Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

Conan Doyle shook his head, resting his glass on the arm of the leather chair. "Nothing as yet. There are any number of supernatural causes ranging from a transmutation spell gone horribly awry to Basilisk poisoning."

"Let me see," Danny said, pulling the pictures away from Graves. "Oh, damn," he said, his red eyes growing wide. "These used to be people?"

"Tourists," Conan Doyle explained.

"Almost like people," Eve added.

"So I’m guessing we’re going to Greece," Clay said, rising from the sofa to set his empty plate on the cart.

Conan Doyle downed the last of his drink before answering. "Not all of you," he said. "I’d like you, Clay, to go to Athens to investigate, with Dr. Graves and Squire."

Clay nodded his acceptance of the mission, as did the spectral Graves.

"That sucks," Danny grumbled as Doyle got up to refill his glass. "I wouldn’t mind a trip to Greece."

Conan Doyle studied the boy a moment, still evaluating him. "Perhaps another time."

Eve cleared her throat. "So what about the rest of us?" she asked, crossing her long legs. "Are we free to go about our business?"

The ominous words of his old teahcher Lorenzo Sanguedolce echoed through Conan Doyle’s mind. The clock is ticking toward the fate of the world, the mage had warned, and Conan Doyle believed this to be true, but did not know when the metaphorical clock would chime. He did not want to be caught unawares.

"No," he responded. "The rest of you will remain here with me."

He poured himself another scotch. A double this time.

"Better to be safe than sorry."

Nigel Gull stood in the customs line at Logan International Airport and waited to show his passport to a security guard. The long flight from Athens had been a test of his patience, thanks to the rudeness of his fellow passengers, but he had been relatively comfortable in the first-class section. Over the years he had grown inured to the stares of those who were ignorant or insensitive. He did not need a mirror to remind him how freakish his appearance was, his skull so misshapen that his face looked more like a horse’s than a human’s. No, every idiot who stared at him was his mirror. He saw himself in and through their eyes. Once upon a time there had lived in England a man named John Merrick who was publicly referred to as the Elephant Man, because it was believed he had a rare condition called elephantiasis. In subsequent years Merrick’s actual ailment had been debated, but the name remained.

The Elephant Man.

Gull had been repulsed by the circus that had surrounded Merrick. He knew the source of his own freakish appearance but had no desire to be paraded around London as the Horse-headed man, or some such. He was a human being, despite the equine influence that was evident in his eyes and ears and the length and shape of his head.

No, all in all, the flight had been innocuous enough. Now, though, as he and his two traveling companions made their way down the long corridor toward the customs area, they were herded along with the rest of the passengers, as well as those from two other flights that had arrived nearly simultaneously. Logan Airport was the hub of air travel not only in Boston, but in all of New England, particularly for overseas travel. There were plenty of gawking children, adults who alternated between open astonishment and averting their gaze, and a pair of teenagers with so little breeding that they actually clutched one another, pointing and laughing.

"Oh, shit. What is up with that?" one of them crowed, a dark-skinned boy in an oversized basketball jersey.

Gull ignored them. He felt his companions stiffen, however. They walked on either side of him as though they were his bodyguards, when in fact they were his friends and associates. On his left was a distinguished, silver-haired gentleman, well-dressed in a sport coat and trousers. Nick Hawkins looked as though he had just left a fitting at the tailor’s rather than just disembarked from a six-hour transatlantic flight. At first glance, women were taken by the man’s chiseled features and insouciant smile. Then they saw the cold emptiness of his eyes.

Hawkins had proven himself an asset time and time again. He had gifts he had only begun to tap in the employment of the British government, but he had chosen to work with Gull instead. The benefits were far greater. Anything Nick Hawkins could imagine, his association with Gull could enable him to achieve. And Hawkins had quite an imagination.

Gull’s other companion drew nearly as many stares as he did himself, though for far different reasons. The girl was fifteen — or perhaps sixteen, he could not recall her age at her last birthday — and quite stunning. Her hair was a rich cinnamon, her eyes ocean blue, and she walked with the confident strut that was part dancer, part prizefighter. Her jeans hung so low on her hips it seemed impossible for them to remain in place, and her top came down to just beneath her breasts, leaving what seemed to be yards of beautiful pale abdomen and a tiny dimpled navel exposed for public view.

Jezebel was a force of nature. Gull’s heart filled with pride at the sight of her. She swept the attention of others in her wake, commanding them without a glance. But even her radiance was not enough to draw all eyes from Gull’s hideousness. When the pair of teenaged boys laughed and pointed at him, she and Hawkins had both tensed. The suave gentleman turned gray, soulless eyes on Gull, who shook his head. But Jezebel was not so easily discouraged.

"Come on, then," she said playfully, linking her arm with his as they moved up in the customs line. "Let me hurt them. Just a bit of a scorching ought to do for the lads well enough."

Gull frowned. "Do nothing, Jez. You cause any trouble and we may have to wait ‘round til it gets sorted. I can’t have that, yeah? You just be my good girl. I promise you’ll have plenty of fun later on."

Jezebel rolled her eyes, tucked a lock of cinnamon hair behind her ear, and spun around to face him, walking backward in the line. "As long as you promise. I’ll be good. I’m always good, aren’t I, Nick?"

The girl enjoyed baiting Hawkins, but the man was stone-faced. His years with British Intelligence had honed him to such a fine edge that he was too sharp, too dangerous, even for them. One nubile girl was not going to dull his edge. No matter what else she might be capable of.

"You’re always good, love," Hawkins replied at last, but Jezebel had already turned to hand her passport to the customs agent.

Gull waited for his turn, Hawkins taking up a position behind him. The teenagers continued to snicker and made rude comments under their breath. The tall, malformed man lifted a large hand and scratched at his chin. His brows knitted in consternation. For well over a century he had endured such idiocy. But sometimes he ran out of patience. He glanced back at Hawkins and nodded. The handsome man remained expressionless as he reached into his jacket pocket in search of his British passport. As he withdrew it, he fumbled it, and it dropped to the floor not far from the two boys.

Hawkins stepped out of line, closing the distance between himself and the teens. He crouched to pick up his passport, and as he did, he let the fingers of his left hand brush the shoe of the nearest, a slight boy with delicate features.

If Gull had not had exceptional hearing and been paying close attention he would have lost Hawkins’s words in the susurrus of voices in the terminal. But he was able to decipher them, lagging a bit even as Jezebel finished with the customs agent.

"Your friend here is going to get pinched for smuggling drugs later this year. He’s going to sell you out. In prison, you’ll be shanked in the shower, cut wide open so your intestines are hanging out, and while your blood runs down the drain, they’ll take turns raping you, so the last thing you know will be the pain of your rectum tearing and the weight of a murderer with heinous breath upon your back."