Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) (3 page)

Migraine. Epilepsy. Some kind of neurosis. We’ll try you on this drug, or that
 … She no longer spoke to doctors about these episodes. Their drugs had only made her worse. It couldn’t be the world that changed, revealing weird hidden dimensions. Therefore it must be her own malfunctioning brain.

A horn sounded, headlights flashed. Shock jolted her back to herself. She’d stepped into the road without looking, straight into the path of a car. The handles of her grocery bags bit into her palms. The driver swerved around her, gesticulating angrily, and the street was normal again. The spooky cobalt glow and malevolent stalkers vanished. Stevie let out a shaky breath and strode on.

A security man in a dark suit, standing in the doorway of a large diamond merchant, greeted her with a friendly “Evening, Stevie,” as if nothing had happened.

Nothing happened, nothing. Where was I? Daniel
 …

She quickened her pace along the slight downhill curve of the street until she reached the museum, a handsome nineteenth-century building fronted by a row of imposing arched windows. The sight of the place she loved steadied her, gave her a surge of pride, every time.

At the far end of the building, Stevie let herself through a steel gate to an alley that brought her into the rear yard. She climbed the fire escape and let herself into her apartment. Luxurious it wasn’t; she always felt a frisson of dismay at the brown linoleum and a tiny kitchen cramped under sloping ceilings. To the right, the small sitting room resembled student digs, with a threadbare carpet and sagging sofa. The colors were mostly faded browns and greens set against dingy white walls. However much she cleaned, a musty scent of damp hung around, reminding her of an attic.

Stevie had made no effort with the place, because it came with the job, and was not truly hers. Since she’d never had a proper home, she wasn’t sure how one should feel … With a brief shudder, she blocked out her murky memories of foster homes. The past was over, firmly rejected as if it had happened to someone else. The museum was her anchor now; the rooms above were merely somewhere to sleep.

She flicked lights on, turned on the television for background noise, discarded her wet outdoor clothing and wrapped herself in a thick cardigan. While her lasagna heated in the microwave, she sat on the sofa with a glass of white wine and booted up her laptop.

Danny might have a website. He might even have sent her a message.

She waited impatiently for the laptop to pick up a Wi-Fi signal from the museum office. Soon she was balancing a plate full of lasagna on her knees, eating with a fork in her right hand while manipulating the keyboard with her left.

She scanned a long list of spam, searching for the rare gem of a personal message. From Daniel, nothing.

There was only one address she recognized. From Dr. Tom Gregory, the message was headed, “Our meetings.”

A thin breath escaped between Stevie’s teeth as she clicked Read.

Dear Miss Silverwood, I’m dropping you a line to see how you are. I’m sorry that you couldn’t make our six-monthly follow-up—glancing at my calendar, I see that it’s nearly a year since we last spoke. Please do drop me a line or phone the office to make an appointment so I can fit you in before Christmas. You’ve made wonderful progress but I must emphasize the importance of continuity. It’s all too easy for clients to slip back into difficulties, so this is just a friendly reminder that I’m always here for you, a phone call away. I appreciate you are busy, but it is so important that we keep up our regular chats. I look forward to seeing you soon.

Yours,

Dr. Gregory

Stevie paused, feeling a small flame of annoyance in her stomach. She closed the message and pressed Delete.

The lasagna was a disappointing mush. She mentally kicked herself for forgetting to buy chocolate cookies. There might be a can of peaches in the cupboard. Perhaps she could mix the juice with her wine to create a sort of cut-price peach Bellini. Grimacing, she washed away the fatty cheese taste with more wine, undiluted.

She paused to watch the television news. There were floods devastating a Caribbean island, an earthquake near Pakistan’s mountainous border. Film was shown of people wandering about covered in dust, weeping, devastated. She changed the channel. Her throat tightened and she felt guilty for turning away, but there was so much devastation every day that her emotional reservoir was dry.

She opened her web browser and tapped Daniel’s name into the search engine.

There weren’t many results, but the most useful appeared at the top: a website for the Jellybean Factory, an arts and media cooperative in North London with studios, offices and function space to rent. It was so long since she’d heard from Daniel, over a year, she’d forgotten he worked there until the parcel came. She clicked the link, clicked again on “Daniel Manifold” in the list of artists in residence.

There was only one example of his work: a thumbnail of the triptych he’d sent her. The auburn-haired sorceress stood in all her mystical glory, one hand raising a crystal globe to the heavens, the other pointing to a boiling-yellow crack in the earth.

The title was
Aurata’s Promise
.

The accompanying text was minimal. “Daniel Manifold is a twenty-eight-year-old from the Midlands who works with a mixture of materials to create ‘Icons for the New Age.’” A few more words described his background, and noted that he’d been at the studio for two years. He was just a name in a long list of artists, designers, filmmakers. The only contact number was for the Jellybean Factory itself.

Stevie put her dirty plate in the sink, picked up the telephone. She dialed, but got an answering machine; of course, they were probably closed by now.

Was it his own decision, to offer so little information? That was hardly great publicity. If he wanted the world to see his work, surely there were better ways. Websites, exhibitions … She took the folded note from a pocket and reread it.
Sorry can’t explain. D.

Just not right. Crawling anxiety threw the world off-kilter. The ceilings seemed to press down, and she glimpsed the pale shape again, like a tiny leopard lying, tail swishing, along the arm of the sofa.

It had to be a visual anomaly, seen from the corner of her eye. She’d even joked to Fin about her “ghost cat,” but the apparition always unsettled her. Not knowing what it
meant
, that was the worst. She half-wished she’d gone to Fin’s after all, rather than stay home alone with her neurological disorder and endless footage of natural disasters afflicting the world.

She took the phone and a second glass of wine into the bedroom, found her old address book in a bedside drawer. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she found the page and stared at Daniel’s home number in apprehension.

Shoving her nerves aside, she dialed. Five rings …

“Yes?” snapped a female voice at the other end.

It was Daniel’s mother. The familiarity of her voice brought back sharp memories. By reflex Stevie became her polite, deferential student-self again.

“Is—I’m really sorry to disturb you, but I don’t suppose Daniel is there, is he, please?”

“What?
What?
” the voice lashed back. “Who is this?”

Stevie was taken aback, unsure how to respond. “Am I speaking to Professor Manifold?”

“Yes, this is she. And you are—?”

“Stevie Silverwood. I went to college with Daniel. I’m sorry if I’ve called at an awkward time, but is he there?”

There was a protracted silence at the other end, a dry intake of breath. “No, I’m afraid he isn’t. I thought you would have … but I couldn’t expect everyone to be aware … No, he’s not here.”

“Do you remember me?”

Again the clipped tone. “Yes, I remember you, Stephanie.”

“Do you know how I can get in touch with him? He’s sent me a painting without any explanation. I can’t find an email address for him, only the number for his London studio, but there’s no one there.”

“He sent you a painting?” The voice crackled with disbelief. “When? Did you see him?”

“No, a courier delivered it tonight, about five. It was sent last Thursday, I think. There was just a brief note asking me to exhibit the work. It’s odd, because we hadn’t discussed an exhibition. We’ve been in touch maybe once a year since college, if that. His work arrived out of the blue.”

“I see.” There was a pause and a couple of faint gulping noises. Stevie realized in consternation that Daniel’s mother was wrestling with tears. Stevie remembered her as a no-nonsense type; brisk, arid and intimidating. Not the sort to break down easily.

Stevie asked softly, “What’s wrong? Has something happened to him?”

She heard a faint crackle at the other end: a dry tongue trying to moisten drier lips. Eventually the professor spoke, her voice shaky but controlled. “Stephanie, could you possibly come and see me?”

The request was startling. The Frances Manifold she remembered had no time for her. She would never have issued an invitation to visit, not socially, and certainly not as a cry for help.

“Yes, of course, but can you tell me anything?”

“It won’t do over the phone,” came the brittle answer. “We need to talk face-to-face. I’m sitting here with a letter from him in my hand.” Another pause. “My son’s gone missing. I’m … I’m terribly afraid this might be a suicide note.”

2

Sea Birth

Mistangamesh stood on the shore, reborn.

His reflection hung suspended in the wet sand. The sea from which he’d emerged lay as sleek as jade under the setting sun. Salt water rolled from his sodden black hair, plastering to his body what was left of his shirt and trousers. Seaweed trailed from him.

He looked up and saw gulls wheeling in the air currents, the only sign of life above the empty beach. His memories flickered, like a silent film projected onto fog—lives lived by someone else—yet he remembered everything.

In a previous existence, he’d thought himself to be a man called Adam who’d endured a hundred years of suffering, ended by a cliff fall. Yet he hadn’t found death, exactly, but a sea change. So he wasn’t human after all. He was Aetherial, a creature of the Aelyr race.

Only a few hours ago, he’d been rolling on the ocean bed at the tide’s mercy. His sense of being dead, yet aware and all-seeing, had seemed natural. It was said that the resting soul-essence of each Aelyr spread throughout space and time, and he believed it. He’d found peace.

And then came the wrench. All the scattered parts of him rushed together and he surged back to life, fighting the cold weight of the ocean, exploding upwards through the foam into a world of violent sensation.

Reborn in his true Aetherial form. Washed clean by the sea.

A long swim from the ocean depths had drained him and his legs felt too heavy to bear him up. His eyes dazzled and stung. His heart labored, the raw air hurt his lungs … and yet it felt so good to be alive. He relished every sensation, even the wet cling of his clothes and the sea breeze drying salt on his skin. Mistangamesh stood poised on the threshold between land and sea, between surface world and Spiral, life and death.

And there was no sign of Rufus.

This was the first time he’d ever felt free of his eternal tormentor, his brother, Rufus Dionys Ephenaestus. For thousands of years they’d feuded, beginning in the lost glory of their Aetherial past and continuing through human history. Now, at last, he had the choice to walk away, vanish, never to see his brother’s beautiful, cruel face again. For a second or two, his heart soared.

Mist pushed back dripping hair from his face and groaned.

“Not free,” he said to the sky. “As long as Rufus is out in the world, it’s still my duty to find him and stop him.”

The thought of his brother was vivid and hard-edged. Their eternal feud: sharp images of betrayal, blood and grief: obsession, tangled in coils of love and loathing … so much business unfinished. Every time Mist thought the game was over, it began again.

Perhaps
, he thought,
this time on my terms.

He turned and began to walk along the shore.

*   *   *

Reality bit as he found a steep path to take him up the cliffs. Aetheric energy and the altered reality of the Dusklands had cocooned him when he first rose from the tide. Now clouds obliterated the sunset and he felt winter in the bitter, salty wind.

The climb brought him to a bleak landscape of hills coated with heather and stunted shrubs. All was grey. The ocean roared softly behind him. Ahead lay distant, dark lines of conifers.

His awakening Aelyr senses suggested that he was still in Scotland, albeit many miles from where he had fallen and drowned. He had no urge to return to Cairndonan House, where, in mortal form, he had lived for a time. Cairndonan was in the past.

He was different now. Someone new, yet ancient. And because Mist knew himself to be Aetherial, not human, he didn’t pause to worry that he was wet and frozen and looked like a shipwreck survivor, or that he had no money and no means of transport except his bare feet. He was above such concerns. He had strength enough simply to walk until he caught the skeins of Rufus’s aura.

And where was Rufus? Was he still doggedly searching, or had he given up at last? The harsh truth was that he was bound to find Mist eventually. He always did.

For that reason alone, Mist needed to find Rufus first. It wasn’t a question of revenge. His duty was a promise made thousands of years ago, a vow to halt Rufus’s endless rampage of destruction. If Mist did not try, no one would.

Where to start? In the vast, darkening landscape he was lost, but if he kept the coastline on his right and kept walking, he would be traveling south, towards England and the big cities that Rufus had always loved.

His brother could be anywhere by now. Paris, Vienna, Moscow—who knew? London was the obvious place to begin.

Once he found Rufus, then he would know what to do next.

Mist walked in a trance, suffering the shock of rebirth and not considering that a walk of five hundred miles or more was unrealistic, even for an Aetherial. How long had passed since they’d been together? It might have been days or months. Did Rufus actually believe him to be dead this time?