Tears of the Furies

CHAPTER TWO

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."

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.

"You don’t think I want you at home?" she demanded.

He sighed. "You know that’s not what I meant. It’s just… with the assholes at school, and the neighbors… you know I’m better off here. It’ll be easier for both of — "

"I didn’t raise my son to become part of some freak show," she snapped, turning to face him.

Danny chuckled humorlessly and ran a hand over his deep red pate. His fingernails were black now, like the claws of an animal.

"Okay, so I don’t stay here, I come home with you, and then what?"

She didn’t have an answer, so she folded her arms defensively across her chest.

"I go back to Newton and everything’s just fine, is that what you think?" He laughed unhappily. "How long do you think it will be before the villagers are surrounding the house with torches?"

"Stop," Julia said. "Please, stop it." She closed her eyes, listening to the pounding rhythm of the blood in her temples. She was getting a headache; the kind that usually sent her straight to bed with all the lights out and the curtains drawn, not quite a migraine, but a bad, return to the womb kind of headache, as her ex-husband used to say.

"No, I won’t," he said defiantly. "Things are different now — I’m different now." He pointed to one of the room’s windows with a clawed finger. "I don’t fit out there anymore."

She still had her eyes closed, the pain in her head growing with every pulse of her heart.

"Look at me!" Danny roared, and she had no choice but to open her eyes. He stood before her, arms spread, displaying what he had become. "Look at me and tell me I’m wrong."

Julia didn’t know what to say. Deep down she knew he was right, but damn it she couldn’t bear to let him go, to release her only child into the care of Arthur Doyle, someone she barely knew — to become part of his… what did he call it? His menagerie.

"What do we actually know about this Mr. Doyle?" she blurted out. "And the people who live here with him — don’t even get me started on them. I’d just feel better if I knew…"

"He saved the world, ma," Danny interrupted. "And I helped." He touched the front of his Eminem T-shirt with a taloned hand. "I really don’t think you need anything more by way of character references."

The world was pretty much back to normal since the bizarre occurrences of almost three weeks before, when a crimson mist had blanketed the region and the dead had crawled from their graves. Julia shivered with the memory, the hair at the back of her neck prickling to attention. It was hard to believe that everything that happened was anything other than a very bad dream, but when she looked at her son, she knew it was real.

"I want to stay here," Danny said taking a step toward her. "I need to be here."

There was a desperation in his voice that made her want to cry, as if the answers to all of his problems were right here, and she was the only obstacle standing in the way of his total fulfillment.

"Danny, please." She weighed each word carefully. "Look at this from my perspective."

"This isn’t about you!" Danny bellowed, and Julia could have sworn she saw sparks of orange flame leap from his eyes. He spun away from her, bounding across the room, and brought his fist down on the mahogany dresser, obliterating the toys.

Julia was horribly torn. Motherly instincts told her to go to her son, to comfort him, but another voice inside her head, more attuned to self-preservation, whispered that it might be wiser to keep her distance. The moment was broken, however, and her quandary solved, when a spectral figure emerged from the ceiling, drifting down to float eerily in the center of the room. The temperature dropped several degrees, and she shivered.

No matter how many times Julia saw the ghost of Dr. Leonard Graves, she couldn’t get used to it.. He was a kind man, and had been a noble example of humanity while he lived, but that was the problem. Dr. Graves was dead.

"Is everything all right?" the specter asked, his gaze shifting from Julia to her son, who now knelt before his demolished dresser.

"Danny?" Graves drifted closer to the boy, and Julia noticed how much warmer it was without him near.

"I’m cool," Danny said, reaching down to touch the broken dresser. "My mom and I were just discussing how it would be best for me to go back home with her and live in the basement."

Julia sighed. "I said no such thing," she said wearily, bringing her hands to her temples in an attempt to massage away the throbbing agony in her head.

"It’s completely understandable if you don’t quite trust us yet," Graves said, turning his focus on her and drifting closer. "We are quite the unusual bunch."

"It’s not that I don’t trust you per se… damn it this hurts," she moaned, and stumbled slightly to one side, sitting down on the end of the bed.

"She called you all a freak show," Danny said with contempt.

Julia started to deny it, but gave up, the pain inside her skull taking away her strength to defend herself. She grimaced. "If you can believe it, I meant it in the nicest way possible."

Her eyes were closed, but she felt Graves approach, the temperature in the air dropping dramatically as he drew nearer to her.

"No offense taken," the ghost replied. "You have another headache, Mrs. Ferrick?"

She slitted her eyes open and saw that he was leaning forward to study her. Though a ghost, Leonard Graves was still quite handsome. He was a man out of time, a man of another age, but he had rugged, determined features that reminded her of Denzel Washington… only transparent. Julia couldn’t believe she was thinking such things about a dead man and chalked it up to insanity caused by the pain inside her head.

"It’s Julia, Doctor, and yes, I’ve got a hell of a headache."

Danny stood, holding a piece of the dresser top in his hands, and looked at her with concern. "She gets them when she’s stressed out. Mom, do you want us to pull the curtains and let you lie down for awhile?"

"No, I’ll be fine. Maybe a couple of Aleve from my purse will.. "

"Squire often gets tension headaches," Graves stated. "And I’ve developed a slightly unusual, yet effective technique that helps to diminish his pain."

She began to feel herself growing nauseous. "Does it involve sacrificing a virgin or cutting the head off a chicken?" She ventured a tremulous smile.

The ghost chuckled. "Surprisingly, it doesn’t."

"Would I be a candidate for this treatment, or does it only work on trolls?"

"Squire is a hobgoblin," Graves said. "Quite different from trolls actually, far better hygiene, and, yes, if you’re willing, you would be a candidate."

"I’m willing," she croaked, the acid in her stomach churning from the intensity of the ache in her skull.

"All right," the ghost said. "If you’d be so kind as to remain seated and lean forward."

Julia did as she was told. The headache was coming on hard and fast now, and the pain was such that if Graves had said that a very sharp axe would now be needed, she would have helped him search for it.

"Now don’t be alarmed, you’re going to feel something a little strange."

The icy sensation at the back of her neck was almost pleasant, at first numbing, but then it grew intensely warm. Five points of heat pressed on the cluster of pain inside her skull. Though her eyes were closed, Julia suddenly understood what Dr. Graves was doing to her; she could see it in her mind. He had put his hand — his ghostly fingers — inside her head and was taking her headache away.

"That should do it," the doctor said, as she slowly straightened.

Julia opened her eyes and ran a cautious hand along the back of her neck. "It’s gone," she said, not without a little surprise. "That’s incredible." She smiled. "I feel great."

Danny stood beside the apparition of the former adventurer. "Not bad for a freak, huh, Ma?"

"Most headaches are caused by constriction of blood vessels inside the skull," Graves explained. "A little hot and cold therapy applied directly to the clusters is usually enough to alleviate the symptoms."

"I feel as though I should write you a check or something," Julia said, relishing the relief from her agony.

"The only payment I ask is that you extend the trust you gave to me to the others of this household."

What he was asking her to do was likely to pain her far more than any headache ever could, but deep down she knew that it was indeed best for Danny. Besides, how could she be steered wrong by the one of the world’s most famous scientists and adventurers? Ghost or not, this was Dr. Leonard Graves. Not trusting him would be like calling Elliot Ness a crook.

Julia smiled at the comparison, these two men from the annals of twentieth-century American history.

"You’ll have to call me every other night," she told her son.

Danny nodded. "I can do that."

"And I want to be able to visit. Nothing crazy, just to be able to see that you’re doing all right."

"That can be arranged as well," Graves responded. "I’ll see that you are given a key. And you’ll have a guest room at your disposal whenever you like."

"So does that mean I can stay?" Danny asked.

"Let’s just say I’m willing to try it," Julia answered, trying to quell a slight twinge of unease.

There came a knock at the door, and it swung open. Squire ambled into the room without an invitation.

"Sorry to interrupt. Hey, love what you’re doing with the place," he said sarcastically, nodding his potato shaped head at the dresser. "Fuckin’ kids today," he added with a disgusted grumble.

"What can we do for you, Squire?" Graves asked, distracting hobgoblin from glowering at the boy.

"Mr. Doyle wants to see everybody in the study."

Danny pointed to himself.

"You, too, horny Joe," the hobgoblin said, turning to leave. "Go a little easier on the furniture downstairs, would ya?"

Danny followed Squire into the hall. "I’ll talk to you later," he called, waving to Julia, leaving her alone with Graves.

She didn’t know how to feel. "I love you, Ma," she muttered as she stood up from the bed looking for her purse, preparing to leave.

"Mrs. Ferrick… Julia," Leonard Graves said. She found her pocketbook and slung the strap over her shoulder, turning toward the ghost. He smiled at her reassuringly, raising his hand to hold a forefinger and thumb slightly apart. "Only a little bit of trust."

"It’s the least I can do," she answered with a smile, and then watched as his body became even more immaterial, dropping down through the floor until he was gone.

Leaving her alone with the weight of her decision.

From the window of his study, Conan Doyle watched Julia Ferrick leaving his home and striding purposefully toward her car, which sat in one of the few legal parking spaces in the affluent Beacon Hill neighborhood of Louisburg Square. His sight was perfect again, perhaps even a bit better than that. He was glad that he had decided to pay Fulcanelli more than was necessary for his efforts; the chemist had outdone himself.

He let the heavy curtain fall back into place and turned just as young Daniel Ferrick entered the room. Eve and Clay, the eldest of his menagerie, sat side by side on the sofa. Dr. Graves stood behind them with his arms crossed, not quite as translucent as usual. Graves was focused at the moment on the substantial world. Danny glanced around for a moment, an odd expression on his face as he regarded the furniture, before sitting himself on the floor, his back against the sofa.

The only one who had yet to arrive was Ceridwen, and Conan Doyle felt his pulse quicken at the thought of her. Silly git, he chided, surprised that the Fey sorceress could still have such an effect upon him after so long. What had been between them once was no more. They had become allies again, but it went no further. Must be getting soft in my old age.

Squire entered the room carrying a long serving tray, laden with a pitcher of ice water flavored with lemon slices, red grapes, crackers, and a selection of cheeses. He set the tray down upon a wheeled cart just inside the door.

"Have you seen Ceridwen, Squire?" Conan Doyle asked.

The goblin snatched up a piece of cheese from the tray and popped it into his mouth. "Saw her on the top floor about ten minutes ago and told her there was a powwow," he said, chewing noisily. "She was still working on reestablishing that doorway between the house and Faerie, ironing out the wrinkles and all. Said she’d be right along."

Conan Doyle nodded. It was powerful magic she was attempting alone, and he wondered if the sorceress might require his assistance. As soon as this meeting was concluded, he would seek her out.

From a cabinet of dark wood, he retrieved a crystal decanter of scotch and a glass tumbler. "May I interest any of you in something with a bit more bite?"

Clay declined as he rose and went to fill a plate with crackers and grapes.

"I’ll love a jolt, thanks," Eve said from the couch.

"Me, too," Danny added.

Graves glared down at the boy from where he hovered. "I think not," he said coldly.

"It was worth a try," the boy shrugged, getting up and going to the cart for some water.

"I’ll pass," Squire said, perching on the edge of the loveseat with a plate stacked with cheese. "Make it a point not to drink any hard stuff until after five." The hobgoblin had a bite of one of the cheese wedges. "Unless I’m already shitfaced, that is."

Conan Doyle sighed and rolled his eyes as he crossed the room to bring Eve her drink.

"Here’s mud in your eye," she said with a sly smile, raising the tumbler in a toast. "And speaking of eyes, the new one looks fabulous. Who did it for you, Agrippa?" She tossed the scotch back in one go, then ran her tongue over her lips comically. "Not as nutritiously satisfying as the red stuff, but not without its merits."

"Always the lady, Eve," Conan Doyle said. "No, Agrippa and I had a bit of a falling out so I decided to go with someone local. Fulcanelli in the North End; do you know him?"

"Only by reputation." She studied his newly acquired eye. "He does nice work."

Clay returned to the sofa and offered her a cracker. She declined with a wrinkling of her nose.

"So, what’s the scoop?" she asked Conan Doyle. "I’m sure you didn’t call this little meeting just to chitchat and show off your new peeper."

Conan Doyle crossed the room to an empty wing back chair in the corner, his chair, and sat down. He set his drink down and picked up a file folder from a small table beside him.

"I received a phone call from one of our informants in Athens," he said as he opened the folder. "As well as these digital photographs over the Internet shortly thereafter."

Squire got up, took the printed photos and brought them to Eve. "Pass ‘em down when you’re done."

She glared at him.

"Hey, if those don’t do anything for ya, I’ve got some back at my room that might be more to your liking," the hobgoblin winked salaciously.

"I think I’m going to be sick," Eve said, as Squire sauntered back to his seat.

"Before that, please peruse the pictures, if you would be so kind," Conan Doyle said picking up his glass and taking a sip of scotch.

Eve still had her sunglasses on, but now she removed them to examine the pictures more carefully. "Okay, I’m game. What’s up with the statues?" she asked, passing the digital printouts to Clay.

"They weren’t always statues," the shapeshifter said grimly, looking up to meet Doyle’s eyes.

"Precisely."

"Any idea what’s responsible?" Clay asked, rising to give the pictures to Graves.

Conan Doyle shook his head, resting his glass on the arm of the leather chair. "Nothing as yet. There are any number of supernatural causes ranging from a transmutation spell gone horribly awry to Basilisk poisoning."

"Let me see," Danny said, pulling the pictures away from Graves. "Oh, damn," he said, his red eyes growing wide. "These used to be people?"

"Tourists," Conan Doyle explained.

"Almost like people," Eve added.

"So I’m guessing we’re going to Greece," Clay said, rising from the sofa to set his empty plate on the cart.

Conan Doyle downed the last of his drink before answering. "Not all of you," he said. "I’d like you, Clay, to go to Athens to investigate, with Dr. Graves and Squire."

Clay nodded his acceptance of the mission, as did the spectral Graves.

"That sucks," Danny grumbled as Doyle got up to refill his glass. "I wouldn’t mind a trip to Greece."

Conan Doyle studied the boy a moment, still evaluating him. "Perhaps another time."

Eve cleared her throat. "So what about the rest of us?" she asked, crossing her long legs. "Are we free to go about our business?"

The ominous words of his old teahcher Lorenzo Sanguedolce echoed through Conan Doyle’s mind. The clock is ticking toward the fate of the world, the mage had warned, and Conan Doyle believed this to be true, but did not know when the metaphorical clock would chime. He did not want to be caught unawares.

"No," he responded. "The rest of you will remain here with me."

He poured himself another scotch. A double this time.

"Better to be safe than sorry."