Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie) (10 page)

Gull smiled. "No. He never was." Then he turned
his focus back to Conan Doyle, placing a hand over his heart. "You wound
me, Arthur. After all this time, you still cannot see the ties that bind us? We
are brothers, not defined by biology, but by something far more powerful than
mere parentage. We are brothers in magick."

Suddenly, Jezebel bolted awake, startling green eyes wide in
shock. "Why can’t you just leave me be!" she shrieked, jagged bolts
of electrical force arcing from her fingertips.

"Lovely," Hawkins muttered, dropping from his
chair —
Arthur’s chair
— to the floor as the tendrils of
electricity seared through the air above him, blackening the wall behind the
seat.

Gull placed a gentle hand on the girl’s cheek as she gazed
around the room, wild-eyed.

"It’s all right, Jezebel," he whispered. "It
was a dream."

She slapped his hand away. "Don’t touch me — don’t
you ever touch me!" Her right hand shot out, a swirling ball of lightning
collecting in her palm, and Gull instinctively began a spell to counter her
destructive force.

With a piercing scream Jezebel unleashed her collected
power, but it did not travel far. Before Gull could stop her, he was staggered
by a blast of magick that traveled past him and encircled Jezebel in a sphere,
her own power exploding within the containment field. This had been a recurring
problem, nightmares of her time before coming to join him. He thought that they
had made better progress than this.

Gull’s heart nearly broke as he watched the pretty young
thing convulse, tossing her red hair around like fire. The elemental power that
she had summoned struck at her like a cobra, trapped within the sphere with
her, and after jittering for a moment with the shock of it, Jezebel slumped to
the sofa, unconscious. He turned away from the disturbing sight to see Arthur
standing in front of an upended chair, his hand extended and the residue of his
spell still trickling from the tips of his fingers.

"That will be enough of that," Conan Doyle said
sternly.

The magickal sphere dissipated as suddenly as it had
appeared, and the unconscious Jezebel moaned in discomfort. Gull was relieved
to see that she was not badly injured.

"My thanks, Arthur," he said. "She has a bit
of a problem with night terrors."

"Still choosing the cream of the crop, I see." Conan
Doyle glanced briefly at Hawkins, before returning his steely gaze to Gull. "Now,
then, Nigel, no more foolishness. What do you want? And be quick about it, I
grow weary of your company."

Gull bristled, longing to reply with equal candor. But there
were other things at stake here than his pride.

"Right, then. How foolish of me to attempt to be
polite. As you no doubt are aware, there are people dying in Greece from most
unusual causes."

He watched Conan Doyle’s face. A tick of familiarity danced
at the corner of his old friend’s eye. Arthur knew exactly what he was talking
about.

"Go on."

"I intend to stop these horrid killings, and I thought
it would be best if we were to work together."

Conan Doyle’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, and he brought a
hand to his face, smoothing his mustache. "You haven’t the best record of
selfless heroism, Nigel. What’s the catch?"

Gull feigned surprise. "No catch. Simply put, I need
your help."

With Nigel Gull, there was always a catch.

Conan Doyle had encountered him many times over the years
since they had parted company and though Gull was not precisely evil, he had
certainly been tainted by the dark magick he employed. Or, perhaps more
accurately, he had become the epitome of the old adage that the ends justified
the means. Deceitful, ambitious, and amoral, with Nigel Gull, nothing was ever
as it seemed. The man referred to those in his employ as his
Wicked
. That
was signal enough that he was not to be trusted.

"I think not," he said with a shake of his head.

"Oh, come now, Arthur," Gull replied. "I’m
fairly certain
I
can learn to play nice. I’d assumed no less of you."
The deformed man smiled and Conan Doyle was chilled by how horribly wrong it
looked.

Conan Doyle righted the chair he’d upended and took his seat
once more, crossing his arms and staring at Gull. "Since when have you had
a concern for anything or anyone other than yourself?"

Seated beside the unconscious Jezebel, Gull began to gently
stroke her face, just as a father might have done. "You’re quick with the
barbs, aren’t you? I’ve put the past behind me. Pity you can’t say the same,"
he said with a sad shake of his misshapen head.

Conan Doyle was unsure if it was a symptom of the man’s malady,
but he could have sworn that Gull was even more deformed than the last time
they crossed paths.
Perhaps the result of further dabblings in dark magick,
he
thought.

The man named Hawkins stood and went to the liquor cabinet,
distracting him from his musings. He gestured toward the decanter of scotch
with an empty glass. "Mind if I help myself?"

"Please be my guest." Conan Doyle wanted to focus
on his verbal sparring with Gull, but could not help watching as Hawkins
removed the glass stopper and poured the drink. There was an unusual tremble in
the man’s hand.

"Is something wrong?" Conan Doyle asked.

Hawkins carefully returned the stopper to the bottle. "Not
really. It’s just that the poor sod who made this crystal decanter died by
inches, poisoned by his wife’s lover. That’s a terrible way to give up the
ghost."

Gull cleared his throat. "Hawkins is psychometric."

Conan Doyle frowned. He didn’t like that. Not at all. A
psychometric was able to read the psychic residue imprinted upon any object he
touched. Having such a man in his house could be unpleasant and inconvenient. The
invasion of his privacy made Conan Doyle even more sour.

Hawkins sipped his drink, returning to the chair he had
claimed as his own. "Not even going to tell you what I’ve learned about
you sitting in this chair," he said with a disconcerting smile.

Conan Doyle was not amused. "Perhaps that’s best,"
he said dryly, returning his attention to Gull. "I’m sorry, Nigel, but I’m
afraid the answer is still no." He stood. "Now, if you will excuse
me, I have a rather full agenda today . . ."

He gestured politely toward the doorway.

"Don’t be so rash. How many more will die before you
finally stumble across the answers you seek?" Gull demanded. "Simply
because you cannot put aside past animosity."

Conan Doyle did not respond, so Gull stood, bending down to
haul the still unconscious Jezebel into a sitting position. "Come along
now, Jez, it seems the old boy’s even more arrogant than I remembered."

The girl moaned, beginning to come around. Hawkins moved to
assist Gull, slipping the girl’s arm around his neck and lifting her to her
feet.

"Thanks, Nick. She’s heavy for a little bit of a thing."

They were ready to leave, and Conan Doyle struggled with his
decision to let them go. He had the utmost faith in the team he had dispatched
to Athens, but he knew that Gull was right. If his old adversary had
information that could save the lives of innocents, how in good conscience
could he let them leave?

"A pleasure to see you again, Arthur," Gull said
as he reached the door of the study.

"Nigel? Crickey, Nigel, what happened to me?"
Jezebel asked softly.

Gull shushed her, reassuring her that everything was fine.

It pained him, but Conan Doyle cleared his throat and
clasped his hands behind his back. "If we were to work together," he
began, drawing the attention of Nigel Gull and his operatives, "you would
have to follow my instructions completely."

Gull smiled. There was a twinkle in his dark, animal eyes,
and for a brief moment, Conan Doyle could not help but feel as though he had
stepped into the lion’s den.

"To the very letter," he agreed. "My Wicked
and I will be at your beck and call." And he bowed his wrongly shaped head
in complete obeisance.

"Fine," Conan Doyle agreed, nearly choking on the
word.

Gull strode back across the room and gripped Doyle’s
shoulder with a gnarled hand. "You won’t regret this, Arthur."

Doyle’s nostrils flared with distaste. "Time will tell.
For now, you can begin by telling me everything you know about the threat we
face in Athens."

"Very well." Gull released him, turning to his
Wicked. "Take Jezebel to the car," he told Hawkins. "Arthur and
I will finish up here, and I’ll be down shortly."

Hawkins did as he was told, helping the girl, who was still
unsteady, from the study.

"Don’t be long," Jezebel called over her shoulder,
weakly lifting a hand to bid her master good-bye.

"A charming girl once you get to know her," Gull
noted.

"Athens?" Conan Doyle prodded.

"Of course," Gull responded, bowing his head
again. "I was doing some research on the Greek Isles for a potential
client, when I stumbled upon them — Gorgons, Arthur. There are Gorgons
loose in Greece."

Conan Doyle reached up to again stroke his mustache.
Gorgons.
It certainly was a possibility. "Those creatures haven’t walked the earth
in millennia, why now?"

Gull tilted his head. "That I don’t know. But the
second I realized this, I knew I couldn’t deal with it alone, even with my
operatives to back me up. There was a time when I had plenty of agents, but now
there’s only Hawkins and Jezebel. Coming to you was the logical decision, but
it had to be in person. You would never have trusted me if I’d just sent you a
letter in the post or rang you up."

Conan Doyle crossed his arms across his chest. "And I’m
supposed to believe you’ve done all this out of some sudden nobility? You’ve
always got an angle, Nigel. What’s in it for you?"

Gull chuckled, turning away from the view to look at his
friend. "Quite a bit, actually. Never claimed I was a model of virtue. I
was trying to find the remains of a Gorgon. Then I stumbled upon the real
thing. Point is, there are a few items I’ve got to acquire from the creatures. For
a client, you understand."

"What sort of items?"

"Do you know how much a mere drop of Gorgon blood is
worth on the black market? A lock of its hair? A claw? Or one of its eyes? Priceless."

"You always were quite the humanitarian," Conan
Doyle said with a shake of his head.

"Do not condescend to me, brother," Gull said,
leaving the window. "You’ll get what you want, yes? Another supernatural
threat eliminated from the world. And I’ll have what I need as well. Everybody
wins."

Conan Doyle had heard enough. "I believe I’ve had my
fill of your company for now, Nigel," he said, turning to leave the study.
"You can show yourself out."

"Will you be assembling your team?" Gull asked. "Your
Menagerie?"

Doyle pretended not to hear the question, continuing on his
way.

"I’m so looking forward to working with them."

Yannis Papathansiou sucked on the end of a fat cigar,
savoring the thick, oily smoke. It had been nearly six years since he’d last
partaken of what his late wife had called a filthy habit. He had forgotten how
much pleasure it gave him.

Away from the city, the night was quiet except for the
chirping of crickets. If he closed his eyes and cleared his mind, he could
almost imagine that the world was a beautiful and sane place. Almost. But he
doubted he would ever be able to convince himself of that again, not with the
images of the victims at the Epidaurus Guest House seared into his mind.

Yannis opened his eyes to gaze out over the field behind the
Moni Pendeli monastery. It was used as a private landing strip for some of the
wealthier visitors to the popular weekend retreat. Tonight, he waited for an
altogether different kind of guest.

He glanced at his watch. It wouldn’t be long now. He had
received an in-flight call from his visitors, estimating that they would reach
Athens’s airspace within the hour. He opened his car door, then switched on the
headlights to better illuminate the grounds. Moths danced in the twin beams of
pale white light, entertainment as he waited.

He recalled the day that he had first learned of the shadowy
group of investigators that dealt with only the most unusual cases. It had been
at a retirement celebration for a fellow detective. The departing officer,
Stavros, had pulled Yannis aside and asked if he would like to make some extra
money from time to time. Of course he had been interested. A new detective on
the Athens police force did not make a great deal of money. Even so, he had
been cautious, asking if he would be required to do anything illegal. The
retiring detective had laughed oddly and handed Yannis a worn piece of paper on
which was scrawled an international phone number — one from America. In retrospect,
he thought that Stavros had seemed almost happy to be rid of it. The old
detective had explained that the number was to be dialed only when there was an
unusual occurrence in the city. Something unnatural.

At first Yannis had suspected that Stavros was pulling his
leg, one last joke on the still-green detective before heading out to pasture. But
there came a time not so long after Stavros left the force, when Yannis had an
opportunity to dial the mysterious number. Someone had been digging up the
recently buried in the First Cemetery of Athens, and feeding on the corpses.

Yannis’s bulbous belly churned, sickly with the memory
— the overturned earth, splintered coffin pieces strewn about the
beautifully peaceful setting, and the condition of the helpless dead. The old
man belched, the stifado, a spicy beef stew with baby onions that he’d had for
supper, repeating on him. Popping the cigar into his mouth to free his hands,
Yannis rubbed his large stomach in an attempt to calm it.