by Terry Madden
“Stars and stones,” he muttered in Ildana.
A scream sounded from the bedroom. Glass breaking. Bronwyn.
Dish met Iris and Elowen in the hallway, all hurrying to the bedroom. Bronwyn was frozen on a stepstool, broken glass surrounding her. And there in the middle of a throw rug with faded pink roses, sat a lizard-like thing the size of a cat.
“A salamander,” Elowen said with wonder. “In a jar.”
It was long and sleek with black skin spangled with brilliant gold spots. It reared up on its back legs and flared a fleshy collar out from its neck in a threatening manner. Its mouth gaped, revealing needle-like teeth. As it waved its forelimbs, Dish could see skin that spread taut between the four appendages, like the wings of a flying squirrel, but scarlet. It looked more like a small Komodo dragon than any salamander he’d ever seen.
“Shut the door,” he told Elowen. “Whatever it is, we can’t let it out.” He glanced at Bronwyn, frozen on the top step of the stool. “I think it’s time I explain a few things to you, Wyn.”
Iris had crawled onto the bed, and Elowen was talking to the creature as if it were a puppy.
Dish became aware of knocking at the front door, growing more persistent.
“Stay here,” he told them.
“But I can’t get down!” Bronwyn cried. “You’re not leaving me here!”
“Don’t let that thing get away,” he added, before exiting the room.
He opened the front door to face Alfred Trewin, the local inspector.
“Mr. Trewin,” Dish said, “what a surprise.”
“Not too surprising, I should think, Cavendish.” With that, he handed Dish pages of paper covered in very small type. “I’ve been issued a warrant to search your place.”
“Search? For what, may I ask?”
“The personal belongings of one Connor Patrick Quinn, last seen leaving the hostel in Madron village well before dawn on the day of Merryn Penhallow’s death.”
“You saw him yourself,” Dish said. “When you came to ask questions about her—her death, he was here, with me.”
“Exactly. The owner of the hostel told me that it was you, Mr. Cavendish, who came to collect Mr. Quinn’s personal effects and to check him out of his room, just two days later.”
“What are you implying, sir?”
“I’m implying nothing. I’m here to have a look around.” He nodded over his shoulder to the two men waiting beside the police car.
Dish swallowed hard. He thought of Connor’s rucksack full of clothes that he had asked Elowen to store in the shed. Not just clothes, but a gun. He hoped it was buried in boxes of books by now.
“Come in,” he said to Trewin. “We are in the process of sorting and packing up my aunt’s belongings.”
“You’re going to sell the place?”
“No, no. I’m considering moving back here. You can only take so much sun and palm trees.”
Trewin just gave him a scoffing grin.
“Iris?” Dish called to the back room. “Can you come here for a moment?” Then to Trewin, “She’s busy with some heavy boxes in the bedroom.”
After some moments, Iris emerged from the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Her eyes were wide, and her cheeks flushed from. What was that she was trying to say to Dish with her look?
“This is Connor’s girlfriend, Iris McCreary. Perhaps she can shed some light on his whereabouts for you, Mr. Trewin.”
“I should like to talk to you, but may I get my boys going with the search as we do?”
“Uh, uh, of course,” Dish muttered.
“Miss McCreary, shall we step outside?”
With a wave of his hand, Trewin sent the two officers into the house.
Dish felt sweat beading on his face as he pushed his chair to the porch. He glanced to the sheep shed to see Peavey standing there with a sack of feed in his hands. Peavey dropped the sack and tipped the brim of his cap to Dish. What was that supposed to mean? And what about the salamander? How could he possibly explain that?
Dish couldn’t hear what Trewin and Iris were saying, but she reached into her pocket and withdrew her cell phone, then held it up to him.
Dish became suddenly and intensely aware of the slim book sealed in a plastic bag that rested under his bum as if he were hiding it.
Entering the cottage, he found Bronwyn sitting on the sofa, her trembling hands locked together on her lap.
Dish whispered, “I’ll explain when I can.”
“Yes, you will.”
**
The explanation would have to wait for nearly two hours as Trewin and his men opened every box, every drawer, every cupboard. Their search of the shed took longer than the house, since Dish had been stacking boxes there. At last, Trewin approached Dish who sat beside Bronwyn in the drawing room, gave them both a tip of his cap, saying, “Thank you for your cooperation.” And then he was gone with his officers. Had he not found the rucksack in the shed? How could that be? And where was the bloody salamander?
“What did you say to him?” Dish asked Iris when Trewin had gone.
“I showed him a text message from Connor,” Iris said. “There’s an app to create fake messages with the appropriate time stamp. I just sent myself one from Connor’s phone, marked yesterday.”
“What did Trewin say to that?”
“His eyebrows just jumped a bit, and he made some notes in his notepad. I told him that I intended to leave tomorrow for Lancashire to meet Connor.”
“But if he checks the phone records, he’ll find out the message isn’t real.”
“Sure. If he does.”
“Where is Connor?” Bronwyn demanded, “and why would the police come to search Merryn’s house?”
“I only gave her the ten-second explanation of all this shit,” Iris said to Dish. “The rest is up to you.”
Suddenly realizing Elowen was gone, he said, “Where’s the salamander?”
“With Elowen,” Iris said.
Bronwyn interjected, “She climbed out the bedroom window with the beast in one of Merryn’s handbags.”
This was not exactly the introduction to his entanglements that Dish would have liked to offer his sister, but he carried on with the explanation.
He began, “Do you remember that well Connor found on the beach in Malibu six years ago?”
Iris served up a stiff cup of tea, and Bronwyn’s hands trembled as she listened to the whole story, from the auto accident in California to Dish’s waking in the Five Quarters, the war, the death, and now Connor’s disappearance and Elowen’s arrival. He failed to mention Angharad. She didn’t need to know about her just yet.
Dish concluded the confession with, “Merryn’s stories weren’t all fairytales, Wyn.”
“And Merryn believes she’s going back to that, that fairy land through the roots of a tree?”
“I think that’s safe to say.”
“And Inspector Trewin believes you murdered Connor.”
She was right. And the thought shook Dish to the core. What if Connor never found his way back. The circumstantial evidence might indeed point to Dish’s involvement in his disappearance. And yet, if the well were to open soon… then Connor may return, or Dish may cross over himself. Either way, Trewin’s search of the shed had failed to turn up Connor’s belongings, and Dish had no explanation for that.
“Without evidence,” Dish replied, “I can’t be charged.”
A knock sounded at the door once again, and Dish’s heart raced. “Bloody hell,” he whispered.
“Let me get it,” Iris said.
She opened the door to Mr. Peavey, standing there with Connor’s rucksack in his hands, saying, “We must find a better place for the American’s things.”
Chapter 19
Fiach was standing just outside the door of Talan’s quarters, demanding entrance. Demand. Who did he think he was? Talan had thrown the bolt, and unless Fiach planned to take an axe to the door, Talan would interrogate the man from the land of the
dead alone. Well, alone but for the odd-eyed green sister who had pledged her skills and wisdom to the Sunless. Talan thought the little man was a fool to trust her, and he could only hope that she would be his undoing.
Nesta was her name. She was fingering her necklace of claws, her mismatched eyes flitting about as she stood by the window, alternately gazing out at the assembled army of Ys beyond the city walls, and scrutinizing the strange man who stood in the center of the room, claiming to have come from the land of the dead.
Talan had ordered the man’s hands be tied behind his back, or the little man had, for he was at the helm of this body now. Talan just carried out orders like a groveling servant.
He was indeed of strange pallor. Talan paced around him. The clay-like appearance might have been produced by a thin coating of mud, and his claim to have been sent by Nechtan mere deception. But why?
Talan examined him from all sides. A big man, broad of shoulder and thick in the arms, like a warrior. Talan examined his hands. No callouses. Not a warrior, not a laborer. What then? A green man?
He wore a rusty old sword, and what was that tucked into his belt? Talan withdrew the stub of a green stone blade no longer than his middle finger. The edge was fine and clear and sharp.
“What is this?”
“A stone blade,” the gray man said. His name was Connor Quinn. “Made by ancient natives of my own world.”
“Your world? The land of the dead? Where Nechtan reigns?” What was this man after with this pretense? There was only one way to find out.
“Take off his clothes,” Talan ordered Nesta.
With a smile, she obliged. She untied his trousers and dropped them, then lifted the tunic over his head so it knotted behind his neck and caught on his bound wrists.
“Everything is gray, my lord,” she said.
It was clear he was gray most certainly, even his balls and the soles of his feet. Everything but those unsettling copper eyes. Talan poured a cup of mead over his shoulder and wiped at it. Nothing came away on the cloth. What kind of magic was this?
“May I get dressed?” he asked.
Talan nodded, and Nesta obliged, taking her time with it.
“Do you command an army, Connor Quinn?” the little man asked. And Talan suddenly hoped that perhaps Nechtan did indeed intend to send an army. An army of the dead. One that might free him of this usurping bastard. If he could but get a message to Connor and then to Nechtan, tell him that it wasn’t Talan who killed Nechtan, but the little man. But how?
“No,” the gray man said. “I came alone.”
Damn.
“Does Nechtan send you to reclaim his throne?”
He shook his head. “No, lord.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Nechtan bears you no ill will,” Connor said at last.
“Then why does he send you?” The question came from Nesta. “Or is the truth that you’ve not come from Nechtan at all, but you were sent by someone else? Or sent by no one?”
At last Connor seemed to find his voice. “Nechtan knows the Crooked One stirs.” He clearly chose his words with care, his eyes flitting to Nesta. “He knows the Sunless prepare to cross the third well and reenter this world.”
“And he plans to stop it, I gather?” the little man said with a laugh.
“Nechtan fears the Crooked One will use you, then cast you aside and bring his land to ruin.”
“The old god is restless,” Nesta said. She stood directly in front of Connor, gazing intently into those strange eyes, her hands on his cheeks. She was reading him, as the druada do.
Talan pushed her aside.
“Nechtan plans to cross with the Old Blood, does he not?” It was Talan speaking now, not the little man. He had his hands around his tongue, at least for a few moments. He clutched at Connor, whispered into his ear, “Nechtan must help me, don’t you see? You must help me.”
But it was too late.
The stirring inside was like a nest of snakes. The little man pulled the garrote tighter, and Talan choked, losing his control of the body’s tongue. Immobile behind his eyes, Talan was forced to watch as the little man clutched at the short stone blade. Before Talan could close his eyes, he’d raised it high and thrust it downward, stabbing at the gray man.
Connor cried out and fell away from the blade, but it caught his arm just above the elbow. His blood was as crimson as any man’s.
“Speak truth!” The little man croaked from Talan’s throat. “Nechtan conspires with the exiles. With the Old Blood.”
Connor rolled away. “No,” he cried. “He conspires with no one!”
“You lie!”
With knife raised once again, Talan lurched at Connor, but Nesta stepped between them.
“Stop!” she demanded. “This man is more important than you understand. He could be of great use.”
But as she spoke, Fiach’s guards splintered the locked door and burst into the room.
The green blade in Talan’s hand fell to the floor.
“This man is my guest,” Fiach said, kneeling beside Connor. “He’s under my protection.”
“As am I,” Talan said.
**
Darkness was falling when Nesta slipped into Talan’s bed. Her hands were warm as she stroked his limp serpent to wakefulness. The little man had been denied such pleasures in life, and now he took them with every opportunity. If Talan could squeeze the little man out with his seed and plant him in this woman, he might be free. And so he tried. And when she could no longer coax life from his cock, she slept. Perhaps if Talan cut it off, the little man would leave, his toy taken from him. He vowed to try it in the morning.
“You drained the bog?” he asked Nesta, rousing her from sleep.
“Aye, my lord.”
“And does he stir inside his stone?”
“So, he does. He waits for you to call him. Now he is free of the water chains that surrounded him.” She rested upon his chest, and he must have slept, for Angharad’s sleep potion demanded it.
It was late when Talan felt Nesta slip from his bed. He rolled over into the warmth of her place, for he could make no warmth himself. He was cold as a corpse. It wasn’t long before she returned. He felt her breasts pressing against his back, warm and firm. But the room was in darkness. He despised the darkness. It choked him.
“Light a rush,” he said to her. “’Tis dark.”
But her hands were on his back, a leg slid over his and she pushed him to his belly and straddled him, kneading his shoulders.
“I said, light a rush.”
“I like the darkness,” she whispered, her fingers knotted in his hair. The voice was not Nesta’s, yet it was a voice he knew well.
He struggled to roll over, to perhaps see her in the dim light. But she held him down with force, stuffing his face into the pillow. “Nechtan has a message for you, my lord.”
She yanked his head back by his hair, and he felt the sharp sting of a blade at his throat.
He struggled to say, “You can’t kill what’s already dead.”
“My followers on the Isle of Glass should know.”
The laughter came out of him in great spurts. It was Lyleth. Back from the dead. Come for her revenge and her baby girl.
Talan found his own voice. “Oh please! Cut this little bastard out of me, Lyl!”
She forced his face into the pillow, and he felt the blade cut through veins and tendons and windpipe. Cut him out! Talan begged from deep inside. Cut him out of me and throw him on the floor!
But the only thing that came out of him was blood.
Talan managed to turn his head, and by the moonlight watched Lyleth back away, naked and bloody. She tripped over the gagged and bound Nesta who was struggling to get free.
Talan could feel the creatures congealing from his blood, creeping from the gash at his throat and spilling over the pillow onto the floor. He tried to scream, but a gurgle came forth with a spewing of white worms. The bed was alive with them. But
the little man began knitting his flesh back together just as he’d done before.
Still, Talan was not free.
A gasp wheezed through the wreckage of his throat. His heart convulsed, gaining a steady rhythm until it beat evenly once again. Lyleth had failed. Eternity filled Talan’s body with its sticky life. The stump of his soul gazed up from his bowels to the place where the little man had climbed. Talan had lost his hold on this flesh, and whatever was left of his mind surrendered to the will of the little man. He laughed at Talan, his cheeks vibrant with Talan’s sapped life, as he dropped his feces down to mix with the maggots.
Lyleth had failed. And now the little man was peeling the shell of the chrysalis away, freeing himself and leaving Talan to rot in his gut with the rest of the vermin.
The little man was speaking with Talan’s tongue, though his voice wheezed and gurgled as the sinews reformed, the muscle reknit and his windpipe closed. “You’re a fool.”
Lyleth lunged at him again, but the little man deflected her attack. His hands closed around her throat with a strength that came from somewhere else.
With Lyleth choking and struggling beneath him, he looked up to see Angharad standing in the doorway with a rushlight in her hand. The child screamed. The little man released Lyleth.
The guards would soon follow.
“Go,” the child told her mother. “Run.”
Lyleth scrambled to her feet, her hands to her throat. She croaked, “Not without you.”
“Do as I say, mother.” But the voice was not that of a child, but the wind moving through a forest, or a hive of bees in midsummer.
The surprise on Lyleth’s face said she hadn’t known who her daughter really was. Was she so blind?
And Lyleth was gone.
Angharad freed Nesta and met the guards at the door.
“Stop that woman!” Nesta demanded. “She tried to kill the king.”
“I just had a nightmare,” Angharad told the guards. “Nothing more. The king is safe.” Couldn’t they see the worms on the bed? On the floor?
But they listened to the child, the solás to the king, and gave no chase to Lyleth.