Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

Something thumped to the floor in the back of the shop.

Alarmed, Fulcanelli spun, his fingers curved into terrible claws, and he reminded Doyle even more of a hawk. The door to the back of the shop was still partially open, but there were no lights on back there. The only illumination in that room was what little reached it from the front. Otherwise it was only shadows.

The door creaked as it swung open.

Squire stepped out. The hobgoblin was only slightly taller than the counter, so it was not until Squire had emerged fully into the shop that Doyle saw that he clutched a piece of notepaper in his gnarled fingers.

"Just got a phone call, boss. You’re going to want to hear this."

Boston’s Newbury Street was abuzz with life and laughter, the sun glinting off of the plate glass windows of trendy clothing boutiques, art galleries, and bistros. Those who strolled along Newbury Street were either the idle rich or those who longed to be. College girls roamed in perfectly styled packs, and business types marched to lunch with tiny cellphones clapped to one ear. The buildings were comparatively old by American standards and yet the brick and stone had been sandblasted and treated and restored so that the entire string of blocks seemed to have been only recently erected. The sidewalks were in perfect condition. Even the cars that were parked along the curb gleamed new in the sun. BMW, Lexus, and Benz, oh my.

Milano’s Italian Kitchen was among the trendiest of the new bistros, with a sidewalk cafe in front and a menu of nouvelle cuisine, despite the homey name of the place. Clay knew that if he had wanted more authentic Italian food he could have chosen any doorway in the North End, where dozens of restaurants awaited that were less expensive and more generous with their plates. But the idea today was to spend a little time with Eve, and if he wanted to get her out — particularly when the sky was blue and the sun shining — he would have to lure her.

Newbury Street was irresistible to her.

They sat at the outdoor cafe, in the cool shade of Milano’s wide awning. Eve was always aware of the position of the sun. She had to be. It could kill her.

Though the weather was warm, a typical mid-June day in Boston, she was covered from head to toe. Ample sunscreen had been rubbed onto her face, and a red silk scarf tied in a knot at her chin covered her head. She wore a blazer-cut black leather jacket, a pair of thin calf skin gloves, and completed her ensemble with dark moleskin trousers and Tony Lama boots with a severely pointed toe. Eve was stunning. With that scarf and her designer sunglasses, she looked like a movie star trying desperately not to be recognized in that ridiculous, conspicuous Hollywood way. She drew a lot of attention, but Clay had been out with her at night as well as during the day, and Eve drew appreciative stares no matter how she was dressed.

His appreciation of her beauty was objective, however. There was no romantic entanglement between them. Clay and Eve were associates. Perhaps they might even be friends. He considered her a friend, certainly, but often felt an odd reticence in her when they worked together. That was part of the reason he had invited her to lunch today.

They had been sharing observations about Conan Doyle and some of his other operatives when the waiter brought appetizers to the table, including a white plate laden with stuffed mushroom caps. Clay smiled and reached for one.

"Alexander loved these," he said as he popped it whole into his mouth.

"Alexander? As in, Alexander?" Eve asked, using her salad fork to help herself to one of the four remaining mushrooms.

Clay nodded. "Absolutely. He was obsessed with food," he said, trying not to be grotesque though he spoke with his mouth full. The mushroom caps were not the best he’d ever had, but far from the worst. That honor went to the Angry Boar, a restaurant not far from the highlands of Scotland, in the village of Poolewe, where the ultimate in fine cuisine was served from a fryolator. Clay shivered inwardly at the still disturbing memory of fried pizza.

Eve had sliced a small piece of stuffed mushroom and used the fork to bring it to her mouth. Now she swallowed before continuing. "You expect me to believe that?" She smiled slyly. "You hung out with Alexander the Great and ate mushrooms?"

Clay helped himself to another mushroom, this time showing some manners and bringing it to his plate where he broke it in half with his fork. He shrugged.

"Everybody has to eat."

The expression on Eve’s face said she wasn’t certain whether or not to believe him. Clay was having some fun with her, but in truth he had known the Macedonian legend. Many of his memories were lost to him, shifting in his mind like a deck of cards, with far too many missing or obscured. But others were intact and crystalline in clarity. He had been many things in his eternity of life — warrior and monster, hero and assassin. Clay could alter his flesh, could become anyone or anything he wished. In the year 331 A.D. he had used that ability to help Alexander defeat the Persians. Those had been simpler times, violent times, and often it disturbed him how much he missed them.

"Why is that so hard to believe?" he asked, staring at his twin reflections in the lenses of her dark sunglasses. "Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your past."

Eve was a bit younger, give or take a millennium, and had lived a life equally fascinating, but he knew she had also experienced a fair amount of pain and anguish.

A waiter came over to refill their water glasses and inform them that their lunch would be brought out shortly, before excusing himself with a slight bow and a genial smile. Eve removed a packet of sugar from a container on the table and began to play with it.

"I remember quite a bit, actually. Some things I’ve let go of, but other things…" Her voice trailed off, and a look of heartbreaking sadness flickered across her face.

Clay wished he had never brought it up, never caused her to examine the memories she wished she could abandon. But as quickly as it had appeared, the telling look was gone and Eve managed to summon a smile as she changed the subject.

"So, tell me something else about him," Eve said, taking a sip of water. "Something we couldn’t pull from a history book. Or is his love of stuffed mushrooms the only thing worth knowing about the man who once conquered the entire civilized world?"

Clay set down his fork and pulled the white napkin up from his lap to wipe his mouth. "He was a pretty good dancer," he said with a straight face. "Man, could that guy cut a rug."

Eve burst out laughing, almost spilling her water. An ice cube had escaped over the rim of the glass and dropped onto the tabletop. She plucked it up with her gloved fingers and tossed it at him. "Asshole," she said, a lingering smile on her face.

He could probably have counted on one hand the number of times he’d seen this woman look genuinely happy. It’s nice to see her smile, he thought, brushing the cube from his lap to the ground.

"You don’t believe me," he said, doing his best to stifle his amusement. "Fine, be that way. I’ll just keep my candid recollections of history to myself, though I think you might have been very interested in Genghis Khan’s phallus-shaped vegetable collection."

When Eve glared at him, Clay couldn’t hold it back any longer and burst out laughing himself. The life he led did not often give him the opportunity for laughter, and he held on to the moment with both hands, truly enjoying himself.

Eve grinned. "Think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?" she said.

He nodded, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"We’ll see how funny you think it is when I stick you for this bill."