Tears of the Furies Read Online Free PDF Page A

though its strap itched
the back of his head. For a moment, Mr. Doyle paused on the sidewalk and
pressed the heel of his hand against that void, that eyeless hole. At times it
ached profoundly.
    Doyle had removed the eye himself. The pain had been like nothing
he had ever felt. Worse, though, was the feeling of tugging , deep in his
head, as he tore it loose from the optic nerve. It was a memory he would have
very gladly erased. The man had done what he had to do, and it had helped to
make the world safe — at least for a time. It was good, however, that he
had not had any idea what it would feel like at the time. In retrospect, it
wasn’t something he would do again.
    A dry laugh escaped his lips. What a sickening thought. Only
a lunatic would do what he had done. But perhaps in that moment, knowing that
it was the only way, he had been a lunatic indeed.
    Now, the question was, what to do about it.
    His shoes scuffed the sidewalk. The sleeves of his crisply
pressed white shirt were rolled halfway to the elbow, and he wore black
suspenders that did not go very well with his beige trousers. By his outward
appearance, he would seem to most a librarian or a museum curator who’d lost
his way, perhaps an eccentric academic. That was one of the reasons he loved
Boston so much. The city was old enough to suit him.
    For he himself was, of course, far older than he appeared.
    Mr. Doyle rounded a corner and came in view of a small sign
that jutted from the front of a building. Ancient neon blinked off and on,
forming the letters Rx. The symbol for prescription drugs. It was a pharmacy,
of sorts, at least as far as the neighbors were concerned. Many of them had
their prescriptions filled at Fulcanelli the Chemist .
    It was old-fashioned, of course, for the pharmacist to call
himself a chemist. Still commonplace in England, it was unusual in the U.S. But
there were a great many things that were unusual in this little warren of old
Boston. Fulcanelli carried most things people could buy at another pharmacy,
and many things that could be purchased nowhere else in the northeastern United
States.
    A bell rang above the door as Doyle let himself in. He
turned the hanging sign around to read closed and locked the door behind him.
    There was no one at the counter when he entered, but in just
a moment Fulcanelli emerged from the back of the shop, summoned by the bell. The
man was bent with age, his pate bald on top, his white hair a thin curtain at
the back of his head.
    "Hello, old friend," Doyle said.
    Fulcanelli nodded, grunting in the manner of the very
ancient and very cranky. He waved a hand as if to say, let’s get on with it.
    "Come," said the chemist. "I’ve got what you
need."
    Shuffling his feet, the aged shopkeeper moved to a cabinet. Though
his fingers were yellowed and covered with age spots and his knuckles were
swollen, they moved with the dexterity of a prestidigitator as he reached into
a pocket and withdrew a key.
    "You’re nearly there, aren’t you?" Doyle asked,
concerned.
    Fulcanelli froze with the key nearly to the lock. He paused
and regarded his visitor with moist, yellowed eyes. "Don’t act as though
you are overwrought with sympathy, Arthur."
    Doyle stood a bit straighter, the hair on the back of his
neck standing up. He hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and blew out a puff of
air that ruffled his mustache.
    "I take umbrage at your tone, sir. I take no pleasure
in your pain."
    The chemist studied him, the old man’s face like that of a
hawk seeking prey. "If you’d shared with me your own secret, I wouldn’t
have to suffer that pain at all."
    The air grew thick with tension. They had had this
conversation before. Fulcanelli had found an alchemical solution to the problem
of his aging but it was complex. When his physical body aged and deteriorated
to the point where it could no longer function, his skin would slough off and
his bones would collapse and he would ignite in a burst of flame that would
render