The Road to Bedlam: Courts of the Feyre, Book 2 (40 page)

    Who else could she be with? Would she return to the forest where she grew up? I could see her wanting to have her baby among the trees, to let him be part of the forest from the very beginning, but the tenuous safety there had failed her before. I could not see her relying solely on that.

    Maybe I was looking at this from the wrong angle. I was searching for Blackbird, or a place she would go, or a friend she would turn to. Maybe I needed to come at this from an entirely different direction.

    I placed my hand back on the mirror.

    "Deefnir?"

    I had only seen him once, hanging back as Raffmir came forward to greet me, but I remembered the sardonic curve of that lip, the foppish mop of black hair that fell over his eyes, the way his smile never reached his eyes.

    "Deefnir, where are you?"

    The mirror clouded then cleared. Into the room came a subtle shuffle and soft hush, the sound of outdoors. I was getting somewhere. I focused on the mirror, slowly increasing the connection, not wanting him to realise that I was listening in or trigger his defences, keeping it low profile.

    Wherever he was, it sounded remote. There was no buzz of cars or rumble of diesel engines, so if it was London then it was a park or a common. No, even then there would be the bark of distant motorbikes, the distant cry of sirens or the rumble of the jets turning for Heathrow. No, this was somewhere altogether more remote.

    If Deefnir wasn't in London then Blackbird wasn't either. Should I break off to pass this information to Garvin? The first question he would ask would be: "Where is he?"

    I concentrated, trying to decipher the layers of sound coming through the mirror. A breeze gusted, the grass rustling in response. Where there other rustlings behind that? The distant caw of crows echoed for a moment, but not nearby. A forest, maybe, but where was the sibilant hush of the breeze in the trees? No, this was in the open.

    There was a droning, a distant airplane maybe, except it didn't pass. Was it an air-conditioner? It didn't sound right for that. Maybe a car, but then why didn't it drive away? Wherever Deefnir was, he wasn't moving. Then a shout, tantalisingly short. Not near enough to recognise a voice or a word, but a sign that people were close by. He was watching someone, or something, but what?

    Now came the sound of movement, a sliding shuffle. Was he moving closer? What was he trying to do? Wherever he was, he was being cautious. What would make Deefnir cautious? What was there that he would be afraid of? He was wraithkin and pure-bred at that. There was little that would stand against him. What was causing him to hang back?

    The rumbling sound in the background rose in volume, a diesel rumble, but constant, not like a bus or a taxi. Was it a generator, or maybe a stationary vehicle? Then it came. The memory snapped into place. It was a tractor. Then came a sound I recognised, and I knew straightaway where he was. I could see it in my head. A baying bark, deep and full, followed by another. Two dogs, heckles up, legs braced: I could see them in my imagination, coats the colour of burnt honey bristling down their backs as they picked up the scent of the intruder. He was in Shropshire, at the farm owned by the Highsmith family, where Blackbird and I had gone last year to get the Quick Knife reforged for the Ceremony of the Quit Rents.

    I heard Deefnir turn and retreat, moving cautiously away from the unwanted attention, then accelerating as the sound of the barking increased. His pace increased until there was a steady padding and the sounds of the farm diminished, but I dropped my hand from the mirror. Now I knew where he was.

    The farm should have given it away, and with my rural upbringing I should have recognised the sound of a tractor, but what sealed it was the sound of the dogs, the two mastiffs that Jeff and Meg Highsmith kept on their farm in Shropshire. Their distinctive baying brought the memory back immediately, and if Deefnir was there, then so was Blackbird. It made sense. The place was steeped in iron. The Highsmiths knew about the Feyre and had their own ways of protecting themselves. I was surprised, though, that Meg Highsmith would take Blackbird in. As far as Meg was concerned, Blackbird was trouble that Meg didn't need. She was there, though. Why else would Deefnir be there?

    I needed to let Garvin know. I replaced my hand on the mirror.

    "Garvin? It's Niall."

    The sound from the mirror was of traffic, somewhere busy, maybe London or somewhere equally urban. "Garvin, can you hear me? It's Niall. I've found Deefnir." There was no response.

    I removed my hand, then placed it again. "Tate?"

    The sound of traffic re-emerged. Where you found one you found the other. What were they doing? I took my hand away again, letting the milky light fade from the mirror. Who to try next?

    "Fionh?" This time the mirror filled with milky light, but then quickly cleared leaving no sound at all. The mirror was completely silent. I wondered whether she was with the High Court, in which case it was no surprise to learn that it was not possible to eavesdrop on that conversation.

    I was running out of options. "Fellstamp?" This time a sound emerged immediately, the harsh drone of someone snoring. "Fellstamp? Wake up, it's Niall. I need to speak with you."

    The snoring continued its rasping rhythm. "Fellstamp! Wake up! I need your help!"

    There was no change. He seemed to be making more noise than I was.

    "Amber?" This time the mirror filled with a sour sickly green, the light pulsing in strange ways as it made strange clicks and ticks. Where on earth was she? The connection faltered and I let it drop.

    That left one more to try. "Slimgrin?" The mirror filled with light once more.

    This time the sound was outdoors. There was a hush of trees, the sound of leaves in the breeze. The raucous cry of rooks disturbed the quiet, their harsh accusing voices crying out of the sky. It felt open and wild; I could almost picture them circling around the trees, returning to roost in the evening light, cawing and calling to each other as they spiralled down.

    "Slimgrin, can you hear me? I need you to get a message to Garvin. Tell him Blackbird is in Shropshire with the Highsmiths. Deefnir's there too. Did you get that?"

    The only sounds were the call of the rooks over a muted shuffling, a sense of shifting weight or changing position. Where was he? Had he heard me?

    "Slimgrin, are you there? I know where Blackbird is. She's at the farm near Bridgenorth. Can you hear me?"

    There was a loud thumping, not from the mirror, but from outside my room. Someone was banging on my door.

    "Slimgrin? She's in Shropshire. I found her. Deefnir's there. Can you hear me?" I was shouting now, making myself heard over the thumping. It rose to an insistent hammering.

    "I'm going to have to go."

    I released my hand and the sound dissipated, making the thumping on my door sound as if someone was trying to break in, rather than simply get my attention.

    "Mr Dawson." Martha's voice came through the door. "Are you in there?"

    I went to the door, unlocked it and opened it just enough to see who was there. "Sorry, I was talking to one of my…"

    Martha was standing in the hallway with a look of sour disapproval on her face. Behind her was the larger bulk of Greg, the vicar. "Never mind that," he said over her head. "She's gone."

    "Who's gone?" I asked.

    "Shelley, Karen's sister. She's vanished."

TWENTY

"What do you mean, Shelley's vanished?" I asked Greg.

    It crossed my mind for a moment that she was the same age as my daughter. If she had fey ancestry then maybe she truly had vanished from sight. Is that what was going on? Were these girls disappearing because they were fey?

    Greg looked at Martha and then at me. "I need a word."

    "What kind of a word?" I glanced from one to the other. Martha's scowl did not improve.

    Greg eased around Martha, steering her towards the stairs. "Thank you, Mrs Humphries, you've been most helpful. Neal will be able to help me out now. Done all you can do in the circumstances. Thanks very much for your help."

    "There's something going on here. I can smell it," she protested.

    Greg wasn't to be distracted. "I'll handle it, don't you worry."

    He escorted her to the fire door and waited until it swung closed behind her. I could hear her disgruntled tread on the staircase, all the way down. I left the door ajar and picked up my sword, keeping my body between the doorway and the weapon until it was an umbrella that I held in my hand.

    Greg appeared in the doorway.

    "Don't know how long we've got."

    "Until what?"

    "She was meant to come straight home from school. She's not home and she's not at friends'. Her mum's worried sick. She's already called the police. Her dad's going spare, saying it's all Karen's fault."

    "You're worrying too much. She'll be behind the bus shelter with a boy or down the chip shop with her friends. I have to go."

    "Where?"

    "London, Shropshire… I'm not sure yet. I have a message to deliver."

    "Can't leave now. We need you."

    "I'm needed elsewhere."

    I moved towards the door, but Greg filled the doorway. I halted in front of him. "She's probably fine. What makes you think she's not?"

    He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bundle of plastic. He placed it in my open hand. It was pink and crushed. "Her mobile phone."

    "Where was it?" I turned it over in my hand. The screen was cracked and the innards hung out, dangling on little ribbons of wire. It looked as if it had been comprehensively stamped on.

    "Small park between school and home. More of a play area. Her mum followed the route back to school. No sign of her. Then she spotted this. Kicked under a hedge at the edge of the park, next to the road."

    "This should go to the police. It's evidence."

    "You've never seen it before?"

    "No, why should I… you think I had something to do with this?"

    Greg sagged and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Neal. I had to ask. You knew so much about them. You knew about Helen's pregnancy, Debbie's clubbing… when I found out you knew Gillian and Trudy were dead, I realised there could be more than one way of knowing."

    "Not because I had anything to do with their disappearance! I'm not some sick…"

    "I know that now. You do understand, don't you? Had to ask." His eyes held a sadness from hearing lies too often, seeing what people truly meant and knowing too much.

    "I really have to go." I needed to get a message to Garvin.

    "No, don't you see? It means something. You were sent to us. You were meant to be here."

    "I'm really meant to be somewhere else."

    "Shelley needs you. You may be the only one who can find her. Would you put her family through what you've been through? Not after losing your own daughter, surely?"

    That stopped me. "That's not fair, Greg."

    "No, it isn't. But who else will find her? At least tell us if she's still alive."

    The need to be on my way burned in me, but I could not just abandon him. "Come inside. Shut the door."

    He came in and closed the door behind him.

    "I want your word, Greg. On whatever you hold most sacred. You tell no one about this. Are we agreed?"

    "I swear on the Holy Cross, on Him who died there and on the Father who raised him up to heaven." It rang as true as anything I've ever heard.

    Tossing the umbrella on to the bed, I turned to the mirror. I placed my hand flat upon it, watching Greg as I did so.

    "Shelley Hopkins?"

    The mirror clouded under my hand and Greg's face held a mixture of hope and uncertainty.

    As the mirror started to glow from within he said, "That looks like…" He faltered before the word he was going to say.

    "Shhh! You wanted to know. Now we find out."

    The mirror cleared slowly and through it came the sound of the town. It wavered above the harbour and I thought it would rise and dissipate. My heart fell at explaining what that meant to Greg, and he must have seen it in my face, but then it focused, suddenly and vividly. There was a clunking scraping and a low murmuring, indistinct and fuzzy. Then a whimpering, a lost sound, more like a wounded animal than a girl.

    "Shelley? Shelley, is that you?" My voice echoed strangely.

    The whimpering sound continued. Then the clunking came again. It sounded metallic.

    "Where is she?" Greg asked.

    I shook my head, straining to hear. He came closer, trying to decode the sounds.

    "It's indoors. She's not outside. Can she hear us?"

    "Only if there's a mirror close to her. Wait, listen."

    The distinctive call of a gull,
keeeya, keeya, keya, kya,
kya kya,
came from outside and echoed through the mirror into the room in a double image of sound.

    Greg said it first. "She's here! By God, she's right here!"

    "No, listen," I said. "The sound is delayed, further away from the gull than we are. Wherever she is, she can hear it."

    "A warehouse? There are some around the harbour. Or maybe another guest house?"

    "Outside," I said. "We need to be outside. I'll bring the mirror."

    I unhooked the mirror from the wall. Greg held the door open as I went through and we barged open the fire door and ran down the stairs. Martha came out of the kitchen and waited at the bottom of the stairs as we barrelled down.

    She pointed at the mirror. "You can't take that. That's private property, that is!"