For a full minute she remained clinging to the steps, heart hammering – listening.
And then, just as she’d recovered enough to climb on, came a different cry: urgent, anxious, loving: ‘Aoife?’
She stiffened again, this time with joy – her heart overflowing with helpless love.
‘Aoife? Are you there? Wait for me!’ cried the dear, familiar voice.
Now hands and feet were climbing after her, through the green mist that swirled below.
‘Aoife!’ cried Shay’s voice. ‘I followed as quick as I could! Carla told me the way from Kilduff, and I climbed down to the cavern, and I swam the river and I was there in the forest when you flew overhead! I nearly got drowned, swimming back against that current, and there was a pooka, but I killed it with Mícheál Costello’s knife – I found it in the cavern, where Carla told me it would be, and I used it to cut the pooka’s throat! I love you, Aoife! I’m your shield and you are mine! Aoife, I’m here!’
Looking down, she could see him now – climbing eagerly towards her through the green-tinged dark – his face pale in the shadows; the solitary silver earring glinting high in his ear; his green eyes shining like a cat’s. Aoife waited, smiling helplessly at the sight of him as he drew nearer …
Then turned and climbed onwards.
‘Aoife!’ cried Shay in astonishment. ‘Come back!’
Coldly, Aoife climbed.
‘Aoife, please!’ The beloved voice, so bewildered. ‘Aoife, I’m still weak from the torture! Aoife, wait for me! I love you!’
Oh, Shay …
Keep climbing.
Supposing …
Supposing it really is …
Love was dragging her down like a stone.
‘Trust me, Aoife! Don’t leave me like you did before!’
How true. Last Halloween she’d abandoned him without a thought, thinking he was in love with another. And it had been the demon girl, and the demon girl had sucked out his heart.
‘I love you, Aoife!’ cried Shay. ‘I love you, don’t leave me! I’m weak, I’m in pain. Turn back, it’s me!’
She couldn’t do this.
She turned back.
He was nearly upon her, his gold-green eyes beautiful jewels in the dark. ‘Help me! I love you!’ He reached up his strong, square hand, seizing her naked ankle …
And the dark, ancient creature summoned all its cold, self-serving strength, and fired every last drop of its power full into Shay’s smiling upturned face. His blood splattered the walls, and he crashed backwards down the near-vertical steps, plunging instantly into the thick green mist below, like a stone into a well.
And Aoife turned back and climbed on, sobbing, weeping, consumed by the horror of what she had just done.
Please God, let that not have been Shay.
Dragging herself upwards, metre after metre.
Let that not have been Shay. I need to go back, to make sure.
Up.
Or else let me die, right here, right now.
Up. Up. Up.
She had to get to Kilduff. How long had she been climbing? It felt like hours. She was exhausted with grief and weeping.
Up. Up. Up. A kilometre or more.
And then, agonizing pain. Flashing lights in her brain. She had hit her head against rock. In panic, she felt around above her. The stairway was blocked. Despair. So she had come the wrong way after all.
Now she would have to climb all the way back down to the cavern, and try again. But that would take so long. By the time she got to Kilduff, the grogoch would have destroyed the town; killed her family.
Carla.
Shay.
If Shay wasn’t dead already.
At least, when she reached the cavern again, she would know for sure if it had been a pooka that she’d killed in self-defence. But what if it was Shay, lying there broken at the foot of the stairs?
She scrambled downwards, weeping.
If it was Shay’s corpse lying at the foot of the stairwell, then maybe she wouldn’t return to Kilduff at all. She would lie down beside him until another pooka found and ate them both, and they would be reborn, and maybe they would know each other in the next life and end up spending it together, roaming the ruined underground city, eating rats.
Ding, dong.
She stopped – heart in her mouth.
Ding, dong.
A bell, this deep beneath the earth?
Ding, dong.
Kilduff church.
Hauling herself back up again, sobbing now with relief, Aoife prodded around, feeling the rock above her head. If she was really this close, then how had she hit rock? She’d been expecting an iron grille, but this … She scrabbled with her fingernails until they bled. Her silver blood shone – casting an aura of shadowy light. Pale, crumbling stone …
Not stone. Concrete.
John McCarthy had been very, very thorough.
Now all she had to do was to dig her way round the concrete blockage.
Oh God, it would take her hours.
But barely had she started when she put her hand into a wide hole. Hardly daring to hope, she thrust in her arm. It went in deep; she couldn’t feel the end. Some creature had tunnelled into the earth. Hauling herself into the hole, she followed its path – forcing herself along the soft, narrow tunnel, which sloped steeply upwards.
Ding, dong.
She stopped, fingers dug into the earth floor, listening again.
The bell went silent.
And in that silence she could hear a different sound – a soft scuffling a long way ahead of her. The sound of a creature digging its way up through the earth. Crumbs of soil pattering down onto her upturned face. Aoife held her breath. A fox? Or a badger? A cornered badger was as dangerous as any demon: if it seized her by the face, its teeth sank into her cheek and jaw, it wouldn’t let go until it felt the bones of her skull crack …
But then she smelled fish, and knew it was the otter.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The big brown otter was curled up at the end of tunnel, eating its fish down to the skeleton. When Aoife arrived, it politely offered her the fish-head, just as Mícheál Costello had once offered her one of his precious Kimberley biscuits. With equal politeness, she took the slimy gift – between finger and thumb.
She whispered, ‘Thank you for this and for everything, Mícheál. One more favour – Peter’s on his way here in your boat, and I’m sure he could do with some help.’
Wiping its mouth on the back of its paw, the otter winked and was gone with a flick of its broad, flat tail.
As soon as Mícheál had disappeared, Aoife hastily buried the stinking fish-head in the dirt. Then she rolled onto her back to stare upwards. Thin rays of daylight cut down through gaps between massive rectangular stones. Listening hard, she could hear a muted rustling, as of a crowd of people trying to keep very still.
People hiding. From grogoch?
She pushed gently at the flagstone above her.
A baby wailed and anxious voices hushed it: Sssh.
Aoife pushed little harder. The flagstone loosened and slid stealthily to one side. Very cautiously, Aoife lifted her head and peered out of the narrow hole. And found herself staring straight at a woman veiled in white who, on seeing Aoife at her feet, uttered a high-pitched, unearthly scream.
‘What the feck—?’ John Joe Foley was also glaring down into the hole at Aoife – breathtakingly good-looking in top hat and tails. And there at his shoulder, also in top hat and tails, and twice as handsome again as his older brother …
‘Shay! Oh, Shay!’ Bursting with joy, Aoife leaped from the hole (at the same time as the church organ exploded into life – being played very loud, fast and extremely badly) and threw her arms round John Joe’s younger brother. ‘Shay, you’re alive! You’re alive! You’re alive!’
Shay crushed her to him, pressing his lips to hers. ‘I can’t believe this. I thought you’d left me for ever …’
‘I would never leave you!
I love you!’ And the other, warmer Aoife rose to meet his kiss, drinking in his lenanshee love, smothering the ancient fairy who less than an hour before had been so determined to survive that it had risked murdering this beloved boy with a blast of cold, cruel power …
In the aisle, the bride was having a fit: ‘This wedding cost me a fortune and it took me six months to organize and I’m not having it ruined by yet another stupid ginger teenager coming back from the fairy world to annoy me!’
‘You heard her – settle down!’ roared the groom at his besotted brother.
Grinning, Shay grabbed Aoife by the hand and pulled her past a handsome red-headed lad in a velvet suit (Ultan McNeal!) who was sitting in the bridal pew beside a very old man. He set her standing out of the way against a pillar. ‘Wait here for me. And don’t move.’
‘I won’t!’
‘No matter how long this takes.’
‘I promise!’
He hurried back to the altar, where Grainne was having another bad moment: ‘Where’s that Father Leahy? Why isn’t he here? Shay, you’re the best man! Go and tell him we’re waiting!’
Shay, after a puzzled glance around, went to a door beside the altar, opened it and strode down the passage that led to the vestry.
Sweeping back her veil, Grainne glared up at the balcony: ‘Mrs McClasky, who told you to stop playing?’
The organ – which had gone mercifully quiet – started up again, played even faster and even worse.
In the interval, Aoife peered round the pillar to see who was here that she knew. The simple stone church was unrecognizable: a fairy cathedral draped in roses and jewels; curtains of honeysuckle; wild jasmine climbing pillars; tall silver candlesticks burning with ghostly bluebell light; silver flower-buckets stocked with butter-yellow irises. In the pews were hordes of people she didn’t even know: truly gorgeous lads in fine suits and buttonholes; stunning women in elaborate fascinators; delicately pretty children …
Seconds later, she realized in amazement that she did know everyone. The whole of Kilduff was here, young and old, yet they were all looking so much more handsome and healthy than before. Not just because of their wedding finery, but somehow literally more beautiful, as if a magic hand had been at work.
It had.
The three front pews on the groom’s side were crammed with lenanshees – including, of course, John Joe and Shay’s mother, Eimhear (once Moira Foley, whose name was on a gravestone outside in the graveyard). And now that Aoife’s eyes had adjusted to the new, altered reality she could see her own parents – her father’s hair no longer grey but black again; her mother’s face slim and youthful – trapped in the middle of a crowded pew, but beaming with love and waving madly at her, beckoning her to join them.
Eva was jumping up and down in her seat, as pretty as ever!
And Carla’s family were sat behind her own: Teresa Gilvarry, Dianne and Noel Heffernan, little Zoe. Only, there was an empty seat where Carla should have been …
There she was! In a beautiful rose-silk dress, her hair freshly blonde – looking entirely herself because she was so naturally beautiful – clambering over the pews with no regard for wedding etiquette, trampling over people’s knees, denting top hats, knocking off fascinators.
After waving at her, Aoife glanced towards the open door beside the altar, wondering where Shay had got to with Father Leahy. A small orange figure was standing in the entrance, rubbing its child-sized hands together.
‘Why you filthy little—!’ Aoife exploded across the transept, sending the little half-human fairy screeching down the passage to the vestry door. It got there just ahead of her, slamming and locking it in her face. It was an iron lock – and she couldn’t open it. The last of Killian’s heart must have drained from her lenanshee veins. In fury, she crashed her fists against the oak, barely denting it, as John Joe came hurtling through the door from the church, howling in rage, ‘Why are you trying to ruin my Grainne’s day? Do you know how much this wedding cost that poor girl?’
Aoife yelled back, ‘Demons in the vestry!’
‘Oh, for— They got through the circle?’ Transformed in an instant from fiancé to the mighty fighter who had stood firm against so many sluagh – ‘Stand back!’ – John Joe stripped off his jacket and punched a fist-shaped hole through the panel; he reached in his hand to turn the key, and flung the door open.
The small stone room was overrun with the hairy orange creatures, shredding cassocks, pissing on prayer books and Bibles, ripping open hundreds of cans of food which for some reason were stored in boxes along the walls. The priest was lying face down in the middle of the carpet, his vestments ripped to shreds. More grogoch were beating at him with the iron tongs and iron poker from the vestry fireplace, and stabbing at him brutally with a sharp toasting fork, which the poor man often used to make himself a little toast in winter. Shay was trying to protect the priest with his own body, but he was slowly collapsing under the sheer number of demons swarming over him, scratching and biting and pulling at his hair …
With a cry of rage, John Joe piled in – seizing two grogoch at a time, whirling them around by their scrawny arms and smashing their skulls against the stone floor. Aoife hung back for a moment, uncertain if it was safe to use her power in such a confined space …
‘Get out of my way!’ yelled Ultan, appearing in the doorway in his ridiculous velvet suit. ‘I know how to do this!’ He had his hands raised over his head; smoke streamed from his fingers in long black plumes. Within seconds, the small room filled with choking fog and every surviving grogoch were vomiting and writhing around, clutching their throats: ‘Eeech! Eeech!’
Leaving Father Leahy to John Joe, Aoife seized Shay – who was streaming blood from bites to his face and neck, and now retching violently from the foul-smelling smoke – and dragged him back out into the passage. Carla had just arrived, staring open-mouthed at the black clouds belching from the vestry. ‘Aaagh, it’s a fire! I’ll go and get everybody out!’
Aoife cried, ‘No, don’t let anyone leave!’
‘But it’s a fire!’
‘It’s not a fire! It’s Ultan fighting the demons!’
Carla shrieked: ‘Demons?’
‘Grogoch!’
For some reason, this instantly calmed Carla down: ‘Grogoch? Oh, thank God, that explains it, nothing works against grogoch …’
‘What do you mean, thank God? They’re dangerous! We need to stop them coming round the front!’
‘OK, I’ll go and lock the doors!’ Carla spun on her heel to run – but then turned back again, babbling very quickly, ‘Sorry, but first I have to ask – is Killian OK? The reason I ask is, he left a note saying you were running away to the fairy world together because you were in love.’
Aoife’s heart sank. ‘Oh, Carla.’
Carla held up her hand sharply. ‘It’s fine! I trust you, I’m not making the same mistake as last time with the pooka, but I really need you to tell me he’s alive and he’s coming home.’
‘Oh, Carla …’
‘Aoife, is he alive and coming home – yes or no?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you.’ Carla hugged her briefly, and was gone.
Left alone with Shay, Aoife pulled the farmer’s son further up the passage, away from the smoke, then pushed him against the wall and kissed his face and neck, healing his wounds. How different from the terrible, murderous way she had kissed Killian Doherty. Yet Killian himself had been a murderer, drenched in the blood of the innocent. Poor Carla, poor Carla …
Shay murmured, ‘Aoife.’
‘Stay here.’ Before he could recover enough to stop her, she fled back to the vestry. Ultan was slumped just inside the doorway – clearly having gassed himself in his enthusiasm. Dragging his unconscious body out of the way, Aoife plunged back into the thick smoke. In the middle of the room, she stumbled over another prostrate form – John Joe. Ugh. Sometimes Ultan’s power was more of a liability than a help. She pulled the big man by
his feet out into the passage, took another deep breath, then raced back in to find Father Leahy.
Feeling around on the carpet in the black smog …
Nothing.
Desperate for air, she patted around the walls for the side door – found it and threw it open. Outside was a peaceful autumn scene – a crisp late-October day; rooks circling in the clear blue sky. Not a grogoch in sight. Nor a priest. Only the sad rooks circling the ancient yew tree, cawing.
Circling.
Cawing.
With sinking heart, she raised her eyes …
Father Leahy was strung up in the depths of the dark green tree, suspended from a sagging branch by his shredded priestly robes, twisting a little in the cool autumnal air. And clearly dead.
The poor, foolish, doubting priest.
‘Come out, you cowardly little murderers!’ she screamed across the graveyard. In eager answer to her challenge, a grinning gang of grogoch burst out from behind the tombstones and headed directly for her.
Strong hands dragged her back into the vestry. Shay cried, ‘Lock the door! They’re tougher than they look!’
‘No, I have to kill them!’ Shaking him off, she rushed back outside and fired volley after volley of vengeful power – bolts crackling like black and gold forked lightning through the air – sending the hairy orange bodies flying. She had so much more strength than before. She didn’t seem to need to recharge. She’d turned sixteen in this world, since she’d been gone. Oh, the freedom of it!
The grogoch were racing away from her now, but not leaving – instead, they were circling through the graves again, making for the main body of the church, launching themselves, scrambling up the stones of the ancient walls towards the lead-paned windows, smashing through the stained glass.
Rushing past Shay in the vestry – ‘Lock the door behind me!’ – she tore back down the passageway, leaping over Ultan and John Joe’s slowly reviving bodies.
In the church was screaming mayhem. Coloured glass was showering down on the heads of the congregation; people were crouching between the pews, hands over their heads; others were jamming the aisle, trying to get out. Having locked both sets of double doors at the front of the church – ancient wood and modern glass – Carla was standing at the top of the aisle with her arms spread wide, shouting authoritatively: ‘Sorry, no, you can’t go out there, sorry, there’s too many demons – awful priest-hating ones! I’ve read somewhere that they’re shocking in packs but not too bad if you take them on one at a time! Use anything as a weapon!’
The Hawthorn Crown Page 27