Part 18 (1/2)
She cut the call and said to Luc: ”I expect you want to be with Dana. If you could take me to a place where I can hire a car . . .”
”At this hour of night?” He shrugged. ”Anyhow, I won't leave you. I'd like to see Dana, yes, but it can wait. You need me.”
”I have to get to Yorks.h.i.+re.”
”I heard. Where, exactly?”
”A village called Yarrowdale. North York Moors, near the coast between Whitby and Scarborough.”
”Direct me.” He handed Fern her helmet. He couldn't see her face, but he sensed her hesitation, knew she was picking her words.
”I really appreciate this,” she said at last, conscious of how inadequate it sounded. Help will be found, she had been told once, long long ago, in a dream of the past. And Rafarl Dev had never failed her, though her task was not his task. He had threatened-no, promised-to leave her, but he had always come back, always been there for her. She wanted to say something about that, something to acknowledge the link, to wake the sleeping magic between them; but she did not dare. The bubble of potential illusion was too fragile; she feared it might burst at a touch. In the end, she added only: ”Thank you. And, Luc-” as she mounted behind him ”-avoid the London road. Morgus is looking for me now. We could not pa.s.s without her knowing.”
The engine kicked into life and they roared off down the drive, churning gravel. Fern was trying to picture Raf handling the boat, sailing into a tempest, but the memory was small and faraway, like an image seen through the wrong end of a telescope, and in front of her Luc's leather-clad back felt solid and strong, a back of the modern world, square shouldered, gym muscled, designer wrapped, bearing no relation to the phantasms of memory and heartache. She thought: If he is Raf, if his soul has returned indeed, then he is older, and colder, and more ruthless, but . . . so am I. Oh, so am I. And she knew she was not sure, she would never be sure, because uncertainty is the essence of the human condition, and death is the one barrier beyond which we cannot see. There is no hope but faith, no knowledge but the acceptance of ignorance.
Yet still she hoped that one day she would know.
At a minor road junction, Luc scanned the sign in his headlight and turned north. Not long after, Morgus pa.s.sed the same junction, urging her driver faster and faster toward Wrokeby.
”But what can we we do?” Gaynor demanded as Will switched off the call. do?” Gaynor demanded as Will switched off the call.
”Personally, I could use a large whiskey. How about you?”
”Don't be flip. Mine's a G and T-I mean, it would be, if we didn't have more important things to think about.”
”Actually, we haven't. Fern's got some sort of plan-I know her-but it evidently doesn't include us. We can take the rest of the evening off.” While they talked they were standing at the entrance to the alleyway, where reception was better: Selena Place tended to inhibit mobile phones. Possibly it was the magical leakage from Moonspittle's bas.e.m.e.nt.
Ragginbone said: ”I trust you're right. At any rate, there's very little we can do until Fern requests help. I shall stay with Moonspittle. He has been deeply shaken by the events of this night. He is not comfortable dealing with friends, let alone enemies.”
”Are we his friends?” Will inquired dryly. we his friends?” Will inquired dryly.
”We used his home for various sorcerous activities before staging an extremely dangerous diversion there in which we-and he-could easily have been killed. After that, I think the least we can offer him is friends.h.i.+p, don't you?”
Will said: ”When you put it like that . . .”
”Should we come back with you?” asked Gaynor.
”Not now. He finds too much company rather overwhelming. Leave it a little while-a century or two-and he may almost be pleased to see you.”
Gaynor was not entirely convinced this was intended for a joke, but Will flicked him a quick grin. ”A century or two will be just fine,” he said, and, seizing her by the hand, he steered her up the road and turned off in the direction of a club that would be open into the small hours. Although he was not a member, a friend of his was located in the noisiest of the bars and signed both of them in as guests.
”Very smooth,” said Gaynor, trying for disapproval. ”Do people always succ.u.mb to your blarney?”
”I'm not Irish,” Will pointed out. ”It ain't blarney, it's charm.”
”Funny how I missed that,” said Gaynor.
”Yes, you did, didn't you?” She was disconcerted to see him looking suddenly serious. ”Shame.”
He got their drinks and led her through the relative quiet of a long sitting room with a piano (fortunately, no one was playing), down a couple of steps, and into a side room with two or three tables, a.s.sorted chairs, and a pair of actors, plainly oblivious to all else, who were deep in theatrical scandal. ”Privacy,” Will said. ”Good. Now you can tell me exactly why you were so careful to miss my charm.”
Gaynor fiddled with a strand of her hair. ”I don't think we should be talking about that now,” she said. ”Not with everything so . . . unfinished. Fern's in awful danger, and we're-”
”Doing nothing? Fiddling while Rome burns-in your case with your hair? You did something earlier on and it nearly got you killed. You deserve a break. As for Fern-well, she trusted us, and now we have to trust her. It wasn't easy for her: she has the power, so she feels she should take the risk. But she trusted us, and somehow, through luck or fate, we didn't fail. You obviously have a Gift of some kind, though it's not like hers. Maybe it's a sort of supernatural understanding. After all, unhappy men always turn to you for a shoulder to cry on, don't they?”
”This isn't about me,” Gaynor said hastily. ”Look, it's not that I don't trust trust Fern, it's just-” Fern, it's just-”
”You doubt her ability to win. Yes, you do. G.o.d help us, we both do. We love her, and fear for her, but . . . in the last few weeks, I've come to realize something. Her Gift-the conflict with Morgus-all this stuff-this is more important to her than anything else in life. I'm an aspiring producer who dabbles on the dark side. You're a ma.n.u.script restorer dabbling with the same. But Fern is a witch who dabbles in PR. The magic is in her blood and her bones. Morcadis is her true self. We can't deny her that. When I saw her drawing the circle-when I saw her confidence and her certainty-I knew in some ways she is more akin to Ragginbone, even to Alimond, than to me.”
”Do you mind?” Gaynor asked. She did not question his conclusions.
”Not yet. If she hadn't trusted us-if her trust ever failed-then I would mind. If she ever came to look on us as less than her, merely human, in need of protection . . . That's the true danger of the Gift, I'm sure. People like Morgus, like Alimond, they see themselves as above ordinary mortals, isolated, I would mind. If she ever came to look on us as less than her, merely human, in need of protection . . . That's the true danger of the Gift, I'm sure. People like Morgus, like Alimond, they see themselves as above ordinary mortals, isolated, special special. So they lose touch with reality altogether and go insane.”
”Like Stalin and Hitler,” Gaynor recalled. ”So you said.”
”Just a theory,” said Will. ”Under the action-man exterior, I have the soul of a thinker.”
”Hang on to it,” Gaynor said. ”Isn't Morgus meant to be the stealer of souls?”
”Morgus again. This conversation wasn't supposed to be about her. Somewhere back along the line, it was supposed to be about us.”
”Is there an 'us'?” Gaynor asked, half in hope, half in doubt.
”I don't know,” Will said. She tried to avoid his gaze, but somehow there was nowhere else to look. It struck her that these days he always seemed to have a suntan, summer streaks in his hair, the slight roughness of designer stubble on his jaw. He was nearly four years her junior, but he appeared to be catching up fast. He had always had more self-a.s.surance, even when he was a larky sixteen and she a college girl visiting Fern's family; now, she suspected, he was rapidly acquiring more experience of life. He would sample everything the world had to offer, s.n.a.t.c.h an extra slice of the universal cake and then give it away to a friend in need, fly off into the sunset because it was quicker than sailing and come back two months later expecting a hero's welcome. He had no money, but he managed to patronize the latest bars and ignore the celebrity drinkers with the most successful of his peers. He apparently found the business of living exciting, effortless, a game, a gamble, a romp.
While Gaynor was a quiet girl, too sympathetic for her own good, who liked losing herself in the past and whose life consisted of stumbling from one minor disaster to the next. All we have in common, she thought, is Fern, and the adventures we've shared with her. And most of those weren't much fun.
”Is there an us?” Will repeated. ”I'd say my b.a.l.l.s are in your court-so to speak.”
She accorded the pun a perfunctory smile. ”I'm not your type. It wouldn't last. What's the point of a casual quickie? Isn't it better just to stay friends?”
”I don't want to be friends,” Will said bluntly. ”I want more. And I decide who's my type. As for casual . . .”
”You only want me because I'm the one that got away,” Gaynor found herself saying, and instantly regretted it.
”If you think I'm as juvenile as that,” Will snapped, ”I'm not surprised at your reluctance.”
”Not-not juvenile, exactly,” Gaynor stammered. ”Just a man.”
”s.e.xist.”
”I'm making such a mess of this . . .”