“Anyway,” he said, “I’m going to make myself scarce for a while. Your father doesn’t want me around and I don’t blame him. You need your family around you, and I need to sort a few things out.”
She stared at him, her expression tearing his heart out; stunned and serious and resigned all at once. “What things?”
“When I was in prison I met this amazing man.”
“Wow, I didn’t see that one coming.”
He grinned. “Yeah, six foot five with a big ginger beard, just my type. He works for a crime-prevention charity; helping ex-cons find work, keeping young offenders out of trouble and so on. I started helping him, counseling the younger prisoners and that. Well, he’s offered me work. I haven’t been unemployed, Rosie, I’ve been taking college courses. Once I pass, I can go and work with him. Teaching skills to problem kids so they don’t turn to crime, that sort of thing.”
Rosie looked thrown. “I didn’t know you were so softhearted.”
“I’m not, but I am very effective. The little bastards won’t get anything past me.”
“You’ve known about this for ages, haven’t you?” she said, eyes narrowing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, being seen to do something worthwhile isn’t good for my image, is it?”
“Far from it. I’m sure you’ll be their worst nightmare.” She smiled, looking genuinely pleased for him. “Sam, that’s wonderful.”
“Yes. Only I could be sent to another part of the country.” He paused to gauge her reaction; her smile vanished, her lips parted in a silent Oh. At that point, the conversation stalled on an unspoken tangle of uncertainty. Did she think he meant he was leaving her? Did her silence mean she accepted him going? Or did it mean that she wanted him to stay but wouldn’t admit it, because she assumed he was letting her down gently? Or . . . Sam sighed, wishing he hadn’t said it.
“I hope you’re not doing this to be noble,” Rosie said quietly. “I’d hate Sapphire to think she was right when she told me you wouldn’t stick around.”
“Oh, she said that, did she?” He caught his breath, ran his hands over his hair. “She’s poison. She’s the other thing I need to deal with, before anything else. Jon told me something about her yesterday so vile I can’t repeat it.”
At that, she raised smoky eyes to his. “Oh my god, you know about them?”
“You know?” he exclaimed. Rage clouded his vision with black and white stars as Rosie haltingly explained that she’d seen them kissing, that Luc had told her the full story. “You knew about her, and didn’t tell me?”
“You were planning to go away, and didn’t tell me?” she retorted.
“Not quite the same, is it?” he said. This was going horribly wrong. It should have been a time to console each other. Instead, fraught with exhaustion, they were veering into an argument.
“Sam, I’ve been in agonies about telling you. I tried to blank it out. I wish Luc hadn’t said anything, but it’s like Pandora’s box—once the lid’s open, the horrors fly out.”
“Until they reach every corner of our little world.”
“I can’t believe you never suspected.”
“Never noticed a thing,” he said sourly. “Wasn’t there half the time. I should’ve paid more attention, but it’s the last thing I expected.” Pictures fell into place with new, sinister meaning. Sapphire pushing Jon’s wheelchair, hovering by his hospital bed. Farther back: fussing over him, helping with homework, wanting to teach him yoga, the perfect substitute mother, and Jon going along with her like a lamb . . . He felt sick. “How could she do that to my father? I can’t let her get away with it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Find out who the hell she really is, for a start.”
“I told you everything she told me, in my secret agent mode.” Rosie sat up, suddenly businesslike. “Wait there.” She left the room and ran upstairs, reappearing a minute later with a small framed photograph in her hand.
It was a wedding photo of Lawrence and Sapphire. Sam looked at it in distaste. “What’s this?”
“I found it when you sent me for the photo of Virginia. It was an accident; I grabbed it first and looked at it afterwards. Also I took the back off to see if there were any more pictures inside.”
Puzzled, Sam bent back the metal tabs and removed the backing of the frame. Inside was a small passport-sized photo of a young Sapphire with a man he couldn’t place but was certain he’d seen before. “Is it any help?” Rosie asked.
“I don’t know.” He slipped the tiny photo into his wallet. “Maybe the best thing to do is confront Sapphire and see what shade of white she turns.”
“Sam, be careful,” she said, perching on the edge of the sofa as he took his jacket. “And I’m sorry . . . about everything.”
“Yeah, me too,” he said, and gently kissed her hair as he left.
After he’d gone, Rosie sat stunned, as if she’d been slapped awake from a dream. What happened? she thought. Did Sam just tell me he’s leaving—permanently?
The whole scene had washed over her like a tide. She’d let it happen because she was too numb from the aftermath of disaster to behave in a normal manner. She felt too horribly overwhelmed to let anyone near her, and far beyond being comforted. The numbness wouldn’t last forever, she knew, but at the moment she couldn’t see a way through it.
Of course, it had been a mistake not to reveal her suspicions about Jon and Sapphire—but such a huge risk to have told him. Either way, she couldn’t win. So he was mad at her, and she was mad at him for not telling her his plans—but why should he have done so? They’d been too busy playing sexual cat-and-mouse. They’d barely reached the talking stage before Alastair interrupted.
Dull pain settled over her, stinging her eyes and throat. Yet she couldn’t cry. There was no point in crying until you understood what had happened, and she didn’t understand yet.
She went up to her old bedroom and examined the torn clothes in which she’d entered the Otherworld. Were they worth saving? No, best bundled up for rag recycling. She went through the pockets, excavating tissues and sweet wrappers. Pushing her hand into the jeans pocket, she found something hard and rounded. She drew it out and found it was a rose quartz egg the size of a hen’s egg, a delicate translucent pink and beautifully polished. It was full of iridescent planes, with a cloudy whitish center.
Rosie looked at the object, bemused. She remembered a vague dream about finding it. Most likely Ginny, or even Estel, had slipped it in there—but why, or how they’d done so without her noticing, she had no idea. Then she remembered how Estel in owl form had flown at her, confounding her senses for a few moments . . . was it she who’d placed the egg in her pocket, as deftly as a magician?
Eventually she sat looking out of her old bedroom window, absently cupping the egg between her palms. It felt soothing. Twilight came blue and luminous and with it came snow. Big light feathers danced past her window, beginning to clot in the corners and pile up on the sill. All evening the snow fell and fell, turning the air grey and her windowpanes icy. So cold was the glass that when she touched it, a chilly draft poured over her fingers.
She thought about Sam, Lucas, Faith, Matthew, everyone, while outside the garden and the hill beyond turned ghostly, glowing white.
At Stonegate, Sam stood in the rooftop conservatory and watched the estate softly vanishing under snow. The translucent roof above him was covered, turning the room dim and eerily luminescent. Condensation fogged the edges of the windows. His only companions were the shadowy dysir and the background echo of Dumannios pressing on air-thin boundaries.
Sapphire and Lawrence had checked into a hotel in Leicester, since it would be foolish to start home in this weather. So, with no trace of conscience, he’d done something he’d never dreamed of before; sneaked up into her apartments, rooted through cupboards until he’d found a metal cash box. It was locked, but he hadn’t spent three years behind bars for nothing. Inside were papers. A sheaf o
f letters, two passports, one American and one Brazilian, a birth certificate in the name of Maria Clara Ramos. The Brazilian passport, too, was in that name but the American belonged to a Marie Clare da Silva. Each bore a photo of Sapphire. There were other documents, too, in the name of Marie Clare or Sapphire da Silva.
He compared the names. Rosie had told him Sapphire’s story of Brazilian poverty and rescue by a rich father, so a name change was feasible. When he began to read the letters, though, he grew confused. This couldn’t be right. He looked again at the small photograph Rosie had found. This was impossible.
“Fucking hellfire,” Sam had said to himself.
Then he’d put all her papers back as he’d found them, slipped the photo into his pocket, and made his way to the conservatory to watch the snow and think. A glass of his father’s whiskey helped to keep out the cold.
He knew he couldn’t tell his father about Sapphire; the confession must come from her. That was, the confession of her true identity. Better Lawrence never, ever found out about her abuse of Jon. He couldn’t tell him about Ginny, either, since she didn’t want to be found.
Sam hadn’t been truly angry with Rosie. All he’d really wanted was to put his arms around her and hold her. Perhaps he should have ignored his instincts and done just that.
No. He grimaced and took another swig of whiskey. Grabbing Rosie with protestations of love—while she was sitting there crushed, Luc barely out of critical care and Alastair’s swollen body vivid in her mind—no, it was the last thing she’d needed. Doing the right thing, however, even though it was killing you—perhaps that was about growing up. He feared that her guilt would never let her love him, and the more he persuaded, the more she’d push him away. Wisdom was having the sense to make a graceful exit for once.
The pain lay across his shoulders, like torn muscles. It was also like a broken knife stuck through his chest, with a couple of metal spikes through the eyes for good measure. You could learn to live with it, he supposed. Eventually.
Snow piled and drifted on the parapet outside. Clouds and hills were all the same grey-white, whirling mass. Far below, on the white lawn, he saw something move. He went to a window, rubbed the condensation away. No good, he couldn’t make it out. There was definitely someone out there, a smear of shadow struggling towards the house.
Sam put down the whiskey glass. He made his swift, light-footed way through the inner rooms, along the gallery and downstairs. All the lights were off and the great hall was full of cold grey light.
Something was out there. He saw the pale shadow turn darker and more solid as it came to one of the tall leaded windows near the center of the wall. He heard it scratching at the pane. Sam went closer. The lead and glass were shiny-new, a restoration. It was the window through which the burglar had thrown himself, trying to escape Sam’s wrath.
He went softly to the casement, so close he could see the fog of the creature’s breath. There was snow clotted thickly on its shoulders. Its features were indistinct, but he recognized the shape of it.
Sam listened to its guttural breathing, the horrible scratching of its nails. Finally its harsh voice came, muffled by the glass. “I know you are in there, Samuel. Come out into the cold and face me. Come out. Let us end it.”
Calmly he answered, “I’m coming, Matthew.”
20
Winter Light
Sam could see nothing but cloudy whiteness. He stumbled through knee-deep snow, breath stolen by the cold. Snow drifted high up the house wall and turned the lawn to a swirling arctic plain. Rocks and shrubs became blurred humps.
Low, labored breathing came from all around him. He stopped, unable to pinpoint it. Perhaps if he entered the Dusklands . . . even as he made the transition, a blanketed bush shifted and rose in front of him. A ghost in the snow, it shook a blizzard from itself as it came lurching towards him.
He lunged to meet it, tackling the creature across the abdomen. Violent impact, then powerful arms seized and held him. Falling, they rolled together down the slope of the lawn, over and over through drifts. Snow plastered Sam’s clothes and face.
His attacker was snarling, its furry clawed fingers reaching for his throat. Was it even Matthew anymore? It was like nothing he’d ever seen. A long, heavy head sheathed in slate-grey fur, glaring black eyes, carnivore fangs. Muscles like steel hawsers beneath the matted coat. Not human, not animal. Something from Dumannios.
The Dusklands turned the sky royal blue, the snow luminous. Sam changed too, Aetheric light glowing from him. Enough to freak a human, not enough to intimidate an enraged Matthew. They wrestled, gouging troughs in the snow. Human Matthew had fought aggressively, all those years ago, but Sam had beaten him with ease. Now he was impossibly strong. Sam didn’t want to fight anymore, but had to.
The beast dragged him over like a puppet and pinned him down, breath steaming into his face. “You evil bastard.” The words spilled rough and guttural from the carnivore mouth. “Years, you’ve had this coming.”
“Yes, all right, we’re even now,” Sam gasped. “Enough.” He tried to wrench free but the beast held him. The iron bands of its grip burned like the chill of the snow.
“Ruined my sister. Murdered Alazh-dair.” The name emerged thickly distorted.
“No. Wasn’t me drove his car into a tree. He did that himself.”
The black eyes were glazed. Sam knew then that Matthew was going to kill him. “You took Faith. Where is she?”
“You were hunting her down.” Sam spoke through his teeth, fighting for breath. “You don’t give a damn about her!”
Matthew howled, deafening him. “Where is she?”
Jerking a hand free, Sam punched him in the temple. Matthew grunted, losing control for the second it took Sam to overbalance him and reverse their positions. He got astride but it was like trying to hold down a cheetah, a sinuous writhing creature that was all bone and muscle. Sam felt his own Aetheric strength swell through him. The beast’s head thrashed with rage, denial.
“That’s right,” breathed Sam. “I’m stronger than you. I’ve had to be. See, I was in a place full of brutes who want to rob you, shag you or beat you up for the fun of it—and that was just boarding school. So I’m stronger and always will be. That’s what you can’t stand.”
“No,” came the bubbling roar. “Not anymore.” Matthew’s biceps flexed, resisting the pressure of Sam’s hands. With trembling slowness the arms rose. Sam fought to press them back down, couldn’t. He daren’t let go or try to change his grip. Both men shook with the strain of exertion. However hard Sam resisted, Matthew’s arms kept rising, bending inwards, claws questing for his neck.
“Your family destroyed mine.” Although thick with exertion, every word was precise. “Thought you’d never pay?”
Sam was on top but it was Matthew who had control. His hands found Sam’s throat and locked. None of Sam’s usually effective tricks could shake the hold. He tried to return the favor but his own hands wouldn’t even meet around the furry brawn of the neck. It was like trying to strangle a bull.
“You don’t deserve a wife,” Sam wheezed on the end of his breath. “Finish me, then. Feel good about it. Rosie won’t thank you. Alastair won’t come back.”
Matthew’s hands tightened. His forearms were like iron; Sam couldn’t prize them away. The two men strained in counterpoise, the effort turning his sight red with painful starbursts.
“Faith will never love you,” he finished, and made a desperate, two-fingered jab into Matthew’s eye sockets.
Suddenly the pressure ceased. Matthew’s hands went loose and slid away. Sam began to cough and gag, eyes streaming with the pain of his crushed throat. As his sight cleared, he looked down at the beast and saw it changing. Fur fading back into skin. The overgrown bones of the skull melting back into their true shape. Unnatural strength gone.
Matthew lay naked under him. His handsome face was pale and bewildered, his eyes bloodshot. He was crying.
Sam rolled off and r
ose to his hands and knees, snow swallowing him up to his elbows. They were back in the grey-white sweep of the surface world. Sam lurched to his feet and held out a hand to Matthew, who let himself be helped up without a word.
Sam swallowed and managed to whisper, “You’d better come in the house.”
Inside, Sam sat Matthew down in the kitchen and put a towel around him. Then he ran upstairs, returning minutes later with a dressing gown and a duvet to wrap him in. Thus bundled up, Matthew sat silently on the chair, white and shivering.
Sam switched on the electric kettle. His red, cold fingers began to throb as feeling came back. For a while Matthew said nothing, only sat trembling and chewing at his lower lip, cradling his own frostbitten hands under his arms. Sam leaned against the countertop and watched him. Eventually, tilting his ravaged face slightly towards Sam, he hissed, “You bastard.”
“Yes, I know,” Sam said wearily. “You all right, mate?”
“I am not your ‘mate.’ ”
“Do you remember what happened?”
Matthew squeezed his eyes shut and didn’t answer. Sam went on, “You must have been wandering in that state for three or four days. You were hardly rational. Were you even aware of what you were doing?”
Eventually, he answered painfully, “Yes. I was aware.”
“So that was a good plan, was it, scaring the crap out of everybody?”
“Faith—” It was a gasp of anger. “You’ve ruined us!”
“Oh yeah? How’s that?”
“My best friend’s dead. Your father, with my mother. You, with my sister. My family in ruins, my wife this—this thing—” He ran out of words and shook his head, fingertips pressing into his eyelids.
“Uh,” said Sam, “I see how that must look, but I swear there’s no master plan to ruin anyone. You spot the common factor in that list? My, my, my. Your family’s all your personal property, is it?”
“Don’t twist my words. Your family’s a nest of serpents, all you do is destroy.”
Elfland Page 48