Emma extended a taloned hand and cupped his groin. ‘No more than I. Also, I am looking forward to enjoying a Grigori man again. Being buggered across a table was not exactly what I had in mind.’
Othman laughed, and lay back with his arms across his face. ‘I get these whims sometimes.’ He made no protest as Emma undid his trousers.
‘What wonderful skin you have!’ she said. ‘So smooth.’
‘It is the skin of a boy,’ Othman said. ‘Goes with having the mind of a geriatric.’
‘Believe me, I know what the mind of geriatric is like,’ Emma said. ‘And you do not appear to have one.’ She pulled his trousers off.
‘Perhaps, but I think I may possibly be mad.’
Emma ignored this remark and took his cock in her mouth. He made a small sound, which was almost sad. He tasted faintly of almonds.
‘Do you want more from me?’ he asked. ‘Is that it? Are you feeling weak again.’
Emma raised her head. ‘Be quiet. We are trying to be sensual. Forget about power.’ The urge to demand it was great, but she controlled herself. It was important to keep Othman’s mind from straying. She knew he might be capable of picking up any psychic activity buzzing around Long Eden.
Presently, she lifted herself and straddled him, pulling aside her silk underwear to impale herself upon him. This, she did slowly, in order to savour the long, gradual invasion, as her newly revitalised body accepted the first man she’d had in over twenty years. She had made love with many Grigori men in her time, and also with as many human men. The Grigori had spoiled her; humans could do little for her now. After the Murkasters had left, she’d lost interest in sex, a culling of libido caused by more than the inexorable dissolution of her flesh. Othman lay impassively beneath her, but she could feel him becoming larger and harder within her body. That was the way of them; Kashday had once split her, made her bleed. But the sensations were exquisite. She could have wept for being able to experience them once more. Her mind drifted as luxurious tides coursed lazily through her skin and bones. She thought about the original woman, Ishtahar, who had seduced Shemyaza. A mother of the Nefilim, how beautiful she must have been. For Shemyaza, it must have been as if the earth herself had called to him. The Grigori, and presumably the Anannage before them, also found humans irresistible. Race called to race in lust, in desire. It must always have been this way.
The orgasm, which was screaming to be released, beat at her control. She was about to surrender herself to it, when Othman reared up and pushed her off him. He rolled her onto her back, hung there above her, staring down without expression.
‘Please,’ she said. A single, polite request.
He blinked slowly. She thought he would order her out, leap up and leave the room.
‘What do you want?’ she purred.
He said nothing, but complied with her desires, watching her face. It was an art to him, the long careful thrusts, the sudden accelerations into teasing stabs. She wanted to pull him down onto her, hold him close, but he maintained a distance, resting on stiff arms above her body. He let her climax three times before withdrawing. Without speaking, he poured himself another glass of wine and drank it down quickly. She knew he had experienced no release.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked him, breathless.
He smiled. ‘Fine.’
‘I wanted to give you pleasure.’
‘You did. I have work to do.’
A tremor of panic sizzled through her. ‘Tonight? What? Surely there’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow. Relax, enjoy yourself.’
‘I’m in no rush.’ He lay down beside her.
She rested her head on his chest. ‘Where have you come from, Pev?’
‘I had a childhood in Austria, if that’s what you mean,’ he said. His arms were behind his head, he did not enfold her as she wished he would.
‘I don’t think that’s exactly what I mean,’ Emma said. ‘But I don’t suppose you’ll give me honest answers.’ She raised herself a little, to look him in the eye. ‘Don’t you see? Because I believe that, you can tell me anything, truth or untruth.’
‘I am a searching creature, but I don’t know what I’m searching for,’ Othman said. His eyes and his mouth were smiling, so where was the un-smile Emma sensed? Where did it hide?
‘Tell me more.’
‘I have loved a thousand times, taken lives, spread dissension, dripped poison into eager ears. I have caused wars, and stopped them. I have created religions, and turned them into jihads. Just the ordinary life of a wandering Grigori, you see?’
Emma laughed, reached over him for the wine bottle. ‘Who was the last person you loved?’
Othman grinned, but Emma was sensitive to the wariness that came into his eyes. He wasn’t going to let himself be seduced by her into revealing too much. ‘I experienced perfect love, but felt driven to destroy it. Strange. Just didn’t feel right. Felt too good, I suppose. Perhaps I destroyed it before it destroyed me.’
‘Are you mourning, then?’
Othman turned down his mouth into a quizzical expression. ‘No. That would be far too inconvenient.’ At last, he extended an arm to pull her against him. ‘Emilia, you are a bad girl. Is this how you pulled Kashday Murkaster’s secrets from him? Pillow talk, they call it, don’t they? All the great femme fatales of human history were adept at it.’
Emma laughed obligingly. ‘You flatter me. Kashday told me no secrets.’ He hadn’t needed to: she’d guessed many of them. Othman, however, was a closed vault to her intuition.
‘What is this business that’s so urgent, then?’ she asked, in a careful voice.
Othman hesitated, before answering. ‘I want to talk to the psychic.’
‘Daniel Cranton?’ Emma supposed that would not cause any problems. If Othman was occupied with Cranton, Owen and Lily could conduct their investigations in peace. ‘But why? You’re Grigori. You don’t need him.’
Othman smiled lazily. ‘Ever heard of using a canary to test the air in a coal mine? There’s a guardian at the house, and I don’t have its measure yet. Did you, by the way, ever go into any of the underground sites around here while you worked for the Murkasters?’
Emma shook her head. ‘No. My duties were entirely domestic. I don’t think any villagers went into the secret places — and came out again.’
‘It’s important I find the chamber...’
‘What chamber?’
Othman smiled. ‘Where the flame burns. You talked of that, didn’t you, when we first met?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. I know about the flame. I think the Murkasters killed it, or took it with them. It will take a lot to revive it.’
‘Perhaps it has already revived.’ Othman sat up.
Emma realised he was referring to what had happened with Lily at the High Place, but did not question him. ‘Are you going now?’ She reached out, stroked his arm. ‘Please, wait a while. I have a lot of catching up to do.’ Her hand strayed to his groin. She felt him stir beneath her fingers.
Smiling he reached out to squeeze one of her heavy breasts through the silk of her slip. She drew her breath in slowly, savouring the contact. ‘You are a temptation,’ he said.
‘Relax for a few hours.’ She lowered herself backwards, opened her legs a little.
Othman leaned over to remove her silk knickers, which she still wore. ‘Just a while, then,’ he said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Monday 26th October, Little Moor
Long Eden seemed less threatening to Lily with Owen and Daniel there. The building still towered up into the night, clutching its secrets within, throwing baleful shadows onto the weedy gravel of the drive, but its looming presence seemed petulant rather than sinister. She noticed that Daniel made a point of maintaining a distance between himself and Owen as they walked up the drive. Whether this was irritating or gratifying was hard to decide. Daniel looked young and vulnerable, still wearing his school uniform, although he’d removed his tie and jacket. He’d obvi
ously been horrified to find Lily in the car when they’d gone to pick him up. After an excruciatingly silent drive back to the cottage, Lily had made sandwiches and a pot of tea, while Owen told Daniel about Emma Manden and all that she had said. Daniel had sat pale and wide-eyed, looking as if he wasn’t taking in much of what Owen was saying. Lily had been able to tell he was painfully aware of her presence and that she knew about his relationship with Owen. She’d wanted to put him at ease, while also had revelled in his discomfort. She couldn’t understand her feelings. Daniel had agreed reluctantly to accompany them to Long Eden.
‘Have you ever been there before?’ Lily had asked him.
He’d shaken his head. ‘No.’
Lily had been able to tell that he wasn’t very happy about having to go there. In that, at least, they were in accord. An unexpected burst of empathy had made her say, ‘The place scares me to death, but at least there’ll be three of us.’
‘And if we really are Murkasters, we have a right to be there,’ Owen said.
‘We really are Murkasters,’ Lily said in flat tone. She noticed Owen had managed to avoid the subject of Peverel Othman. At some point in the future, she knew she would have to speak to Daniel about her dream, and get him to talk in depth about what had happened in Cresterfield. But not yet. She didn’t want Daniel to feel too at home in her territory.
Now Long Eden loomed above them. Lily could feel it watching her. She did not feel at home.
‘Do we walk right up to the front door and knock?’ Owen said.
‘I wouldn’t like the thought of anyone answering!’ Lily replied.
‘Or the door might just swing open,’ Daniel added, ‘and there’d be no-one there.’
They laughed together nervously. The possibility of that, unfortunately, seemed very likely.
Something large and winged, an angel shadow, suddenly swooped out from the eaves of the house, flying low in front of them. Lily jumped and squealed, grabbing hold of Owen’s arm. ‘Oh, it’s an owl!’ She felt stupid for her outburst.
Daniel gestured up at the house. ‘Perhaps there are holes in the attic windows.’
They paused to stare up at the eaves. The night shadow of Long Eden’s towers lapped just before their feet. Lily tried to imagine their mother coming to this place, tried to visualise the face of the man who had possessed her there. Somehow, Helen Winter could not easily be made a part of this landscape. She had been too slippery, too quicksilvery, to have been held by the shadows of Long Eden.
‘They must have named this place after the Garden,’ Daniel said. ‘The Garden in Eden.’
‘Of course,’ said Lily, extending a toe to dip into the wavelets of shade ahead of her. The thought of gaining access to the house seemed impossible. She had no fears they’d be able to accomplish it.
‘What can you feel?’ Owen asked Daniel.
Daniel took in a slow breath. ‘On edge, antsy.’ He shook his head. ‘I feel too small. The thought of penetrating the walls of this place is like trying to imagine breaking a mountain with a pin.’
‘Let’s go into the garden,’ Lily said. She walked towards the lawn of seeding grasses. ‘It must have been so beautiful once.’
If Helen Winter had a place anywhere in Long Eden, it would have to be in the garden. Lily spied the pale remains of a summer house against a stand of yews some yards away. It was mangled by frenzied, overgrown climbing roses. Lily thought she could smell the perfume of the flowers. Even now, a few voluptuous blooms still clung to the rambling stems. She could imagine her mother pausing in the doorway of the summerhouse to smell the flowers, looking back over her shoulder to the one who followed her. In there, perhaps, Kashday Murkaster had made love to Helen, with the drowsy scents of a summer night all around them, the call of a night-jar, the slow drip of falling rose petals resounding against the breathing earth.
Lily felt drawn towards the summerhouse. Reality slipped away and she was walking in a summer garden with the warm night inhaling and exhaling around her. The lawn was neatly shorn and the roses climbing the walls of the summerhouse rambled over trellises. Lily heard laughter, the murmur of voices. She looked back, and the lights of Long Eden spilled out over the lawns. Faintly, she could hear music, the scratch of old gramophone records being played beyond the open French windows. This was a place of opulence and contentedness.
Lily paused at the door to the summerhouse. She saw a flash of pale fabric and there was her mother coming towards her. Lily gasped, murmured ‘Mum!’ but Helen could not see or hear her. She was smoking a cigarette, her red lips almost black in the moonlight, her arching brows disdainful of secrets. A man came up behind her, a tall silhouette. His red hair fell forward as he leaned to put his hands on Helen’s shoulders. ‘Feel it!’ Helen said in a husky voice. ‘Feel the night, Kash. It’s calling to me.’
My father! Lily thought. He was like Peverel Othman, she could see that, but where danger lurked in the shadows of Othman, this one gave off only light. How could she doubt Emma’s words about the Grigori now, seeing him there, an angel incarnate?
‘I want to help you,’ Helen said, taking a fierce draw off her cigarette. ‘Give me the chance! You know you want to.’
‘My beloved, I can’t. You know that.’ Kashday’s voice was low, musical. It contained both humour and weariness. Lily realised this must be a demand that Helen had made many times before.
Helen glanced round at him. ‘I can’t understand why you’re being so craven. It’s something you want as well. Make me the Oracle! Give me the Eye! Take me into the flame next week! Let me open the Gate for you!’
‘There are too many risks,’ Kashday replied. ‘I cannot be Shemyaza, and you are not Ishtahar.’
‘Pah!’ Helen spat. ‘We are their equals!’
Kashday sighed. ‘I rue the day I ever told you the old stories. We are not their equals, Helen. Nowhere near. If I’d guessed you’d be like this, I’d have kept silent.’
‘Be like this?’ Helen was scornful. ‘What do you mean by that? You have within your power the ability to take back all the things that were taken from your people so long ago. I am giving you the opportunity, and what do you do? Throw it back in my face! You are a coward, Kash!’
‘The Gate was closed to us for very good reasons!’ Kashday appeared to be losing patience. ‘When the time is right, it will open again, but we cannot force it. You have no idea what you’re asking.’
‘I have courage,’ Helen said. ‘And that’s enough!’
‘No!’ Kashday said. ‘It is not!’
With an angry cry, Helen smacked his hands from her shoulders. She ran past Lily onto the lawn. ‘I despise you! Moulder here for eternity, then! See if I care!’ She ran off across the lawn, and Kashday did not follow. He watched her leave for a while, then glanced to where Lily was standing in the shadow of the nodding rose vines. Lily looked right into his eyes. She was sure he could see her. She wanted to speak, communicate with him, but her mouth wouldn’t open.
‘Already, she carries you,’ Kashday said.
Something touched Lily’s shoulder, and for a few moments, reality became a swirling rush of colour and sound. Then she realised that Owen had come up behind her and put his arm around her. Kashday and the old summertime had gone. ‘It’s wistful here, isn’t it?’ Owen said.
Lily was shaking. ‘I saw them,’ she whispered. ‘Our parents. Here.’
Owen peered into the dark summerhouse. ‘What happened?’
Lily screwed up her face, shook her head. ‘It’s fading like a dream. They were arguing about something.’ She reached for Owen’s hand. ‘Kashday saw me, O. He spoke to me. He knew about us, even before Mum did.’
Daniel tentatively approached. ‘Something was happening here a moment ago. I could feel it, but I couldn’t see or hear it.’ The night had become still and eerie. Daniel’s voice was a soft intrusion. ‘Can we look round the garden?’
‘Why?’ Owen asked. ‘Is it important?’
‘I just feel l
ike I want to.’
‘OK.’ They moved off together, Owen still with his arm around his sister. Lily felt both smug and uncomfortably guilty about this, strange, contradictory feelings. She felt Owen should be touching Daniel, not her, yet resented the fact it should be so. The impressions of her waking dream about her parents were slipping away from her, but she was glad it had happened. Kashday had seen her.
They wandered into the night-shawl of the yews, where the moon’s radiance could not penetrate, other than in occasional silver coins of light. The watching stillness of the trees crept into everyone’s bones. It would be so easy to become extremely frightened. Lily thought she glimpsed pointed, gnarled faces among the trees, and told the others about it. It seemed safer to laugh about it, and the sound of their laughter created an aura of protection around them. As they walked further into the tangle of yews and fading ferns, a dreamy, intoxicated mood descended slowly into their minds, dripping down like sap from the trees.
The yew walk led to wide stone steps that were covered in fallen leaves and moss. At the bottom of the steps was a lake, with a paved area where people might have sat to enjoy the view, or else climbed into boats. A narrow pathway appeared to skirt the water, but was overgrown in places and had collapsed into the water in others. The lake was surrounded by tall trees; pines on one side, oak, sycamore and beech on the other. An ornamental island, now a scrub of wild shrubs and trees, dominated the centre of lake, speared by a single ancient poplar. Bats flirted with the water’s surface, seeming to flit in and out of reality.
Lily recognised the island as the place where she had met Peverel Othman in her first dream about him, but she could see no sign of a temple through the trees. ‘Now you see me, now you don’t!’ she said, wiggling her fingers in imitation of flickering bat wings.
For a few moments, they stood in a line, staring at the island. Lily said, ‘Things have happened over there.’