Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

The Voice of the Dead.

"He is a tall man, thin, and he wears spectacles. His jacket is long and fancy. His name is Graham," Gull went on, the sweet, angelic voice of the murdered girl issuing from his lips.

Conan Doyle recoiled, taking a step back into the open door of the Pullman. "What black sorcery is this, Gull? This is the gift you received from Anubis, the power for which you let yourself be disfigured?"

"Only one of them," Gull replied, still in the voice of the dead girl. "Only one. And would you not listen, now, Arthur? Is your disdain so great you will not hear the voice of this savaged child, so that we might find her defiler?"

Conan Doyle’s mouth opened, his expression revealing his intent to deliver a righteous tirade. But then his gaze shifted to the naked, carved body of the girl, and he faltered. Anger burned in his eyes but the spark of magick in them receded. His fists clenched at his side, and he nodded once.

"Go on."

Gull felt for the echoes within him again and once more spoke in the Voice of the Dead, searching the fragments of her spirit for the clues that would lead them to her killer. He felt confident it would work. It must work. The friendship he had shared with Conan Doyle, tenuous as it had always been, would never be the same after this. Gull knew it even then. But he was no stranger to sacrifice, when the stakes were high enough, and he accepted this loss without hesitation.

"He spoke of Norwich as home," said the dead girl’s voice.

Conan Doyle nodded. "That may be where he’s headed."

After he had finished conferring with his agents about their assignment in Greece, Conan Doyle excused himself and retreated deeper into the house. It was pleasant to have them all together beneath his roof, and he knew they would take some small time to socialize. This was only right and natural. And it was important, as well, for them to continue to get to know one another better, to develop their relationships. Sanguedolce had issued dire warnings upon Conan Doyle’s last encounter with him, and there was no doubt that the menagerie would be needed once again before long. He had not revealed to them all of what Sanguedolce had said to him about The DemoGorgon, an entity of cosmic evil that was, even now, making its way across the universe toward this world. He would bear the weight of that threat himself, for the moment, and do all he could to see that when the DemoGorgon arrived at last, they were prepared.

But that was for another day, another year. Perhaps even another lifetime. For now, there were other threats and other concerns.

Smoothing his jacket, tugging at his sleeves, he stood a bit straighter and made his way up the stairs. The banister was smooth under his touch. Upon the wall beside the stairs hung portraits of long ago friends such as Houdini and Barrie and Colonel Cody. Elsewhere in the house there were portraits of Innes and Jean and the Ma’am. All were remnants of another life, melancholy echoes of another age. Yet rather than sadden him, their presence comforted him and lent him strength.

A smile pushed up the ends of his mustache as he crested the landing. Conan Doyle made his way down a long corridor, turned and followed another, and with every step he could feel the electric tingle of magick in the air. He breathed deeply, and on the air he caught the scent of flowers so sweet they could only grow in Faerie. That alone soothed him, the air of Faerie filling his lungs, refreshing him.

Ceridwen stood at the end of the corridor, her long, lithe form draped in sheer silk the deep blue of the horizon just before sunset. The wind from Faerie blew through an open door, each gust causing the silk to cling to her sensuous form in such a way as to make his breath catch in his throat. The pain of regret still lingered between them and he had not dared to suggest that they might put aside the harms of the past, but there was no denying the emotion that remained.

The door was the very one Conan Doyle had once used to leave her, to leave Faerie — he had thought forever. He had sealed it behind him, this passage between worlds, and only recently had been forced by circumstance to open it again, to return and plead for her aid. In the crisis that ensued, the passageway had been destroyed.

Now, Ceridwen had rebuilt it. The question in Conan Doyle’s heart was, to what end?

"You can return home, now," he said, damning himself for the quaver in his voice.

Ceridwen stared a moment longer through the door. As Conan Doyle joined her, he could see the trees and hills of Faerie and a stream that flowed gently along a curving path, burbling over stones.

Then the elemental sorceress, the niece of King Finvarra of the Fey, turned to him. Her features were fine and noble, cheekbones high, violet eyes wide and commanding. Yet he knew her. Loved her as no one ever had. And he saw the sadness and doubt in her gaze.

"I could," she agreed. A glint of magic sparkled in her gaze. "And I could return, from time to time. This passage makes it convenient enough. For now, though… it seems to me that the recent troubles in Faerie were inextricably tied to the misery that befell this world. The connection between the two seems stronger than it has been in quite some time, so that what threatens one realm threatens them all. It may be that a new dark age is imminent. If so, I believe that I will do more good working with you and your clan here than at home."

Her proud gaze faltered a moment and she glanced away. Then she lifted her chin and met his eye. "That is, if you have no objection."

Conan Doyle wanted to reach out to her, to pull her into his embrace and feel the soft silk of her robes beneath his touch. He wanted to laugh with surprise and pleasure. But Ceridwen would not have approved. He had hurt her badly, once upon a time. Perhaps there would come a time when all the detritus of their past could be brushed aside and the simple adoration they had once felt for each other could be reborn. For now, though, they were separated by the ruin of things that might have been. But Ceridwen wanted to stay, and that meant there was hope.

"My dear, you are welcome in my home from this night until the last night of the world."

Her pale, blue-white marbled skin flushed slightly pink, but only for a moment. Ceridwen nodded, softening. "I am pleased. We may be at the forefront of a new round of Twilight Wars, and there is no one at whose side I would rather fight."

The blush of a smile whispered across her face and in her violet eyes he saw the innocent heart he had known, years before. It was gone, then, hidden beneath the hardened wisdom of the time since, but as Ceridwen nodded her thanks and then set off down the corridor away from him, Conan Doyle found happy contentment in the knowledge that it was still there, within her. Regardless of what might or might not happen between them in the future, he silently vowed never to disappoint her again.

The roads were still slick with recent rain but the sky was crystal blue, the kind of day that seemed like a gift. Nigel Gull did not like the rain. It spoke to him with the voices of the dead, yet only in unintelligible whispers. The ghosts of words he couldn’t really hear. Now he sat in the back of the limousine and glanced at Jezebel, sleeping soundly where she lay sprawled on the seat, and he cherished her. She was always looking out for him, poor girl. Gull intended to return the favor.

The windows were down slightly, and there was a salty tang to the air that blew in. A stranger to Boston, he had known it was near the ocean but had not understood exactly how integral was the relationship between city and harbor. Gull breathed in deeply, savoring the breeze.

"We’re coming up on it now," the driver reported.

Gull raised an eyebrow. Jezebel did not stir, but Hawkins glanced curiously out the window. Gull leaned over Jezebel and caught sight of a row of well-kept brownstones on one side and a perfectly manicured little park on the other.