Clay understood exactly what the ghost was saying, but something deep inside him did not agree. Medusa was ancient and had seen and experienced so much, he found it a tragedy to have to kill her. Yes, he knew she was a monster, but so was he, and that shared bond made it very difficult for him to end her life.
It was as if she sensed his hesitation — his weakness. Medusa twisted her body in such a way as to tear the ectoplasmic netting and free her hands. She shrieked like the damned, as she raked her clawed fingers across the dry, cracked flesh of Clay’s face, ripping away one of his sensory stalks. The snakes atop her head hissed, writhing and striking out with equal savagery.
"Damn you!" Clay bellowed, recoiling from the injury, providing her the opportunity she sought. He was slow, still feeling the effects of her curse, and before he could recover, she had freed herself from the net, swatting Squire away as if he were an annoying insect.
"Graves!" Clay called out, the pain in his face beginning to subside, another stalk already growing.
It sounded like short claps of thunder, and Clay suddenly realized what the ghost was doing. He had seen Graves do it before, summoning replicas of guns from his past, created from the substance of his body and shooting bullets of ectoplasm.
The gunfire came to an abrupt stop.
"Did you stop her?" Clay asked, the stalks on his face moving about in the air attempting to locate the doctor’s ghostly shape.
"No," he said. "She obviously knows this cemetery far better than we."
"Beautiful. Then we lost her — again," Squire muttered, picking himself up from the ground where Medusa had thrown him. One arm hung limply from its socket, longer than its counterpart and Clay watched as the goblin casually reached out with the uninjured arm to roughly yank it back into place. He winced at the popping sound that accompanied the movement.
"That’s better," the hobgoblin sighed, moving the restored arm, checking its mobility.
"We have not lost our quarry," Dr. Graves said, floating down to join them, the white of his shirt and his dark suspenders and trousers equally transparent, as if he had been superimposed upon the cemetery.
"What do you mean?" Clay asked. With a thought, he replaced the writhing sensory organs on his face with eyes.
Graves gazed off into the cemetery and beyond. "I hit her at least once," he said, holding up a ghostly pistol that shimmered in the darkness, threatening to become insubstantial. "The bullets are made from my life-stuff," he explained. "She is carrying a piece of me inside her — as if I’ve been brought along for the trip."
Squire smiled, pointing a gnarled, stubby finger at Graves. "You da man," he said with a wink. "So what are we waitin’ for?" He rubbed his hands together eagerly. "Let’s go finish off this beastie."
"No," Clay said.
"No?" Squire repeated incredulously. "What, are we gonna let ole snake head rampage through the streets of Greece turning everyone into decorative lawn ornaments? If you ask me, that brain inside your coconut is still made out of rock."
Clay shook his head. "I didn’t mean we weren’t going after her. We’re just not going to kill her."
His comrades stared at him.
"We’re going to take her alive."
In the ancient language of the elements, Ceridwen thanked the waters of the Ionian for their assistance. On the face of that promontory, atop a ledge perhaps one hundred feet above the water, the cliff had opened like massive stone doors, the gates to the Underworld. Conan Doyle had charged her with finding the fastest way to that ledge. His only criteria was to do it before Gull’s cajoling spell wore off, and the stone doors slammed shut again.
From the deck of Captain Lycaon’s boat she’d looked up at the entrance in the rock face and pondered the puzzle. She thought about conjuring a traveling wind, but determined that their number was too great and that the amount of time needed for the proper enchantment was out of the question.
She’d felt Conan Doyle’s anxious eyes on her as the others bid the good captain farewell.
"We must be going now, Ceridwen," he had urged, and she had looked down over the side of their transport and suddenly had known how they would reach the Underworld entrance.
She had approached the side of the boat and thrust her staff into the emerald waters, asking for its assistance. At first the Ionian was sluggish to respond, but soon it warmed to her request, pleased to know that the Fey — who had once wandered this world at will — still existed. The sea had obliged Ceridwen, and the waters encircling the boat began to bubble and churn, and the air grew increasingly colder.
A bridge, she’d whispered in the language of the sea, my companions and I need a bridge.
In response, a swirling waterspout had surged up and out of the body of the ocean, bending and twisting to connect the sea to the rocky face of the promontory. The air grew steadily colder, and colder still, and the once fluid ocean waters became solid in the sudden, magical chill. A bridge of ice was formed.
"Impressive, my dear," Conan Doyle said, a twinkle in his eyes.
Ceridwen felt a flush on her pale cheeks. "Quickly now." She urged them on as they scrambled over the side of the fishing boat and began their ascent toward the opening in the cliff face.
"I’m almost tempted to go with you," Captain Lycaon said as she went over the side, the last to begin the climb. He stood at the rail, watching, eyes filled with wonder. The man was trembling, but she doubted that it had anything to do with the cold she had summoned. "But I fear that should I enter that place, I would not be allowed to leave."
"This is not a journey for the likes of you, good Captain," Ceridwen said, balancing on the ice. "Go back to the life you have made and leave matters of the Underworld to others."
Captain Lycaon bid them all farewell, and they continued across the frozen bridge that would bring them to the land of the dead.
Frost crunched beneath the sole of Conan Doyle’s leather walking boots. He turned to see how the others progressed. Eve appeared to be having the most difficulty, struggling to maintain her footing, but he had little compassion for her. Before leaving Boston he had instructed her on the significance of a good walking shoe, but she had ignored him as usual, preferring to wear a high-heeled Italian boot.
Eve was indeed a slave to fashion.
"Quickly now," he encouraged. "I have no idea how long Gull’s enchantment will remain over the opening, we must get inside before the doors return to their previous state."
"An ice bridge," he heard Eve grumble from behind. "Couldn’t have made something a little less dangerous. A fucking ice ladder maybe?"
"If you want, you can hold on to my shoulder," Danny suggested. "My sneakers give me pretty good traction."
"Thanks, kid," she said sarcastically. "That way when one of us slips and goes over the side we’ll have company on the way down."
The demon boy laughed out loud, and Conan Doyle was again reminded of how young Danny Ferrick actually was, and how well he was adjusting to the new life into which his metamorphosis had thrust him.
"Hey, I think I see some fish frozen in here," the boy said, dropping to his knees and brushing the frost away from the path.
Eve was attempting to make her way around the boy as Ceridwen patiently waited for him.
"Daniel, please," Conan Doyle said. "What did I just say about quickening our pace?"
The boy lifted his head, embarrassed, and quickly got to his feet. "Sorry. This whole frozen ocean thing is just so cool."
A loud crack ricocheted through the air, and Conan Doyle felt a powerful vibration pass through the icy surface beneath his feet. He glanced at Ceridwen, troubled.
"Risk of the gates closing is not the only reason we should quicken our pace," she said, placing a hand against Danny’s back, urging him forward. "The ocean’s natural state is volatile. The spell will not hold it for long."
Another loud crack, followed by a succession of smaller, more muted pops, erupted. The frost on the bridge had begun to melt, mak
ing the surface slipperier. Conan Doyle concentrated on his footing, not daring to slow his progress now to check on the others. He trusted they would be moving with both caution and alacrity as well. The cave was just ahead, a thick, less than welcoming sulfurous stench exuding from the yawing gates.
There came a low, unmistakable grinding that Doyle knew came not from the melting ice beneath their feet, but from the stone doors as they began to close.
"Blast it!" he yelled, trying to increase his speed. Instead he lost his footing and stumbled forward, hands sliding across the surface of melting ice. He was skidding toward the edge, when he felt his momentum arrested by a strong grip on his left ankle.
"No time for fun and games," Eve said, helping him to his feet with Danny’s assistance. Jagged cracks splintered through the ice beneath them.
"Forget me!" Conan Doyle bellowed, shrugging off Eve and Danny. He pointed to the rock doors slowly swinging shut. "Stop them, or this has all been for nothing!"
Inspired by his words, Danny sprang forward and caught one of the stone doors, but it continued its inexorable progress, dragging him across the icy slick ground. Eve got a grip on the other door, planting her feet in the slush and pooling seawater. She managed to stop it from closing.
"What a pussy," she grunted to Danny. "Can’t believe I’m stronger than you."
Danny repositioned his feet on the slick surface and hauled back upon his door. "Fuck . . . you," he snarled with exertion and, for a moment, succeeded in keeping his side open as well.
Conan Doyle reached the doorway, stopping to allow Ceridwen to pass. "After you, my dear,"
"Cut the gentlemanly bullshit, would you?" Eve grunted. "My arms are coming out of the sockets any second now."
"There’s always time for manners, Eve," Conan Doyle chided, following the Fey sorceress into the darkness of the Underworld.
"What’s the matter Eve?" Danny asked, his voice strained. "Door a little heavy for you?"
"It’s a good thing I like you, kid," she said letting go of her door and reaching across to grab Danny by the ear. The boy growled as she pulled him toward her, and the two tumbled to the ground in a heap upon the cave floor, as the twin doors slammed shut with a resounding echo.
Eve landed astride the demon boy and smiled down on him. She grabbed hold of the leathery flesh of his cheek and gave it a pinch. "I could have left you outside on the ledge," she said, crawling off of him. "And maybe you’ll wish I had."
He smiled back as he climbed to his feet. She could feel him watching her as she wiped the dust and dirt from her pants. For effect, she took her time, then glanced up at him.
"Take a picture. It’ll last longer."
Danny just scowled and made an obscene gesture. Eve laughed softly. She found it flattering, enjoyed the fact that even at her age she could still make the young ones sweaty.
Now she surveyed their surroundings. It was not as dark as she had expected. They were in a cave with a ceiling perhaps twenty feet high, but it grew wider and taller as it tunneled deeper into the rock, into the earth, and where the tunnel turned out of sight, a kind of orange glow illuminated the depths. A thick, rotten egg smell, riding on gusts of warm air, wafted out to greet them.
"That’s nasty," Danny said, holding his nose and looking about. "Where’s Mr. Doyle and Ceridwen?"
"Where do you think?" Eve asked, moving toward the orange glow. "Stink central. Where else would they be?"
The sides of the rounded cave walls were smooth and warm to the touch. The deeper they went into the widening tunnel, the warmer it became.
"It’s hot in here," Danny commented from behind.
"Figured that out all by yourself?" Eve sniped, a feeling of unease beginning to creep through her.
The tunnel curved, descending toward what looked to be an exit into a much larger chamber beyond. Eve emerged from the tunnel and stopped dead in her tracks, overwhelmed by the sight before her. Danny kept right on walking, slamming into her back.
"What the fuck?" he uttered in astonishment, and she had to agree. What the fuck, indeed.
They stood on a ledge with a breathtaking view over a valley — a landscape that could have given the Grand Canyon a run for its money — but where the canyon was breathtaking in its majesty, this place filled Eve with a creeping dread that made her bones ache and her stomach churn. Every muscle in her body screamed for her to run away.
"Ah, I see that you’ve finally decided to join us," came a voice, and Eve nearly jumped out of her skin. Conan Doyle appeared from the shadows to the left, with Ceridwen trailing behind. He wiped moisture from his brow with a white handkerchief. "I was beginning to think that you hadn’t made it."
Eve gazed once more out over the hellish landscape. "And, boy, am I glad I did."
"Come now, Eve," Conan Doyle said as he joined her. "What did you expect from the Underworld? Rolling fields of grass? Apple orchards? Rose bushes, perhaps? It isn’t supposed to be Eden, my dear."
His last comment was like a jab in the ribs, and Eve gave him a hard look. Conan Doyle was well aware of how sensitive she was about her early days and often used such references to help her to focus, but this time it only made her angry. This was the sort of place she expected to end up in for what she had done. The ultimate punishment for her sins.
"So where are we, really?" Danny asked, moving past her, closer to the edge. "Is this really it? Really the Underworld?"
"Close enough," Doyle said. He tucked his handkerchief back into his suit jacket pocket. "Think of a bubble, or better yet, a garbage can containing the refuse of another age, a sanctuary away from a world that has mostly forgotten that this age had ever truly existed." He stopped suddenly and looked around, cocking his head slightly to one side as if listening.
"What is it?" Eve asked.
They were all looking around now.
"It’s nothing," he said, turning away. "There’s a path over here that will take us down," he said, and started in that direction, clearly expecting them to follow.
Eve’s upper lip curled back. "Goody."
Silently, they descended deeper into the Underworld, Doyle, Ceridwen, Danny, then Eve. The walls themselves seemed to glow with an otherworldly light, as though fire blazed on the other side of each stone surface, and it was burning through in spots. The sulfurous smell came and went on the strange winds of that place. The terrain was awful, and they had to be cautious, for the stony ground was pitted with soft places, where the rock would suck like a quicksand mouth as they stepped past.
Hideously twisted things flew along the roof of the cave, but they blended so well it was difficult to determine their size. They seemed harmless enough, though their eyes glowed white, and Eve wondered what they fed on here. There was little other sign of life, either current or past, though they came once to a long stretch of dusty plain at the base of a craggy hill where calcified bodies jutted from the ground as though they had fallen there in death long, long ago, and sediment had settled around them.
Those whose mummified skulls were exposed had their jaws open as though they had died screaming.
After a while Eve stopped thinking about leaving and started to wonder what Nigel Gull and his people could possibly want in a place like this.
"So what do you think, Doyle?" she asked, breaking the silence. "Why are we here? What’s Gull up to?"
The landscape had grown even bleaker. Smoldering rock, skeletal trees twisted and gnarled, dead for what looked like centuries, but she guessed it was probably longer than that. Much longer.
Other than the twisted things that had flown by, they were the only signs of life in this place.
"I gave up trying to figure out Nigel Gull a long time ago," Conan Doyle said as he helped Ceridwen circumvent a large, black boulder that blocked their path. The Faerie sorceress had been doing her best to cover it, but Eve noted a falter in her step. Her skin was pale and marbled with blue veins, but there was a greenish tint to her flesh now and her eyes seemed somewhat di
soriented. Ceridwen looked decidedly unwell. Eve wondered if it was an effect of the Underworld and made a mental note to watch Ceridwen’s back if things got wild.
Conan Doyle was looking around again. "I sense something here. Something other than Gull’s passing, something oddly . . . familiar."
Danny had continued on the path and was half a dozen or so feet ahead of them, bounding down the rocky slope as if he were some kind of mountain goat.
"Hey, kid," Eve called out, the bad vibes getting to her. "Wait up."
He disappeared around a bend and was lost from sight.
"Fucking kid," she grumbled and Conan Doyle smiled.
"Boys will be boys," he said, putting his arm around the ailing Ceridwen and continuing their descent.
Upon a narrow plateau, Eve paused to ask if the elemental was all right, but her question was interrupted by a chilling scream. Danny bolted out from behind the cover of some large rocks, a look of absolute terror on his usually fearsome demonic features.
"Run!" he shouted, on the verge of hysteria as he scrambled up the sloping path toward them.
From what? she wanted to ask, but never got the opportunity, because her question was answered when she saw that he was being chased.
It was the biggest dog she had ever seen, about the size of an elephant, and scrabbling across the rocks in hot pursuit of the boy. Its ferocious growl sounded like the rumbling of a diesel engine.
It had three heads, each of them snapping after Danny, hungry for a piece of him.
The large black cat stared at Julia Ferrick from the middle step in front of Conan Doyle’s brownstone, its wide, jade eyes assessing her as she began to climb the stairs. She didn’t remember Mr. Doyle having a cat, so assumed it belonged to one of the neighbors.
"Hey, kitty," she said offhandedly as she placed the shopping bag she was carrying at her feet and began to fish through her pocketbook for the key that Dr. Graves had given her.
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