Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  The second wave built slowly, agonizing in its promise. “Years, I’ve waited for this. You’ve no idea how much I wanted to be inside you, untouchable Rosie.”

  “Didn’t you know I wanted it too? I could have taken you across that prison table . . .” She writhed on him, liquefying.

  “God, I wish you had.” He began to move more forcefully, looking hard into her eyes. His voice was ragged. “We were always heading towards this. And we’ve both always known it.”

  “We’re both wicked, Sam.” The words came out of her core and she couldn’t stop them, she was molten.

  “Oh, yes. As bad as each other.”

  Release broke with such incredible power, such a long and complex fugue of sensation, that Rosie was amazed to survive. The shirt slid off her as she convulsed. Sam’s hands came to her hips and held her, drawing out every last shock of sensation. Then she collapsed onto his chest, exhausted. He held her, his palms and fingers spreading delicious warmth across her naked skin, arms strong around her, whispering, “It’s all right, I’m here, I’ve got you.”

  She lay beside him, dazed.

  Sam rose on one elbow, stroking her face. He was watching her face tenderly, as intently as a cat. “What?” she said at last.

  “Somewhere about now you go into a panic, tell me nothing happened and run for the hills. Don’t even think about it.”

  “I’m not. I can’t move.”

  Blue-green lights sparkled across his eyes as they took in every inch of her face. Satiated, but still wickedly speculating. “There’s something I’ve always wanted to do with you that we’ve never done before.”

  “Oh yes?” She stirred and flexed, ready to rise to any challenge. “Shock me. Spiky metal whips?”

  “Hey, you were the one with the glove. This,” he said, sliding his arms more tightly around her. “The tender part. To lie in bed with you afterwards. I wanted this more than anything.”

  The ocean floor fell away and she was drowning.

  So easy to duel with him. So very easy to have rough quickies in inappropriate places, or to play erotic power games. But to lie holding him, that was for people who loved and trusted each other, and it was a worse betrayal of Alastair than anything else she’d done. Suddenly she was terrified. Human again. Apparently her Aetherial-self hadn’t thought this far.

  “What have you done to me?” she whispered on the very end of her breath. “When I’m in bed with Alastair—”

  “Don’t,” he said roughly, but she had to tell him.

  “When I’m in bed with Alastair, I can only come if I think about you.”

  His mouth quested for hers. They began kissing and all the lovely melting fire was there again. She realized that, for all they’d done, it was the first time they’d kissed that day. So, let’s kiss for several hours. It seemed a lifetime since they’d come upstairs. His mouth was delicious. They lay interlocked, moving sensuously against each other as they kissed at length.

  He was so strong and solid, so bright with energy. It wasn’t physical pleasure that made this so overwhelming. No. It was special because it was Sam, no one else, but her dark, dangerous, flaky Sam. His hands on her, his body against hers, his excitement and affection and complete attention all pouring into her.

  “Did you find out what you needed to know?” he asked.

  “I think so. But I’m scared to believe it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Whether this is real. Whether it’s any more than lust. Whether this is the end or the beginning.”

  “It’s real for me.” He paused. “What is it for you?”

  “I want you, Sam. You know I want you.”

  “But you can’t love me?” He lay still. “I never really expected you to. I know I’m not good enough for you. I try not let it break my heart because, hey, you’re lying in bed with me, but . . . no, why should you?”

  “Because I—there’s something missing. In me, I mean. I thought I knew with . . . other people . . . but I didn’t. I could so easily get it monumentally wrong yet again.” She traced his cheekbone. “You’re in paradise just being here with me, aren’t you?”

  He half-smiled. There was a slight frown there too. “Yeah. Completely.”

  “Have you any idea how seductive that is? But you’ve got nothing to lose. Do I give up my house, life, job, everything for you?”

  “Sweetheart, no, I don’t want that.” He was distressed, reality dawning. “You think I was put on this Earth to torment you but I’m not, I just couldn’t give up while I could see that spark in your eye. Never meant you to lose anything.”

  “But I’m bound to. If they ever find out about us, I could lose the lot. It’s my career that means the most, being an important part of my father’s business, making him proud of me. That’s everything to me.”

  “You—you wouldn’t have to leave work, would you?”

  “Oh, I would. Matthew would disown me. He might stop me seeing Faith and Heather. How could I possibly expect to go on working alongside him and Alastair? Not in a million years. Even my mum and dad would be ashamed.”

  “So you want to know if I’m worth the sacrifice?” Sam said somberly. “Well, I’m not, am I? It’s obvious. I’m no architect. What does it say on my CV? Expelled. Prison. Oh yeah, and dug garden for two hours then spent all afternoon in bed with the boss. I’m never going to be worth it.”

  “Hey.” She leaned above him. A tear fell out of nowhere and landed on his face. “Why the hell do you think I’m even considering it?”

  “You are?” His face was frozen, as if he were desperately hoping but not expecting anything.

  “But what if I’m making a mistake? What if the minute I say yes, you lose interest—oh, got that one conquered, I’m bored now, let’s move on?”

  “What?” He gripped her shoulders, looking helpless. “If you think that, you don’t know me, you don’t know anything.”

  “That’s kind of the point. I don’t really know you.”

  “Sordid life of crime,” he said. “Thieving, drugs, violence. I could probably make it as a hit man. Bit of necromancy. Torturing hamsters for fun and profit. Rosie . . .”

  “What?”

  “That’s where I would have been if I hadn’t met you. You know me better than anyone. You rescued me. I’m your bloody slave. What can I do to convince you?”

  She bowed her head, touching it to his. “Give me some time.”

  “All you want.” His voice was a rush of hope and gratitude. “Anything you need, love, everything . . .”

  He began kissing his way down her throat, tongue and lips feathering all down her body then working into her, setting the pearl of pleasure alight. Rosie cried out. Too much ecstasy. So intense now, she couldn’t bear it. She drew his face up level with hers and kissed him, tasting their myrrh all mixed up together. She wrapped her hand around him, felt him firm and eager in her palm.

  “Is this for me?” she asked.

  “All for you,” he said, pushing and gliding into her as she lifted one knee over his hip. “Always.”

  “I want you there, Sam,” she said, crying. “As deep as you can go. Forever.”

  The world turned molten with sensation, red and golden. She felt the Dusklands burning around them. Felt herself changing, transforming, becoming the Aetherial she was always meant to be, meeting her fylgia on the other side and becoming her true self. They floated in a strange fiery heaven where pleasure was so intense it was close to pain. They wept afterwards.

  Somewhere, control and power had all evaporated.

  Then they lay together, knowing they couldn’t stay much longer, but not wanting to break the spell. “It’s only ten to three,” Rosie said, looking at her watch. “They won’t expect us back at the office until five.”

  “What haven’t we done yet?” Sam asked lazily. “Haven’t shown you what else I can do with my tongue . . .”

  “Keep something for next time. I’m done in.”

  “Me too, swee
theart. Hey . . . did you say next time?”

  “Apparently,” she whispered.

  Sam fell asleep for a few minutes. Rosie sat up, hands clasped around her raised knees, hair slipping over her shoulders, and watched him. He was truly beautiful, stretched out like sculpture with every muscle defined, lovely as marble but warm and living. She smiled.

  No one had ever loved her like this before. No one ever would again.

  And she felt a terrible ache in her heart, because she knew it was doomed. Neither of them truly felt worthy of that much love. And Sam was unstable, had nothing in his life except Rosie. Yes, he was wonderful for the forbidden demon sex in the dark. But if they tried to be together, they would fall to pieces. She knew it.

  I still can’t give him up, she thought, holding on to her toes. I can’t, I just can’t. Okay, I’m going to be very careful. One day at a time. Oh my god, I’m having an affair.

  There was building noise from the house next door. Sam woke with a start, saw her looking at him. “Sorry, love, I dropped off. Told you I was up for five nights.”

  Noise from next door came again, a dull hammering, or the soft thunder of boots on scaffolding planks. Weirdly, she thought she heard a voice calling her name, but she dismissed it. Then a door opened, sounding oddly close . . .

  Suddenly, horribly, and too late, they realized that the noises were inside the house. The door to the bedroom was wide open. A man was standing in the doorway, gaping at them.

  Alastair.

  15

  The Crone Oak

  No one said a word.

  The lovers reclined in disarray on the tangled bed, frozen as if caught in stage lights.

  Alastair stared. It was only for seconds, as long as it took him to process the scene. His lips began to form unanswerable questions—What the hell? or, How could you?—but nothing came out.

  His eyes glittered. Blood rose in his face. Then he whirled on his heel and walked out.

  They heard him stomping down the uncarpeted stairs. A door slammed, filling the house with tense echoes. Rosie sat there in shock. There was no breath in her to speak or react. Arms, hands, legs, nothing would move.

  “Oh shit,” said Sam, sitting up. “Oh, god, Rosie. Bloody hell.”

  She put a hand to her face, squeezed her eyes shut and said, “Fuck.”

  Sam got off the bed and began to gather their scattered clothes. She sat on the edge of the bed with her head bowed, then shook herself and began to dress, fumbling so much that Sam was fully clothed a good minute before her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked gently, one hand hovering near her shoulder without actually touching.

  “Help me fix the bed,” she said, hauling the covers over the sticky, rumpled sheets. Her mouth was dry, her heart trying to explode out of her chest, but all she could think to do was tidy away the evidence, too late. “Chuck me those cushions.”

  Sam obliged. “How did he know we were here?”

  “He knew which plot I was starting. He often drops in, if he happens to be on site. I never thought he would today. God, I’m an idiot!”

  “No. It’s just crap luck.”

  The room was soon as pristine as they’d found it. No one was likely to disturb the bed again until the house was sold; but when they did, they were in for a fairly unsavory surprise. Rosie took a deep breath, shuddering. “Oh god.”

  “I’m so sorry, babe.” Sam raked his hand through his hair. She’d half-expected gloating pleasure from him at being discovered, but she’d misjudged him again. “I never wanted this to happen. What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know, Sam.” She finally managed to meet his eyes. His hair was all tousled and he looked tender, beautiful and worried to death. “I’d better go after him.”

  “No, let him cool down first, I would.”

  She exhaled. “It’ll be worse if I put it off. He deserves an explanation.”

  “Let me come with you. Face him together.”

  “Oh, he’d love that.” Shock had turned the afterglow to ashes. They could barely touch each other. “Thanks, but no. I have to do this alone.”

  Lucas made his way towards Freya’s Crown. He approached from the west, across the wildest part of the estate, where he wouldn’t be seen from the manor. He pushed through drifts of waxy evergreens, through beech woods and brambles, climbing the steep rocky slope towards the great molar on the crest.

  This was a huge risk. If Lawrence caught him, it would be the end. If Jon found out, he’d be furious—tough. Jon had done nothing for months, except sit on Rosie’s spare bed, brooding and feeling sorry for himself. Lucas had finally worked up courage to seek the truth.

  The tilted volcanic outcrop loomed over him. Reaching it, he pressed one hand to its surface and rested there to get his breath back. The wind was freezing up here. He’d had time to get over the frantic fear of his last visit here and now, although nervous, he was surprisingly calm. Again he glanced around the wild landscape to make sure he was alone. The grey shadow of a dysir began to sniff around him, but made no move to stop him.

  Carefully, Lucas let himself blend into the Dusklands.

  The world turned liquid blue. The Great Gates stood in stately glory; a structure created by the Ancients. The sight induced swooping dizziness and he paused to steady his nerve . . . then he began to work his way around, trailing his hands over the gritty surface. The ridged scar on his chest began to throb and burn.

  He didn’t expect to find anything. He must have hallucinated the rock face opening after the bad trip with Jon. There couldn’t really be a crack, or Lawrence would have found it.

  The rock spoke, making him jump. A deep, echoing ah of heavy stone shifting. His fingers found the rim of a fissure. It was a jagged line of darkness stretching from crown to base, just barely wide enough for a slim person to squeeze into.

  Lucas sank to his knees, overwhelmed, staring into the dark. He could perceive nothing inside. Only inky blackness. Perhaps the hint of a cold draft.

  It was true. The Gates had cracked open as he’d come out of the drug trance. Had the gap been here all this time, or had it sealed itself and just this minute opened again at his touch? Whatever—it meant he’d somehow unlocked it. Panic swelled under his heart. Why hadn’t Lawrence found it? If he had, he would surely have mentioned it, raged about it—and, above all, re-locked it long ago.

  Did this mean that Lawrence, impossibly, did not know the crack was here?

  It was only a sliver, hardly even a Lychgate. Not enough for anything to pass in or out, Luc told himself . . . not even Brawth. At least, he prayed with all his strength that nothing dangerous had crept through. “It can’t have done,” he said aloud. “We would have known, wouldn’t we?”

  He felt into the fissure with both hands, pressing his palms to the cold hard walls. He tried to imagine stepping in, but couldn’t; it was too terrifying. You could stare off a cliff top, but—unless you had a death wish—you wouldn’t jump.

  Holy crap, I’ve unlocked the Gates, he thought, but Lawrence doesn’t know. How can he not know? He said they’d never be opened again. He said there was only one Gatekeeper and it was him. So how . . . ?

  Unless Lawrence has lost the power.

  No, thought Lucas, no. I can’t be responsible for this.

  He sensed no flood, no storm, no ice demon rushing towards him. Only an intense, wintry chill. He snatched his hands out of it, rose to his feet and stared at the gap in helpless alarm. He had no idea how to open it any further—not that he wanted to—and no idea how to close it, either.

  What the hell was he supposed to do now?

  He shut his eyes and saw, all around him, figures in masks. Foxes, wildcats, wolves, hawks, lizards and jeweled fish—vast, transparent deities, watching him from another place as if from the tiers of a great amphitheater. They were ghostly, shining with their own eerie light; and they all simply stood there, staring at him. Waiting.

  He had no idea what they wanted. He’d
been seeing them in dreams for weeks. “Come,” breathed the wind. “Come to us.”

  Lucas jerked backwards, stepped into the dip behind him and fell, lurching violently back into the surface world. Clear air, stark landscape. He rolled to his feet and stood there, head whirling with shock. He knew he should tell Lawrence or Auberon—but what drastic action might they take? How could he keep such a monumental secret to himself . . . but how could he even begin to confess it?

  If the Lychgate had stood unlocked like this for months, was it possible that there was no danger after all?

  Lucas turned and walked away. Head down, hands in his coat pockets, he was nearly running. And all the way down the hill the wind kept hissing at him, “Come in, come to us. It’s time.”

  The aftermath was a panicky muddle. Locking the house and loading the truck as if nothing had happened, even though the world was falling in. Driving Sam back to Fox Homes to collect his motorbike; watching nervously for Alastair’s car all the way; persuading Sam to leave quickly, before anyone saw him.

  “When am I going to see you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. You’d better keep out of the way for a while.”

  “How can I?” Sam was dismayed. “What if he rants and raves?”

  “I don’t need protecting from him. Please, just over the weekend.”

  “And . . . what happens then?”

  Rosie shook her head. “God, Sam, don’t ask me that.”

  “Am I fired?” he asked so plaintively that she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

  “Have you got a mobile?” she said. “Quick, give me the number. Then I won’t have to get past Cruella again.” And they stood inanely swapping phone numbers, while the dark hunt came thundering towards them through the cosmos.

  Once he’d gone, Rosie hauled herself upstairs to the architects’ office, steeled for disaster. Matthew greeted her with a feeble joke about Sam tunneling to freedom and never being seen again. When she asked if he’d seen Alastair, he looked innocently puzzled. “I thought he went to find you.”

  “We must have missed each other,” Rosie said lamely, and rushed out.