Free Tears of the Furies by Christopher Golden, Thomas E. Sniegoski Page A

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