Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  “Nah,” Sam said thinly. “If we go outside, I will kill you, and I’m a bit sick of prison. It’s not happening.”

  “We can do it here, then.” He surged forward, breaking loose. Sam leapt out of his way. In the same moment, four security guards piled in and grabbed Matthew. He stood panting like a captured bear between them.

  “Might I remind you that Lucas happens to be my brother, too?” Sam said from halfway across the room.

  An angry nurse appeared, demanding to know what the trouble was. “Nothing,” said Lawrence. He pointed at Matthew. “It’s just him.”

  “Sir, you’ll have to leave the building,” said one of the guards. “You can walk out quietly with us, or we can call the police. Up to you.”

  “Fine,” Matthew grunted, still glaring at Sam. “You can take your hands off me. I’m leaving. This is not over.”

  Rosie slipped out of the room and along the corridor to watch her brother being escorted away. Sam followed and stood beside her, making no move to touch her. “Should’ve expected that,” he said, sniffing.

  “It looks painful.” Rosie handed him a clean tissue and he dabbed at the blood. “Well done, not retaliating.”

  “No one needed to see a fistfight on top of everything else,” he said quietly. “There’s my reputation as local maniac shot to pieces.”

  She gave a pale half-smile at his remark. “I should be furious with Matt. But . . . he’s lost his closest friend.”

  “Any idea what happened?”

  A shudder went through her from head to foot. “You missed Jon’s speech. Apparently it’s all our fault. Seems Alastair had a few drinks, kidnapped Jon and Luc to hurt me, then crashed the car in a fit of sheer fury.”

  Sam groaned under his breath. “You have got to be fucking joking.”

  “She isn’t,” said Jon behind them.

  Sapphire was wheeling him. She pushed the chair to Sam and Rosie, stopped and looked them over. Her air of worldly-wise compassion made Rosie want to strangle her. “I’m the last to know as usual, but finally things are clear. Really, Sam, couldn’t you find someone who wasn’t married?”

  His eyebrows flicked up and down. “Apparently not.”

  He plainly couldn’t be bothered to rise to Sapphire’s bait, but Rosie said icily, “This is what happens when affairs get found out.”

  She looked straight at Sapphire as she said it. Then she had the satisfaction of seeing Sapphire freeze for a moment, unsure of her ground, suspicious. She even had the grace to blanch. “I’m taking Jon back to his ward now.”

  “Let me do that,” said Sam, shouldering her out of the way. “Haven’t had a chance to see him yet.”

  “Thanks, mate,” Jon said wearily, raising his hand in a vague wave to Rosie. “Night. See you tomorrow.”

  As they went, Sapphire caught Rosie’s arm with a warm, firm hand, her bone-hard fingernails digging in slightly. “I truly am sorry, Rosie. This is a dreadful time for everyone. Lawrence is distraught.”

  “Lucas isn’t dead yet,” she said thinly.

  “Still, you need to prepare for the fact that when people survive a coma like this, they may never be the same again.” Sapphire moved closer, her voice over-flowing with tender concern. “They seem alive and even conscious, but effectively, they are a shell. The person inside has gone.”

  Rosie bit her tongue until it sang with the iron taste of blood. “It’s called persistent vegetative state,” she said. “The doctors told us.”

  “It’s a terrible outcome to—what? An impulsive little affair? Don’t be too hard on yourself. What woman could suspect that her husband might actually commit suicide over her? I want you to know that you have our full support. And if it reaches the newspapers—you’ll need it.”

  “I have to go,” said Rosie, feeling she was about to lose it completely. “Thanks, but I can’t talk about this now.”

  “I was trying to protect you,” Sapphire said.

  “How?”

  “By not giving your messages to Sam. I knew he was up to something. He’s unstable and untrustworthy, and he’ll hurt you. You need to face it, for your own good. He’ll break your heart.” If Rosie was already on the ground, Sapphire had booted her in the stomach. She cursed her own eyes for spilling tears in front of her torturer.

  “He’d have to be some kind of evil genius to beat this,” she said with a vicious grin that finally silenced Sapphire. “You tell me what Sam or anyone else could possibly do to hurt me more than this?”

  Rosie stood in the mortuary, looking down at Alastair’s body, where it lay on a flat steel drawer. His face was all cuts, lesions and swollen flesh but the torn edges had shrunk on themselves, like lemon peel curling. The skin was a livid abstract of blues, purples, waxy yellow. A rancid chemical tang steeped the air. They had warned her the injuries were bad, that she might find it too disturbing, or not even recognize him. She did, however.

  “Did you really love me so much you’d rather die than lose me?” she murmured. “Because I don’t believe it. What was it then, hurt pride? Was it worth it?”

  Snippets of the previous night haunted her: her parents’ stoic faces as her aunt failed to persuade them to go home; Rosie trying to sleep across chairs with her head on Auberon’s knee. Lawrence leaving at some stage—not that she’d noticed him go, but she’d felt his absence as if the shadow of a standing stone had vanished.

  Waking drearily at six to a cup of machine tea, and realizing it was Sam who’d fetched it. He’d taken Lawrence and Sapphire home, then come straight back.

  Being allowed to see Lucas at last.

  No change.

  That was the worst moment of all. Hope building up overnight, only to be crushed. The dreadful pallor of her mother’s face . . . Lucas was stable. That was the best the doctors could tell them. Without life support, he was still effectively dead.

  “How can you compare what I did to this?” Rosie asked Alastair’s impassive death mask. “People survive broken marriages. It’s not the end of the world. So why the hell did you have to turn it into the end of the world?”

  “Rosie,” said Sam behind her. “You shouldn’t be here on your own.”

  She turned. His arms enfolded her. His chest received the soaking weight of her grief and anger.

  “I wasn’t on my own,” she said eventually, indicating the kind mortuary attendant who was some feet away, discreetly not noticing anything.

  “We were meant to be meeting for a pub lunch today,” Sam said regretfully. “This isn’t exactly the Green Man, is it?”

  She sighed. “I can’t understand why he did it. Life goes on, why couldn’t he see that?”

  “I don’t know, love. Some people hurl their toys out of the playpen and only think, ‘Oops,’ when everything’s wrecked beyond repair. Come on.”

  She hesitated. “I can’t believe he’s not going to walk in and dump his rugby kit, like he does. Bounce into the office with his hair all ruffled and say, ‘Fancy a curry?’ Joke around with Matthew. Ordinary stuff. I never meant him any harm.”

  “Everyone knows that.”

  “But they’re always going to be looking at us and blaming us, even if they don’t mean to. Why try to kill Lucas, and not me?”

  “Or me?” he said.

  She looked at the scuffed toes of her boots. She almost couldn’t stand up under the weight of misery. “I feel so ashamed.”

  “Don’t say that, Rosie,” Sam murmured.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Practical things. Eat breakfast. You’ll be no use to your mum if you pass out. Organize shifts so everyone gets sleep and Luc always has someone with him. It’s all we can do, isn’t it? Come on.”

  “Thank you,” said Rosie to the attendant.

  He nodded, unfolded the white sheet to conceal the face of the corpse. Rosie let Sam walk her away, his arm around her shoulders; and even through two sets of doors, she heard the oily hiss of the drawer sliding closed.

  Later, Ro
sie found her mother alone at Lucas’s bedside, clasping his lifeless hand and intently watching the blank, closed face. She pulled up a chair and gently set about combing her mother’s hair. The naturally thick blond mane had become a tangle overnight. Jessica said nothing. The only sound was the monotonous clunk of the ventilator.

  “Mum, there’s a lot I need to explain,” Rosie began. “Now isn’t the time, I know, but you must wonder what the hell’s been going on. You must think I’ve gone crazy, seeing Sam . . . I swear, I never dreamed this could happen in a million years . . . Mum?” Still no answer. Rosie felt worse. How could her parents ever forgive her? “Please say something. Even if you’re furious. I can’t bear silence.”

  Jessica turned to her and said in a cracked whisper, “I can’t. I’ve lost my voice.”

  “Oh.” A terrible feeling pushed up in her throat; the urge to laugh. Her mouth turned down with the effort of suppressing it.

  “Rosie, it’s not funny.” Jessica’s eyes crinkled and they shared a moment of desperate mirth. She put a hand to her throat. “It hurts.”

  “What made you lose it? The shock?”

  “I suppose so,” her mother whispered with effort. “We all react in our own way. Auberon’s stoic. Matthew goes mad. I lose my voice.”

  “Oh, god. I feel so awful, I don’t know where to start.”

  “Not now.” Jessica shook her head. “I’m the last person in the world to judge you. Luc is all that matters. Would you do something for me?”

  Rosie gathered her mother’s hair into a ponytail band and smoothed the hank between her shoulders. “Anything.”

  The strained whisper was so faint, Rosie had to bend close to hear it. “Go to Oakholme. Make sure Matt and Faith and Heather are okay. And get some rest.”

  _________

  She found Sam in the next ward, beside Jon’s bed. Jon was sitting up, looking as he had the previous night: pale, tired and worried. Rosie took the chair on the opposite side from Sam as she began the expected pleasantries—how was he feeling, how much pain, had he eaten anything?

  “Stop fussing, Rosie,” Jon said with a trace of grim humor. “I’m all right.”

  “I was talking to Sam,” she retorted.

  Sam grinned, despite a nicely bruised and swollen lip. Jon only flicked his gaze at the ceiling. “Have you seen Lucas?” he asked.

  “Yes, still the same. No improvement.”

  He nodded, his expression pained. “I’ll go and sit with him soon. If anything happens to him . . . I don’t want to be here without him.”

  Sam and Rosie looked at each other across the bed. “Don’t start talking like that, you idiot,” said Sam. “You’re alive. So’s he. Do I have to break into a chorus of ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life?’ ”

  “Please don’t.” Jon gave the faintest smile.

  Rosie said hesitantly, “Jon, you know when you first visited Luc, you said something about him going into the Spiral? Was it a turn of phrase, or do you think he really could . . . ?”

  “Your folks have told you, haven’t they?” Jon paused. “It’s said when Aetherials die, it doesn’t mean we’re gone forever. It means we change. If the body is dead, or near death, the soul-essence travels to the heart of the Spiral . . . but with the Great Gates closed, I’m not sure we can. Only I’m convinced Lucas has broken through, in some form. Luc being in a coma might mean his soul-essence has fled there and doesn’t want to come back.”

  “Or can’t,” said Rosie. She looked at Sam, who was regarding her with a worried, questioning expression. “Jon, about the Gates,” she said. “Lucas told me—while you were out on Friday night—that he thought he’d accidentally unlocked the Lychgate during that bad trip he had.” She held up her hands, as Lucas had done. “Just a sliver.”

  Jon’s face flickered with shock. “No. He would’ve told me!”

  “He was frightened of the consequences, if he told anyone. He was kind of running away from what he’d done. He might’ve been mistaken, but do you think it’s possible?”

  Jon answered slowly, “The only way he could have cracked open the Gates is if Lawrence had lost the power.” His velvet brown eyes flashed up at her. “Luc started telling me something when Alastair came . . . Oh my god.” They sat without speaking for a minute. It felt like a veil of mist coming down between them and the human world. “I’d go and check, except I can’t walk.”

  “I could take a look,” she said. “I’m going to Oakholme anyway.”

  “Hold on,” said Sam. “Reality check. Running off to look for cracks in Freya’s Crown—isn’t that a little crazy? Lucas is here.”

  “You sound like Matthew.”

  “Sam’s right,” said Jon. “Even if Luc had unlocked the Gates, even if you could follow him into the Spiral, what would be the use?”

  “You’d be first in if not for the broken ankle,” she said.

  “Of course,” he said, eyes wild. “But look at me. There’s no way.”

  Rosie studied Jon and wondered if it was fear she saw in his face. Devoted all his energy to the locked Gates, but never thought what he’d do if they were suddenly open? “Just an idle thought,” she said softly. “Anyway, I really have to go home and check on Faith now. I’ll see you both later.”

  “Hold on, love.” Sam was on his feet. “You’re going nowhere without me.”

  She looked straight into his eyes, challenging him. “Is that right?”

  From the far end of the ward, Sapphire stood watching them. Rosie and Sam and Jon. They were a little clique, talking intently, completely absorbed in each other. It meant nothing to them that she wasn’t with them. They didn’t see her absence as a missing element, and never would.

  She took in their shining hair and graceful movements, the Aetherial glamour that clung to them. They were unconscious of it themselves. Few humans could see it, but she could.

  And she was jealous.

  Aetherials would always exclude her, never let her in. Was this what had destroyed her father—the obsessive need to break through the veil and grasp them, control them, become them?

  That really was why she hated Rosie. Sapphire didn’t care about Sam—disliked him, yes, but didn’t envy him because he’d never made an issue of his Aetherial nature. Jon she could control. But Rosie was untamable, and had all the intangible qualities that had mesmerized Sapphire’s father, and was still never satisfied.

  Rosie was Aetherial. And still not happy.

  There they were, oblivious, whispering of Aetheric matters as if she, Sapphire, didn’t exist. Those matters were her business as much as theirs, but they’d never acknowledge it. It was always going to be like this. However hard she tried to outdo them with wisdom and glamour and sensuality, she was always going to be the outsider. The human.

  She sympathized with Alastair. Unlike everyone else, she perfectly understood his motives. She thought, We think we can live among Aetherials, be their equals—but in the end, they drive us to despair. What a pity I never got to know him. They even snatched that from me. I might have saved him.

  Sapphire set her perfect mouth. Part of her bled for Lucas, of course. Poor sweet, beautiful boy . . . Another part, however, couldn’t help thinking that if Lucas were dead—brain-dead or otherwise—it would do them all good to suffer that lightning-streak of anguish across their privileged lives.

  When Rosie entered Oakholme, she found no one there. The usual cars were on the drive, but there was no sign of Matthew, Faith or Heather. Strange. She explored the creaking corridors, calling out. The house stayed silent. The atmosphere was dense, dusky and full of glittering specks. Ghost figures flitted in the corner of her eye.

  Oakholme was full of the Dusklands. Saturated.

  There appeared to be no coats missing. In the kitchen, there were scattered toys and dirty plates. Faith would never go out without cleaning up first. More disturbingly, the back door was wide open.

  Rosie checked the gardens. As she came round to the front of the hou
se, she crossed the grass lawn to where Sam waited in Lawrence’s sleek black car. He’d insisted on bringing Rosie home, which on reflection was not the best idea in the world. Take Sam into Oakholme where a berserk Matthew is waiting—yeah, great thinking, Rosie had said to herself, and made him wait outside.

  “What’s up?” he called, lowering the window.

  “There’s no one home.”

  Sam climbed out. “D’you think they’ve gone to the hospital?”

  “Maybe.” She frowned. “How? Their cars are here. And the kitchen door’s open.”

  He shut and locked the car. “Can I come in?” The mischievous glint in Sam’s eye was subdued, but still there. “If Matt appears, I’ll deal with it. Peacefully, honest.”

  “Yes, come on,” she said anxiously. “I’d rather a fistfight than this Marie Celeste scene.”

  Sam took her hand. “Let’s have a cup of tea. Don’t look so scared, Foxy.”

  She led him through the front door. As they entered the hall, he stopped dead and said, “Whoah.”

  “It’s really heavy, isn’t it?” she remarked. The air was full of rippling veils, an aurora of blues, greens, autumn browns.

  “Your house always like this?”

  “No. We get the Dusklands, like you get Dumannios, but never this intense before.” The light made Sam look strange, a luminous shadow with his eyes lit from inside, fiery aquamarine. Looking down, she saw the backs of her own hands covered in dappled tree shadows. “Come into the kitchen.”

  As she pushed open the door, there was someone in the center of the room. A wisp of a woman, green with flowing leafy hair. Holding out her arms, which were like thin tree branches, the dryad glared in horror at crimson blood dripping off the ends of her twig fingers.

  “I can’t get the taste out of my mouth,” said the apparition. One blood-soaked leafy arm floated up to point at the open door. “You bring back our light, or I’ll never get rid of the blood! Find him, bring him back!” She shimmered, dissolving into the heat haze of the atmosphere.