"Medusa?" he ventured, pitiful. Crushed.
When she spoke, the words were Greek, and so ancient that though Eve remembered the language, it took her a moment to translate in her mind.
"I am sorry," the Gorgon said. She reached up a perfect, slender hand, but fell short of caressing Gull’s hideous features. The hand fell to her side. "I have despised my own face for so long… if I spent my days gazing at yours it would only remind me of the hell I have escaped. You have given me everything, but I cannot repay you. I cannot give you what you most desire in return."
At some point Danny and Ceridwen had come out of the church. Squire, Clay, and Graves watched from their vantage point near the truck. Conan Doyle stood with Eve. And Gull was alone.
"What did she say?" Danny asked. "That language, what — "
"Ancient Greek," Conan Doyle explained. "But I don’t know what — "
Nigel Gull understood, however. From the look on his face, it was clear that he understood all too well. All the light and hope had drained from his eyes and there was only malice there once more. Any trace of the desire and love he had revealed was buried deep beneath the ugliness that was not only in his face, but in his heart. This was the cunning schemer who had betrayed them, who had used them, and who had discarded his own allies in the pursuit of his goal. This was the dark magician.
Oh, yes, he had understood Medusa perfectly.
Gull drew his antique, pepperbox pistol from beneath his jacket, and shot her through the head.
Eve cried out and Conan Doyle lunged for the weapon, but too late.
Medusa fell to the ground, blood spreading across the white pebbles of the drive.
Gull knocked Conan Doyle away, gave Medusa a final glance, and then a pool of bruise-purple energy gathered around his feet and the ground swallowed him whole, the mage slipping down into some dark portal of his conjuring. Slipping away.
But as he went, Eve caught sight of his face, of the distant, hollow glaze in his eyes, and she knew that though he would escape them, he would never, ever be free.
EPILOGUE
On the third floor of Arthur Conan Doyle’s home in Louisburg Square was a bedroom with no bed. Shelves lined two of the walls, laden with maps and journals and artifacts from the life and career of Dr. Leonard Graves. There was no bed because dead men did not need to sleep. Instead, in addition to those shelves and a scattering of books the ghost of Dr. Graves had borrowed from Conan Doyle’s library, there was an antique Victrola side by side with a CD player, old records and brand new discs. Graves was equally passionate about Robert Johnson and the latest modern day R amp;B songbird. He couldn’t abide rap, though. He was just too old-fashioned.
Then there was his television. His DVD collection was extensive, racked in cabinets around his entertainment center. From time to time Conan Doyle or Clay might come up and take in a movie with him, relaxing in the comfortable chairs that decorated the room. They liked the old films just as much as he did.
Glorious black and white.
The curtains in the room were drawn, now, and familiar blue light gleamed from the television screen. Jimmy Stewart made his heartfelt plea in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Columbia Pictures, eleven Academy Award nominations. If he focused enough, Graves could feel the solidness of the chair beneath him, even the texture of the fabric. He liked that, settling in to watch one of his movies. His Gabriella had been particularly fond of Jimmy Stewart. Despite the struggles they had faced because of their race, the hatred Dr. Graves had engendered in many quarters even as he gained respect and fame in others, he still recalled the era of his life as a kinder time, and the late actor seemed to embody that kindness.
Gabriella. A bittersweet smile touched his lips as the movie played on before his eyes. He could almost imagine her beside him still, though her spirit had long since gone on to a better place.
One day, they would be together again. He had made that vow a thousand times. But he was bound to this plane for the time being by the tragedy of his death. His murder. His assassination. Dr. Graves would not allow his specter to slip from the fleshly world to the ethereal plane until he had solved the mystery of his own death. Only then could he be with Gabriella again.
For now, he had his memories. And the movies she had loved so very much.
As he focused once more on feeling the fabric of the chair beneath him and let himself get back into the rhythm of the film, there came a knock at his door. Dr. Graves frowned. They had been back from Greece only a handful of hours and had all agreed to get some rest. He did not sleep, but that did not mean he could not benefit from a period of relaxation.
The ghost floated up from the chair and then strode to the door. With focus, he grasped the knob and opened it.
Julia Ferrick stood in the hall, her features cast half in shadow by the dim illumination from the electric sconces on the walls.
"Dr. Graves," she began in a tremulous voice. Her forehead was creased in a frown. He did not fail to notice that she had either forgotten or chosen not to call him by his given name.
"Julia? What is it? Danny’s all right?"
Graves had not seen the woman since their return, but he was not surprised that she had come so quickly. Her son had been cast into a situation of terrible danger. Of course she would rush to see him. But the ghost had assumed she would be pleased by his safe return.
"No," she whispered, swallowing visibly. "You’ve seen him. He’s worse than ever. Those… horns. They’re longer."
His heart ached for her. "Julia, we’ve discussed this. Daniel is what he is."
She nodded. "I know. It’s just… where does it end?"
The ghost had no response for that.
"And you," she went on, her jaw set. "You said you’d watch out for him."
Dr. Graves blinked, and his spectral form rippled. "He was with Conan Doyle and Ceridwen. And Eve, as well. They were all watching over him."
Julia shook her head. "But I don’t trust them. Any of them." She searched his eyes as though trying to locate something she thought she had seen before. "I trusted you."
"You can trust me. And you can trust the others as well. I had to be where I could do the most good. As did Daniel. But we’re back. All of us in one piece."
"And what about the next time?"
The ghost met her gaze steadily. "No one can promise to return Daniel safely to you each time he leaves this house. When a crisis arises, when there is real evil to be faced, the outcome is always uncertain."
Julia stared at him. For a moment she reached out to touch him, mouth working as though searching for the words to express what she felt. It seemed to Graves as though she desperately wanted something from him then, some assurance, some solace, but he hesitated.
She shook her head, dropping her hand, and backed away. Dr. Graves could only watch her recede down the hall and then descend the stairs. Somehow he felt more had passed between the two of them than he realized, that Julia’s disappointment in him extended beyond her concern for her son. He did not quite understand, but it troubled him to have hurt her.
Dr. Graves found that he cared very deeply what Julia Ferrick’s opinion of him might be.
And that troubled him as well.
Clay stood in the kitchen of Conan Doyle’s home, peeling an apple at the sink. He had been talking for quite some time in the living room with Squire, but the hobgoblin had gone to bed. Sleep called to him as well, but all he had wanted from the moment they had returned to Boston was a glass of ice water and a fresh apple. On the granite countertop, his water glass sweated drops of cool condensation, waiting for him. He made a small game of peeling the apple, attempting to take it all off in a single long strip. There was something calming about the process, the methodical nature of it.