Tears of the Furies m-2

by Christopher Golden

  "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.

  Eve still held a severed Hydra head and proudly showed it to Danny before tossing it away.

  "Don’t know if that was such a good idea," he said breathlessly, looking back at the beast.

  She began to ask what he meant, when suddenly she understood. The muscular stump was writhing in the air, the scaly flesh of the monster beginning to morph. And suddenly, from the stump, there emerged another head, growing quickly.

  "Did you know it could do that?" she asked him, tensing to throw herself at the monster yet again.

  "Saw it in some movie once," Danny explained, not taking his eyes from the hissing beast. He was breaking away a layer of solidified Hydra ash that had collected on his arm and chest. "Thought it’d been made up. Guess not."

  "Thanks for sharing," Eve said. "I really appreciate the intel."

  There were nine heads again, and she wasn’t quite sure how much longer she and the kid could keep this up. The Hydra was taking stock of its prey again, careful, heads weaving around, preparing to strike.

  Eve was about to lunge again when a familiar voice boomed through the ashen forest.

  "Hold!" Ceridwen cried, her staff raised above her head. A storm of electricity churned around the sphere of ice at the top of the staff.

  Eve felt the air crackle. "Back up!" she shouted at Danny, just as a bolt of lightning tore through the heavens, cleaving the sky as it descended to Earth to strike the Hydra. The monster shook with the power of the storm as the lightning surged through it, smoke rising from the soil beneath. Eve and Danny were thrown backward, hair singed, skin prickling.

  Danny rubbed his eyes as he regained his feet. "Damn. I guess Ceridwen’s okay."

  Eve knew otherwise. Danny had been momentarily blinded by the brightness of the lightning, but Eve saw the elemental sorceress crumple to the ground, like a marionette with severed strings.

  The Hydra, its skin blackened and charred, yet far from dead, reared up from the ground, parts of its serpentine form still smoldering with fire. Nine mouths screamed out its rage, surging forward to continue its attack.

  "Come on!" Eve cried out as a head bent forward, mouth agape. "What does it take to kill this thing?" She took hold of its upper and lower jaw as it struck, preventing it from biting her.

  The other heads had driven Danny to the ground, and he was snapping off fangs and gouging eyes, trying to keep himself from being bitten in two, doing whatever he had to just to keep himself alive.

  A thick, noxious c
loud of ash plumed from the mouth of the Hydra as Eve struggled, the substance clinging to her face, momentarily blinding her. She let go of the monster’s head, throwing herself back and away, bouncing off what could only have been the side of the Range Rover. She tumbled to the ground, clawing at the hardening ash on her face, tearing most of it away before it could solidify.

  Eve watched in horror as the blackened body of the Hydra loomed above Danny, each of its heads preparing to strike at the boy. She attempted to get to her feet, but excruciating pain exploded in her side, and she was driven again to her knees.

  She could only watch as the Hydra’s heads dipped and Danny’s hands rose instinctively to protect his face. But then something happened that at first Eve could not begin to explain. The Hydra’s attack was stopped.

  No, she thought, watching carefully, not stopped, slowed down. As though in the space around the demon boy and the Hydra, time itself had become disoriented.

  "Amazing," she said, ignoring the grinding of broken ribs in her side, and getting up from the ground. Conan Doyle and Ceridwen strode side by side toward the monster, their hands extended, trails of sizzling magical force leaking from the tips of their fingers. Their faces were etched with strain and focus.

  "Eve, if you wouldn’t mind, this is far from easy," Conan Doyle said, a slight tremble in his voice. "Kill it."

  "Haven’t you been paying attention?" she asked. "That’s what Danny and I have been trying to do, no help from you."

  Conan Doyle grimaced, turning his gaze briefly to a broken tree limb on the ground. "The branch," he began. Fat beads of sweat had begun to collect on his brow from the strain of the spell that had slowed time. "Use it to pierce the Hydra’s heart. Much like yourself, it’s the only way the monster can be…"