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.'
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
