Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

Clay had regained most of his composure by the time their food arrived. Two waiters brought their entrees: his the linguine with clam sauce, and Eve’s a Caesar salad. They were silent through their meal, and he could see by the way her brow furrowed, that she was thinking hard about something. This happened too often when they were together, but for once they were in a situation that allowed him to inquire about it.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said finally, spinning the last of the linguine onto his fork.

Eve shrugged, placing her napkin on top of the table, and pushed her salad plate away from her. "Don’t know what it is, but every time I’m with you, I end up thinking about things I’d rather not."

"Such as?"

She glanced away. "It’s hard to explain."

"Then let’s distract you," Clay said, pushing away his own empty plate. "How about some dessert?" he asked, removing a menu card from the side of the table. "I hear they make an amazing brownie sundae, and I’d even be willing to share."

There was a tinge of desperation in Eve’s gaze when she met his eyes.

"I can’t remember…" she said. "I can’t remember what the garden… what Eden looked like." Eve turned her head away to watch the shiny, happy people stroll down the crowded sidewalks of Newbury Street. "I often wonder if this is another way that He intends to punish me, to take away the memories of the things I cherish, one by one, so only the bad stuff is left."

Clay was at a loss. The Creator had a gift for punishment, there was no doubt about that. The punishment He had meted out to Eve had led to the horror that had made her what she was now. She had been raped and defiled and driven over the edge of madness by demons, and turned into a monster. Wasn’t that enough?

"We’re old, Eve," he said. "Time steals everything eventually, memories in particular. You forget. And, in truth, I’d like to think that God has more important things to do with his time than to keep fucking with you."

For a moment, Clay thought he saw the slightest hint of anger bloom on her face, her canine teeth elongating to nasty points. But as quickly as it was there, it was gone.

"Do you remember?" she asked him.

He didn’t want to lie to her. "Yes."

"Not right now," she said, "but maybe sometime, we can talk about it… maybe jog my memory. It just seems… I mean, to be unable to erase the memories I wish I could forget, and not to be able to have even a glimpse of that in my mind… it just hurts."

Clay reached out and laid his hand atop hers. He was not always comfortable with intimacy, but he could not ignore her pain. "I remember that there were a lot of plants, if that helps you any."

He gave her a wink, m and they both laughed softly.

"Thanks," she said. "That’s a big help."

"Seriously. Any time. We’ll go somewhere humanity hasn’t completely destroyed nature, and we’ll talk about it. I’ll share everything I can recall."

Eve took a long breath and let it out. "That would be wonderful." She fluttered one hand in the air. "Meanwhile, though, back to ancient conquerors and penis-shaped vegetables."

"Actually, we were moving on to dessert. Now, about that brownie sundae — "

He felt a sudden tug on the cuff of his pants and on reflex shifted the skin on his legs to resemble that of a prehistoric sea urchin, nasty spines rising up out of flesh as defense.

"Shit!" he heard a familiar voice hiss from beneath the table.

Eve heard it as well, rolling her eyes, and they both bent forward, carefully lifting the white linen cloth. From within a pool of shadow under the table, the gnarled, leathery features of the hobgoblin peered up at them. Squire was sucking on one of his sausage thick fingers, pricked by Clay’s defensive metamorphosis.

"What do you want, you little creep?" Eve asked.

"Nice to see you too, bitch," he snarled, turning to address Clay. "Sorry to cut into your lunch, but the boss wants you back at the house right away." He scrutinized his finger, squeezing a bead of blood from the wound. "Gave me a nasty prick there," he said, placing the injured finger back into his mouth.

"How apropos," Eve remarked, dropping her side of the tablecloth, finished with Doyle’s errand boy. "A nasty prick for a nasty prick."

Danny Ferrick studied his reflection in the mirror over the bureau. "I think they’re getting longer," he said, touching the curved horns growing from his forehead. He turned to glance at his mother.

"What do you think?"

Julia didn’t want to think about her son’s horns, let alone look at them, although it was impossible to ignore the black protrusions. "Could be," she said offhandedly, taking an overlarge New England Patriots shirt from the suitcase on the bed, folding it, and placing in a dresser nearby.

Danny was almost completely unpacked, except for some cargo pants and his toiletries, and she found herself slowing down, stalling, not really wanting to complete the task.

"You’re not even looking."

Julia slid the drawer closed and reached for the cargo pants. "I looked, trust me, I just can’t say."

Danny was suddenly at her side, his hand closed around her wrist, pulling her away from her task. "Look at me."

Her heart skipped a beat as she let herself see him again. He looked like something out of a bad dream; completely hairless, with horns sticking from his scalp, skin the color of burgundy wine and yellow, hypnotic eyes. This couldn’t be her child — her baby boy — this was some kind of monster, a demon. But when he spoke, or looked at her in that certain way, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that this was indeed the child she loved.

A changeling. That was what Mr. Doyle had called him. A demon child, left in place of a human baby at birth by mischievous devils. The child she had given birth to was gone, long ago. Mr. Doyle insisted that her biological infant had likely been dead since shortly after his abduction. The weight of that knowledge might have killed her, the sheer black burden of it, if not for the presence of the boy left in his place. A demon child, to be raised as a human. How surprised those monsters would have been to learn that she had done exactly as they planned, and that she did not regret it. She grieved for the infant she had lost, but she loved her son, no matter how he had come to be hers.

She loved him.

Danny Ferrick was a demon, but he would always be her son.

"I’m sorry, baby," she said, pulling him into her arms and kissing the side of his bald head. His skin felt different now, like the soft leather of an expensive car seat, and she was careful not to scratch herself on his horn. "I’m being rude to you, even though I don’t want to be."

He hugged her back, and she could feel a frightening strength in those arms, but also a tenderness that proved she was loved, despite what they had learned about his origins.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked, gently removing himself from her embrace.

Julia laughed and shook her head. "If only it were that easy." She again reached for the pants in the open suitcase and removed them, refolding them. "I don’t like this, Danny, any of this; your physical change, leaving home, living here." She turned toward the bureau, feeling his gaze on her.

"But you talked to Mr. Doyle. It’s best that I’m here, to learn about what’s happening to me, what I am. I thought you understood that."

She pulled open the bottom drawer, where she had put his jeans earlier, and shoved the cargo pants in beside them. "It’s not that I don’t understand, Danny, I just don’t like it."

"What’s not to like?" he asked, his voice louder now, his volatile teenage temper rearing its ugly head. "Look at me, Mom. These people actually want me here."

She felt him move closer and, for the briefest of moments, actually felt afraid, and this angered her.