Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie) (16 page)

"Think he’s still up there?" Squire asked, craning
his neck back as though he might spot the sniper from their vantage point.

"Only one way to find out. Stay here."

The hobgoblin did not protest as Clay stepped away from the
building and out into the open. No matter how destructive, a simple bullet
wasn’t going to do more than tear him up a little, and Clay could always knit
himself back together.

No second shot came.

Peering into the darkness at the tops of the neighboring
buildings, even with his eyes adjusted, he saw only architecture. Nothing
moved.

"He’s gone."

Squire grunted, cursing under his breath as he touched the
wound on his head and stepped away from the wall. "What the hell was the
asshole doing? If he thought he could pop us, he would’ve stuck around. But if
he knew it wouldn’t be that easy, why bother?"

The question troubled Clay. He shifted into the form of the
Dire Wolf again but this time Squire trotted along behind him. Clay was moving
more slowly. They passed through a narrow alley, tracking the scent, but on the
next street over, a cobblestoned road that seemed almost abandoned, the Dire
Wolf sniffed and flinched away from the ground, nostrils searing and eyes
watering.

Once more Clay metamorphosed into the familiar, human face he
so often wore. He rarely revealed what he thought of as his true appearance. There
was nothing human about him.

"He’s gone, all right. He shot me just to buy time."

Squire dabbed at his wound with a filthy handkerchief. "To
do what?"

Even in human form, Clay found the strength of the pungent
aroma was nearly overpowering. "Do you smell it?" he asked.

Squire sniffed, and his brow furrowed, causing a fresh
trickle of blood from his wound. "What the fuck is that?"

"Ammonia," Clay answered. "To eradicate any trace
of the Gorgon’s scent. I could pick up the trail again if I searched long
enough, but there’s no way to know if it’ll be a fresh trail, or the path the
Gorgon took getting to the ruins, instead of away."

Squire placed his hands on his hips. "Are you suggesting
that our monster has a guardian angel looking out for it?"

"I’m suggesting that somebody else has an interest in
our quarry," Clay responded, his dark animal eyes scanning the darkness. "And
they’re willing to kill to keep us from getting to it first."

"Quickly now," Gull ordered as Hawkins sunk the
blade of the shovel deep into the dry, black soil.

He chanced a glance over his shoulder at the commotion in
the not-too-far distance.

Conan Doyle and his people are putting up quite a fight,
he thought, the Hydra’s angry wails echoing through the night. Gull felt a
momentary pang of guilt as he watched them fight for their lives against the
many-headed beast, but then realized their lives meant nothing compared to his
objective.

"Did you know it was there?" Jezebel asked,
distracting him.

He turned from the battle in the distance. Hawkins was still
digging, making excellent progress, each shovelful of dead earth bringing them
closer and closer still. Jezebel was staring at him, large, green eyes glistening
in the darkness, red tresses blowing across her face.

"Did you know the monster was under the ground?"
the girl asked again, reaching out to touch Gull’s sleeve, urging him to reveal
his duplicity.

She was a fragile thing, filled with such rage, sadness, and
fear. He hated to show her the lengths to which he would go to achieve what he
most desired, how easily established trusts could be torn asunder, but there
was far too much at stake to concern himself with such flimsy concepts as
loyalty and honor.

"Nothing must sway us," he told her, nodding
grimly. "There was no way the Hydra would have allowed us to reach the
grave."

Jezebel looked from Gull to Hawkins, who continued to
furiously dig, and then turned her attention to the Hydra and its prey. "They
trusted you," she said, her voice no more than a whisper.

Gull chuckled. "I seriously doubt that. But there was
no choice, my dear Jezebel. If Conan Doyle knew who was actually buried here,
and my intentions for him, well, let’s just say I doubt we would be where we
are right now."

For a long moment, Jezebel only looked at him, one hand on
her outthrust hip, ever the rebellious teen. Then she shrugged, her t-shirt
riding even higher up on her exposed abdomen. "I didn’t like them very
much anyway," she said with a darling shake of her head, a sly smile
creeping across her delicate features; her faith in him seemingly restored.

"That’s the spirit." Gull pulled her close and
placed a gentle kiss on her brow, then turned his attentions to Hawkins. "How’re
we coming along, Nick?" he asked, the crackle of anticipation in the air.

"Would be further along if one of you would lift a
bloody finger to help," Hawkins grumbled, tossing another shovelful of
dirt over his shoulder. The man was making excellent progress. He had dug down
at least four feet into the dusty soil.

"We all have our parts to play, Mr. Hawkins," Gull
reassured him. "Soon your part will be done, and it will be our time to
shine."

"Yay!" Jezebel said, clapping her hands.

Hawkins sunk the blade of his shovel into the earth again,
but this time it was met with a strange, hollow thud. Gull gasped as the man
looked up and smiled. Hawkins leaned his tool against the side of the hole and,
kneeling down, began to carefully brush away the dry, black dirt. Even this far
down the soil was like dust, as if all moisture had somehow been removed from
the ground.

Gull moved closer to the hole’s edge, watching the man as he
worked. Something wooden was gradually coming into view. He held his breath as
Hawkins placed the flat of his hand against the top of the buried box to read
its psychic impression.

Hawkins gasped, falling backward as his body was wracked
with trembling spasms. Gull frowned and knelt to reach for him, but Hawkins
waved him away, catching his breath.

"This is it," he said, struggling to his feet and
retrieving his shovel.

"Let’s have it, then, Nick," Gull ordered, his
heart racing. "But be careful, yes? It’ll be useless to me if the contents
of our little box are damaged."

Hawkins jammed the point of the shovel into the rotted wood,
splintering the top with ease. He tossed his shovel aside to squat down at the
box. Carefully he pulled the cover away, the ancient wood crumbling in his
hand, to expose a filthy, burlap sack. Hawkins reached inside and hauled the
sack out of the box.

"Give it here," Gull said, his twisted hands
reaching eagerly as Hawkins handed it up to him.

Gull gently laid the sack on the ground and knelt beside it
as if preparing to pray. The burlap was as rotted and dry as the earth in which
it had been interred, and he grabbed hold of the coarse cloth, tearing open the
sack to expose its contents.

A single human skull.

Jezebel knelt breathlessly beside him, and Hawkins peered
out over the rim of the hole.

"Here we are," he said as he raised up the
perfectly preserved skull. It still wore a paper-thin covering of dried flesh,
and tufts of downy hair clung to the top of its head, like some grotesque baby
chick. "What a handsome devil you are," Gull cooed, first showing the
face of the skull to an appreciative Jezebel, and then to Hawkins.

"A real looker," Hawkins agreed as he began to
haul himself from the hole.

"He has a kind face," Jezebel said, reaching out
to gently feather the tufts of hair with her long, delicate fingers. "I
think I would have liked him quite a bit."

"And he you, I’m sure," Gull said as he climbed to
his feet, skull in hand. "But as of now, our disembodied friend has much
to share with me, and I require your special talents."

The girl smiled, planting her feet on the ground and moving
her head around, stretching the muscles in her neck in preparation. "Your
wish is my command," she said, closing her eyes.

Jezebel’s brow furrowed as if she were suddenly in the
throes of deep thought, and her breathing became heavier. Desiccated skull
still in hand, Gull watched as a visible tremor passed through her body, and
she gasped, eyes opening wide as she turned her gaze to the evening sky. Twin
trickles of scarlet began to leak from her nostrils.

"Here it comes," she said in breathless whisper,
shivering uncontrollably as the full force of her personal magick was unleashed
upon the environment.

Thick, billowing clouds of white coalesced in the sky above
them, but nowhere else. A rumble of thunder heralded the arrival of their own
private storm. A flash of lighting slashed the night’s black tapestry, followed
by an even more severe clap of thunder, and then the rain at last began to
fall.

Jezebel fell to her knees, then began to giggle as she
curled herself into a tight ball on the ground and promptly fell asleep.

"Mr. Hawkins," Gull called over the sound of the
torrential rainfall. "If you would be so kind as to bring Jezebel to the
truck."

The former SAS man complied, picking up the soaking girl and
carrying her to the Range Rover parked not far from them.

Gull stood in the rain and reached out to grasp the fabric
of the very air itself, plumbing a darkness that lurked beneath the ordinary
shadows of night. It was an ancient Egyptian magick considered too powerful for
even the high priests of that venerable age, a talent he had not used since
that rainy, late summer night in 1902 when, much to the disgust of Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle, he had spoken with the voice of a murdered child.

Oh, what things the dead can share,
Gull mused as he
gently pried the jaw of the skull open, the dried skin crackling like autumn
leaves, and then holding it up for the rain to collect within the hollow of its
mouth.

In time he lowered the skull, careful not to spill its
contents, and brought it to his mouth. Gull pressed his lips gently to the jaw
bone, tipping it back, drinking deeply, cool rainwater cascading down his
throat. Then he dropped the now empty skull to the muddy ground, waiting for
the magick to fill him. He did not have long to wait.

The voice of the dead man was in his throat, bubbling up and
out of his yawning mouth, a voice raised in a song long silenced.

Until now.

Conan Doyle’s worst fear had become a reality.

The cloud of ash spewed by the Hydra had formed an
unyielding shell on Ceridwen’s body. Frantically Doyle clawed at the thick soot
that had solidified upon her face as she thrashed against him, desperate to
breathe. He could hear his Menagerie in the midst of combat with the
many-headed serpent and knew that he should be helping them, guiding them, but
he couldn’t. Not now. Not when a heart he had long thought shriveled and cold
had begun to beat again.

The thought of losing Ceridwen again had frozen him,
crippled him in this battle, and it might have doomed them all.

Her struggles were slowing, and Doyle cursed himself. This
was not the time for panic, but for action. His fingertips, raw and bloody,
tingled as he began to summon a spell. The magicks he was attempting to wield
were not meant for such delicate matters, but he had no choice. The power
coursed from his fingertips and it took all his strength to keep the flow to a
trickle, directing the magick where it was needed.

The ashen shroud broke, falling away from Ceridwen’s face,
and she gasped, sucking the air greedily. She began to cough uncontrollably and
he pulled her to him.

"Thank the gods," he said, holding her tight, the
ash flaking away from her lithe body.

Ceridwen’s eyes went wide, and she tensed, pushing him away
from her. "What are you doing?" she demanded. There was a fiery
intensity in her gaze that he did not at first comprehend, but her ire became
all too clear as she snatched up her staff from the ground and struggled to
stand.

"Eve and Danny, we have to help them."

"Of course," he agreed, guilt searing his heart and
mind as he helped her to her feet. "Let’s bring this conflict to an end."

Ceridwen shot him a wounding gaze filled with disappointment
and anger. Emotion had clouded his judgment, and he had much to answer for, but
the lives of their comrades took precedence. The Fey sorceress moved away from
him, blue fire dancing around her eyes and from the ice sphere atop her staff,
leaving him to stand alone and to ponder the repercussions of his actions.

Or lack thereof.

Eve wiped a trickle of blood from her mouth, smearing a
crimson band across her face that she was sure looked like war paint.
That’s
appropriate
, she thought, preparing to have another go at the thrashing
monstrosity. For this was most certainly war.

Danny had managed to grapple with two of the Hydra’s heads
at once, squeezing their necks in his arms, forcing their hissing jaws closed. Again
and again he struck their hideous, spade-shaped faces. The exposed leathery
flesh of his body was covered in bloody bites, and Eve could see that his
ferocity was starting to wane. They had to end this quickly, before they all
ran out of energy and wound up as Hydra food.

Eve sprang at the many-headed beast. One head hung limply
from the thick trunk of the Hydra’s body, blood dripping from its open maw, the
first real casualty of their teamwork. She landed atop the monster’s back,
digging her claws into the nearest wavering neck, feeling the skin at last pop,
blood gushing out from the wound as the Hydra wailed in agony. Eve brought her
mouth down to the steaming geyser, swallowing gouts of the monster’s blood in
an attempt to replenish her strength.

The blood tasted like shit, but she felt revitalized. Uttering
a deep, throaty laugh, she bit into the throat of the dying head, through thick
skin, muscle and bone, finally tearing the head from the body. The creature
bucked violently and Eve lost her grip, falling hard to the dusty ground. Danny
had lost his hold on the other heads, and he leapt back as they snapped at him.