Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

Almost.

The silverback was gone now, replaced with body of a mastodon, and Clay tossed its huge head back, tusks gleaming, and blew a triumphant blast through his trunk. The pain had infected his entire form, it was absolute agony retaining the shape, and the intensity of what he was experiencing drove him wild.

The mastodon thrashed its mighty body from side to side. Clay could still feel the man clinging to his back, almost as if he had burrowed beneath his flesh. Blinded by agony and rage, he surged forward with no concern as to what was in his path.

The massive pachyderm plowed through the back of the decorative mosaic wall, shattering it to rubble, and for an instant he felt the man’s grip on him lessen. Sensing an opportunity, Clay pitched its massive head forward. The assassin was flung from his back, and upon striking the ground rolled to his feet, seemingly unfazed. He held more of those enchanted throwing knives in his hands.

"This should do it," he hissed from behind his cherub’s mask.

The assassin lifted a hand, about to fling more blades. Clay braced for the savage bite of those knives… but then his attacker’s head snapped viciously backward. He staggered, daggers dropping from his gloved hands to clatter upon the ground. His hand rose to weakly brush at an object protruding from one of the eyeholes in the cherub mask.

A tranquilizer dart had been shot into his right eye.

Clay watched with great satisfaction as the figure fell limply to the station floor, arms and legs twitching.

"Did you see that shot?" Squire hooted, rifle slung over his shoulder as he advanced across the platform.

The feeling gave out in the mastodon’s legs, and Clay slumped to the ground. Bracing for pain, he transformed to his humanoid guise, flesh flowing once more. The process was excruciating, his body feeling as though it had been set afire from the inside.

"What the hell’s wrong with you?" Squire asked, kneeling beside him.

Clay looked into the face of the hobgoblin, pleased for once to see the little man. "Didn’t think you were that proficient with modern weaponry," he said as he tried to stand.

"Don’t care for them really," Squire responded, hefting the rifle. "But it doesn’t mean I can’t shoot the balls off a blue jay at fifty yards."

Clay stumbled over to the circle of dirt. "We have to see about Graves," he said, falling to his knees before the circle. "He said that this dirt came from his grave, that it was calling him back to his body."

Squire nodded in understanding. "Old-fashioned binding spell for wandering spirits," he explained. "At first they’re bound within the circle and then slowly drawn back to their bodies where they’re imprisoned until the sorcerer who cast the spell decides they can go free."

"That’s where he is now?" Clay asked, searching the air above the dirt circle for a sign of the ghostly adventurer. "Back with his remains?"

The hobgoblin stepped closer to the circle. "If I’m remembering right, it can take a little while for the spell to kick into full gear, especially if the spirit has a particularly strong disposition." He rubbed away part of the circle with the toe of his shoe. "He may not be quite there yet."

The air above the broken circle shimmered and pulsed as Leonard Graves began to materialize. The ghost was not in the best of moods.

"Bastard!" he roared, the twin Colt 45s taking shape in his hands. "Where is that son of a bitch?"

"Whoa, Len. Where’s your usual calm reserve? Be cool, pal," Squire said. "We took care of him for ya."

"He’s down," Clay confirmed as he reached up to remove the last of the attacker’s knives from his shoulder, hissing with pain as the dagger came loose. "But we still have to catch that train — "

"Where is he?" Graves interrupted, gliding through them, ghostly guns still in hands. "I want to see the assassin up close. I’m going to make sure he doesn’t have any other tricks up his sleeve."

"What’s the matter with you, Casper?" Squire chided as he turned around. "He’s right th… Oh shit."

The figure in black was gone.

"I remember the day when getting shot in the eye with a tranquilizer dart pretty much took you out of the picture," Squire said, walking over to check out where the body had lain. The dart lay upon the platform. "But I shouldn’t be surprised."

"What are you talking about?" Clay asked, frustrated by this latest turn. Isn’t anything going to go right on this mission?

"Our mystery boy with the kewpie doll face mask is named Tassarian. A real nasty prick, let me tell you. Used to work for Conan Doyle’s old pal Nigel Gull."

The goblin nudged the tranquilizer dart with his shoe. "Or at least he did until about twenty years ago, when I killed him."

Gull had left them to die.

In the voice of Orpheus he had compelled them to lie upon the ground and await an inevitable death. Now the sound of beating wings grew louder and Conan Doyle winced at the horrid shrieks that filled the air in the distance, growing nearer by the moment.

"I can’t move," Danny growled. The demon boy’s tone was a mix of rage and panic. "If those razor birds come back for us, we’re screwed."

"It is not the Stymphalian Birds whose cries you hear," Conan Doyle said, forcing the words from his throat. Gull had not commanded them to silence, but even so any action that was not part of his instruction was difficult.

"It’s not?" Danny asked with a spark of hope.

"No. I’m afraid it is something far worse." Conan Doyle wracked his brain, desperately trying to think of a spell or incantation that could counter the power of Orpheus.

"Excellent," Danny replied sardonically. "Those birds were so last week. I would have been really embarrassed to have them rip me to shreds and eat my entrails. Hopefully something much cooler will kill us.."

Conan Doyle managed to roll onto his back, gazing up at the misty sky of the vast underground cavern. The ceiling was so high that the true height of it was impossible to discern. "Sarcasm will do nothing to help us, boy. If that’s all you can contribute, I’d appreciate it if you would hold your tongue."

"Dude," Danny exclaimed. "There’s a good chance we’re about to die here. I think me being sarcastic is the least of our friggin’ problems."

The shrieks were closer now.

"Gentlemen," Ceridwen scolded in a whisper, her face pressed to the ground. "Perhaps our energies could be put to better use, hmmm?"

Conan Doyle was glad to hear that she was conscious, but hardly thrilled that she would be awake to experience what would likely be a grisly fate. A succession of horribly shrill cries filled the air; eager wails of excitement from creatures that had at last found their prey.

The Harpies had found them.

Warm fetid air blasted the ground from the power of their wings, kicking up dirt and dust as they dropped from the sky. There were three of them. Their hideous, bird-like bodies reminded Conan Doyle of vultures, but with the heads of women. The Harpies roosted upon the rocks and perched there, gazing down on their prey. Conan Doyle could feel their hungry eyes on him, and smell the stench of death wafting from their feathered bodies.

Danny Ferrick began to whimper. "Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit."

"Control yourself, Daniel," Conan Doyle instructed, with all of the authority he could muster.

Oh shit, indeed.

The Harpies huddled together, strengthening the image of vultures. But vultures did not speak. " What have we here, Sister Twilight?" one of them asked in archaic Greek, its voice a terrible screech.

" I’m not sure, Sister Dark," replied a second.

" I think a tribute has been paid to us, sisters," said the last of the three. " Oh yes, I think the one whose beautiful song we heard has bestowed this honor of fresh meat."