by Sarah Rayne
‘Is it? Is it?’ The grip tightened, and the stranger suddenly twisted a scarf around Tod’s hands, binding them at the wrists. The terrible, inhuman face hovered above him. ‘I’ve come back to claim my reward,’ said the spoiled voice. ‘I’ve waited nearly twenty years, and now I’ve come back to punish you, Tod.’
The words echoed and spun in the huge suffocating cave that was sucking Tod down and down. He heard the eerie laughter, and then a second scarf was tied around his face, covering his mouth and nose, half choking him. He tried to scream and could not. The sick, dizzying blackness was whirling him faster and deeper down, but through it he caught the glint of steel as a knife flashed down onto his chest.
Agony tore through him – fierce, piercing agony that went on and on in a roaring crimson tide, and there was a crunching, sickening noise as his rib bones snapped. The dreadful face swam in and out of his vision, absorbed in its grisly work, and Tod struggled against the gag and tried to cry out again. But he could not, and in any case the pain was screaming all by itself now, it was raging through his head, and uncontrollable sickness was welling up from his stomach . . . He could feel flesh parting and muscle tearing, and it hurt, it hurt, there could not be so much pain in all the world . . .
There was a sudden, violent pulsing in his chest as his heart was exposed, and he was aware of retching and trying to be sick but meeting only the gag. There was the truly appalling sensation of being forced to inhale his own vomit and of fighting for breath before the blessed blackness closed down.
He did not feel the final wrench as the dwarf-magician cut his heart from his body and held it triumphantly aloft, dripping and steaming.
Marivaux’s had been delighted to put the large supper room at the disposal of the Harlequin company, and charmed to provide the food and drink specified by Sir Julius Sherry and Mr Gerald Makepiece.
‘They’ll all be ravenously hungry,’ said Sir Julius to Gerald, who knew nothing of such gatherings. ‘They’ll have been living on their nerves, poor sods, for at least a week, and now they’ll be suffering the reaction, d’you see. Which means we’d better be lavish.’
It had been nice of Sir Julius to arrange this party, and even nicer of him to invite Gerald to accompany him to the restaurant to make the arrangements. Gerald felt quite overcome when he thought how very kind people were being.
Marivaux’s was a very posh place indeed. Not rubbish, Mia would have said. Oh dear. But in the discussion as to the rival merits of lobster and marinated salmon by way of a starter, to the possibility of rack of lamb roasted in claret (a speciality of the chef) along with Beef Wellington (Sir Julius’s own favourite), Gerald was able to stop thinking, Oh dear, how am I to cope? He was even able to put forward a tentative suggestion as to whether it mightn’t be rather attractive to have the tables got up in blue and green, by way of compliment to the show. This was well received, and apparently perfectly possible. Orchids and delphiniums, said the catering manager, with the aplomb of one who has scant knowledge of horticulture, but who knows that anything can be got in any season, provided the customer can pay. Orchids and delphiniums, and maybe trailing periwinkle plants. No, it would be no problem at all. They would use dark blue damask table napkins on green damask cloths, and they had a very nice stock of blue glassware for the wine. A very attractive idea indeed, said the catering manager deferentially.
It would have been too much to have said that Gerald’s feelings for Mia were changing, but incredibly he discovered a curl of anger against her. Logic dictated that if something bad had happened – a road accident, for instance – Gerald would have heard about it. Logic also threw up the traitorous memory of Mia pouting when Mr Camperdown had suggested extra voice rehearsals and of retorting, when Gerald had tried to suggest that this was not a good way to behave, that Camperdown was nothing but a finicky fart-arse, and Gerald himself a pernickety old meddler. Oh dear. The tiny suspicion that after all Mia might not have been up to the part of Mab – and that she might have realised it and taken off of her own accord – took a firmer hold of Gerald’s mind. Alongside it was anger, because she might have considered the company a bit, to say nothing of Gerald himself.
And so he was very pleased to help with the supper arrangements, agreeing with Sir Julius that Beef Wellington would go down very well, but that the catering manager’s suggestion of a good vegetarian dish in addition should be considered. The chef’s special mushroom stroganoff would fit the bill nicely, it seemed, and it could be accompanied by rice pilau and French bread and salad. Cherries Jubilee or Victorian Tipsy Cake by way of pudding, and then coffee. A very well-chosen meal indeed, said the catering manager approvingly, and Gerald downed the generous measure of liqueur brandy which it was Marivaux’s custom to offer to all customers making large bookings, and felt resentful towards Mia who had very nearly spoiled what should have been such a wonderful night.
It was not spoiled at all. It was a wonderful night. The company had put on their best clothes, because you did not often get the chance to dine at Marivaux’s and at someone else’s expense, so nobody was going to run the risk of being thought shabby. In any case, they were all set for a long and successful run; everyone was saying so, and therefore startling new outfits could be afforded.
The sidh, collectively, were being very startling indeed, making an entrance en masse, and causing the diners in the public restaurant to look round in astonishment. Skin-tight silver satin and black leather trousers figured heavily, along with laced boots and diamanté-studded velvet waistcoats. The girls were mostly wearing heavy jewellery and high heels, but that was about the only way to tell them from the men.
The Fianna captain had shared a taxi with the sorceress-guardian, with whom he was already becoming entwined. The sorceress, true to character, was wearing a plunging scarlet silk dress and very little else so far as anyone could see, and it was to be hoped there was no explicit footsie under the table or rendezvous in the loo because Marivaux’s were a bit old-fashioned about that kind of thing. Also it spend people’s appetites.
Danilo came in with Gilly, the two of them sticking together because both of them were nervous. It was one thing to step onto a West End stage and act your boots off to a packed house, but it was another thing entirely to enter a swish restaurant and sit down to supper with people like Sir Julius Sherry and Maurice Camperdown; you suffered a whole new range of stage fright. Danilo said it was even worse than attending one of the Greasepaint’s nasty midnight gatherings with the Shadow presiding, did Gilly remember those?
‘I’m not likely to forget,’ said Gilly, shuddering. ‘I shouldn’t think anyone who was there ever would forget. We’ve come a long way in the last six weeks, haven’t we? Like making an exciting journey and you’re not sure of your destination.’
Danilo said it was to be hoped the destination was fame and fortune, and it was to be prayed for that the journey had been via a one-way street because he was not going back to the old days any more than Gilly was. After all this glitter and pzazz he could never face the night-club drag circuit again, or the half-world of hookers and pimps and drug-dealers. It felt a bit odd, didn’t it, to think that the Shadow’s world was still going on, only half a mile or so away?
‘But we’ve got out,’ said Gilly, who still had nightmares about the Shadow’s sinister spider network finding them and some macabre kind of vengeance overtaking them. She had nightmares about Leila as well, and about what kind of monster could have butchered her that night. She had never contacted Lori or any of the others to find out if the killer had been caught, but she thought he had not. She thought she would have heard, because it would have been splashed all over the papers.
To dispel the memories she said, firmly, ‘We’re in a different world now, and we’re going to stay in it. You’ve found the new flat in Belsize Park and I’m moving out to Notting Hill Gate next week. I think we’re safe.’
They were safe and they were going to enjoy Cauldron’s run; it was a cracker of a
show. And they were going to enjoy this evening. Danilo was wearing his first-ever real evening suit, and Gilly had gone into Bond Street the previous afternoon and bought the kind of dress you really wanted to wear inside-out so that everyone could see the label. It had cost the earth, but if you were poised on the brink of stardom, you might as well dress up for it and stuff the overdraft. When she saw what the sidh girls and the sorceress were wearing, she was very glad she had spent the money. She almost wished she had gone for the backless Jasper Conran, but when she discovered that somebody had put her at Sir Julius’s table she was glad she had not, because the skirt had been slit to the thigh, and Julius Sherry was the kind of randy old devil who would touch you up between the main course and the pudding.
The lodge-keeper and his wife were sitting with the orchestra’s wind section, and the lodge-keeper had embarked on a series of jokes which he had picked up in Amsterdam. It was a fair bet that the wind section would turn this into a joke-telling competition at any minute, and it was a racing certainty that this would end up as the noisiest table in the room. Maurice Camperdown was going to have a quiet word with the wine waiter to see if a limit could be discreetly imposed on the amount drunk at that table. The wind section were apt to get a bit drunk at first-night parties; in fact they usually got more or less legless. Maurice did not in the least mind people getting legless, but he did mind having a quarter of his orchestra hungover for the second performance. It looked as if the lodge-keeper and the actress playing his wife had better be included in the arrangement as well, or they would never get beyond Act One tomorrow night.
Everyone agreed vaguely that it was a pity that Tod Miller did not appear to be joining the party, and then forgot all about it. A few people – most notably Julius Sherry and Maurice Camperdown – told one another that it was distinctly odd that Toddy had not answered the call for ‘author’ at the end. An ASM despatched to find him had reported breathlessly that Mr Miller was nowhere to be found, but nobody had taken this literally because he was bound to be somewhere. You never knew which way Toddy was going to jump, egocentric old Toddy; he might have cooked up some plot of his own to gain extra publicity. Sir Julius, in a mood to be pleased with the whole world in general and Gilly Blair in particular, said indulgently that it was not unlikely that the dear boy had gone off to enjoy a quiet supper with a friend somewhere. He emphasised the friend rather heavily, and winked at Simkins from the bank who had been invited by somebody or other, and who appeared to have struck up an unlikely alliance with one of the sidh girls.
Gerald Makepiece thought it more probable that Miller had simply suffered an attack of exhaustion after such a gruelling few weeks, and had gone home to bed, but this was not a view supported by anyone else. Sir Julius, boozily proposing toasts, randily pleased that Marivaux’s staff had put Gilly next to him as he had privately requested, said that at any event they had Fael with them and she was much better-looking than old Toddy any day! He was even prepared to be polite to Flynn Deverill tonight, he said, and by way of proving this sent an extra bottle of claret over to Flynn and Fael’s table.
Chapter Fifteen
Flynn was rather pleased to be seen entering Marivaux’s with Fael. The wheelchair, borrowed from the theatre, did not matter because she was striking enough to render it almost unnoticeable, and she would turn heads in any company; Flynn saw a few heads turning tonight as they arrived, and his masculine ego was flattered.
As they took their places Fael spun the wheelchair offhandedly into place at the table, and introductions were made and glasses filled. Conversation buzzed everywhere, and as the wine circulated, the decibel level began to rise. People were laughing, and waiters were bringing round plates of smoked salmon and extra ice buckets for the wine. Fael’s eyes narrowed when she smiled; they were pure, clear green like a cat’s, and Flynn thought: She’s not in the least beautiful and she’s certainly not pretty. But she’s got something that I don’t think I’ve ever encountered in any other female. Something elusive like moonlight or quicksilver. ‘Melting the Moonlight’ – yes, of course, Toddy wrote that to her mother; I remember the professor telling me about it once.
Fael suddenly turned to face him as if she had caught this last thought and their eyes met. Flynn looked at her steadily over the rim of his wine glass, and something strongly sexual thrummed on the air between them. Flynn smiled at her lazily and raised his wine glass in a mock salute, and Fael stared at him. The moment lengthened and it deepened as well, and something stirred that was deeper and stronger than anything physical. Mental intimacy in the blink of an eyelash, thought Flynn. Jesus God, there’s a thing now. That would be the devil of a complication! I don’t want to get into anything that deep, do I? Or do I, though?
And then from Sir Julius’s table somebody tapped the side of a glass, and Julius was getting to his feet to make a speech of some kind, and half-serious, half-drunken toasts were being proposed from several of the tables, and everyone was laughing and the moment passed.
It was probably just as well. Flynn returned abruptly to reality, and was aware of someone at the table saying something about Tod: wasn’t it odd not to see him here, and did anyone know where he was?
‘Probably hassling a Broadway producer into buying the show,’ said Flynn, draining his glass.
‘No, but it is strange that he’s not here.’
‘Does Tod actually know any Broadway producers?’ asked the Fianna captain hopefully.
‘Of course not, but he’d like us to think he does. He’s probably giving an interview to an obscure journalist in some steamy nightclub,’ said Flynn. ‘And getting drunk in the process. Talking of getting drunk, will I refill everyone’s glass with this Traminer?’
Christian waited until he was sure that everyone had left the theatre, before venturing out.
The stench of Miller’s blood was already tainting the small, windowless room, and the desk where Miller had been sitting was in an appalling state, with blood soaking into the polished surface and staining the litter of papers.
Miller’s eyes had rolled up showing only the whites and there was a stale wet smell from the expulsion of urine in the death spasm. As Christian looked at Miller’s blank dead stare with exultant hatred his own soaring finale music reached him faintly, and then there was frantic applause and cheers, and shouts for ‘author’.
For a wild moment Christian toyed with the idea of going out there; of carrying this contemptible figure to the forefront of the stage so that the entire house could see him. ‘Here is the creature who would have had you believe him Cauldron’s author and composer and librettist . . . Here is the sly greedy cheat who would have basked in your praise and given never a thought to the real authors . . . Because one of them is up there in the stage box, and here before you is the other one . . .!’
It could not be done, of course; it was Svengali stuff, Phantom of the Opera territory, and there would have been stunned embarrassed silence before Christian was dragged away and unmasked. But for a moment a fierce desire to be recognised – to have his work acknowledged and complimented, and to take part in the happy exultant discussions about the show – seized him, and a violent tremor shook his whole body. He felt Rossani’s dark evil begin to uncurl deep within his mind, and he quenched it almost at once.
A cursory search had been made for Miller half an hour or so after curtain-fall; Christian heard people coming along the corridor outside, and somebody trying the door. He remained absolutely still, and heard a voice say, ‘Locked. Then he’s not here, that’s for sure.’
A second voice said, ‘Oh, he’s probably already on his way to Marivaux’s. Which is where we should be if we don’t want to miss everything.’
The footsteps started to move away, and Christian began to relax.
And then the first voice said, ‘Did you notice Flynn Deverill keeping up to his reputation?’
‘What—? Oh, the first-night legend. Who’s he going to be laying tonight?’
The fo
otsteps were fading, but Christian just caught the reply.
‘Fael Miller by the look of it,’ said the voice. ‘Not that I blame him – she’s a cracker, isn’t she?’
Fael, thought Christian as the footsteps went out of hearing, and somewhere at the back of his mind Rossani’s mesmeric claws unsheathed and flexed. The gore-splashed office with the fetid stench of Miller’s blood blurred, and beyond it he glimpsed the nightmare wastelands of Rossani’s dark realm.
He forced it back – dive thoughts, down into my soul! – but it stayed with him, and the insidious thoughts stayed as well.
Fael. But not just Fael: Fael and Flynn together. Are you with him now, Fael? thought Christian in silent anguish. Are you at Marivaux’s, enjoying the food and the wine and the company? – stunning them all with the way you look – because they think you’re a cracker, Fael, they’re all saying so . . .
And what about afterwards? Will Flynn take you home with him, and from there to bed with him, Fael? Because that’s what he does, my dear, that’s his reputation and he’ll surely live up to his reputation tonight of all nights. Images of Fael and Flynn together scalded his mind, and he was aware of Rossani’s world pulling him in more strongly than it had ever done before. He could hear the claw scratchings and the slitherings of the faceless shades that walked in that strange underworld; he could feel the beating of leathery wings on the dark lowering skies . . .
You shouldn’t have gone off with him, Fael. You shouldn’t have let people link the two of you. You’re mine, Fael; you’re mine body and soul and blood and bone, just as Mab was Aillen mac Midha’s, just as the rainbow-haired heroine of the Dwarf Spinner was Rossani’s . . .
Rossani . . .
The evil twilight of that other world closed over his head. Oh Fael, you shouldn’t have betrayed me with Flynn, thought Christian.
It was almost midnight when he unlocked the door of Tod Miller’s office, and went swiftly through the dark hallways and landings, lit by low security lights. He moved as quietly and as insubstantially as the shadow that the Soho call-girls had named him, his eyes scanning the corners for movement, his ears straining for the least sound that would mean he was being followed. But no eyes watched from the darkness and no creeping footsteps came after him, and he descended to the lower levels and went through the old door and down to the brick tunnel.
