Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

And all was eerily silent.

Until the mastodon came crashing through a wall at the far end of the platform, destroying a mosaic depicting famous Athenian landmarks.

"Never mind," Squire told the stone man. "I think I found him."

The attack had come without warning.

Clay and Graves had been in pursuit of the fleeing Medusa, hopeful that she would steer clear of the more populated locales. But the Gorgon seemed not to consider her surroundings, intent only upon her destination. Clay had grown certain of that. Following her path, it was obvious to him that she moved with purpose, as though she knew exactly where she wanted to be.

Like she’s following a trail.

That trail had taken her to the Theseum train station on the west side of Athens, at the beginning of the rush hour commute. She moved with incredible speed, slinking along the city streets near the edge of the train station, reminding Clay of a sidewinder snake, slithering across the desert. They’d almost lost track of her a few times, but Graves had always managed to find her, sensing the ectoplasmic piece of himself still imbedded inside her.

They tried their best to catch up, hoping to stop her before she reached the station, but Medusa only moved faster, as if spurred on by some unknown lure. Squire would have muttered something rude under his breath, some obvious joke about the monster needing to catch a train. The thought, though foolish, rang true. Why else come to a train station? Clay dropped to all fours, flesh shifting, bones reknitting, all in a single instant so that by the time he hit the ground the fur had sprouted on his body and his tail whipped behind him. He needed speed. As a cheetah, now, his claws tore at the ground and he sprinted into the station.

Medusa had already climbed the stone steps up onto the platform, and he could hear the screams of those who had caught sight of her.

They didn’t scream for long.

The cheetah bounded up the station steps, and above the final cries of Medusa’s victims, he heard a sound that filled him with dread.

This hiss of a train as it pulled away.

He sprang onto the platform, just in time to catch sight of Medusa leaping onto the last car of the departing train. Clay watched in horror as the Gorgon tore off a door with a shriek of metal and tossed it aside. Then she disappeared inside, that nest of snakes upon her head coiling excitedly.

"Damn it!" Clay snarled even as his flesh altered again and he stood upright, unfolding into the body of a man. Already the deaths of those at the train station weighed on his conscience, but now there was the train. He tried not to wonder how many passengers were aboard.

The air shimmered beside him and Dr. Graves appeared, phantom guns drawn. His shirt cuffs were rolled up and through his transparent form Clay could see the X where his suspenders criss-crossed his back like bandoliers. He had always cut a heroic figure, but just then there was nothing heroic about the dread etched upon the spectral features of Leonard Graves.

"We have to catch that train," the ghost said. "I can do it, but you’ll need real speed."

Clay swore under his breath. He nodded and his flesh began to flow once more, becoming malleable… but he never completed the change. A figure clad entirely in black appeared from among the stone people on the platform and let fly with a throwing blade. Clay turned, but not fast enough, and the thin blade bit deeply into his shoulder. He tried to shift back to his more human state, but was wracked with an excruciating pain that radiated from the wound. In a form between cat and man, he leaned forward and tore the blade from his flesh with his mouth, tossing it to the ground. His own blood glinted off the strange sigils etched on its surface. He heard his attacker laughing, the sound of joy muffled by a cherubic mask. The effect of that childlike mask on the killer’s face was profoundly unsettling.

Blasts of ectoplasmic gunfire filled the air and Clay watched Graves descend upon their foe.

The baby-faced figure danced among the gunfire, eluding the phantom bullets with a disturbing grace, and as he moved, Clay saw that he had taken a cylindrical canister from a pouch on his belt and was spreading its grainy contents in a circle below the ghost’s floating form.

"Graves!" Clay warned, but it was too late. The ghostly adventurer began to scream, his normally translucent form, beginning to fade.

"What have you done to him?" Clay growled, finally able to take on his natural, earthen form, but only for an instant. He was eager to show their attacker that he had messed with the wrong people.

The figure in black let loose with another blade, this one sticking in the center of Clay’s orange, cracked flesh. He tore it away with a snarl and ran toward the assassin. In his mind he saw the image of a powerful silverback gorilla, and willed his body to become it. Again he was stricken with an incredible bolt of pain, driving him to his knees.

He glanced up at the dwindling form of Dr. Graves. "The dirt," the ghost moaned. "It’s from my grave… it binds me… calls me back there."

Another throwing knife pierced Clay’s flesh and the masked man giggled. He was playing with them. Enraged, Clay forced his protesting flesh to assume the shape of the gorilla and lunged at their attacker. The man tried to avoid him, but this time Clay was faster, knocking him savagely to the ground. He roared, tossing back his head and shrieking to the heavens, his fists beating on his broad chest.

"We’ve underestimated you," the man said. His voice from beneath the disturbing cherub mask was a dry whisper, like the rustling of leaves. "Thought the knives would have shut you down by now."

The silverback brought its arms down upon the man’s chest as though they were clubs. The man made not a sound as he was pummeled. Clay reared back, staring down at the body of his attacker. The man looked like a broken rag doll, arms and legs askew, the eerie baby-doll face looking up at the pale, blue Athenian sky.

The places where Clay had been stabbed burned as if touched by acid and he looked away from his foe for an instant to check on Graves. The ghost was gone, only the circle of earth upon the ground remained.

"Finished with me already?" the whispering voice said mockingly, and before Clay could react, the man was up from the ground and had climbed upon his back, locking himself in place with his legs and arms about the gorilla’s throat.

Impossible. He was dead. Bones shattered.

Clay roared, hurling himself to the side, thrashing about in an attempt to dislodge his attacker. He considered changing his shape again, to become something even more powerful. For a moment, he hesitated, the memory of the awful pain giving him pause. The knives were imbued with some sort of sorcery, a spell meant to prevent him from changing his shape. Whoever this guy was, he knew things about Conan Doyle’s Menagerie, ways to stop them. Ways to kill them.

Another knife bit into the thick muscle of his shoulder blade and the silverback roared. He reached over his shoulder, powerful arms attempting to pull his attacker from his back, but could not do it. The man was stuck like a tick on a dog.

Clay threw himself to the ground, rolling across the train platform, crashing into the stone bodies of Medusa’s victims. The bodies toppled to the ground, crumbling into pieces, but still the man in black held tight.

His thoughts raced. He had to do something.

"Squire, hurry up, damn it!" he bellowed, directing his voice to the nearest patch of shadows though he doubted it was possible for the little bastard to hear him. If there was any time that they could have used the hobgoblin’s assistance, it was now.

As he rolled across the hard ground of the station, the image of another animal filled his mind — something big. And his body began to change. Clay quivered and shook. The pain was unbelievable, and for an instant it almost stopped him.