"Nothing must sway us," he told her, nodding grimly. "There was no way the Hydra would have allowed us to reach the grave."
Jezebel looked from Gull to Hawkins, who continued to furiously dig, and then turned her attention to the Hydra and its prey. "They trusted you," she said, her voice no more than a whisper.
Gull chuckled. "I seriously doubt that. But there was no choice, my dear Jezebel. If Conan Doyle knew who was actually buried here, and my intentions for him, well, let’s just say I doubt we would be where we are right now."
For a long moment, Jezebel only looked at him, one hand on her outthrust hip, ever the rebellious teen. Then she shrugged, her t-shirt riding even higher up on her exposed abdomen. "I didn’t like them very much anyway," she said with a darling shake of her head, a sly smile creeping across her delicate features; her faith in him seemingly restored.
"That’s the spirit." Gull pulled her close and placed a gentle kiss on her brow, then turned his attentions to Hawkins. "How’re we coming along, Nick?" he asked, the crackle of anticipation in the air.
"Would be further along if one of you would lift a bloody finger to help," Hawkins grumbled, tossing another shovelful of dirt over his shoulder. The man was making excellent progress. He had dug down at least four feet into the dusty soil.
"We all have our parts to play, Mr. Hawkins," Gull reassured him. "Soon your part will be done, and it will be our time to shine."
"Yay!" Jezebel said, clapping her hands.
Hawkins sunk the blade of his shovel into the earth again, but this time it was met with a strange, hollow thud. Gull gasped as the man looked up and smiled. Hawkins leaned his tool against the side of the hole and, kneeling down, began to carefully brush away the dry, black dirt. Even this far down the soil was like dust, as if all moisture had somehow been removed from the ground.
Gull moved closer to the hole’s edge, watching the man as he worked. Something wooden was gradually coming into view. He held his breath as Hawkins placed the flat of his hand against the top of the buried box to read its psychic impression.
Hawkins gasped, falling backward as his body was wracked with trembling spasms. Gull frowned and knelt to reach for him, but Hawkins waved him away, catching his breath.
"This is it," he said, struggling to his feet and retrieving his shovel.
"Let’s have it, then, Nick," Gull ordered, his heart racing. "But be careful, yes? It’ll be useless to me if the contents of our little box are damaged."
Hawkins jammed the point of the shovel into the rotted wood, splintering the top with ease. He tossed his shovel aside to squat down at the box. Carefully he pulled the cover away, the ancient wood crumbling in his hand, to expose a filthy, burlap sack. Hawkins reached inside and hauled the sack out of the box.
"Give it here," Gull said, his twisted hands reaching eagerly as Hawkins handed it up to him.
Gull gently laid the sack on the ground and knelt beside it as if preparing to pray. The burlap was as rotted and dry as the earth in which it had been interred, and he grabbed hold of the coarse cloth, tearing open the sack to expose its contents.
A single human skull.
Jezebel knelt breathlessly beside him, and Hawkins peered out over the rim of the hole.
"Here we are," he said as he raised up the perfectly preserved skull. It still wore a paper-thin covering of dried flesh, and tufts of downy hair clung to the top of its head, like some grotesque baby chick. "What a handsome devil you are," Gull cooed, first showing the face of the skull to an appreciative Jezebel, and then to Hawkins.
"A real looker," Hawkins agreed as he began to haul himself from the hole.
"He has a kind face," Jezebel said, reaching out to gently feather the tufts of hair with her long, delicate fingers. "I think I would have liked him quite a bit."
"And he you, I’m sure," Gull said as he climbed to his feet, skull in hand. "But as of now, our disembodied friend has much to share with me, and I require your special talents."
The girl smiled, planting her feet on the ground and moving her head around, stretching the muscles in her neck in preparation. "Your wish is my command," she said, closing her eyes.
Jezebel’s brow furrowed as if she were suddenly in the throes of deep thought, and her breathing became heavier. Desiccated skull still in hand, Gull watched as a visible tremor passed through her body, and she gasped, eyes opening wide as she turned her gaze to the evening sky. Twin trickles of scarlet began to leak from her nostrils.
"Here it comes," she said in breathless whisper, shivering uncontrollably as the full force of her personal magick was unleashed upon the environment.
Thick, billowing clouds of white coalesced in the sky above them, but nowhere else. A rumble of thunder heralded the arrival of their own private storm. A flash of lighting slashed the night’s black tapestry, followed by an even more severe clap of thunder, and then the rain at last began to fall.
Jezebel fell to her knees, then began to giggle as she curled herself into a tight ball on the ground and promptly fell asleep.
"Mr. Hawkins," Gull called over the sound of the torrential rainfall. "If you would be so kind as to bring Jezebel to the truck."
The former SAS man complied, picking up the soaking girl and carrying her to the Range Rover parked not far from them.
Gull stood in the rain and reached out to grasp the fabric of the very air itself, plumbing a darkness that lurked beneath the ordinary shadows of night. It was an ancient Egyptian magick considered too powerful for even the high priests of that venerable age, a talent he had not used since that rainy, late summer night in 1902 when, much to the disgust of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, he had spoken with the voice of a murdered child.
Oh, what things the dead can share, Gull mused as he gently pried the jaw of the skull open, the dried skin crackling like autumn leaves, and then holding it up for the rain to collect within the hollow of its mouth.
In time he lowered the skull, careful not to spill its contents, and brought it to his mouth. Gull pressed his lips gently to the jaw bone, tipping it back, drinking deeply, cool rainwater cascading down his throat. Then he dropped the now empty skull to the muddy ground, waiting for the magick to fill him. He did not have long to wait.
The voice of the dead man was in his throat, bubbling up and out of his yawning mouth, a voice raised in a song long silenced.
Until now.
Conan Doyle’s worst fear had become a reality.
The cloud of ash spewed by the Hydra had formed an unyielding shell on Ceridwen’s body. Frantically Doyle clawed at the thick soot that had solidified upon her face as she thrashed against him, desperate to breathe. He could hear his Menagerie in the midst of combat with the many-headed serpent and knew that he should be helping them, guiding them, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not when a heart he had long thought shriveled and cold had begun to beat again.
The thought of losing Ceridwen again had frozen him, crippled him in this battle, and it might have doomed them all.
Her struggles were slowing, and Doyle cursed himself. This was not the time for panic, but for action. His fingertips, raw and bloody, tingled as he began to summon a spell. The magicks he was attempting to wield were not meant for such delicate matters, but he had no choice. The power coursed from his fingertips and it took all his strength to keep the flow to a trickle, directing the magick where it was needed.
The ashen shroud broke, falling away from Ceridwen’s face, and she gasped, sucking the air greedily. She began to cough uncontrollably and he pulled her to him.
"Thank the gods," he said, holding her tight, the ash flaking away from her lithe body.
Ceridwen’s eyes went wide, and she tensed, pushing him away from her. "What are you doing?" she demanded. There was a fiery intensity in her gaze that he did not at first comprehend, but her ire became all too clear as she snatched up her staff from the ground and struggled to stand.