Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

"I think not," he said with a shake of his head.

"Oh, come now, Arthur," Gull replied. "I’m fairly certain I can learn to play nice. I’d assumed no less of you." The deformed man smiled and Conan Doyle was chilled by how horribly wrong it looked.

Conan Doyle righted the chair he’d upended and took his seat once more, crossing his arms and staring at Gull. "Since when have you had a concern for anything or anyone other than yourself?"

Seated beside the unconscious Jezebel, Gull began to gently stroke her face, just as a father might have done. "You’re quick with the barbs, aren’t you? I’ve put the past behind me. Pity you can’t say the same," he said with a sad shake of his misshapen head.

Conan Doyle was unsure if it was a symptom of the man’s malady, but he could have sworn that Gull was even more deformed than the last time they crossed paths. Perhaps the result of further dabblings in dark magick, he thought.

The man named Hawkins stood and went to the liquor cabinet, distracting him from his musings. He gestured toward the decanter of scotch with an empty glass. "Mind if I help myself?"

"Please be my guest." Conan Doyle wanted to focus on his verbal sparring with Gull, but could not help watching as Hawkins removed the glass stopper and poured the drink. There was an unusual tremble in the man’s hand.

"Is something wrong?" Conan Doyle asked.

Hawkins carefully returned the stopper to the bottle. "Not really. It’s just that the poor sod who made this crystal decanter died by inches, poisoned by his wife’s lover. That’s a terrible way to give up the ghost."

Gull cleared his throat. "Hawkins is psychometric."

Conan Doyle frowned. He didn’t like that. Not at all. A psychometric was able to read the psychic residue imprinted upon any object he touched. Having such a man in his house could be unpleasant and inconvenient. The invasion of his privacy made Conan Doyle even more sour.

Hawkins sipped his drink, returning to the chair he had claimed as his own. "Not even going to tell you what I’ve learned about you sitting in this chair," he said with a disconcerting smile.

Conan Doyle was not amused. "Perhaps that’s best," he said dryly, returning his attention to Gull. "I’m sorry, Nigel, but I’m afraid the answer is still no." He stood. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have a rather full agenda today…"

He gestured politely toward the doorway.

"Don’t be so rash. How many more will die before you finally stumble across the answers you seek?" Gull demanded. "Simply because you cannot put aside past animosity."

Conan Doyle did not respond, so Gull stood, bending down to haul the still unconscious Jezebel into a sitting position. "Come along now, Jez, it seems the old boy’s even more arrogant than I remembered."

The girl moaned, beginning to come around. Hawkins moved to assist Gull, slipping the girl’s arm around his neck and lifting her to her feet.

"Thanks, Nick. She’s heavy for a little bit of a thing."

They were ready to leave, and Conan Doyle struggled with his decision to let them go. He had the utmost faith in the team he had dispatched to Athens, but he knew that Gull was right. If his old adversary had information that could save the lives of innocents, how in good conscience could he let them leave?

"A pleasure to see you again, Arthur," Gull said as he reached the door of the study.

"Nigel? Crickey, Nigel, what happened to me?" Jezebel asked softly.

Gull shushed her, reassuring her that everything was fine.

It pained him, but Conan Doyle cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. "If we were to work together," he began, drawing the attention of Nigel Gull and his operatives, "you would have to follow my instructions completely."

Gull smiled. There was a twinkle in his dark, animal eyes, and for a brief moment, Conan Doyle could not help but feel as though he had stepped into the lion’s den.

"To the very letter," he agreed. "My Wicked and I will be at your beck and call." And he bowed his wrongly shaped head in complete obeisance.

"Fine," Conan Doyle agreed, nearly choking on the word.

Gull strode back across the room and gripped Doyle’s shoulder with a gnarled hand. "You won’t regret this, Arthur."

Doyle’s nostrils flared with distaste. "Time will tell. For now, you can begin by telling me everything you know about the threat we face in Athens."

"Very well." Gull released him, turning to his Wicked. "Take Jezebel to the car," he told Hawkins. "Arthur and I will finish up here, and I’ll be down shortly."

Hawkins did as he was told, helping the girl, who was still unsteady, from the study.

"Don’t be long," Jezebel called over her shoulder, weakly lifting a hand to bid her master good-bye.

"A charming girl once you get to know her," Gull noted.

"Athens?" Conan Doyle prodded.

"Of course," Gull responded, bowing his head again. "I was doing some research on the Greek Isles for a potential client, when I stumbled upon them — Gorgons, Arthur. There are Gorgons loose in Greece."

Conan Doyle reached up to again stroke his mustache. Gorgons. It certainly was a possibility. "Those creatures haven’t walked the earth in millennia, why now?"

Gull tilted his head. "That I don’t know. But the second I realized this, I knew I couldn’t deal with it alone, even with my operatives to back me up. There was a time when I had plenty of agents, but now there’s only Hawkins and Jezebel. Coming to you was the logical decision, but it had to be in person. You would never have trusted me if I’d just sent you a letter in the post or rang you up."

Conan Doyle crossed his arms across his chest. "And I’m supposed to believe you’ve done all this out of some sudden nobility? You’ve always got an angle, Nigel. What’s in it for you?"

Gull chuckled, turning away from the view to look at his friend. "Quite a bit, actually. Never claimed I was a model of virtue. I was trying to find the remains of a Gorgon. Then I stumbled upon the real thing. Point is, there are a few items I’ve got to acquire from the creatures. For a client, you understand."

"What sort of items?"

"Do you know how much a mere drop of Gorgon blood is worth on the black market? A lock of its hair? A claw? Or one of its eyes? Priceless."

"You always were quite the humanitarian," Conan Doyle said with a shake of his head.

"Do not condescend to me, brother," Gull said, leaving the window. "You’ll get what you want, yes? Another supernatural threat eliminated from the world. And I’ll have what I need as well. Everybody wins."

Conan Doyle had heard enough. "I believe I’ve had my fill of your company for now, Nigel," he said, turning to leave the study. "You can show yourself out."

"Will you be assembling your team?" Gull asked. "Your Menagerie?"

Doyle pretended not to hear the question, continuing on his way.

"I’m so looking forward to working with them."

Yannis Papathansiou sucked on the end of a fat cigar, savoring the thick, oily smoke. It had been nearly six years since he’d last partaken of what his late wife had called a filthy habit. He had forgotten how much pleasure it gave him.

Away from the city, the night was quiet except for the chirping of crickets. If he closed his eyes and cleared his mind, he could almost imagine that the world was a beautiful and sane place. Almost. But he doubted he would ever be able to convince himself of that again, not with the images of the victims at the Epidaurus Guest House seared into his mind.

Yannis opened his eyes to gaze out over the field behind the Moni Pendeli monastery. It was used as a private landing strip for some of the wealthier visitors to the popular weekend retreat. Tonight, he waited for an altogether different kind of guest.