Tears of the Furies

CHAPTER THREE

Nigel Gull stood in the customs line at Logan International Airport and waited to show his passport to a security guard. The long flight from Athens had been a test of his patience, thanks to the rudeness of his fellow passengers, but he had been relatively comfortable in the first-class section. Over the years he had grown inured to the stares of those who were ignorant or insensitive. He did not need a mirror to remind him how freakish his appearance was, his skull so misshapen that his face looked more like a horse’s than a human’s. No, every idiot who stared at him was his mirror. He saw himself in and through their eyes. Once upon a time there had lived in England a man named John Merrick who was publicly referred to as the Elephant Man, because it was believed he had a rare condition called elephantiasis. In subsequent years Merrick’s actual ailment had been debated, but the name remained.

The Elephant Man.

Gull had been repulsed by the circus that had surrounded Merrick. He knew the source of his own freakish appearance but had no desire to be paraded around London as the Horse-headed man, or some such. He was a human being, despite the equine influence that was evident in his eyes and ears and the length and shape of his head.

No, all in all, the flight had been innocuous enough. Now, though, as he and his two traveling companions made their way down the long corridor toward the customs area, they were herded along with the rest of the passengers, as well as those from two other flights that had arrived nearly simultaneously. Logan Airport was the hub of air travel not only in Boston, but in all of New England, particularly for overseas travel. There were plenty of gawking children, adults who alternated between open astonishment and averting their gaze, and a pair of teenagers with so little breeding that they actually clutched one another, pointing and laughing.

"Oh, shit. What is up with that?" one of them crowed, a dark-skinned boy in an oversized basketball jersey.

Gull ignored them. He felt his companions stiffen, however. They walked on either side of him as though they were his bodyguards, when in fact they were his friends and associates. On his left was a distinguished, silver-haired gentleman, well-dressed in a sport coat and trousers. Nick Hawkins looked as though he had just left a fitting at the tailor’s rather than just disembarked from a six-hour transatlantic flight. At first glance, women were taken by the man’s chiseled features and insouciant smile. Then they saw the cold emptiness of his eyes.

Hawkins had proven himself an asset time and time again. He had gifts he had only begun to tap in the employment of the British government, but he had chosen to work with Gull instead. The benefits were far greater. Anything Nick Hawkins could imagine, his association with Gull could enable him to achieve. And Hawkins had quite an imagination.

Gull’s other companion drew nearly as many stares as he did himself, though for far different reasons. The girl was fifteen — or perhaps sixteen, he could not recall her age at her last birthday — and quite stunning. Her hair was a rich cinnamon, her eyes ocean blue, and she walked with the confident strut that was part dancer, part prizefighter. Her jeans hung so low on her hips it seemed impossible for them to remain in place, and her top came down to just beneath her breasts, leaving what seemed to be yards of beautiful pale abdomen and a tiny dimpled navel exposed for public view.

Jezebel was a force of nature. Gull’s heart filled with pride at the sight of her. She swept the attention of others in her wake, commanding them without a glance. But even her radiance was not enough to draw all eyes from Gull’s hideousness. When the pair of teenaged boys laughed and pointed at him, she and Hawkins had both tensed. The suave gentleman turned gray, soulless eyes on Gull, who shook his head. But Jezebel was not so easily discouraged.

"Come on, then," she said playfully, linking her arm with his as they moved up in the customs line. "Let me hurt them. Just a bit of a scorching ought to do for the lads well enough."

Gull frowned. "Do nothing, Jez. You cause any trouble and we may have to wait ‘round til it gets sorted. I can’t have that, yeah? You just be my good girl. I promise you’ll have plenty of fun later on."

Jezebel rolled her eyes, tucked a lock of cinnamon hair behind her ear, and spun around to face him, walking backward in the line. "As long as you promise. I’ll be good. I’m always good, aren’t I, Nick?"

The girl enjoyed baiting Hawkins, but the man was stone-faced. His years with British Intelligence had honed him to such a fine edge that he was too sharp, too dangerous, even for them. One nubile girl was not going to dull his edge. No matter what else she might be capable of.

"You’re always good, love," Hawkins replied at last, but Jezebel had already turned to hand her passport to the customs agent.

Gull waited for his turn, Hawkins taking up a position behind him. The teenagers continued to snicker and made rude comments under their breath. The tall, malformed man lifted a large hand and scratched at his chin. His brows knitted in consternation. For well over a century he had endured such idiocy. But sometimes he ran out of patience. He glanced back at Hawkins and nodded. The handsome man remained expressionless as he reached into his jacket pocket in search of his British passport. As he withdrew it, he fumbled it, and it dropped to the floor not far from the two boys.

Hawkins stepped out of line, closing the distance between himself and the teens. He crouched to pick up his passport, and as he did, he let the fingers of his left hand brush the shoe of the nearest, a slight boy with delicate features.

If Gull had not had exceptional hearing and been paying close attention he would have lost Hawkins’s words in the susurrus of voices in the terminal. But he was able to decipher them, lagging a bit even as Jezebel finished with the customs agent.

"Your friend here is going to get pinched for smuggling drugs later this year. He’s going to sell you out. In prison, you’ll be shanked in the shower, cut wide open so your intestines are hanging out, and while your blood runs down the drain, they’ll take turns raping you, so the last thing you know will be the pain of your rectum tearing and the weight of a murderer with heinous breath upon your back."

The silver-haired gentleman held up his passport, brandishing it so that Gull could see it, as if letting his companion know there was no problem. As if he had said nothing. He smiled an empty smile and returned to the line, even as Gull handed his own identification to the customs agent.

"Fuck! You’re a fucking nut! Sick fucking freak!" the teen was shouting.

But no one else had heard Hawkins speak, and all they saw was an ill-mannered lout of a boy screaming at a distinguished businessman. Hawkins shook his head as though the boy’s behavior was beneath him to even acknowledge and waited patiently for his turn with customs.

Fifteen minutes later they had retrieved their luggage from the baggage claim. Jezebel secured a cart and helped Hawkins load it, and now they wheeled it in silence through the busy terminal as travelers moved out of their way. The electronic doors parted to make way for them, and they emerged onto the sidewalk in front of the airport, where a line of limousines and taxicabs waited.

Cold rain swept down from dark skies heavy with thunderheads. It was midafternoon, but the gloom pretended evening. The cars that rolled beneath the overhanging roof that kept the emerging travelers dry dripped with rain, leaving damp tire tracks in their passing.

Nigel Gull paused on the sidewalk, his distended nostrils widening. It had been raining lightly when they landed, but the storm had gotten much worse in the subsequent forty minutes. He snorted in displeasure.

"A singularly unlovely day."

Jezebel had slipped on her burgundy leather jacket. Now she left the luggage cart and stood beside him, gazing out at the storm. Her left hand gripped his arm, and she lay her head against his shoulder.

"No," Gull began. "Jez, love, you don’t have to — "

"Hush," the girl said.

Gull’s heart swelled. Such a sweet child. He would never have a daughter of his own, but in Jezebel he had found a girl who was everything he could ever have wanted as a legacy. How he loved her. As he watched, her beautiful, delicate face became dark and cruel. Her eyes were closed tightly, her features lined with intensity. She shook, and her grip on his arm tightened. A drop of blood bubbled out of her right nostril, steaming, and when it fell to the sidewalk it evaporated on contact with the concrete.

Her eyes flickered open. A mist seemed to rise off of those orbs, the same ocean green as her irises. Then a smile blossomed on her face and she went impossibly rigid beside him. Gull was at once fearful for her and enchanted. She was never more beautiful than in the throes of her power. Her personal magic.

Her grip relaxed, and she slumped against him. Gull put an arm around her shoulders and at last tore his gaze from her. As far as he could see, the rain had ceased. The black clouds were thinning, burning off, and in several places the sun peeked through, revealing a hint of blue sky beyond.

"It will be nice now," Jezebel said, her words slurring. "Spectacular, even." She glanced around for Hawkins and spotted him a few feet away, studying the line of limousines that stood at the curb, their drivers standing in front of them, each holding a sign scrawled with the name of their client.

"Nick, lovey, get us a car, won’t you? I need somewhere to fall."

Hawkins glanced at her, then at Gull. He said nothing, for Jezebel was irritating him on purpose. She knew full well that he was already in the process of choosing their transportation. Women passing by watched him appreciatively as they dragged their wheeled baggage toward waiting taxis. But despite Jezebel’s exhaustion, Gull had no interest in a taxi. He would not ride in one in London, nor would he do so here in the States.

"Only a moment, Jez," Gull promised her.

But the girl had already closed her eyes again and seemed on the verge of falling asleep where she stood, leaning on him.

After another moment, Hawkins began to walk along the line of limousines, idly brushing his fingers against each of them as he passed. At the third — a long ghost-white model — he paused. Gull thought he saw a tiny smile flicker across Hawkins’s face, but it might have been his imagination.

"Mr. Gull," Hawkins said, beckoning to him.

With Jezebel staggering somnambulently at his side, Gull grasped the handle of the luggage cart and wheeled it toward the limousine. He reached it just as Hawkins was approaching the driver, who stood in front of the vehicle holding a small white cardboard sign stenciled with the name E. POWELL.

"Hello there, are you Bob, then?" Hawkins asked the driver.

The young man with the black suit and the E. POWELL sign flinched and then looked Hawkins up and down in frank appraisal.

"Can I help you, sir?" the driver asked.

"You are Bob, yes?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Ah, excellent," Hawkins said. "I apologize for keeping you waiting. I missed my flight and had to take the next one. I know you’ve been here for quite some time… two hours, is it? I’ll make sure to add a large gratuity to the company charge."

Bob smiled in relief. "You’re Mr. Powell," he said. "I was beginning to wonder if I was in the wrong place. I called in, and they said to wait another twenty minutes or so. Truth is, I was about to leave."

Hawkins glanced over his shoulder at Gull and Jezebel. "Well, then it seems we’ve arrived just in time."

The driver frowned, glancing once at the others but then trying his best not to see them, Gull because of his hideousness, Jezebel because of her beauty. "Oh. I didn’t realize there were three of you. The slip said one passenger."

"Is that a problem?"

"No. No, of course not. There’s plenty of room, Mr. Powell."

Then he smiled and opened the door for Gull and Jezebel. They climbed into the expansive rear of the limousine, and she stretched out full length on one of the seats, instantly asleep. Moments later Bob was sliding behind the wheel and Hawkins was climbing into the rear of the limousine, and then they were drawing away from the airport.

Above them, the clouds had all but disappeared. The sky was clear and blue, and the sun shone warmly down upon the limousine as it made its way toward the heart of Boston.

"Oh, Bob," Hawkins called.

"Yes, Mr. Powell?"

"Change of destination, my boy. We’re going to be staying with a local associate this trip."

"Whatever you say, sir. So, where are we headed?" the driver asked.

"Beacon Hill," Gull replied, his mind darkening with memory now. "Louisburg Square. I’ve come to visit an old friend."

"Yeah," Bob said, nodding sagely. "That’s nice. Visiting old friends."

Gull gazed out the window, but he could no longer see the beautiful day that Jezebel had given him. His eyes stared, instead, into the shadows of the past.

The ninth of August 1902. Coronation Day. But Nigel Gull had neither the inclination nor the invitation to attend Edward’s installment as king. Even if he had, he had spent the day and the evening performing a different service to the Crown. It was long after dark, now, when sensible people were in their beds. Gull rarely slept.

The rail station at Clapham Junction was dark and deserted as he made his way along the platform, gaze plumbing the shadows all around. It had begun to rain an hour or two before, and the storm cast a shroud upon everything it touched. Gull’s eyesight was keen, however, and the rain would not inhibit him. He could see, for instance, that nothing moved in the gallery on the far side of the tracks, where passengers would await the morning train come dawn. Within the station itself, all seemed still and undisturbed. Yet he could feel it. In the damp air there were traces of malign magick, echoes of a sinister presence. Gull thought the author of such dark deeds was no longer at the scene, but caution guided him, nevertheless.

Three separate sets of rails ran through Clapham Junction. On the center track there sat a charcoal black steam engine with the number one painted on its face in silver. Rain pelted it, making it gleam even in the dark. No steam rose from the engine, but it seemed a watchful thing, just the same, as though it might burst to sudden life at any moment. Behind it was a single coal tender, and attached to that, two elegant Pullman cars with crimson wooden panels beneath each window and gilt stenciling above. It was a private train and spoke of powerful wealth.

Gull leaped from the platform into the rain. It streamed down his misshapen face, a moist caress that only served to remind him of his appearance. He shook off the rain and dipped his chin, feeling the storm at his back as he crossed the first set of tracks. The engine’s cab was dark but that was his first stop. Gull climbed up inside Number One and found it empty as he had expected.

He moved more quietly now, slipping out of the cab to the ground. The rain was cold and cruel, punishing him as he crept slowly along beside the tender until he reached the steps up onto the first Pullman. Hand on the rail, he went up and then found himself before the ornate door of the car. Gull muttered to himself a few words of ancient Aramaic, and the fingers of his left hand began to burn with a tainted yellow light. For illumination, and for defense, in case his instincts were wrong and the culprit remained.

The door swung open easily. Gull moved into the car and raised his hand, splashing a sickly golden glow across the car. His breath caught. The opulence of the Pullman was startling. The floor was covered with Oriental carpet, the windows curtained by velvet drapes. A trio of crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, and the windows were etched glass. The wood gleamed richly.

The car was empty.

Gull would have sensed anything lurking in the shadows through his light. There was nothing beneath the tables here.

He hurried, now, moving through the Pullman as swiftly as he was able. When he reached the door at the other end he paused only a moment before drawing open the door.

The dead girl lay on the platform between trains. Her hair was dark, but might have been lighter were it not sodden with the rain. Her body had been forced through an opening in the ornate railings and she was splayed there, her arms spread out, her head hanging several inches from the platform, thrown back, mouth wide open.

She was unclothed, her flesh pale, save where arcane symbols had been carved into her. The storm had washed the blood away. Tiny puddles of rainwater had accumulated in the hollows of her eyes, and the storm had filled her open mouth as well. Rain dribbled from one corner of her lips, sluicing down her cheek and falling down into the space between cars.

She was no more than seven.

Nigel Gull knew his own heart. There was little therein that was spectacularly noble. Yet the sight tore at him. The villain was gone, the one responsible for the girl’s death, who had killed her in ritual sacrifice as part of some spell to hide himself. He had attempted to murder King Edward on this eve of his coronation, not expecting other mages to be there to prevent it. Then he had fled here.

Had he found the girl somewhere along the way, or kept her awaiting her demise as a prisoner in the luxury of his private train.. just in case he needed her life? Gull found he did not want to know the answer.

But he needed to know.

And though it made him shudder to think of it, though his spirit cried out that it was an abomination in itself, he realized he knew a way to retrieve that information. Nigel Gull had learned from the greatest of mages, Lorenzo Sanguedolce, the man many called Sweetblood, the literal translation of his name. The mage’s other apprentice had been horrified, but Sanguedolce himself had not passed judgment at all, when Gull had looked too deeply into ancient Egyptian magicks that had been forbidden even to the high priests of that age. He had acquired certain hideous skills on that night, at the cost of his face, and he had never yet employed them.

But this… it seemed almost as though his sacrifice on that evening several years past had been in preparation for this. For one of those skills was The Voice of the Dead.

Sickened, stomach churning, but more determined now than he had ever felt, Gull stepped through the opening in the railing and straddled the platforms between the two Pullman cars. He clutched the railing and leaned over far enough that he could slide his free hand beneath the dangling head of the dead girl. Rain spilled off of her eyes, and some slid from her mouth. One of the sigils sliced in her chest opened slightly, the wound resembled an eyelid, leaking pink tears.

Gull stared into her face. Perfect, shattered innocence. He closed his own eyes tightly and drew a breath to steady himself. Then he pulled her head toward him and placed his lips over hers in a grotesque kiss. Lifting and tilting her head all at once, he drank the rainwater from the mouth of the dead girl as though her skull was his goblet.

"Dear God, Gull! What are you doing?"

Startled, he let the girl’s head drop, leaving her wedged into the railing, and crossed over the small gap above the coupling to the second Pullman car, turning all in the same motion to face the figure who had appeared so suddenly behind him. The horror and disgust in the new arrival’s tone was engraved upon his features as well, but the man did not seem surprised. It was, rather, as though his discovery of Gull in the midst of such an apparently odious act only confirmed what he had always believed.

"Well, well, well…" Gull said, feeling the magick working within him, feeling the thoughts and feelings of the dead girl fill him. Her name had been Carolyn but everyone called her Cass. She was from Derbyshire. The sorcerer had stolen her from her own bed before coming to London to kill the king.

"Speak up, man!" the other demanded.

Even as Gull continued on. "If it isn’t Sir Arthur."

Conan Doyle flinched. Rain dripped from his mustache, plastering it to his face. Gull wanted to smile at the sight of the distaste in his eyes, but he was too connected now to the echo of the girl that was inside him. Still, he saw it. Even as he tried to make sense of what he’d found Gull engaged in, Conan Doyle was bristling at the insult. For during the coronation ceremony, he had been knighted by the king. The man had spent his life in service to his country as a doctor, a writer, and an outspoken private citizen, working tirelessly against the enemies of the Crown, but disdained the idea of a reward. In truth he had accepted only to avoid insult to the king, and the wrath of his aging mother.

Gull knew this, and it made him all the more bitter. Conan Doyle was his friend and his fellow apprentice to Sanguedolce, but he had not the other man’s station or experience. He would have sacrificed almost anything for such an honor.

"I’ll have an answer," Conan Doyle said, the suspicion in his gaze now burning with a crackle of blue magick. The energy misted from his eyes and sparked around his fingers.

"Ah, you think me the villain now," Gull said. "Of course. The freak, the twisted one, is tainted so he must be evil. You’re so very predictable, Sir Arthur."

"Stop calling me that!" Conan Doyle snarled.

A fight was in the offing. But Gull knew they could not afford the indulgence. The true villain was escaping, and the dead, violated flesh of the innocent he had destroyed was only growing colder.

"My name is Cass," he said… but it was not really Gull who spoke. His mouth moved, and he generated the words as if reading them from the echoes of the dead girl’s spirit that moved within him, but it was her voice.

The Voice of the Dead.

"He is a tall man, thin, and he wears spectacles. His jacket is long and fancy. His name is Graham," Gull went on, the sweet, angelic voice of the murdered girl issuing from his lips.

Conan Doyle recoiled, taking a step back into the open door of the Pullman. "What black sorcery is this, Gull? This is the gift you received from Anubis, the power for which you let yourself be disfigured?"

"Only one of them," Gull replied, still in the voice of the dead girl. "Only one. And would you not listen, now, Arthur? Is your disdain so great you will not hear the voice of this savaged child, so that we might find her defiler?"

Conan Doyle’s mouth opened, his expression revealing his intent to deliver a righteous tirade. But then his gaze shifted to the naked, carved body of the girl, and he faltered. Anger burned in his eyes but the spark of magick in them receded. His fists clenched at his side, and he nodded once.

"Go on."

Gull felt for the echoes within him again and once more spoke in the Voice of the Dead, searching the fragments of her spirit for the clues that would lead them to her killer. He felt confident it would work. It must work. The friendship he had shared with Conan Doyle, tenuous as it had always been, would never be the same after this. Gull knew it even then. But he was no stranger to sacrifice, when the stakes were high enough, and he accepted this loss without hesitation.

"He spoke of Norwich as home," said the dead girl’s voice.

Conan Doyle nodded. "That may be where he’s headed."

After he had finished conferring with his agents about their assignment in Greece, Conan Doyle excused himself and retreated deeper into the house. It was pleasant to have them all together beneath his roof, and he knew they would take some small time to socialize. This was only right and natural. And it was important, as well, for them to continue to get to know one another better, to develop their relationships. Sanguedolce had issued dire warnings upon Conan Doyle’s last encounter with him, and there was no doubt that the menagerie would be needed once again before long. He had not revealed to them all of what Sanguedolce had said to him about The DemoGorgon, an entity of cosmic evil that was, even now, making its way across the universe toward this world. He would bear the weight of that threat himself, for the moment, and do all he could to see that when the DemoGorgon arrived at last, they were prepared.

But that was for another day, another year. Perhaps even another lifetime. For now, there were other threats and other concerns.

Smoothing his jacket, tugging at his sleeves, he stood a bit straighter and made his way up the stairs. The banister was smooth under his touch. Upon the wall beside the stairs hung portraits of long ago friends such as Houdini and Barrie and Colonel Cody. Elsewhere in the house there were portraits of Innes and Jean and the Ma’am. All were remnants of another life, melancholy echoes of another age. Yet rather than sadden him, their presence comforted him and lent him strength.

A smile pushed up the ends of his mustache as he crested the landing. Conan Doyle made his way down a long corridor, turned and followed another, and with every step he could feel the electric tingle of magick in the air. He breathed deeply, and on the air he caught the scent of flowers so sweet they could only grow in Faerie. That alone soothed him, the air of Faerie filling his lungs, refreshing him.

Ceridwen stood at the end of the corridor, her long, lithe form draped in sheer silk the deep blue of the horizon just before sunset. The wind from Faerie blew through an open door, each gust causing the silk to cling to her sensuous form in such a way as to make his breath catch in his throat. The pain of regret still lingered between them and he had not dared to suggest that they might put aside the harms of the past, but there was no denying the emotion that remained.

The door was the very one Conan Doyle had once used to leave her, to leave Faerie — he had thought forever. He had sealed it behind him, this passage between worlds, and only recently had been forced by circumstance to open it again, to return and plead for her aid. In the crisis that ensued, the passageway had been destroyed.

Now, Ceridwen had rebuilt it. The question in Conan Doyle’s heart was, to what end?

"You can return home, now," he said, damning himself for the quaver in his voice.

Ceridwen stared a moment longer through the door. As Conan Doyle joined her, he could see the trees and hills of Faerie and a stream that flowed gently along a curving path, burbling over stones.

Then the elemental sorceress, the niece of King Finvarra of the Fey, turned to him. Her features were fine and noble, cheekbones high, violet eyes wide and commanding. Yet he knew her. Loved her as no one ever had. And he saw the sadness and doubt in her gaze.

"I could," she agreed. A glint of magic sparkled in her gaze. "And I could return, from time to time. This passage makes it convenient enough. For now, though… it seems to me that the recent troubles in Faerie were inextricably tied to the misery that befell this world. The connection between the two seems stronger than it has been in quite some time, so that what threatens one realm threatens them all. It may be that a new dark age is imminent. If so, I believe that I will do more good working with you and your clan here than at home."

Her proud gaze faltered a moment and she glanced away. Then she lifted her chin and met his eye. "That is, if you have no objection."

Conan Doyle wanted to reach out to her, to pull her into his embrace and feel the soft silk of her robes beneath his touch. He wanted to laugh with surprise and pleasure. But Ceridwen would not have approved. He had hurt her badly, once upon a time. Perhaps there would come a time when all the detritus of their past could be brushed aside and the simple adoration they had once felt for each other could be reborn. For now, though, they were separated by the ruin of things that might have been. But Ceridwen wanted to stay, and that meant there was hope.

"My dear, you are welcome in my home from this night until the last night of the world."

Her pale, blue-white marbled skin flushed slightly pink, but only for a moment. Ceridwen nodded, softening. "I am pleased. We may be at the forefront of a new round of Twilight Wars, and there is no one at whose side I would rather fight."

The blush of a smile whispered across her face and in her violet eyes he saw the innocent heart he had known, years before. It was gone, then, hidden beneath the hardened wisdom of the time since, but as Ceridwen nodded her thanks and then set off down the corridor away from him, Conan Doyle found happy contentment in the knowledge that it was still there, within her. Regardless of what might or might not happen between them in the future, he silently vowed never to disappoint her again.

The roads were still slick with recent rain but the sky was crystal blue, the kind of day that seemed like a gift. Nigel Gull did not like the rain. It spoke to him with the voices of the dead, yet only in unintelligible whispers. The ghosts of words he couldn’t really hear. Now he sat in the back of the limousine and glanced at Jezebel, sleeping soundly where she lay sprawled on the seat, and he cherished her. She was always looking out for him, poor girl. Gull intended to return the favor.

The windows were down slightly, and there was a salty tang to the air that blew in. A stranger to Boston, he had known it was near the ocean but had not understood exactly how integral was the relationship between city and harbor. Gull breathed in deeply, savoring the breeze.

"We’re coming up on it now," the driver reported.

Gull raised an eyebrow. Jezebel did not stir, but Hawkins glanced curiously out the window. Gull leaned over Jezebel and caught sight of a row of well-kept brownstones on one side and a perfectly manicured little park on the other.

"Which one is it?" Hawkins asked, his voice a rasp. He stared out through the glass like a caged lion, confident that one day he would be free.

The brownstones had been built so that they shared a single face, and yet those faces had been individualized over the years. Some had flowers in window boxes. Bright curtains hung in the windows of one building. Another had the frames around every window painted a bright yellow, and a door of the same color. But at the corner was the one Gull was searching for. He could sense the magick emanating from it, could taste it on the air even more strongly than the salt of the ocean.

"There," he said. "That one."

Hawkins leaned toward the front seat and instructed the driver, and a moment later they parked beside the curb in front of the home of Arthur Conan Doyle. At last Jezebel came around. Her eyelids fluttered, and she turned to give him a sleepy smile.

"That was fast," she mumbled.

Gull patted her shoulder. "Rest a while longer, Jez. Think I ought to have a word before we drag out the luggage." He glanced at Hawkins, who nodded and leaned forward to explain to the driver. Gull paid little attention to the words as he opened the door and stepped out.

For several seconds he only stood there, staring at the house. It was solid and respectable — precisely the sort of place Conan Doyle had always favored — but otherwise unremarkable, save for the magickal defenses around it. They were substantial. Gull thought that they might pose a challenge even to him, should he be inclined to try to force his way in. But he thought that he ought to try things the easy way first.

Basking in the coils and jets of magick that swirled around the house he approached the steps. It was very much like walking under water. An ordinary man would not even have noticed, but Gull was a powerful mage and the defenses dragged at him. Had he any ill intentions they would already have immobilized him. Or he would have destroyed them, one way or the other.

It was so much simpler to walk up those steps and knock on the door.

He never got there.

Even as he approached the stone steps, a lithe, dark shape darted across the front of the house, low to the ground. It leaped up onto the stairs, joined immediately by another from the opposite side. From around the far side of the brownstone was yet another. A fourth emerged from the sewer grating in the road and slunk over to join his brothers and sisters upon the stairs, blocking his way.

Cats. Each of them black as midnight. Others darted for the stairs as well. One slunk out from beneath the limousine, as though it had been waiting there for his arrival. The moment it reached the steps — making nine of them in total — all of the creatures froze, focusing on Gull with their yellow eyes slitted in warning. As one, they hissed, fur standing up as they arched their backs.

Gull paused five feet from the bottom step, regarding the felines. Their hissed warning bothered him not at all. What caused him to hesitate was the way the cats moved so intently and with such single purpose. They were spread all across the brick stairs, nine pair of jaundiced, cruel eyes. And then they began to change.

It was subtle, at first. Their jaws stretched wider and the fangs inside grew longer, gleaming in the sunshine of the perfect day. The vicious pools of shadow began to grow, then, fur rippling like cornfields in the breeze as the cats stretched their backs and scraped claws on brick, doubling in size.

The growth stopped them. It was startling, but not so much so that a passerby on the street would have believed he had seen anything impossible. Unsettling, yes. But not impossible.

Until the cat in the center — Gull believed it to be the one that had slipped from beneath the limousine — stood up on its hind legs. Its bones and muscles popped as its body was altered. Gull’s breath caught in his throat. It was a terrible thing, the size of a panther but its eyes full of sentient malignance. Saliva slid in thin strings from its open jaws with their glistening fangs.

"Well, well," Gull said, cautious and admiring. "Nice kitty."

It appeared that Conan Doyle was not relying merely on spells and wards to protect his home.

With a chorus of hissing, the cats started down the stairs toward Gull. Several of the others had started to grow againr, and their leader was becoming more hideous looking, more demonic with every passing moment.

The front door of the house opened with a clank of the latch and a creak as the heavy wood swung wide. Conan Doyle stood on the threshold and gazed down at his visitor. After a moment he made a gesture. All of a sudden, the cats were only ordinary things once more, at least on the surface. Just cats. They scattered, disappearing beneath cars and beside stairs, one of them running into the house.

Conan Doyle did not seem at all surprised. He only stared, grim and unsmiling.

"You might have saved yourself some trouble if you’d called before paying me a visit."

"It’s no trouble," Gull assured him.

Conan Doyle’s eyes darkened, flickering with promised danger like lightning in the night sky.

"That, old friend, remains to be seen."