Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie) (34 page)

Jezebel started to cough and gag, the stink of the decaying
giant nearly making her sick.

"It all seems to have a certain logic now," Gull
said wistfully, the overwhelming stench seeming to have no effect on him. "The
disorder and degeneration — the chaos."

"Someone you know?" Eve asked, bringing a hand to
her nose. As the mist above the great corpse shifted in the breeze, she began
to notice the details of its attire. The giant wore pitted bronze armor,
tarnished green with the passage of time.

"In a sense. Think about it, temptress. One of your
experience ought to be able to put the pieces together. Who can this be, a god
so large that the Underworld itself is almost too small for him?" Gull
asked, a hint of awe in his voice.

Eve couldn’t wrap her brain around the concept.
How is it
even possible?
How is it possible for a god to end up this way?

"Hades," Gull said in a reverent whisper. "What
sad fate has befallen you?"

When Eve began to descend the steep hill toward that
extraordinary sight it was not only the voice of Orpheus and Gull’s command
that drove her. She had to see it, this magnificent panorama of death, so
enormous that she could barely contain the fact of it in her mind.

"So, if the Lord of the Underworld is dead," she
rasped, "then who’s running the show down here?"

Gull did not look at her as he spoke, his eyes fixed upon
the dead god before them.
"Turning and turning in the widening gyre,"
he muttered.
"The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart;
the center cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world."

"When you start quoting Yeats, I’m guessing that’s code
for you don’t have a fucking clue," she said, careful not to lose her
footing on the slippery slope.

The closer they got, the more details she took in. The
craftsmanship of the god’s armor was some of the most beautiful and intricate
ornamentation she had ever seen. But what would one expect for a lord of the
abyss? Hades’ face was a shrieking death mask, the withered flesh pulled tight
against his skull. Strange birds whose feathers seemed to glint like metal in
the faint light of the Underworld flew out of the god’s gaping maw in a
shrieking flock as they approached, but her eyes were drawn to something else.

"Look at his throat," Eve said, staring at the
dry, curling slash that had been cut across the leathery skin of Hades’ neck.

The ground in that valley was a black, fine soil, but on the
acreage around the desiccated head of the dead god the earth was stained a deep
burgundy. Though there were trees and other plant life familiar to the
Underworld growing about the vastness of the deceased, Eve could see that
nothing grew where the dead lord’s blood had flowed.

"All of the detritus of Greek myth had retreated here
when their era came to a close. It was their only hope at survival," Gull
explained, glancing at an awestruck Hawkins and a giddily grinning Jezebel. "They
ought to have built a paradise down here to rival Olympus. Instead, they died,
and the place fell to ruin. Entropy. The center could not hold. I wondered what
could have happened to cause such chaos here." Gull spoke slowly,
mesmerized by the sight before him. "I never imagined that it could have
begun with the murder of Hades himself."

Who has the power to murder a god?
Again Eve
struggled with the inconceivable.

Hawkins trotted several steps ahead of them, trying to get a
closer look at the wound, himself now a tiny figure dwarfed by the sprawling,
rotting cadaver.

"Not murder," Hawkins said, and they all stared at
him. Soldier, spy, and assassin, he was well schooled in murder. "Look in
his hand. He’s holding a knife. I don’t think he was murdered at all, I think
the poor bugger offed himself."

Eve looked at the dead god Hades, really looked at him; how
he lay prostrate upon the floor of the valley, his mouth agape as if attempting
to call to his brethren in Olympus above, and she knew that Hawkins’s words
were true. Hades had taken his own life.

The closer they progressed, the more foul the stench of
decay was becoming, almost palpable in its intensity. Eve found that even she
was becoming affected, hacking and coughing with the others. And since she
really had no need to, she made a conscious effort to halt her breathing.

That’s better
.

Gull was gasping, a twisted hand placed flat against his
chest. He had stopped his descent and was trying to catch his breath. Hawkins
tied a handkerchief behind his head, covering his face and Jezebel appeared to
be fighting the urge to vomit. Despite the revelation that loomed ahead of
them, the sublime nature of the thing and the thoughts of divinity and history
that it demanded, the two hovered around Gull protectively.

There they were, perfectly helpless. Eve could have killed
them all with ease, if not for the voice of Orpheus. Trapped by Gull’s magick,
she could do nothing but wait for them to get their shit together.

The sorcerer finally caught his breath and pulled Jezebel to
him. "Wind," he said, between gasps of the tainted air. "We need
wind to take this foul odor away."

Her eyes were watering badly, trailing black mascara down
her flushed cheeks like war paint. "I don’t know if I can."

"You must, sweet Jezebel." And despite his use of
that endearment, his tone was clear. It was a command, with consequences if she
disobeyed.

She nodded slowly, and took a deep breath punctuated by a
cough.

Hawkins sidled up beside her. "Sometime today," he
snarled, his voice muffled by the cloth about his face.

The two normally seemed so solicitous of one another —
particularly Hawkins of the girl — but it was clear now that their
camaraderie was a shallow thing. Scratch it deeply enough, and there was
nothing underneath. Jezebel looked at Hawkins with teary, hate-filled eyes as
he walked away.

"Proceed," Gull commanded, his breathing becoming
more labored.

Eve wondered if the power of Orpheus would still hold should
Gull be rendered unconscious. But it was too much to hope for. Jezebel closed
her eyes, reaching down deep to call upon whatever mojo she commanded. Her hair
whipped around her face in a wind that was not natural, and she winced. The
process looked painful and for a minute it seemed she wasn’t going to pull it
off, but the girl hung tough. Whatever it was that she was summoning was
fighting her, and her body began to twitch and spasm, beads of perspiration
breaking out on her brow.

Eve almost felt sorry for the little witch, but then thought
better of it.

The girl fell to her knees with a gasp, and raising her
arms, she turned her face to ceiling of the Underworld. Lightning snaked from
her fingertips and eyes, erupting into the oppressive atmosphere. The wind
swirled around them, growing in intensity, and then shifted in a single
direction, a gale that swept the noxious fumes of the god’s decay away from
them.

Jezebel slumped to the ground, curling up in a tight little
ball. "I did it," she said over and over again in that little girl’s
voice.

Hawkins yanked down the mask from his face and gave the girl
a round of applause. "Now that didn’t hurt too bad, did it?" he asked
as he bent down to help her up from the ground. "About time you earned
your keep."

The man was begging to die, and as soon as she was able, Eve
would oblige him.

Gull took a large gulp of purified air into his lungs. "Much
better."

They descended farther into the valley in silence, the body
of the fallen god looming larger and larger. They passed through small patches
of skeletal wood and scrub brush. Jezebel’s manipulation of the wind had done
the job for the most part, but the closer they got the harder the wind had to
work to keep the stench from overwhelming them again. The rot had left gaping
holes in the flesh, exposing muscle, sinew, and bone.

At last, they stood before it, marveling at its enormity.

"So is this it? Have we arrived?" Eve asked,
interrupting their reverie. "Or are we going to have to go around this
rotting carcass to get to where we’re supposed to be?"

Gull fixed her in a steely gaze. "I think I’ve had just
about enough of you."

She was about to reply but he stopped her with a word. "Silence."

Eve had no choice but to obey.

"Now drop to your knees."

Once more she was forced to comply, and Eve found herself
kneeling upon the damp earth before the body of the fallen Hades. Gull looked
her over, then licked his thumb, reaching out to her face to rub away some
blemish of grime that had stained her cheek. With his long, twisted fingers he
combed the hair from her face, then stepped back and again studied her
appearance.

"I guess that will have to suffice," he said. Gull
looked to the god’s corpse. "The misery of the dead calls out from here. I
can feel it. This is their place. It is no wonder Hades chose this valley in
which to spill his blood."

Gull walked away from Eve then, toward Hawkins and Jezebel. "I
would advise you to step back, my friends. I’ve no idea how they will react to
our presence."

How who will react?

The Wicked did as they were told, leaving Gull to stand
before the rotting corpse alone. The dark mage raised his arms, and in the
booming voice of Orpheus, sang out. Although the song was sung in an ancient
language that she had never known, Eve understood the words perfectly. It was a
song of summoning, a song that called for the attentions of three sisters
— Tisiphone, Alekto, and Megaera. They were the Erinyes — the
Furies of legend. He sang of an offering, something to satisfy their
unquenchable desire to see the guilty suffer for their sins.

In a sweeping motion he gestured toward Eve and the
suspicion she had been nursing was revealed to be truth.
She
was his
offering. Gull finished his beckoning song, hanging his head and resting his
voice as he waited for their response.

He didn’t wait very long.

From one of the rotting wounds in the side of the corpse, a
decaying hole perhaps fifty feet up the side of Hades’ rib cage, Eve saw the
first hint of movement.

"What have you brought to us?"
came a voice
that issued from within that corpse, a voice that made the hair at the back of
Eve’s neck stand on end. It was a voice devoid of warmth or emotion, a voice
that promised only cruelty.

"Come out, dear sisters, and see," Gull sang, the
enticing nature of his borrowed voice certain to draw them from hiding.

Eve’s eyes grew wide as the Erinyes emerged from the ragged
hole in the side of the dead god, three sisters clad in robes of darkness. They
eagerly clambered down the side of the great corpse to claim their prize.

As Ceridwen calmed the normally torrential currents of the
Styx, Conan Doyle and Danny rowed the magickally-crafted raft through the dark
water. Conan Doyle kept an eye on Ceridwen, who sat at the edge of the raft
with one hand trailing in the fearsome waters. He watched as her mouth moved,
words softer than a whisper escaping, as she attempted to bond with the
elemental force of the river. The fact that they were actually making progress
across the Styx was evidence that Ceridwen was succeeding.

Conan Doyle was worried about her connecting with a world
usually reserved for the dead. Though she appeared to have regained nearly all
of her vigor, he did not care for the distant look in her eyes, a look that
hinted that the despair of the Underworld had touched her deeply. He feared
what would happen when it came time to leave.

"How’s she doing?" Danny asked, paddling with all
his might.

The boy had removed what remained of his tattered t-shirt
and his muscles strained as he rowed. The demon’s flesh was continuing to
evolve, growing more leathery, thicker, darker. There were blotches of color on
his back that reminded the sorcerer of the burned orange of fall leaves on
Beacon Hill.

"She’s doing fine," he responded, marveling at the
youth’s tenacity.
To think that mere months ago he was living as a typical
teenager,
totally unaware of his true nature.
He was proud of Daniel
Ferrick. A normal youth his age would have been driven to the brink of insanity
on more than one occasion with what the boy had witnessed in recent days. He
was indeed a welcome addition to the Menagerie.

"And you?" Conan Doyle asked, his arms burning
with exertion.

"I’m good," the boy said between puffs of air. "Getting
a little tired, but I think I can hold out until we get to the other side. How
are you doing?" The boy smiled, exposing sharp-looking teeth. There was a
mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Hanging in there, old-timer?"

He didn’t care for the boy’s lack of respect, but
considering what they had been through, he decided to let it slide. "Don’t
concern yourself, boy," he stressed, staring straight ahead, attempting to
pierce the shifting gray vapor that hung over the river to the other side. They
had to be getting closer. "Focus on staying alive."

Danny laughed and continued to paddle. The thick shroud of
mist parted momentarily and something caught Conan Doyle’s attention. He set
his makeshift oar down on the raft and climbed to his feet.

"What is it?" Danny asked. "Are we close?"

"Stop rowing," Conan Doyle ordered. His eyes had
found the spot again, only to have his line of sight obscured by the drifting
vapor. "There’s something in the water ahead."

Danny did as he was told, placing his oar down and getting
to his feet. He peered over the side of the raft. "We’re still moving."

Conan Doyle saw that the boy was right. They were being
drawn toward the area where he had seen movement uon the water. "Ceridwen,"
he called, looking over his shoulder.