Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) (12 page)

“I was looking for Daniel Manifold.”

“Me too,” she said. “Do you know him?”

The stranger’s expression relaxed into a slight smile that made him appear more human. “No. I was hoping to meet him.”

“A fan of his work?” she asked warily.

“An admirer.” Evasive. That was not good. “Do you know where he is?” he asked. “Are you a member of staff?”

“No to both. But I am a friend of his,” she said, uneasy. She owed this man no explanation of her presence, and was annoyed that she now couldn’t explore freely. “Did someone let you in? Has anyone told you why he left, or if he’s expected back?”

The man stepped towards her, his hands in his overcoat pockets. “No. I suppose I should have asked, but I found the door unlocked.”

“That’s strange.” Stevie felt protective of Daniel, certain she’d more right to be here than the shadowy intruder. “So, you didn’t contact him first? You just turned up?”

The stranger drew back at her assertive tone. “I’m afraid so. I saw his work on the Internet. I wanted to see it in reality.”

His deferential, quiet manner steadied her nerves. “I’m Stevie Silverwood.”

He hesitated. “Adam Leith. I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Silverwood.”

He held out a hand to shake hers, and she reciprocated. The old-world courtesy of the gesture took her aback. He gave out such an unsettling mixture of signals, she didn’t know what to make of him.

“Well, it looks as if he’s taken everything and gone.” She folded her arms. “Since you don’t know him, this isn’t your problem. Sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Adam Leith tilted his head and his smile grew friendlier. He managed this gesture without seeming remotely suggestive or threatening. Stevie felt another heat-rush, but checked herself sharply. She never flirted; it wasn’t in her nature. Friend or stranger, it was safest to trust no one.

“Have you been a fan of his for long?” she asked, crisp and business-like.

“Not long. I saw an image called
Aurata’s Promise
. I was intrigued.”

A small shiver went through her. She was not going to admit that she had the triptych.

“Well, I’m here on behalf of Daniel’s mother. She’s ill with worry. The police have found nothing yet, so I’m sleuthing instead.”

He frowned. For an awful moment, she thought he was going to reveal that he
was
a police officer. He only said, “I could help you.’

“But why would you want to?” Adam Leith was so evasive that she bristled with impatience, an antidote to risky feelings of attraction. “You’ve obviously been poking around.”

“Guilty,” he said softly. “I had no right.”

“And have you found anything?”

“Miss Silverwood…”

“Stevie.”

He gave a brief, dry laugh. “Everyone is so quick to use first names these days. I still can’t get used to it.”

“These days?” Again she was ambushed, in a pleasant way, by his unassuming good manners. “‘Miss Silverwood’ sounds like an ancient schoolteacher, so please…”

“As you wish.” He gave a gracious nod, with a touch of self-effacing humor.

“Adam, it’s obvious you know something. Tell me.”

“When I saw his work, I thought I recognized…”

He was struggling. She frowned, still suspicious. “What?”

“It’s complicated. And unbelievable. But … Stevie?” His friendly gaze turned serious. “D’you know if Daniel knew someone called Rufus Hart?”

“I’ve no idea,” she said. “Who’s Rufus Hart?”

He didn’t answer, but drew his left hand from his pocket to reveal a small sketchbook. “I found this. It had fallen behind the shelving in the side room.”

“You’ve really had a thorough look round, haven’t you?” she said acerbically. Accepting the book, she found it was an old one with yellowing pages. There were sketches of trees and animals, one of Frances and several of their house. And then—Stevie gasped to see it—the sketch he’d made of her, the very day they’d first met in the café.

Flipping pages, she found that the drawings grew stranger. Humans morphed into bizarre animals. There were detailed sketches of a thick stone disk, covered with Aztec-style carving. Next, leopard-like creatures raced on all fours through an unearthly stone landscape. Then came a monk tied to a stake, his head thrown back in anguish as flames engulfed him. Then a tall, thin mountain in a snowscape. The pencil lines were vague but trembling with energy. There were also dozens of thumbnail sketches for icons.

“I can’t believe he was still using the same old pad,” she murmured.

Looking over her shoulder, Adam flicked back to a page with a drawing of the stone tablet. “What is that?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I recognize it. But that’s impossible. I need to know why Daniel drew these things … it can’t be coincidence, but … it makes no sense.”

His words were cut short by the clunk of boot heels approaching. The door creaked open and a light flicked on, dazzling them both.

“Hello? Are you meant to be in here?”

It was the spiky-haired jeweler from the unit next door. She was tall and skinny, dressed all in black with a studded leather belt, her face and ears bristling with piercings. Stevie recalled the nameplate on her studio: Jan Lindeman.

“We’re looking for Daniel,” said Stevie. “You haven’t…”

“Well, you can see he’s not here,” the woman said sharply, folding her arms. “Unless you’ve got permission from management, you’re trespassing.”

“The door wasn’t locked,” said Stevie.

“It should have been. If you need to speak to someone official, I’ll take you downstairs; otherwise, you can’t be in here.”

Stevie confronted her, disregarding her stern attitude. She sensed Adam close beside her. “Do you have any idea why he left?”

“Friends of his, are you?” The jeweler’s blue eyes narrowed at Stevie. “You do look familiar. No, everyone here’s as much in the dark as you.”

“Didn’t he leave a forwarding address, or email?”

Jan shook her head, imperious. She angled herself toward the door, her message as plain as an Exit sign. Adam persisted, “Did he know someone called Rufus? Youngish-looking man with long brown hair?” He touched one hand to his hip. “Very long, reddish brown, slightly curly. He’s my height. Slim. Flamboyant. He’d wear bright clothing, colorful waistcoats…”

Jan’s mouth thinned. “No. Daniel had his share of visitors, but someone like that, I would have noticed. Look, the word is that he left because he couldn’t keep up the rent. Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s done a flit. These units aren’t cheap.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t do that,” said Stevie.

“Whatever. If
you
locate him…” Jan Lindeman broke off. She wagged a finger at Stevie and said, “Wait, I know where I’ve seen you. You run that museum in Birmingham Jewellery Quarter, don’t you? The place with the old factory, Soames & Salter?”

Great
, thought Stevie,
now Adam-the-weird-stranger knows where to find me.
“Erm, not single-handedly, but yes.”

Jan’s demeanor changed. Her piercings glinted as her face opened up in delight. “I
knew
I’d seen you before! Amazing place, I’ve been there twice. We never spoke, but I noticed you behind the counter.”

“That explains why you look familiar, too.” Stevie gave the warmest smile she could muster. “You know, if you’d like to display your work in our gift shop, just say the word.”

“I might take you up on that. Thanks.”

Stevie gathered her coat, tucking the sketchbook inside. She guessed she wouldn’t get much further, but she made one a last try. “You must have spoken to Daniel most days?”

“Only in passing. Everyone’s busy. Artists who stand around chatting don’t get anything made or sold. Daniel rarely came in. He was a sweet guy, but preoccupied.”

“Did you see his work?” Adam put in.

“Oh, yeah. Some of it was stunning. Like those old Eastern Orthodox icons, but when you look closely, it’s something else. The figures were like pagan gods, with animal heads and all sorts of weird things. Played with your mind. Very cool.”

Stevie persisted, “Did he seem depressed, or worried? Not his usual self?”

Jan laughed. “His usual self was crazy enough. We’re all workaholics here, but he took it to another level. Or should that be paintaholic? You probably know that the police were here. All they found was a letter for his mother.”

“I know,” said Stevie. “I tried to reassure her, but she’s worried it’s a suicide note.”

“God, I hope not,” Jan said softly. “Honestly, I’m not being obstructive. All I can say for sure is that he fell out with management because his opening hours were so erratic. I mean, he’d be here working, but he’d lock himself in and not let the public browse around. If you refuse to open, you don’t sell any work, right? And you can’t pay your way. The answer is usually the most obvious one.”

“All right, well…” Stevie looked firmly at Adam, giving him a clear cue to leave. Once they were on the walkway, Jan flicked off the light and shut the door. Stevie gave her a business card for the museum. “If you hear anything, please, will you let me know?”

“Absolutely I will. It’s been great meeting you, Stevie. Circumstances aside.”

A few minutes later, Stevie stood outside with her strange new friend, Adam, not knowing what to say to him, or how to shake him off. The wind blew sideways around the factory, stinging her face with darts of ice. She still didn’t know who he was, but thanks to Jan Lindeman, he now knew her address.

His face was half-lit by streetlights, and specks of snow gleamed on his hair. On a very base level, she would have been more than happy to take him home … The impulse felt downright disturbing, so she quashed it. Again.

“I’ll report back to his mother,” she said. “No news is good news, I suppose. And I’ll give her the sketchbook, since it’s rightfully hers until he comes back.”

“I do apologize for trying to take it,” he sighed.

“Thanks for being honest, anyway,” she said coolly.

She began to turn away, but he said, “Stevie, if you do find Daniel, will you let me know?”

Again she silently wondered what business it was of his. “How? Have you got email?”

His mouth twitched. She wondered why he found this funny. “No.”

“Phone number?”

Looking sheepish, he shook his head. “I really should get around to buying a phone.”

“Well, if you can’t be contacted, how can I? I won’t in any case, because I don’t know you. It’s a private family matter.”

“I understand,” he said. Before she could ask anything else, Adam was gone, melting away into the darkness through a swirl of fine, wet snow.

Stevie’s last stop was Daniel’s address, a couple of streets away. The tall, dilapidated Victorian town house appeared to be a shabby lodging house for students. There was a Room to Let sign in front. Having pictured him in a nice apartment, she felt shocked and sad to think that he’d been living in a single rented room. How lonely. She saw a scruffy-looking man, aged around seventy, dragging two full black garbage bags down a short flight of stone steps from the front door to the street. A dirty grey sweater strained over his beer gut.

“Excuse me,” she began. “Does Daniel Manifold live here?”

The man gave her a look of sneering disgust. “He owes me three weeks’ rent. Haven’t seen him for days.”

“He’s gone missing.”

“You’re telling me.”

“I’d like to take a look around his room.”

“Fergeddit,” growled the landlord. “After the police finished nosing around, I changed the lock. Everything he left behind is in these bags.”

“Can I take them?”

His bushy white brows jumped halfway up his forehead. “Yeah, do what you like, darlin’. It’s only rubbish. Believe me, if he’d left anything valuable, I’d have taken it. Not a sausage.”

“Any personal papers?” Stevie shivered in the snowy air.

“I dunno. It’s all in there, the crap he left behind.”

Impulsively she took a twenty-pound note from her purse and pushed it into his hand, realizing too late it was all she had left to pay for a taxi back to Euston Station. “Did he say where he was going? Did he have any visitors?”

He looked at the note and emitted a grunt. “He owed me a lot more than twenty quid.”

“I’m not paying his rent for him,” Stevie retorted. “I was hoping you’d tell me something. Did he have a girlfriend?”

“Never saw one. There was some bloke he used to kick around with.”

“What did he look like? A slim man with long brown hair?”

The landlord sniffed. “Nah. White hair up in spikes and an overcoat, like some old punk rocker. Called him Ollie, Oliver? That’s all I know.”

“Can’t you think of anything else?”

“Sorry, darlin’.” He pocketed the money and went stiff-legged up the steps to his front door. “Nothin’ else to tell.”

*   *   *

Rufus and Aurata spent two days amid the ruins, helping rescue teams haul survivors and corpses from fallen buildings, assisting in the medical tent, comforting children when the ground shuddered with aftershocks.

Rufus was not helping out of compassion. He was doing so entirely to be with his sister: to watch her, to learn what she’d become by imitating her. He felt like a phony, but this didn’t disturb him. He’d always been an illusionist.

More television crews arrived. Helicopters buzzed in and out, dropping supplies. Troops arrived to protect the aid workers—probably, he thought, from the tribesmen in the hills, whom Rufus had so lavishly equipped with weapons a few days earlier.

During her rest breaks, Aurata was out with her camera, recording the rifts that split the landscape. Or she’d rejoin her team of seismologists to examine data. Rufus kept out of that, since he had no interest in squiggles on graph paper.

How strange to find Aurata had become a scientist. She seemed so human and yet—when they were alone in her tent at night—she was still the beautiful creature he’d lost so many thousands of years ago. Her languid body language invited a resumption of their deliciously sordid, incestuous union … yet, although it half-killed him to hold back, he still dared not touch her.

An incredible stretch of time had passed; thirty thousand years, at the most conservative estimate. And he’d committed the vast and terrible crime of turning against his own family and civilization, and leading an army to crush their city, Azantios.