Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie) (26 page)

Medusa had already climbed the stone steps up onto the
platform, and he could hear the screams of those who had caught sight of her.

They didn’t scream for long.

The cheetah bounded up the station steps, and above the
final cries of Medusa’s victims, he heard a sound that filled him with dread.

This hiss of a train as it pulled away.

He sprang onto the platform, just in time to catch sight of
Medusa leaping onto the last car of the departing train. Clay watched in horror
as the Gorgon tore off a door with a shriek of metal and tossed it aside. Then
she disappeared inside, that nest of snakes upon her head coiling excitedly.

"Damn it!" Clay snarled even as his flesh altered
again and he stood upright, unfolding into the body of a man. Already the
deaths of those at the train station weighed on his conscience, but now there
was the train. He tried not to wonder how many passengers were aboard.

The air shimmered beside him and Dr. Graves appeared,
phantom guns drawn. His shirt cuffs were rolled up and through his transparent
form Clay could see the X where his suspenders criss-crossed his back like
bandoliers. He had always cut a heroic figure, but just then there was nothing
heroic about the dread etched upon the spectral features of Leonard Graves.

"We have to catch that train," the ghost said. "I
can do it, but you’ll need real speed."

Clay swore under his breath. He nodded and his flesh began
to flow once more, becoming malleable . . . but he never completed the change. A
figure clad entirely in black appeared from among the stone people on the
platform and let fly with a throwing blade. Clay turned, but not fast enough,
and the thin blade bit deeply into his shoulder. He tried to shift back to his
more human state, but was wracked with an excruciating pain that radiated from
the wound. In a form between cat and man, he leaned forward and tore the blade
from his flesh with his mouth, tossing it to the ground. His own blood glinted
off the strange sigils etched on its surface. He heard his attacker laughing,
the sound of joy muffled by a cherubic mask. The effect of that childlike mask
on the killer’s face was profoundly unsettling.

Blasts of ectoplasmic gunfire filled the air and Clay
watched Graves descend upon their foe.

The baby-faced figure danced among the gunfire, eluding the
phantom bullets with a disturbing grace, and as he moved, Clay saw that he had
taken a cylindrical canister from a pouch on his belt and was spreading its
grainy contents in a circle below the ghost’s floating form.

"Graves!" Clay warned, but it was too late. The
ghostly adventurer began to scream, his normally translucent form, beginning to
fade.

"What have you done to him?" Clay growled, finally
able to take on his natural, earthen form, but only for an instant. He was eager
to show their attacker that he had messed with the wrong people.

The figure in black let loose with another blade, this one
sticking in the center of Clay’s orange, cracked flesh. He tore it away with a
snarl and ran toward the assassin. In his mind he saw the image of a powerful
silverback gorilla, and willed his body to become it. Again he was stricken
with an incredible bolt of pain, driving him to his knees.

He glanced up at the dwindling form of Dr. Graves. "The
dirt," the ghost moaned. "It’s from my grave . . . it binds me . . .
calls me back there."

Another throwing knife pierced Clay’s flesh and the masked
man giggled. He was playing with them. Enraged, Clay forced his protesting
flesh to assume the shape of the gorilla and lunged at their attacker. The man
tried to avoid him, but this time Clay was faster, knocking him savagely to the
ground. He roared, tossing back his head and shrieking to the heavens, his
fists beating on his broad chest.

"We’ve underestimated you," the man said. His
voice from beneath the disturbing cherub mask was a dry whisper, like the
rustling of leaves. "Thought the knives would have shut you down by now."

The silverback brought its arms down upon the man’s chest as
though they were clubs. The man made not a sound as he was pummeled. Clay
reared back, staring down at the body of his attacker. The man looked like a
broken rag doll, arms and legs askew, the eerie baby-doll face looking up at
the pale, blue Athenian sky.

The places where Clay had been stabbed burned as if touched
by acid and he looked away from his foe for an instant to check on Graves. The
ghost was gone, only the circle of earth upon the ground remained.

"Finished with me already?" the whispering voice
said mockingly, and before Clay could react, the man was up from the ground and
had climbed upon his back, locking himself in place with his legs and arms
about the gorilla’s throat.

Impossible. He was dead. Bones shattered.

Clay roared, hurling himself to the side, thrashing about in
an attempt to dislodge his attacker. He considered changing his shape again, to
become something even more powerful. For a moment, he hesitated, the memory of
the awful pain giving him pause. The knives were imbued with some sort of
sorcery, a spell meant to prevent him from changing his shape. Whoever this guy
was, he knew things about Conan Doyle’s Menagerie, ways to stop them. Ways to
kill them.

Another knife bit into the thick muscle of his shoulder
blade and the silverback roared. He reached over his shoulder, powerful arms
attempting to pull his attacker from his back, but could not do it. The man was
stuck like a tick on a dog.

Clay threw himself to the ground, rolling across the train
platform, crashing into the stone bodies of Medusa’s victims. The bodies
toppled to the ground, crumbling into pieces, but still the man in black held
tight.

His thoughts raced. He had to do something.

"Squire, hurry up, damn it!" he bellowed,
directing his voice to the nearest patch of shadows though he doubted it was
possible for the little bastard to hear him. If there was any time that they
could have used the hobgoblin’s assistance, it was now.

As he rolled across the hard ground of the station, the
image of another animal filled his mind — something big. And his body
began to change. Clay quivered and shook. The pain was unbelievable, and for an
instant it almost stopped him.

Almost.

The silverback was gone now, replaced with body of a
mastodon, and Clay tossed its huge head back, tusks gleaming, and blew a
triumphant blast through his trunk. The pain had infected his entire form, it
was absolute agony retaining the shape, and the intensity of what he was
experiencing drove him wild.

The mastodon thrashed its mighty body from side to side. Clay
could still feel the man clinging to his back, almost as if he had burrowed
beneath his flesh. Blinded by agony and rage, he surged forward with no concern
as to what was in his path.

The massive pachyderm plowed through the back of the
decorative mosaic wall, shattering it to rubble, and for an instant he felt the
man’s grip on him lessen. Sensing an opportunity, Clay pitched its massive head
forward. The assassin was flung from his back, and upon striking the ground
rolled to his feet, seemingly unfazed. He held more of those enchanted throwing
knives in his hands.

"This should do it," he hissed from behind his
cherub’s mask.

The assassin lifted a hand, about to fling more blades. Clay
braced for the savage bite of those knives . . . but then his attacker’s head
snapped viciously backward. He staggered, daggers dropping from his gloved
hands to clatter upon the ground. His hand rose to weakly brush at an object
protruding from one of the eyeholes in the cherub mask.

A tranquilizer dart had been shot into his right eye.

Clay watched with great satisfaction as the figure fell
limply to the station floor, arms and legs twitching.

"Did you see that shot?" Squire hooted, rifle
slung over his shoulder as he advanced across the platform.

The feeling gave out in the mastodon’s legs, and Clay
slumped to the ground. Bracing for pain, he transformed to his humanoid guise,
flesh flowing once more. The process was excruciating, his body feeling as
though it had been set afire from the inside.

"What the hell’s wrong with you?" Squire asked,
kneeling beside him.

Clay looked into the face of the hobgoblin, pleased for once
to see the little man. "Didn’t think you were that proficient with modern
weaponry," he said as he tried to stand.

"Don’t care for them really," Squire responded,
hefting the rifle. "But it doesn’t mean I can’t shoot the balls off a blue
jay at fifty yards."

Clay stumbled over to the circle of dirt. "We have to
see about Graves," he said, falling to his knees before the circle. "He
said that this dirt came from his grave, that it was calling him back to his
body."

Squire nodded in understanding. "Old-fashioned binding
spell for wandering spirits," he explained. "At first they’re bound
within the circle and then slowly drawn back to their bodies where they’re
imprisoned until the sorcerer who cast the spell decides they can go free."

"That’s where he is now?" Clay asked, searching
the air above the dirt circle for a sign of the ghostly adventurer. "Back
with his remains?"

The hobgoblin stepped closer to the circle. "If I’m
remembering right, it can take a little while for the spell to kick into full
gear, especially if the spirit has a particularly strong disposition." He
rubbed away part of the circle with the toe of his shoe. "He may not be
quite there yet."

The air above the broken circle shimmered and pulsed as
Leonard Graves began to materialize. The ghost was not in the best of moods.

"Bastard!" he roared, the twin Colt 45s taking
shape in his hands. "Where is that son of a bitch?"

"Whoa, Len. Where’s your usual calm reserve? Be cool,
pal," Squire said. "We took care of him for ya."

"He’s down," Clay confirmed as he reached up to
remove the last of the attacker’s knives from his shoulder, hissing with pain
as the dagger came loose. "But we still have to catch that train —"

"Where is he?" Graves interrupted, gliding through
them, ghostly guns still in hands. "I want to see the assassin up close. I’m
going to make sure he doesn’t have any other tricks up his sleeve."

"What’s the matter with you, Casper?" Squire
chided as he turned around. "He’s right th . . . Oh shit."

The figure in black was gone.

"I remember the day when getting shot in the eye with a
tranquilizer dart pretty much took you out of the picture," Squire said,
walking over to check out where the body had lain. The dart lay upon the
platform. "But I shouldn’t be surprised."

"What are you talking about?" Clay asked,
frustrated by this latest turn.
Isn’t anything going to go right on this
mission?

"Our mystery boy with the kewpie doll face mask is
named Tassarian. A real nasty prick, let me tell you. Used to work for Conan
Doyle’s old pal Nigel Gull."

The goblin nudged the tranquilizer dart with his shoe. "Or
at least he did until about twenty years ago, when I killed him."

Gull had left them to die.

In the voice of Orpheus he had compelled them to lie upon
the ground and await an inevitable death. Now the sound of beating wings grew
louder and Conan Doyle winced at the horrid shrieks that filled the air in the
distance, growing nearer by the moment.

"I can’t move," Danny growled. The demon boy’s tone
was a mix of rage and panic. "If those razor birds come back for us, we’re
screwed."

"It is not the Stymphalian Birds whose cries you hear,"
Conan Doyle said, forcing the words from his throat. Gull had not commanded
them to silence, but even so any action that was not part of his instruction
was difficult.

"It’s not?" Danny asked with a spark of hope.

"No. I’m afraid it is something far worse." Conan
Doyle wracked his brain, desperately trying to think of a spell or incantation
that could counter the power of Orpheus.

"Excellent," Danny replied sardonically. "Those
birds were
so
last week. I would have been really embarrassed to have
them rip me to shreds and eat my entrails. Hopefully something much cooler will
kill us.."

Conan Doyle managed to roll onto his back, gazing up at the
misty sky of the vast underground cavern. The ceiling was so high that the true
height of it was impossible to discern. "Sarcasm will do nothing to help
us, boy. If that’s all you can contribute, I’d appreciate it if you would hold
your tongue."

"Dude," Danny exclaimed. "There’s a good
chance we’re about to die here. I think me being sarcastic is the least of our
friggin’ problems."

The shrieks were closer now.

"Gentlemen," Ceridwen scolded in a whisper, her
face pressed to the ground. "Perhaps our energies could be put to better
use, hmmm?"

Conan Doyle was glad to hear that she was conscious, but
hardly thrilled that she would be awake to experience what would likely be a
grisly fate. A succession of horribly shrill cries filled the air; eager wails
of excitement from creatures that had at last found their prey.

The Harpies had found them.

Warm fetid air blasted the ground from the power of their
wings, kicking up dirt and dust as they dropped from the sky. There were three
of them. Their hideous, bird-like bodies reminded Conan Doyle of vultures, but
with the heads of women. The Harpies roosted upon the rocks and perched there,
gazing down on their prey. Conan Doyle could feel their hungry eyes on him, and
smell the stench of death wafting from their feathered bodies.

Danny Ferrick began to whimper. "Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh
shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit."

"Control yourself, Daniel," Conan Doyle
instructed, with all of the authority he could muster.

Oh shit, indeed.