They weaved their way around the largest of these, following paths cut into the ground by the wind that scoured the stone. It was rough going, but at least they had left the Harpies far behind.
'So what happened with the sisters back there?' Danny asked. 'Why’d they go all Jerry Springer on each other?'
'Magick happened to them,' Conan Doyle explained. 'A spell was cast that caused their already rabid emotions to run amok.'
Ceridwen stopped and turned to look at him, her face cast in eerie shadows from the strange gloom of this place. 'And did you cast this spell, Arthur?'
Before he could answer the wind brought a new scent to them. It was the smell of a campfire, and of cooking meat.
Conan Doyle didn’t know how the others were responding to the drifting aroma, but his stomach was close to cramping, it was so empty. And like the cobra charmed by a tune, he found himself drawn toward the smell. They fell silent and walked quietly in between two tall stone outcroppings, which seemed part of a ridge of towers that seemed to loom up on all sides of them now.
'Hey!' Danny said. 'Is this a good idea?'
'Perhaps we should find out,' Conan Doyle answered. At this point he had gone beyond caution, his sudden realization of hunger perhaps making him a tad careless. Beyond that was the simple fact that this was the direction Gull had taken Eve, and he was determined to retrieve her.
They saw the flicker of the campfire reflected on the stone thrusting up from the earth ahead. The smell of roasting meat was nearly overwhelming, and Conan Doyle could have sworn he heard the hissing sound of grease as it dripped into the fire.
It compelled him to move closer.
Their path among the stones twisted slightly and around that bend was the prize that had drawn them like a moth to flame. Conan Doyle slowly, cautiously peered around the corner into an open area, a clearing in this forest of stone.
A giant sat upon a rock before a roaring fire, some sort of beast roasting over the hissing flames on a spit. The giant’s back was to him, but Conan Doyle could see that he was powerfully proportioned. The hair cascading down his back was very long and curly and he wore only a loincloth made from the fur of some animal.
Conan Doyle was unsure of how to proceed. He thought about clearing his throat to introduce himself and the others, but considering how friendly the other denizens of the Underworld had been, wasn’t sure if this was the best course. His questions were answered for him when the huge man, sitting hunched before the fire, addressed him in a low, melodious voice.
'Welcome, strangers.' The giant turned to face them from his rocky seat. 'Step into my humble abode.'
Ceridwen and Danny froze beside Conan Doyle as the giant fixed them in the stare of the single eye at the center of his broad, bearded face.
'You’re just in time for dinner,' said the Cyclopes, and his lips spread wide in a ghastly smile.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Underworld was vast. And yet for all its size it seemed stifling and small, claustrophobic, and crowded.
Yeah, Danny Ferrick thought as he stared up at the one-eyed giant, the Cyclopes, that leered hungrily down at him and his companions. Crowded’s exactly the fucking word.
They had climbed over the ruins of ancient temples and trekked beneath the gaze of sentinel statuary. Fires burned in the walls. Every new tunnel, every change in the landscape, seemed to push them into the midst of another threat, into the lair of another monster. Then Gull shows up and it’s like this was what the ugly bastard had intended all along, that he wanted them to follow, that he needed Eve and had planned to take her. And he’d just done it, right under their goddamned noses, and there wasn’t a thing they could do about it.
Danny was sick of it. The whole time down here he’d been wishing for a minute to breathe, for their trail to lead them somewhere there weren’t ancient horrors lying in wait. Now he’d changed his mind. The Cyclopes started to laugh, glaring at him and Ceridwen and Mr. Doyle with that big, damp, bloodshot eye, and Danny was never happier to meet up with something that wanted to kill him.
'Come, my friends — ' the Cyclopes began again, its voice like an earth tremor. The single horn that jutted up from its head gleamed in the blue light that misted off of Conan Doyle’s hands.
'We’re not your friends,' Danny snarled.
With a grunt the demon boy leaped onto Conan Doyle’s shoulders, then sprang to the top of a stone ridge that had earlier hid the monster from view. He heard the mage shout in protest, but Danny wasn’t worried about hurting Conan Doyle. He wasn’t any ordinary man and could take a bit of shoving around.
His claws dug into the stone and he twisted his upper body, tensed to spring. The Cyclopes blinked its one eye slowly and the expression on its huge, leathery face was one of confusion and then amusement.
'What are you, young one? You have a satyr’s face, but I have never — '
Danny bared his razor teeth in a shout of frustration and rage and he sprang from the stone, powerful legs rocketing him at the giant monster’s face. The beast’s single eye went wide and it tried to turn away. The demon boy shifted his body in mid-air. He had been lunging at the monster’s face but managed now to land on the Cyclopes’ shoulder. Danny tore into the monster’s back with the claws of his left hand, just to anchor himself, and with the right he gripped its throat, beginning to tear the thick hide there.
Ceridwen and Mr. Doyle were shouting but Danny could not hear them. There was a red haze in his mind, a fury he had bottled up. If they were going to survive the Underworld this was the way they were all going to have to fight. Brutally and without hesitation, without reserve.
The Cyclopes roared and reached for him, one massive hand closing on Danny’s head. He felt pressure on his own small horns and then his skull, as the monster began to crush it. Danny shot out his tongue and its sharp tip punctured the skin of the Cyclopes’ palm. It flinched, withdrawing its hand long enough for him to reach out and grab thick handfuls of the thing’s filthy, matted hair. He hauled himself quickly upward and wrapped his arms around the Cyclopes’ horn, his legs around its neck. He felt himself keenly aware of the glistening softness of the monster’s single eye. Silent in his determination, he raised his right hand, flexed his clawed fingers, and swept them down toward the Cyclopes’ eye.
His hand froze.
Danny had just enough time to look at his fingers and see the white fire that blazed across his skin all the way up his arm before he was plucked from the Cyclopes’ back. His entire body went rigid. Danny hissed but could not even open his mouth; he tried to struggle but to no avail. Liquid white fire — cold enough to gnaw his bones — swept over him and he hung there in the air like bait as the Cyclopes turned toward him.
'Please accept our apologies,' Conan Doyle said.
The Cyclopes touched its shoulder and throat, holding up its fingers to examine the black blood Danny’s attack had drawn. He glared at the demon boy and Danny had never felt so vulnerable. What are you doing, Conan Doyle? I’m a crunchy granola bar up here, as far as this thing’s concerned.
The one-eyed beast regarded him with a grimace as though it was trying to decide how to cook him. Then, slowly, Danny felt himself moving. Conan Doyle had caught him in a spell, a net of sorcerous fire, and now the mage drew him down to the stone floor of this Underworld cavern. When at last the spell dissipated he looked around to see Conan Doyle taking a step nearer to the Cyclopes. He was about to protest what the old guy had done when he felt Ceridwen’s hand on his shoulder.
Danny glanced up at her and felt all his anger dissipate. Her eyes had that effect. Even weakened, she had that effect on him. The Fey sorceress was ethereally beautiful — his opposite in so many ways — and yet it was not just her beauty that soothed him, but the benevolence that exuded from her.
'What the hell — ' he began.
Ceridwen placed a pale finger over his lips and Danny hushed. Confused, but no longer angry, he turned to see what Conan Doyle was up to. The mage had both hands up, blue light still misting from his palms but making no movements the Cyclopes might interpret as hostile.
