Read Online Tears of the Furies by Christopher Golden, Thomas E. Sniegoski - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christopher Golden, Thomas E. Sniegoski
Tags: Fantasy
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asked.
"You are Bob, yes?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Ah, excellent," Hawkins said. "I apologize
for keeping you waiting. I missed my flight and had to take the next one. I
know you’ve been here for quite some time . . . two hours, is it? I’ll make
sure to add a large gratuity to the company charge."
Bob smiled in relief. "You’re Mr. Powell," he
said. "I was beginning to wonder if I was in the wrong place. I called in,
and they said to wait another twenty minutes or so. Truth is, I was about to
leave."
Hawkins glanced over his shoulder at Gull and Jezebel. "Well,
then it seems we’ve arrived just in time."
The driver frowned, glancing once at the others but then
trying his best not to see them, Gull because of his hideousness,
Jezebel because of her beauty. "Oh. I didn’t realize there were three of
you. The slip said one passenger."
"Is that a problem?"
"No. No, of course not. There’s plenty of room, Mr.
Powell."
Then he smiled and opened the door for Gull and Jezebel. They
climbed into the expansive rear of the limousine, and she stretched out full
length on one of the seats, instantly asleep. Moments later Bob was sliding
behind the wheel and Hawkins was climbing into the rear of the limousine, and
then they were drawing away from the airport.
Above them, the clouds had all but disappeared. The sky was
clear and blue, and the sun shone warmly down upon the limousine as it made its
way toward the heart of Boston.
"Oh, Bob," Hawkins called.
"Yes, Mr. Powell?"
"Change of destination, my boy. We’re going to be
staying with a local associate this trip."
"Whatever you say, sir. So, where are we headed?"
the driver asked.
"Beacon Hill," Gull replied, his mind darkening
with memory now. "Louisburg Square. I’ve come to visit an old friend."
"Yeah," Bob said, nodding sagely. "That’s
nice. Visiting old friends."
Gull gazed out the window, but he could no longer see the
beautiful day that Jezebel had given him. His eyes stared, instead, into the
shadows of the past.
The ninth of August 1902. Coronation Day. But Nigel Gull
had neither the inclination nor the invitation to attend Edward’s installment
as king. Even if he had, he had spent the day and the evening performing a
different service to the Crown. It was long after dark, now, when sensible
people were in their beds. Gull rarely slept.
The rail station at Clapham Junction was dark and
deserted as he made his way along the platform, gaze plumbing the shadows all
around. It had begun to rain an hour or two before, and the storm cast a shroud
upon everything it touched. Gull’s eyesight was keen, however, and the rain
would not inhibit him. He could see, for instance, that nothing moved in the
gallery on the far side of the tracks, where passengers would await the morning
train come dawn. Within the station itself, all seemed still and undisturbed. Yet
he could feel it. In the damp air there were traces of malign magick, echoes of
a sinister presence. Gull thought the author of such dark deeds was no longer
at the scene, but caution guided him, nevertheless.
Three separate sets of rails ran through Clapham
Junction. On the center track there sat a charcoal black steam engine with the
number one painted on its face in silver. Rain pelted it, making it gleam even
in the dark. No steam rose from the engine, but it seemed a watchful thing,
just the same, as though it might burst to sudden life at any moment. Behind it
was a single coal tender, and attached to that, two elegant Pullman cars with
crimson wooden panels beneath each window and gilt stenciling above. It was a
private train and spoke of powerful wealth.
Gull leaped from the platform into the rain. It streamed
down his misshapen face, a moist caress that only served to remind him of his
appearance. He shook off the rain and dipped his chin, feeling the storm at his
back as he crossed the first set of tracks. The engine’s cab was dark but that
was his first stop. Gull climbed up inside Number
"You are Bob, yes?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Ah, excellent," Hawkins said. "I apologize
for keeping you waiting. I missed my flight and had to take the next one. I
know you’ve been here for quite some time . . . two hours, is it? I’ll make
sure to add a large gratuity to the company charge."
Bob smiled in relief. "You’re Mr. Powell," he
said. "I was beginning to wonder if I was in the wrong place. I called in,
and they said to wait another twenty minutes or so. Truth is, I was about to
leave."
Hawkins glanced over his shoulder at Gull and Jezebel. "Well,
then it seems we’ve arrived just in time."
The driver frowned, glancing once at the others but then
trying his best not to see them, Gull because of his hideousness,
Jezebel because of her beauty. "Oh. I didn’t realize there were three of
you. The slip said one passenger."
"Is that a problem?"
"No. No, of course not. There’s plenty of room, Mr.
Powell."
Then he smiled and opened the door for Gull and Jezebel. They
climbed into the expansive rear of the limousine, and she stretched out full
length on one of the seats, instantly asleep. Moments later Bob was sliding
behind the wheel and Hawkins was climbing into the rear of the limousine, and
then they were drawing away from the airport.
Above them, the clouds had all but disappeared. The sky was
clear and blue, and the sun shone warmly down upon the limousine as it made its
way toward the heart of Boston.
"Oh, Bob," Hawkins called.
"Yes, Mr. Powell?"
"Change of destination, my boy. We’re going to be
staying with a local associate this trip."
"Whatever you say, sir. So, where are we headed?"
the driver asked.
"Beacon Hill," Gull replied, his mind darkening
with memory now. "Louisburg Square. I’ve come to visit an old friend."
"Yeah," Bob said, nodding sagely. "That’s
nice. Visiting old friends."
Gull gazed out the window, but he could no longer see the
beautiful day that Jezebel had given him. His eyes stared, instead, into the
shadows of the past.
The ninth of August 1902. Coronation Day. But Nigel Gull
had neither the inclination nor the invitation to attend Edward’s installment
as king. Even if he had, he had spent the day and the evening performing a
different service to the Crown. It was long after dark, now, when sensible
people were in their beds. Gull rarely slept.
The rail station at Clapham Junction was dark and
deserted as he made his way along the platform, gaze plumbing the shadows all
around. It had begun to rain an hour or two before, and the storm cast a shroud
upon everything it touched. Gull’s eyesight was keen, however, and the rain
would not inhibit him. He could see, for instance, that nothing moved in the
gallery on the far side of the tracks, where passengers would await the morning
train come dawn. Within the station itself, all seemed still and undisturbed. Yet
he could feel it. In the damp air there were traces of malign magick, echoes of
a sinister presence. Gull thought the author of such dark deeds was no longer
at the scene, but caution guided him, nevertheless.
Three separate sets of rails ran through Clapham
Junction. On the center track there sat a charcoal black steam engine with the
number one painted on its face in silver. Rain pelted it, making it gleam even
in the dark. No steam rose from the engine, but it seemed a watchful thing,
just the same, as though it might burst to sudden life at any moment. Behind it
was a single coal tender, and attached to that, two elegant Pullman cars with
crimson wooden panels beneath each window and gilt stenciling above. It was a
private train and spoke of powerful wealth.
Gull leaped from the platform into the rain. It streamed
down his misshapen face, a moist caress that only served to remind him of his
appearance. He shook off the rain and dipped his chin, feeling the storm at his
back as he crossed the first set of tracks. The engine’s cab was dark but that
was his first stop. Gull climbed up inside Number
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