For hours they’d labored to help the victims of the earthquake, but the human world no longer seemed real. All the time, their eyes had been on each other, waiting for this. How incredible, Rufus thought, that their intimacy had once been so easy and natural: even more so, for bordering on the illicit. Now they daren’t touch each other. Their last encounter had been such a long, long time ago … He’d never dared dream they would meet again.
Among modern human societies, their relationship would have been considered beyond sinful: an absolute taboo. Even in their own ancient, Aetherial civilization of the Felynx, where morality had been very much more relaxed, there had been raised eyebrows—not to mention Mist’s quiet disapproval—that only inflamed their passion.
Orla touched a tongue to her lips. Her eyes glittered with fire—exactly as he remembered. Their auras mingled, heating the space between them until the ache of anticipation became unbearable. Yet neither of them made a move. Was Orla really her, or a perfect simulacrum, like Adam, sent to torture him? If she was real … he could barely believe this was happening … was it possible to recapture what they’d once shared? Perhaps they shouldn’t even try … yet her warm, alluring expression suggested otherwise.
The ground began to tremble with a prolonged aftershock.
“Now one of us should make a joke about the earth moving,” said Rufus.
“The earthquake is due to faulting within the lithosphere of the subducted Arabian Plate as it grinds beneath the convergent plate boundaries,” she murmured.
“I’m not sure that’s funny, but the way you say it sounds incredibly sexy.”
“Oh, it is.” She smiled, more with her eyes than her mouth.
They lay in silence, waiting for the movement to subside. Orla stared upward, as if absorbing every nuance. He still couldn’t believe that she’d become a scientist, a doctor, part of a team. That was true human camouflage. He’d never troubled to learn anything in particular, still less to attend a university or give any credence to human qualifications. She’d evolved, and he felt oddly inadequate. But, after all this time, who wouldn’t change? Even the ancient, timeless Felynx. The question was not whether they’d changed, but how much the changes actually mattered?
Now they were engaged in a strange dance around each other, both secretly knowing the truth but daring the other one to speak first.
“One of us should begin,” said Orla. “What are you thinking?”
Finally Rufus said, “I used to dream about you. You were calling to me from some kind of limbo with grey walls. Nine-tenths of me was sure you perished in Azantios, but the last tenth insisted that you must still exist … somewhere.”
He heard her release a small breath of exasperation. “Who do you think I am? Rufus, we both know, so why can’t we say it aloud?”
“It might break the magic,” he said softly.
Her eyes narrowed, irresistibly seductive. “Magic? Rufus, please. Is it gun-selling that’s turned you so romantic?”
“All right.” He paused. “It’s gentlemanly to go first, but I hesitate because I’ve made grave mistakes in the past. I was convinced I recognized someone, so convinced that I couldn’t accept I was monstrously wrong. Now I have the same feeling about you, but I don’t trust it.”
“This time, you probably should trust yourself, Rufus. I have been calling you. Gods, it took you long enough to hear me!”
“Calling…?” He stared into the deep fire of her eyes. “Tell me your real name. I’ve already told you mine.”
“No. You must say it; then I’ll tell you if you’re right.”
“This is turning into a game.”
“No game.” She trailed a finger from his shoulder to his elbow. Her voice was honey. “This is more important than you can imagine.”
Grinning, he leaned off the mattress and picked up her notebook and pen lying nearby. “All right, I’m going to write your true name on a piece of paper. Then you say it out loud, and we’ll see if it matches what I’ve written.”
Theatrically, she laughed and closed her eyes. “Fold it up and let me hold it, then. I don’t trust you not to scribble the name down as I speak, then swap bits of paper around. You’re an illusionist.”
“You’re not wrong,” he said. “You remember me, after all.” Turning his back to her, Rufus wrote her name, tore out the page and folded it three times to make sure she couldn’t feel an imprint. Then he slotted the paper between her thumb and forefinger. “There. Now say it.”
As she spoke, she opened her eyes and swiftly unfolded the note. “Aurata.” Together they looked at the name written in slanting letters, Aurata.
Rufus could barely breathe. “Sister,” he gasped. “Sweet sister.”
5
A Winter’s Trail
The arts center, jauntily named the Jellybean Factory, was a renovated 1930s printing works in North London. Stevie looked up at an expanse of red brick set with huge metal-framed windows. Fire escapes wound down from the upper floors into a courtyard landscaped with gravel areas and quirky sculptures. The look was industrial art-deco, ugly yet trendily urban at the same time.
A week into the New Year, this was the first day the center had been open after the Christmas break. Three hours of travel by train and taxi had left her cold, tired and hungry. Even the fake fur of her thrift-shop winter coat couldn’t keep out the chill. Drizzle was eroding a light coating of snow as she hurried across the courtyard to the glass double doors of the entrance.
How frustrating, that she’d never visited Daniel here while she had the chance. If only they’d talked, maybe she could have helped him. Maybe.
Heat smothered her as she entered. She slid out of her coat and looked around at a vast, brightly lit gallery, with signs that pointed to a concert hall, function rooms, a filmmakers’ suite, art studios. She was reminded of the museum gift shop, albeit on grand scale. This place had the same minimal look of pale wood and bright track lighting.
Twenty or so visitors were studying the contents of display cases, admiring colorful canvases on the walls and freestanding sculptures. Racks of leaflets advertised cultural events. In one corner was an information desk. Stevie slipped straight past.
At the rear of the gallery she found signs pointing to a café, restrooms … and artists’ workshops. The arrow by Daniel’s name sent her up a flight of metal stairs to the next floor, where she followed a long walkway with balcony rails on her left overlooking the foyer below. On her right lay a row of individual studios, their interiors visible through glass panels.
Stevie passed a ceramics workshop, then a jewelry studio where a spiky-haired girl sat at a bench, directing a fierce blue flame onto some tiny item. She resisted the temptation to watch.
The third unit was the one she sought. She felt a pang of loss and anxiety on reading the name beside the door: DANIEL MANIFOLD. ICONS FOR THE NEW AGE.
Stevie peered through the glass-paneled door. The only light was wintry gloom falling through wide factory windows. She saw a good-size space with high ceilings, walls of bare brick, cupboards, easels, stools, a drawing board. To the left, an inner door to a small utility room stood ajar.
The studio looked abandoned. Her spirits fell. She’d known all along this might be a wasted, and very expensive, journey.
She tried the door and was startled to find it unlocked.
“Danny?” she called softly, on the slim chance he’d returned. No answer. She draped her coat over a stool. Surfaces were scattered with dried-up tubes of paint. Cupboards stood with their doors open. A tangle of nylon rope lay on top of a low, wide cabinet amid rolls of sticky tape. A layer of fairy dust glinted, gold and silver, on every surface, betraying his fondness for metal leaf. In the side room she glimpsed empty shelving and a big white sink.
The sense of desertion was unbearably sad. Had Danny been in debt, or in danger?
Stevie felt like a thief as she walked around. The only clue found, as far as she knew, was his “goodbye” letter to Fran
ces.
The softest noise … Her head jerked up. A rush of alarm overwhelmed her.
“Daniel?” she called out. “Who’s there?”
She felt an unseen presence in the side room. Her insides solidified to ice. Yes, she had a tendency to see specters—and the last thing she wanted to see was Danny’s ghost—but this was different. Real.
There was a heart-stopping pause. Then a figure moved into the doorway, as if taking shape out of air and dust. He’d been lurking behind the storeroom door all the time.
Not Daniel. This man was taller, with abundant inky-black hair brushing the shoulders of a dark overcoat. Wintry half-light illuminated a strong-boned face with a complexion as pale as the thin snowfall outside. Bright grey eyes, framed by thick eyebrows and long dark lashes, fixed her with an intense stare. Stevie felt faint with a head rush of terror and lust-at-first-sight combined. He was stunning, so damned attractive that even Fin’s brother Patrick seemed a troll in comparison.
Her lips parted in an involuntary O. There should be a law against a total stranger conveying such warm, velvety, almost supernatural allure. It wasn’t as if she’d never met a decent-looking male before, but this was different, a lightning strike. Never had she seen a stranger about whom she felt it would be perfectly reasonable to walk up to him, wrap her arms around his waist and introduce herself with a deep, hot kiss.
Not reasonable. She mentally doused herself in cold water. His unblinking gaze disturbed her enough to cancel his outrageous masculine beauty. Lights on, but who is home?
Stevie was long-practiced at presenting a cool front: her survival strategy. And the outer walkway overlooking the public foyer was only a few steps away, with a score of people below to hear a yell for help.
“Ahh.” She put a hand to her chest, making light of her shock. “I’d no idea anyone was here! I nearly went through the ceiling.”
“I apologize.” His voice was deep and gentle. He lowered his gaze. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I shouldn’t be here, so I made a futile attempt at hiding. Stupid. I’m sorry.”
“So, er … why are you here?” She tried to sound casual, subtly backing away until her hip collided with a corner of the low cabinet. She winced, suppressing eye-watering pain.
“I was looking for Daniel Manifold.”
“Me too,” she said. “Do you know him?”
The stranger’s expression relaxed into a slight smile that made him appear more human. “No. I was hoping to meet him.”
“A fan of his work?” she asked warily.
“An admirer.” Evasive. That was not good. “Do you know where he is?” he asked. “Are you a member of staff?”
“No to both. But I am a friend of his,” she said, uneasy. She owed this man no explanation of her presence, and was annoyed that she now couldn’t explore freely. “Did someone let you in? Has anyone told you why he left, or if he’s expected back?”
The man stepped towards her, his hands in his overcoat pockets. “No. I suppose I should have asked, but I found the door unlocked.”
“That’s strange.” Stevie felt protective of Daniel, certain she’d more right to be here than the shadowy intruder. “So, you didn’t contact him first? You just turned up?”
The stranger drew back at her assertive tone. “I’m afraid so. I saw his work on the Internet. I wanted to see it in reality.”
His deferential, quiet manner steadied her nerves. “I’m Stevie Silverwood.”
He hesitated. “Adam Leith. I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Silverwood.”
He held out a hand to shake hers, and she reciprocated. The old-world courtesy of the gesture took her aback. He gave out such an unsettling mixture of signals, she didn’t know what to make of him.
“Well, it looks as if he’s taken everything and gone.” She folded her arms. “Since you don’t know him, this isn’t your problem. Sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Adam Leith tilted his head and his smile grew friendlier. He managed this gesture without seeming remotely suggestive or threatening. Stevie felt another heat-rush, but checked herself sharply. She never flirted; it wasn’t in her nature. Friend or stranger, it was safest to trust no one.
“Have you been a fan of his for long?” she asked, crisp and business-like.
“Not long. I saw an image called Aurata’s Promise. I was intrigued.”
A small shiver went through her. She was not going to admit that she had the triptych.
“Well, I’m here on behalf of Daniel’s mother. She’s ill with worry. The police have found nothing yet, so I’m sleuthing instead.”
He frowned. For an awful moment, she thought he was going to reveal that he was a police officer. He only said, “I could help you.’
“But why would you want to?” Adam Leith was so evasive that she bristled with impatience, an antidote to risky feelings of attraction. “You’ve obviously been poking around.”
“Guilty,” he said softly. “I had no right.”
“And have you found anything?”
“Miss Silverwood…”
“Stevie.”
He gave a brief, dry laugh. “Everyone is so quick to use first names these days. I still can’t get used to it.”
“These days?” Again she was ambushed, in a pleasant way, by his unassuming good manners. “‘Miss Silverwood’ sounds like an ancient schoolteacher, so please…”
“As you wish.” He gave a gracious nod, with a touch of self-effacing humor.
“Adam, it’s obvious you know something. Tell me.”
“When I saw his work, I thought I recognized…”
He was struggling. She frowned, still suspicious. “What?”
“It’s complicated. And unbelievable. But … Stevie?” His friendly gaze turned serious. “D’you know if Daniel knew someone called Rufus Hart?”
“I’ve no idea,” she said. “Who’s Rufus Hart?”
He didn’t answer, but drew his left hand from his pocket to reveal a small sketchbook. “I found this. It had fallen behind the shelving in the side room.”
“You’ve really had a thorough look round, haven’t you?” she said acerbically. Accepting the book, she found it was an old one with yellowing pages. There were sketches of trees and animals, one of Frances and several of their house. And then—Stevie gasped to see it—the sketch he’d made of her, the very day they’d first met in the café.
Flipping pages, she found that the drawings grew stranger. Humans morphed into bizarre animals. There were detailed sketches of a thick stone disk, covered with Aztec-style carving. Next, leopard-like creatures raced on all fours through an unearthly stone landscape. Then came a monk tied to a stake, his head thrown back in anguish as flames engulfed him. Then a tall, thin mountain in a snowscape. The pencil lines were vague but trembling with energy. There were also dozens of thumbnail sketches for icons.
“I can’t believe he was still using the same old pad,” she murmured.
Looking over her shoulder, Adam flicked back to a page with a drawing of the stone tablet. “What is that?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I recognize it. But that’s impossible. I need to know why Daniel drew these things … it can’t be coincidence, but … it makes no sense.”
His words were cut short by the clunk of boot heels approaching. The door creaked open and a light flicked on, dazzling them both.
“Hello? Are you meant to be in here?”
It was the spiky-haired jeweler from the unit next door. She was tall and skinny, dressed all in black with a studded leather belt, her face and ears bristling with piercings. Stevie recalled the nameplate on her studio: Jan Lindeman.
“We’re looking for Daniel,” said Stevie. “You haven’t…”
“Well, you can see he’s not here,” the woman said sharply, folding her arms. “Unless you’ve got permission from management, you’re trespassing.”
“The door wasn’t locked,” said Stevie.
<
br /> “It should have been. If you need to speak to someone official, I’ll take you downstairs; otherwise, you can’t be in here.”
Stevie confronted her, disregarding her stern attitude. She sensed Adam close beside her. “Do you have any idea why he left?”
“Friends of his, are you?” The jeweler’s blue eyes narrowed at Stevie. “You do look familiar. No, everyone here’s as much in the dark as you.”
“Didn’t he leave a forwarding address, or email?”
Jan shook her head, imperious. She angled herself toward the door, her message as plain as an Exit sign. Adam persisted, “Did he know someone called Rufus? Youngish-looking man with long brown hair?” He touched one hand to his hip. “Very long, reddish brown, slightly curly. He’s my height. Slim. Flamboyant. He’d wear bright clothing, colorful waistcoats…”
Jan’s mouth thinned. “No. Daniel had his share of visitors, but someone like that, I would have noticed. Look, the word is that he left because he couldn’t keep up the rent. Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s done a flit. These units aren’t cheap.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t do that,” said Stevie.
“Whatever. If you locate him…” Jan Lindeman broke off. She wagged a finger at Stevie and said, “Wait, I know where I’ve seen you. You run that museum in Birmingham Jewellery Quarter, don’t you? The place with the old factory, Soames & Salter?”
Great, thought Stevie, now Adam-the-weird-stranger knows where to find me. “Erm, not single-handedly, but yes.”
Jan’s demeanor changed. Her piercings glinted as her face opened up in delight. “I knew I’d seen you before! Amazing place, I’ve been there twice. We never spoke, but I noticed you behind the counter.”
“That explains why you look familiar, too.” Stevie gave the warmest smile she could muster. “You know, if you’d like to display your work in our gift shop, just say the word.”
Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) Page 9
