Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie)

by Thomas E. Sniegoski Christopher Golden

  Reluctantly she rose and padded across the bleached pebbles and scrub grass that surrounded the church. She knocked twice, hard, on the massive wooden doors and then stood back. Even as she waited for someone to answer she heard the noise of the truck’s engine.

  With a clank, the doors were pulled open. Conan Doyle gazed back at her from the shadows within. The cool darkness seemed to beckon to her, to promise her comfort and safety, but she would return to the nighttime world soon enough.

  "They’re coming," she told him.

  Conan Doyle nodded, then pulled the doors open wider and stood aside, glancing in at Nigel Gull. Ceridwen and Danny sat together near the front of the church, conspiratorially near, though they’d left off their conversation to look up and see what was transpiring. Gull sat in the rear, hands folded on his lap as though he were the most penitent soul who’d ever entered a place of worship. Even his eyes had changed, for when he looked up at the interruption they were filled with hope and love and expectation.

  For a moment the malformed mage seemed fixed to his chair. Then the sound of the engine grew louder — loud enough to be heard inside the church — and he rose and strode stiffly toward the doors. Eve stepped aside to let him pass. There would be no subterfuge from him now. His focus was on his heart’s desire, nothing more and nothing less.

  Just as Eve had seen Conan Doyle do so many times, Gull smoothed his jacket and shook out his cuffs, trying to make himself presentable. He reached into his pocket and she knew he would be clutching the vial in his hand, hidden away. The tears of the Furies.

  The truck came around the corner, a rough old thing, the sort of vehicle that might be used on a local farm or to go to market. There was a man driving — or at least, Clay, with the face of a man. The face he wore most often, when he gave his name as Clay Smith. Beside him the air shimmered and she could almost make out another figure. Someone else might have thought it a trick of the light, but she knew it was Dr. Graves.

  Squire rode in the back, ugly little fucker bouncing around back there. Eve surprised herself by being happy to see all three of them.

  Clay tore gears up as he halted the lumbering vehicle and killed the engine. He climbed out, and even as he did he changed, shifting with effortless fluidity to his natural form, the tall, hairless man whose flesh was cracked, dry earth. The Clay of God.

  "You want a hand?" Squire asked.

  "Couldn’t hurt," Clay replied, as he hefted a burden from the back of the truck. A body, wrapped in chains, a leather hood covering its head not unlike the sort of thing a falconer used to keep his bird calm.

  Grinning, Squire began to applaud. "Come on," he said, glancing over at Eve. "Give the big guy a hand."

  Eve scowled at him. Squire blew her a kiss, then hopped out of the truck. But he did not approach. He only leaned against the side of the vehicle and watched. Something was to unfold here, and he did not want to be a part of it. She saw a look of distaste flicker across his face and then his sardonic grin returned.

  Clay carried Medusa over his shoulder, reaching back to cinch the straps on her hood tightly as he strode toward the church. She did not struggle. Perhaps, like a hooded falcon, she was waiting for her moment to strike. When he had reached Gull and Conan Doyle, Clay slipped her off of him and let her fall to the ground. A moan of pain came, muffled, from beneath the hood.

  "What have you done to her?" Gull demanded, kneeling by Medusa and glaring up at Clay.

  His upper lip curled in hatred and disgust. "A few broken bones. Far less than she deserved." Clay looked at Conan Doyle. "Are you sure this is the right thing to do."

  "No," Conan Doyle confessed, startling Eve with his honesty. "But it’s what we’re doing." Then he stepped up beside Gull and looked down at Medusa. "Do not remove her hood entirely until the curse is —"

  "I am not a fool!" Gull snarled, rounding on him.

  But then Conan Doyle seemed forgotten. Eve watched as Gull summoned a spell, sketching his fingers in the air, and the chains fell away, pooling around her on the ground.

  "It is I, fair one," Gull whispered, the words eddying on the breeze. "Come. Take my hand, rise and let the curse be broken."

  Eve took a step back and tensed, waiting for Medusa to lash out in attack, prepared to stop her if she did. Conan Doyle did not move but Eve could see a soft blue glow around his hands and feel the electric charge in the air around him that only came from magick. He was ready as well.

  Medusa stood. Eve could hear hissing beneath the Gorgon’s hood and now that she looked closely, she saw the leather shifting, almost undulating with the presence of the serpents on the monster’s head.

  Gull put a hand behind her, touched the small of her back. Medusa flinched and Eve twitched in response, ready to move.

  "It’s me," Gull whispered. "It’s Nigel."

  Then Medusa surrendered to him, sliding her taloned hands around behind him and pressing herself into him, molding her body to Gull’s and laying her head on his shoulder like any young lover might do.

  There was silence at the top of that hill. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

  Gull reached into his pocket and produced the vial. He held it up in front of her face as though she could see it. Though that was impossible, of course, she sensed it somehow, for she froze and her head tilted back as though she could inhale that blood. Eve wondered if it was the magick in that vial, the forgiveness, the power of ancient myth that Medusa sensed, or if it was simply the scent of blood that had caught her attention.

  The mage did not seem so ugly in that moment when he reached up and uncapped the vial, then loosened Medusa’s hood. Eve tensed again, worried that he would pull it off, but instead Gull only raised it high enough to reveal her mouth, the pale flesh and needle fangs and the forked tongue of the accursed Gorgon.

  "Drink," he said, pressing the vial into her hand.

  Medusa hesitated only a moment before she lifted the vial and sucked its contents into her mouth. The bloody tears of the Furies disappeared into her hideous maw and that forked tongue ran out into the vial, licking it clean.

  The effect was almost instantaneous. Medusa did not collapse or even flinch. Instead the visible gray flesh at her chin became pink and healthy and her mouth was that of another creature entirely, with lush, full lips. Damp tears ran down her cheeks.

  Before she had been cursed by Athena, Medusa had been the most beautiful creature in the world. Or so went the myth. Now, as she reached up to remove her hood — all of them watching in hushed fascination — Eve could believe it. Her eyes were wide with joy, her lips trembling with emotion. She held her hands up and studied the long, elegant fingers, then ran her palms over her lissome shape. At last she reached up to touch her face, and even as she did she spun, looking at them each in turn. She was awestruck and lost in a blissful rapture. It was written in her every expression, her every movement.

  "My darling. You are free, now. Your curse is ended. After an eternity, your beauty is returned to —"

  His voice had given her focus for the first time. Medusa turned and looked at Nigel Gull, this twisted mage who had risked all for her, and she recoiled at his appearance. Her beauty was marred by the revulsion that curled her upper lip and narrowed her gaze as she took a step back from him.

  Medusa was free of her curse, but Gull was still stricken by his own. The handsome countenance he had sacrificed for dark gifts of magick would never be his again. His misshapen features flinched now, stung by her reaction to him.

  "Medusa?" he ventured, pitiful. Crushed.

  When she spoke, the words were Greek, and so ancient that though Eve remembered the language, it took her a moment to translate in her mind.

  "I am sorry," the Gorgon said. She reached up a perfect, slender hand, but fell short of caressing Gull’s hideous features. The hand fell to her side. "I have despised my own face for so long . . . if I spent my days gazing at yours it would only remind me of the hell I have escaped. You have given me everythi
ng, but I cannot repay you. I cannot give you what you most desire in return."

  At some point Danny and Ceridwen had come out of the church. Squire, Clay, and Graves watched from their vantage point near the truck. Conan Doyle stood with Eve. And Gull was alone.

  "What did she say?" Danny asked. "That language, what —"

  "Ancient Greek," Conan Doyle explained. "But I don’t know what —"

  Nigel Gull understood, however. From the look on his face, it was clear that he understood all too well. All the light and hope had drained from his eyes and there was only malice there once more. Any trace of the desire and love he had revealed was buried deep beneath the ugliness that was not only in his face, but in his heart. This was the cunning schemer who had betrayed them, who had used them, and who had discarded his own allies in the pursuit of his goal. This was the dark magician.

  Oh, yes, he had understood Medusa perfectly.

  Gull drew his antique, pepperbox pistol from beneath his jacket, and shot her through the head.

  Eve cried out and Conan Doyle lunged for the weapon, but too late.

  Medusa fell to the ground, blood spreading across the white pebbles of the drive.

  Gull knocked Conan Doyle away, gave Medusa a final glance, and then a pool of bruise-purple energy gathered around his feet and the ground swallowed him whole, the mage slipping down into some dark portal of his conjuring. Slipping away.

  But as he went, Eve caught sight of his face, of the distant, hollow glaze in his eyes, and she knew that though he would escape them, he would never, ever be free.

  EPILOGUE

  On the third floor of Arthur Conan Doyle’s home in Louisburg Square was a bedroom with no bed. Shelves lined two of the walls, laden with maps and journals and artifacts from the life and career of Dr. Leonard Graves. There was no bed because dead men did not need to sleep. Instead, in addition to those shelves and a scattering of books the ghost of Dr. Graves had borrowed from Conan Doyle’s library, there was an antique Victrola side by side with a CD player, old records and brand new discs. Graves was equally passionate about Robert Johnson and the latest modern day R&B songbird. He couldn’t abide rap, though. He was just too old-fashioned.

  Then there was his television. His DVD collection was extensive, racked in cabinets around his entertainment center. From time to time Conan Doyle or Clay might come up and take in a movie with him, relaxing in the comfortable chairs that decorated the room. They liked the old films just as much as he did.

  Glorious black and white.

  The curtains in the room were drawn, now, and familiar blue light gleamed from the television screen. Jimmy Stewart made his heartfelt plea in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Columbia Pictures, eleven Academy Award nominations. If he focused enough, Graves could feel the solidness of the chair beneath him, even the texture of the fabric. He liked that, settling in to watch one of his movies. His Gabriella had been particularly fond of Jimmy Stewart. Despite the struggles they had faced because of their race, the hatred Dr. Graves had engendered in many quarters even as he gained respect and fame in others, he still recalled the era of his life as a kinder time, and the late actor seemed to embody that kindness.

  Gabriella. A bittersweet smile touched his lips as the movie played on before his eyes. He could almost imagine her beside him still, though her spirit had long since gone on to a better place.

  One day, they would be together again. He had made that vow a thousand times. But he was bound to this plane for the time being by the tragedy of his death. His murder. His assassination. Dr. Graves would not allow his specter to slip from the fleshly world to the ethereal plane until he had solved the mystery of his own death. Only then could he be with Gabriella again.

  For now, he had his memories. And the movies she had loved so very much.

  As he focused once more on feeling the fabric of the chair beneath him and let himself get back into the rhythm of the film, there came a knock at his door. Dr. Graves frowned. They had been back from Greece only a handful of hours and had all agreed to get some rest. He did not sleep, but that did not mean he could not benefit from a period of relaxation.

  The ghost floated up from the chair and then strode to the door. With focus, he grasped the knob and opened it.

  Julia Ferrick stood in the hall, her features cast half in shadow by the dim illumination from the electric sconces on the walls.

  "Dr. Graves," she began in a tremulous voice. Her forehead was creased in a frown. He did not fail to notice that she had either forgotten or chosen not to call him by his given name.

  "Julia? What is it? Danny’s all right?"

  Graves had not seen the woman since their return, but he was not surprised that she had come so quickly. Her son had been cast into a situation of terrible danger. Of course she would rush to see him. But the ghost had assumed she would be pleased by his safe return.

  "No," she whispered, swallowing visibly. "You’ve seen him. He’s worse than ever. Those . . . horns. They’re longer."

  His heart ached for her. "Julia, we’ve discussed this. Daniel is what he is."

  She nodded. "I know. It’s just . . . where does it end?"

  The ghost had no response for that.

  "And you," she went on, her jaw set. "You said you’d watch out for him."

  Dr. Graves blinked, and his spectral form rippled. "He was with Conan Doyle and Ceridwen. And Eve, as well. They were all watching over him."

  Julia shook her head. "But I don’t trust them. Any of them." She searched his eyes as though trying to locate something she thought she had seen before. "I trusted you."

  "You can trust me. And you can trust the others as well. I had to be where I could do the most good. As did Daniel. But we’re back. All of us in one piece."

  "And what about the next time?"

  The ghost met her gaze steadily. "No one can promise to return Daniel safely to you each time he leaves this house. When a crisis arises, when there is real evil to be faced, the outcome is always uncertain."

  Julia stared at him. For a moment she reached out to touch him, mouth working as though searching for the words to express what she felt. It seemed to Graves as though she desperately wanted something from him then, some assurance, some solace, but he hesitated.

  She shook her head, dropping her hand, and backed away. Dr. Graves could only watch her recede down the hall and then descend the stairs. Somehow he felt more had passed between the two of them than he realized, that Julia’s disappointment in him extended beyond her concern for her son. He did not quite understand, but it troubled him to have hurt her.

  Dr. Graves found that he cared very deeply what Julia Ferrick’s opinion of him might be.

  And that troubled him as well.

  Clay stood in the kitchen of Conan Doyle’s home, peeling an apple at the sink. He had been talking for quite some time in the living room with Squire, but the hobgoblin had gone to bed. Sleep called to him as well, but all he had wanted from the moment they had returned to Boston was a glass of ice water and a fresh apple. On the granite countertop, his water glass sweated drops of cool condensation, waiting for him. He made a small game of peeling the apple, attempting to take it all off in a single long strip. There was something calming about the process, the methodical nature of it.

  "Hey."

  The knife slipped, tearing the peel, and a long coil of it dropped into the sink. Clay felt a twinge of regret and smiled at the absurdness of it. He turned and watched Eve walk into the kitchen.

  "Hey, yourself."

  She came to the granite counter and took a long sip of his ice water. Clay uttered a soft, surprised laugh.

  Eve grinned, toasting him with his own glass. "Sorry. It was just too tempting to resist."

  If she heard the irony in that, she made no indication. Clay lifted the half-peeled apple. "You want some of this, too?"

  A little piece of darkness flickered across her gaze and then was gone. "No. Thanks. This is just what I wanted."


  Clay took another glass out of the cabinet for himself but went back to peeling his apple before filling it. Perhaps he ought to have been irked by Eve’s presumption, but in truth he was glad she felt comfortable enough with him to just assume he wouldn’t mind sharing. To be herself. There were very few people Eve could be herself with, and Clay understood what that was like. His life was the same.

  Perhaps that made them friends. He would have liked to think so.

  "Did Danny turn in?" he asked.

  Eve nodded, but her smile went away. Though there was no romantic entanglement between them, Clay could not fail to appreciate her classic beauty. Her lips were lush and full, her eyes captivating, her raven hair perfectly framing and sometimes veiling her features. But Eve was never so beautiful as when the burden of worry lay heavily upon her.

  "What is it?"

  She shrugged, tossing her hair back, and took another long sip of ice water. They stood there across the counter from one another in silence a moment, Eve considering her words.

  "I’m thinking you should talk to him."

  "Me?" Clay asked. "Why? You’re much closer to him. Ceridwen even more so."

  Eve nodded. "Yeah. But he wants to talk about . . . about God. And evil. He’s trying to figure some things out, Clay. I tried to tell him that it didn’t matter what he was made of, where he came from, who his parents were. But the more we deal with things we call evil, and the more he has to look at himself in the mirror, the more he wonders, you know? He’s still evolving. I think he’s just afraid of what he might become."

  Clay cut the last of the peel from his apple, but now he only held it in one hand, the knife in the other. He let the words sink in and then turned to face Eve.

  "Maybe that’s okay. Maybe he should be afraid."

  Conan Doyle felt defeated.

  He sat in the high-backed leather chair in his study, pipe clenched between his teeth, puffing slowly on it. The smoke swirled down into his lungs and drifted in twin streams from his nostrils. Normally he could let himself relax here, but nothing seemed able to calm his mind this night.