'First, I have been attempting to deduce Gull’s purpose in bringing Eve to the Erinyes.'
'Have you been successful?' Ceridwen asked, ducking beneath a thorny branch that overhung their path, then moving carefully between a pair of trees uncomfortably close together.
'I have a theory.'
Ceridwen reached up quickly in spite of her sapped strength and tugged him by the ear, just as her mother had done to get her attention when she was a tiny girl. Arthur blinked in surprise and stared at her.
'I hate when you do that,' she said. 'Speak all, or not at all.'
Her once and perhaps future lover nodded. 'My apologies.' He rubbed his ear. 'I have told you of my history with Nigel. Of our rivalry — or at least his view of it. He chose to study shadow magicks, dark powers of ancient times that would have been better left to molder in the tombs of dead gods.'
Conan Doyle glanced around, apparently aware of the odd resonance of his words. He stroked his graying mustache with his free hand and Ceridwen thought he might have shuddered.
'The cost for what he learned was his face. His features were deformed, twisted to reflect the deformity of spirit that resulted in his trafficking in such ugly sorceries. The Erinyes… the Furies, they have been called… might have the power to erase that taint, to undo the curse upon him.'
Ceridwen shook her head. 'I don’t know. Do you really think Gull would do all of this just to be handsome again?'
'You didn’t know him before. You did not see the change he underwent within and without. It would not surprise me.'
'But why Eve?'
The ground had begun to slope down and the blackthorn forest to thin. To either side distant mountains could be seen, cliffs that went up and up, but were really only the walls of the cavern, rising toward that unseen ceiling, that stone roof that separated this realm from any other.
Arthur paused and studied her a moment, taking her hands in his. Without preamble he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them, just once. Ceridwen did nothing to stop him, nor did she protest. Conan Doyle took a deep breath and then he turned to peer into the gloom, gaze hunting for Danny Ferrick and for the path ahead.
'This is not the Christian Hell. We’ve discussed that. But that does not mean that sinners go unpunished here. It is possible to be damned in the Underworld. And those sinners are given over to the Erinyes for their punishment. They are scourged for eternity — or for as long as this theological construct lasts, as long as the worship from the Second Age is not completely forgotten.
'If Gull wants something from the Erinyes, he’ll need something to give them in exchange. What better than the ultimate sinner?'
'Eve,' Ceridwen whispered.
Arthur nodded.
Ceridwen took a moment to process that. After a moment she took his hand and the two of them began walking again. They emerged from the blackthorn forest only to find Danny standing at the edge of a steep hill. They joined him there, and found themselves looking down on the broadest, swiftest river any of them had ever seen.
The Styx.
'All right,' she said, staring at the river. 'You said there were two things concerning you. What was the other?'
Arthur stiffened a bit. She glanced over and saw that his nostrils were flared and his eyes narrowed. He turned to her and gently pulled her into an embrace. Over his shoulder she saw Danny’s eyes widen and the demon boy looked away. It felt awkward and yet startlingly good to be in Arthur’s arms. Part of her wanted to fight that feeling, but she surrendered to it. There were too many enemies down here. She felt his warm breath on her face as he whispered to her.
'Nigel and his agents are ahead of us with Eve. But I sense eyes upon us. Someone or something has been pacing us for quite a while, now. And we must assume this lurker in darkness is ill-intentioned. So be wary, Ceri. Be on guard.'
Clay did not even know the name of the village.
They had continued on foot, just as Medusa would have had to. She had been traveling due west on the train and they knew that their chances of catching her now were slim. It was possible they would have to wait until she killed again. But logic dictated that if she were seeking out other ancient sites, she might well continue on to Corinth, and so they kept on in that direction, hoping to overtake her before she put too much distance between them.
If it became necessary to go back and fetch the car, that would mean they had given up hope of finding her today.
They walked along the train tracks, hurrying away so that the authorities arriving on the scene would not notice them. Side by side they set off to the west, toward the diminishing sunlight, as if they chased the day. Even Dr. Graves, who did not precisely walk, strode along intently, scanning the landscape on either side.
Six miles along the tracks they came to the village. The land to the north of the tracks sloped up into a low ridge of hills, and sprawled across them were dozens of whitewashed cottages that looked identical from a distance. Only as they set out from the tracks, finding the rutted road that led up into the village, did they begin to discover that each home had its own personality. Some had small gardens, others flags flying, and many of the structures were not homes at all, but proved upon closer inspections to be shops and restaurants.
Wooden doors, some that seemed centuries old, were set into the faces of buildings, and wrought-iron railings ran along balconies that overhung narrow alleys that split off from the main road.
The road led up the hill, winding through the village. Cars were parked along the sides of the street, but they were empty.
The nameless village was eerily silent, save for the wind.
A short way up the road they found a restaurant with the windows shattered. The smells that came from the place were exquisite, enough to remind Clay how long it had been since he had eaten, and how much he would have relished the opportunity. The scent of moussaka would have lured him toward that place even without the broken glass.
'Oh, son of a bitch,' Squire muttered as the hobgoblin stepped through the window frame and into the restaurant.
The ghost of Dr. Graves passed through the outer wall, immaterial.
By the time Clay entered — through the door — he knew what he would find. As he stood there in the shadowed interior of the place his skin rippled and changed. No reason to wear a human face here. There was no one to see him, no one to frighten.
Only stone. Only statues.
He had never felt so empty inside. Clay had been intent on the mission, had determined that they would capture Medusa, but he was rapidly losing the heart for it.
'We have got to stop this,' he whispered, and he turned and left, his heavy earthen feet crunching broken glass. He had to duck to exit, now that he had taken on this form. The closest he had to a true shape — the shape made of clay, dry and cracked yet malleable.
Out on the street he glanced up and down the hill. Now that he knew for certain what he was looking for, he saw them everywhere. In what was probably the village’s only taxi, idling at the curb, there was a figure frozen behind the wheel. People had come out onto their balconies to find the source of whatever disruption they’d heard. Statues stood there now.
In store windows — what he saw were not mannequins.
Clay began to walk uphill, deeper into the village. The taxi was still running and the moussaka was still fresh enough to give off that delicious aroma. How much farther ahead could she be? Could she have killed everyone in the village?
He began to run, not worrying about whether or not Graves or Squire could keep up with him.
At the top of the hill was an open park, a village square. Clay staggered as he entered it and nearly fell to his knees where the street had become cobblestones. He shook his head.
'No,' he whispered.
