O’Donoghue didn’t question or protest. He knew better than that.
Rufus broke the connection, feeling profound relief. He had stopped something that could have been a fuck-up. Now what? He paced up and down, lacerated by memory. The terrible shock, when he had seen her on stage at that fucking Inauguration Concert, for the first time. Oh God, she’s changed, she’s changed. Until then he hadn’t cared what happened. He hadn’t been phased when she fought him off, the night when he tried to initiate her. That was just girlish rebellion, very sexual, to be expected. He hadn’t given a shit about the boyfriends. She was still his creature, he knew he could reach out and take her, any time. But when he’d seen her, on the screen, and he had known she’s changed, she’s changed! God, the burning outrage. Those two bastards, they took her from me, they changed her. That doesn’t go unpunished! They’re going to be sorry they were born.
And he hadn’t let it go unpunished.
He thought of Aoxomoxoa’s little litany; well here’s mine. I want Fiorinda back. I will make her mine again, and she will bear the child, my son, that only she can bear. I want the Celtic future, and I will help to make it happen… He laughed, full and hearty. Right to the last moment, he would have saved her. But he’d been prepared to let Fiorinda die if he had to, for the sake of the larger vision: the more so because he’d felt she was dead already. It had not been his magical child, the broken-spirited thing, cowering in that prison. Now she was alive—and without Rufus having to intervene at all.
Thank you very much, Steve!
Now I’m going to wipe that grin off your face, you insolent bastard.
He went on pacing, from sheer excess of energy, the space that surrounded the great bed. There should be fresh rushes in here, arm’s-length deep. They say they can’t find a supplier who’ll change them daily, it’s maddening. She’s alive. I will take her back. I will make her mine again. The English Celtics had sent him messages, warning him to expect an assault, because Sage had returned from Caer Siddi. They’d advised him to double his security, or get himself out of the way. As if they thought he didn’t know. As if they could tell him what to do.
Like fuck.
The way I deal with this is mine. I take no pissant advice. This is MINE.
What shall I do with him? I can do what I like with him.
It was not a problem that Sage was within the gates. The tower was a mantrap. Oh no, having the enemy inside is no disadvantage; this place is custom-built for that situation. The chieftains who ruled here, five hundred years ago, never dreamed of a life without armed guards at the door. They weren’t fools. They knew you can’t have power without the accessories.
He grinned to think of how he’d wrecked that fantasy, in Brixton.
‘Thank you for saving her life for me, Steve,’ he shouted. ‘And congratulations. You trained her up to be a good fuck. She was a cold little fish when she was a child. It wasn’t the sex that held me, she made all the running there. I loved her for her mind.’
Silence. But he knew the bastard was out there, listening.
‘You can’t kill me. If you had the power, you haven’t got the balls. You can only kill when you’re following orders, and master isn’t here now. You’re Ax Preston’s dog. Everyone knows it. They laugh at you, all your old mates. Hey, how does it feel, bitch? How does it feel, taking it up the arse from a coloured boy, Aoxomoxoa?’
He wondered at himself. How young he felt. Like a teenager.
‘You never talked to Ax much, did you?’ came Sage’s voice. Rufus listened carefully, placing him. ‘When you were Fergal. I remember noticin’ that. You knew he’d see through you. You were never afraid of me. I’m stupid. I’m a pussycat.’
Out on the stairs Sage sat crosslegged, whistling under his breath, arraying his weaponry. He’d been carrying his Roman legionary’s shortsword concealed under his suit jacket. He laid it beside Fiorinda’s saltbox. Doesn’t look like much, but he had relied on Drumbeg being well-supplied, and he’d been right. And a handgun, the automatic from his desk in Battersea. Like George always says, it’s a sin to ignore the obvious. So what was the plan? The plan was to come here, bullshit Rufus into accepting single combat, and then…er…win.
He liked this plan. It was simple. It had no moving parts. It was Sage-proof.
The other option, where the evil magician repents, was an offer that must be made, and Rufus knew that the offer was real. However, let’s face it, not a serious contender at this stage. But it does seem to wind him up nicely!
He thought of wrestling with George, and how you should handle yourself with an experienced opponent who outbulks you by a margin, and who has a cunning mind behind the weight. Who can pin you down, if you let him. Be careful, be careful. A moment ago he’d been on the point of yelling, ‘What happened in England, Rufus? You couldn’t get past my babe, could you?’ God help me, I am such a fuck-up. Don’t get him thinking in that direction. He mustn’t start thinking about Fiorinda.
Be careful!
Shit, he had nothing belonging to Ax. Oh. Yes I do. I am Ax Preston’s bitch.
He laughed. You think I don’t want to belong to him? You think that’s an insult? ‘Hey, Rufus, you just sent your private army away. Why d’you do that? With a homicidal deranged intruder in the house? Wasn’t that kind of a strange move?’
Oh, fuck. Be careful!
Rufus opened the door of the bedchamber. Sage fired instantly, at point-blank range. The magician should have copped two bullets in the forehead, and another in the chest, not heavy calibre but big enough to leave no doubt. Nothing happened to him. The bullets fell, spent as if they’d travelled for miles, and chimed away down the winding stone stair.
‘I have a charm against firearms,’ he said, grinning like a barracuda. ‘Not a soul of them will harm me or anything of mine. Have you not heard the stories?’
‘Worth a try.’
‘Jaysus Fockin’ God, that was poor. I expected better.’
Sage was breath to breath with the ghost of Fergal Kearney: a waft of carrion, sea-green eyes looking out of torment. Rufus caught him in the moment of shock and pity with a mighty cuff around the head, and followed it through with a twist of the arm and a thrust of such violence Sage went sprawling, tumbling out of sight around the curve of the stair. Rufus laughed. Not such an old man, Steve!
‘I was pretty sure I couldn’t shoot you,’ called Sage. ‘Maybe you’re right an’ I shouldn’t have tried, without warning. Listen, we can talk. I know how it feels to be where you are. Are you sure you don’t need help?’
‘Are you pure in heart?’ shouted Rufus. ‘You’d fuckin’ better be, Sage me darling. If you are not, then get out of here. Go. Because I’m going to tear your soul from your body, and put you living into Hell for all eternity. You can’t withstand me. Believe it. Are you pure in heart?’
‘Nothen’ like. There’s places in my heart it’ll be a long time before I dare go near. But I’m on my way. I’m good enough to take you. You’re not so tough, old timer.’
‘My son would have been ten years old!’ howled the magician.
He rushed to the landing below, his eyes aflame, his hair coiling like Medusa snakes, his good looks contorted into a mask so furious that even the king of the lads recoiled. Sage tried to run down another flight. Rufus leapt on him and dragged him into the room where the chieftains had dispensed justice, which was a library now. Then they fought in earnest, Sage a few inches taller, Rufus broader and heavier: grappling and gouging, around the booklined justice chamber and the bigger room next door, a superstar’s toy recording studio, leaving a trail of wreckage, shattering anything movable, no holds barred, two things becoming clear: Sage was trying to move the fight downstairs, out to the beach, presumably, so he could carry out his promise. Though he fought like a madman, his intent was always to get back to the stair, get out of these rooms. But he could not succeed, because the other thing that became clear was that Rufus was stronger by far than the younger man.
And he grew stronger.
Whenever Sage could escape, he wasn’t fighting, he was running away. He’d put the Roman sword under his jacket before he took those potshots; he never had a chance to draw it. Rufus was happy with no weapon but his bare hands. Around and around they went, until at last Sage escaped, and almost made it down the next flight. But Rufus was playing with him. He came on in another great rush, laid hold of Sage by the shoulders, wrenched him off his feet and sent him crashing against the wall. Sage was up again at once, only to be met by a tremendous lock around his neck and under his right arm. He couldn’t do a thing, he was like a struggling child. The man’s strength was monstrous.
‘Now you start to understand,’ said Rufus in Sage’s ear, hot cheek pressed against the shorn fleece, ‘now—’ He closed his teeth in Sage’s scalp and gnawed, shook his head from side to side, spattering blood, and started to haul him back up the stairs, nothing in hell Sage could do, Rufus’s grip was so inhumanly powerful. If he had managed to brace himself immovably his head would have been torn off, his arm ripped from its socket. So they arrived back in that room with the armchairs and the big screen and the expensive art.
‘Listen, let me tell you,’ said Rufus, with unhurried relish, holding Sage pinned beside one of the windows. Sage stared back, through the blood that was streaming down his face. He had no breath left for taunting. ‘You’re gonna take a fall now. It’s enough to break your bones. You can stop them from breaking, but you’ll be draining your power, and you don’t know how to open yourself to replenishment. I know you don’t. I can feel it, and I know you. You don’t know how to take what you want.’ He shifted his hold to shoulder and thigh, unperturbed by his opponent’s resistance, heaved back and took a swing, as if with a battering ram, and Sage went flying, crashing through the glass, out into the night, and tonight and to the courtyard three floors below.
Fiorinda had reached Drumbeg while the fight on the stair was going on. She had found Carly Slater, in a little room above the entrance hall which had a hole in the middle of the floor, where the old inhabitants of this place used to chuck down missiles at invaders. She had not been very surprised to find her aunt. She was well-informed about Rufus’s present and past life, after her months with Fergal. She knew that Carly had been with him all along, had never been parted from him, not really, since the long ago—
When Fiorinda found her, Carly had been sitting on a little stool, a doll made out of yellow straw in her lap, which she was rapidly, urgently, picking apart while the sounds of battle raged overhead. Now Fiorinda had ripped the dolly to pieces. The tight curl of yellow hair she had found in its heart, she’d kissed and put inside her teeshirt, next to her skin. Carly had offered supposedly upsetting suggestions, while they were disputing possession, as to how she’d got hold of a piece of Aoxomoxoa; she had not succeeded in distracting Fiorinda. Now Carly was up against the wall, wrapped in stone the way Fiorinda had been wrapped in the resurrected branches of the storm-timber chair.
She stood listening, taking great breaths. The air seemed thickened, richer. She felt as if everything gave off sparks. What a rush this magic is. It’s a dreamworld. Everything’s contracted. Nothing’s in focus except what matters, but in that context, you can do what you like. Exactly what you fucking like—
Sage had not fallen. His exit from the window had not been much more of a challenge than recovering from a misjudged stuntdive. He’d ended up clinging to the stonework, finding purchase with his fingertips and the toes of his climbing boots, flexible as dancing slippers. My name is Aoxomoxoa, Rufus, you’ve seen the show: and now I have superpowers, but I’m not going to jump. For once in my life I am not going to ask for trouble… Keeping a three-point hold on the tower, he tugged the nosering apart with his free hand and sent a spider wire thickening and spinning downwards. Secured the top end, by thrusting the ring itself into the mortar between two courses of stone and twisting it so it expanded, a tiny explosive piton, locked in there. Who needs magic when you have Heads stagecraft? He wrapped his sleeve over his hand with the line wound round it: kicked off and bounced, abseiling down to the ground.
Another cheap round. He could feel none of the damage he’d taken; what damage? In fine shape, boiling with energy, he walked briskly to the front end of the tower again, the legionary’s sword naked in his hand. He looked up. Fiorinda was looking down at him, from the murder hole.
Her presence at once seemed very reasonable. Of course she’s here!
‘How’s it going, babes?’
‘Not too bad. I met Carly. I have her wrapped up for you.’ She dropped into his arms and he hugged her, laughing, the bare sword in his hand.
‘You are a bad brat, and I am never going to trust Serendip again. D’you know, I think that computer’s fallen out with me, she hasn’t said a word since I started fighting Rufus. I detect tetchy vibes. Hey, Fee, what happened to jeopardising your immortal soul?’
‘I d-decided my immortal soul can take a couple of knocks,’ gabbled Fiorinda, her whole mind and body on fire, ‘if I have one. It’s a good cause, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know.’ He set her on her feet. ‘I don’t know anymore. Oh, Fiorinda, this is dangerous stuff. I just this moment realised I am smashed out of my brain, and I didn’t even know it, which is not the way I’d meant to approach—’
‘I told you, I told you. Fucking dangerous, oh, my God—’
They grabbed each together, raining furious kisses, fused into one being, flooded with incredible arousal.‘Can we do this? Fee, can we do this, I mean Sage—’ ‘I know what you mean. I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t think I can stop.’ ‘God, this is amazing, I can’t tell you apart from me—’
‘We need Ax!’ wailed Fiorinda; and then immediately, horrified, ‘Oh no, no, no. I don’t want Ax here. I don’t want Ax to have anything to do with this!’
Her distress sobered them and the world came back: the ground floor of the castle tower, and air that was cold as old stone. At some point the lights had gone out. The weapons on the walls caught gleams from the summer night outside.
‘Nonsense,’ said Sage, earnestly. ‘Ax was worrying me, before he took off. May I say, both of you were getting me depressed, with your political differences, I fucking hated that. But he is okay. He’s not a monster. We’re the ones in danger!’
‘I know,’ said Fiorinda, with the same urgency. ‘I know he’s okay. But for a moment my head is clear, so it was worth being scared. Sage, I’m in this. I’m not leaving you to do this alone. Just tell me one thing. Who is winning?’
‘Me.’
He did not look as if he’d been getting the best of the fight.
‘You’re absolutely certain about that?’
‘Absolutely.’ Sage grinned like a tiger, stone cold sober, and took the saltbox from his jacket pocket. ‘You’d better have this.’
Suddenly, Rufus was at the open doorway. Fiorinda and Sage sprang apart. What’s going to happen now? How did he get down the tower? He didn’t come by the stairs. Maybe he’d leapt from the shattered window in the great hall. He was clearly on fire as they had been, oh, but much more so. He had shed his purple mantle during the wrestling bout. He was wearing it again, wound and tied around him so as not to impede his movement. His still-beautiful face was transfigured, exultant. He looked at Fiorinda, one glance, and then ignored her.
‘I have never had competition before!’ he shouted, and swept weapons from the walls, testing and discarding. He tossed a second sword to his opponent, choosing a heavier model and a barbed trident for himself. ‘You’re right! This is the way to settle it! This is the Celtic way! Come on, bastard, fucking take me on, would you? Let’s do it!’
Call that round one to Sage.
Sage leapt at Rufus. Battle was rejoined, a clashing and clanging of metal in the dark, sudden sweeps of whiteness across the empty courtyard as the security lighting woke, Sage running whenever he had the chance, as long as Rufus would come after him, deter
mined to lure the magician away from his home ground—
Fiorinda stood clutching her head between her hands, seared by her father’s glance, appalled by the traps that magic sets. Rufus wasn’t supposed to know she was here! She had meant to be Sage’s secret weapon! Oh God, I can’t challenge him if he knows I’m here. Such a coil of ancient fear and grief and twisted longing around him, how can I reduce that and come out winning? Sage was right, he’s my father, he has the power and I’m no use.
Carly dropped from the murder hole.
Oh boy. Shit. How did she do that? How could she—?
‘Have you got a phone?’ demanded Carly. ‘I’m going to call the police!’
She zoomed across the dark hall and started hammering a number combination into the lock on the inner door. Fiorinda chased after her. The door flew open, Carly hit a light switch and there was an empty room, with common-room type furniture, drab tables and chairs, tall padlocked cabinets around the walls. An armoury.
‘Where is everyone?’ said Fiorinda, staring.
‘Rufus sent them away,’ gasped Carly. ‘I think your fucking boyfriend made him do it. We’ve got to stop them, Fiorinda. They’re going to kill each other!’
‘Yes,’ said Fiorinda.
Carly had grabbed a landline phone and pulled it to the floor. She was on her knees, stabbing at the keypad, the stiff skirts of her green robe ballooning round her, sheeny purple hair falling over her face. Fiorinda walked over, took the phone and threw it onto the stone floor. ‘You’re not going to call anyone.’
The two women stared at each other.
This is Carly Slater, procuress to the famous, who took the child Fiorinda to Rufus O’Niall’s country house to be seduced. Unjustly blamed for this crime, in a sense, because she was only obeying Rufus… Looking at her, Fiorinda was eleven again. She was in the cold house where Rufus O’Niall had pursued his affair with the Slater sisters.
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