Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

Jezebel slumped to the ground, curling up in a tight little ball. "I did it," she said over and over again in that little girl’s voice.

Hawkins yanked down the mask from his face and gave the girl a round of applause. "Now that didn’t hurt too bad, did it?" he asked as he bent down to help her up from the ground. "About time you earned your keep."

The man was begging to die, and as soon as she was able, Eve would oblige him.

Gull took a large gulp of purified air into his lungs. "Much better."

They descended farther into the valley in silence, the body of the fallen god looming larger and larger. They passed through small patches of skeletal wood and scrub brush. Jezebel’s manipulation of the wind had done the job for the most part, but the closer they got the harder the wind had to work to keep the stench from overwhelming them again. The rot had left gaping holes in the flesh, exposing muscle, sinew, and bone.

At last, they stood before it, marveling at its enormity.

"So is this it? Have we arrived?" Eve asked, interrupting their reverie. "Or are we going to have to go around this rotting carcass to get to where we’re supposed to be?"

Gull fixed her in a steely gaze. "I think I’ve had just about enough of you."

She was about to reply but he stopped her with a word. "Silence."

Eve had no choice but to obey.

"Now drop to your knees."

Once more she was forced to comply, and Eve found herself kneeling upon the damp earth before the body of the fallen Hades. Gull looked her over, then licked his thumb, reaching out to her face to rub away some blemish of grime that had stained her cheek. With his long, twisted fingers he combed the hair from her face, then stepped back and again studied her appearance.

"I guess that will have to suffice," he said. Gull looked to the god’s corpse. "The misery of the dead calls out from here. I can feel it. This is their place. It is no wonder Hades chose this valley in which to spill his blood."

Gull walked away from Eve then, toward Hawkins and Jezebel. "I would advise you to step back, my friends. I’ve no idea how they will react to our presence."

How who will react?

The Wicked did as they were told, leaving Gull to stand before the rotting corpse alone. The dark mage raised his arms, and in the booming voice of Orpheus, sang out. Although the song was sung in an ancient language that she had never known, Eve understood the words perfectly. It was a song of summoning, a song that called for the attentions of three sisters — Tisiphone, Alekto, and Megaera. They were the Erinyes — the Furies of legend. He sang of an offering, something to satisfy their unquenchable desire to see the guilty suffer for their sins.

In a sweeping motion he gestured toward Eve and the suspicion she had been nursing was revealed to be truth. She was his offering. Gull finished his beckoning song, hanging his head and resting his voice as he waited for their response.

He didn’t wait very long.

From one of the rotting wounds in the side of the corpse, a decaying hole perhaps fifty feet up the side of Hades’ rib cage, Eve saw the first hint of movement.

"What have you brought to us?" came a voice that issued from within that corpse, a voice that made the hair at the back of Eve’s neck stand on end. It was a voice devoid of warmth or emotion, a voice that promised only cruelty.

"Come out, dear sisters, and see," Gull sang, the enticing nature of his borrowed voice certain to draw them from hiding.

Eve’s eyes grew wide as the Erinyes emerged from the ragged hole in the side of the dead god, three sisters clad in robes of darkness. They eagerly clambered down the side of the great corpse to claim their prize.

As Ceridwen calmed the normally torrential currents of the Styx, Conan Doyle and Danny rowed the magickally-crafted raft through the dark water. Conan Doyle kept an eye on Ceridwen, who sat at the edge of the raft with one hand trailing in the fearsome waters. He watched as her mouth moved, words softer than a whisper escaping, as she attempted to bond with the elemental force of the river. The fact that they were actually making progress across the Styx was evidence that Ceridwen was succeeding.

Conan Doyle was worried about her connecting with a world usually reserved for the dead. Though she appeared to have regained nearly all of her vigor, he did not care for the distant look in her eyes, a look that hinted that the despair of the Underworld had touched her deeply. He feared what would happen when it came time to leave.

"How’s she doing?" Danny asked, paddling with all his might.

The boy had removed what remained of his tattered t-shirt and his muscles strained as he rowed. The demon’s flesh was continuing to evolve, growing more leathery, thicker, darker. There were blotches of color on his back that reminded the sorcerer of the burned orange of fall leaves on Beacon Hill.

"She’s doing fine," he responded, marveling at the youth’s tenacity. To think that mere months ago he was living as a typical teenager, totally unaware of his true nature. He was proud of Daniel Ferrick. A normal youth his age would have been driven to the brink of insanity on more than one occasion with what the boy had witnessed in recent days. He was indeed a welcome addition to the Menagerie.

"And you?" Conan Doyle asked, his arms burning with exertion.

"I’m good," the boy said between puffs of air. "Getting a little tired, but I think I can hold out until we get to the other side. How are you doing?" The boy smiled, exposing sharp-looking teeth. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Hanging in there, old-timer?"

He didn’t care for the boy’s lack of respect, but considering what they had been through, he decided to let it slide. "Don’t concern yourself, boy," he stressed, staring straight ahead, attempting to pierce the shifting gray vapor that hung over the river to the other side. They had to be getting closer. "Focus on staying alive."

Danny laughed and continued to paddle. The thick shroud of mist parted momentarily and something caught Conan Doyle’s attention. He set his makeshift oar down on the raft and climbed to his feet.

"What is it?" Danny asked. "Are we close?"

"Stop rowing," Conan Doyle ordered. His eyes had found the spot again, only to have his line of sight obscured by the drifting vapor. "There’s something in the water ahead."

Danny did as he was told, placing his oar down and getting to his feet. He peered over the side of the raft. "We’re still moving."

Conan Doyle saw that the boy was right. They were being drawn toward the area where he had seen movement uon the water. "Ceridwen," he called, looking over his shoulder.

She had removed her hand from the water and was clutching it to her chest, a look of shock on her face. "There are things in the river," she whispered. "Things that hate us quite ferociously. And they mean us harm."

"Holy shit. Take a look at that." Danny pointed out across the water.

A whirlpool had formed in the Styx, a swirling maelstrom that was inexorably drawing them closer.

"Charybdis," Ceridwen said, and Conan Doyle saw that her hand was immersed in the water again. "The whirlpool is alive. I don’t understand how, but it’s a living thing. It’s called Charybdis."

Danny couldn’t take his eyes from the spiraling vortex. "Why does it hate us? What the hell did we do this time? Oh man I hate this shit!"

Gull, Conan Doyle thought. Somehow, his old adversary was responsible.

"It believes we’ve come to do it harm…," Ceridwen began, her eyes wide and her expression dreamlike as she extracted the information from the turgid water. "It has been told that we’ve come to separate it from its mate."

"Who told it that?" Danny asked. He had picked up his oar and was attempting to paddle the raft away from the whirlpool, but to no avail. "Was it Gull?" His voice was on the brink of hysteria. "It was that ugly fuck, wasn’t it?"