Tears of the Furies (A Novel of the Menagerie) Read Online Free

just anyone could walk
through one, of course. To most people — humans in particular — shadows
were simple things, patches of darkness created when an obstacle came between
the available light and any surface upon which it might shine. A woman walking
her dog in the park on a sunny day would cast a shadow upon the ground. So
would her dog. A jacket hung on the end of a child’s bed might block enough of
the illumination from her nightlight to throw a strange shadow upon the wall or
ceiling. Yes, there were shadows everywhere. Beneath every bed and in every
closet. On the far side of every tree. Under benches and buses and just around
the corner of every building.
    And every one . . . every single one . . . a doorway.
    Beyond those doorways there existed an entire world, a
gray-black warren of pathways and tunnels, an interconnected maze that seemed
infinite and yet turned in upon itself again and again. There were vast empty
spaces in the midst of that shadow world, dark and barren places. The footing
was uncertain, and the darkness seemed to breathe and to be very aware of those
who walked within it. No one stayed in the shadows for very long.
    Humans gazed at the shadows and shivered. They perceived the
splashes of darkness with trepidation, their unconsciousness, the ancient,
shared memory of their species reminding them that anything might emerge from
the darkness, which was a place of the unknown, a dangerous place from which,
once upon a time, many things might have escaped. Most of them were extinct,
now. There might be a Norse svartalf or two still roaming the darkness,
and if any of the tengu awoke, it was possible they would seek refuge there. But
for the most part, the shadows were the domain of hobgoblins now.
    And there weren’t that many of them left, either.
    All of which suited Squire just fine. He liked a party as
much as the next ‘goblin, but when he was working, he liked it quiet. Plenty of
space to move around in, nothing to disturb him, and time to think.
    Hobgoblins had an innate ability to navigate the darkness. He
could dive into a pool of shadows in England as though it were water, and
emerge from beneath a baby carriage in Los Angeles moments later. Many of the
ancient races of the world had died out or were in danger of doing so. His own
kind was not thriving, but they survived. To Squire’s mind, this was because
they were simply better at running away from trouble than any other creatures
in existence.
    Squire didn’t like to run away. Not normally, in any case. He
was more a lover than a fighter, but that didn’t make him a coward. Fortunately,
he spent most of his time around beings who were fighters. So aside from the
occasional, unavoidable scrap, he could concentrate on the lovin’.
    Well, that and the weapons.
    One of the things about hanging around with fighters, and
being employed by one, was that they needed weapons. Mr. Doyle had an
unparalleled collection of weapons from every culture in the world, not to
mention many from realms beyond it, and from every era in history. Some were
museum quality and beautiful, others were ugly and efficient. When the muses
called to him, Squire would forge new weapons of his own design. All of them
needed caring for, and that was one of Squire’s many duties in the household of
Arthur Conan Doyle.
    Driver. Valet. Weaponsmith. Armorer. His name was his
occupation. He was Doyle’s squire. And he loved his work.
    Now, in his workshop in a lost corner of the shadow world,
with the darkness pulsing around him, shifting and breathing, the gnarled
little hobgoblin worked at the grindstone, pumping it with a foot pedal. The
blade shrieked against the stone, and fiery sparks sprayed from the metal. The
sound unnerved most people, like nails on a chalkboard, but Squire loved it. It
was music to him.
    He bared rows of tiny shark teeth in a satisfied smile as he
held the weapon up, examining it in the illumination cast from the flames of
his forge. The