Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie)

by Thomas E. Sniegoski Christopher Golden

  Danny led the way through the blackthorns. Ceridwen had been hesitant at first. An elemental sorceress, she had a rapport with nature in Faerie, and had always taken for granted how easily she adapted to the nature of Arthur’s world, the Blight. But here she was cut off. The environment was so unnatural that her innate connection to the world around her was disconnected here and it sapped her strength.

  She could not feel the trees. Could not touch or sense them. The blackthorn groves were to her like the ghost of a forest.

  This was the path they must take. That knowledge had given her the strength to forge ahead, to ignore her trepidation and move amongst those deadly branches. Danny went first, his skin more durable than hers or Arthur’s, and searched for the easiest passage. He blazed the trail and Ceridwen followed. Arthur brought up the rear in silence, but Ceridwen understood. Ever since they had descended he had been attempting to make sense of this place, to understand what Nigel Gull’s purpose here was. Now that Eve had been taken, he was even more haunted. He prided himself on his powers of perception and observation. They were sorely tested here.

  Ceridwen paused a moment and blinked. There were places in the Underworld where it was light enough to see easily, but here there were only shades of gray and sometimes the path among the trees was difficult to spy. She pushed back her linen hood and it coiled around her throat. Where was the boy?

  "Danny?" Ceridwen called.

  A rustle of snapping thorns and branches came from just ahead of her. Startled, she took a step backward. Her tunic caught on a blackthorn tree and the ocean-blue fabric tore as she tried to pull herself free. Her chest hurt as though a hole had been punched through it, this place where she ought to have felt the air and water and fire of this place, where the trees ought to have whispered to her. She felt empty. Drained.

  Yanking herself from the thorns was too great an effort. Ceridwen stumbled sideways and fell to her knees, thorns cutting the marbled white flesh of her arm. She swore, mewling in pain, hating the weakness in that noise.

  "Ceri!" Arthur cried.

  Then he was beside her, blue mist spilling from his eyes. Though he was being affected by the nature of this place, clearly it was not so debilitating for him. He crouched by her and held her arm, plucking out a thorn that had torn loose of its branch and stuck there. She stared at the wounds in her flesh as if the arm did not belong to her, amazed by the searing pain. They would heal quickly enough, even as weakened as she was, but the pain had come so suddenly and it burned like a flame in her mind.

  "I don’t understand," she whispered.

  Conan Doyle caressed her cheek and she gazed at him a moment before he helped her up.

  "What don’t you understand?" he asked.

  Before she could answer there came a crack of breaking branches and Danny emerged from the blackthorn trees just ahead. There were scratches on his dark, leathery skin and thorns had caught at his clothes. A branch dragged from one of his sneakers. Yet he seemed barely bothered by the prickers.

  "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 th
e 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.

  "We don’t have to search anymore," he said.

  "What’re you talking about?" Squire asked.

  Clay gestured for them to come forward, to see what he’d seen. Sprawled just inside the entryway of the church was the corpse of an Orthodox priest, his robes spattered with blood, his limbs jutting out at odd, impossible angles. Broken. His face was black and swollen and there were dozens of small puncture wounds on his cheeks, forehead and throat. One of his eyes had been punctured as well and had dripped vitreous fluid like thick tears.

  The ghost of Dr. Graves whispered past Clay, floating down beside the corpse as if he were kneeling. In the combination of the church’s shadows and the light from the doorway, Graves seemed only partly there, a mirage. He shook his head, studying the body, then glanced up. Through him, Clay could still see the candles up on the altar.

  "I don’t understand," Dr. Graves said. "Why isn’t he stone?"

  Clay lumbered deeper into the church, his flesh flowing and bones popping as he walked. Wearing the face of the dead priest, he knelt by the corpse. He traced his fingers along the corpse’s face, then reached up to his own eyes.

  Once again he shifted his form, taking on the appearance of the man known back in New Orleans, and in Boston, and in other places around the world, as Clay Smith. Clay Smith, with a unique skill at solving murder. Not a detective, but often of help to police departments in whatever city he called home.

  "He was blind," Clay said simply. "He could not see her, therefore her curse did not affect him. So she killed him, probably infuriated. The marks on his face —"