Changeling

by Sarah Rayne

  Christian had no idea if the same security arrangements held; it was possible that now the show was running the timing of the patrols had been altered. But even if they had, it was unlikely that the security men would come down here. And even if they did he would hear them and have time to hide. It might take some time to do what Rossani had whispered, but he would do it.

  As he went through the opening he had made a week ago, he caught the sickly sweet gust of decaying flesh, and Rossani’s smile curved his incomplete lips.

  And now he was alone with the ghosts and with his own victims.

  But as he worked, Rossani was at his side, chuckling throatily as he painted the dark images on Christian’s mind. It was time to display their cunning, whispered Rossani. It was time to let these fools see the extent of their cleverness.

  Isolate Fael, said Rossani; isolate her, not only from Flynn, but from the entire world. Cut her off from all contact, shut her away. And then she really would be mine, thought Christian, and his heart began to race as he remembered the closeness they had shared and the way her mind had flowed into his. Something wholly unfamiliar fastened around his heart, because was it possible, was it remotely conceivable, that after all there might be something good in the world for him . . .? Oh God, he thought, oh God, if I could believe she would not shrink from me . . . Would she?

  And now the images were changing; they were no longer images of Fael with Flynn, they were of Fael by herself in the Moher house. Living there, driving back the shadows, bringing back the light and the happiness.

  He thought: And supposing there could be a child?

  A child . . . A little girl, perhaps: mischievous, elfin-eyed with slanting cheekbones . . . Or a slender supple boy, gilt-haired, with ears set just a fraction too high to look entirely human . . . But in either case, beautiful and complete. Unmarred . . .

  And would the chill inhuman sidh covet it? Would they steal it away because of its beauty, and replace it with the changeling of the old beliefs: the ancient withered thing that was of no more use to the tribe, and that constantly cried to its foster-mother for attention . . .? The age-old superstition reared up anew to taunt him, and even though he knew it for the dark fantasising of a mind soured and embittered, it was still very real to him.

  Fael, and a child – a child so lovely, so filled with brilliance and beauty, that the sidh might indeed attend its birth, they might indeed slyly sprinkle their intoxicating music into the eyes and ears and senses of the humans. They might covet such a child so greedily that they would be prepared to strike a bargain. Take this one but in return you must give back the unmarred unflawed babe you stole all those years ago . . . I’m suffering a spell of madness, he thought. I really am.

  But people had bargained with devils and demons before now and not been necessarily mad, even though some of them had been dragged down to hell, there to suffer endless torment, and even though others had been torn apart by the greedy cohorts of Satan. But there had been those who had beaten the devil at his own game, and yoked the demons and harnessed the devil’s power for a time. The idea, once seeded, lodged a little more firmly in his mind; it snaked little silken roots into his brain. Fael and a child who would be born in Maise, as Christian had been born in Maise. A child who could be used as a pawn, as bait.

  And in return, I will have the semblance of humanity that was my birthright . . .

  The party at Marivaux’s, which had been sinking into torpor, revived magically, when Stephen Sherry and two of the ASMs burst through the door with armfuls of early editions of the morning papers.

  ‘Distribute them all round,’ shouted Sir Julius, and for several minutes the room was filled with the sound of pages being turned, and mutterings of, ‘Can’t find the theatre page,’ and, ‘Well, I shan’t pay any attention whatever the critics say,’ and, from the lodge-keeper’s table, ‘Of course, dear boy, I’ve been reviewed by Harold Hobson and Kenneth Tynan, you know.’

  And then everyone who had a newspaper suddenly found the theatre page, and an abrupt silence fell. Fael, who was sharing the Daily Mail with Flynn and the Fianna captain, felt her heart start to bump alarmingly. Because this was it, if the critics liked Cauldron people would go to see it and it would run, and she would have scored a success, and Scathach would have scored it with her. The print danced in front of her eyes, and she forced her mind to concentrate.

  And then Flynn said, ‘“The stunning, eerily beautiful new show at the Harlequin . . .”’ and at the same moment, Sir Julius said, ‘“Absolutely not to be missed . . .”’ and somewhere else in the room somebody was saying, ‘“Music that will haunt you for days and settings that will stay with you for ever . . .”’

  And then from all round the room, the acclaim was coming like soft sweet rain falling on an upturned face . . .

  ‘Spell-binding . . .’ ‘Raunchy and tender . . .’ ‘Will have you laughing at one minute and crying the next . . .’ ‘Aillen mac Midha sizzles across the stage . . .’ ‘Newcomer Gilly Blair a delight as the beleaguered Irish heroine . . .’

  And it was all true, it was really happening: Cauldron was a success, it was a huge smash hit, and Fael was having to tell herself she would not cry, she absolutely would not . . .

  Flynn took Fael home in a taxi shortly before four a.m. The taxi was the old type where the driver was separated from the passengers by a glass partition, and the interior was dark and close and intimate. There used to be jokes about what people got up to in the back of taxis, or maybe they weren’t jokes at all.

  The idea of asking Flynn in for a nightcap flickered across Fael’s mind again, only to be reluctantly dismissed. He might see it as a direct invitation, which would look blatant after meeting him for the first time tonight. People in wheelchairs could not get away with being blatant. She had learned that when Simon did his vanishing act at the time of the car crash.

  There was also the fact that bringing Flynn into the house – no matter how unblatant the intention – would emphasise her disabled state, and he might think she had only done it because she needed help.

  But it would be rather nice – well, it would be better than nice – to sit talking over the evening with Flynn, discussing Cauldron, and perhaps laughing over the supper at Marivaux’s. They could sit in the music room, and she could switch on the low desk lamp and maybe even bank up the fire . . .

  Oh sure, said her mind sardonically. And what about Scathach? Or are you really going to kid yourself that he’ll stay away tonight? Tonight of all nights he’ll be with you, and let’s be fair about this, let’s give the devil his due: he’s the one you should be discussing Cauldron with. So how would you deal with that situation? Introduce them? Flynn, this is the guy who wrote Cauldron with me, only I don’t know his name, and I don’t know what he looks like. Oh, and this is Flynn Deverill, who I think I rather fancy – who I should think half of London fancies . . . And supposing Tod blunders in halfway through, or starts noisily throwing up in the loo because he’s had too much to drink again?

  For the first time, Fael thought crossly: Oh damn Scathach! and she was still weighing up the pros and cons when Flynn resolved it for her by asking the taxi to wait while he saw her to the door. Serve you right! thought Fael, manoeuvring the horrid chair down the path and up the ramp leading to the front door. There you were, planning it all out, and he wasn’t interested after all! Probably he had been sorry for her and it had not occurred to him to think of her in a sexual capacity. Probably he was going straight on to a rendezvous with someone who was capable of performing the entire works of the Kama Sutra all the way through without pausing for breath. One of those beautiful, sensuous sidh girls, for instance. I hope he enjoys it, thought Fael, crossly. No I don’t; I hope she was eating garlic all evening so that he gets a faceful of it, secondhand, when he wakes up next to her tomorrow morning!

  She thanked him for helping her, and for the great evening, and added, as if it had just occurred to her, that he would always be welcome to dro
p in for a drink any time. This was the kind of thing you could say without anyone reading anything much into it. Flynn said, ‘I’ll do that,’ which was the kind of rejoinder you could give without it meaning a thing. He waited until she was in the house, and then went back out to the waiting taxi and presumably on to whatever else might be waiting for him.

  The house was in darkness, and Tod was not home yet. Fael checked the downstairs cloakroom where he always hung his outdoor things and kicked his shoes off. Nothing. And the answerphone on the hall table was registering two unread messages, which was a sure sign that he was still out; Tod could not resist finding out who had phoned him, no matter how late he arrived home, or how drunk he was when he got there.

  Fael played the messages in case there was one for her from Tod himself, but there were only a couple of ‘good luck’ calls for Cauldron: one from Tod’s agent and one from someone whom Tod frequently drank with at the Greasepaint Club and who sounded sloshed. Fael scribbled a note of them on the pad for whenever Tod got home, reset the machine, and wheeled down the hall to her own room. The theatre had told her to keep the chair for a day or two, which had been nice of them. It was a bit awkward to manipulate, but it would be a godsend until she could find her own.

  The house felt a bit cold, in fact it felt downright chilly. That would be because of the smashed garden door, of course. Actually it felt peculiarly unfriendly as well as chilly. Fael found herself glancing nervously over her shoulder and suddenly wished she had asked Flynn in after all, and be blowed to what he thought. She went determinedly into the kitchen, switching on lights along the way. She would make a cup of tea and drink it while she got ready for bed. She banged cupboard doors and clattered crockery deliberately loudly because they were friendly, everyday sounds. The singing of the kettle as the water started to boil was friendly as well. Ridiculous to have been so nervous earlier.

  The evening had been wonderful but it had been tiring; Fael was not used to being out until the small hours, and there had been the terrific tension of watching Cauldron. Well, all right, of watching the last two acts of Cauldron. A smile curved her lips as she poured water into the teapot. Cauldron had been good, it had been tremendous. Everyone at the party had said so, and Fael thought they had meant it and were not just being polite. The critics had said so as well, and they had certainly not been polite.

  It would be luxuriously good to stretch out in bed, sipping the hot tea, and drift into sleep thinking about it all. And just for tonight she would not think about recognition or rightful attributions, and people snatching credit. Nobody had snatched anything tonight, in fact the person she had expected to do most of the snatching seemed to have vanished before the final curtain.

  Fael considered her father’s absence as she stirred milk into her tea. She was puzzled, but not wildly alarmed. They had agreed to make their separate ways home, and when her father had given her her key back, he had hinted that he might have other fish to fry later. This was not at all out of pattern; in fact it was not unknown for Tod to stay out all night or come home with the milk. It was usually better not to question him too much on those occasions, although sometimes he proffered information of his own accord, hinting boastfully at some new conquest or some new important business deal struck in exalted surroundings.

  It was cold in here. Fael started to wheel across to the hall once more, and for the first time saw that the board she had propped across the garden door was not where she had left it. A faint thread of alarm slithered through her mind. She had wedged the board quite tightly, although it was just conceivable that it could have slid to the floor of its own accord, or been dislodged by a gust of wind. If Tod had come home earlier he could have banged a door somewhere and unseated it. But Tod had not come home, and gusts of wind or slamming doors would not have put the board where it was now, which was against the larder, three feet away from the door.

  Fael stared at the board, and thought: Someone’s been in the house. Someone’s been in here while I was out. Tod? No, Tod would have used his own key and come in through the front door. The nape of her neck began to prickle with fear, and a chilling picture formed of someone pushing the board away from outside and squeezing through. It would be the easiest thing in the world to walk around the side of the house unseen and get in. There had not seemed to be any signs of burglary anywhere, but Fael had not really checked. It was necessary to check now, and perhaps phone the police. It was vital not to panic.

  Fael was just deciding that she was not anywhere near to panicking when a sound from beyond the kitchen sent her heart bounding up into her throat. Someone was in the cellar.

  She shrank back into the chair, one hand going to her mouth. Someone in the cellar! Someone walking slowly across the old stone floor of the basement directly beneath the kitchen! Her father? She grabbed the thought. Could it be Tod after all? Perhaps taken ill in the theatre – something trivial but debilitating like violent earache, or something embarrassing like sickness and diarrhoea – and quietly getting a taxi home so as not to upset anyone’s enjoyment.

  But Tod had never considered anyone else’s feelings in his entire life, and if he had come home because of illness he would certainly have made sure that Fael knew. He would have sent for her in the theatre, or phoned through to Marivaux’s, and he would have demanded her attendance along with hot-water bottles and aspirin, or whisky in warm milk, and consultations about the desirability of summoning a doctor. And the only reason Tod ever went into the cellar was to bring up a bottle of wine or mend a fuse.

  Fael remained very still, listening intently. Yes, there it went again. Someone was walking stealthily across the cellar.

  The thought that it might be Scathach brushed her mind and for a moment hope bounded up. But I don’t believe he would hide and lie in wait like this, thought Fael, her mind working frantically. He’d wait in the garden like he always does. He wouldn’t know if my father would be with me, or if we might have brought someone back for a drink. Oh, why didn’t I ask Flynn to come in? Someone’s in the cellar and he’s creeping up towards me, and I’m trapped. No, of course I’m not trapped, I can get out, or I can get help. Can I get through the garden door and out into the night and yell for help? No, of course I can’t. Police then – can I ring the police? Where the hell is the phone? She looked frenziedly about for the cordless phone that she normally kept to hand. Nowhere to be seen. Never mind it, there’s the ordinary kitchen extension on the wall. She began to inch the chair across the floor, trying not to make any sound. Her heart was hammering and the palms of her hands were slippery with sweat.

  She was halfway across the kitchen, when there was the abrupt click of a heavy switch being depressed and at once every light went out. Darkness, immediate and overwhelming, closed down.

  And now terror swept in unchecked, because Fael knew exactly what had happened. The intruder, whoever he was, had deliberately thrown the mains electricity switch from below, and plunged the entire house into darkness. Unless she could get out, she was absolutely at his mercy.

  She could hear the characteristic creak of the wooden steps that debouched into the hall, just beneath the stairs. Then he’s coming up to get me, thought Fael, backing towards the smashed garden door, her heart racing with terror, icy sweat sliding between her shoulder-blades. He’s creeping up the stairs – yes, that’s the door at the top opening. That means he’s in the hall now.

  And now she could hear him plainly; he was moving slowly towards the kitchen, and there was the sound of his breathing. Harsh, slightly too-fast breathing, like warped sexual arousal. Oh God. But by now her eyes were adjusting to the darkness a little, and she could see the phone on its wall bracket, tantalisingly near. Could I get to it and summon help? Because if I know the police are on their way – if he knows it as well! – I might manage to fight him off until they get here. I’ll find a weapon – a knife, yes, that’s the thing. If I can get to the drawer under the sink and get the breadknife I’ll stick it in his guts the
minute he touches me . . . I’ll hate it, but I’ll do it. As she gripped the sides of her chair, she heard the soft pad of footsteps coming towards her, and the dreadful aroused breathing. There was a whisper of silk.

  And then a soft, familiar voice said, ‘Hello Fael.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was a slightly jaded Harlequin company that assembled for the second performance of Cauldron.

  Gilly and Danilo arrived together and separated to go into their adjacent dressing rooms, having wished each other luck for tonight. Gilly was trying to avoid Sir Julius Sherry, randy old sod, and was hoping that an awkward situation was not going to develop there, what with Sir Julius being a person of importance.

  The Fianna captain and the sorceress-guardian of the cauldron came in looking complacently pink-eyed from lack of sleep, talking loudly about the pizza they had sent out for at midday, and the curry they were going to be ordering for later. A fresh lot of bets were at once taken in the sidh dressing room as to how long that would last, since it was well known that the sorceress was anybody’s. One of the male sidh dancers, who had bet that the sorceress would specifically be Flynn Deverill’s last night, was in a bad temper because Flynn had gone off with that smashing Fael Miller, which meant the sidh dancer had lost five pounds.

  The orchestra’s wind section was noticeably subdued, and there was much passing round of Alka Seltzers and earnest discussion as to the efficacy of prairie oysters as opposed to a nauseous mixture made up for the flugelhornist by a little man in a chemist’s in the King’s Road. It was doubtful if any of the woodwinds would manage to achieve the correct flutter-tonguing trill for the sorceress’s solo in Act Two. The flautist said, morosely, that it looked as if the sorceress had been achieving a certain amount of flutter-tonguing herself, because she looked like death warmed over and it was to be hoped the make-up would cover it.