Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie) (12 page)

The souls of murder victims never passed on to the afterlife
immediately. Always, they clung to their old shells for a time, crying out for
vengeance, hoping that someone would hear their anguish. The Creator had
touched him, and over time, as he saw the sins of humanity evolve, Clay had
developed the ability to see the ectoplasmic trail left behind by a murdered
soul. The victim’s spirit clung to the murderer, creating a tether of soul
stuff that connected corpse to killer, and if he reached the dead soon enough,
Clay could follow that trail. He could catch the killer.

But this . . . He did not know.

The shapeshifter moved closer to the stone bodies, his eyes
searching for signs of their tethers.

"Well?" Graves asked.

"Nothing," Clay replied. "It’s as if they’ve
always been nothing more than inanimate objects. Maybe because they’re no
longer flesh, but there’s no connection to the killer that I can see."

"Curiouser and curiouser," Graves whispered.

Squire returned, a quickness to his step as he crossed the
room.

"Just got a call from Mr. Doyle," he said.

"I didn’t hear any phone ring," Clay commented.

"He doesn’t have to use a phone," Squire
explained. "Me and the boss, we got this system set up so that he can
contact me through the shadows. All he has to do is find a nice patch of
darkness and speak in my native tongue to make the connection."

Interesting,
Clay thought. Here was yet another
unique talent the little goblin had never exhibited before. Squire was always
full of surprises, which was probably why Conan Doyle kept him around.

Graves’s spectral form shimmered in the gloom. "What
did Conan Doyle want?"

"He and the rest of the crew are coming to Greece. An
old acquaintance dropped by the brownstone and filled him in on what’s really
going on around here."

"And?" Clay prodded him.

"The Greeks’ve got a fucking Gorgon problem."

Ceridwen stood naked in the empty rooms that were to be her
quarters, now that she had decided to stay. In recent days she had used one of
the many guest rooms on the upper floors, but if she was going to live here,
she desired a more permanent and more personal space. Conan Doyle had
recommended this suite of rooms because of their location. There were half a
dozen high windows along the rear wall of her bedroom, three each on either
side of broad French doors that opened onto a small courtyard garden behind the
house. The doors were wide open now, and a cool breeze swirled and eddied about
the room, caressing her skin, bringing up gooseflesh and hardening the nubs of
her breasts. It was a delicious sensation and she shivered in pleasure.

She swung out one long leg and did a spin on the smooth
wooden floor, her bare feet rejoicing in the feel of the wood. There would be
no carpet for Ceridwen. The smell and feel of wood was her preference.

The sun shone upon the cut edges of the many glass panes in
French doors, and it glinted there, refracting, throwing a scattering of tiny
rainbows across the natural maple floor. The rooms were bright with sunshine
and had been cleaned recently. She wondered if Arthur had used magick to tidy
up, or if he had had Squire clean the suite earlier, presuming she would stay.

No. He didn’t know I was going to choose to remain here
,
she thought.
Though perhaps he hoped
.

And it had been clear that he was glad Ceridwen was staying
behind, and not solely because she was a staunch and valuable ally. That was
all right, though, for she had not been forthcoming about the entirety of her
reasons for that decision. The Faerie sorceress had not lied. She had simply not
provided the whole truth.

Fighting at Arthur’s side made her feel complete, somehow. As
though it was meant to be. Such attitudes toward destiny were common among her
kin, but she had always eschewed such ideas as flights of fancy. Now she could
not decide what to think. But, then, Conan Doyle had always had that effect on
her.

A tiny smile played upon Ceridwen’s lips and she shivered
again at the caress of the cool breeze upon her flesh.
I think it must be
his eyes
, she thought.
Yes. His eyes. There’s iron there.

She danced over to the open doors and stepped into the
warmth of the sun. Her flesh absorbed it, the heat radiating down to her bones.
Ceridwen went to her knees on the stone patio and glanced around the garden. It
was a pitiful thing, with little variety and less vigor, but she would soon see
to that. With a satisfied sigh she plunged her fingers into the soil and she
felt the life there. The earth responded to her touch, quivering beneath her. There
was so much she could do here. The garden needed color and wild scents. And
water. She would want a fountain, built of stone and with the water summoned
from deep within the earth, a spring she would create by simply asking the
water to flow upward.

Elemental magick was her very pulse.

As Ceridwen smiled, sprouts burst from the soil, a trio of
small buds that grew rapidly to full-fledged flowers, the same violet as her
eyes. They smelled of vanilla and oranges and they grew only in Faerie, only
within the walls of Finvarra’s kingdom.

Unless she willed it.

They were the merest fraction of the color and life she
would bring to this garden. But now she had other duties to attend to. A
different sort of summoning to answer. Ceridwen stood and stretched, enjoying
the sun on her body. The walls around the garden courtyard were high. Anyone
inside Conan Doyle’s house might see her, but she knew he had thrown up wards
to keep away the attentions of prying neighbors. Not that she minded. Women of
the Fey were never coy about their bodies. In its way, the flesh was the fifth
element, after fire, air, water and earth. She only wished she could control
her flesh as easily as she did the others.

With a sigh she slipped back into her bedroom, calling a
small breeze to blow the French doors closed, just softly enough not to shatter
the glass. The only things of hers she had already brought into her suite were
some of the clothes she had kept in the guest room upstairs. Now she examined
the closet and chose a light gown the color of the winter sea. Once she had
slipped it on she also donned a hooded cloak of a blue deeper and richer than
the gown.

Eve wanted to take her shopping for clothes more appropriate
for the modern human world. Ceridwen felt that since she had decided to remain
for a time, perhaps she would take the vampire up on this offer. At the very
least, it ought to be an entertaining evening out. Beyond their fondness for
Arthur, the two women had little in common.

Ceridwen retrieved her elemental staff from its place by the
door, the wood cleaving to her grip and the fire within the icy sphere at its
tip glowing brightly within. Another wind blew up and closed the door behind
her as she went out into the corridor.

This part of the old house was silent . . . what Arthur and
his former associate, the disquieting Mr. Gull, were doing on the roof had no
echo down here. Ceridwen liked it this way. In Faerie, everything was alive and
vibrant. There was a beauty and sublime rightness to the dwellings of the Fey,
particularly the homes constructed in the boughs of trees, but something about
mortal houses brought her an inner peace. There was an elegance and a sense of
artistry in a dwelling such as this one that she could appreciate in quiet
moments.

Now, though, was no time for reflection.

Ceridwen swept along the corridor, a blue mist swirling
around the ice atop her staff, her cloak nearly brushing the floor. They would
all have gathered upon the roof by now and might already be awaiting her. Yet
even as she thought this, Ceridwen passed a pair of large doors that had been
thrown open and saw within the vast spectacle of Conan Doyle’s library. Nostalgia
bloomed within her, a feeling rare for one of her race. Yet it was powerful
enough to pause her in her purpose and divert her into that massive hall. For
calling it a room would not do it justice.

The library was a glorious place, fully four stories high
with nothing but bookshelves along the walls, save for the large skylights far
above. The center was open and filled with comfortable chairs in which to cozy
up and read. Stairs led up to the second floor, which was little more than a
balcony that ran around the perimeter, looking down upon the first. The third
floor balcony was slightly narrower, and the fourth the narrowest of all, so
that the vast open air of the library grew wider the higher one climbed.

"Wonderful," Ceridwen whispered to herself. She
could recall long hours spent here on the occasions when she had come back to
the mortal world — what her people called the Blight — with Arthur.

Yet the immediacy of their situation beckoned. She turned to
leave, but even as she did so, she caught sight of another figure moving across
the balcony on the second story. It was only a glimpse, as he moved into one of
the many alcoves of bookshelves, but there was no mistaking the leathery skin
and small, sharp horns.

Ceridwen went softly up the stairs to the second floor and
moved around the circumference of the room, along the balustrade, to the alcove
where he had disappeared. Danny Ferrick had his back to her and wore small
silver headphones. She knew that music somehow came from such things but she
could not see its source. The demon boy nodded along in time with the rhythm
and had not noticed Ceridwen’s arrival. For several moments she watched him
curiously as he withdrew certain volumes from the shelves and perused them. Conan
Doyle had one of the most extraordinary libraries in the world, replete not
only with the summary accumulation of human wisdom, but with the secrets of the
occult as well. The true histories of the world. Revelations of ancient
societies. Lost worlds. Other dimensions. Many of the books in the library were
unique and thought to have been lost at the time of the burning of the library
of Alexandria.

A young man with an interest in the supernatural could learn
a great deal in this hall.

She tapped him on the shoulder. "Danny."

"Fuck!" he snarled, spinning to face her and
backing away at the same time. Fright and aggression warred in his eyes, and
then he saw who had disturbed him, and he let out a long breath, relaxing into
his sagging, teenager posture.

"You wear the face of his enemy and yet still call upon
the man-god of your parents’ religion?" Ceridwen asked.

The demon boy leaned back and gazed up at the sunlight
streaming in through the windows in the ceiling high above. He waved a clawed
hand. "Well, He hasn’t struck me with lightning yet, so either He isn’t
listening or I’m getting the benefit of the doubt. My guess is, you don’t get
judged on your gene pool, but how you swim in it."

"I am amazed at how often I have no idea what you’re
talking about."

Danny looked at her and shook his head. "Damn. You and
everyone else around here. Squire’s the only one who doesn’t give me that
confused look, and that’s because he’s more of a kid than I am. If he’s got a
mom somewhere, I got a feeling she’s pretty horrified. Maybe that’s why we get
along."

"You do yourself a disservice, Daniel. You have earned
the respect and fondness of every resident of this house. Dr. Graves in
particular."

The teenager shrugged. "He’s cool. You’ve all been
pretty much all right by me. Except maybe Mr. Doyle. I don’t think he likes me
very much."

He gazed over the edge of the balustrade, down at the first
floor, and he said it carelessly. But Ceridwen could see in his eyes that he
did care, quite a bit.

"You might be surprised. I think Arthur fears for you,
Danny. That is the concern you see in him."

The demon boy did not respond to that. He appeared to think
it over a moment and then only nodded, keeping his own counsel. At length he
walked past her and started perusing the shelves again, but halfheartedly,
including her in his observations.

"This is a pretty amazing place, isn’t it? I mean, it’s
so giant I have a hard time figuring out how it fits inside the house. From the
inside it seems big enough that there shouldn’t be room for anything else. No
bedrooms, no parlors, no dining room. It’s weird. Maybe it’s an optical
illusion or something."

Ceridwen smiled. "Something like that."

Danny had begun to run his fingers along a line of books,
reading the titles silently to himself, but at her response he paused and
regarded her.

"No. Uh uh. Don’t do that. I know that tone of voice. Okay,
so there’s stuff I don’t know. I’m a moron. Well, un-idiot me. Fill me in. What’s
the secret of this place?"

She lost her smile. "You’re right, of course. You are
young, but you’ve earned the right not to be treated as a child. My apologies."

Danny grinned. "Well, you don’t have to be so fucking
serious about it."

The mischief in the boy’s eyes was contagious. Ceridwen
found herself laughing softly along with him. As they spoke their voices echoed
in the vast chamber. She gestured upward.

"You are correct. It is much too large to fit inside
Arthur’s house. The truth is that it isn’t inside the house at all. It’s . . .
elsewhere. And the door is just a door that leads to that elsewhere. If you
were to go up through that skylight, it wouldn’t be Boston unfolding around
you."

"Where are we, then?" Danny asked, sounding more
than a little concerned.

Ceridwen considered a moment before replying. "I don’t
know. I also don’t know how the library is summoned. Sometimes it is here, and
sometimes it isn’t. The doors appear wherever they like in the house. The
library is only available when it is needed, even if your need is only for
pleasant distraction, for there are storybooks in here as well."