Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

"Lieutenant," Dioskouri said.

"Detective," Clay acknowledged dismissively, channeling every nuance of Lieutenant Yannis Papathansiou’s personality and body language. They were speaking Greek, which Squire did not understand very well, but in his masquerade, speaking English would have raised suspicions. He looked past Dioskouri, searching for the crime scene. "The body is where?"

The detective nervously adjusted his glasses as he turned and pointed through the darkness to a section of columns. "Back there, his wife found him."

"Time’s a wastin’, Zorba," Squire said, heading toward the crime scene.

"And you are?" Dioskouri asked in English, moving to block Squire’s way.

Squire sighed in exasperation. "Would you mind telling him who I am, Yannis, old chum?"

"This is Professor Squire from the Institute in Vienna," Clay explained in staccato Greek. "He’s been vacationing on the islands and was kind enough to offer his assistance."

Dioskouri looked down at the tiny man in confusion. His English was rough, but understandable. "I mean no disrespect sir, but you are an expert on the impossible? On men and women turned to stone?"

Squire clasped his stubby arms behind his back and rocked on the heels of his high top sneakers. "You’d be surprised, my boy, you’d be surprised."

Clay decided that it would be wise to get them to the body as quickly as possible and pushed past Dioskouri and Squire. "Keramikous," he called to the other detective, who was still conversing with two, uniformed patrolman.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" the man responded quickly, stepping away from the officers.

"Secure the area. Professor Squire and I are going to look at the crime scene."

Keramikous looked momentarily confused. "Professor Squire?"

"He’s from the Institute in Vienna," Dioskouri snapped, with an air of superiority.

"Carry on," Clay said, waving them away as he and Squire carefully navigated the stone pathway that would take them to the body.

"Where exactly is this Institute in Vienna?" Squire asked in a whisper from the corner of his mouth, amusement in his voice.

Clay shrugged. "I made it up. But neither of them seems interested in second-guessing their lieutenant."

"Did you know I’m this shy of a degree in massage therapy?" the hobgoblin asked, holding his sausage-sized thumb and forefinger apart less than an inch.

"You don’t say," Clay said as they approached the Doric columns around which yellow crime scene tape had been wrapped.

"Couldn’t find any place to accept my internship though," Squire grumbled. "I think it’s because I’m a guy trying to break into an industry dominated by chicks. What do you think?"

Clay pulled away the tape, maneuvering around the column, searching for the latest Gorgon victim. "I think I might be able to find you something in New Orleans, if you’re interested."

An unusually wide, toothy grin spread across the hobgoblin’s face. "Hey, you’d do that for me? That’d be sweet."

"Here we go," Clay said as they came upon the petrified body. It was just as disturbing as the others, the features wide with fear and despair.

"All right, let’s deal with this Gorgon bullshit and get home to the important stuff." Squire began to move around the crime scene, examining every shadow.

Clay smiled to himself. Now at least Squire would be focused. He wondered briefly how Graves was faring in his more spiritual investigation, haunting the streets of the ancient city for a spirit or two that might give them some information about the Gorgon’s whereabouts. Hopefully, working both the physical angle and the ethereal, they could make some progress and find the creature before it caused anymore harm.

Still wearing the shape of the overweight detective, he turned his attention to the ossified figure before him. Its terrified gaze was frozen, staring blankly in the direction of the two columns. "The Gorgon must have been standing somewhere over there," Clay said, turning toward the columns.

"Let’s see if it left anything of interest behind." Squire walked over to the columns, surveying the ground around them. "No conveniently dropped cigarette butts or anything," the goblin observed, "but that doesn’t mean it didn’t leave a scent behind."

Clay took that as his cue to alter his form again. To track by scent he summoned the shape of an animal with an incredibly acute olfactory sense. The shape of Yannis Papathansiou melted away with a sound very much like the flapping of bird’s wings, to be replaced by a far more beastly form — a Dire Wolf, prehistoric relative of the common gray wolf, larger and more sturdy than its modern counterpart.

"Nice doggy," Squire said, stepping away.

Clay smelled it immediately, the aroma of something ancient and dangerous, hinting of desperation and unpredictability. It made the hackles of fur at the back of his neck stand on end.

"I’ve got it," he growled, altering the structure of the wolf’s mouth slightly to allow him to speak.

Squire jumped onto his back, grabbing a handful of thick, grayish fur. "Go fetch."

It was no simple thing to avoid the police already in the area, but Clay maneuvered in the shadows and the route of the Gorgon’s escape, neat the back of the ruins. Its scent was all over the place. The Dire Wolf leaped into the darkness. They paused a moment, waiting for voices to shout at them, but no one had noticed their exit.

Clay placed his nose closer to the ground and began to follow the trail, a path so obvious it was like following bread crumbs, or a line drawn with bright red crayon. The Dire Wolf and its passenger padded across the timeworn ground of the Agora, leaving the murder scene behind. The spoor was strong. At this rate, it would only be a matter of time before they found their prize.

A sound like the crack of a bullwhip filled the air as a bullet exploded from the barrel of a rifle. The steel-jacketed projectile slammed through the thick fur and muscle of the Dire Wolf’s neck, turning several of its vertebrae to powder. Clay flipped backward on his side with a roar of pain, bucking Squire from his perch. Already, the flesh was knitting as the shapeshifter assumed a more familiar guise, a human face.

"Squire, are you all right?" he hissed, altering the structure of his eyes, turning the darkness of night to the light of day and scanning for signs of their attacker.

Squire slunk up next to him in the shadows, an inch-long gash in his forehead. The two of them moved quickly against the face of a building, gauging the location of the shooter as best they could and hoping they would be out of the line of sight. Without another shot, Clay could only guess about the sniper’s location, and guessing would be dangerous.

"Think he’s still up there?" Squire asked, craning his neck back as though he might spot the sniper from their vantage point.

"Only one way to find out. Stay here."

The hobgoblin did not protest as Clay stepped away from the building and out into the open. No matter how destructive, a simple bullet wasn’t going to do more than tear him up a little, and Clay could always knit himself back together.

No second shot came.

Peering into the darkness at the tops of the neighboring buildings, even with his eyes adjusted, he saw only architecture. Nothing moved.

"He’s gone."

Squire grunted, cursing under his breath as he touched the wound on his head and stepped away from the wall. "What the hell was the asshole doing? If he thought he could pop us, he would’ve stuck around. But if he knew it wouldn’t be that easy, why bother?"

The question troubled Clay. He shifted into the form of the Dire Wolf again but this time Squire trotted along behind him. Clay was moving more slowly. They passed through a narrow alley, tracking the scent, but on the next street over, a cobblestoned road that seemed almost abandoned, the Dire Wolf sniffed and flinched away from the ground, nostrils searing and eyes watering.