Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) (11 page)

She smiled. “To everyone except your mum, and maybe your dad, too. Andy’s father couldn’t keep a straight face.”

“Don’t say anything. Please don’t say anything!”

“Hey, calm down. Not a word. How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Got someone special?”

Red blotches spread into his pale cheeks. “Yeah. My business partner in California.”

“So pretty soon you have to tell her the truth. It’s for the best. Put a stop to the excruciating matchmaking attempts.”

He groaned. “Yes, I know. I think she knows, secretly. But we’re Catholics; denial is her default setting. If I sit down and tell her, all her illusions come crashing down.”

“I’m sure she’ll survive,” Stevie said crisply.

“Hey, you know, it’s really nice meeting you,” Patrick said, sounding more relaxed. “Any time you’re in the States, you have to call me and we’ll meet up. I’ll write down my phone number. Promise?”

“It’s a deal,” she said, knowing she’d never go. No time, no confidence. Also, no passport.

The day rolled into evening, full of games and chocolates and cakes and more drinks, overexcited children, too much television. By nine o’clock, Stevie was exhausted. She made her excuses.

“Andy will drive you home,” said Fin.

“You’re kidding. He’s more drunk than you are. And it’s only ten minutes’ walk.”

“Fifteen. He and Patrick can walk with you then.”

“There’s no need. Please. I promise not to get murdered.”

“How’re you fixed for tomorrow?” The question was too polite. Stevie knew the score. Fin knew she was alone, and found it a pleasure to invite her on one special day. But for the entire holiday season? That was different. There was a line where genuine sociability edged into obligation, a time to say enough and good night.

Stevie didn’t want to be treated as a charity case. They both knew, and acknowledged it with awkward, ironic smiles. “Tomorrow,” Stevie said, “I’m going to an old folks’ home.”

“I know how you feel.” Fin laughed. “My family has that effect on me, too.”

“They’re not that bad.” Stevie shared her amusement. “No, I go a few times a year. I help to serve party lunches, blow up balloons, all that festive stuff.”

“You kept that quiet.”

It was on the tip of Stevie’s tongue to add that there was a reason. In the foster home where she’d stayed the longest, the only person who’d shown her any understanding was the grandmother, Nanny Peg as they’d called her. Now Peg was small and frail and in a care home, but Stevie visited her even though Peg often did not remember who she was. Tomorrow she would sit and hold Nanny Peg’s hand and stroke her white hair. Not for the first time, Stevie felt guilty that she didn’t visit more often.

She didn’t say this to Fin, because that might have led to explaining an episode of her life she was always trying to forget.

“Anyway, I must get home to the ghost cat. Even though she’s departed the earthly plane, she still gets mad if I leave her alone for too long.”

“You and your ghostly cat!” said Fin, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, I don’t know whether to laugh or call a psychiatrist!”

“Stevie’s cat is a ghost?” exclaimed Fin’s daughter from the hall doorway.

“It’s a joke,” Fin replied. “Don’t start pestering her. Night, Stevie. Happy Christmas, take care.”

“See you in the New Year.”

They hugged. Stevie closed the door on the treasure box of light, tinsel and merriment, and stepped out into the quiet, dark night.

*   *   *

Night fell. Rufus and Orla lay close together without touching, still fully clothed, gazing into each other’s eyes. Her tent was considerably better-appointed than his had been, with an air-filled mattress to cushion them. Her sleeping bag lay loosely over their bodies as an extra layer against the growing chill of the night.

For hours they’d labored to help the victims of the earthquake, but the human world no longer seemed real. All the time, their eyes had been on each other, waiting for this. How incredible, Rufus thought, that their intimacy had once been so easy and natural: even more so, for bordering on the illicit. Now they daren’t touch each other. Their last encounter had been such a long, long time ago … He’d never dared dream they would meet again.

Among modern human societies, their relationship would have been considered beyond sinful: an absolute taboo. Even in their own ancient, Aetherial civilization of the Felynx, where morality had been very much more relaxed, there had been raised eyebrows—not to mention Mist’s quiet disapproval—that only inflamed their passion.

Orla touched a tongue to her lips. Her eyes glittered with fire—exactly as he remembered. Their auras mingled, heating the space between them until the ache of anticipation became unbearable. Yet neither of them made a move. Was Orla really
her
, or a perfect simulacrum, like Adam, sent to torture him? If she was real … he could barely believe this was happening … was it possible to recapture what they’d once shared? Perhaps they shouldn’t even try … yet her warm, alluring expression suggested otherwise.

The ground began to tremble with a prolonged aftershock.

“Now one of us should make a joke about the earth moving,” said Rufus.

“The earthquake is due to faulting within the lithosphere of the subducted Arabian Plate as it grinds beneath the convergent plate boundaries,” she murmured.

“I’m not sure that’s funny, but the way you say it sounds incredibly sexy.”

“Oh, it is.” She smiled, more with her eyes than her mouth.

They lay in silence, waiting for the movement to subside. Orla stared upward, as if absorbing every nuance. He still couldn’t believe that she’d become a scientist, a doctor, part of a team. That was true human camouflage. He’d never troubled to learn anything in particular, still less to attend a university or give any credence to human qualifications. She’d evolved, and he felt oddly inadequate. But, after all this time, who wouldn’t change? Even the ancient, timeless Felynx. The question was not whether they’d changed, but how much the changes actually mattered?

Now they were engaged in a strange dance around each other, both secretly knowing the truth but daring the other one to speak first.

“One of us should begin,” said Orla. “What are you thinking?”

Finally Rufus said, “I used to dream about you. You were calling to me from some kind of limbo with grey walls. Nine-tenths of me was sure you perished in Azantios, but the last tenth insisted that you must still exist … somewhere.”

He heard her release a small breath of exasperation. “Who do you think I am? Rufus, we both know, so why can’t we say it aloud?”

“It might break the magic,” he said softly.

Her eyes narrowed, irresistibly seductive. “Magic? Rufus, please. Is it gun-selling that’s turned you so romantic?”

“All right.” He paused. “It’s gentlemanly to go first, but I hesitate because I’ve made grave mistakes in the past. I was convinced I recognized someone, so convinced that I couldn’t accept I was monstrously wrong. Now I have the same feeling about you, but I don’t trust it.”

“This time, you probably should trust yourself, Rufus. I
have
been calling you. Gods, it took you long enough to hear me!”

“Calling…?” He stared into the deep fire of her eyes. “Tell me your real name. I’ve already told you mine.”

“No. You must say it; then I’ll tell you if you’re right.”

“This is turning into a game.”

“No game.” She trailed a finger from his shoulder to his elbow. Her voice was honey. “This is more important than you can imagine.”

Grinning, he leaned off the mattress and picked up her notebook and pen lying nearby. “All right, I’m going to write your true name on a piece of paper. Then you say it out loud, and we’ll see if it matches what I’ve written.”

Theatrically, she laughed and closed her eyes. “Fold it up and let me hold it, then. I don’t trust you not to scribble the name down as I speak, then swap bits of paper around. You’re an illusionist.”

“You’re not wrong,” he said. “You remember me, after all.” Turning his back to her, Rufus wrote her name, tore out the page and folded it three times to make sure she couldn’t feel an imprint. Then he slotted the paper between her thumb and forefinger. “There. Now say it.”

As she spoke, she opened her eyes and swiftly unfolded the note. “Aurata.” Together they looked at the name written in slanting letters,
Aurata
.

Rufus could barely breathe. “Sister,” he gasped. “Sweet sister.”

5

A Winter’s Trail

The arts center, jauntily named the Jellybean Factory, was a renovated 1930s printing works in North London. Stevie looked up at an expanse of red brick set with huge metal-framed windows. Fire escapes wound down from the upper floors into a courtyard landscaped with gravel areas and quirky sculptures. The look was industrial art-deco, ugly yet trendily urban at the same time.

A week into the New Year, this was the first day the center had been open after the Christmas break. Three hours of travel by train and taxi had left her cold, tired and hungry. Even the fake fur of her thrift-shop winter coat couldn’t keep out the chill. Drizzle was eroding a light coating of snow as she hurried across the courtyard to the glass double doors of the entrance.

How frustrating, that she’d never visited Daniel here while she had the chance. If only they’d talked, maybe she could have helped him.
Maybe.

Heat smothered her as she entered. She slid out of her coat and looked around at a vast, brightly lit gallery, with signs that pointed to a concert hall, function rooms, a filmmakers’ suite, art studios. She was reminded of the museum gift shop, albeit on grand scale. This place had the same minimal look of pale wood and bright track lighting.

Twenty or so visitors were studying the contents of display cases, admiring colorful canvases on the walls and freestanding sculptures. Racks of leaflets advertised cultural events. In one corner was an information desk. Stevie slipped straight past.

At the rear of the gallery she found signs pointing to a café, restrooms … and artists’ workshops. The arrow by Daniel’s name sent her up a flight of metal stairs to the next floor, where she followed a long walkway with balcony rails on her left overlooking the foyer below. On her right lay a row of individual studios, their interiors visible through glass panels.

Stevie passed a ceramics workshop, then a jewelry studio where a spiky-haired girl sat at a bench, directing a fierce blue flame onto some tiny item. She resisted the temptation to watch.

The third unit was the one she sought. She felt a pang of loss and anxiety on reading the name beside the door:
DANIEL MANIFOLD. ICONS FOR THE NEW AGE.

Stevie peered through the glass-paneled door. The only light was wintry gloom falling through wide factory windows. She saw a good-size space with high ceilings, walls of bare brick, cupboards, easels, stools, a drawing board. To the left, an inner door to a small utility room stood ajar.

The studio looked abandoned. Her spirits fell. She’d known all along this might be a wasted, and very expensive, journey.

She tried the door and was startled to find it unlocked.

“Danny?” she called softly, on the slim chance he’d returned. No answer. She draped her coat over a stool. Surfaces were scattered with dried-up tubes of paint. Cupboards stood with their doors open. A tangle of nylon rope lay on top of a low, wide cabinet amid rolls of sticky tape. A layer of fairy dust glinted, gold and silver, on every surface, betraying his fondness for metal leaf. In the side room she glimpsed empty shelving and a big white sink.

The sense of desertion was unbearably sad. Had Danny been in debt, or in danger?

Stevie felt like a thief as she walked around. The only clue found, as far as she knew, was his “goodbye” letter to Frances.

The softest noise … Her head jerked up. A rush of alarm overwhelmed her.

“Daniel?” she called out. “Who’s there?”

She felt an unseen presence in the side room. Her insides solidified to ice. Yes, she had a tendency to see specters—and the last thing she wanted to see was Danny’s ghost—but this was different. Real.

There was a heart-stopping pause. Then a figure moved into the doorway, as if taking shape out of air and dust. He’d been lurking behind the storeroom door all the time.

Not Daniel. This man was taller, with abundant inky-black hair brushing the shoulders of a dark overcoat. Wintry half-light illuminated a strong-boned face with a complexion as pale as the thin snowfall outside. Bright grey eyes, framed by thick eyebrows and long dark lashes, fixed her with an intense stare. Stevie felt faint with a head rush of terror and lust-at-first-sight combined. He was stunning, so damned attractive that even Fin’s brother Patrick seemed a troll in comparison.

Her lips parted in an involuntary O. There should be a law against a total stranger conveying such warm, velvety, almost supernatural allure. It wasn’t as if she’d never met a decent-looking male before, but this was different, a lightning strike. Never had she seen a stranger about whom she felt it would be perfectly reasonable to walk up to him, wrap her arms around his waist and introduce herself with a deep, hot kiss.

Not
reasonable. She mentally doused herself in cold water. His unblinking gaze disturbed her enough to cancel his outrageous masculine beauty.
Lights on, but who is home?

Stevie was long-practiced at presenting a cool front: her survival strategy. And the outer walkway overlooking the public foyer was only a few steps away, with a score of people below to hear a yell for help.

“Ahh.” She put a hand to her chest, making light of her shock. “I’d no idea anyone was here! I nearly went through the ceiling.”

“I apologize.” His voice was deep and gentle. He lowered his gaze. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I shouldn’t be here, so I made a futile attempt at hiding. Stupid. I’m sorry.”

“So, er … why are you here?” She tried to sound casual, subtly backing away until her hip collided with a corner of the low cabinet. She winced, suppressing eye-watering pain.