Changeling

by Sarah Rayne

  I’ll have to get help, thought Gilly, frantically. I can’t leave him there at the Shadow’s hands, but I can’t tackle the Shadow myself – I don’t dare, and anyway he’d overpower me. He overpowered Sir Julius – yes, and he overpowered Flynn that night in the Harlequin. I’ll creep along to the back of the stalls, she thought; he won’t hear me above the machinery, and if I keep near the rows of seats I can duck down if he comes out on the stage again. Yes, that’s a good idea. And once I’m through the exit I can get into the box office or the manager’s room, whichever’s nearer, and phone for help.

  She began to inch backwards, past the rows of seats, not taking her eyes from the stage. Once the machinery stopped and she froze and ducked down, her heart racing. But it started up again almost instantly, and she drew in a shaking breath and went on.

  Incredibly, Sir Julius was still being dragged up. He’s taking him right up into the flies, thought Gilly. In another second or two his feet will leave the stage, and it’ll look absolutely ridiculous because he’s an ageing, rather portly gentleman in a Savile Row suit that doesn’t really conceal his portliness at all, but it’ll be all right because it’ll switch the whole thing from horror to comedy . . .

  There was a shrieking protest from the mechanism and then a dreadful crunching, followed by the sound of rotting timbers splintering. Gilly froze in disbelief, because she could see now that Sir Julius was not standing on the stage at all. He’s nailed to it, she thought, helplessly. The Shadow’s nailed his feet to the stage. I’m not believing any of this! But it’s true, I can see the nails – the Shadow’s removed his shoes, and there are huge black nails – it’s the final scene of the Dwarf Spinner, it’s the Grimm fairytale of Rumpelstiltskin . . . Only it isn’t the dwarf who’s driven his feet into the ground and torn them apart trying to get free, it’s his victim . . .

  The machine winched upwards again, jerkily this time, and there was a gristly tearing sound that made Gilly’s stomach lurch with nausea. The black nails held where the flesh did not. Julius Sherry was dragged up from the stage, clearing its surface by several feet, but leaving bloodied gobbets of gristly, bone-threaded flesh still embedded in the stage. As he swung slightly to and fro, suspended by his hands from the taut guy-ropes, blood dripped sluggishly from the torn flesh at the ends of his legs and spattered wetly onto the stage.

  And he’s still alive, thought Gilly, in horror. He’s moving, but it’s like a wriggling worm caught on a pin. And he’s moaning again, but there’s a wet bubbling sound about it now. Oh God, am I hearing a death rattle? Oh God, I’ll have to do something, but I don’t know what and I don’t know how—

  She began to move towards the exit door, and as she did so, there was the sound of a heavy switch being thrown offstage. The stage lights went off at once, and the theatre was plunged into darkness. Gilly froze, and before she could even start to think what to do or whether she could find her way out in the dark, a soft voice just behind her said, ‘I really shouldn’t bother to run, Gilly. You won’t escape me, my dear.’

  There was a terrible sense of inevitability at feeling his arms go around her and at being pressed against him in this abrupt intimacy.

  So this is what it feels like to be in his arms, thought Gilly, dazed and helpless. Strength and authority and sizzling power. I didn’t know it would be like this. I couldn’t possibly fight against this, nobody could. He’s mad, of course, but he’s still a triple murderer, and he’s probably going to murder me next. I think I might be a bit mad as well, because I’m not struggling, and I don’t even know if I’m frightened.’

  The Shadow was carrying her out of the theatre, going easily and almost negligently as if she weighed next to nothing. As they went out of the auditorium, Gilly managed to twist round to see the stage. The Shadow had left it in darkness, but she could just make out the figure suspended at the centre, swinging gently to and fro. There was a terrible submissiveness about it. I think he’s dead, thought Gilly. I don’t think he could live – I don’t think anyone could live with half his feet torn away like that. There’d be shock and loss of blood. When this is all over, I think I’m going to be very upset about Julius.

  The Shadow was carrying her out through the stage door and if there was ever a minute to fight this was surely it.

  ‘Don’t fight me, Gilly,’ he said, and Gilly shivered at the eerie way he had picked up her thoughts. ‘Don’t fight me and don’t try to run away. If you do, I shall certainly catch you and overpower you.’

  ‘Where – are we going?’

  Incredibly she felt a stir of amusement from him. He really is mad, she thought, but it’s a madness that’s all mixed up with the night and the darkness and it’s part of his own magnetism. ‘We’re going to the Cliffs of Moher,’ he said. ‘And once we’re there, you’re going to be a sacrifice, Gilly. Out there on the clifftops, in the dark storm. At exactly midnight, my dear.’ My dear . . . The words held a slurred, sexual note, and Gilly repressed a shudder.

  They had reached a car now, and he opened the back door and threw her onto the seat, reaching in to twist her arms behind her back and securing them with twine. Gilly struggled into a sitting position, but he was already in the driving seat, and there was a click as he operated some kind of electronic door switches. She said, ‘I don’t understand what this is about—’

  ‘Don’t you? You really shouldn’t have let Julius do that to you tonight, Gilly,’ said the Shadow, and Gilly thought: So he was there! He was watching us!

  But she managed to say, ‘Why shouldn’t I? What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘You were Mab,’ said the Shadow. ‘And Mab understood about being in thrall to the beings of the old legends. You were to be the one who would give the leanan-sidhe a first-born,’ he said. ‘We were going to make the child, Gilly, you and I, out there at the foot of the ancient Stone. And it would have been pledged to the leanan-sidhe, who haunt those cliffs and scour the land for human children, and they would have taken it – I know they would have taken it, because I would have forced them—’ He broke off suddenly, his breathing harsh and ragged. ‘They stole my birthright, those creatures,’ he said. ‘And because of it I became a thing of darkness.’ He glanced at her in the driving mirror, and she caught sight of the masked face, the eyes shining coldly through it. ‘You know about the darkness, don’t you, Gilly?’ he said, softly. ‘Well, we’re going to meet it tonight. You’re going to be given up to it.’

  And then, almost to himself, ‘And it may be sufficient for them to return my humanity.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The darkness that had closed down when Roscius’s son dragged the well cover into place was more complete than anything Flynn had ever imagined possible. It was a thick solid blackness, and there was not even the knowledge that in a few minutes his eyes would adjust to night-vision. To have night-vision it was necessary to have a small amount of light ingress, and in here there was none.

  He had climbed up to the mouth of the well at once, of course, feeling for the iron staves driven into the sides, stretching a hand cautiously up to feel for the underside of the cover. His searching hand found the other end of the rope that was tied round his waist. Roscius had secured it to the remains of what felt like an ancient hinge on the underside of the well lid. It felt rusty and so frail that Flynn realised with cold horror that it could give way under his suspended weight at any second. He tried not to think about this for the moment.

  He had known, even before he tried to push the cover off, that it would be hopeless, of course; he had heard, with dreadful clarity, the sound of some kind of locking mechanism being used, but he still made the attempt, first managing to loop the rope around the top rung of the iron ladder which would at least reduce the slack if he fell, and which would go some way to saving him if the rusting lid-hinge gave way. He managed to knot it reasonably firmly, holding on to the rung with his left hand and using his right hand and his teeth to make the knot. So far so good. Now for the lid
.

  He steadied himself with his left hand this time, and placed his right hand, palm uppermost, against the underside of the lid. It felt horrid against his skin – as if lying across the ancient well for centuries had caused it to soak up the black, fetid air. Flynn set his teeth and threw all his weight behind the effort. Twice he lost his hold on the iron rung and dropped sharply downwards, but each time the knots around the ladder held.

  But after several attempts, which left him gasping for air and covered in sweat, he knew it was an impossible task. The well cover was immovable: Roscius had locked it in place and he intended Flynn to die down here. Flynn found the footholds again, and curled his hands around two of the staves, and forced himself to concentrate on his appalling situation, and on how he was going to escape.

  There was a brief spark of hope when he remembered the people in Flaherty’s Bar, and the priest – Father Mack – who had known of his destination, but this spark died almost at once. It was not very likely that they would send out the cavalry for a brief, chance-met acquaintance, and even if they did – even if the house was searched from cellar to attic and this part was scrutinised – all anyone would see would be a disused well shaft, the cover properly in place. There would be no reason to suspect that there was a prisoner hidden anywhere.

  I’m clutching at straws, thought Flynn, his hands still curled around the iron staves. I’m absolutely alone. I’m more alone than I ever imagined possible. If I can’t get out of here I’m going to die, and God knows how long it will take. I don’t think I can hold on to these iron rungs for much longer. And when I can’t, I suppose I’ll just swing helplessly from the rope. It might take days to die. I’ll probably become purblind from the dark and deaf from the silence, and I’ll probably go mad with thirst— It’s supposed to be a very nasty thing indeed to die from thirst. But that’s what it’s going to be, thought Flynn. Despair, the agony of the soul, closed about him, and he thought: I’m shut in an ancient well shaft, beneath a deserted old house by a mad creature with half a face, and no one knows I’m here.

  He had no idea how long he stayed like that, half clinging to the iron rungs, half swinging from the rope. He thought he might partly have lost his grip on consciousness again for a time – he certainly thought he might have lost his grip on sanity at some point as well. But at length he began to think more clearly again. I can’t go up, he thought. The lid’s locked in place, and if Roscius unlocks it, I’ll hear. And if I stay here I’ll go slowly mad. But supposing I could go down?

  His heart at once began to beat faster with a mixture of panic and hope. What had Roscius said? There’s a legend that the well winds down and down beneath the ocean, and eventually comes out in the underworld lair of the leanan-sidhe. I don’t believe in the leanan-sidhe, thought Flynn, grimly. At least, we’ll say I don’t for the purpose of this exercise. But I can very easily believe in ancient wells that go down into sea tunnels. And anything’s better than staying here, waiting to die.

  Undoing the knot in the rope around his waist was more difficult than he’d expected. And I’ve got to remember that once this rope’s undone, I’m wholly reliant on the iron rungs, thought Flynn, trying not to panic at the prospect.

  He had expected to feel overwhelming fear when the knot finally loosened, but instead he felt a fresh surge of hope. It’s another step towards escape, he thought. At least, I’ll say it is. Here I go, then. Down into the depths. I’m not liking this at all, but I’m damned if I’ll admit it!

  The well got nastier the lower he went. It grew steadily colder as well, and the bad air seemed to get worse. It’s like crawling down into the maw of a monster, thought Flynn. No, I won’t think that, I’ll think I’m going down to freedom. I wish I could see a bit better.

  He thought it was not quite so silent now; once or twice there was the sound he had heard earlier, that was so uncannily like a massive, invisible creature breathing out. He caught the dripping of water more clearly as well and hoped very strenuously that this did not mean he was simply climbing down to a reservoir filled with stagnant water.

  He had to feel for the iron rungs as he went, and to test each one before he dared put his weight on it. Several rungs were missing and he had to slither lower, his hands taking his entire weight; several times the rungs broke away from the brickwork as soon as he found them. When this happened Flynn froze at once, clinging to the remaining staves, listening to the sound of the fall. What will I do if I hear them splash into water? he thought in horror. But there was no splash, only a faint thud as the iron staves reached the bottom. Flynn tried not to think that it sounded a very long way down. He tried not to hear the curious breathing-out sounds as well, although he had the uneasy impression that they were louder. I’m getting closer to whatever’s making the sounds, he thought. The air’s getting worse, as well. He had no idea if this was because he was inside a sealed vault and using up oxygen, or if it was from some other reason entirely. He wished he had not lit on the expression ‘sealed vault’ and he wished he had not thought about using up oxygen.

  His leg muscles were coping fairly well with the descent, but his arms and shoulders were aching abominably. He was just wondering how much longer he could go on, when, without any warning at all, the iron rungs stopped. Flynn, holding on by his hands, explored the wall immediately below him, using his feet. Nothing. Then either there was such a short drop to the bottom that the rungs were no longer necessary, or—

  Or a whole series of rungs had rusted and fallen out of their own accord.

  I’ll have to jump and trust to luck, thought Flynn, appalled. There’s nothing else for it. He took several deep breaths, which tasted dreadful and made his head swim all over again, and he was astonished to find himself sending up a prayer. But, Mother of God, if I land safely on terra firma, I’ll return to the bosom of the Church immediately! I’ll go to Mass every Sunday, and I’ll even—

  It was now or never. He let go of the rungs, and for the space of six heartbeats slithered painfully against the brick wall. And then incredibly and wonderfully he was on firm hard ground, slightly jarred by the short fall, but in one piece. I’ve done it! thought Flynn, hardly believing it. I’ve reached the bottom and I’m more or less unhurt, and I’ve even done it before I could swear away any more of my immortal soul. This unexpected spurt of irony cheered him up more than he would have believed possible. I mustn’t get carried away, he thought. I’m a bit nearer to freedom than I was an hour ago, but I daren’t get carried away.

  The shirt he had donned a hundred years ago that morning was sticking to his shoulder-blades with sweat, but his head felt noticeably clearer. Because there was an ingress of air from somewhere? He had lost all sense of time, but he thought it could not be more than a couple of hours since Roscius’s son had imprisoned him. I’ll beat you yet, you evil sod! he thought.

  But a sneaky little voice whispered that this might be as far as he was going to get, because if there really was a way out of here, Roscius would surely have known of it. Flynn could almost imagine that tortuous mind enjoying contriving a prison that allowed for escape, and then lying in wait for the hapless prisoner who believed himself free.

  It was then that he realised that not only were the sounds of dripping water and strange exhalations much nearer, for the first time he could make out, very faintly, the outlines of the bricks. Light was coming in from somewhere.

  The light was not good, but it was a million times better than the solid blackness had been. It was a dull, smeary light, rather horridly reminiscent of poison oozing from a wound, and it seemed to be coming from Flynn’s left. He waited for his vision to adjust, trying to take stock of his surroundings before moving again. Above him was the well shaft, and at his feet was what seemed to be a solid mass of rock. Ahead of him, in the direction of the sluggish light, he could just make out the shadowy outline of a tunnel.

  Flynn forced himself to stay calm. It was possible that the tunnel led absolutely nowhere and it was still possib
le that Roscius was tricking him, but it was a chance that had to be taken. He set off warily.

  The tunnel was narrow and the floor was perilously uneven, but it was possible to walk upright and there was sufficient light to guide his way. It wound steeply downwards, and as Flynn went deeper he had the sensation that he was crossing a dark threshold and descending to a forbidden and very sinister realm. And I don’t believe I’m entirely alone here, either, he thought. Is Roscius following me? Or waiting for me somewhere up ahead? I wouldn’t put it past him. With every step he expected the shadows to part and to see the dreadful, incomplete face appear, but nothing moved and the only sound was the strange breathing, growing perceptibly louder.

  The tunnel twisted and turned sharply so that for most of the time it was impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. Flynn kept imagining creatures gathering just beyond each turn of the tunnel, their heads bobbing together, whispering and plotting . . . Clucking and gobbling, and mopping and mowing . . .? Don’t be absurd! he said to himself angrily.

  But the feeling that he was entering some diabolic and devil-haunted nether-world persisted. There was something goblin-like about this place, there was the impression of small, bony bodies dodging out of his line of vision, and of peering, inward-slanting red eyes. Was he really going into the lair of the leanan-sidhe after all? And supposing they were not the sensuous, sensual creatures that Fael Miller had created and that Flynn had brought to life, but something very different indeed? But that’s ridiculous! he thought. That’s absurd.

  He stood still for a moment, thinking he could hear other sounds now: dry little rustlings that might have been fleshless fingers rubbing gleefully together, or whisking, boneless tails poking out beneath trailing velvet gowns . . . There was the smell and the feel and the imprint of bloodied legends waking, and of centuries-old elvish courts being convened, almost as if—