The Dark Beloved

by Helen Falconer

  ‘I won’t try anything!’

  ‘Very amusing. No, I’ve decided to lock the fairy road against you until my sweet demon has finally tired of him, and drained his heart and crushed the dried husk of it into a thousand pieces. Literally. Now, now, Aoibheal . . .’ He raised his hands sharply. ‘Don’t even think of attacking me – you know I’ll break you like a twig.’

  She pulled back. Stay calm. Nails sunk into her palms. Be in control. She said slowly, measuring her words, ‘How could I rescue him, even if I wanted to? You said yourself, it’s too late. He loves her now, and he won’t want to come away with me – and if she breaks his heart, it’s none of my business. Maybe I’d like to watch.’

  He looked highly amused. ‘Vengeful, Aoibheal? Hell has no fury like a woman scorned?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  He seemed to reconsider. ‘I approve this spite. Maybe if you ask me nicely.’

  ‘Please bring me.’

  ‘Oh, I misspoke – I meant to say “beg”, not “ask”.’

  ‘Please, please bring me!’

  ‘On your knees, Aoibheal . . . Ah, good girl, that’s right.’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘Please, my Lord.’

  ‘Please, my Lord.’

  He laughed. ‘No.’

  And he was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  She ran headlong down the hill across the thistles and the rocks, running as the crow flies, over the hedges and ditches, nearly crippling herself on an unexpected barbed-wire fence, splashing through wet mud in her bare feet, ripping herself on brambles.

  Dorocha had locked her out. One hope remained – maybe the dance in this world had not ended. If the music was still playing on, if Shay and his demon lover were still in each other’s arms, and she could warn him . . . (And if he wouldn’t listen? She would make him listen.)

  A last ditch and she had reached the road. As she sprinted at changeling speed towards Kilduff, a Gardaí car rushed past her in the other direction, siren blazing, and turned into the Munnellys’ driveway. She fled on, past her own boreen, past the garage, past the empty estate. No cars passing, or parked ahead of her in the square. No distant sound of music . . .

  Yet the lane to the parish hall was not deserted. On the corner, under the streetlight, a solitary girl in a black dress stood shivering, swaying on her high heels and holding a second pair dangling in one hand. ‘You’re safe!’ Carla rushed to her, clinging to her, the high heels in her hand hitting Aoife on the back. ‘Oh, thank God! Thank God!’

  Aoife gasped, ‘Is everyone gone? Is Shay gone?’

  ‘A Gardaí car went by and everyone heard there’d been a crash outside Lois Munnelly’s and I was so scared you’d been hurt.’ She pulled back hastily, digging into her bag for her ringing phone.

  ‘Carla, is everyone gone?’

  ‘The last ones just left, and Father Leahy’s gone home so I guess it’s all locked up. Damn, I left my coat in the hall! At least I’ve got your shoes. Wait!’ Gripping Aoife’s wrist with one hand and holding the phone to her ear with the other, Carla said with impressive calm, ‘Hi, Mam. Yes, just on my way back to Aoife’s now . . . Give my love to Nan! See you and Zoe tomorrow.’

  Aoife’s phone was ringing in her cardigan pocket. Maeve. She rejected the call, then texted quickly:

  I’m ok

  ‘Carla, I have to go to the hall.’

  Carla wouldn’t let go of her wrist. ‘I told you, it’s all locked up, everyone’s gone.’

  ‘But did you see Shay leave? Have you been standing here the whole time? Did he pass you?’

  ‘No, but even if he’s still— Come back!’

  He had to be there, he had to be.

  Chasing after her, Carla cried, ‘Aoife, I’ve something to tell you. That girl from the café—’

  ‘That’s why I have to find him!’

  ‘No, no! If it’s true, you can’t go running around after him, it’s crazy, you’ll only make yourself twice as miserable! Oh, for— Wait for me!’

  At the top of the steps, the small postern door of the parish hall swung open under her hand – not because of her magic, but because it was already unlocked. Someone was still here. But she paused, her foot on the threshold, heart thumping, summoning her strength, fighting the urge to go rushing in headlong, not knowing what manner of demon this was – or if it might use Shay as a human shield.

  Go carefully, quietly.

  Carla came panting up behind her. ‘Oh, they forgot to lock it – at least now I can get my coat.’

  ‘Ssh.’ Aoife held her back, one hand on her arm. The double doors into the hall ahead of them were moving very slightly, as if creaking in a breeze.

  ‘Really, I don’t think anyone’s here. Father Leahy just forgot to lock up, that’s all – there’s no lights on.’

  ‘Ssh! Please. Stay here and keep quiet. Shay’s in terrible danger from that girl.’

  ‘You mean, from that waitress?’

  ‘She’s a demon – she’s going to destroy him.’

  Carla squeaked, ‘What?’ And then, remembering immediately that her best friend was delusional, added sympathetically, ‘Oh, Aoife . . .’

  ‘Stay here.’ Aoife stepped softly into the lobby. The small glass panels set in the hall doors glimmered then darkened, glimmered and darkened – catching the moonlight that flowed through the open door behind her.

  Carla persisted in following, although she had lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Really, there’s no one here. Oh!’

  Inside the hall, the lights had sprung on – although not the very bright overheads suspended from the high ceiling, but the low-level emergency ones set around the walls. ‘Stay back and don’t move.’ Aoife hurried softly to the doors and peered in through one of the glass panels.

  The dimly lit hall was empty.

  A split second later, the person who had turned on the lights passed across her field of vision, heading away from the switches by the door down to the back of the hall. It was a small, plump, balding man with a bright red comb-over, wearing a very old-fashioned suit – the same man whom she had last seen carrying a huge amount of ice cream, Cokes and crisps out of the shop, across the square into the churchyard. Reaching the food and drinks table, he shook out a large black plastic sack and began scooping into it the leftovers from the party.

  A strange, distant bell rang in Aoife’s mind. (Old John McCarthy in the shop: That better not be fairy gold, young man. I remember you from the last time, so I do. And Ultan in the otherworld, telling her: Some of the older changelings like to get their hands on human food . . . Everyone knows one or two of them are sneaking it in from above.)

  Getting her breath back, Carla whispered, ‘It’s only one of the parents come back in to clean up. I guess they couldn’t find the main light switch. I’m going in to get my coat.’

  Aoife stopped her from pushing open the door. ‘Wait. I want to see—’

  ‘He’s cleaning up!’

  The man wasn’t cleaning up. He was leaving the dried-up sandwiches and crumbled half-eaten buns on the table, and helping himself to the untouched food and drink – cans first, then crisps and chocolate. As Aoife watched – and as Carla made impatient noises at her side – he folded the tin-foil platter around the untouched layer of the green Halloween cake and placed it in his sack with care; then stashed away a tray of egg mayonnaise sandwiches still sealed in clingfilm, then a similar tray of ham sandwiches. Reaching a packet of Kimberleys, he appeared to hesitate, then ripped it open and stuffed several into his mouth, as if starving. Then stood there, chewing his way through them, his head on one side as if contemplating life.

  Carla lost patience and shoved at the door. ‘Come on, I need my coat . . .’

  The man spun round to face them.

  Aoife seized Carla and hustled her back into a corner of the lobby, between a set of lockers and a mop bucket, hissing, ‘Don’t let him see us!’

  ‘What are you doing? He’s just a—’


  Aoife slammed her hand over Carla’s mouth. ‘Keep quiet and stay completely still!’

  Moments later, the man came barging out through the swing doors, his black plastic rubbish sack slung over his shoulder. His round, pink face was made rounder by having cheeks full of biscuits. He passed close by them in the dark lobby, thrust his munching head out into the night to check the coast was clear, then left. The sack was so full, he had difficulty getting it out through the narrow postern doorway – for a moment it caught behind him on the frame.

  Carla was already pushing Aoife off her. ‘You luna— See, nothing to worry about! Just wait here a sec and I’ll be back . . .’ and she ran into the hall for her coat.

  Aoife fled the other way, out into the lane. The little man had to be one of those older changelings from the otherworld. And if he was smuggling human goods, then he had to know a secret way down to the Land of the Young; a road unknown even to Dorocha – and therefore, still unlocked.

  The changeling was gone from view already . . . But the small side-gate to the graveyard was swinging. Aoife darted across the lane and through the gate, and paused, listening for the sound of hurrying feet. Nothing but the rustle of the wind in the yew trees, and the squeak of rust as the lychgate closed again behind her. The streetlight on the corner over the wall suddenly went out, dying in a few seconds to a dull red. But then the moon swung from behind the clouds, lighting the grey, leaning stones.

  Avoiding the crunching gravel of the path, Aoife hurried on her bare feet up the grassy slope. Here were the traveller tombs. Angels stood guard with widespread wings; groups of pale children were clustered around their feet – cherubim, holding stone books engraved with the names of the dead. And there was the man, a long way off, dodging along between the graves, his black sack over his shoulder. She ducked behind an angel. Don’t let him see you. There were rumours in the otherworld – these smugglers kept their ways secret by cutting the throat of anyone, changeling or human, who dared to follow them. A swooping darkness passed over, like the shadow of a vast black bird – the moon disappearing behind the clouds. She left the safety of the angel and ran as quietly as she could after the man. It was hard not to fall, dodging in and out between the grave surrounds. Presently, she did fall – her foot going down a hole. Wincing, she remained very still on her hands and knees, listening intently.

  Then the moon burst out again and she found herself staring at Shay’s parents’ grave:

  HERE LIES MOIRA FOLEY,

  BELOVED WIFE OF EAMONN FOLEY,

  BELOVED MOTHER OF JOHN JOE AND SEAMUS FOLEY.

  Though it wasn’t Shay’s mother – it was a log of wood, a fairy trick. Shay’s lenanshee mother was in the fairy world.

  HERE LIES EAMONN FOLEY,

  BELOVED FATHER OF JOHN JOE AND SEAMUS FOLEY.

  Eamonn Foley was buried here, for sure. His life drained from him by his lenanshee wife. Dying an old, old man at the age of thirty-five.

  Aoife cocked her head, alerted. Behind her, in the direction of the church, a slow, steady creaking, as of a door opening. She leaped to her feet, racing towards the porch. It was open, but once more the inner door was locked. She placed her hand on the lock, expecting it to click like the last time – but it resisted her, her energy sparking painfully back at her, hurting her all the way up to her elbow like an electric shock. Iron. Father Leahy must have changed the lock from brass to iron, knowing it would keep un-Christian creatures out . . .

  But that was good. It showed the changeling man could not have passed this way.

  She ran back out of the porch and stood listening again . . .

  Again, a door creaking.

  Hard by the church porch stood the Doherty tomb, where Killian’s paternal grandparents lay at rest. She ran round to the front. The wooden door of the sepulchre was closing . . . She darted forward, leaping over the railing to grasp the edge of the door. It fought against her, crushing her fingers against the frame. She exerted all her changeling strength, setting her power against the magic spell. Gradually the door yielded to her – and finally surrendered and became an ordinary lump of wood on hinges. She wrenched it open. Blackness. She dug out her phone. The battery was dying, and the torch scattered only the faintest of beams, barely penetrating the empty room. She stepped in, casting the fading torchlight around her.

  Instead of a stone sarcophagus, a set of steps disappeared from the centre of the floor, down into darkness.

  Icy air rushed up towards her from the depths.

  Down.

  The hairs on her neck rising, she stood staring into the depths. The faint beam of her phone illuminated the first ten stone steps. After that the descent was shrouded in impenetrable black. Behind her, the door swung creakily closed.

  Down.

  Below, was the changeling man lying in wait – to cut her throat?

  Down.

  Below, in the bowels of the earth, was the demon girl who had taken Shay.

  Down.

  The light trembled in her hand, fading, fading . . . Only five steps visible now. The otherworld under Connacht was a wide country. These steps would probably not even lead to Falias – the tunnel through the sea-cave had brought her to a completely different city. How long would it take her to find her way across the wilderness to the city of Falias, without a map, unaided? Days? Weeks? And then, even if it was possible, how long would it take her to find Shay, and rescue him, and bring him home? A month? Longer?

  A mere six months was fifty years in the human world. A lifetime. Carla would be seventy-four. She would never see her parents again – only return to find their graves.

  She brought her dying phone close to her face, and with grieving fingers texted Maeve:

  got to go, don’t worry xxx BRB

  She hit send.

  Down.

  END OF BOOK ONE

  BOOK TWO

  CHAPTER ONE

  Down, down . . .

  The steps quickly became very steep, with a long drop from one to the next, so narrow that there was barely room to set her heel, let alone her whole foot. Worse, they were getting dangerously slippery – covered in a slimy coating of thick moss.

  Aoife negotiated them very slowly, pressing her hands hard against the earthen walls to stop herself falling. The light from her phone was still just working, showing her the way. Beetles and woodlice pattered, dislodged by her fingers.

  Down.

  Fingers stroked her arm. A shrivelled arm, thin and black in the moonlight.

  ‘No! Get away!’ Almost weeping with terror, she beat the hand back; it snapped and fell. Not an arm – a tree root.

  Shuddering, heart pounding, sweat prickling, she stood still clinging to the earthen wall, steadying herself. Willing her heart to calm. If she was afraid of roots, how was she going to save Shay from an actual demon? She had to leave fear behind her, in the human world. Beneath her feet, the steps continued on down, each now no more than five centimetres deep. If she kept trying to descend on foot, she would fall. Very carefully, she sat down. Then, using her hands, lowered herself cautiously from step to step like a toddler negotiating a flight of stairs.

  Down.

  Each step seemed to tilt forwards slightly, and they were still covered with the wet slippery moss that made it impossible to get a proper grip. The light from her phone faded; then, finally, it was gone. With no light at all, even her sharp fairy night vision could not help her. She lowered herself blindly from step to step, feeling her way, her hands and feet slipping and sliding dangerously on the moss, her short black dress rucking up around her hips.

  Down, down.

  How far, how deep? This was going on for ever.

  She had to go faster . . . Shay needed her . . .

  Maybe she should just throw herself down. No, that was stupid – if she broke her leg, she would lie here in this dark for ever . . .

  She started counting the steps to keep her frantic mind occupied.

  Fifty . . . sixty . . .
>
  One hundred.

  One hundred and ten . . .

  Shay, I’m coming!

  Please God, if you love me, keep Shay safe until I can rescue him. Merciful God, protect him. Our Father who art in heaven . . .

  But the priest had locked the church against her with an iron key.

  (Maybe he’s the phoney one . . .)

  Please God, even if you don’t love me, keep Shay safe. Keep everyone I love safe. Let my parents understand that I had to go, and I will try my best to get home before they grow old . . . Let Eva be safe. Let Carla not be too unhappy . . .

  She was suddenly overwhelmed by guilt – Carla would be so terrified, left alone in the middle of the night, not knowing where Aoife had gone. The streetlight was off, and Carla was so scared of the dark, and she would have to make her own way home across the empty square and up the hill, past whispering hedges and heavily breathing cows. Oh, Carla . . . Forgive me . . . Just remember I’m mad, I know not what I do . . .

  And she must be mad. And she didn’t know what she was doing. To find Shay, she must go to Dorocha . . . Dorocha, who longed to crush Aoife into his emptiness – thrusting her fist into the hole behind his ribs; dragging her . . .

  Down.

  She had to save Shay.

  Down.

  Far below, a movement in the darkness. A scraping and a pattering. She paused, leaning forward to listen, gripping the edge of the step. How far ahead of her was the changeling man? Would he really cut her throat if he caught her following him? Too dreadful to die for some stupid reason in some black hole, so far from doing what she had come to do . . .

  Nothing below her but silence. She got ready to move on.

  But then, the same sounds – nearer now – a loud scuffling, and getting louder. Coming up towards her very fast. She held her breath, hairs standing up on the back of her neck. Nearer, nearer . . . Tiny scratchy claws rushed up her right leg, a sleek furry body pushed past under her arm, whipping her with its tail. Throwing herself to one side, Aoife lost her grip and slid bumpily down the steps, crying out, her dress rucking higher up under her armpits, her naked backbone scraping agonizingly over the sharp stone of the nearly vertical staircase, sliding faster and faster . . .