Tears of the Furies Read Online Free PDF

his body nothing but ash. Then, from the ashes, a young man of perhaps
sixteen would crawl, skin gleaming and new.
    Fulcanelli had made himself a human phoenix. It was eternal
life, of a sort, but the price was the agony of the process.
    Mr. Doyle did not age. Fulcanelli envied that.
    "We have been over this," Doyle said, narrowing
his gaze. "Those secrets are not mine to share."
    "So you say," the man said, sniffing in derision. But
he scratched once at the side of his nose and then let the debate retire,
bringing the key once more to the lock. "You have the money?"
Stinging
from the man’s bitterness, Doyle made no reply. Rather, he strode to the
counter and thrust out one fist, palm downward. When he opened his fingers, a
dozen gold coins spilled from his grasp. They had not been there a moment
before, but now they clattered down onto the countertop, several rolling or
bouncing off onto the floor.
    Fulcanelli smiled greedily. "That’ll do."
    He opened the cabinet. It was filled with jars that
contained strangely colored liquids, things floating in the cloudy contents of
each jar. From an upper shelf, Fulcanelli drew down a jar filled with a viscous
amber-colored fluid.
    "Here we are," the ancient chemist said.
    Mr. Doyle drew a deep breath and let it out. At last ,
he thought. The ache in his skull had been a terrible distraction to him. And
the worst was when, late at night, the vacant socket would begin to itch.
    "The patch," Fulcanelli instructed.
    Doyle removed it gratefully, sliding the patch into his
pocket.
    The chemist whistled in appreciation. "That’s a hell of
a job," he said, staring at the ruined eye socket. "Someone did nasty
work, taking that out."
    "Me, the first time."
    "The first time?" Fulcanelli replied. "You
didn’t mention anything about a second time."
    "It’s a long story. I replaced it with . . . another. A
more useful eye. Like I said, a long story. But that one was taken away."
    Fulcanelli sighed, shaking his head. "I don’t know why
you do it, Arthur. You could have such an easy, quiet life, and you make it so
difficult for yourself. Set up a little shop, like mine. Salves and potions. Yours
could have books and weapons as well. Much less dangerous. Less worry. Nobody
tearing your eyes from your skull. Or even borrowed eyes from your skull."
    Doyle smiled. The old man’s bitterness had receded, as it
always did. They had known one another too long.
    "I could do that," he agreed. "But then who
would do the worrying?"
The ancient chemist clucked his tongue and
unscrewed the top of the jar. He thrust two withered fingers into the amber
liquid and withdrew, dripping, a tender, gleaming eyeball. The optic nerve hung
from it like a tail, twitching and swaying, searching for something to latch
onto.
    Fulcanelli’s hand was shaking as he raised it toward Mr.
Doyle’s face.
    "Hold still," the old man said.
    Doyle did not point out that he was not the one who needed
to be still.
    After wavering for several seconds, the chemist’s hand
steadied and he slid the eyeball into Doyle’s empty socket. The optic nerve
shot into the open space, and into the raw flesh beyond, like a striking cobra.
A jolt of pain spiked through Doyle’s skull and he recoiled, cursing. He
gritted his teeth together, groaning, and clapped his hands over his eyes. It
felt like his whole head was going to split open, like that nerve was worming
its way through his brain, tearing it to tatters.
    Slowly, the pain subsided. He pulled his hands away and
blinked.
    Both eyes.
    Relieved, and with only the memory of that terrible itch, he
glanced at Fulcanelli. "You do good work, old man. You’re an artist."
    The chemist beamed. "It is my calling."
    Something thumped to the floor in the back of the shop.
    Alarmed, Fulcanelli spun, his fingers curved into terrible
claws, and he reminded Doyle even more of a hawk. The door to the back of the
shop was still partially open, but there were no lights on back there. The