Tears of the Furies

CHAPTER FOUR

In Nigel Gull’s experience, there was an element of the surreal in living long past the ordinary human life span. He could not imagine what it must have been like to be truly immortal, but was not at all certain he would have liked to find out. Once he had outlived the era of his birth, it had begun in earnest. Gull was an anachronism, and he knew it. A man with the sensibilities of another age — a time both more genteel and more savage — and yet he was also hungry for evolution, for the experience of the future.

Conan Doyle was the only one of his contemporaries still alive and one of the few men in the world who could have understood what he was experiencing. Once upon a time they had been like brothers, in both the best and worst sense of the comparison. Now they were estranged.

How odd, then, to find himself sitting on the sofa in Arthur’s study — a room whose decor seemed designed to replicate the past — as though they had stepped back in time and were allies once more, fellow students of the great Sanguedolce, whom the British occult masters had called Sweetblood as a dismissive sobriquet, as though he were beneath them. They had all learned who was the master, but only Conan Doyle and Gull, dabblers in the craft, had become his pupils.

Gull watched his old associate across the room. Doyle was fixing drinks, exuding an air of calm and civility as he acted the perfect host, though in reality the tension in the room was so thick, it was almost palpable.

And this will not do, not at all.

"Lovely house, Arthur. Bit of old King George, isn’t it?" Gull asked genially. "Getting nostalgic in your old age. And what were those delightful creatures that greeted me at your doorstep?"

Jezebel snuggled closer to him on the sofa, resting her head adoringly on his shoulder. Her eyes were closed as though she were napping. She had a tendency to become clingy in the presence of strangers, but Gull didn’t mind. The girl was loyal to him. That was the vital part.

"Were-kitties," she said into the crook of his neck and began to giggle.

Conan Doyle crossed the room, a tumbler of scotch in each hand. "Actually, they’re Krukis, recently immigrated from Romania," he said handing Gull his drink. "It’s startling what one can employ for a warm saucer of milk and an occasional can of tuna fish."

He took the other glass of scotch to Hawkins, who had stood since his arrival at the northernmost window in the room. As a former soldier and spy, Nick Hawkins could not help himself, and he glanced out at Louisburg Square every few moments, watching the main entrance to Conan Doyle’s home.

"Thank you," Hawkins said as he took the tumbler from their host. Gull saw his eyes narrow as the man studied Arthur. "You having security issues, Mr. Doyle? Mage of your stature, I find it hard to imagine there’s a lot you’re afraid of."

Gull smiled as he brought his drink to his twisted mouth, careful not to dribble. Hawkins was a complete sociopath, and yet somehow managed to navigate complex dynamics well enough. Even now he was somehow mocking Conan Doyle, plumbing his current status, and massaging his ego, all at the same time.

Well done, Nick, Gull thought, watching as Hawkins at last took a seat in a wing back chair in the corner of the room.

"One must not fall prey to the curse of overconfidence," Conan Doyle said as he turned away from the liquor cabinet, having poured himself a scotch as well. "There was a recent incident that forced me to take a closer look at the brownstone’s defenses and — " He stopped mid-sentence, casting an icy stare at Hawkins.

"Is something wrong, Arthur?" Gull asked.

"Not at all," Conan Doyle replied, his tone clipped, his feathers seemingly ruffled. "I’ll just have a seat over here."

Gull wanted to laugh out loud. So Hawkins is sitting on Arthur’s throne. The annoyance poured from the man in waves.

"So, Nigel," Conan Doyle began, swirling the golden brown liquid in his glass. "It’s been quite a long time."

"A dog’s age," Gull agreed, and then chuckled. "Or an entire litter’s. When was it that we last saw each other?" he asked, knowing the answer well enough.

Conan Doyle took a moment to think, and Gull felt his own ire begin to rise. Though it had been more than twenty years ago, he was certain that the arch mage had not forgotten. They were fencing, and Arthur had just parried.

"Was it that tawdry business with the phoenix egg?" Conan Doyle asked finally.

"I believe it was," Gull said with a nod and smile that he hoped appeared pleasant. "I can still see the look on my client’s face as you and your Menagerie stormed into his citadel to relieve him of his prize."

Conan Doyle nodded at the memory, resting his tumbler upon his knee. "A shame that I had to step in and prevent that transaction." He straightened the crease in the leg of his dark trousers. "But as you well knew, the phoenix was at the top of the endangered mythical species list, and I couldn’t allow it to fall into the hands of some boastful Middle Eastern death cult." He took another sip of his drink. "Your client did eventually understand, did he not?"

Gull smiled knowingly and shifted his position on the couch. "You killed them all, Arthur, down to the last mad-eyed lad. You and your followers sent their spirits into the embrace of the Sumerian death goddess they so devoutly worshipped."

Conan Doyle gazed thoughtfully over the lip of the tumbler. "I guess we did at that. So long ago, I didn’t quite remember."

Like hell, Gull thought. But he kept the smile on his face. "No matter," he said. "Since they were all dead, there was no need to refund any money. It worked out for the best."

Hawkins chuckled darkly and lifted his glass toward Gull in a toast, then polished off what remained of his drink. At her mentor’s side, Jezebel cozied up closer to the nearest thing to a father she’d ever had.

Conan Doyle had finished his drink as well and balanced the empty glass on the arm of the chair. He fixed Gull in his gaze.

"I’m certain this isn’t a social call, Nigel," he said. "So why don’t we cease the rather uncomfortable pleasantries, and you can get on with your business."

Gull leaned forward, placing his drink on the floor at his feet. Jezebel frowned and sleepily opened her eyes, looking up at him with a certain petulance. One moment she was full of sexual swagger, fully in charge of her charms, and the next she was uncertain and awkward. He cherished her for her complications.

"Not very subtle, is he?" Jezebel asked, her eyes fluttering closed again as she settled back.

Gull smiled. "No. He never was." Then he turned his focus back to Conan Doyle, placing a hand over his heart. "You wound me, Arthur. After all this time, you still cannot see the ties that bind us? We are brothers, not defined by biology, but by something far more powerful than mere parentage. We are brothers in magick."

Suddenly, Jezebel bolted awake, startling green eyes wide in shock. "Why can’t you just leave me be!" she shrieked, jagged bolts of electrical force arcing from her fingertips.

"Lovely," Hawkins muttered, dropping from his chair — Arthur’s chair — to the floor as the tendrils of electricity seared through the air above him, blackening the wall behind the seat.

Gull placed a gentle hand on the girl’s cheek as she gazed around the room, wild-eyed.

"It’s all right, Jezebel," he whispered. "It was a dream."

She slapped his hand away. "Don’t touch me — don’t you ever touch me!" Her right hand shot out, a swirling ball of lightning collecting in her palm, and Gull instinctively began a spell to counter her destructive force.

With a piercing scream Jezebel unleashed her collected power, but it did not travel far. Before Gull could stop her, he was staggered by a blast of magick that traveled past him and encircled Jezebel in a sphere, her own power exploding within the containment field. This had been a recurring problem, nightmares of her time before coming to join him. He thought that they had made better progress than this.

Gull’s heart nearly broke as he watched the pretty young thing convulse, tossing her red hair around like fire. The elemental power that she had summoned struck at her like a cobra, trapped within the sphere with her, and after jittering for a moment with the shock of it, Jezebel slumped to the sofa, unconscious. He turned away from the disturbing sight to see Arthur standing in front of an upended chair, his hand extended and the residue of his spell still trickling from the tips of his fingers.

"That will be enough of that," Conan Doyle said sternly.

The magickal sphere dissipated as suddenly as it had appeared, and the unconscious Jezebel moaned in discomfort. Gull was relieved to see that she was not badly injured.

"My thanks, Arthur," he said. "She has a bit of a problem with night terrors."

"Still choosing the cream of the crop, I see." Conan Doyle glanced briefly at Hawkins, before returning his steely gaze to Gull. "Now, then, Nigel, no more foolishness. What do you want? And be quick about it, I grow weary of your company."

Gull bristled, longing to reply with equal candor. But there were other things at stake here than his pride.

"Right, then. How foolish of me to attempt to be polite. As you no doubt are aware, there are people dying in Greece from most unusual causes."

He watched Conan Doyle’s face. A tick of familiarity danced at the corner of his old friend’s eye. Arthur knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Go on."

"I intend to stop these horrid killings, and I thought it would be best if we were to work together."

Conan Doyle’s eyes narrowed with suspicion, and he brought a hand to his face, smoothing his mustache. "You haven’t the best record of selfless heroism, Nigel. What’s the catch?"

Gull feigned surprise. "No catch. Simply put, I need your help."

With Nigel Gull, there was always a catch.

Conan Doyle had encountered him many times over the years since they had parted company and though Gull was not precisely evil, he had certainly been tainted by the dark magick he employed. Or, perhaps more accurately, he had become the epitome of the old adage that the ends justified the means. Deceitful, ambitious, and amoral, with Nigel Gull, nothing was ever as it seemed. The man referred to those in his employ as his Wicked. That was signal enough that he was not to be trusted.

"I think not," he said with a shake of his head.

"Oh, come now, Arthur," Gull replied. "I’m fairly certain I can learn to play nice. I’d assumed no less of you." The deformed man smiled and Conan Doyle was chilled by how horribly wrong it looked.

Conan Doyle righted the chair he’d upended and took his seat once more, crossing his arms and staring at Gull. "Since when have you had a concern for anything or anyone other than yourself?"

Seated beside the unconscious Jezebel, Gull began to gently stroke her face, just as a father might have done. "You’re quick with the barbs, aren’t you? I’ve put the past behind me. Pity you can’t say the same," he said with a sad shake of his misshapen head.

Conan Doyle was unsure if it was a symptom of the man’s malady, but he could have sworn that Gull was even more deformed than the last time they crossed paths. Perhaps the result of further dabblings in dark magick, he thought.

The man named Hawkins stood and went to the liquor cabinet, distracting him from his musings. He gestured toward the decanter of scotch with an empty glass. "Mind if I help myself?"

"Please be my guest." Conan Doyle wanted to focus on his verbal sparring with Gull, but could not help watching as Hawkins removed the glass stopper and poured the drink. There was an unusual tremble in the man’s hand.

"Is something wrong?" Conan Doyle asked.

Hawkins carefully returned the stopper to the bottle. "Not really. It’s just that the poor sod who made this crystal decanter died by inches, poisoned by his wife’s lover. That’s a terrible way to give up the ghost."

Gull cleared his throat. "Hawkins is psychometric."

Conan Doyle frowned. He didn’t like that. Not at all. A psychometric was able to read the psychic residue imprinted upon any object he touched. Having such a man in his house could be unpleasant and inconvenient. The invasion of his privacy made Conan Doyle even more sour.

Hawkins sipped his drink, returning to the chair he had claimed as his own. "Not even going to tell you what I’ve learned about you sitting in this chair," he said with a disconcerting smile.

Conan Doyle was not amused. "Perhaps that’s best," he said dryly, returning his attention to Gull. "I’m sorry, Nigel, but I’m afraid the answer is still no." He stood. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have a rather full agenda today…"

He gestured politely toward the doorway.

"Don’t be so rash. How many more will die before you finally stumble across the answers you seek?" Gull demanded. "Simply because you cannot put aside past animosity."

Conan Doyle did not respond, so Gull stood, bending down to haul the still unconscious Jezebel into a sitting position. "Come along now, Jez, it seems the old boy’s even more arrogant than I remembered."

The girl moaned, beginning to come around. Hawkins moved to assist Gull, slipping the girl’s arm around his neck and lifting her to her feet.

"Thanks, Nick. She’s heavy for a little bit of a thing."

They were ready to leave, and Conan Doyle struggled with his decision to let them go. He had the utmost faith in the team he had dispatched to Athens, but he knew that Gull was right. If his old adversary had information that could save the lives of innocents, how in good conscience could he let them leave?

"A pleasure to see you again, Arthur," Gull said as he reached the door of the study.

"Nigel? Crickey, Nigel, what happened to me?" Jezebel asked softly.

Gull shushed her, reassuring her that everything was fine.

It pained him, but Conan Doyle cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. "If we were to work together," he began, drawing the attention of Nigel Gull and his operatives, "you would have to follow my instructions completely."

Gull smiled. There was a twinkle in his dark, animal eyes, and for a brief moment, Conan Doyle could not help but feel as though he had stepped into the lion’s den.

"To the very letter," he agreed. "My Wicked and I will be at your beck and call." And he bowed his wrongly shaped head in complete obeisance.

"Fine," Conan Doyle agreed, nearly choking on the word.

Gull strode back across the room and gripped Doyle’s shoulder with a gnarled hand. "You won’t regret this, Arthur."

Doyle’s nostrils flared with distaste. "Time will tell. For now, you can begin by telling me everything you know about the threat we face in Athens."

"Very well." Gull released him, turning to his Wicked. "Take Jezebel to the car," he told Hawkins. "Arthur and I will finish up here, and I’ll be down shortly."

Hawkins did as he was told, helping the girl, who was still unsteady, from the study.

"Don’t be long," Jezebel called over her shoulder, weakly lifting a hand to bid her master good-bye.

"A charming girl once you get to know her," Gull noted.

"Athens?" Conan Doyle prodded.

"Of course," Gull responded, bowing his head again. "I was doing some research on the Greek Isles for a potential client, when I stumbled upon them — Gorgons, Arthur. There are Gorgons loose in Greece."

Conan Doyle reached up to again stroke his mustache. Gorgons. It certainly was a possibility. "Those creatures haven’t walked the earth in millennia, why now?"

Gull tilted his head. "That I don’t know. But the second I realized this, I knew I couldn’t deal with it alone, even with my operatives to back me up. There was a time when I had plenty of agents, but now there’s only Hawkins and Jezebel. Coming to you was the logical decision, but it had to be in person. You would never have trusted me if I’d just sent you a letter in the post or rang you up."

Conan Doyle crossed his arms across his chest. "And I’m supposed to believe you’ve done all this out of some sudden nobility? You’ve always got an angle, Nigel. What’s in it for you?"

Gull chuckled, turning away from the view to look at his friend. "Quite a bit, actually. Never claimed I was a model of virtue. I was trying to find the remains of a Gorgon. Then I stumbled upon the real thing. Point is, there are a few items I’ve got to acquire from the creatures. For a client, you understand."

"What sort of items?"

"Do you know how much a mere drop of Gorgon blood is worth on the black market? A lock of its hair? A claw? Or one of its eyes? Priceless."

"You always were quite the humanitarian," Conan Doyle said with a shake of his head.

"Do not condescend to me, brother," Gull said, leaving the window. "You’ll get what you want, yes? Another supernatural threat eliminated from the world. And I’ll have what I need as well. Everybody wins."

Conan Doyle had heard enough. "I believe I’ve had my fill of your company for now, Nigel," he said, turning to leave the study. "You can show yourself out."

"Will you be assembling your team?" Gull asked. "Your Menagerie?"

Doyle pretended not to hear the question, continuing on his way.

"I’m so looking forward to working with them."

Yannis Papathansiou sucked on the end of a fat cigar, savoring the thick, oily smoke. It had been nearly six years since he’d last partaken of what his late wife had called a filthy habit. He had forgotten how much pleasure it gave him.

Away from the city, the night was quiet except for the chirping of crickets. If he closed his eyes and cleared his mind, he could almost imagine that the world was a beautiful and sane place. Almost. But he doubted he would ever be able to convince himself of that again, not with the images of the victims at the Epidaurus Guest House seared into his mind.

Yannis opened his eyes to gaze out over the field behind the Moni Pendeli monastery. It was used as a private landing strip for some of the wealthier visitors to the popular weekend retreat. Tonight, he waited for an altogether different kind of guest.

He glanced at his watch. It wouldn’t be long now. He had received an in-flight call from his visitors, estimating that they would reach Athens’s airspace within the hour. He opened his car door, then switched on the headlights to better illuminate the grounds. Moths danced in the twin beams of pale white light, entertainment as he waited.

He recalled the day that he had first learned of the shadowy group of investigators that dealt with only the most unusual cases. It had been at a retirement celebration for a fellow detective. The departing officer, Stavros, had pulled Yannis aside and asked if he would like to make some extra money from time to time. Of course he had been interested. A new detective on the Athens police force did not make a great deal of money. Even so, he had been cautious, asking if he would be required to do anything illegal. The retiring detective had laughed oddly and handed Yannis a worn piece of paper on which was scrawled an international phone number — one from America. In retrospect, he thought that Stavros had seemed almost happy to be rid of it. The old detective had explained that the number was to be dialed only when there was an unusual occurrence in the city. Something unnatural.

At first Yannis had suspected that Stavros was pulling his leg, one last joke on the still-green detective before heading out to pasture. But there came a time not so long after Stavros left the force, when Yannis had an opportunity to dial the mysterious number. Someone had been digging up the recently buried in the First Cemetery of Athens, and feeding on the corpses.

Yannis’s bulbous belly churned, sickly with the memory — the overturned earth, splintered coffin pieces strewn about the beautifully peaceful setting, and the condition of the helpless dead. The old man belched, the stifado, a spicy beef stew with baby onions that he’d had for supper, repeating on him. Popping the cigar into his mouth to free his hands, Yannis rubbed his large stomach in an attempt to calm it.

Just the memory of the odor from those open graves was enough to make him feel queasy. The air had been filled not only with the stench of the disinterred, but with swarms of flies, feasting and depositing their eggs on the scattered remains. As he stood there with the other officers and the grief-stricken families of those whose graves had been violated, he had thought of the number scrawled upon the worn piece of paper in his wallet.

Something unnatural.

The hum of an approaching plane stirred him from his recollections, and he squinted into the nighttime sky. The plane descended in the distance, touching down expertly in the field that was once rife with olive trees. But that had been long ago, when Yannis still believed that the world was sane. He chuckled as he took another puff on his cigar, amused that he could ever have been so naive.

In that case, years past, he had called the number, and a strange gravelly voice had answered. In broken English, Yannis had described what was happening in Athens, about the desecrated graves and the cannibalized bodies. The voice on the other end had grown silent, the open phone line hissing in his ear, and for a moment, Yannis thought he had been cut off, but then the voice returned and said that someone would be along to help.

Yannis took a final pull on his cigar, and for the sake of his upset stomach, tossed the remains to the ground. The plane rolled toward him, its landing lights pulsing as if to the beat of the craft’s mechanical heart, and again his mind traveled back through the years, to a time and place when he had met another plane.

He hadn’t been sure what to expect, but the man who stepped from the small private plane certainly was not it. He had imagined a wild-haired scientist, with thick glasses and perhaps a German accent, but as the man approached him, Yannis realized that perhaps he had seen too many American horror films. The stranger was a fine looking gentleman, handsome as far as Americans go, with dark, close-cropped hair and an air of authority that seemed to radiate from him in waves.

There had been very little by way of formalities. The man had instructed Yannis to take him to the First Cemetery immediately, and once there had told the detective to remain in the car no matter what he heard or thought he saw. It had all seemed very unusual to Yannis, but he had accepted the orders, especially since the man had given him an envelope full of cash before leaving the car. For that kind of money he would have spent the entire night there if need be.

The plane’s engines whined down and he ambled toward the craft, adjusting his clothing as he went. The bottom of his shirt had come undone, the pull of the material across his expanse of belly making it difficult for the last buttons to remain fastened. But he quickly lost interest in his appearance as the door to the craft swung open and a set of collapsible stairs unfolded from within.

The first person to exit was very small, almost dwarf-like. Yannis wasn’t sure if he had ever seen anyone quite so strange.

"How’s it hanging?" the tiny man asked him in a voice that could have been the one to answer that first call he had made, years past.

Yannis simply stared. The man’s eyes were a sickly shade of yellow, and both his ears and teeth came to points.

"What? No speaky da English?" the ugly little man asked, before bursting out in a braying laugh. "Don’t worry about it, pally. I don’t speak Greek."

Next off the plane was a handsome black man whose movements reminded Yannis of someone moving underwater.

"Pay him no mind, sir," the man said in a low, tremulous voice.

Yannis could have sworn that for the briefest of moments he was able to see right through the stranger, but he blinked and the gauzy effect went away. He told himself it must have been a trick of the light.

"Yannis Papathansiou," called a strangely familiar voice from inside the plane, and the police detective looked up to see another figure emerging.

The man looked exactly as he had more than twenty years ago. Exactly.

Something unnatural, he thought again. It was almost funny. He called this man when the extraordinary presented itself… but who was he to call about the passengers of this plane? No one, of course. They were the solution, not the problem.

"It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir," the ageless man said in Greek, extending his hand, and Yannis remembered how he had disobeyed this man’s instructions that night so many years ago.

He had been dozing behind the wheel of the car when the screaming began. It had been unlike anything he had ever heard, and he had immediately reacted, climbing from his vehicle and running into the cemetery before he even realized what he was doing. After all, he was a policeman.

It had been dark that night, and he had strained his eyes to see what was happening, and then the clouds parted for an instant, and beams of moonlight shone upon the burial grounds. Then Yannis had seen what he would never forget.

The man he had brought from the airfield, the man whose hand he now shook, had been in the midst of battle with a creature the likes of which Yannis had never seen. Its body was covered in filthy, matted fur, its eyes glowing red, like burning coals. Strands of dead flesh dangled from its gnashing teeth. Yannis had never believed himself a particularly brave man, but he had found himself moving toward the struggle, weaving around the tombstones to help the stranger in his struggle.

When he had been only a few feet from the battle, the man had noticed his approach and ordered him to stop. Yannis had frozen in his tracks and watched in awe the scene that played out before him. The creature tore at the man with its claws, rending his clothing and flesh, but the man seemed unharmed. Then he had begun to change, to grow, his body transforming into something of great ferocity, his flesh as malleable as clay.

The years have not been kind to Yannis Papathansiou, Clay thought. He was sitting in the front seat of the detective’s car as they drove toward Athens. He remembered a much different man than the one beside him now, but then again, twenty years had passed. The blink of an eye for Clay, but not so fleeting for humanity.

"So, Yanni," Squire said, leaning forward from the backseat.

"It is Yannis," the detective corrected, eyes still on the winding road before him.

"Yeah, yeah, that’s what I meant. So, you had any other tourists turn up petrified?" the hobgoblin asked.

Yannis shook his head, jowls wiggling. "No, the bodies found at the Epidaurus are the only ones."

"So far," Squire added, sliding back against his seat. "But I’d bet we get a few more statues before this is over. Crap like this is never easy."

The detective grimaced at Squire’s words, and Clay wondered if he was remembering the last time he had phoned Conan Doyle for assistance. On that night, years past, he had specifically told Yannis to stay in the car. The man was never meant to witness what transpired in the cemetery. Clay’s battle with the corpse-eating Mormolykiai was not for human eyes, but Yannis had seen it, and there was nothing Clay could do to change that.

"What… what is responsible? What can turn a person to stone like that? How can it be?" the detective asked, steering the car around a sharp turn that would lead them to the first of numerous side streets in the crowded city.

Clay gave him a reassuring glance. "That’s what we intend to find out."

"You must suspect that it is bad," he said. "To have come with others." He fixed Clay with large, watery eyes.

Clay had wondered if what Yannis Papathansiou saw those years past had changed him in any way. Looking into those eyes now, he had his answer.

"Better to be safe than sorry." He glanced over his shoulder to see Squire looking out the window like an excited pet, happy to be off the plane and to have somebody else doing the driving for a change. Graves appeared lost in thought, but Clay suspected the ghost was probably already beginning their investigation, listening to the whispering voices of the dead prevalent in this ancient city.

"We’ll try to get this done as quickly as possible," he reassured the detective. "You won’t even know we’re here."

Yannis chuckled, a wet burbling sound that gave Clay the impression that the Greek was filled with fluid. "I will know," he said, taking a left turn in the Athenian West End, heading into the Kerameikos, the pottery district. "And I will not sleep peacefully until I know that you, and whatever it is that plagues this city, are gone."

"Nice," Squire squawked. "Is that an example of Greek hospitality? No wonder I’ve been feeling all warm and tingly since I got here."

The detective did not respond. Moments later he brought the car to a stop in front of a dilapidated building at the far end of a darkened street. All the other buildings around it appeared to be in an equal state of disrepair, but scaffolding had been placed around some of the structures, hinting that some form of renewal was on its way.

"We are here," Yannis said, unceremoniously throwing open his door and extracting his large frame from the driver’s seat.

"And here is…?" Clay asked.

"The man who owns this building is a former police officer," he explained, lapsing into Greek now. "He has allowed us to store the bodies here, away from curious eyes." The detective fumbled in his pockets and produced a key. "This way."

They followed him to a padlocked door. Clay noticed that the man’s hands were trembling as he inserted the key into the lock.

"I think we can take it from here," Clay reassured him, also in Greek.

Yannis looked at him with those eyes again, tired eyes that had seen too much, and could never forget. "They are in the back — three of them — a family," he said as he tugged the key from the lock and handed it to Clay.

"You look tired," Clay said.

Yannis nodded, saying nothing.

"Let me see about getting this taken care of so that you can sleep peacefully again."

The detective took a long breath and let it out, then shuffled back to his car. "Lock it up before you leave," he called to them as he forced his stomach behind the wheel, turned over the engine, and drove off into the night.

"Nice guy," Squire said sarcastically. "A real life of the party, bet he’s a hoot at funerals."

"Give him a break," Clay said as he removed the padlock and pushed open the wooden door into complete darkness. "We deal with this kind of thing all the time, but ordinary people aren’t prepared for what happens when the nasties come out of the shadows."

"Mewling babies," Squire growled, squeezing past him, having no difficulty at all maneuvering in the dark.

The place smelled of dampness and rotting wood. Still standing in the doorway, Clay’s eyes shifted to those of a night predator, the darkness becoming as bright as day. Graves floated by on his right, eager to begin their investigation.

"Yannis said they’re in the back," Clay told them, and they proceeded across the open space. The large room appeared to be used for storage. Clay noticed signs of decorations that would be used for some kind of celebration or religious festival, as well as pallets of building materials.

Squire was the first to reach the victims.

"Here we go," he said aloud, carefully removing a tarp that had been thrown over them. "Oh, shit, look at this," he said, walking around the three stone figures, frozen in the act of having breakfast.

Graves drifted closer, his face mere inches from a petrified woman’s. He reached out, touching her stony cheek with ghostly fingertips.

"Any thoughts on what did this?" Clay asked, his heart aching at the sight of a child whose granite body had been broken. The pieces of her had been laid out on a tarp beside her parents.

"Nothing of the natural world can lay claim to this," the ghost said.

Clay thought he heard the slightest hint of disappointment in the spirit’s voice. Graves had an extreme distaste for the supernatural, preferring to work on cases that could be solved with the art of science and deduction. This was not to be such a case.

"Ya think so, spooky?" Squire said, kneeling on the tarp that held the remains of the young girl. He picked up the girl’s broken stone hand. It still clutched what appeared to be a piece of fruit — an orange. "I was thinking that maybe this might be the result of some bad baklava or something." The goblin waved at them with the hand. "Hi everybody," he said in a squeaky high-pitched, voice.

Graves showed his distaste by folding his arms across his chest, shaking his head from side to side.

"Enough of that," Clay snapped. "Have a little decency. If you don’t have anything to contribute, let us do our work."

The hobgoblin still knelt at the girl’s remains. He’d put the hand down and was rummaging through the other, fragmented pieces. "I can pretty much rule out a basilisk attack," he said. "Those sons of bitches just solidify the outside, leaving a soft, chewy center. These poor folks are stone through and through."

Abruptly the hobgoblin stiffened, looking about the darkened space as if he had heard something.

"What’s up?" Clay asked.

"Think I’m getting a call." Squire climbed to his feet and strolled from the room. "Give me a minute."

Clay and Graves remained silent, both staring at the remains before them. Clay had been walking this world for thousands of years, dealing with all manner of paranormal manifestation, but the sight of this family transformed to stone disturbed him profoundly.

"Can you trace them?" Graves suggested quietly.

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."