The creature he mimicked was not a mole and not a bear. It was not anything human eyes had ever seen. For though the Creator had put upon the Earth a great many wondrous things, there were beasts he had imagined with his Clay, but then abandoned. Things no one in the world had ever seen. Unless they had seen Clay in action.
Happy with the shape, he dropped to his bony knees and began to dig, the claws making short work of the cobblestoned street and layers of heavy stone beneath. It took him no time at all to burrow a tunnel down under Louisburg Square, through a wall of brick, and into one of the sewers that ran below the townhouses.
The air in the sewer was thick with gases other than oxygen — most likely a mixture of nitrogen, natural gas and methane — and he altered his lungs so that he could breathe down there. His vision in this shape was poor, but his sense of smell was heightened to the extreme. Clay could smell the distinctive scent of the Night People.
He loped down the partially flooded passage, splashing through the filth until the aroma of the enemy was so strong that he knew he must be just beneath them. Clay dug into the wall, beginning a new passage that would take him into the basement of Conan Doyle's townhouse.
Moments later he exploded up through the concrete floor into the room. His poor eyes located the drifting, translucent shape of Dr. Graves floating in the air.
"Thanks for waiting," Clay rasped as he shifted back to his human form.
Now that his vision had returned to normal, he saw that Graves was focused on one particular corner of the room. At the same time, he noticed the stink in the basement, a smell he had become all too familiar with of late. He had been so focused on the Corca Duibhne, he had all but completely overlooked it. But in the cellar, it was overpowering. Choking.
The smell of blood.
"Good God," Clay whispered as he looked upon the bodies stacked up against the wall like cordwood, and others hanging by their ankles from hooks on the ceiling. "What is going on here?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Graves asked him. "They're storing food. Using the basement as a larder."
Danny's eyes had become accustomed to the fog.
Bizarro, he thought, following close behind Eve as she made her way down one of the small alleys between the homes on Beacon Hill. It unnerved him, in a way, that he could make out the shapes of things through the thick, roiling mist. His vision was changing along with the rest of him, adapting to his environment. Which made him wonder what other surprises his body had in store for him.
He could make out a small wooden fence at the end of the alley ahead of them and was about to point it out, when Eve quickened her pace, vaulting over the obstruction with ease and grace. Danny clambered over the fence as quickly as he could, fearful that his companion would leave him behind. He landed in the small yard on the other side in a crouch, his new eyes scanning the fog.
"Keep up, slowpoke," he heard her say, her voice carried on the breeze and swirling with the mist. He caught sight of her fluttering coattails as she went over another fence across the yard. It was sort of a shame that she'd put the coat on at all. The top she had on was nicely clingy and he liked to watch her move. Even with the coat, he could appreciate her… but without it…
Chill. Keep your mind on staying alive. Danny bounded across the small patch of grass, tensing the muscles in his legs as prepared to scale the next obstacle. The power in his jump took him by surprise and his arms pinwheeled as he tried to keep his balance while hurtling through the air. He cleared the fence with feet to spare and landed on all fours, unable to prevent the smile from blossoming across his face. Danny immediately thought of Mr. Davis, the track and field coach at his high school, and how the man would have shit his pants if he'd ever seen any of his track team make a jump like that.
"Decent," Eve said, leaning against a brick building.
"Where are we now?" he asked, rising to join her. They appeared to be in another small yard.
"We're at the back of Conan Doyle's place. Figured we'd get less attention if we got to the roof from the back."
Danny stepped back, looking skyward, up the rear wall of building. Though no taller than four stories, the top of the townhouse disappeared into the crimson mist.
"And we get up there how, exactly?"
Eve pressed herself flat against the building, sinking her long fingernails into the mortar between the bricks. "Silly rabbit," she chided, beginning to climb. "As if there was any other way."
The way she crawled up the wall, Eve reminded him of some kind of lizard, barely making a sound other than the faint scrape of claw upon brick.
"Wait," he hissed, on the verge of panic. He didn't want to be left alone. Danny desperately wanted to be included, to belong. For the first time in oh so very long he felt as though he were part of something; that he truly mattered. He did not want that feeling to end.
Eve stopped midway, and maneuvered her body around so she could look down at him.
Not a lizard, he thought. A spider. She reminded him of a really big spider.
"What are you waiting for?" she asked.
He couldn't believe she was asking the question. "I can't do that," he told her, growing angry.
Eve righted herself and began to climb again. "Bet you didn't think you could make a six foot leap over a fence either," she said as she disappeared into the mist.
She was right about that, he decided, approaching the wall and doing as he had watched her do. Danny placed his hands against cool brick, digging his fingernails — no, they were claws; his fingernails had fallen out months ago — between the bricks, as Eve had done. He attempted to pull his weight upward.
And succeeded.
Much to his shock and surprise, Danny was climbing the wall. Would you look at this, he wanted to scream, increasing his pace to catch up with Eve.
Fucking Spider-Man ain't got nothing on me.
Conan Doyle stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up to his front door and cleared his throat. He knew they were there, crouching in the shadows, waiting for the opportunity to strike. He removed the pocket watch from his coat and saw that more than enough time had passed for his operatives to get themselves into position.
Taking the first step, he placed one of his hands upon the wrought iron railing.
"Who is this, my brothers?" came a hissing voice from somewhere in the shadows.
Conan Doyle stood perfectly still, gathering his inner strength.
"A fool, I'd wager," responded an equally sibilant voice. "For who else but a fool would dare approach our mistress's lair."
The Corca Duibhne sentries emerged from their hiding places on either side of the steps, weapons crusted with the blood of their victims.
"Poor little fool," said one of the advancing Night People. "Does he even know whose dwelling this is?"
Conan Doyle stepped back from the stairs, letting his hands dangle by his sides. There were eight, all of them wearing variations of black leather. Their faces appeared oily, shining in what little light was available. He was reminded of how much he despised this species, and how the Twilight Wars never should have been declared over until each and every one of the foul creatures had been exterminated like the vermin they were.
One of the Corca Duibhne came forward, waving a fierce looking knife before him. "Do you know, foolish little man?" it asked, a cruel, humorless smile upon its oily, black features. Conan Doyle noticed that one of its eyes was missing. "Do you know whose house this is?"
Conan Doyle casually adjusted his shirt cuffs, matching them to the sleeves of his jacket. "Of course I do," he said, returning his hands to his side. His fingers twitched eagerly.
The Night People began to laugh, converging, forming a circle around him.
"Do you hear, brothers?" asked the creature with the missing eye. "He knows full well whose house this is."