The Dark Beloved

by Helen Falconer

  Again Aoife kissed him, and pressed her palm upon the sharp end of the straw that rose from between his ribs.

  Somewhere in the bowels of this house of death was the demon who had done this evil.

  The passageway twisted and turned on its way downwards, and other corridors with other rooms led off to right and left, and Aoife followed each to the end before retracing her steps. So many bedrooms, all with cold clay floors and cold stone beds. So many cold boys – so many cold, dead boys. Auburn hair, with copper lashes laid on pure white skin. The dark skin of the western coast, with hair so black it shimmered blue. Sometimes a blond head, a strong Viking look. And the clothes they were wearing spanned not just decades but centuries; millennia. The thick plaid cloaks of clansmen; the silken cravats and lace cuffs of young gentlemen from a romantic age; the darned trousers and bare feet of peasant boys; suits for Sunday best, with a flower – now dead – in the lapel. Hair carefully cut and brushed. Boys heading for feasts and parties in search of sweethearts.

  And they had found her time and time again – the beauty with hair like fields of barley, and eyes like sunshine on a rainy day. A serial killer who for two thousand years had conducted this orgy of revenge – murdering (over and over again, in her mind) that single cowardly boy who had abandoned her so long ago, when her father sold her for a handful of silver coins.

  Each time Aoife saw a dark head, she was terrified to gaze upon the face – but over and over again, the victim was not Shay. So she would linger to kiss a mouth or cheek, and let a little silver blood drip into an unknown heart, and then move on down the twisting passageways that stabbed this way and that into the heart of the house. Lifting the curtain of room after room. So many dead boys that even though she only gifted one drop of blood to each, she grew light-headed. Sometimes in the side corridors there were steps, and spiders hung invisible veils across her way, smothering her, and rats ran over her naked feet. But she didn’t care – it seemed a very long time since she had been frightened by something as innocent as a rat.

  The air grew colder and more bitter; she pulled the cardigan tighter around her. Pointless. The chill was deep within her bones.

  The central, widest passageway sloped ever steeper, plunging like a crooked spear into the bowels of the earth. It was now so cold, that her feet were briefly frozen to the stone with every step, and her hand to the wall; her eyelashes were heavy with crystals and her lips were sealed together – held by a film of ice like glue. But she couldn’t turn back, not ever – not until she had found Shay in one of these many, many rooms . . .

  Not until she had found the demon killer.

  She had turned several corners since the last bedroom, and its soft weak candlelight had faded behind her. Despite her fairy vision she began to have to feel her way, one hand on the wall of stone.

  And then the corridor ended.

  For a while she stood there, so deep within the earth, under the weight of clay and stone and death, both palms resting on the stone wall ahead of her . . .

  The wind had stilled, and only the cold remained.

  He was not here, in all this place.

  Go back.

  But her palms were frozen to the stone.

  Go back.

  She could hear faint distant noises.

  Far, far behind her, a soft padding, as of many feet. Unknown creatures restless in the dark. And ahead of her, as if within this stone wall, a rustling, as of the summer rain shower rushing across a barley field . . . Or a vast cage of birds . . . Wings . . .

  Go forwards.

  Ripping her palms from the ice, she swept them in slow, steady arcs across the invisible wall, willing it to unlock. A dull trickling sound came from deep within the stone, like gravel pattering down, and then the mighty slab of rock cracked open, just a fraction – a very high stone door.

  She pushed, with frozen hands.

  Slowly it opened, just enough to let her through.

  Light swelled from within. Flickering lilac shadows of a golden fire.

  And the sound of wings fluttering. Hundreds of wings.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Twenty or thirty small perfumed fires were heaped in bronze baskets around the cavernous room – from these rose shimmering clouds of gold, crimson and lilac sparks, wafting up towards the roof where thick rafters of blackened bog-oak burst from the high clay walls. Along these rafters clustered the ranks of wrinkled, leathery sluagh – at least a hundred of them – clinging with both claws and wizened hands, so densely crowded together that they could barely move. Only the tips of their wings rustled, like bunches of dried leaves, as they peered down from the shadows with glinting, hungry eyes.

  Aoife remained momentarily frozen in the narrow opening, in her bare feet and short black dress and thin black cardigan, gazing with wide turquoise eyes up at the living, fluttering roof of wings. Every sinew in her screaming: Turn back. Run.

  She did not run.

  Instead, she lowered her gaze.

  There was a stone dais in the centre of the room – not high, but very wide and deep; it was spread luxuriously with purple silk, pillows embroidered with long centipedes in gold thread, brass lamps in the shape of curled woodlice, and scattered with poppies, torn up by the roots and trailing crumbs of earth. On this strange bed two lovers sat facing each other – their attention so utterly focused on each other’s faces that neither of them had even noticed Aoife standing there. The girl’s hair reflected all the sparks of the basket-fires, so that it appeared not barley-white but the same red-gold colour as Aoife’s own; her white dress, also stained with firelight, clung to her. Facing her, his knees drawn up, was a beautiful dark-haired young man wearing a long black coat which flared out around him on the stone. The girl was leaning forward, both hands resting on the young man’s slender waist, gazing up into his eyes. The young man’s long pale fingers cupped her cheek and stirred in the sheaf of her fire-lit hair, so that it trembled like a field of barley at sunset, catching the evening breeze.

  Beside the bed was a tall carved chair, of the same blackened bog-wood as the rafters. There was a third figure sitting in the chair – but the high back, carved to represent a nest of worms, was almost fully turned towards the door, so that all Aoife could see was a strong hand, resting on the arm – a hand, a wrist, and the black cuff of a sleeve.

  The soft warmth of the fires melted the ice on Aoife’s lips and eyelashes; it ran as water down her cheeks and chin. She took a step forward, through the narrow opening.

  Finally noticing the intrusion, the Deargdue glanced towards the door – then widened her silver eyes and bared her pretty teeth with a faint hiss. Her companion, following his lover’s gaze, looked at first bewildered by the sight of Aoife – then briefly guilty, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. But in the end he just laughed and rose to his feet, holding out his hand, saying in that light mocking tone of his, ‘My queen! Come join us!’ And above him, the sluagh leaned forward on their perches, with hungry interest.

  Turn back. Run.

  Aoife took another step. The unseen figure in the high-backed chair still did not move. His strong square fingers curled down over the arm of the chair. There was a pale line around his wrist where the sun had not kissed his skin.

  Dorocha also remained where he was, standing on the stone bed – smiling, eyebrows raised. ‘You’ve caught me, Aoibheal! And I confess my sin. But you must admit, you gave me good reason to betray you. You yourself are as fickle as your mother. Come!’ He was still holding out his hand. ‘Tell us how you found your way here— Oh!’ His beautiful face lit up, delighted. ‘The hawthorn berry wreath upon your hair! How lovely! Morfesa made you his teenage sacrifice – am I right? So that’s how he decided to get his own back on me, the cunning old fool. And all because you saved that foolish, fanciful, nasty-minded . . . What was her name? Lois?’

  The pale line where the sun had not touched him, because he’d been wearing the golden locket . . .

  Ar
ound your wrist, a narrow line

  of paler skin

  because you once were mine . . .

  ‘Shay?’ Heart weak with hope and fear, Aoife drew closer, running her hand over his, circling her fingers around the pale line, touching for the soft throb of his pulse. She moved around the chair to face him. He remained utterly still, hands resting on the arms of the chair, gazing at the Deargdue. He was even paler than when she had seen him last, under the white roses – his hurt mouth still bruised by a bite, or an angry kiss. His black shirt torn open. Sunk between his ribs was the creamy stub of barley straw; the dried blood drawing a straight line over his flat stomach, into the waistband of his black jeans. Head slightly on one side, dark green eyes on his beautiful demon. A dust of spider’s web across one cheekbone.

  Now sitting cross-legged on the pillows, the Deargdue picked up an ivory comb from beside her and ran its sharp teeth through her fire-tainted hair. She said in a discontented voice, ‘Beloved, make her go away. The lenanshee boy is your gift to me, and I don’t want her touching him.’

  Dorocha soothed her: ‘Hush, my dear one, let’s just watch her try to wake him. It’s as good as any show.’

  ‘Shay?’

  His dark green eyes were filled with tears – but how old were the tears?

  No pulse beneath his skin.

  Leaning closer, she pressed his hands – so strong, and now so cold. ‘Shay?’ Her voice was thick in her throat. ‘Shay, can you hear me? Shay, it’s Aoife . . .’

  His mouth was curved, as it always was, at rest. On a groan, she bent to kiss it. Behind her the Deargdue snapped, ‘Restrain your pet!’

  Hands seized Aoife’s arms from behind; Dorocha lifted her high above him, spun her round, and a split-second later smashed her headfirst onto the cold clay floor, where she lay half blinded by pain and shock, stunned and winded. Above in the roof, the sluagh shrieked in excitement and cracked their leathery wings like whips, clapping their wrinkled hands, hanging onto the rafters only by their claws.

  Before her brain could stop spinning, and her lungs rasp back to life, Dorocha had dragged her roughly to her feet, pulling her round to face him. ‘Apologies, my queen.’ His hand pushed back her red-gold hair with a pretended sigh of concern; his other hand supported her, his palm flat against the small of her back. ‘But no kissing. No kissing. The boy is my gift to my Deargdue – not to you.’

  Still literally breathless, Aoife stared up into his eyes – that midnight waste of stars. Again he touched her hair – and for just a moment his empty gaze held a fraction of true tenderness. ‘Ah, so like your mother . . . So beautiful . . .’

  Instantly she felt the sickening pull of him, her silver blood like streams of stars whirling down into the drain.

  Down.

  The un-empty emptiness beyond.

  Down.

  Shay.

  Her lungs ripped apart; her dry lips parted; air flooded in. She stammered, ‘One kiss . . . One kiss.’ It was all her dazed mind seemed able to fix on at this moment – it was her light in the dark. One kiss, and if Shay was alive . . .

  Dorocha was smiling knowingly. ‘You think if you kiss him, you can fly, and escape me? I can assure you it is too late for that. His heart is broken, Aoibheal. He is beyond all rescue.’

  Grief sank through her like a stone. ‘Not true.’ And yet, of course it was. She was too late: he was gone cold. There was no chance of escape for either of them now – whether he loved her or not. And yet she repeated stubbornly, ‘One kiss.’ It was all she could hope for. A beautiful pinpoint of light, shining in the darkness; the tiny spark that pulled her on.

  Dorocha said, with utter contempt, ‘Your mother’s blood must be very strong in you, Aoibheal, if the desire for a kiss could bring you this far, this deep. I always knew the queen was a lenanshee, but I thought the grá would be less strong in the daughter.’

  Again Aoife’s lungs seemed to empty, as if he had smashed the breath from her once more; again she stared.

  His mouth twitched with humour; stars dancing in his eyes. ‘You never guessed, did you? All that heroic denying of his grá for you, and yet there was never any need for him to leave your side, never any need for him to be afraid of loving you. If you’d stayed with him, and he with you, he might have been strong enough to resist his sweet demon lover. But now it is too late for kisses.’

  She should have known.

  He shook his head, amused by her despair. ‘I know, I know – how could you not have guessed? A fairy queen who keeps a servant to bring her human lovers of her choice, and then casts them aside when they are done? Aoibheal, if you’d only looked in the mirror, you would have seen her eyes, the turquoise eyes of the lenanshee. Your mother’s eyes . . .’ And with a rough change of mood, as if enraged by that memory, Dorocha shoved her backwards, so that she sat down suddenly on the edge of the stone dais.

  Behind her the Deargdue sighed and yawned, cat-like, and combed her hair in the light of sparking fires.

  Dorocha stood before Aoife with his feet apart, in his soft red boots; he took the rainbow ring from his pocket – the ring with which he had tried to marry her. Aggressively, he tossed it up in the air before her – a band of living flames. ‘Your wedding ring, Aoibheal! I found it on the temple floor, where you threw it away.’ He winked at her, twisting it between finger and thumb – ‘It will melt the flesh of your finger to the bone, my queen!’ – before tossing it aside onto the dais, where it twirled away in a trail of multi-coloured smoke, leaving a scorched spiral across the stone. ‘However, I’ve decided I don’t want to put myself though that again.’ He paused, checking Aoife’s face for her reaction, and sneered. ‘Confused, my queen? Did you think I wanted Shay Foley dead so I could marry you? Ah no, my dear – nothing so romantic. It is all about revenge. The moment I have married my new darling, she will suck out the last of your lenanshee lad’s heart while you watch— Oh, don’t even bother, Aoibheal.’

  She had made a fierce effort to get up, the ice-power flooding into her veins. Again Dorocha flung her easily aside; this time she landed clumsily spread-eagled at the foot of Shay’s chair, her cheek resting against his unmoving knee, her hand on his shoe – an old black Adidas trainer, with broken laces tied in a short frayed knot. Her power draining away, in dark despair.

  ‘Stay down.’ Dorocha gave her a sharp kick in the thigh. ‘And listen to what I have in store for you and yours. Just because I am happy to relinquish you does not mean I don’t require my revenge. After your boy, we will come for your family and your friends. The banshee will reclaim the sheóg Eva, and the druids will adore your little friend Carla. As for those human parents who raised you so badly—’

  Aoife made another effort to rise, tears of horror pouring from her eyes. He kicked her again. ‘I said, stay down!’

  In the tear-blurred corner of Aoife’s vision, the Deargdue had paused in her combing, raising her head and saying – in a voice as sweet and musical as when she was the waitress in the lonely cliff-side café: ‘But Beloved, I want this boy to last for ever.’

  Turning towards her, Dorocha smiled very brightly. ‘My love, I will get you a hundred more – a thousand more where he came from!’

  ‘But none so pretty . . .’

  ‘We will sweep through the human world and take every boy from every house, and you can keep them all as long as you like!’

  She pouted. ‘But this one was your wedding gift to me. How can you take back a wedding gift?’

  ‘I have another! The queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann will be your hand-maiden. She will live here for all eternity, and help you bleed your boys.’ He wheedled, honey-tongued: ‘Won’t you adore that, my hungry love? You – a human peasant girl before your father sold you, and your boy abandoned you, and your lord transformed you – you, my love, having as your servant the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann?’

  The Deargdue’s silver eyes had brightened, but still she hesitated, eyeing Aoife, slumped broken against Shay’s knee.

>   Clearly guessing the reason for her hesitation, Dorocha urged, ‘The queen’s powers are nothing to yours, my love, and never will be. The queen will never be sixteen – she will never leave this place. When we journey to the surface together, we will leave her here in chains, with only your cold, dead boys for company. Come now. Marry me, kill the boy, and she is yours.’

  But the beautiful demon only began to comb her hair again. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I don’t want to marry you. Perhaps I think my boy is prettier than you.’

  ‘Ah . . . You have wounded me.’ Dorocha said it carelessly, yet with a hint of injured pride.

  ‘Besides, my boys won’t like it if I am wed. They adore me.’

  This time he was more surprised than hurt. ‘But your boys are dead . . .’

  She frowned, worrying at an invisible knot in her hair. ‘The dead love me.’

  ‘But my love, they’re dead.’

  She was starting to smile now. ‘So? You have no heart.’

  ‘Which is why I am the only man for you! Marry me—’

  In a burst of petulance, she pointed the ivory comb at Aoife. ‘How can you ask me to marry you, when only yesterday you were prepared to marry that!’

  ‘Aha . . . Is that is the reason for your cruelty?’ Smiling again, he stepped up onto the stone bed, stooping to seize a handful of the poppies with which it was strewn, bending over his Deargdue with a bunch of wilting flowers. ‘Will I make you a pretty speech?’

  She turned her face away from him, smiling again.

  Dorocha stood over her, shaking the poppies, showering her with petals from the flowers. ‘I admit, I had a vision once – a union of the living and the dead. But only for the sake of war, I swear! I did think to marry the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann, because the changelings would follow her, and the beasts obey her. But then, I thought to myself – why should I saddle myself with a sulky child?’