Christopher Golden - Tears of the Furies

In tendrils, the elemental magick of Earth slipped through into the underworld and ran across the inside of those enormous doors, the gates of the Underworld. Like lightning it leaped through the seam and touched Ceridwen, merging with the black energy that consumed her, tinting the color of her eyes and the magick she summoned. Through the clash of light and magick, he saw that Ceridwen was weeping, but there was a beatific smile on her lips.

Swirls of blue light slipped into the dark field around her and she was thrown back, away from the doors. Ceridwen fell to her knees amidst a shower of debris from the ceiling of the cave. Sparks of conflicting colors danced in her eyes and from her fingertips.

"Arthur!" Sweetblood shouted.

But he did not turn, this time. All the dead of Olympus might be upon them in a moment, and he would not leave Ceridwen to suffer alone. He ran to her side, stepping over a splintering crack that raced along the tunnel floor, and he knelt by her.

Reached for her.

Ceridwen glanced up at him. Her chest was heaving and her face drawn, sickly. The elements of two dimensions warred in her and the conflict was churning inside her.

"Arthur," she said. "Time to go home."

She staggered to her feet, reached out her right hand, which was swathed only in pure blue light. Though the light in her eyes was still tainted, she had managed to summon a connection that was devoid of the netherworld’s darkness. Ceridwen touched the doors.

They blew outward as though a hurricane had slammed into them, and the light of dawn over the Mediterranean spilled in. Conan Doyle saw the sea churning far below and relief washed over him. Despite the peril they still faced he felt a smile stretch his lips… and then Ceridwen collapsed.

"No!" the mage shouted, reaching to catch her before she could tumble to the stone floor.

With her in his arms he turned to call for the others, even as the ghosts overtook them. Their screams were so loud that spikes of pain shot through the sides of his head. Vicious spirits spun in the air, several of them reaching for Eve, lashing at her. Where they battered against her, the charred flesh of her arms and face was scraped away.

"Oh, you bastards!" she snarled.

Conan Doyle held out a hand and an arc of green, ethereal light leaped from his fingers. When it touched the ghosts, they all ceased their screaming, stopped their swooping attacks. Danny had been about to defend himself when the spirits that had been diving at him began to drift aimlessly.

"Come!" Conan Doyle shouted. "They’re mesmerized, but it will only last a moment! Danny, take Gull."

The demon boy snarled and leaped over to grab hold of Nigel Gull. They joined Eve and the three began to run toward Conan Doyle, where he stood with Ceridwen by the yawning gates of the Underworld.

Sweetblood still burned with crimson flame. He stood beside the Forge of Hephaestus facing the march of the dead. Conan Doyle had bewildered only a small number of the ghosts, the first to reach them, and now the others were focusing their attention on Sanguedolce.

"Lorenzo!" Conan Doyle shouted. "We must close the gates!"

The archmage glanced over his shoulder, a sly grin on his face, as though this were the most enjoyment he had experienced in quite some time. Then he raised both hands, fingers contorted in a pattern Conan Doyle had never seen before, and he screamed as though he had been run through with a saber. Crimson fire erupted from not only his hands but his entire body, spikes of it thrusting outward to skewer each of the dozens of spectral gods that surrounded him.

They had been shrieking in rage before. Now they cried out in agony, were engulfed in that same red flame, and one by one they winked out, snuffed from existence.

Sweetblood touched a hand to the Forge and it levitated off of the ground. He turned to face Conan Doyle. "Go, you fool! What are you waiting for?"

With that, Conan Doyle turned with Ceridwen and, supporting her, hurried out of the Underworld and into the morning light of his own world. They stepped onto the ledge below the massive stone doors and then leaped out into the air, floating the twenty or thirty yards down onto the narrow, rocky shore. Then they stumbled into the water together, knee-deep in the blue-green Mediterranean. Eve, Danny and Gull were not far away… the vampire still healing, and fortunately still under the influence of the spell Gull had given her to protect her from the sun.

The roars of rage and cries of anguish from the open doors echoed out across the water. The ground even here shook and loose stones tumbled down into the sea. Then, with a crash, the sound was cut off. The shaking of the earth subsided.

Conan Doyle spun to see Sweetblood hovering in front of the cliff face, the Forge of Hephaestus floating in the air behind him. The doors had been slammed closed. The arch mage had a single finger out and the fire that poured from his body was sealing the gates, leaving only molten rock where any entrance might have been.

But once more his attention was torn away from the crisis at hand. Ceridwen fell to her knees in the water, waves washing around her, and began to vomit. Black bile spilled from her mouth and dripped from her nose. Purple tears slid from her eyes.

"Ceridwen," Doyle whispered, and he dropped to his knees in the water beside her. "Are you all right?"

A foolish question, but it meant something else, of course. Not was she all right, but was she going to be. Ceridwen nodded, trying to catch her breath, marble complexion somehow even more pale, if that were possible. She bucked and vomited again, hyperventilating between heaves. Her hands slipped out from under her and she dunked face-first into the water, but the black, unearthly stuff she had thrown up had already dissipated in the water.

When Conan Doyle drew her up from the sea, the waves still washing over her, there was a kind of relief in her eyes and now at last he realized what had been different about her complexion. Blue veins ran beneath her skin, lightly visible beneath the whiteness of her flesh. They had been more numerous and darker when she had first emerged from the Underworld.

"Is she all right?"

Conan Doyle flinched as he heard Eve’s voice. He glanced up and saw the concern on her face, and he nodded. "I think so, yes."

Eve smiled, the expression cracking the still burned flesh, and she sat down in the water herself. Some of the charred skin was flaking off to reveal new, pink skin beneath, already healing.

Strands of seaweed had begun to wrap themselves around Ceridwen’s arms and legs, but they were not attacking her. The sea was caressing her. Nature was welcoming her back. This was not her home, not the way that Faerie was, but this place her people called the Blight was far more natural to her, its elements far more familiar. She could speak to them, rely on them, and they on her.

When he looked once more upon Ceridwen’s face, she was smiling.

"Uh, Mr. Doyle?" Danny called from the rocky shore.

Conan Doyle turned and looked at him. The demon boy stood with Nigel Gull, who seemed to have almost recovered from his injuries. Recovered his dignity at least. He stood with his arms crossed, as though he were impatient for them to conclude their business. It took Conan Doyle a moment to realize why it seemed as though something was missing from the scene.

The cliff behind them was just a cliff, now. Stone. Nothing more. The ground had ceased all shaking.

But Sweetblood was gone.

"I didn’t even see him go," Danny offered, shrugging in apology.

Conan Doyle threw his arms up. "Gone. Of course he is. Slip in, use the lot of us as his bloody chessmen, and then disappear before the dust can clear, no regrets, no recriminations. Bastard."