Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie) (31 page)

"Found us an easier path up ahead," he said,
frowning as he saw Ceridwen’s wounds. The demon boy glanced at Arthur. "Figured
I’d clear you a trail to get there. The Cyclopes turned out to be a’ight, but
he’s no thinker. Might be easy for him to stroll through here, but . . ."
He shrugged and met Ceridwen’s gaze. "You all right?"

"I will be," she said with an assurance she did
not feel.

She rose to her feet with Arthur steadying her, took a deep
breath of the dank air of the Underworld, and then together they continued on. He
was by her side with one hand at the small of her back as they walked. Though
Ceridwen did not really need the support, she did not break away. Down here in
the blackthorn forest, in the midst of an ancient death realm, she was so far
away from Faerie and from the Blight that the bruises he had once left on her heart
seemed to mean very little. Despite his words, her pride had been preventing
her from completely accepting that he still loved her, that perhaps his
departure all those years ago from her world had been as difficult for him as
it had been for her.

In this place the distance she had kept between them seemed
foolish, and she cherished the closeness they had in those moments. With Arthur
beside her, Ceridwen had hope that she would see the flourishing forests of
Faerie again. Yet she could tell by the furrow of his brow and by the silence
in which he had been traveling before that he did not take the same comfort
from her, or could not, for some reason.

"You’re thinking about Eve," she said.

Arthur nodded. "Of course." As he walked, the
heavy coins in his pocket clinked together. The Cyclopes had left them by his
fire for a time and returned shortly with a massive handful of them, meant to
pay the ferryman that would take them across the River Styx.

"Gull would not have taken her only to kill her,"
Ceridwen said, hoping to soothe him.

"That is not my concern. Eve has survived enemies far
more ruthless than Nigel Gull."

Ceridwen did not like his tone. There was a faltering
uncertainty in it that was unusual for Arthur, and it unnerved her. "What
is it, then?"

He hesitated, his head inching to the left as if he sought
some specter than lingered in his peripheral vision. After a moment his
attention returned to her. Ahead of them, Danny paused and looked back,
impatient to move on. It was not the blackthorn forest, Ceridwen was certain,
that had him so anxious. The boy did not want to pause anywhere in this world
for very long. There was no telling what might menace them next.

"Arthur?" she prodded, her voice lower.

The pressure of his hand upon her lower back increased and
they both quickened their pace. He glanced at her and a small, apologetic smile
appeared upon his face, only to quickly fade.

"There are two things, truly," he said, his voice
an old man’s rasp, no matter how young his body remained. "First, I have
been attempting to deduce Gull’s purpose in bringing Eve to the Erinyes."

"Have you been successful?" Ceridwen asked,
ducking beneath a thorny branch that overhung their path, then moving carefully
between a pair of trees uncomfortably close together.

"I have a theory."

Ceridwen reached up quickly in spite of her sapped strength
and tugged him by the ear, just as her mother had done to get her attention
when she was a tiny girl. Arthur blinked in surprise and stared at her.

"I hate when you do that," she said. "Speak
all, or not at all."

Her once and perhaps future lover nodded. "My
apologies." He rubbed his ear. "I have told you of my history with
Nigel. Of our rivalry — or at least his view of it. He chose to study
shadow magicks, dark powers of ancient times that would have been better left
to molder in the tombs of dead gods."

Conan Doyle glanced around, apparently aware of the odd
resonance of his words. He stroked his graying mustache with his free hand and
Ceridwen thought he might have shuddered.

"The cost for what he learned was his face. His
features were deformed, twisted to reflect the deformity of spirit that
resulted in his trafficking in such ugly sorceries. The Erinyes . . . the
Furies, they have been called . . . might have the power to erase that taint,
to undo the curse upon him."

Ceridwen shook her head. "I don’t know. Do you really
think Gull would do all of this just to be handsome again?"

"You didn’t know him before. You did not see the change
he underwent within and without. It would not surprise me."

"But why Eve?"

The ground had begun to slope down and the blackthorn forest
to thin. To either side distant mountains could be seen, cliffs that went up
and up, but were really only the walls of the cavern, rising toward that unseen
ceiling, that stone roof that separated this realm from any other.

Arthur paused and studied her a moment, taking her hands in
his. Without preamble he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them, just
once. Ceridwen did nothing to stop him, nor did she protest. Conan Doyle took a
deep breath and then he turned to peer into the gloom, gaze hunting for Danny
Ferrick and for the path ahead.

"This is not the Christian Hell. We’ve discussed that. But
that does not mean that sinners go unpunished here. It is possible to be damned
in the Underworld. And those sinners are given over to the Erinyes for their
punishment. They are scourged for eternity — or for as long as this
theological construct lasts, as long as the worship from the Second Age is not
completely forgotten.

"If Gull wants something from the Erinyes, he’ll need
something to give them in exchange. What better than the ultimate sinner?"

"Eve," Ceridwen whispered.

Arthur nodded.

Ceridwen took a moment to process that. After a moment she
took his hand and the two of them began walking again. They emerged from the
blackthorn forest only to find Danny standing at the edge of a steep hill. They
joined him there, and found themselves looking down on the broadest, swiftest
river any of them had ever seen.

The Styx.

"All right," she said, staring at the river. "You
said there were two things concerning you. What was the other?"

Arthur stiffened a bit. She glanced over and saw that his
nostrils were flared and his eyes narrowed. He turned to her and gently pulled her
into an embrace. Over his shoulder she saw Danny’s eyes widen and the demon boy
looked away. It felt awkward and yet startlingly good to be in Arthur’s arms. Part
of her wanted to fight that feeling, but she surrendered to it. There were too
many enemies down here. She felt his warm breath on her face as he whispered to
her.

"Nigel and his agents are ahead of us with Eve. But I
sense eyes upon us. Someone or something has been pacing us for quite a while,
now. And we must assume this lurker in darkness is ill-intentioned. So be wary,
Ceri. Be on guard."

Clay did not even know the name of the village.

They had continued on foot, just as Medusa would have had
to. She had been traveling due west on the train and they knew that their
chances of catching her now were slim. It was possible they would have to wait
until she killed again. But logic dictated that if she were seeking out other
ancient sites, she might well continue on to Corinth, and so they kept on in
that direction, hoping to overtake her before she put too much distance between
them.

If it became necessary to go back and fetch the car, that
would mean they had given up hope of finding her today.

They walked along the train tracks, hurrying away so that
the authorities arriving on the scene would not notice them. Side by side they
set off to the west, toward the diminishing sunlight, as if they chased the
day. Even Dr. Graves, who did not precisely walk, strode along intently,
scanning the landscape on either side.

Six miles along the tracks they came to the village. The
land to the north of the tracks sloped up into a low ridge of hills, and
sprawled across them were dozens of whitewashed cottages that looked identical
from a distance. Only as they set out from the tracks, finding the rutted road
that led up into the village, did they begin to discover that each home had its
own personality. Some had small gardens, others flags flying, and many of the
structures were not homes at all, but proved upon closer inspections to be
shops and restaurants.

Wooden doors, some that seemed centuries old, were set into
the faces of buildings, and wrought-iron railings ran along balconies that
overhung narrow alleys that split off from the main road.

The road led up the hill, winding through the village. Cars
were parked along the sides of the street, but they were empty.

The nameless village was eerily silent, save for the wind.

A short way up the road they found a restaurant with the
windows shattered. The smells that came from the place were exquisite, enough to
remind Clay how long it had been since he had eaten, and how much he would have
relished the opportunity. The scent of moussaka would have lured him toward
that place even without the broken glass.

"Oh, son of a bitch," Squire muttered as the
hobgoblin stepped through the window frame and into the restaurant.

The ghost of Dr. Graves passed through the outer wall,
immaterial.

By the time Clay entered — through the door — he
knew what he would find. As he stood there in the shadowed interior of the
place his skin rippled and changed. No reason to wear a human face here. There
was no one to see him, no one to frighten.

Only stone. Only statues.

He had never felt so empty inside. Clay had been intent on
the mission, had determined that they would capture Medusa, but he was rapidly
losing the heart for it.

"We have got to stop this," he whispered, and he
turned and left, his heavy earthen feet crunching broken glass. He had to duck
to exit, now that he had taken on this form. The closest he had to a true shape
— the shape made of clay, dry and cracked yet malleable.

Out on the street he glanced up and down the hill. Now that
he knew for certain what he was looking for, he saw them everywhere. In what
was probably the village’s only taxi, idling at the curb, there was a figure
frozen behind the wheel. People had come out onto their balconies to find the
source of whatever disruption they’d heard. Statues stood there now.

In store windows — what he saw were not mannequins.

Clay began to walk uphill, deeper into the village. The taxi
was still running and the moussaka was still fresh enough to give off that
delicious aroma. How much farther ahead could she be? Could she have killed
everyone in the village?

He began to run, not worrying about whether or not Graves or
Squire could keep up with him.

At the top of the hill was an open park, a village square. Clay
staggered as he entered it and nearly fell to his knees where the street had
become cobblestones. He shook his head.

"No," he whispered.

There had been a festival going on. Some kind of
celebration. Women in long dresses and headscarves gathered in groups of threes
and fours. Children chased one another around the square. There was a circle of
men who had been dancing, now forever frozen in the act, each of them having
glanced over to see what had caused their wives and sisters and daughters to
scream. The way they were situated, they all seemed to be staring right at
Clay, at this monstrous earthen man who strode into the heart of their town.

Here
, he thought, checking again the angle of the
stone men’s stares and his own location.
She stood right here
.

If he closed his eyes on a quiet night, somewhere near the
heavens such as a mountaintop or the dome of a cathedral, he could almost
remember what it felt like to be touched by the hand of God. In moments such as
this, he did not want to. There was only darkness here, though the sun still
shone on the horizon.

This is your will?
Clay thought, eyes pressed tightly
closed. He shook his head and swore under his breath.

A cold sensation passed through him and he turned to see the
ghost of Dr. Graves beside him. The specter had a hand on his shoulder and
though Graves was insubstantial, Clay could almost feel the weight of those
fingers, the comfort of a friend.

"We will catch her," Graves assured him.

Beyond him, Clay saw Squire approaching. The shapeshifter
shook his head.

"No. We won’t." He looked at the ugly, contorted
face of the misshapen little hobgoblin, but saw only the light of gentle grief
in his eyes. "I’m sorry, Squire. Sorry I made you go back and get the nets
and all the rest of the equipment to take her alive."

Once more he glanced around the square, met the stone gaze
of two dozen men who died dancing, and who stared at him as though they
expected him to avenge them.

"It’s too late for that now."

Clay wandered away from them, needing a moment’s peace. A
moment’s solace. At the far end of the square was a church. Heart torn by
conflict, he forced himself to approach it, and then to step inside.

"All right, we’re with ya, big guy," Squire said,
hurrying after him with a scuffle of his weathered boots. "But how do we
find her? We could search forever now and not get any closer than this. Hell,
she could be in one of these houses and we might never find her."

Dr. Graves crossed his arms and stood beside Squire. It was
easy to see why he had been considered so formidable in life. The ghost wore a
grim expression.

"We will search for her until we find her. I have
eternity to look." The comment was meant to be halfway amusing but there
was simply too much melancholy in it.

Clay was barely listening. He had glanced back at his
companions but now he returned his attention to the church’s interior. Candles
burned inside. Clay’s stomach churned. A warm breeze washed over him, causing
the candles inside to flutter.