Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

Her. Not a monster anymore. Not after hearing that sigh. No matter how hideous she was, no matter how insane her curse had made her, there was still a part of her that was the sensuously beautiful creature she had once been.

This thought was still echoing in Clay’s mind as he willed himself to change once more. Not a human. Not a cat. Not a monster, this time. He transformed into his natural body — or the one with which he was most intimate — a seven-foot-tall, hairless, man whose flesh was his namesake. Clay. Lined with cracks, cool and dry. And strong.

With uncanny swiftness he crossed the last five feet to the stone coffin and reached for Medusa.

An earsplitting, almost musical whistle split the night.

The sound disturbed her, and even as Clay reached for the Gorgon, Medusa dropped the rabbit she had been gnawing on and erupted from the crypt. The nest of serpents on her head hissed in chorus and lunged at him, snapping, even as Medusa turned toward the sound of the whistle.. toward Clay.

He did not have a chance to avert his eyes.

Clay heard Squire shout in alarm and saw Dr. Graves’s spectral form flying down at the Gorgon, even as he felt paralysis take hold. Horror blossomed within him. He was malleable, ever-changing, ever in motion. But now he froze, solid, unable to move or change.

No longer clay, but stone.

The fishing boat rocked beneath his feet, and Conan Doyle was surprised by how quickly he regained his sea legs. His mind briefly flashed back to his military service during the Boer Wars, when he had traveled to South Africa across turbulent seas on a British steamer. It had been years since he had thought of that part of his life, but he did not often ruminate on his more mundane existence, before his supposed death. Memory is such an odd device of the mind, Doyle mused, gazing out over the emerald green waters, stimulated by the most random things.

The winds blowing off the waters of the Ionian Sea were invigorating after the long day of travel from the island of Lesbos, and he greedily filled his lungs with the rejuvenating Mediterranean air. It wasn’t the rest his body craved, but it would have to do.

Conan Doyle turned to look at the weathered fisherman in the wheelhouse behind him. He had found him in a small tavern at the bay of Marmari. While his companions waited outside to avoid arousing any unwanted suspicions, the mage had gone in alone to hire a boat. All the fishing boats were in for the day, and none of the seamen present would even entertain the thought of taking their crafts out again, especially at the request of a foreigner — and an Englishman to boot.

He had reached the point where he was seriously considering using magick to manipulate one of their minds, when Danny had grown tired of waiting and come in to find him. The appearance of the boy had cast a pall of silence over the establishment. Even though his head was covered with the hood of his sweatshirt, in such close confines it was impossible for them not to recognize that the boy was not normal. His eyes, his teeth, his skin… The atmosphere of the tavern had grown immediately hostile, and Conan Doyle had decided that it would be best for them to leave at once.

Now the captain returned Conan Doyle’s gaze, yellow eyes glinting like polished gold in the last rays of the setting sun. A kindred spirit, he had called himself.

He had intercepted Conan Doyle and his group at the rear of the tavern, introducing himself as Captain Lycaon. Conan Doyle had sensed immediately that there something not quite human about the fisherman — something unnatural, but there seemed no malice in him, no duplicity. If he was an agent of Gull’s, well, that was the risk.

The captain smiled now through the wheelhouse window as he piloted the boat, and Conan Doyle could not help but notice again that there were far too many teeth in the man’s mouth. He doubted that Captain Lycaon smiled much around his fellow fisherman, or even that he had much contact with their like at all, other than to occasionally partake of some refreshment in the same establishment.

Kindred spirits. Lycaon said that it was Danny who had changed his mind, that he had sensed their kinship and would never have forgiven himself for not helping one of his own. Conan Doyle had considered asking the old man for his story, but decided against it, choosing instead to simply offer their destination.

"We’ll need passage along the coast to Cape Matapan — or Cape Taenarus as it used to be called."

The old man had nodded slowly, removing a pipe from his back pocket, preparing to smoke.

"Let me guess," he had said between puffs, the sweet smell of his tobacco causing Conan Doyle to crave the relaxing pleasures of his own briar pipe. "It’s the Ayil Asomati caves you seek."

"Precisely."

Lycaon spoke with a strange accent, not Greek, or anything else familiar, but with the hint of the Mediterranean in it nevertheless. "At night I hear the call of the caves sighing upon the winds, and they ask me if I am ready to lay down and sleep my last, but I tell them that it is not yet my time, that there are still many fish to catch, and much ouzo to drink."

"Will you take us then?" Conan Doyle had asked after a moment of silence during which the old captain puffed on his pipe, seeming to listen for the sounds of the caves.

"When would you like to leave?"

"Immediately."

They were on their way in a matter of minutes.

Now upon their journey, Conan Doyle took stock of his Menagerie. At the back of the boat Eve, Danny, and Ceridwen sat, enjoying a moment of respite before the next phase of their mission. They were tired and could have used some time to rest and regroup, but Gull had a healthy lead on them, and if they had any thought of catching up to him and his Wicked, they could not afford to tarry even for a moment.

Eve must have felt his eyes on her, for she glanced up, brows knitted in consternation. She rose to her feet and strode toward him, tugging at her torn leather coat, which was stained with her dried blood.

"I’m going to stink like fish for days," she complained, the wind whipping her hair around her sculpted features.

Conan Doyle always marveled at her beauty. Here she was only hours after battling a Hydra to the death, and she looked as though she could have stepped from the pages of Vogue.

"You don’t smell of fish," he assured her. "Blood, yes, but not fish."

Eve stared at him then, dark, almond-shaped eyes boring into his own. "Are you all right?" she asked. There was empathy in her gaze, but a steely judgment as well. "Back on Lesbos, with the Hydra, you were a little off your game."

"I was momentarily distracted." His concern over Ceridwen’s injuries had left him embarrassed and a bit ashamed. Matters of the heart needed to be set aside when dealing with conflicts of this magnitude. "I assure you it will not happen again."

Eve slowly nodded. Sometimes she seemed so very modern, so young, and at other times her gaze revealed the profoundness of her age, and an ancient wisdom lay within. "That’s good to hear. Danny and I almost got our asses handed to us today."

Conan Doyle glared at her, leaving no doubt that the conversation was over.

She put up her hands in defense. "It had to be said."

The boat’s engine cut off, and Conan Doyle watched as Captain Lycaon emerged from the wheelhouse. The old man was smoking his pipe again and said nothing as he pointed to the promontory that was gradually coming into view as they rounded the headland from Cape Matapan, the southernmost point of continental Greece.

Danny and Ceridwen had joined them, each peering out into the darkness for a glimpse of their destination.

"Is that it?" Danny asked. "I don’t get it. Why do you think Gull wanted to go there? It’s just a big cliff."