by D B Nielsen
Gabriel was waiting for me at the end of the circular driveway, near the front gate, a dim shadow I recognised more from the dignified manner in which he held his lean frame than anything else. His silver-grey eyes flashed in the darkness like diamonds as he let out a soft wolf whistle at my approach.
‘Tu es belle comme la lune, Sage.’
His compliment made me smile and, relieved, I felt the tension in my shoulders loosen infinitesimally. Ushering me through the already unbolted gate, which swung back easily on noiseless hinges – they had recently been greased so that the gate opened without a sound – Gabriel paused by the kerb and signalled to his driver. The low purr of his chauffeured sleek black town car accompanied the sudden flare of headlights as it rolled forward and Gabriel assisted me into the rear seat, climbing in behind me.
‘Let’s go,’ he instructed bluntly, a stiffness to his posture that made me realise he was assessing the stillness of the street; his head slowly circling from left to right as he watched the houses, doors, driveways and openings ahead.
I had never really noted the level of danger to either my sister or me, and only now realised that it was ever-present. Stupidly perhaps, I had assumed that it was more likely that I might have an accident in my own home than the greater threat posed to me by the Grigori. I supposed such complacency stemmed from two things – the assurance that the Anakim, especially St. John, were protecting me, and my belief that as the Wise One, the enemy had need of me because of my connection to the Seed. I knew now how naïve it was of me to have put such faith in so little.
It was strange to be moving stealthily through the streets of my neighbourhood in the relative darkness of the wee hours of morning. There were lights outside some of the houses along the streets we passed – streetlamps, porch lights, and solar garden lights – casting pale yellow and frosty white and blue pools of illumination where they hung over the sidewalks, front porches, gates and well-groomed gardens. It was another world, one of domesticity – far removed from the woods of the Kentish countryside and my own troubles.
It was calm and quiet too, almost eerily quiet. But over the rumble of the tyres, there were the occasional barking dog and throbbing of music from house parties, and the sounds of the night retreating with its fireflies and web spinners as morning gently awakened, coming sleepily to consciousness on this new Easter Day.
It was only when we gained the M25 that familiar sounds intruded. This was the beginning of the day for some – garbage collectors, truck drivers, the occasional delivery van or courier, minivans on the way to the airport before the crack of dawn.
By the time we reached Portman Square, the sun had begun its mystical journey from the east and there were the stirrings of daybreak; a faint tinted glow from the dawn as the sun still hovered below the horizon. And the diamond-lit velvet sky was noticeably paler as the stars began to wink and disappear, one by one, as we reached our destination at Home House.
Home House, even in the muted glow of twilight, was stunning. A row of eighteenth century Georgian terraces, the deceptively-conservative exterior gave way to its decadent, regal interior splendour. Outside it smacked of British Establishment, made manifest with the large number of security and checkpoint personnel, no doubt engaged by Isabella as an extra touch, manning the portico and standing uniform alongside the wrought-iron fence railings. A red carpet flowed down the steps and onto the sidewalk, partitioning the street.
‘Why the need for such a strong security presence?’ I asked Gabriel over my shoulder as his chauffeur assisted me out of the town car, wondering also how Isabella could afford such extravagant parties on her meagre salary – but then again, I knew almost nothing about her.
‘Fear of gate crashers?’ Gabriel said with a wink, obviously referring to himself and his comrades’ intentions. I smiled but Gabriel remained within the car. ‘Perhaps it is due to the presence of the Queen of Hell herself.’
‘The Queen of Hell? Isabella?’ I asked, my anxiety rising.
Gabriel’s answer was accompanied by a mocking smile. ‘Peut-être. The Countess of Home was a Jamaican-English heiress who earned the nickname “Queen of Hell” for her irascible behaviour and lavish parties. So beware, Sage. There is a murky history here.’
I shuddered, recalling the novel, Jane Eyre, and the similar background of the mad Bertha Mason.
‘Remember the plan, Sage,’ Gabriel cautioned. ‘Find St. John and get him out of there. Let us do the rest. And if you need help–’
‘I know, I know, don’t worry. Bon chance, Gabriel,’ I replied, stepping back and joining a file of guests in their finery, waiting to be escorted into the establishment proper.
I was swept along with the gathering throng, along the demarcated path of red velvet ropes firmly secured to evenly-spaced brass poles, which led up to the broad front steps of Home House. Surprised by the amount of people attending Isabella’s event, I realised she must have hired the entire row of three terraces that comprised the private club’s entirety. I followed along behind a group of dignitaries, the flickering lights cast from Home House’s upper-storey windows lighting our way.
The portico was manned by stern-looking check personnel who were marking guests’ names off an extensive list on their tablets. As the group in front of me cleared the entrance, I was halted by a broad, wooden-faced bouncer who didn’t even bother looking up as I drew near. It almost felt like he was contemptuous of Isabella’s guests, like he wasn’t even talking to any of us but going through a dull routine which was beneath him.
With a disturbingly familiar foreign accent, he demanded, ‘Name, please.’
He looked to be in his forties, and no doubt would have been considered handsome except for the prominent scar that ran across his cheek, from the corner of his right eye to his jaw; a thin, pale white line that tightened the skin around it. His features were even. His hair thick and dark and gleaming like a raven’s wing. His skin curiously, glowingly pale. He was exactly what I had expected ... and yet was not.
‘Sage Woods,’ I supplied automatically, instantly alert and fearful. I was on dangerous grounds here. Fear and anger warred within me, but I managed to rein in my emotions enough to remember that we had planned for this. Though I did not think to encounter danger quite so soon.
His night-black eyes immediately swept upwards, spearing me from head to toe, even as his unmindful companion said, ‘Signorina, there’s no Sage Woods on the list.’
‘B-b-but there must be. I have an invitation,’ I stammered, suddenly acutely conscious that I was holding up the queue and even more aware of the narrowing of the dark, hooded eyes of the guard before me into sharp, malicious slits.
And then I remembered, cursing myself for my folly. I’d burnt the invitation – without having RSVP’d. Brazening it out and stalling for time, I said, ‘If you’d just find my fiancé, St. John Rivers, I’m sure we can clear this up. He’s waiting for me inside.’
The all-too-familiar-looking guard stared me down. I held my ground – but only just. Then he briefly moved away, agile as a hunter. He stood to the side, in front of a large, faintly-scented, potted perennial shrub, to converse with the person on the other end of his Bluetooth earpiece, making my heart pound loudly in my chest, before he roughly gestured for me to follow him, ‘Please step this way, Signorina Woods.’
Don’t let him get you alone, Sage. Don’t let him take you. Fravashi. Fravashi. Fravashi, my instincts whispered a warning to me. Careful. Stick to the plan.
He smiled as if he knew what I was thinking, but although his lips curled upwards in the semblance of the real thing, I felt no warmth in it as he bared his sharp, white teeth like a wolf or vicious predator.
Inhaling deeply, I felt slightly faint. There was no way in hell I was following this man anywhere. Feeling frightened now, even more frightened than before, I swallowed nervously. The pensive moment held in the balance with a distant chill and the scent of something deadly and dangerous. He obviously wasn’t going to
make a scene in front of all these people – at least, not this time ... for whatever reason ... and I truly couldn’t fathom the reason why he was holding off – but clearly he had his orders and wanted to get me away from the crowd.
‘SAGE!’ A voice called from inside the entrance of Home House and, as my eyes flew up, I saw my dad’s younger colleague, Ted Boyle, loping down the stairs to collect me. ‘Good God! I didn’t expect to see you here! But, of course, how silly of me – I forgot about your engagement. St. John’s somewhere around here – I saw him about ten minutes ago with our lovely hostess.’ He folded my hand around his arm, staring down his nose at the security guard on duty and never even recognising the peril he was placing himself in for my sake. ‘For heaven’s sake, man, move aside. Can’t you see Miss Woods is with me?’
I was never so grateful for Ted Boyle’s gruff manner and allowed myself to be guided inside the establishment without once turning to look the Fravashi guard in the eye. Somehow – I don’t know quite how – I’d been saved by a guardian angel, and the Fravashi deliberately let me go. For the moment.
There was danger all around. But there were also the Anakim waiting in the wings. And here, in front of me, was a decent human being who did not know the terrible risk he had taken.
‘Thank you, Dr Boyle,’ I murmured tremulously, shooting him my most appreciative, winsome smile. ‘They couldn’t find my name on the list and didn’t want to let me in.’
He blinked, his pale blue eyes kind, and said rather humbly, ‘It was nothing. Think nothing of it.’
Still I persisted, feeling a need to offer some sort of explanation. ‘I suppose I could have called St. John but I ... er ... wanted it to be a surprise.’
At that, Ted Boyle smiled with a boyish charm that made him ever so slightly attractive – not in a drop-dead gorgeous Nephilim way, but in an ordinary, human way – surprising me.
‘I can see why,’ he commented, bashfulness written upon his broad, cheerful face, ‘you look extraordinarily lovely tonight, Sage. All grown up and quite stunning, if you don’t mind me saying.’
There was no chestnut curtain of hair to hide behind and so my blush was noticed. And yet it seemed to endear me to him all the more. He coughed awkwardly. And I was suddenly put in mind of Mr Bingley, Darcy’s friend – slightly less than Mr Darcy in every way – but so ... so nice.
‘Thank you, Dr Boyle.’
‘Ted. Call me Ted,’ he corrected as we stood, embarrassed, in the middle of the entrance foyer.
‘Thank you, Ted,’ I repeated with a pleasant smile. Then, turning to look around at the scores of people milling about, wandering through the rooms, talking, laughing, drinking champagne, eating canapés, standing in groups – all clearly waiting for something ... sunrise, Isabella, something – I sighed, ‘I guess I’d better find St. John. I’m sure he’s wondering what’s keeping me.’
And the spell of the moment was broken.
And the danger and urgency returned.
Ted Boyle released me, slightly ill at ease that he was still touching me, and so I gently removed my hand from where it rested upon his arm as I once again thanked him for his kindness. Wheeling about, I was uncertain which direction I should take and became aware of the Fravashi guard watching me pointedly from the exterior portico, though he made no move to close the distance between us. I shivered in response to his searing dark eyes, conscious of my vulnerability, even in this crowded room of people.
And then the oddest thing happened. My mind skittered away from the thought of the Fravashi guard and the threat he posed. I felt slightly dizzy, faint, and even as my conscious mind knew the Fravashi were waiting for their moment, surrounding me – where there was one, there were always more – my subconscious shied away from this thought, insistent, convincing me that it was not worth my bother. I tried to shake it, even as I became aware of the dozens of potted plants – urns filled with perennials, sprouting bell-shaped purple flowers and glossy black berries like the one outside – in every corner of the room, flowers exuding Isabella’s distinctive scent, and these plants were roped around Robert Adam’s iconic, winding Grand Staircase balustrade, climbing to reach the sumptuous neo-classical Drawing Rooms and beyond.
‘I suppose we should find St. John. Your fiancé must be worried about you by now,’ Ted was saying to me. But I wasn’t paying attention, looking around me anxiously, the room a whirling, bright blur, and didn’t immediately answer.
‘Sage?’ he asked again and, not receiving a response, reached out and touched me on the bare skin of my arm.
Startled, instantly alert, I started to say, ‘I–’ then stopped. I knew something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. My mind fought, refusing to accept whatever was being forced upon it. And though I had an immunity of sorts, it was a weakened one. I needed to get out of here immediately.
Again, Ted Boyle came to the rescue. Directing me towards the private courtyard garden where he claimed to have last seen St. John and Isabella, Ted was reluctant to let me wander about on my own. Somehow he managed to manoeuvre me outside and towards the fresh, early morning air. And somehow I tottered outside on my high heels and with a head filled with cotton wool, but managed not to collapse.
Breathing the fresh air in gratefully, I found the fog in my mind receding. I’d almost lost sight of what I was meant to do and what I was doing here.
‘Let me get you a drink. Champagne?’ he asked considerately, spotting an open bar.
I shook my head. ‘Water, please. Just plain water.’
He took his leave from me and, feeling a desperate need to move further away from the floral decorations, I wandered through the garden courtyard where a champagne and gold decorative Raj tent had been set up for the guests, with thickly woven, patterned rugs and silk cushions and low cube fabric chairs, like something out of an Arabian fantasy.
And flanking both sides were large pots of the same flowering plants.
I deliberately moved away from them in the opposite direction, finding myself wandering towards the high brick wall at the end of the garden, separating the courtyard from the street. Wanting privacy, I continued to amble dreamily, until I looked up at the jutting balcony above and stumbled to a halt.
Even in a tuxedo, I would have recognised that build anywhere. That arrogant manner that disturbed my equilibrium. And no one could mistake to whom those intense, lapis lazuli blue eyes belonged.
Finn! Finn was here!
Semyaza’s son wore his trademark scowl upon his handsome face, looking for all the world like a disinterested, aloof godling as he gazed out at the encroaching sunrise.
It would have been too much to hope that the rising sun would have burnt him to a cinder like a vampire but I wished it anyway, for Fi’s sake. But, even as I thought this, I reasoned that with Finn here, and the Fravashi here, then Louis and Semyaza could not be far away. Christ! What the hell had St. John got himself into? How was I going to extricate him from this? Yet even as I thought this, I knew I was being unfair. I doubted St. John thought the same about me – at least, I hoped not – every time I’d placed myself in danger.
‘Do you know that young man? A friend of yours?’ Ted had returned with my water and was now staring at Finn, following the direction of my arrested gaze.
‘Mine, no.’ My laugh was slightly bitter as I accepted the chilled goblet of water from his outstretched hand. ‘He and my sister were ... um ... friends.’
The statement ended on a high note, almost like a question, conveying my uncertainty. Actually, I had no idea what to call Fi’s relationship with Semyaza’s son. No, not true, I corrected myself. Perverse and twisted, came to mind.
‘Oh, I see.’ And I guess Ted Boyle did see. ‘Well, I don’t suppose you wish to talk to him then, even though he’s spotted you and now knows you’re here.’
My eyes immediately flew upwards. And I witnessed the moment Finn’s bright blue eyes fixed upon me and he realised exactly who I was.
He froze.
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nbsp; Suddenly, I was the object of his intense scrutiny. If it were possible, his pale face blanched and he looked like an alabaster statue – fierce and immobile – as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, couldn’t take it in, as if I wasn’t meant to be in attendance at Isabella’s party.
He quickly glanced over his shoulder and then looked back at me. Then his eyes briskly flicked left and right as if searching the gardens. Perhaps he had mistaken me for my sister. Or perhaps he was searching for her amongst the other guests. Or perhaps he was looking for someone else; such as his brother, Louis. This last notion was one I dreaded.
Then he was gone. He’d turned on his heel and left the balcony. I stood there a moment and realised I was trembling. Glancing over at Ted Boyle, he didn’t seem to notice anything strange about Finn’s behaviour; giving me a sympathetic smile. In return, I smiled distractedly at him. My mind was in a turmoil over this extraordinary encounter. But, thankfully, it had managed, along with the fresh air, to blow away the last of the cobwebs in my mind, and I knew that I had to find St. John – and find him quickly. He was in extraordinary danger – indeed, we all were.
On the pretext that I needed to use the powder room, I left Ted Boyle in the garden, placing my water goblet on the nearest table without having touched it, and made my way back into the house. By now, the aroma emanating from the plants was heavy and pungent, like the way the sea spray felt, carried on the wind at the beach, on certain seasonal days; clinging to exposed skin, and so clammy and thick you could smell and taste the saltiness of the humid air.
I tried not to breathe too deeply and kept my distance from the plants hammocked along the curving banister, careful not to touch them as I made my way upstairs. Above me, the ornate glass dome revealed the beauty of the dawn sky as the blue rinsed veil of night receded to a haloed warm glow, the colour of Dundee orange marmalade.