Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie) (49 page)

Oh, yes, he had understood Medusa perfectly.

Gull drew his antique, pepperbox pistol from beneath his
jacket, and shot her through the head.

Eve cried out and Conan Doyle lunged for the weapon, but too
late.

Medusa fell to the ground, blood spreading across the white
pebbles of the drive.

Gull knocked Conan Doyle away, gave Medusa a final glance,
and then a pool of bruise-purple energy gathered around his feet and the ground
swallowed him whole, the mage slipping down into some dark portal of his
conjuring. Slipping away.

But as he went, Eve caught sight of his face, of the
distant, hollow glaze in his eyes, and she knew that though he would escape
them, he would never, ever be free.

On the third floor of Arthur Conan Doyle’s home in Louisburg
Square was a bedroom with no bed. Shelves lined two of the walls, laden with
maps and journals and artifacts from the life and career of Dr. Leonard Graves.
There was no bed because dead men did not need to sleep. Instead, in addition
to those shelves and a scattering of books the ghost of Dr. Graves had borrowed
from Conan Doyle’s library, there was an antique Victrola side by side with a
CD player, old records and brand new discs. Graves was equally passionate about
Robert Johnson and the latest modern day R&B songbird. He couldn’t abide
rap, though. He was just too old-fashioned.

Then there was his television. His DVD collection was
extensive, racked in cabinets around his entertainment center. From time to
time Conan Doyle or Clay might come up and take in a movie with him, relaxing
in the comfortable chairs that decorated the room. They liked the old films
just as much as he did.

Glorious black and white.

The curtains in the room were drawn, now, and familiar blue
light gleamed from the television screen. Jimmy Stewart made his heartfelt plea
in
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
, Columbia Pictures, eleven Academy Award
nominations. If he focused enough, Graves could feel the solidness of the chair
beneath him, even the texture of the fabric. He liked that, settling in to
watch one of his movies. His Gabriella had been particularly fond of Jimmy
Stewart. Despite the struggles they had faced because of their race, the hatred
Dr. Graves had engendered in many quarters even as he gained respect and fame
in others, he still recalled the era of his life as a kinder time, and the late
actor seemed to embody that kindness.

Gabriella
. A bittersweet smile touched his lips as
the movie played on before his eyes. He could almost imagine her beside him
still, though her spirit had long since gone on to a better place.

One day, they would be together again. He had made that vow
a thousand times. But he was bound to this plane for the time being by the
tragedy of his death. His murder. His assassination. Dr. Graves would not allow
his specter to slip from the fleshly world to the ethereal plane until he had
solved the mystery of his own death. Only then could he be with Gabriella
again.

For now, he had his memories. And the movies she had loved
so very much.

As he focused once more on feeling the fabric of the chair
beneath him and let himself get back into the rhythm of the film, there came a
knock at his door. Dr. Graves frowned. They had been back from Greece only a
handful of hours and had all agreed to get some rest. He did not sleep, but
that did not mean he could not benefit from a period of relaxation.

The ghost floated up from the chair and then strode to the
door. With focus, he grasped the knob and opened it.

Julia Ferrick stood in the hall, her features cast half in
shadow by the dim illumination from the electric sconces on the walls.

"Dr. Graves," she began in a tremulous voice. Her
forehead was creased in a frown. He did not fail to notice that she had either
forgotten or chosen not to call him by his given name.

"Julia? What is it? Danny’s all right?"

Graves had not seen the woman since their return, but he was
not surprised that she had come so quickly. Her son had been cast into a
situation of terrible danger. Of course she would rush to see him. But the
ghost had assumed she would be pleased by his safe return.

"No," she whispered, swallowing visibly. "You’ve
seen him. He’s worse than ever. Those . . . horns. They’re longer."

His heart ached for her. "Julia, we’ve discussed this. Daniel
is what he is."

She nodded. "I know. It’s just . . . where does it end?"

The ghost had no response for that.

"And you," she went on, her jaw set. "You
said you’d watch out for him."

Dr. Graves blinked, and his spectral form rippled. "He
was with Conan Doyle and Ceridwen. And Eve, as well. They were all watching
over him."

Julia shook her head. "But I don’t trust them. Any of
them." She searched his eyes as though trying to locate something she
thought she had seen before. "I trusted
you
."

"You
can
trust me. And you can trust the others
as well. I had to be where I could do the most good. As did Daniel. But we’re
back. All of us in one piece."

"And what about the next time?"

The ghost met her gaze steadily. "No one can promise to
return Daniel safely to you each time he leaves this house. When a crisis
arises, when there is real evil to be faced, the outcome is always uncertain."

Julia stared at him. For a moment she reached out to touch
him, mouth working as though searching for the words to express what she felt. It
seemed to Graves as though she desperately wanted something from him then, some
assurance, some solace, but he hesitated.

She shook her head, dropping her hand, and backed away. Dr.
Graves could only watch her recede down the hall and then descend the stairs. Somehow
he felt more had passed between the two of them than he realized, that Julia’s
disappointment in him extended beyond her concern for her son. He did not quite
understand, but it troubled him to have hurt her.

Dr. Graves found that he cared very deeply what Julia
Ferrick’s opinion of him might be.

And that troubled him as well.

Clay stood in the kitchen of Conan Doyle’s home, peeling an
apple at the sink. He had been talking for quite some time in the living room
with Squire, but the hobgoblin had gone to bed. Sleep called to him as well,
but all he had wanted from the moment they had returned to Boston was a glass
of ice water and a fresh apple. On the granite countertop, his water glass
sweated drops of cool condensation, waiting for him. He made a small game of
peeling the apple, attempting to take it all off in a single long strip. There
was something calming about the process, the methodical nature of it.

"Hey."

The knife slipped, tearing the peel, and a long coil of it
dropped into the sink. Clay felt a twinge of regret and smiled at the
absurdness of it. He turned and watched Eve walk into the kitchen.

"Hey, yourself."

She came to the granite counter and took a long sip of his
ice water. Clay uttered a soft, surprised laugh.

Eve grinned, toasting him with his own glass. "Sorry. It
was just too tempting to resist."

If she heard the irony in that, she made no indication. Clay
lifted the half-peeled apple. "You want some of this, too?"

A little piece of darkness flickered across her gaze and
then was gone. "No. Thanks. This is just what I wanted."

Clay took another glass out of the cabinet for himself but
went back to peeling his apple before filling it. Perhaps he ought to have been
irked by Eve’s presumption, but in truth he was glad she felt comfortable
enough with him to just assume he wouldn’t mind sharing. To be herself. There
were very few people Eve could be herself with, and Clay understood what that
was like. His life was the same.

Perhaps that made them friends. He would have liked to think
so.

"Did Danny turn in?" he asked.

Eve nodded, but her smile went away. Though there was no
romantic entanglement between them, Clay could not fail to appreciate her
classic beauty. Her lips were lush and full, her eyes captivating, her raven
hair perfectly framing and sometimes veiling her features. But Eve was never so
beautiful as when the burden of worry lay heavily upon her.

"What is it?"

She shrugged, tossing her hair back, and took another long
sip of ice water. They stood there across the counter from one another in
silence a moment, Eve considering her words.

"I’m thinking you should talk to him."

"Me?" Clay asked. "Why? You’re much closer to
him. Ceridwen even more so."

Eve nodded. "Yeah. But he wants to talk about . . .
about God. And evil. He’s trying to figure some things out, Clay. I tried to
tell him that it didn’t matter what he was made of, where he came from, who his
parents were. But the more we deal with things we call evil, and the more he
has to look at himself in the mirror, the more he wonders, you know? He’s still
evolving. I think he’s just afraid of what he might become."

Clay cut the last of the peel from his apple, but now he
only held it in one hand, the knife in the other. He let the words sink in and
then turned to face Eve.

"Maybe that’s okay. Maybe he should be afraid."

Conan Doyle felt defeated.

He sat in the high-backed leather chair in his study, pipe
clenched between his teeth, puffing slowly on it. The smoke swirled down into
his lungs and drifted in twin streams from his nostrils. Normally he could let
himself relax here, but nothing seemed able to calm his mind this night.

All of his Menagerie had returned from Greece alive. That
was the only saving grace of this mission, as far as he was concerned. Medusa
would no longer endanger the world, but though Clay and the others had been the
ones to capture her, Gull had murdered her. Though they might have had to kill
her anyway, the callousness of it had been unsettling.

Nigel Gull had used him, drawn him in, and now, at last,
everything had gone horribly wrong for the mage. Once upon a time he had been a
man of quiet strength and dignity, but his ambition had been stronger than his
nobility. The dark magicks that had twisted his flesh had tainted him forever,
but Nigel had never understood that. All he had understood was the power that
they had granted him.

Conan Doyle wondered if Nigel understood, now.

He doubted it.

To all appearances, Gull was on his own now. Those he called
his Wicked were dead. Tassarian for the second time. The girl Jezebel had been
a tragic figure from the moment she crossed Conan Doyle’s doorstep, doomed from
the start, yet he would have saved her if he could have. Hawkins had been
doomed as well. He had invited death constantly. It had only been a matter of
who would play executioner.

But Gull might have other allies. Conan Doyle certainly had
operatives that he kept in abeyance, old friends and acquaintances that could
be called upon if the need arose.

Nigel Gull would be back.

At the moment, however, Gull was the least of his concerns. There
was Danny Ferrick, who seemed too unstable for the work the Menagerie
undertook, and yet who had nowhere else to go. He would have to adjust to what
he was, or it would tear him apart. Then there was Dr. Graves. Conan Doyle had
sworn to help the ghost solve his own murder, but thus far had been able to
uncover precious little.

He knew he ought to concern himself with his allies. His
friends. But such things seemed so small and petty in comparison to the threat
of the DemoGorgon.

"There’s nothing you can do."

Conan Doyle turned, broken from his reverie, to see Ceridwen
standing in the open door of his study. Silhouetted in the light from the hall,
she had never looked so beautiful and his breath caught in his throat. His eyes
watered from tobacco smoke in his lungs that he could not exhale.

The Fey princess had showered, her blond hair still
glistening with water. She wore only a thin shift the same blue as a robin’s
egg, and the light from the hall caught the lines of her body through the
translucent material. Lithe limbs, supple muscles, and the gentle, familiar
curves that made him forget his heart was beating.

"Arthur?"

He blinked, the enchantment of her presence lifting, but
only slightly.

"Yes?" Conan Doyle rasped.

Ceridwen entered the study, the fabric gliding over her body
as she moved into the dim room. She crossed to the window, where the moonlight
touched her as though it had longed to do so forever.

"You struggle with the rage you feel at Sanguedolce for
having manipulated you. And the rest of us as well. But you resent him as well,
because he belittles you at every turn."

Had anyone else spoken these words, he would have been
affronted. Would have denied the truth of them, even to himself. To Ceridwen,
he only nodded.

"He’s a fool," Conan Doyle rasped. "His
magick is so great that he believes himself omnipotent. No matter how powerful
he is, if this DemoGorgon is what he claims, he will need all of the allies he
can find."

Ceridwen crossed to him, then. She took his pipe from his
hand and set it on its stand, then moved his chair away from the desk and slid
down to sit before him. Arthur went to stop her, but she only smiled softly.

"In his own way, regardless of what he says, he is
preparing to defend this world. When the time comes, we shall see if he rejects
assistance." Ceridwen gathered his hands in hers and gazed up at him, and
those violet eyes were all of the sustenance and comfort he had longed for. When
he thought of the time they had lost, at what his stubbornness had cost them
both, it crushed his heart.

"Meanwhile," she whispered, drawing herself
upward, the fabric of her robe sliding over his hands, "you must focus
yourself on matters at home. On the everyday darkness in this world, but also
on the light. On the sunshine as well as the shadows. On your life, and the
lives of this strange family you have gathered about you."