Arthur stiffened a bit. She glanced over and saw that his nostrils were flared and his eyes narrowed. He turned to her and gently pulled her into an embrace. Over his shoulder she saw Danny’s eyes widen and the demon boy looked away. It felt awkward and yet startlingly good to be in Arthur’s arms. Part of her wanted to fight that feeling, but she surrendered to it. There were too many enemies down here. She felt his warm breath on her face as he whispered to her.
"Nigel and his agents are ahead of us with Eve. But I sense eyes upon us. Someone or something has been pacing us for quite a while, now. And we must assume this lurker in darkness is ill-intentioned. So be wary, Ceri. Be on guard."
Clay did not even know the name of the village.
They had continued on foot, just as Medusa would have had to. She had been traveling due west on the train and they knew that their chances of catching her now were slim. It was possible they would have to wait until she killed again. But logic dictated that if she were seeking out other ancient sites, she might well continue on to Corinth, and so they kept on in that direction, hoping to overtake her before she put too much distance between them.
If it became necessary to go back and fetch the car, that would mean they had given up hope of finding her today.
They walked along the train tracks, hurrying away so that the authorities arriving on the scene would not notice them. Side by side they set off to the west, toward the diminishing sunlight, as if they chased the day. Even Dr. Graves, who did not precisely walk, strode along intently, scanning the landscape on either side.
Six miles along the tracks they came to the village. The land to the north of the tracks sloped up into a low ridge of hills, and sprawled across them were dozens of whitewashed cottages that looked identical from a distance. Only as they set out from the tracks, finding the rutted road that led up into the village, did they begin to discover that each home had its own personality. Some had small gardens, others flags flying, and many of the structures were not homes at all, but proved upon closer inspections to be shops and restaurants.
Wooden doors, some that seemed centuries old, were set into the faces of buildings, and wrought-iron railings ran along balconies that overhung narrow alleys that split off from the main road.
The road led up the hill, winding through the village. Cars were parked along the sides of the street, but they were empty.
The nameless village was eerily silent, save for the wind.
A short way up the road they found a restaurant with the windows shattered. The smells that came from the place were exquisite, enough to remind Clay how long it had been since he had eaten, and how much he would have relished the opportunity. The scent of moussaka would have lured him toward that place even without the broken glass.
"Oh, son of a bitch," Squire muttered as the hobgoblin stepped through the window frame and into the restaurant.
The ghost of Dr. Graves passed through the outer wall, immaterial.
By the time Clay entered — through the door — he knew what he would find. As he stood there in the shadowed interior of the place his skin rippled and changed. No reason to wear a human face here. There was no one to see him, no one to frighten.
Only stone. Only statues.
He had never felt so empty inside. Clay had been intent on the mission, had determined that they would capture Medusa, but he was rapidly losing the heart for it.
"We have got to stop this," he whispered, and he turned and left, his heavy earthen feet crunching broken glass. He had to duck to exit, now that he had taken on this form. The closest he had to a true shape — the shape made of clay, dry and cracked yet malleable.
Out on the street he glanced up and down the hill. Now that he knew for certain what he was looking for, he saw them everywhere. In what was probably the village’s only taxi, idling at the curb, there was a figure frozen behind the wheel. People had come out onto their balconies to find the source of whatever disruption they’d heard. Statues stood there now.
In store windows — what he saw were not mannequins.
Clay began to walk uphill, deeper into the village. The taxi was still running and the moussaka was still fresh enough to give off that delicious aroma. How much farther ahead could she be? Could she have killed everyone in the village?
He began to run, not worrying about whether or not Graves or Squire could keep up with him.
At the top of the hill was an open park, a village square. Clay staggered as he entered it and nearly fell to his knees where the street had become cobblestones. He shook his head.
"No," he whispered.
There had been a festival going on. Some kind of celebration. Women in long dresses and headscarves gathered in groups of threes and fours. Children chased one another around the square. There was a circle of men who had been dancing, now forever frozen in the act, each of them having glanced over to see what had caused their wives and sisters and daughters to scream. The way they were situated, they all seemed to be staring right at Clay, at this monstrous earthen man who strode into the heart of their town.
Here, he thought, checking again the angle of the stone men’s stares and his own location. She stood right here.
If he closed his eyes on a quiet night, somewhere near the heavens such as a mountaintop or the dome of a cathedral, he could almost remember what it felt like to be touched by the hand of God. In moments such as this, he did not want to. There was only darkness here, though the sun still shone on the horizon.
This is your will? Clay thought, eyes pressed tightly closed. He shook his head and swore under his breath.
A cold sensation passed through him and he turned to see the ghost of Dr. Graves beside him. The specter had a hand on his shoulder and though Graves was insubstantial, Clay could almost feel the weight of those fingers, the comfort of a friend.
"We will catch her," Graves assured him.
Beyond him, Clay saw Squire approaching. The shapeshifter shook his head.
"No. We won’t." He looked at the ugly, contorted face of the misshapen little hobgoblin, but saw only the light of gentle grief in his eyes. "I’m sorry, Squire. Sorry I made you go back and get the nets and all the rest of the equipment to take her alive."
Once more he glanced around the square, met the stone gaze of two dozen men who died dancing, and who stared at him as though they expected him to avenge them.
"It’s too late for that now."
Clay wandered away from them, needing a moment’s peace. A moment’s solace. At the far end of the square was a church. Heart torn by conflict, he forced himself to approach it, and then to step inside.
"All right, we’re with ya, big guy," Squire said, hurrying after him with a scuffle of his weathered boots. "But how do we find her? We could search forever now and not get any closer than this. Hell, she could be in one of these houses and we might never find her."
Dr. Graves crossed his arms and stood beside Squire. It was easy to see why he had been considered so formidable in life. The ghost wore a grim expression.
"We will search for her until we find her. I have eternity to look." The comment was meant to be halfway amusing but there was simply too much melancholy in it.
Clay was barely listening. He had glanced back at his companions but now he returned his attention to the church’s interior. Candles burned inside. Clay’s stomach churned. A warm breeze washed over him, causing the candles inside to flutter.
"We don’t have to search anymore," he said.
"What’re you talking about?" Squire asked.
Clay gestured for them to come forward, to see what he’d seen. Sprawled just inside the entryway of the church was the corpse of an Orthodox priest, his robes spattered with blood, his limbs jutting out at odd, impossible angles. Broken. His face was black and swollen and there were dozens of small puncture wounds on his cheeks, forehead and throat. One of his eyes had been punctured as well and had dripped vitreous fluid like thick tears.