Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie) (4 page)

Mr. Doyle waved to a Sicilian grandmother pushing her
daughter’s child in an old-fashioned carriage. She nodded gravely in return. A
silver Lexus prowled along the curving street. Someone looking for parking had
lost their way. There were things he simply knew, things he intuited from the
moment. It was a gift.

He twitched, pain lancing into his head from his empty eye
socket. The patch that covered it was not a problem, though its strap itched
the back of his head. For a moment, Mr. Doyle paused on the sidewalk and
pressed the heel of his hand against that void, that eyeless hole. At times it
ached profoundly.

Doyle had removed the eye himself. The pain had been like nothing
he had ever felt. Worse, though, was the feeling of
tugging
, deep in his
head, as he tore it loose from the optic nerve. It was a memory he would have
very gladly erased. The man had done what he had to do, and it had helped to
make the world safe — at least for a time. It was good, however, that he
had not had any idea what it would feel like at the time. In retrospect, it
wasn’t something he would do again.

A dry laugh escaped his lips. What a sickening thought. Only
a lunatic would do what he had done. But perhaps in that moment, knowing that
it was the only way, he had been a lunatic indeed.

Now, the question was, what to do about it.

His shoes scuffed the sidewalk. The sleeves of his crisply
pressed white shirt were rolled halfway to the elbow, and he wore black
suspenders that did not go very well with his beige trousers. By his outward
appearance, he would seem to most a librarian or a museum curator who’d lost
his way, perhaps an eccentric academic. That was one of the reasons he loved
Boston so much. The city was old enough to suit him.

For he himself was, of course, far older than he appeared.

Mr. Doyle rounded a corner and came in view of a small sign
that jutted from the front of a building. Ancient neon blinked off and on,
forming the letters Rx. The symbol for prescription drugs. It was a pharmacy,
of sorts, at least as far as the neighbors were concerned. Many of them had
their prescriptions filled at
Fulcanelli the Chemist
.

It was old-fashioned, of course, for the pharmacist to call
himself a chemist. Still commonplace in England, it was unusual in the U.S. But
there were a great many things that were unusual in this little warren of old
Boston. Fulcanelli carried most things people could buy at another pharmacy,
and many things that could be purchased nowhere else in the northeastern United
States.

A bell rang above the door as Doyle let himself in. He
turned the hanging sign around to read closed and locked the door behind him.

There was no one at the counter when he entered, but in just
a moment Fulcanelli emerged from the back of the shop, summoned by the bell. The
man was bent with age, his pate bald on top, his white hair a thin curtain at
the back of his head.

"Hello, old friend," Doyle said.

Fulcanelli nodded, grunting in the manner of the very
ancient and very cranky. He waved a hand as if to say, let’s get on with it.

"Come," said the chemist. "I’ve got what you
need."

Shuffling his feet, the aged shopkeeper moved to a cabinet. Though
his fingers were yellowed and covered with age spots and his knuckles were
swollen, they moved with the dexterity of a prestidigitator as he reached into
a pocket and withdrew a key.

"You’re nearly there, aren’t you?" Doyle asked,
concerned.

Fulcanelli froze with the key nearly to the lock. He paused
and regarded his visitor with moist, yellowed eyes. "Don’t act as though
you are overwrought with sympathy, Arthur."

Doyle stood a bit straighter, the hair on the back of his
neck standing up. He hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and blew out a puff of
air that ruffled his mustache.

"I take umbrage at your tone, sir. I take no pleasure
in your pain."

The chemist studied him, the old man’s face like that of a
hawk seeking prey. "If you’d shared with me your own secret, I wouldn’t
have to suffer that pain at all."

The air grew thick with tension. They had had this
conversation before. Fulcanelli had found an alchemical solution to the problem
of his aging but it was complex. When his physical body aged and deteriorated
to the point where it could no longer function, his skin would slough off and
his bones would collapse and he would ignite in a burst of flame that would
render his body nothing but ash. Then, from the ashes, a young man of perhaps
sixteen would crawl, skin gleaming and new.

Fulcanelli had made himself a human phoenix. It was eternal
life, of a sort, but the price was the agony of the process.

Mr. Doyle did not age. Fulcanelli envied that.

"We have been over this," Doyle said, narrowing
his gaze. "Those secrets are not mine to share."

"So you say," the man said, sniffing in derision. But
he scratched once at the side of his nose and then let the debate retire,
bringing the key once more to the lock. "You have the money?"
Stinging
from the man’s bitterness, Doyle made no reply. Rather, he strode to the
counter and thrust out one fist, palm downward. When he opened his fingers, a
dozen gold coins spilled from his grasp. They had not been there a moment
before, but now they clattered down onto the countertop, several rolling or
bouncing off onto the floor.

Fulcanelli smiled greedily. "That’ll do."

He opened the cabinet. It was filled with jars that
contained strangely colored liquids, things floating in the cloudy contents of
each jar. From an upper shelf, Fulcanelli drew down a jar filled with a viscous
amber-colored fluid.

"Here we are," the ancient chemist said.

Mr. Doyle drew a deep breath and let it out.
At last
,
he thought. The ache in his skull had been a terrible distraction to him. And
the worst was when, late at night, the vacant socket would begin to itch.

"The patch," Fulcanelli instructed.

Doyle removed it gratefully, sliding the patch into his
pocket.

The chemist whistled in appreciation. "That’s a hell of
a job," he said, staring at the ruined eye socket. "Someone did nasty
work, taking that out."

"Me, the first time."

"The first time?" Fulcanelli replied. "You
didn’t mention anything about a second time."

"It’s a long story. I replaced it with . . . another. A
more useful eye. Like I said, a long story. But that one was taken away."

Fulcanelli sighed, shaking his head. "I don’t know why
you do it, Arthur. You could have such an easy, quiet life, and you make it so
difficult for yourself. Set up a little shop, like mine. Salves and potions. Yours
could have books and weapons as well. Much less dangerous. Less worry. Nobody
tearing your eyes from your skull. Or even borrowed eyes from your skull."

Doyle smiled. The old man’s bitterness had receded, as it
always did. They had known one another too long.

"I could do that," he agreed. "But then who
would do the worrying?"
The ancient chemist clucked his tongue and
unscrewed the top of the jar. He thrust two withered fingers into the amber
liquid and withdrew, dripping, a tender, gleaming eyeball. The optic nerve hung
from it like a tail, twitching and swaying, searching for something to latch
onto.

Fulcanelli’s hand was shaking as he raised it toward Mr.
Doyle’s face.

"Hold still," the old man said.

Doyle did not point out that he was not the one who needed
to be still.

After wavering for several seconds, the chemist’s hand
steadied and he slid the eyeball into Doyle’s empty socket. The optic nerve
shot into the open space, and into the raw flesh beyond, like a striking cobra.
A jolt of pain spiked through Doyle’s skull and he recoiled, cursing. He
gritted his teeth together, groaning, and clapped his hands over his eyes. It
felt like his whole head was going to split open, like that nerve was worming
its way through his brain, tearing it to tatters.

Slowly, the pain subsided. He pulled his hands away and
blinked.

Both
eyes.

Relieved, and with only the memory of that terrible itch, he
glanced at Fulcanelli. "You do good work, old man. You’re an artist."

The chemist beamed. "It is my calling."

Something thumped to the floor in the back of the shop.

Alarmed, Fulcanelli spun, his fingers curved into terrible
claws, and he reminded Doyle even more of a hawk. The door to the back of the
shop was still partially open, but there were no lights on back there. The only
illumination in that room was what little reached it from the front. Otherwise
it was only shadows.

The door creaked as it swung open.

Squire stepped out. The hobgoblin was only slightly taller
than the counter, so it was not until Squire had emerged fully into the shop
that Doyle saw that he clutched a piece of notepaper in his gnarled fingers.

"Just got a phone call, boss. You’re going to want to
hear this."

Boston’s Newbury Street was abuzz with life and laughter,
the sun glinting off of the plate glass windows of trendy clothing boutiques,
art galleries, and bistros. Those who strolled along Newbury Street were either
the idle rich or those who longed to be. College girls roamed in perfectly
styled packs, and business types marched to lunch with tiny cellphones clapped
to one ear. The buildings were comparatively old by American standards and yet
the brick and stone had been sandblasted and treated and restored so that the
entire string of blocks seemed to have been only recently erected. The
sidewalks were in perfect condition. Even the cars that were parked along the
curb gleamed new in the sun. BMW, Lexus, and Benz,
oh my.

Milano’s Italian Kitchen was among the trendiest of the new
bistros, with a sidewalk café in front and a menu of nouvelle cuisine, despite
the homey name of the place. Clay knew that if he had wanted more authentic
Italian food he could have chosen any doorway in the North End, where dozens of
restaurants awaited that were less expensive and more generous with their
plates. But the idea today was to spend a little time with Eve, and if he
wanted to get her out — particularly when the sky was blue and the sun
shining — he would have to lure her.

Newbury Street was irresistible to her.

They sat at the outdoor café, in the cool shade of Milano’s
wide awning. Eve was always aware of the position of the sun. She had to be. It
could kill her.

Though the weather was warm, a typical mid-June day in
Boston, she was covered from head to toe. Ample sunscreen had been rubbed onto
her face, and a red silk scarf tied in a knot at her chin covered her head. She
wore a blazer-cut black leather jacket, a pair of thin calf skin gloves, and
completed her ensemble with dark moleskin trousers and Tony Lama boots with a
severely pointed toe. Eve was stunning. With that scarf and her designer
sunglasses, she looked like a movie star trying desperately not to be
recognized in that ridiculous, conspicuous Hollywood way. She drew a lot of
attention, but Clay had been out with her at night as well as during the day,
and Eve drew appreciative stares no matter how she was dressed.

His appreciation of her beauty was objective, however. There
was no romantic entanglement between them. Clay and Eve were associates. Perhaps
they might even be friends. He considered her a friend, certainly, but often
felt an odd reticence in her when they worked together. That was part of the
reason he had invited her to lunch today.

They had been sharing observations about Conan Doyle and
some of his other operatives when the waiter brought appetizers to the table,
including a white plate laden with stuffed mushroom caps. Clay smiled and
reached for one.

"Alexander loved these," he said as he popped it
whole into his mouth.

"Alexander? As in,
Alexander
?" Eve asked,
using her salad fork to help herself to one of the four remaining mushrooms.

Clay nodded. "Absolutely. He was obsessed with food,"
he said, trying not to be grotesque though he spoke with his mouth full. The
mushroom caps were not the best he’d ever had, but far from the worst. That
honor went to the Angry Boar, a restaurant not far from the highlands of
Scotland, in the village of Poolewe, where the ultimate in fine cuisine was
served from a fryolator. Clay shivered inwardly at the still disturbing memory
of fried pizza.

Eve had sliced a small piece of stuffed mushroom and used
the fork to bring it to her mouth. Now she swallowed before continuing. "You
expect me to believe that?" She smiled slyly. "You hung out with
Alexander the Great and ate mushrooms?"

Clay helped himself to another mushroom, this time showing
some manners and bringing it to his plate where he broke it in half with his
fork. He shrugged.

"Everybody has to eat."

The expression on Eve’s face said she wasn’t certain whether
or not to believe him. Clay was having some fun with her, but in truth he
had
known the Macedonian legend. Many of his memories were lost to him, shifting in
his mind like a deck of cards, with far too many missing or obscured. But
others were intact and crystalline in clarity. He had been many things in his
eternity of life — warrior and monster, hero and assassin. Clay could
alter his flesh, could become anyone or anything he wished. In the year 331
A.D. he had used that ability to help Alexander defeat the Persians. Those had
been simpler times, violent times, and often it disturbed him how much he
missed them.

"Why is that so hard to believe?" he asked,
staring at his twin reflections in the lenses of her dark sunglasses. "Don’t
tell me you’ve forgotten your past."

Eve was a bit younger, give or take a millennium, and had
lived a life equally fascinating, but he knew she had also experienced a fair
amount of pain and anguish.