Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

"The Styx," Gull said. "And we come, momentarily, to the far shore."

Eve turned to see that he spoke the truth. They approached the bank of the river, where the ground seemed made not of soil but of cold, gray ash. She shot Gull a withering glare.

"You don’t think Conan Doyle will find a way across?"

"Oh, I’m certain he will. I’d be terribly disappointed otherwise."

Only then did Eve notice the activity in the rear of that small, ancient craft. Jezebel still had her hands thrust into the water, surges of white foam jetting out behind them as she forced the river to propel them. But now Hawkins knelt beside her, one hand on her shoulder. Despite the chill of the mist and the river, beads of sweat had formed on his forehead.

Gull saw that she had noticed them.

"Mr. Hawkins is a psychometrist," the mage said. "You know that. But he is capable of more than simply reading images and emotions. With enough motivation and focus, he can also communicate them. Jezebel is one with the river. Through her, Hawkins is pouring hatred for Conan Doyle into every drop of water, tainting all of the Styx with the single, unrelenting thought that Arthur is the enemy and must be destroyed."

A knot of fear twisted Eve’s gut. She had faith in Conan Doyle, but Gull seemed so confident…

Still, she did her best to hide her alarm. "Water? You expect the water to rise up and stop him?"

"Of course not," Gull replied. A sneer of satisfaction split his face. He dropped one hand over the side of the boat and let his fingers trail in the river. "Here there be monsters, my dear Eve. Here there be monsters."

Though only in small measures, Ceridwen could indeed feel that she was growing stronger. The deeper they progressed into the Underworld, the more acclimated she became to the nightmarish place. The process was equal parts relief and concern. Although glad to be regaining her strength, she had to wonder the cost. Already she had begun to feel a certain, disturbing sense of belonging, the simplest thought of returning to the land of the living filling her with uneasiness. What that meant, she did not know. But it troubled her deeply.

They had reached the shores of the swiftly flowing Styx and were awaiting the ferryman to take them across. Danny and Conan Doyle stood at the river’s edge.

"Where is he?" Danny asked, attempting unsuccessfully to skip a stone across the river’s turbulent surface. "The Cyclops dude said that Charon’d just show up after we got here." He threw another stone, waiting for Conan Doyle’s reply.

Arthur remained silent, staring out over the Styx, trying to see through the thick, undulating clouds of gray vapor. Ceridwen did not like the expression on his face.

"An excellent question." Conan Doyle turned his gaze from the river to the black sand of the shore. The sand had been disturbed. There was no doubt that Gull and his operatives, along with captive Eve, had arrived first. He removed one of the two gold coins the Cyclopes had provided them to pay Charon and began to play with it, dexterously rolling it back and forth across the knuckles of his hand. It was a trick he had learned from Harry Houdini, a friend from long ago.

"What have you done now, Gull?" Conan Doyle whispered, lost in thought as the coin danced atop his hand.

As if in response to his query, the Underworld answered.

Ceridwen could feel it in the elements around her; from the granules of sand beneath her feet, to the mournful whistling of the wind that caused the skeletal branches of the trees along the shore to click and clatter. The Underworld was attempting to speak to them, and only she had the ability to hear.

She closed her eyes and listened. Then she wandered across the sand, closer to Conan Doyle and the boy, closer to the river’s edge.

Conan Doyle watched her as she approached. "What troubles you, Ceridwen?"

She did not respond, his voice added to the cacophony of the elements as they attempted to communicate. The river was the loudest voice of all, and she found herself drawn to its flow. This was the place from which the answer would come: the Styx, eager to share with her what had transpired. Ceridwen squatted down at the shore and extended her hand toward the hellish waters.

"No!" Danny yelped, his alarm cutting through the static inside her head, and she looked up into a face wracked with worry.

"I don’t think you want to do that." He turned his nervous gaze out over the water. "There’s something… not right about it."

Conan Doyle had moved closer as well and she tried to assuage their fears with a smile. Then she gently touched her fingertips to the agitated water.

Ceridwen and the River Styx were one. Her body went rigid, her mind filling with rapid-fire images detailing what had come to pass, what the river had seen. Most of it was monotony, the ferryman in his launch and its countless journeys, transporting the dead to their final destination. Faces flashed across her mind, wan and bewildered. So many faces. But then her mind’s eye settled upon the most recent passengers, including the twisted, ugly visage of Nigel Gull. Ceridwen witnessed what had transpired from the river’s point of view, as though she were looking up from beneath the water. Gull had committed a terrible crime, a most foul act. Ceridwen saw the murder of Charon, saw Gull set his body adrift upon the river.

She drew her hand from the water with a gasp, stumbling into Conan Doyle’s waiting arms, the violence seared into her mind.

"I told her not to touch it," she heard Danny say, concern in his voice. "What did it do?"

Ceridwen opened her eyes and looked up at them, pulling back from Arthur’s embrace. "The ferryman is not coming. Gull and his people were here with Eve no more than two hours ago," she said, seeing the ghastly image reenacted in the theatre of her mind. She closed her eyes and shuddered even though the temperature was oppressively hot.

"What has he done?" Conan Doyle asked, eyes stormy beneath salt-and-pepper brows.

"He’s killed Charon," she said, trying to force the images from her mind. "And they’ve taken his boat across on their own."

Conan Doyle clenched his fists in anger, turning his back upon them and walking away. She understood his frustration. Their enemy was besting them at every turn. This was not something to which Arthur Conan Doyle was accustomed.

"So we’re screwed, then. Game over," Danny muttered. "How do we help Eve now?"

"Arthur?" Ceridwen called. He was standing with his back to them at the edge of a forest of black, skeletal trees, again lost in thought, but this time she suspected she knew what occupied his mind. It was the way he eyed the copse of trees that gave his thoughts away.

The sorceress was far from Faerie, far from anything the Fey might think of as nature, but she had begun to establish a rapport with what passed for the elements of this barren place. Her strength was returning. Her magick as well, though tainted now by the Underworld. Yet Arthur did not know that. He must have sensed that communicating with the elements here was not as debilitating for her. He had, after all, only just witnessed her forging a bond with the River Styx. But he could not know how far she had adjusted.

This is a test for him in a way, she thought. Conan Doyle was a man of both thought and action, and he prided himself on practicality. What must be done, he would often say, must be done, and damn the consequences. Yet in their battle with the Hydra, his fear for her had caused him to become distracted, endangering the lives of the others and the success of their mission. He had promised it would never happen again.

But here was a similar situation. Will he ask it of me when he knows it will cause me pain?