. His hand rose to weakly brush at an object protruding from one of the eyeholes in the cherub mask.

  A tranquilizer dart had been shot into his right eye.

  Clay watched with great satisfaction as the figure fell limply to the station floor, arms and legs twitching.

  "Did you see that shot?" Squire hooted, rifle slung over his shoulder as he advanced across the platform.

  The feeling gave
out in the mastodon’s legs, and Clay slumped to the ground. Bracing for pain, he transformed to his humanoid guise, flesh flowing once more. The process was excruciating, his body feeling as though it had been set afire from the inside.

  "What the hell’s wrong with you?" Squire asked, kneeling beside him.

  Clay looked into the face of the hobgoblin, pleased for once to see the little man. "Didn’t think you were that proficient with modern weaponry," he said as he tried to stand.

  "Don’t care for them really," Squire responded, hefting the rifle. "But it doesn’t mean I can’t shoot the balls off a blue jay at fifty yards."

  Clay stumbled over to the circle of dirt. "We have to see about Graves," he said, falling to his knees before the circle. "He said that this dirt came from his grave, that it was calling him back to his body."

  Squire nodded in understanding. "Old-fashioned binding spell for wandering spirits," he explained. "At first they’re bound within the circle and then slowly drawn back to their bodies where they’re imprisoned until the sorcerer who cast the spell decides they can go free."

  "That’s where he is now?" Clay asked, searching the air above the dirt circle for a sign of the ghostly adventurer. "Back with his remains?"

  The hobgoblin stepped closer to the circle. "If I’m remembering right, it can take a little while for the spell to kick into full gear, especially if the spirit has a particularly strong disposition." He rubbed away part of the circle with the toe of his shoe. "He may not be quite there yet."

  The air above the broken circle shimmered and pulsed as Leonard Graves began to materialize. The ghost was not in the best of moods.

  "Bastard!" he roared, the twin Colt 45s taking shape in his hands. "Where is that son of a bitch?"

  "Whoa, Len. Where’s your usual calm reserve? Be cool, pal," Squire said. "We took care of him for ya."

  "He’s down," Clay confirmed as he reached up to remove the last of the attacker’s knives from his shoulder, hissing with pain as the dagger came loose. "But we still have to catch that train —"