“Is Rufus here or not?”
“Yes, he’s here, Lord Mistangamesh.”
A violent shock ran through Mist, electric waves of dread. He’d always been too slow to anger. Through his passivity, he’d let Rufus get away with murder, patricide, genocide and more. After all Rufus had done, Mist had nothing left for him but pure rage. And yet … he still felt afraid.
It was almost a phobia. He knew Rufus’s seductive poison. Mist had tasted freedom, but he feared that the moment he saw Rufus’s beautiful, ever-smiling face, the same old venom would be pumped into him and he’d fall, drugged once more into stupidity.
No. Not this time. It was time to avenge Helena, Poectilictis and Theliome, Adam, and all the others whom Rufus had tricked and destroyed: the entire Felynx race.
“Then where is he?”
“It’s a big house,” said Oliver. “And here’s the thing: He doesn’t actually know you are here. He arrived only a few days ago. He’s still settling in.”
“Settling in? I don’t understand. I assumed this was his house. You seemed to know we were coming, and yet Rufus doesn’t?”
“Not yet.” Oliver gestured at a bank of luxurious leather seating. “Why don’t you sit down, enjoy the view? Would you like tea, or something stronger? We’ve a lot of catching up to do. And you’re here as our guests, so please make yourselves at home.”
Mist remained on his feet. “Is Rufus a guest, too? Not a prisoner?”
“No, not at all.” A glimmer of a smile touched Oliver’s mouth. “Only if he misbehaves, but he won’t. We’re trying to make peace, to put the past behind us. Aren’t you in favor of that?”
Mist glanced at Stevie. Her eyes were large, glistening with wary puzzlement. “I’m all in favor of peace,” he said quietly. “I’ve known little enough of it, thanks to him.”
“Sit down. As soon as you’re ready, I’ll let Rufus know you’ve arrived.”
As Oliver turned away, Stevie said, “Wait. Did Rufus bring an artist called Daniel Manifold here?”
“No,” he answered. After a pause for a slight, self-satisfied smile, he said, “I brought Daniel here myself.”
“You’re the mystery man from London,” she said flatly. “Is Danny all right? What’s happening?”
“Ah, what isn’t happening?” Oliver looked at her with his head slightly tilted. His unreadable gaze and oblique manner were becoming more familiar to Mist by the second. There’d always been a calculating quality to Veropardus he’d been unable to fathom. “So many questions! He can tell you himself.”
Mist saw excitement rush through Stevie, almost lifting her off the floor. “Can I see him?”
Oliver raised a patient hand. “Yes, soon. He’s working. Again, please relax. There’s no cause for concern. Everyone will be pleased to see you.”
Mist said, “It’s hard to relax with so many armed guards about the place.”
“All Aetherials. They’re for our protection, including yours. It’s normal security.”
Mist let the remark pass. Slahvin’s aura had reeked of malevolence, not safety. Nothing felt normal. “So Rufus had nothing to do with Daniel coming here?”
Oliver shook his head. “On the contrary. Rufus was rather shocked to see the subject matter of Daniel’s paintings. Even delighted, in his perverse way.”
“And did Rufus tell you that he thinks I’m dead, truly dead?”
Oliver became still. His voice fell. “He’s reluctant to talk, but the story came out, yes. First, that you were the unfortunate victim of a jealous husband. That he later found you in a human incarnation, stubbornly refusing to admit your true identity, before dying by violence yet again. Rufus was grief-stricken.”
“Grief-stricken?” A cynical laugh broke from Mist. He remembered Juliana’s words—Rufus went to pieces. He was insane with grief—but he’d never believed it.
Oliver’s cool eyes showed little reaction. “From what I hear, he’s been a walking ghost ever since. Distraught, bent on self-destruction … He’s changed. That’s why I’ve managed to find some compassion for him. I would never condone any of his misdeeds, of course, but the desire for revenge seems pointless now. However … here you are, after all!”
“What are you implying?”
“That Rufus was right. It was possible for you to come back. All he had to do was to stop struggling so desperately to find you—and you came straight to him. I think there’s a lesson for all of us somewhere in that.”
“You make it sound easy. It was not easy.”
“Are you ready to see your brother now?”
Mist drew a thick breath. “What will you tell him?”
“Well, if I tell him it’s you, he won’t believe me. I’ll simply say there’s a visitor for him … and let him see you with his own eyes.”
Oliver repeated his quick, graceful bow and left the room. Minutes passed. Stevie touched Mist’s arm and said, “What are you going to do?” but he shrugged her off, isolating himself. He was so tense he could barely move. All his senses seemed to be shutting down.
Become a marble statue, like the one he had once inhabited … it was the only way to face this.
“Mist?” she murmured. “We’ll all keep calm and it’ll be fine, okay?”
He didn’t answer. She moved away from him, towards the windows.
There were voices, coming closer. Mist heard the unmistakable, melodious, slightly sardonic note of his brother’s voice. Oliver reappeared, and at his side was the so-familiar sight of Rufus, slim and graceful, with brown-red hair rippling to his waist.
He saw Rufus freeze, saw his face open wide with incredulity, saw his eyes turn to liquid glass …
“Who the hell is this?” said Rufus.
Silence. Eventually Oliver said, “It’s Mistangamesh.”
Rufus began to shake his head, lightly at first then harder and harder. He backed away towards the fireplace. “No. No, it’s not. Who is it? Impostor!” Hand shaking, he pointed a finger at Mist. “Get him out of here. What sick joke is this?”
“Truly, it’s him,” Oliver said calmly.
“No. No no no. Get him out!”
Rufus was shouting. Mist felt a smile spreading over his face. He stood quietly, opening his palms. “It’s me. Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“No. You’re out of your mind. You’re dead! Who’s responsible for this? What the hell—? Take him away. It’s not him, it’s not, it can’t be…”
Mist was astonished by Rufus’s crazed rambling. Until the moment they saw each other, he hadn’t known how he would actually feel; hadn’t expected vehement denial verging on hysteria from his brother; hadn’t expected to feel nothing in return but a sense of cold, faintly amused despair.
Then Rufus seized a long, heavy poker from the fireplace and rushed him, his face set in a snarl. He swung the iron rod like a sword at Mist’s head. Mist flung up his hands and the poker slammed into his palms, stopped in its trajectory.
His ice-cold thoughts ignited into red fire.
No longer could he hear Rufus’s voice through the rushing of blood in his skull. His fists were clamped tight around the rod. He lunged, and the next moment, Rufus was pressed back against a wall and Mist was forcing the thick shaft of the poker across his throat, squeezing, crushing …
Rufus struggled. His hands also gripped the poker, resisting, but he could not dislodge his brother’s death-lock. Rufus’s angelic face turned ugly with rage: hideous, shiny-crimson and bloated. A thread of blood ran down his neck, oozing from broken skin. Voices cried out in the distance but all Mist could hear was the rasp of Rufus’s mockery.
“You idiot, you can’t kill me! I can’t die, in thirty thousand years I’ve not been able to die!”
“Let’s see.”
Mist pressed harder. Rufus began to laugh. His eyes bulged and his face turned purple as he fought for breath—yet he was laughing. The mixture of amusement and agony horrified Mist beyond sanity. He slammed Rufus’s head into the wall.
Someone was pulling ineffectually at Mist’s locked arms. Oliver, and one of the guards; they might have been scrabbling at solid rock for all the effect they had.
In the far distance he heard Stevie say in a soft, cool voice, “Leave him! If he needs to kill Rufus, let him. It’s meant to be.”
Her words blew through Mist like waterfall vapor. At the point where he could have finished it, the point where Rufus stopped laughing and was plain terrified, turning purple-blue as his life ebbed away—his rage died.
In that moment, someone else appeared. A woman forced herself between Mist and Rufus, emanating a power the others lacked. “Stop!” she said. Not a plea, but a command.
Her hands closed on his wrists. Mist’s passion was gone and it didn’t take much for her to wrest the poker from him and pull him away. As he gave up the weapon, and dizzily stepped aside, her presence registered.
Shock doused him. Impossible. Aurata?
“Stop,” she repeated, her voice soft yet firm.
Mist reeled away and collided with Stevie, collapsing into her arms. She caught him as best she could and steered him to a safe distance. Rufus tried to laugh, but the sound was hoarse now, a rasping breath. Turning, Mist saw through a blur of tears that his brother was coughing, rubbing at his bruised and bloody neck and then staring at the blood on his fingertips.
Numb, Mist knew that Rufus, for once in his endless life, had been genuinely, utterly petrified—if only for a few minutes. He thought, And that might be all the satisfaction I’m ever going to get.
Perhaps it was enough.
Aurata was fussing over Rufus, leading him to a seat. Her presence commanded the room; her beauty—although more human and less feline than the last time he’d seen her—was unmistakable. Her clothes were plain, outdoorsy khaki. She wore her hair in a glossy bob that tapered to points along her strong jaw, its red-flame shine undimmed. All Mist could do was stare at her while his breathing slowed and all fervor drained out of him.
Aurata. Stevie was speaking but he couldn’t hear her. Aurata!
“Mist?” Aurata said, approaching as if she didn’t know whether to strike him or hug him. “For pity’s sake! What is wrong with you?”
“Rufus attacked him,” Stevie pointed out. Aurata took no notice.
Mist pushed his hair off his face. “If you don’t already know, it’s a hellish long list. But you must remember the first and worst thing he did, Aurata. I don’t know where you’ve been, or what you know. Our memories get messed up. But tell me you remember Azantios, at least.”
She breathed in and out and spoke softly. “It was such a long time ago.”
“No amount of time can make it right.”
“I didn’t say it was right. But it is ancient history.”
Mist laughed: a hollow sound. Aurata came to him and placed her hands on his shoulders. He felt Stevie move away, a draft filling her place. Instead, slanting golden eyes unseen for eons looked into his. Aurata’s voice was warm silk, soothing. “Mistangamesh. My beloved brother. This is momentous; the first time we three have met since Azantios fell. I know why you’re angry, but please, beautiful Mist, let it go. Let’s not fight on this amazing day.”
“Aurata.” He could barely speak. He bent his head to rest on her hair.
“It’s all right,” she murmured, embracing him.
“I had no idea you were here.”
“No one told you? This is my house, dearest.”
* * *
Stevie settled next to Mist on the leather seating, close but not quite touching. She felt him trembling like a spent racehorse. She’d no idea what to say, dared not imagine his turmoil. But what if he had succeeded in killing Rufus? That could only have made things worse.
Rufus sat on the far side of the room, his face flushed pink. He started up, as if to approach them, but Mist put out a hand and said, “Keep him away from me.”
“Mist?” said Rufus. His voice was hoarse. “Come on, have another go. I knew you’d come back to me one day—if only to take revenge. I deserve it—but have you forgotten that you gave Adam’s life to save my unworthy skin, not so long ago?” He laughed roughly. “Of course you’re angry. So am I—because how dare you wait until I’d finally finished weeping and written you out of my life and ‘moved on,’ as they say, to make your reappearance? You bastard. Have you any conception of how much I hate you? Yet still I’d rather you strangled me until doomsday than ever left me again.”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Mist. “And you’d enjoy it; you’re that perverse. You haven’t changed.”
“You know nothing.”
Mist looked away. “‘How was your rebirth, Mist?’” he said sardonically. “A nightmare, thank you. Yet all you thought about, Rufe, was that you’re so important that someone else would go to the trouble of impersonating me in order to distress you? That says it all.”
“Enough!” said Aurata. “You two will stay on opposite sides of the room until you’ve both calmed down.” Standing in the center of the huge room, she took complete and effortless command. “We should celebrate. We three, together again after all this time—and all you can do is fight? Desist. Let’s celebrate peace and new beginnings.”
Stevie dared not meet Aurata’s eyes, or Rufus’s. She was too afraid of being recognized. The idea made her feel like a specimen in a jar. Part of her was still Fela: strong in her own habitat, but vulnerable among the Felynx, like a gazelle among lions. She realized then that she hadn’t seen her fylgia since they’d escaped from Albin. Her silver pard was gone: she could only think that it had stayed in the Otherworld, and without it she felt bereft.
Staying quiet and calm was the only strength she had now.
Aurata paced around as she spoke. She had an earthy energy that made Stevie think of Frances Manifold in her younger days. Aurata had always been charismatic, Stevie remembered; almost too intense, serene in public but sometimes, in private, disturbingly restless. Always the one in charge of any situation.
“Mist, I know why you’re angry. Rufus told me.”
“His version,” said Mist.
“No,” Rufus leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I told the truth. That I’m an appalling troublemaker and waste of space. I was past caring, so why would I keep anything back? Yet Aurata forgave me.”
“Well, I can’t,” Mist said softly.
“You must, my dear,” Aurata said. “I know it will take time, but fate has drawn us together for greater reasons than to squabble like teenagers. We can make a new start.”
“Even after Azantios?”
“Even that. When Rufus and I found each other—none of it mattered anymore. Yes, huge mistakes were made, but the past can’t be changed. All that matters is love, and I saw that it’s time to walk away from the human world, and to begin the future. The fact you’re here, Mist, proves it’s meant to be.”
“But how long have you been here?” Mist asked. He sat back, as if sinking into gradual acceptance.
“Oh, I’ve owned this place for years. I gathered some Aetherial friends around me, as you see. And I’ve traveled a lot. I’ve been learning about the Earth, all the better to understand the Spiral.”
Rufus said, “Yes, you should see how busy she’s been! She has a doctorate in nearly every science there is. And what have you and I done? Frittered away our time in pleasure.”
“Speak for yourself,” Mist replied. “I’ve tried to help humans. Your main occupation was sabotaging my efforts.”
Aurata pursed her lips at him. “This isn’t a competition to see who’s done the most good or harm. Everything I’ve achieved has been aimed at the renaissance of the Felynx.”
She stopped, moistening her lips, as if aware she was close to saying too much in front of Stevie. Without a word, Mist stood up and went to lean against the window, staring out at the ruby landscape beyond. Aurata went to his side. They stood there with their arms about each other’s waists. Was Mist weeping? Stevie couldn’t tell. A f
ew uncomfortable moments passed in which she, Rufus and Oliver sat without saying a word.
She stiffened inside. Aurata spoke of love, and there was Mist hugging her … but wasn’t it Oliver who’d taken Daniel, and who’d presumably then sent Slahvin, in his predatory guise, to steal the triptych and the carved disk? None of that was loving.
“Anyway.” Aurata turned to face the room again. “When Rufus and I found each other, we knew it was time to come home. We had a long journey, and only arrived a few days ago. So … I’m trying to explain that you’re safe, Mist. You’re among friends.”
“Aurata,” he said, subdued. “This is a great shock. You’re the last person I expected to find.”
She gave a wide smile, full of humor. “You thought Rufus had created a villain’s lair here, and you’d burst in like James Bond? No, it’s simply my home. Yours too, now. So will you make peace with your brother?” When he didn’t answer, she added, “Take awhile to gather your thoughts. We’ve all the time in the world.”
No, we haven’t, thought Stevie. She bit her lip; she couldn’t stop thinking of Albin holding her friends in his subzero coils.
“There’s every luxury here. Treat the place as your home. We’ll make bedrooms ready for you. And Rufus will be patient until you’re ready to see him. Won’t you, Rufe?”
Rufus looked up with an expression that put Stevie in mind of Humphrey the spaniel gazing up at Frances: pure, melting adoration. “Only for you, goddess. Since you ask so sweetly, only for you.”
Stevie sat forward, addressing Aurata but not meeting her gaze, in case she saw a remnant of Fela in her eyes. She asked simply, “Please may I see Daniel now?”
Aurata came to her, caressed her arms and kissed her cheek. She was so lovely; the Fela-part of Stevie resonated to her irresistible warmth. She couldn’t help recalling that they’d shared a bed sometimes … so very long ago that the memory seemed unreal, yet was still strong enough to stir a flush of embarrassment.
“Yes, of course you can.” Her reply was cheerful. “Oliver? Please take Stephanie to the studio. I’d like to see Mist alone.”
* * *
“Touch the water,” said Aurata. “What do you notice?”
Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) Page 36