She heard the door open behind her and immediately picked up a hairbrush and began to brush her hair, clearing the mirror’s cloudy appearance to reveal, standing behind her, her husband Jack Stiles.
She felt a little tug at the heart at the sight of him. He had aged well considering, but … a little more white at the temples, a few more lines about the eyes. He could not live forever. It made her sad because she would have to – without him.
However, he still had the old spring in his step, the same shark-like grin and the same sharp mind that he had always had. This last was brought home to her by his first words to her.
‘Scrying?’ he asked. There was no possible way he could have known this. How had he surmised it?
Of course, he had not. He was simply employing his interrogative technique of letting you think he knew what he really did not know and daring you to deny it.
However, there was no point in denying it.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will not bother asking how you knew it. I do not suppose that you would tell me anyway.’
‘Still trying to find Cindy?’ he asked, not bothering to point out that he had never, in nearly twenty years, seen her sit at a mirror merely to brush her hair. ‘It’s not your responsibility you know,’ he added, knowing that it was a waste of his breath.
‘She was my charge,’ said Hecaté. ‘I failed her somehow.’
‘She failed you,’ asserted Stiles. ‘She was a grown woman and a human being with free will. She chose to do what she did. And in doing so, she broke faith with you. She promised to serve you in good faith then ran away when it became too hard. She failed in her devotion, and it’s not your fault.’
‘You speak of her as if she were dead,’ said Hecaté.
‘It’s easier that way,’ he said sombrely. ‘The Cindy we knew is dead, for all intents and purposes. Let it be.’ he used these last words deliberately to see if she would remember and understand.
She did. ‘Let it be,’ she repeated. ‘Oh Jack. You are right,’ she said. ‘Perhaps there are some things that cannot be altered – cannot be undone. Let it be.’
The search for Cindy had been underway for fifteen years. During that time, she had been looked for by Tamar, Denny, Stiles, Hecaté and the worldwide network of spies employed by a mysterious Agency for the investigation of supernatural phenomenon, all to no avail. Wherever she was, she had apparently fallen off the map entirely. No one could find her.
But Tamar had predicted that she would return to wreak her vengeance one day, and it was with this in mind that the search continued. No one wanted to be caught off guard.
* * *
The man known only as “Slick”, a nickname given to him by Tamar in reference to his winning ways as a con man and lothario, had yet to regret his decision to join Cindy, as Hecaté had once predicted he would. He accepted his position as a substitute lover with good grace. He had a nice life here. Cindy was gorgeous, passionate and made no claims on his emotional life, nor did she demand exclusive rights to his person. There had been others that she had found out about, and had done nothing but laugh about. He could do what he wanted, she implied. She did not care enough about him to want him to herself.
The only fly in the ointment was Ashtoreth. But Slick did not mind him really; he even felt sorry for the poor kid. He had a rotten life really. His resentment was understandable; after all, who did the poor kid have but his mother? Oh, the place was full of what Cindy referred to (incorrectly) as “minions” – they were really only servants – she even paid them well. But Ashtoreth was not allowed to talk to them.
The really sad part, as far as Slick could see, was that the kid had no idea that he had a rotten life. Had he shown even the slightest sign of friendliness Slick would have taken him in hand, shown him around the town a little. Maybe taught him a few of the ways of the world. What that kid needed, in Slick’s opinion, was to tear it up a little, let off some steam. But he was kept at a firm distance and besides, Cindy would have hit the roof. No point rocking the boat.
He did not see himself as a kept man. It was an arrangement that suited them both. If anything he was a free man. She kept him around for a reason, and he knew it. It was her weakness, not his. As long as he was around, she would not give in to that weakness. And the closer she came to the fulfilment of her long held desires, the less she could afford to risk giving in.
In reality, be believed he held the power in this relationship, however it might appear. If he left her, she would be stranded and forced to face up to what she had been denying for fifteen years. It was a game they were playing. A game called “Cindy is not in love with Denny”. For the fact was, the power of the Rheingold was a destructive force to those who wielded it without having forsaken love. And Cindy wanted that power. It was what she had chosen instead of a broken heart. Not realising that a broken heart can be mended but an empty heart can never be filled.
No, he had no reason to regret his decision as yet. But the day was coming.
To Slick’s clear-sighted perception, the true motive behind Cindy’s playing of this game was effortlessly transparent. Yet he was totally blind to – had never even thought to look at – the true reason behind his own participation; the reason why he did not, in fact, just get up, go, and leave her to it. Yet the reason was simple.
This game they were playing together, and he did not yet understand this, could also be described as “Slick is not in love with Cindy”.
Of course, there was also the possibility that Ashtoreth’s self-control might break, and he would kill Slick in a fit of jealous fury. That would be a good reason to regret his decision too.
Cindy, who had never been as stupid as she seemed, was nevertheless, unaware of this. It never occurred to her to wonder why he had stayed so long in what would be regarded by most men as an impossible situation. He accepted the insulting way that her son treated him without demur. In fact, Cindy herself found his treatment of Slick more annoying than Slick himself seemed to.
She considered him weak. Very different, in that respect, from the man that she refused to admit he was replacing. But weak was how she wanted him. A strong man who might have tried to assert himself was of no use to her. Then again, he would be of no use to her either shortly. Very soon, her power would be consolidated. Her enemies, particularly that one who most threatened her security, would all be dead.
She would never admit the thought openly to her conscious mind – it was too dangerous – but deep down, on some unacknowledged level, she was aware that until Denny was dead, she would never be completely safe. Should he stir even the slightest emotion within her, it was finished. This was the unadmitted but true reason why he had to die. A sacrifice in her quest for power.
On a more practical level (and this was the acknowledged reason) Denny and Tamar and their little conclave, represented a formidable barrier in their own right, to the ambitions of any power hungry evil genius bent on world domination.
And once Denny was dead, and her power and her heart secure forever, what would she need Slick for? Nothing. (Not that she was able to admit that she needed Slick for anything now. That would be to admit that other dangerous truth; the truth about why she needed him.) He was ultimately expendable. He always had been. Perhaps she would let Ashtoreth kill him. A little treat for a good boy.
And it was time, at last, to make her opening move in the carefully planned campaign that she had been patiently constructing for so many years. No bold frontal assault that was sure to end in disaster. No one could go up against Tamar head to head and hope to win. Subtlety was what was needed here. Everything she knew about them, and all that she had learned from them was to her advantage. That and the fact that they would never see it coming. They would never even suspect that it was she who was behind it. Not until it was too late anyway. Of course, some things may have changed in the intervening years. The one disadvantage of her well chosen hiding place was that it worked both ways. In order to keep them from finding her, she had been unab
le to keep an eye on them. But she did not believe that anything fundamental had changed. There was no reason why it would have.
She sent for her son. He had been waiting for this day almost as long she had.
But was he ready? Well there was only one way to find out? The first test.
~ Chapter Two ~
Iphigenia Black was sneaking out of the house. There was no valid reason for this, since no one was in anyway, except Jack and, of course, his ailing father who did not count since he never left his room anyway. Sneaking out of the house is just something teenagers do, even when they can teleport if they want to.
‘And where do you think you’re going?’
‘Jesus Jack! You nearly gave me a heart attack. You sounded just like Dad.’
‘Sorry, I thought it’d be funny. And it was too. You should see the look on your face.’
‘Ha, ha. That’s being a changeling, is it? Using your incredible powers of mimicry to make me fall out of the window?’
‘You didn’t fall out of the window, stop exaggerating. Where are you going anyway?’
‘Ali’s house.’
‘Is that a euphemism for Griff’s?’
Griff’s was short for “The Grifters Arms”, an all night bar that played loud music at all hours of the day and night and encouraged all patrons regardless of age, sex, culture, subculture, or sanity.
‘Ali’s going to be there,’ she said, which was as good as an admission.
‘I don’t know what you see in that dump,’ said Jack.
‘It’s the coolest place in this one horse town,’ she told him.
He waved her away, ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you later. Don’t turn anyone into a toad.’
‘I never …’
‘Or a bacon sandwich,’ he added.
‘I was five,’ she said indignantly. ‘It was an accident.’
‘You were ten,’ he corrected her, ‘and you said it was because she stole your poster of that weird looking singer. You know – the one with the hair.’
‘A good memory is a treacherous weapon,’ said Iffie resignedly, and she hopped off the sill.
* * *
Finvarra was a sick man. (Well, a sick Faerie anyway – but no amount of clapping children were going to make him better). He was not sick of the body, but of the mind. He kept to his room seeing his son only on rare occasions, and seeing no one else at all. Jack had been raised by the combined efforts of Stiles and Hecaté mainly – with interference from Tamar and support from Denny.
The room was dark, but the familiar figure was instantly recognisable even in the gloom.
‘Jack? That you my boy?’
The light snapped on brutally. Finvarra shielded his eyes from the unaccustomed brightness, then peered out from between his fingers.
‘I waited till everyone had gone out,’ said his visitor. ‘Like my mother told me to.’
‘Jack – Jacky?’ Finvarra sat up abruptly. It was his son and yet not his son. Unless his son had cut his long hair off into a severe crew cut and taken to wearing a suit instead of baggy pants and T-shirts. Perhaps he had a girlfriend. Women could do that to a man. But he knew it was not Jack. The hatred in the eyes could never have belonged to his son. ‘Jacky?’ he said. Not knowing what else to call him.
‘My name is Ashtoreth,’ said the boy coldly.
‘Ah!’ said Finvarra nodding. ‘I see. Of course, my boy.’
‘I’m not your boy!’ Ashtoreth spat at him. ‘You stole me from my mother – she told me.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ said Finvarra feebly.
‘So it is true?’ said Ashtoreth. ‘You admit it? You stole me and put an impostor in my place. I know you did. Didn’t you? Didn’t you?’ He brought his face menacingly close to Finvarra’s.
Finvarra shrugged. ‘Yes I did,’ he admitted. ‘But it wasn’t how you think – if you let me explain …’
‘No more lies!’ shouted Ashtoreth. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’
‘It is your mother who has lied to you,’ said Finvarra unwisely.
‘No!’ she told me the truth. You’ve admitted it. I used to wonder if – if maybe she had made a mistake. But it’s all true.
‘Oh mother, I am sorry that I doubted you. I am unworthy. I have been tainted by the evil of this man, and not all your great care has been able to shrive it from my soul. But now I see the truth. This old sinner must die, as you have always said. They must all die.’
Finvarra put out a shaking hand to the boy – there was love and understanding shining through the tears in his eyes. ‘One day,’ he said. ‘You will understand what you have done. On that day, I want you to remember this – just this. You were not to blame. Forgive yourself as I forgive you now. I am ready to die. Perhaps it is a mercy you do me now. I have lived long enough without her. It is fitting that it is by her hand – by proxy – that I perish. I always knew that she would be the death of me. I forgive you my son. My son that I love …’
Ashtoreth spread great white wings that burst from his back. They filled the room with menacing shadows that enveloped all the light.
He turned slowly away. First blood had been shed, and it had not been the divine experience he had expected. The old man’s last words had shaken him. Robbed him, in the end, of the satisfaction of vengeance.
It would not be so the next time.
* * *
Iffie had gone outside, ostensibly for some air, but really to escape from Josh Whathisname, who was a semi-friend of a friend who tended to get a bit sentimental after a drink or ten. Better to get out of his way before he did anything really embarrassing. He would thank her later.
Iffie had a talent – one that she had inherited from her mother, and, like her mother, she often employed that talent unconsciously. She was, although she did not know it, about to employ that talent now.
Something fundamental had changed in the household that Cindy had laid such meticulous plans against. That “something” was a teenager with her mother’s uncanny ability to throw a spanner right into the workings of the best laid plans.
Completely unaware of any imminent spanner hurling, Iffie looked up at a familiar figure striding down the street toward her and curled her lip.
‘You followed me?’ she sniped. ‘What am I, a baby?’
The figure stopped and looked down at her in bewilderment. ‘What?’ he said.
‘And what’s with the dorky suit and that stupid square haircut?’ Iffie continued. ‘Have you joined The Agency in the space of the last two hours? And … you’re not Jack, are you?’
‘Who are you?’ he said.
‘Gosh, you look just like him – really. Well not just like him ’cause… the hair and everything but – wow! I mean it’s you isn’t it? You’re him?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Oh. Name’s Iffie, forget everything I just said, I ramble sometimes,’ she added. The look on his face was rather worrying, and Iffie did not have a witch’s intuition for nothing.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Ashtoreth,’ said Ashtoreth, utterly fascinated by this little person with the enormous eyes and the big gestures, she would have someone’s eye out with those rings one day. He had never imagined anyone so energetic.
‘Really? What a dorky name. Can I call you Ash? That sounds much cooler. It would suit you much better.’ she added slyly – the honey within the sting.
There was an insult if you liked, but delivered in such a charming manner that it was robbed of all offence. He was certainly learning a lot today. Especially about the power of words.
But Ash? That was what the loathed interloper called him; he detested it. But somehow, he did not mind it from her.
‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong with my name?’
‘It’s just dorky that’s all. I can’t explain why. Sounds like a Bible name or something. Utterly grim.’ And she waved her arms about and pulled a gargoyle face at him. ‘Yuk!’ she exclaimed ex
pressively.
Ash was completely enchanted.
‘Why don’t you come in?’ she suggested, throwing a wide arm in the direction of the bar. ‘Have a drink, have a dance, let your hair … loosen up a bit. Do you good, I should think.’ She looked critically at him. ‘You look like you need unbuttoning a bit.’
Again she had insulted him. He should have been angry at such an affront to his dignity, but he was not. There was a refreshing lack of malice in her attack. When the despised Slick said these sorts of things to him, he felt the fury building up behind the levees of his patience. But she was different; she clearly meant no harm at all. She was teasing him. As if … as if … they were friends. As if she liked him. The thought gave him a strange warm feeling inside.
‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘It’s retro tonight – they’re playing all really old stuff like Madonna. Should be right up your alley,’ she added with a slight sneer.
‘I-I really shouldn’t,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I have to get back. My mother …’
‘Huh, parents!’ Iffie rolled her eyes. ‘If you do what they want all the time, what’s the point of living?’
Ashtoreth was startled by this philosophy. It was so alien to what he had been brought up to believe.
‘Come on!’ she wheedled. ‘We’re young, we’re gorgeous,’ she yelled waving her arms about like a crazed windmill. ‘Live a little, the olds never have to know. And what they don’t know won’t hurt them.’
‘You love your parents don’t you?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Of course, stupid. Like millions and millions. They’re great. My Dad’s the greatest man in the world (probably literally)’ she added sotto voce. ‘But we’re young you know, it’s practically our job to rebel.’
‘It is?’
‘Of course it is, don’t you know anything?’
‘Apparently not,’ muttered Ash following her in.
‘That’s right, “Angel face”,’ said Iffie with a touch of wicked humour. ‘Have some fun. It won’t kill you.’
They wandered into the club to the strains of an old Madonna song. The words of which rather appropriately ran: # You’re an angel in disguise. I can see it in your eyes.
Rise Of The Nephilim (The Tamar Black Saga) Page 2
