Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

"Thank you," Hawkins said as he took the tumbler from their host. Gull saw his eyes narrow as the man studied Arthur. "You having security issues, Mr. Doyle? Mage of your stature, I find it hard to imagine there’s a lot you’re afraid of."

Gull smiled as he brought his drink to his twisted mouth, careful not to dribble. Hawkins was a complete sociopath, and yet somehow managed to navigate complex dynamics well enough. Even now he was somehow mocking Conan Doyle, plumbing his current status, and massaging his ego, all at the same time.

Well done, Nick, Gull thought, watching as Hawkins at last took a seat in a wing back chair in the corner of the room.

"One must not fall prey to the curse of overconfidence," Conan Doyle said as he turned away from the liquor cabinet, having poured himself a scotch as well. "There was a recent incident that forced me to take a closer look at the brownstone’s defenses and — " He stopped mid-sentence, casting an icy stare at Hawkins.

"Is something wrong, Arthur?" Gull asked.

"Not at all," Conan Doyle replied, his tone clipped, his feathers seemingly ruffled. "I’ll just have a seat over here."

Gull wanted to laugh out loud. So Hawkins is sitting on Arthur’s throne. The annoyance poured from the man in waves.

"So, Nigel," Conan Doyle began, swirling the golden brown liquid in his glass. "It’s been quite a long time."

"A dog’s age," Gull agreed, and then chuckled. "Or an entire litter’s. When was it that we last saw each other?" he asked, knowing the answer well enough.

Conan Doyle took a moment to think, and Gull felt his own ire begin to rise. Though it had been more than twenty years ago, he was certain that the arch mage had not forgotten. They were fencing, and Arthur had just parried.

"Was it that tawdry business with the phoenix egg?" Conan Doyle asked finally.

"I believe it was," Gull said with a nod and smile that he hoped appeared pleasant. "I can still see the look on my client’s face as you and your Menagerie stormed into his citadel to relieve him of his prize."

Conan Doyle nodded at the memory, resting his tumbler upon his knee. "A shame that I had to step in and prevent that transaction." He straightened the crease in the leg of his dark trousers. "But as you well knew, the phoenix was at the top of the endangered mythical species list, and I couldn’t allow it to fall into the hands of some boastful Middle Eastern death cult." He took another sip of his drink. "Your client did eventually understand, did he not?"

Gull smiled knowingly and shifted his position on the couch. "You killed them all, Arthur, down to the last mad-eyed lad. You and your followers sent their spirits into the embrace of the Sumerian death goddess they so devoutly worshipped."

Conan Doyle gazed thoughtfully over the lip of the tumbler. "I guess we did at that. So long ago, I didn’t quite remember."

Like hell, Gull thought. But he kept the smile on his face. "No matter," he said. "Since they were all dead, there was no need to refund any money. It worked out for the best."

Hawkins chuckled darkly and lifted his glass toward Gull in a toast, then polished off what remained of his drink. At her mentor’s side, Jezebel cozied up closer to the nearest thing to a father she’d ever had.

Conan Doyle had finished his drink as well and balanced the empty glass on the arm of the chair. He fixed Gull in his gaze.

"I’m certain this isn’t a social call, Nigel," he said. "So why don’t we cease the rather uncomfortable pleasantries, and you can get on with your business."

Gull leaned forward, placing his drink on the floor at his feet. Jezebel frowned and sleepily opened her eyes, looking up at him with a certain petulance. One moment she was full of sexual swagger, fully in charge of her charms, and the next she was uncertain and awkward. He cherished her for her complications.

"Not very subtle, is he?" Jezebel asked, her eyes fluttering closed again as she settled back.

Gull smiled. "No. He never was." Then he turned his focus back to Conan Doyle, placing a hand over his heart. "You wound me, Arthur. After all this time, you still cannot see the ties that bind us? We are brothers, not defined by biology, but by something far more powerful than mere parentage. We are brothers in magick."

Suddenly, Jezebel bolted awake, startling green eyes wide in shock. "Why can’t you just leave me be!" she shrieked, jagged bolts of electrical force arcing from her fingertips.

"Lovely," Hawkins muttered, dropping from his chair — Arthur’s chair — to the floor as the tendrils of electricity seared through the air above him, blackening the wall behind the seat.

Gull placed a gentle hand on the girl’s cheek as she gazed around the room, wild-eyed.

"It’s all right, Jezebel," he whispered. "It was a dream."

She slapped his hand away. "Don’t touch me — don’t you ever touch me!" Her right hand shot out, a swirling ball of lightning collecting in her palm, and Gull instinctively began a spell to counter her destructive force.

With a piercing scream Jezebel unleashed her collected power, but it did not travel far. Before Gull could stop her, he was staggered by a blast of magick that traveled past him and encircled Jezebel in a sphere, her own power exploding within the containment field. This had been a recurring problem, nightmares of her time before coming to join him. He thought that they had made better progress than this.

Gull’s heart nearly broke as he watched the pretty young thing convulse, tossing her red hair around like fire. The elemental power that she had summoned struck at her like a cobra, trapped within the sphere with her, and after jittering for a moment with the shock of it, Jezebel slumped to the sofa, unconscious. He turned away from the disturbing sight to see Arthur standing in front of an upended chair, his hand extended and the residue of his spell still trickling from the tips of his fingers.

"That will be enough of that," Conan Doyle said sternly.

The magickal sphere dissipated as suddenly as it had appeared, and the unconscious Jezebel moaned in discomfort. Gull was relieved to see that she was not badly injured.

"My thanks, Arthur," he said. "She has a bit of a problem with night terrors."

"Still choosing the cream of the crop, I see." Conan Doyle glanced briefly at Hawkins, before returning his steely gaze to Gull. "Now, then, Nigel, no more foolishness. What do you want? And be quick about it, I grow weary of your company."

Gull bristled, longing to reply with equal candor. But there were other things at stake here than his pride.

"Right, then. How foolish of me to attempt to be polite. As you no doubt are aware, there are people dying in Greece from most unusual causes."

He watched Conan Doyle’s face. A tick of familiarity danced at the corner of his old friend’s eye. Arthur knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Go on."

"I intend to stop these horrid killings, and I thought it would be best if we were to work together."

Conan Doyle’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, and he brought a hand to his face, smoothing his mustache. "You haven’t the best record of selfless heroism, Nigel. What’s the catch?"

Gull feigned surprise. "No catch. Simply put, I need your help."

With Nigel Gull, there was always a catch.

Conan Doyle had encountered him many times over the years since they had parted company and though Gull was not precisely evil, he had certainly been tainted by the dark magick he employed. Or, perhaps more accurately, he had become the epitome of the old adage that the ends justified the means. Deceitful, ambitious, and amoral, with Nigel Gull, nothing was ever as it seemed. The man referred to those in his employ as his Wicked. That was signal enough that he was not to be trusted.