Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

The silver-haired gentleman held up his passport, brandishing it so that Gull could see it, as if letting his companion know there was no problem. As if he had said nothing. He smiled an empty smile and returned to the line, even as Gull handed his own identification to the customs agent.

"Fuck! You’re a fucking nut! Sick fucking freak!" the teen was shouting.

But no one else had heard Hawkins speak, and all they saw was an ill-mannered lout of a boy screaming at a distinguished businessman. Hawkins shook his head as though the boy’s behavior was beneath him to even acknowledge and waited patiently for his turn with customs.

Fifteen minutes later they had retrieved their luggage from the baggage claim. Jezebel secured a cart and helped Hawkins load it, and now they wheeled it in silence through the busy terminal as travelers moved out of their way. The electronic doors parted to make way for them, and they emerged onto the sidewalk in front of the airport, where a line of limousines and taxicabs waited.

Cold rain swept down from dark skies heavy with thunderheads. It was midafternoon, but the gloom pretended evening. The cars that rolled beneath the overhanging roof that kept the emerging travelers dry dripped with rain, leaving damp tire tracks in their passing.

Nigel Gull paused on the sidewalk, his distended nostrils widening. It had been raining lightly when they landed, but the storm had gotten much worse in the subsequent forty minutes. He snorted in displeasure.

"A singularly unlovely day."

Jezebel had slipped on her burgundy leather jacket. Now she left the luggage cart and stood beside him, gazing out at the storm. Her left hand gripped his arm, and she lay her head against his shoulder.

"No," Gull began. "Jez, love, you don’t have to — "

"Hush," the girl said.

Gull’s heart swelled. Such a sweet child. He would never have a daughter of his own, but in Jezebel he had found a girl who was everything he could ever have wanted as a legacy. How he loved her. As he watched, her beautiful, delicate face became dark and cruel. Her eyes were closed tightly, her features lined with intensity. She shook, and her grip on his arm tightened. A drop of blood bubbled out of her right nostril, steaming, and when it fell to the sidewalk it evaporated on contact with the concrete.

Her eyes flickered open. A mist seemed to rise off of those orbs, the same ocean green as her irises. Then a smile blossomed on her face and she went impossibly rigid beside him. Gull was at once fearful for her and enchanted. She was never more beautiful than in the throes of her power. Her personal magic.

Her grip relaxed, and she slumped against him. Gull put an arm around her shoulders and at last tore his gaze from her. As far as he could see, the rain had ceased. The black clouds were thinning, burning off, and in several places the sun peeked through, revealing a hint of blue sky beyond.

"It will be nice now," Jezebel said, her words slurring. "Spectacular, even." She glanced around for Hawkins and spotted him a few feet away, studying the line of limousines that stood at the curb, their drivers standing in front of them, each holding a sign scrawled with the name of their client.

"Nick, lovey, get us a car, won’t you? I need somewhere to fall."

Hawkins glanced at her, then at Gull. He said nothing, for Jezebel was irritating him on purpose. She knew full well that he was already in the process of choosing their transportation. Women passing by watched him appreciatively as they dragged their wheeled baggage toward waiting taxis. But despite Jezebel’s exhaustion, Gull had no interest in a taxi. He would not ride in one in London, nor would he do so here in the States.

"Only a moment, Jez," Gull promised her.

But the girl had already closed her eyes again and seemed on the verge of falling asleep where she stood, leaning on him.

After another moment, Hawkins began to walk along the line of limousines, idly brushing his fingers against each of them as he passed. At the third — a long ghost-white model — he paused. Gull thought he saw a tiny smile flicker across Hawkins’s face, but it might have been his imagination.

"Mr. Gull," Hawkins said, beckoning to him.

With Jezebel staggering somnambulently at his side, Gull grasped the handle of the luggage cart and wheeled it toward the limousine. He reached it just as Hawkins was approaching the driver, who stood in front of the vehicle holding a small white cardboard sign stenciled with the name E. POWELL.

"Hello there, are you Bob, then?" Hawkins asked the driver.

The young man with the black suit and the E. POWELL sign flinched and then looked Hawkins up and down in frank appraisal.

"Can I help you, sir?" the driver asked.

"You are Bob, yes?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Ah, excellent," Hawkins said. "I apologize for keeping you waiting. I missed my flight and had to take the next one. I know you’ve been here for quite some time… two hours, is it? I’ll make sure to add a large gratuity to the company charge."

Bob smiled in relief. "You’re Mr. Powell," he said. "I was beginning to wonder if I was in the wrong place. I called in, and they said to wait another twenty minutes or so. Truth is, I was about to leave."

Hawkins glanced over his shoulder at Gull and Jezebel. "Well, then it seems we’ve arrived just in time."

The driver frowned, glancing once at the others but then trying his best not to see them, Gull because of his hideousness, Jezebel because of her beauty. "Oh. I didn’t realize there were three of you. The slip said one passenger."

"Is that a problem?"

"No. No, of course not. There’s plenty of room, Mr. Powell."

Then he smiled and opened the door for Gull and Jezebel. They climbed into the expansive rear of the limousine, and she stretched out full length on one of the seats, instantly asleep. Moments later Bob was sliding behind the wheel and Hawkins was climbing into the rear of the limousine, and then they were drawing away from the airport.

Above them, the clouds had all but disappeared. The sky was clear and blue, and the sun shone warmly down upon the limousine as it made its way toward the heart of Boston.

"Oh, Bob," Hawkins called.

"Yes, Mr. Powell?"

"Change of destination, my boy. We’re going to be staying with a local associate this trip."

"Whatever you say, sir. So, where are we headed?" the driver asked.

"Beacon Hill," Gull replied, his mind darkening with memory now. "Louisburg Square. I’ve come to visit an old friend."

"Yeah," Bob said, nodding sagely. "That’s nice. Visiting old friends."

Gull gazed out the window, but he could no longer see the beautiful day that Jezebel had given him. His eyes stared, instead, into the shadows of the past.

The ninth of August 1902. Coronation Day. But Nigel Gull had neither the inclination nor the invitation to attend Edward’s installment as king. Even if he had, he had spent the day and the evening performing a different service to the Crown. It was long after dark, now, when sensible people were in their beds. Gull rarely slept.

The rail station at Clapham Junction was dark and deserted as he made his way along the platform, gaze plumbing the shadows all around. It had begun to rain an hour or two before, and the storm cast a shroud upon everything it touched. Gull’s eyesight was keen, however, and the rain would not inhibit him. He could see, for instance, that nothing moved in the gallery on the far side of the tracks, where passengers would await the morning train come dawn. Within the station itself, all seemed still and undisturbed. Yet he could feel it. In the damp air there were traces of malign magick, echoes of a sinister presence. Gull thought the author of such dark deeds was no longer at the scene, but caution guided him, nevertheless.