Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  He swung the car onto the lane that wound into the village. The road was far too narrow for speed. Lucas felt he was suffocating in the closed glass and metal capsule, the thick leathery scent. He felt Jon hanging on to his seat back.

  “I swore no woman would ever do this to me again.” Alastair’s voice took on a strangled note. “No woman, human or faerie, has the right to do this to me. The bitch!”

  “Hold on,” Lucas interrupted. “You can’t call Rosie that.”

  “Calling her as I see her. What else is she? I thought we were solid.” His mouth trembled. “I thought I knew her, but I didn’t. What were our wedding vows to her, a joke, a laundry list, what?”

  Trees and a house flashed past. Lucas’s head whipped round. “Alastair, we went straight past Oakholme. Where are we going? Stonegate?”

  “You’re after Sam, aren’t you?” said Jon, alarmed. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know, but if I see that bastard, if I catch him—” Alastair’s voice caught with sobs.

  “This won’t help anyone!” Lucas exclaimed. “What are you planning? To run him over? Then what?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know!” Alastair braked violently, slewing the car around on the lane in a shower of gravel. Sweat and tears were pouring down his face. “I need to think.”

  “Well, can you let us out then,” Jon said shakily, “because this is really wasting gas, and it’s nothing to do with us.” He fumbled with the door handle, but the locks wouldn’t release.

  Alastair moved off again, bumping the car over grass at the roadside. “Oh, isn’t it?” He cruised back the way they’d come, passing Oakholme a second time. His driving was erratic but slower now. “Did you know, Lucas, she once told me you were the most precious thing in the world to her? Not me. You.”

  “What?” Lucas said faintly.

  “I don’t know if she loves Sam, but I know she loves you, and even that birdbrain in the back, more than she ever loved me. I gave her every chance to put things right. How many men would do that? I was ready to forgive her and she throws it back at me—like my forgiveness is worthless. She doesn’t get it—I tore out my heart and my pride and offered them to her on a platter, and she doesn’t even care, she just kicks them into the mud.” His teeth were bared, his eyes glittering with tears. “What would it take to make her feel the pain, eh? Hurt something they love. Destroy some darling fluffy wee thing they love. It’s the only language they understand.”

  “Excuse me,” said Jon, “this is kidnap. What are you going to do with us?”

  “I don’t know! Shut up!” He pressed the accelerator, veering onto the wrong side of the road. “I don’t want to hurt you. But while I’ve got you, I’ve got the power. Let me think!”

  “Yeah, slow down,” said Lucas. “You shouldn’t be driving in this state. Let’s stop and have a talk instead.”

  “Don’t patronize me, you wee bastard.” He swung left onto another unlit, winding lane, taking the bends without care as he wavered piteously between tears and rage. “We’ll just drive around awhile, so I can think straight. I trusted your family! How could she, when I trusted her?”

  “Look,” said Jon. “I’m getting massively pissed off with this. I know you broke my fucking guitar! I know you hate me, but it is not my fault that Rosie decided to break her heart over me. She’s flaky. She married you on the rebound and probably shagged my brother on the rebound, too. Reality check: She doesn’t love you. Get over it. You want to find Sam, he’s probably at your house doing Rosie right now.”

  Alastair turned, even in the gloom, deathly white. He pressed the accelerator. The speed flung them back in their seats.

  “There’s a sharp right bend ahead,” gasped Lucas. He saw hedges racing past on either side, the tight bend approaching, the huge oak tree that Rosie loved standing proud, directly in their path. In a panic he unfastened his seat belt, fumbled uselessly with the locked door. Alastair’s eyes were glazed, his mouth an oblong of pain and rage as he thrust his foot to the floor. The engine shrieked. Lucas and Jon were both shouting now. It was like shouting underwater.

  Alastair screamed. He wrestled with the steering wheel, trying at the very last second to turn—too late. The Crone Oak came rushing at them. Lucas felt the tires slithering on the asphalt as the car went out of control. He flattened himself against the seat back, held his breath, watched paralyzed as the trunk grew huge in the windshield.

  There was a violent shock as the car hit rough grass and became airborne.

  Impact. Crunching metal, shattering glass. And Lucas went on flying; falling from the cliff edge, plunging through the Gates, diving into the blackness of the Abyss.

  16

  Transformation

  Rosie was woken by a steady pulse of blue light across her ceiling.

  For a moment she couldn’t think where she was. It was dark and she was lying on the sofa. Her watch said nine o’clock. Then she remembered; she’d come home to wait for Alastair, waited and waited—until, exhausted, she’d fallen asleep where she sat. And still no one had come home.

  The shrill of the doorbell brought her sharply to her feet.

  From the hallway, she saw figures outside silhouetted against the glare of a police car. Nothing felt real. Her head was whirling as she opened the door. At the same moment, her phone began to ring. There were two policewomen on the doorstep, as somber as undertakers.

  “Mrs. Duncan? I’m afraid there’s been an accident . . .”

  The next hour passed in a blur. Sitting in the back of the police car as it took her to Leicester, the illuminated blocks of the Royal Infirmary swimming into view. The musty-sweet smell of hospital corridors. Bright lights, bustle, the shine of metal and glass.

  Then the dim and soothing green decor of the relatives’ room. Matthew sitting with his head in his hands. Auberon pacing in shirt sleeves, Jessica rushing to meet Rosie, her face anguished and tear-streaked . . . Being held tight in her mother’s arms, shrouded by her thick golden hair. The two of them weeping on each other’s shoulders, and Auberon’s arms wrapping around them both.

  She had never seen her parents like this before, ashen-faced with grief. She never wanted to see it again. “Rosie, we’re so sorry,” they kept saying.

  She was still struggling to accept what the police had told her; Alastair was dead, killed outright. Jon had escaped with injuries. Lucas . . . Lucas was not expected to survive.

  He had been thrown through the windshield, straight into the tree, her tree, the Crone Oak. He was in intensive care, condition critical. It was all too much to bear. The knowledge of Luc lying near death left her choking with pain as if she’d been stabbed.

  “It makes no sense,” said Matthew, red-faced with shock. “He was a careful driver. He drove like a bloody snail.”

  “It must have been icy,” said Jessica. “Was it icy? Where were they going?”

  “I don’t know.” It was all Rosie could do to speak. “I can’t understand why they were in the car with him at all. There must be a mistake.”

  Cups of tea. Doctors coming and going. More police officers, gently trying to piece together a statement from Rosie’s utter confusion. After they’d left, Matthew looked at her, his eyes fierce and raw. “Hadn’t you better tell Mum and Dad?”

  “Tell us what?” said Jessica. She was sitting beside Rosie, firmly clasping her hand.

  Rosie looked at the worn carpet tiles beneath her feet. “I broke up with Alastair yesterday . . . because I’ve been seeing Sam.”

  “Oh” was all Jessica said. Auberon took it in without comment.

  “And you were going to put things right,” said Matthew, pointing a damning finger at her. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Are you blaming me for this?” Rosie gasped.

  “No, I’m only suggesting that Alastair wasn’t driving carefully because he was a little bit upset.”

  “I asked him to come home! You tell me why he didn’t.”

  “No on
e’s to blame,” Auberon said firmly. “It was an accident. Let’s wait for the facts, shall we?”

  They waited; time slowed to an interminable crawl. Rosie thought about Faith, alone with Heather at Oakholme. Earlier, she’d phoned Sam and arranged a guilty rendezvous at the Green Man for the next day, Sunday. That couldn’t happen now. She pressed her crystal heart, which she’d put on that morning, between her fingertips for comfort.

  Phyllida arrived, running to Jessica with hugs. Her presence eased the atmosphere, since she wasn’t afraid to demand answers from the medical staff. At last a nurse came and said they could see Lucas. Her manner was grave and delicate, as if to discourage false hope.

  There was a busy ward, a hissing glass door leading off to a white room with one bed. Lucas lay with closed eyes, tubes and drips connecting him to the last thread of life. Rosie and Jessica pressed close to each other, hands tangled so tight that it hurt.

  He had a dressing on his head, swollen cuts and bruises around his eyes; otherwise his skin was as white as the bed on which he lay. He looked diminished, almost emaciated under the covers, mouth slack around plastic tubing, ribs bellowing in time with the ventilator that was breathing for him. Machines beeped and clicked.

  A grey-haired senior doctor came and began talking about head injury. Coma. Brain-stem death. He was telling them that the machines were keeping Lucas alive. The longer it took him to show signs of recovery, the less chance there was. They might have to face the decision to switch off life support.

  “Lucas?” Rosie whispered, sliding her fingers into his palm and squeezing. No response. He wasn’t there.

  When the doctor left, Phyllida bustled about finding chairs. Auberon sat beside Lucas with his head in one hand; Jessica, next to him, stared fixedly at her son’s face. With his hair back he looked like Lawrence; not the harsh, aquiline one but a young, sweet and boyish version. Matthew stayed on his feet, restless.

  “This can’t be right,” Rosie whispered to her aunt. “I thought Aetherials were more resilient than humans.”

  “We are,” Phyll replied. “If he wasn’t Vaethyr, he probably would have died instantly. But these bodies are still flesh and blood. We can be injured or killed, in a human sense. You know that.”

  “It’s no good,” said Matthew, “I can’t stay in here.”

  As he turned to go, the glass door slid open and there were Lawrence and Sapphire, imposing figures in dark overcoats. Sapphire was pushing Jon in a wheelchair; it was an eerie shock to see her in possession of him like that. Rosie looked anxiously for Sam, but he wasn’t there.

  The two families gazed at each other.

  “May we see him?” Lawrence asked. He looked as haggard as Auberon.

  A pause; then Auberon answered, “Yes, of course.”

  “Where’s Sam?” Matthew asked sharply.

  “He’s attempting to park the car,” said Sapphire. “Traffic’s a nightmare, even at this time of night. This is such an appalling shock . . .”

  “There are too many of us,” said Phyllida. “Come on, let’s get coffee. Jess?”

  “I can’t . . .” her mother said faintly, then let Phyll, Matthew and Auberon shepherd her away. Sapphire went with them. Rosie hesitated and found herself alone with Jon and his father.

  Jon and Lawrence, in the same room. Was this what it took?

  Lawrence said not a word. He went to the far side of the bed and stood gazing down at Lucas. What thoughts were moving behind the cliff face, Rosie had no idea—but he must feel something, surely, or he wouldn’t be here?

  “Can you push me closer, please?” said Jon.

  Rosie obliged, maneuvering the wheelchair. In a dressing gown the same shade of brown as his disheveled hair, he looked stunned, red-eyed. He had one arm in a sling, impressive bruising on his forehead and his left ankle strapped up. Rosie, all petty resentments swept away, could have wept with relief to see him alive. “How are you feeling?”

  “How d’you expect?” His voice was hoarse. “Like complete shit. They give you nice morphine, but never enough. You?”

  Rosie couldn’t answer.

  Jon sat gazing at Luc’s swollen face, the closed eyes—the absence of him. He turned ghostly with loss. No one spoke for a while. Then Jon leaned forward and touched his half-brother’s wrist. “Luc?” he said, his voice so rough it was barely audible. “Don’t know if you can hear me. I’m all right, cuts and bruises. I’m still here, but where are you? You wouldn’t go into the Otherworld without me, would you? We always said we’d go together.”

  Jon’s voice broke. A spasm of sobs overtook him. Lawrence glanced at him, eyebrows twitching, but made no comment. Fighting tears, Rosie thought, Can’t he even console his own son? She placed a tentative hand on Jon’s shoulder.

  “Can you remember what happened?” she asked.

  “I remember a paramedic dragging me out. There were twigs everywhere.” He turned to look at her, red eyes glittering. “Alastair did this,” he said. “Your wonderful husband.”

  She gasped, shaken. “You know he’s dead, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry for your sake, but excuse me if I don’t grieve too much.”

  “He meant something to me,” she answered bitterly. “Not his fault I didn’t love him like I should. This was an accident, wasn’t it?”

  The hiss of the door made her jump. A brisk and smiling nurse came in, asking gently if they wouldn’t mind going out while more tests were done. Tests. What would they find—alien physiology superior to humans? Astonishing healing powers? Or were Vaethyr bodies so perfectly camouflaged that they were no different, the same fragile pulp? Killed in a human sense, what did that mean?

  As they left—Lawrence wheeling Jon—Rosie stared back at Lucas until she couldn’t see him anymore. That morning he’d sat yawning at her breakfast table, trying to mend a silver chain he wore while she moaned at him for leaving long hairs in the bath. This was surreal. It couldn’t be happening.

  Back in the relatives’ room, the others were sipping coffee, Phyll gently trying to persuade Jessica to go home. Still no Sam. Seeing Rosie, her mother almost jumped off her chair, her face fraught with hope and anguish. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing, Mum,” Rosie sighed, finding a seat. “He’s still the same.”

  Sapphire said, “Phyllida’s right, it’s late. I’m taking Jon back to the ward. He shouldn’t even be out of bed, he’s had a hellish experience.”

  “Wait a moment,” Jon said grimly. “You need to hear this before I keel over. About what happened.”

  All their attention gathered on him, a poised, anguished hush. Even Lawrence, used to commanding attention, was listening. In a quiet, hoarse voice, Jon described the night’s events. Rosie listened with her head in her hands, every word dripping torment on her.

  “It wasn’t coincidence that Alastair picked us up,” Jon said. “He must have been cruising around looking for us. It was all about punishing Rosie.”

  Rosie was weeping convulsively. She tried to do so silently, to keep it contained. Auberon moved next to her and she felt his strong arms around her.

  “Are you saying he drove into the Crone Oak on purpose?” cried Matthew.

  “Maybe not, but he was completely irrational. Looked like he’d been drinking pretty heavily, too. He wanted to lash out at something and picked us. I don’t think he had a plan, beyond driving around, ranting at us.” Jon looked down, reddening. “Maybe it was something one of us said, I don’t know, but he suddenly went nuts and drove at the tree. Like you’d punch a wall or break a priceless vase in a fit of temper and totally regret it a moment later. Maybe he just did it to scare us. It happened so fast. He was struggling to get control of the car, but it was too late. Who knew he’d go crazy like that?”

  Matthew was on his feet, incandescent. “You’re lying! How dare you suggest it wasn’t an accident? Alastair was my best friend! He wouldn’t do this to us!”

  “What did you say to him?” Rosie asked in a
whisper.

  Jon looked straight at her and said, “I’ve no idea.”

  “You were supposed to talk to him, Ro!” Matthew raged, crimson. “He’s ready to forgive you, and you just brutally tell him it’s over? Why?”

  “Because it was true!” she cried. “You didn’t tell me I needed to lie so he wouldn’t try to kill everyone!”

  “Shh, Rosie,” said her father, his arm firming around her.

  “What, Matt?” she added shakily. “Did you know he might do a thing like this? Did you?”

  “No, of course not! He was upset!”

  “Upset?” said Jon. “Completely psychotic, for as long as it took.”

  Horrible silence descended. With supreme timing, Sam appeared in the doorway. His gaze fell on Rosie; she physically felt it, like sunlight, as they tried to look at each other while pretending not to.

  “Here you are,” he said quietly. “I’ve been all over the bloody hospital trying to find you. You’ve no idea how big it is. I’ve had to park miles away, and—”

  “You bastard,” Matthew growled, and launched himself across the room at Sam. He punched him, grabbed and flung him hard against the wall, hit him again.

  Sam went down. He made no attempt to defend himself. Matthew was reaching down to yank him back to his feet when Auberon, Lawrence and Sapphire hauled him off. Rosie flung herself between him and Sam, pushing her brother back, Jessica helping. Phyll stepped into the corridor, calling for security.

  “You bastard,” Matthew repeated, struggling against their restraint. Their combined strength barely held him. “You’re all poison. That’s my best friend dead and my brother dying, because of what you’ve done.”

  Sam rose to his feet, nose and mouth dripping blood. He held up his hands, palms out in surrender. “I’m truly sorry about what’s happened. But I’m not fighting with you, mate.”

  Sapphire put in, “Am I the only person here who doesn’t know what’s going on?” No one answered.

  “You’re going to pay for this,” Matt persisted. “Come on. Outside.”