The figure in black let loose with another blade, this one sticking in the center of Clay’s orange, cracked flesh. He tore it away with a snarl and ran toward the assassin. In his mind he saw the image of a powerful silverback gorilla, and willed his body to become it. Again he was stricken with an incredible bolt of pain, driving him to his knees.
He glanced up at the dwindling form of Dr. Graves. "The dirt," the ghost moaned. "It’s from my grave… it binds me… calls me back there."
Another throwing knife pierced Clay’s flesh and the masked man giggled. He was playing with them. Enraged, Clay forced his protesting flesh to assume the shape of the gorilla and lunged at their attacker. The man tried to avoid him, but this time Clay was faster, knocking him savagely to the ground. He roared, tossing back his head and shrieking to the heavens, his fists beating on his broad chest.
"We’ve underestimated you," the man said. His voice from beneath the disturbing cherub mask was a dry whisper, like the rustling of leaves. "Thought the knives would have shut you down by now."
The silverback brought its arms down upon the man’s chest as though they were clubs. The man made not a sound as he was pummeled. Clay reared back, staring down at the body of his attacker. The man looked like a broken rag doll, arms and legs askew, the eerie baby-doll face looking up at the pale, blue Athenian sky.
The places where Clay had been stabbed burned as if touched by acid and he looked away from his foe for an instant to check on Graves. The ghost was gone, only the circle of earth upon the ground remained.
"Finished with me already?" the whispering voice said mockingly, and before Clay could react, the man was up from the ground and had climbed upon his back, locking himself in place with his legs and arms about the gorilla’s throat.
Impossible. He was dead. Bones shattered.
Clay roared, hurling himself to the side, thrashing about in an attempt to dislodge his attacker. He considered changing his shape again, to become something even more powerful. For a moment, he hesitated, the memory of the awful pain giving him pause. The knives were imbued with some sort of sorcery, a spell meant to prevent him from changing his shape. Whoever this guy was, he knew things about Conan Doyle’s Menagerie, ways to stop them. Ways to kill them.
Another knife bit into the thick muscle of his shoulder blade and the silverback roared. He reached over his shoulder, powerful arms attempting to pull his attacker from his back, but could not do it. The man was stuck like a tick on a dog.
Clay threw himself to the ground, rolling across the train platform, crashing into the stone bodies of Medusa’s victims. The bodies toppled to the ground, crumbling into pieces, but still the man in black held tight.
His thoughts raced. He had to do something.
"Squire, hurry up, damn it!" he bellowed, directing his voice to the nearest patch of shadows though he doubted it was possible for the little bastard to hear him. If there was any time that they could have used the hobgoblin’s assistance, it was now.
As he rolled across the hard ground of the station, the image of another animal filled his mind — something big. And his body began to change. Clay quivered and shook. The pain was unbelievable, and for an instant it almost stopped him.
Almost.
The silverback was gone now, replaced with body of a mastodon, and Clay tossed its huge head back, tusks gleaming, and blew a triumphant blast through his trunk. The pain had infected his entire form, it was absolute agony retaining the shape, and the intensity of what he was experiencing drove him wild.
The mastodon thrashed its mighty body from side to side. Clay could still feel the man clinging to his back, almost as if he had burrowed beneath his flesh. Blinded by agony and rage, he surged forward with no concern as to what was in his path.
The massive pachyderm plowed through the back of the decorative mosaic wall, shattering it to rubble, and for an instant he felt the man’s grip on him lessen. Sensing an opportunity, Clay pitched its massive head forward. The assassin was flung from his back, and upon striking the ground rolled to his feet, seemingly unfazed. He held more of those enchanted throwing knives in his hands.
"This should do it," he hissed from behind his cherub’s mask.
The assassin lifted a hand, about to fling more blades. Clay braced for the savage bite of those knives… but then his attacker’s head snapped viciously backward. He staggered, daggers dropping from his gloved hands to clatter upon the ground. His hand rose to weakly brush at an object protruding from one of the eyeholes in the cherub mask.
A tranquilizer dart had been shot into his right eye.
Clay watched with great satisfaction as the figure fell limply to the station floor, arms and legs twitching.
"Did you see that shot?" Squire hooted, rifle slung over his shoulder as he advanced across the platform.
The feeling gave out in the mastodon’s legs, and Clay slumped to the ground. Bracing for pain, he transformed to his humanoid guise, flesh flowing once more. The process was excruciating, his body feeling as though it had been set afire from the inside.
"What the hell’s wrong with you?" Squire asked, kneeling beside him.
Clay looked into the face of the hobgoblin, pleased for once to see the little man. "Didn’t think you were that proficient with modern weaponry," he said as he tried to stand.
"Don’t care for them really," Squire responded, hefting the rifle. "But it doesn’t mean I can’t shoot the balls off a blue jay at fifty yards."
Clay stumbled over to the circle of dirt. "We have to see about Graves," he said, falling to his knees before the circle. "He said that this dirt came from his grave, that it was calling him back to his body."
Squire nodded in understanding. "Old-fashioned binding spell for wandering spirits," he explained. "At first they’re bound within the circle and then slowly drawn back to their bodies where they’re imprisoned until the sorcerer who cast the spell decides they can go free."
"That’s where he is now?" Clay asked, searching the air above the dirt circle for a sign of the ghostly adventurer. "Back with his remains?"
The hobgoblin stepped closer to the circle. "If I’m remembering right, it can take a little while for the spell to kick into full gear, especially if the spirit has a particularly strong disposition." He rubbed away part of the circle with the toe of his shoe. "He may not be quite there yet."
The air above the broken circle shimmered and pulsed as Leonard Graves began to materialize. The ghost was not in the best of moods.
"Bastard!" he roared, the twin Colt 45s taking shape in his hands. "Where is that son of a bitch?"
"Whoa, Len. Where’s your usual calm reserve? Be cool, pal," Squire said. "We took care of him for ya."
"He’s down," Clay confirmed as he reached up to remove the last of the attacker’s knives from his shoulder, hissing with pain as the dagger came loose. "But we still have to catch that train — "
"Where is he?" Graves interrupted, gliding through them, ghostly guns still in hands. "I want to see the assassin up close. I’m going to make sure he doesn’t have any other tricks up his sleeve."
"What’s the matter with you, Casper?" Squire chided as he turned around. "He’s right th… Oh shit."
The figure in black was gone.
"I remember the day when getting shot in the eye with a tranquilizer dart pretty much took you out of the picture," Squire said, walking over to check out where the body had lain. The dart lay upon the platform. "But I shouldn’t be surprised."
"What are you talking about?" Clay asked, frustrated by this latest turn. Isn’t anything going to go right on this mission?
"Our mystery boy with the kewpie doll face mask is named Tassarian. A real nasty prick, let me tell you. Used to work for Conan Doyle’s old pal Nigel Gull."