Owen had comforted her, as he always did: a hug, a kiss upon her wet cheek. It had been Lily who’d become aware of the first stirrings of desire. As Owen cupped her face with his long fingers, she’d looked up at his face, and realised he was beautiful. ‘I don’t want anyone else,’ she said. ‘It has to be me and you. For ever. We don’t have anyone else.’
Owen had stared back at her, his eyes steady. Lily thought about how her brother’s body had become estranged from her as they’d grown older. The shared baths had ended some years ago. They never slept together in the same bed now. Helen, in some subtle way, had drawn a line between them, but perhaps the carefully worded advice from the sick-bed indicated she had reeled this invisible barrier back into herself. Lily and Owen had been growing up during this time of intimate physical distance. He was nearly a man now, and she was certainly a woman. A calm, definite thought came to Lily as she lay there in her brother’s arms. Owen, she knew, was hers. Acquaintances at school whispered and giggled about sex and boyfriends, but it was, in the main part, a fantasy for them. She could have what those girls craved at any time. It seemed a natural progression. There were no boys as beautiful or as intelligent as Owen, no others who understood her as he did.
‘We must share everything,’ she said to him. ‘Do you understand?’
She ran her hand down his chest, his stomach, found by the waiting hardness in his groin that he did understand.
Their love-making had been a ritual, an act of worship to gods unnamed, which they repeated as often as they felt was necessary to strengthen their bond. It had been that way since then. Until now. Othman was different. He kindled a wilder passion. With Owen, it had seemed necessary, a function performed to maintain a certain closeness. With Othman she had found simple pleasure, and she wanted more of it.
The villagers had looked after Lily and Owen after Helen died. Lily supposed she and her brother must have legal guardians somewhere, because surely no-one under eighteen could have owned property or lived alone? Things had been taken care of. That meant people knew. It was time Lily was told exactly what that was. She remembered Eva Manden’s old mother saying something to her not long after Helen had died. ‘We’ll all look out for you kids now, don’t you worry. It’s what your mother wanted. You’re special, my girl.’
At the time, Lily had thought the old woman was just trying to be kind. Now, she wondered.
A little tipsy, Lily went down to the Post Office to find out. She was disappointed to find Eva’s mother wasn’t in her usual place on the stool by the bead curtain. ‘Hello, Lily love,’ said Eva as usual.
‘Hi,’ Lily answered. ‘Is your mother about?’
Eva had frowned a little. ‘No, dear. Why?’
‘I wanted to talk to her. About my mother.’
Eva had known this would have to happen some day. Poor kid. Didn’t she deserve to know? Eva was unsure. Personally, she thought that if Helen Winter had wanted the twins to find out who their father was, she’d have told them. ‘What do you want to know?’ Eva said.
‘Everything,’ Lily answered. ‘Why did she come back here?’
Eva knew that the only reason Helen had returned to Little Moor was to hide the twins in safety, among people who understood what they were. ‘Er... well, apart from the cottage being left to her, perhaps your Mum liked the quiet life, and Little Moor certainly has that, doesn’t it!’
‘There’s more to it than that!’ Lily said. ‘I know there is!’
Eva drew in her breath, looking uncomfortable. By now, she could tell that Lily had been drinking. She came out from behind the counter. ‘Well, perhaps your Mum had private reasons for coming back, Lily, but if so, I don’t know them.
‘Your mother does,’ Lily accused. ‘She was always talking to Mum.’
Eva nodded. ‘Yes, I know, but if your Mum told her anything, she’s kept it close.’ Eva didn’t like lying to Lily. She knew that promises had been made to Helen Winter during her last illness. After the funeral, Emilia had dealt with the solicitors in Patterham on Helen’s behalf, securing the twins’ financial future. Emilia must have known by then, of course, what was happening to her body. Still, as energy waned, she had directed what was left of it towards the children, even if it had been from a distance. Emilia had never wanted a close relationship with them, but then she wasn’t even that close to her own daughter. She had created a cloak of concealment around the twins, guarding them from suspicious eyes. Still, Eva did not want to divulge any of this to Lily. Although she couldn’t admit it consciously, deep down Eva was afraid that her mother would know if she told the truth, and she was sensibly wary of upsetting Emilia. ‘You look a bit peaky dear. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll fetch you a cold drink.’
Lily flopped onto Emilia’s stool by the bead curtain, her limbs splayed awkwardly. ‘Yes, yes. I will.’ She looked dazed.
No wonder! Eva thought as she went down to the cellar. She felt sorry for Lily, not least because she had picked up on the gossip muttered in the post office concerning Owen’s friendship with the Cranton boy. That was seen as dangerous. The Crantons were outsiders. Bobby, Ray and Luke were natives, through and through. They were Owen’s guardians, but even they had been unable to prevent the Cranton boy from being drawn into Owen’s circle. And the weekend excursions to night-clubs were commented upon, another unwise activity. Owen should be content to stay here in the village. He had friends here, who looked out for him. The Lord knows what could happen out there in the world. One day, Owen’s difference might be noticed. One day, his heritage would have to manifest itself. That was one reason why it was so important for Owen and Lily to live as husband and wife. Neither of them should have lovers from outside, for in the moments of intimacy was the danger of revelation. Even Eva knew that, and she, for the most part, tried to ignore that aspect of Little Moor’s history.
Eva returned to the shop with a glass of homemade ginger beer, which Lily drank without pausing.
‘Now what’s really worrying you?’ Eva asked gently, thinking of Owen.
Lily sighed and wiped her mouth with the back of a hand. ‘It might sound stupid, but I keep thinking there’s a secret — about Owen and me, about our mother. I think people in Little Moor know what it is.’
Eva put a hand on Lily’s shoulder. She’d managed to compose some convincing answers while pouring out the ginger beer. ‘There’s no secret, dear. Your mother was well thought of around here, and we all look out for you now. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Where does the money come from? Mum never worked for a living. Was she rich?’
Eva paused. ‘I don’t know, dear. I suppose so.’
‘Do you know who my father is? Was it his money? He must have abandoned her, of course, but my aunt must have known who he was.’
Eva’s instinct was to flinch away from the demand for truth in Lily’s hot eyes. ‘I think your father is dead,’ she said carefully. ‘I’m sure he didn’t abandon your mother, or you and Owen. I expect he did leave her some money, don’t you?’
‘But why did she never speak about him?’
‘Some things are best carried to the grave, Lily. If she’d wanted you to know about him, she would have told you.’
‘But it’s our right to know!’ Lily exclaimed. ‘It’s not fair. It feels like a conspiracy now!’ She eyed Eva fiercely. ‘What about our aunt? I know nothing about her, either. It’s like she never existed.’
Eva couldn’t bear to look Lily in the eye and keep on lying, but neither did she want to invite a barrage of awkward questions if she admitted the truth about the fictional aunt. She felt torn. How much simpler it would be to tell the poor girl everything, yet how difficult too. ‘Lily, I don’t know anything about your family...’
Lily nodded. ‘It was your mother who was always around when Mum was ill. Mum had dozens of friends in the village. They must have known about her. I really want to speak to your mother, Miss Manden.’
Let it go out of my hands, then, Eva tho
ught. Emilia and her cronies were the ring-leaders behind the secrecy. It was nothing to do with Eva, who’d never been involved with the Murkasters. Emilia had kept her away from all that, which Eva had correctly interpreted as jealousy. Emilia had not wanted to share her intimacy with the Murkasters with her young, attractive daughter. ‘I’ll tell her,’ Eva said.
Lily sighed. ‘Thanks. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m feeling a bit bothered myself at the moment.’
So am I, thought Eva. She knew something was afoot in the village, but Emilia kept her in the dark. Perhaps Lily coming here asking questions was just a single component of what was buzzing beneath the surface of life at present.
As Lily left the Post Office, she missed Peverel Othman escorting Emilia Manden back from the day centre. If she’d seen them, she might not have recognised Emilia who was looking so spry and vivacious.
Emilia knew that her daughter Eva was choosing to overlook the obvious changes in her mother, and was experiencing a kind of selective blindness, which suited Emilia fine. Eva was rebellious. She never had understood the special relationship Emilia had enjoyed with the Grigori. Been jealous, no doubt.
Emilia felt Othman was taunting the old ones in the village by turning up at the day centre as and when it suited him. A few of the more alert ones had realised Othman must have given Emilia some essence; she could feel their jealousy. All he was prepared to give the rest of them, it seemed, was his presence. Perhaps that in itself was a promise. Emilia wanted more than simple promises.
‘You’ll come in?’ Emilia said as she and Othman approached the back door to the building. The garden was in shade, and it was cold on the porch. There was a strong scent of ripe apples in the air.
‘I don’t think...’
‘Maybe I phrased that wrong,’ Emilia said in a firm voice. ‘you are coming in. I’m ready for more.’
‘Well, maybe I’m not.’
‘Is that so? Be careful, Othman, I can have a pack of famished hounds down on your back while you lie asleep at night. I can tell your little Winter friends a few things about you.’
‘How brave you are, to threaten me,’ Othman said.
‘No. If you harmed me, everyone would know, because they saw you walking home with me. Harm me, and you’d have to leave here immediately, and you don’t want that, do you?’
With a resigned sigh, Othman followed Emilia into the dark house. Emilia was a hunched shadow in the kitchen. ‘You find me repulsive, don’t you,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t inflict this rotting flesh on you. Give me some light, and you can go. Come on, give me your wrist.’
Othman directed a penetrating stare at her. His eyes seemed to burn. ‘Think you know it all, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Come here.’
Emilia paused a moment, then complied. He’d let her have it one way or another, she didn’t care which.
With cold, insensitive hands, Othman roughly pushed the old woman over the table, belly first. An irrepressible thrill ignited Emilia’s flesh. He wouldn’t, surely? A twenty year old memory twitched in her belly as Othman fastidiously removed her voluminous underwear. ‘Sweet Emilia,’ he said, and she braced herself for the delicious thrust.
Perversely, and obviously so as not to let her have it all her own way, he sodomised her to transfer the energy. Emilia was numb to any pain this caused. All she could feel was the raw spilling of his power, rapidly travelling through her veins and arteries, her bones. She could almost feel her hair and nails thrusting out with new growth as he pushed inside her. She could feel her flesh filling out. It took him some time to finish. Whether this was deliberate or not, Emilia couldn’t tell. She did not stand up immediately once he withdrew, allowing him some time to rearrange his appearance. She’d nearly been burned before, looking at them too early. Othman was a tool to her; she felt completely passionless about it.
‘Happy now?’ he asked.
She stood up, rearranged her dress. Her vague reflection in the window seemed taller than she remembered. ‘Very,’ she answered.
‘Then I hope you’ll be satisfied, for a while. I can’t keep doing this, you must realise that. What I’ve just given you should be enough for now.’
At that point, she turned, and was delighted by the subtle shift in Othman’s expression. That, more than his words, told her he spoke the truth. He was surprised by his own magic. ‘That’s fine by me.’ She smiled. ‘But when you’re tired of that sweet, innocent girl, and fancy something with a bit of bite, you know where to find me. And you know you’ll need that eventually.’
Othman smiled thinly, but did not answer. He went out of the door without another word.
Emilia leaned against the table, her heart still pounding. She felt something trickle down her leg, and did not look for a moment, believing it must be his seed. When she did look, she saw blood. Her womanhood had come back to her, so quickly. Furtively, Emilia went upstairs.
Barbara was full of her news when she managed to way-lay Othman on the stairs of The White House. He could barely understand her babble, he felt so exhausted. Emilia Manden was like a sponge. It had been his own hurt pride which had prompted the method by which he’d given her energy, but in retrospect, it had been a stupid choice. He’d given too much of himself.
‘Are you all right?’ Barbara asked. ‘You look ill.’
‘Bit of a hangover, I think,’ he answered. ‘Not used to drinking that much.’
‘Oh dear! Perhaps you’d better have a lie down before dinner.’
‘Yes,’ Othman replied weakly.
He went directly to his room and lay sprawled on the bed, his head throbbing with pain in time to his heart beat. All he’d acquired from covertly supping from Owen and Daniel’s lovemaking had been taken away again. Some of it he’d given to Lily, with the intention of gently awakening her latent qualities. The rest had been sucked out of him by Emilia. It was a pity Owen was so suspicious of him, otherwise he could simply have asked the boy outright to help him replenish his strength. Soon, he would have to cultivate Owen’s trust, but tonight, he felt too tired. Sleep was in order, nothing else.
As he drifted between sleep and wakefulness, he thought about the dream Lily had related to him. He did not want to think about it, but forced himself to confront the issue. It was a mystery to him why she should dream of Shemyaza so vividly, but he did not like it. Perhaps racial memories were beginning to surface in her mind since one of her own kind had come into her life, but if so, she must not realise it yet. As she’d spoken, with such innocent enthusiasm, about all that she’d seen, Othman had wanted to take her hands and explain her dream to her. He knew that in her mind she had visited the Garden in Eden. Ninlil, remembered as a goddess, had been one of its main administrators. It was clear that Lily’s dream had eavesdropped on a crucial time in Anannage history. Why? Why had her sleeping psyche been drawn to that particular scene? Did it reflect exactly what had happened? Had that conversation between Ninlil and Shemyaza really taken place all that time ago? Shemyaza had broken the laws of his people, and had been punished for it. Othman was not blind to the parallels that could be drawn with his own life. Before he died, Shemyaza had influenced many others, ultimately causing the rebellion among the Anannage, which had divided and scattered its people. Unlike Othman, however, Shemyaza had been influenced by love — or so it was remembered. The human maiden Ishtahar, conniving priestess or bewitched devotee, had seduced Shemyaza’s knowledge from him, and in return he had passed Anannage secrets to her. She, and others like her, had subsequently borne the children of their rebel Anannage lovers. Over the centuries, those children had become a hidden race amongst humanity. Grigori.
‘And I am one of them,’ Othman said aloud to the empty room, imagining Lily’s face before him.
One day, he might tell Lily everything, but not yet. Once he was sure about what power remained in Little Moor, and what he could do with it, he would think about enlightening the Winter twins concerning their origins. He wasn’t sure how they’d t
ake it. Disbelief at first, of course, but Lily, with her romantic tendencies would eventually accept it. Owen? Difficult to predict his reaction. Perhaps, if Lily continued to dream of the Garden and her ancestors, it might help with convincing Owen. Othman wondered again whether there was a message for himself in Lily’s dream. All his life, the legend of Shemyaza and Ishtahar had been a story he’d shrunk from reading or discussing, even during his education as a child. Something about the myth made him feel uneasy, the idea of the Hanged Man was sickening to him. Shemyaza had been punished for loving a human woman and for divulging secrets to her. Othman thought, uncomfortably, of Emilia. Perhaps caution was called for in dealing with her. Othman never dismissed omens or portents out of hand.
Now, as he lay drifting between sleep and wakefulness, he felt a familiar contraction start up in his belly. The compulsion to act was building up inside him again, to find the gate, to open it. Fragmented images of invocation and summoning, the offering of human flesh, raced before his mind’s eye like wisps of smoke or cloud. In this hypnagogic state, his mind began to string information together and encountered the thought that the gate he yearned to breach might be the stargate Orion, the famous gate of Grigori myth, where the dreaded Shemyaza hung, his soul-face burned beyond recognition, his etheric body twisted and deformed. But as soon as the thought was encountered, Othman’s conscious mind blocked it, as if turning him away from the scene of a hideous accident, where bodies lay dismembered and howls of lamentation filled the air.
Barbara worried when Othman missed dinner, and brought a tray up to his room. Othman sought to allay her fears; the mention of calling a doctor unnerved him. ‘I’ll be fine tomorrow,’ he told her.
The night was calm, its atmosphere unrippled by any thought or desire. Owen and Lily slept in their separate beds, having their separate dreams.
Verity Cranton slumbered, with Raven curled innocently over her feet.
Daniel lit a candle before he went to bed and stared at its shivering flame. He’d felt tired all day, which had helped to back up his story of feeling ill and missing school. Earlier, he had yearned for Owen to be there beside him, regretting the reticence of their embraces, wishing he’d had the confidence to ask for more, to take more. Now, he felt at peace, sensually drowsy and comfortable in his bed and in his skin.
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