Part 2 (1/2)

Enniel replaced the statuette upon its table. No, the insect must be netted, the power of its wings a.n.a.lysed and channelled.

The Parzupheim intended to do just that. They believed they were acting in the best interests of all the creatures upon the earth. Whilst they might play with humanity, they also felt they should be responsible for the little people and endeavour to protect them whenever possible. In any case, a world without toys would be a terribly dull place.

Enniel knew that one of his wards, the artist Aninka Prussoe, was currently waiting to see him. He could feel her presence in the front hall of the house, her tension, her nervousness. Enniel had summoned her to the house to interview her about recent events in Cresterfield, where she lived. Aninka had no idea what she had become mixed up in, poor child. Neither did Enniel have any intention of enlightening her too fully. She would not understand the implications, and might prove obstructive to his aims. The problem with so many of the young, Enniel thought, was that they foolishly considered the past should be abandoned and forgotten. They wanted the fast, colourful world of humanity, its trivialities and surface gloss. They were glamorised by it all. Aninka, courted by the artistic world because of her talents (a gift of her heritage, though she chose to ignore it), was perhaps one of the worst examples. Maturity would bring common sense, Enniel knew. She could not maintain her heretical beliefs for centuries, when her inhuman condition would force her to seek the asylum of her own kind, but in the meantime she insisted on playing the role of the rebel child, transforming herself into a beacon for the spirits of corruption. Enniel was annoyed by this, for now was too delicate a time for maverick Grigori to be charging about the world. They would be gathered up and used by the powers that instigated change, the powers of time. For this reason, Enniel would coax Aninka's story from her and then use her as a lure to capture his prey.

As he sauntered back to his desk to call a member of his staff on the intercom so that Aninka could be brought to his study, Enniel's eyes were drawn to a tapestry hanging upon the wall, half-hidden in the shadows cast by the long curtains beside the coloured window. The tapestry had been designed by a famous Pre-Raphaelite painter in the early part of the century, but its existence was not proclaimed in any catalogue of the artist's work. It depicted one of the ring-leaders of the original Anannage rebellion standing in a field of corn, dressed in a robe of white and gold: Shemyaza, the beautiful seducer, whose l.u.s.t had caused the downfall of his race. Enniel thought he detected a smugness hovering around the ascetic yet sensual features.

Thought you could be rid of my influence? Fool! You are wrong to think I would leave you in peace. Why should you prosper while I suffer?

Shemyaza had been punished severely for his actions, and in the myths of the Grigori, he suffered eternal torment, his soul held in limbo, neither in this world nor the next. Still, his spirit prevailed in the hearts of those considered Anakim, and their followers. Trouble-makers, fired by the frustrated bitterness of Shemyaza's hatred.

Enniel was a powerful man, and he had powerful allies, but still he feared the task he had been given. He knew powers existed that were greater than the combined might of his people, and in the forthcoming chase, the prey might well turn and devour the hunters.

Aninka Prussoe knew she was being kept waiting on purpose. The hall of the old house was dark and silent, but for the ticking of the grandfather clock under the stairs. A wash of green and ruby light fell down the stairs onto the black and white tiled floor from the stained gla.s.s windows above the first landing. It was like a museum, or a mausoleum. The grim, reclining angelic effigy of grey stone against the wall did nothing to dispel the gloomy atmosphere. Once, she could have wandered into one of the parlours, or the library, to amuse herself until her guardian, Enniel, had the time and politeness to see her. Now, she felt like a visitor, and the hall kept her at bay. Only once Enniel had accepted her presence could she feel comfortable roaming the house.

Aninka stood up, and paced across the hall, her high heels staccato and echoing against the tiles. She peeled off her long black kid gloves and slapped them against the palm of one hand. She was nervous. Last night, at her cousin Noah's in the north, she had somehow managed to fire herself up again. She'd convinced herself she must speak honestly to her guardian about her part in the atrocity which had taken place in Cresterfield. Now, entombed by the silence of his oppressive house, she wondered whether she had been right. Wouldn't he scorn her for her involvement, chastise her stupidity? She was not the guilty party, but she was afraid she'd be sent from this place feeling as if she was. She so rarely returned to the house since she'd left it as a teenager to attend university in the city. The release had been euphoric. Not until she'd escaped had she realised how oppressed she'd been within its walls. Enniel had not rebuked her absences at family celebrations, but alone in her room in the city, she'd sensed the condensed activity going on back home, the s.p.a.ce where her soul should be in the collective gathering. In some ways, she knew she could never really be absent. In her dreams, they summoned her, and she went there, denied of choice. It was easy to believe she'd adopted the life beyond the family, free of all it implied. In truth, her real life' could only ever be a sham, something she could play at until time decreed she must seek the sanctuary of the enclosing walls once more. Enniel let her play; he indulged her - and her cousins, most of whom had fled to immerse themselves in the hustle of mundane life. They were all still bound to him, and knew it. Perhaps she should have sent an occasional letter, she thought.

Someone came through the curtains that obscured a corridor ahead of her. Soft-footed, politely distant and utterly correct. Her guardian's apprentice. They called him a bottelier, more commonly known as a butler. Austin,' she said. I've been here nearly twenty minutes!'

The bottelier bowed. He was a tall man, apparently of early middle age, severely handsome, his steel grey hair held in a knot at the nape of his neck. Aninka was only an inch or so shorter than he. Apologies, Miss Aninka. Mr Enniel has been on the phone.'

Is that any reason to leave me sitting here in the hall like a stranger?'

With respect, Miss Aninka, that was your choice. This house is your home; you were free to wait where you liked.'

Aninka could not respond. The old devil knew only too well how she felt. Well, take me to him, then. Let's not drop the formalities.'

Austin led the way into the corridor. Beyond the curtain, no natural light shone. Peac.o.c.k lamps illumined the hallway only dimly, their ancient coloured gla.s.s too thick and rheumy to provide much brilliance. Here the floor was carpeted, and the smell of cedar wood was strong. How long was it since she'd last visited: three years, four? Childhood memories came back with startling clarity. The feel of the ancient plush against small, bare feet. She knew the feel and the character of each goblin carving on the wall panels. Every one of them had experienced her childish, exploring hands. She had named them too: Aster, Colly, Sarry-bun.

The corridor ended at a T-junction where a woman in black was seated in a high-backed chair before an imposing double doorway. Beside her was a table, highly polished, which supported a florid bowl of carnations, deep red, almost unnaturally so. Aninka repressed a shudder. Good morning, Aunt,' she said. The woman neither responded, nor even acknowledged Aninka's presence. Her face was white, her eyes dark and staring. She did not look mad, merely contemplative. She had the ability to make anyone feel like a ghost.

Austin knocked politely on the double doors and then slid them apart. Aninka drew in her breath and marched through the aperture. The doors whispered shut behind her.

Enniel had positioned himself against the window of stained gla.s.s. This was the famous peac.o.c.k window; the tail was fully seventeen feet across. The body of the bird changed into a serpent; it had a serpent's head. Enniel was relaxed. He could have been Aninka's age.

Good of you to see me, Enniel,' Aninka said. You must be busy.' She wanted to be sarcastic, but failed.

Not as busy as you, presumably,' he answered silkily, seeing as you so rarely have the time to visit me.'

It could easily become an argument. Aninka refused to be drawn in. Well, after Noah called you, I knew I'd have to see you. I feel it's urgent we talk.'

Enniel gestured towards a bulky leather sofa at the side of the room. Beside it, a tray of tea things waited on a spindly table. All was prepared. Please, sit down.'

Aninka perched herself precariously on the edge. She wanted to appear at ease, but it was difficult. Echoes of previous visits marred the atmosphere. Ghosts of her own raised voice could be heard in the dark tapestries upon the panelled walls. She found her hands were clutching each other in her lap. Enniel slid down beside her and set about pouring her a cup of tea, a.s.sam, his preferred brew.

So, there has been a spot of... unpleasantness,' he began. She was relieved he did not intend an overture to their interview of questions about her life, her friends, her career. Normally, he wanted to put all that under minute inspection.

Thank you for getting me out of a mess,' she said. I was... perhaps unwise in my choice of friends.'

Do not chastise yourself, my dear. What's done is done. n.o.body blames you.' He handed her the tea in a large ancient cup, decorated with delicate enamel paintings of dragons. The cup wobbled unevenly upon its saucer. She took it.

I want to tell you how it happened, then you can judge for yourself. I've been living in Cresterfield for a couple of years, as you know...'

He interrupted. Of course, you had your exhibition there recently. I read about it in the paper. Did it go well?'

Yes... It attracted many members of the family.' She risked a smile. My best customers, of course.' She paused. But there was one... I had not met him before. He said he'd been travelling abroad.'

Even now, several weeks after the event, her heart had begun to race as she started to recount her story. She had told everything to her cousin Noah before of course, but still, it made her feel cold. She could not speak without shaking. This, more than what she had witnessed and experienced, unnerved her. Normally, she always felt strong, nothing could ruffle her feathers. What naivete!

Aninka's story: Cresterfield, July The gallery had been one of those austere, over lit places, not to her taste at all. As usual the opening night had attracted the art elite of the town, a breed Aninka despised. She smiled at them pleasantly, nodded at their conversation while thinking of more interesting things. Noah and two other cousins, Tearah and Rachel, had come to offer support; she'd been seeing a lot of them recently. There had been plans to move on to a Thai restaurant later - just the four of them. They were confident they could sneak away without having to take Leonora Ramwithe, the gallery proprietor, and her excruciating husband, with them. Then he had arrived. His height alerted Aninka to the possibility he might be Grigori immediately, and she had whispered to Rachel, Who's that? Ours, by any chance?'

Rachel had not known him either.

He had not come over to them directly, but had wandered around, wine gla.s.s in hand, to inspect Aninka's paintings. She winced as he paused at the piece she considered the weakest. He was certainly her type: rather forbidding in appearance, dressed in tight black leather trousers and a loose dark s.h.i.+rt. His dusty looking fair hair hung unbound down his back. Go and speak to him,' she said to Rachel.

Her cousin, a willowy, frail looking girl, gave her a quizzical glance. Am I to be your procuress tonight?' she teased. What about our private meal?'

I am curious. I was not suggesting we break bread together,' Aninka answered.

Rachel shook her head. He is clearly one of us. He'll come over himself shortly.'

But what if he didn't? Aninka noticed Leonora glide over to the new arrival in her bloated cloud of chiffon. The gallery owner gestured widely as she spoke about the paintings. A proprietorial paw touched the newcomer's shoulder. Aninka could tell he would soon be gathered up and sucked into Leonora's clique for the rest of the night. But then, the moment had to come. Leonora looked in her direction. He had asked her about the artist. Presently, a billowing descent, newcomer in tow.

This is Aninka Prussoe,' said Leonora, as if the artist was a fitting of the gallery, fixed to the wall.

He had smiled. A pretty name. Are you foreign?'

Yes, very.'

He had taken her hand, kissed it. The gesture was corny, if not vile. Still, she felt elated. His beauty, at close hand, was ever more stunning.

Your work is interesting,' he said. A Pre-Raphaelite revival? Should sell a lot as prints.'

Am I supposed to care you disapprove? she thought, instinctively bridling. I paint what I like. This is what I like. Modern art does little for me.'

Aninka is very successful,' Leonora added, needlessly. It was clear the newcomer had dismissed the woman from his attention.

And you are?' Tearah demanded. She was more imperious than either of her female cousins, and more heavily built. A Grigori Amazon with chestnut hair, which she wore cropped, for some reason.

He'd bowed to her. Othman. Peverel Othman.'

Inevitably, he'd accompanied them to the restaurant. The cousins had been guarded, unable to decide whether Othman was Grigori or not. At times he seemed to drop hints, yet when a carefully probing question was delivered, gave the unexpected answer. Rachel and Aninka decamped to the Ladies' Room. Here, they discussed Othman. They could reach no clear conclusion. He appeared to be Grigori, having the same dress sense and appearance, yet he might simply a be a tall outsider who was drawn to the Look. Many people were. It had been quite in vogue for nearly two decades now.

Othman had told them he'd been travelling, and had spoken of the places he'd visited: India, Norway, France. There seemed no pattern. He'd asked Aninka a lot of questions about her work, especially the subject matter. You clearly emulate Waterhouse and his ilk, yet you have painted mythologies they rarely touched.'

I am not a plagiarist,' Aninka answered. Babylonian mythology interests me a great deal. I feel there is much to be learned from it about the current world.' That was a big enough hint, surely. He did not seem to recognise it as such.