The Road to Bedlam: Courts of the Feyre, Book 2 (13 page)

    "Raffmir, I should have guessed that it would be you accompanying Lord Altair."

    His smile widened and he opened his arms as if he might attempt a hug. I let my hand fall to the hilt of my sword and his arms paused and then dropped to his side.

    "I asked it of him, as a special favour, so that we might meet again." He bowed extravagantly, allowing me to keep my distance.

    I returned the bow with a discreet nod.

    "Let me introduce you to Deefnir, another of our kind." The
our kind
part of the introduction rang sour to my fey hearing.

    Like Raffmir's and mine, Deefnir's face was on the long side, his cheeks high and sharp. He looked younger than Raffmir, though perhaps that was his style of dress. His high-collared shirt ruffed out over a brocade jacket that shimmered with green like a scarab's carapace. His silk trousers were tight to his legs and were tucked into black suede boots. A black sash was wound around his waist and was caught with a silver clasp. He took a half step back and bowed slowly.

    "I have heard about you, Dogstar." That at least sounded genuine. "From what Raffmir told me, I thought you would be taller."

    "Sorry to disappoint." I inclined my head to him in the same way I had to Raffmir. "Welcome, both, to the High Court." I could hear the falsehood in that echoing in my own voice, but I was giving nothing new away. "It will be a brief meeting, I am afraid. I'm not staying."

    "I'm saddened by your departure, of course," said Raffmir. "I was hoping we would have time to renew our acquaintance, and speak discreetly, perhaps?" He turned and smiled at Amber, who met his smile with blank eyes.

    "I'm really leaving, Raffmir, just as soon as I can gather my things together."

    "A shame, truly. And how is your partner, Blackbird the witch?"

    "She doesn't like that word," I told him.

    "I know, but it suits her, don't you think? I understand she's had further accidents with fires getting out of control."

    "Is there something you want, Raffmir?"

    "When you see her, please pass on my greeting and remind her of me."

    "Do I need to remind you that you are bound by fey law not to cause her harm?"

    "As you are bound not to harm me, Dogstar. Are you planning to draw that sword?"

    My hand dropped from the hilt. I couldn't use it against him. After the trial by ordeal, we were both bound by fey law not to harm each other. If I violated that agreement then I would be in contempt and he would be free of his obligations. It was better to have us both constrained.

    "I will pass on your greeting, Raffmir."

    "Tell her…" He paused as if wondering what to say, though I was sure he already knew what it was. "Tell her that I hope to bump into her soon."

    Bump into her? Did that mean he knew about the baby?

    "Good day, Raffmir." I refused to rise to the bait.

    "Good day." He stood there waiting for me to leave.

    I bowed more deeply than I had before and they both returned the gesture grandly, then turned and walked back the way they had come, their escorts falling in behind. I watched them go and then followed Tate silently through the halls.

    The dream from earlier came back to me. I had been standing in the frozen glade, the place where Raffmir's dead sister had lured me to feed on my life essence. She couldn't be alive, surely? Blackbird had blown her to bits, hadn't she? I had to admit, my memory of those events was incomplete at best. I had been drowning at the time.

    We came to the room where the Way-nodes were marked on the floor. The rest of our belongings had been cleared away, probably by the house staff. I was grateful. The fewer clues available for Raffmir to go snooping around, the better.

    "Stay safe. You need this node to head north." Tate indicated one of the stars in the pattern on the floor "You can use the codex to find your way from there. Get in touch if you need help."

    "I will."

    I stood over the point he had indicated and felt beneath me into the rock, orientating myself to the north. The Way was there, vibrating with power. Wrapping myself in concealment so that I would go unnoticed when I arrived, I formed a connection with it, acknowledging its presence and letting it recognise me. I stepped forward. It swelled beneath me and swept me into the stream, taking me far from the basement room. The void, the element of the wraithkin, echoed around me as I swept across the blue-black emptiness, melting into existence in a darkened room somewhere. It smelled of dust and woodworm.

    There was only one line into this node and one out, so I simply stepped again, feeling the rush of the Way as it picked me up and hurled me, like a boardless surfer, across the black.

    The next node was a woodland clearing, just an anonymous rise in the middle of a wood. A few yards away, a dog-walker threw a stick out into the trees and her golden labrador romped after it through the bushes of the dawn-light. Neither of them noticed me as I consulted the codex in the growing light and stepped again on to the Way. This time it was harder. The Ways are great for covering large distances in a short time, but using them tires you quickly. I knew to be wary, so when I found my mind drifting to thoughts of Alex and where she might be, I forced myself to concentrate on the node-point, the place where I needed to be. I arrived in a cornfield; a twenty-foot-tall brown stone spike emerged from the gently swaying heads only yards away. Yards away, another finger of stone pointed upwards. The spike was scored with deep marks as if huge claws had scraped down it. Lichen coloured its surface with curly-edged stains of red and amber. I wondered whether the stones were part of the Waynode or here simply to mark its presence.

    I consulted the codex and returned to the Way. This jump felt easier, as if I was guided in. When I reached the node a similar stone faced me, even taller than the last. It stood surrounded by gravestones in the middle of a churchyard, the pillars each side of the medieval church dwarfed by the monolith, which must have been there long before Christianity reached Britain. Once again, ancient sites had been adopted and adapted, each generation incorporating the old into the new.

    I had one more jump to make, so I steeled myself and focused my intention on the Way, letting it swell under my feet and sweep me onward. I forced myself to focus on my destination, resolutely ignoring the echoes of sounds, like lost voices, that permeated the no-place of the Way. My feet found firm ground and I arrived.

The Way-point was on high ground, as they sometimes are. It sat back from the town in a hollow below the hilltop. There was no sign of a structure or habitation, but then some of them had no human significance. Through the scraggy brush I could see the road leading down through the terraced houses and below that, the streets curving around like giant steps, down to the harbour. It looked tight, enclosed by the hills, everything leading down to the harbour in the centre. Across from me on the opposite hilltop was a large building, its clean new bricks catching the dawn light in a ruddy reflection. The tinted glass and curved terrace design echoed the town, but in a way that emphasised the difference between old and new. I wondered who would have built such a dominating building so high above the town. I was surprised they had got planning consent for such an obvious eyesore.

    It didn't look the sort of place where you would need a sword, so I unhooked the blade from my belt and stowed it in the long pocket on the side of the holdall, presumably meant for just that purpose. I hoisted my bag up on to my shoulder and set off down the muddy bank towards the road. Picking my way between gorse bushes and sheep droppings I found my way down to the hard paving. The roads at the back were unkempt, grass growing through the tarmac. Ramshackle sheds had been chiselled into the hillside, their backs bolstered against the hill while their fronts were propped up on old bricks and stepped with wooden planks. There were abandoned petrol mowers and ruptured plastic sacks spilling grass cuttings on to the verge.

    Further down, terraced houses bracketed the road, each rectangular door in a rectangular frame with squared windows reflecting the new day, the symmetry only spoiled by the nest of satellite dishes hastily screwed to the wall, trailing cables and hanging wires. An electric milk float, something I'd not seen in years, trundled down the road between the badly parked cars. Two lads distributed white bottles to doorsteps and returned with empties.

    Once off the side streets, all roads led to the harbour. Morning traffic bunched at the traffic lights, horns beeping at a moment's delay. Tempers were short, and patience thin. I walked slowly, taking in the details. I noted the granite stone facing the buildings, the tiny church sat perched on its own shelf of rock, the youth centre with its graffiti and abuse.

    I had already passed two lamp posts when I noticed the posters. I stopped and stared at the photocopied image taped to the metal, a thin plastic sheet stretched over to keep the rain off. The image of a girl's smiling face stared back at me. She looked happy, celebrating perhaps. The word MISSING was in bold lettering across the top, the question in large letters underneath – HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? I stared at it. Is that what I should be doing? Should I be pasting pictures of Alex on lamp posts, hoping against hope that she would be spotted somewhere?

    I carried on down the hill, passing more images. Then I stopped and walked back up the hill. Examining the poster again, I carefully peeled away the tape and drew it out from behind the plastic. Then I took it down to the next lamp post and compared the images. They were different girls. One was named Gillian Mayhew, the other Debbie Vaughan. The photographs stared back at me. The posters shared the same format, the same typeface, the same words, but the girls were different.

    They wouldn't be from the same family since they had different names, though that wasn't always the case in these days of divorce and separation, but these were very different girls. Gillian Mayhew had dark hair, slightly frizzy, and Mediterranean looks. She could be Italian, whereas Debbie Vaughan was blonde with a round face and full lips. The girls looked different but the posters looked the same. I carefully removed the second poster too. Tate and Garvin had both said that this mission was right up my street. Is this what they meant? Two young women missing from the same town at the same time was tragic for the families concerned, but it wouldn't justify the Warders becoming involved, surely? I tucked the posters into my bag and carried on walking. Gillian and Debbie alternately stared back at me from each successive lamp post all the way down the hill. Someone had been busy.

    The main street was still opening up when I arrived. Window cleaners worked their way along the rows of shops while shutters were raised and awnings wound out. I walked all the way along and then discovered another street ran in parallel, so I completed the circuit and walked back along that. There were the usual chainstores mixed in with local traders; a butcher and a baker but no candlestick maker. There was a fishmonger advertising frozen fish, which seemed a bit pointed in a town with a fishing harbour two minutes' walk from where it stood.

    I walked out to the harbour front. The walls fell sheer to oily water smelling of rotting seaweed and diesel. The harbour was full. The boats looked well used, the seawater peeling the paint and rusting the steel. Men stood around talking. No one was interested in taking the boats out fishing, though. There wasn't even anyone mending nets. Maybe it was a holiday?

    I scanned the frontage around the harbour. A couple of ramshackle hotels offered the possibility of a bed for the night, the signs advertising rooms available. Like the boats, the paint was peeling and the windows were smeared. It didn't make for an inviting prospect and I wondered who stayed there. Not a spot for tourists.

    Among the bait shops and estate agents was the Harbour Café, tables placed out in the sun to attract passing business. I crossed the road and wandered past. It was clean enough and the smell of frying bacon set my mouth watering. I went in and approached the counter. A middle-aged woman with pink streaks in her hair looked up. She acknowledged my presence with a stream of words I didn't recognise and couldn't decipher. The accent was thick.

    "Sorry?"

    She looked me up and down then spoke slowly and precisely for the terminally stupid. "Sit down, luv, and I'll come over and take your order."

    "Thanks."

    The other two patrons sat together, old men with jackets buttoned against the morning chill even though it was warm inside the café. I found a table next to the window where I could watch the comings and goings along the harbour. It was a good position. Garvin would have approved.

    "Tea, luv, or coffee?" Appearing beside me, she spoke more naturally but moderated her accent for the obvious visitor.

    "I'd like coffee, please, and a bacon sandwich."

    "It'll be five minutes."

    She left me watching the traffic. I took the posters out of my bag and laid them on the table in front of me, wondering whether they were the reason I was here. The girls smiled in the photos. I wondered whether they were still smiling.

    "Bunkers, aren't they?" The woman had returned with a large mug of steaming black coffee and a glass sugar dispenser.

    "Why are they bonkers?"

    "Not bonkers, bunkers. They've bunked off, hamp't they?"

    "Have they?"

    "Not the only ones, either." She folded her arms, confirming her deduction.

    "What do you mean?"

    She went back to the counter and returned with a newspaper, which she laid on the table in front of me.

    The headline was plain – FIFTH GIRL MISSING. A photo of a young woman was under the headline and four others were below it, two of which I recognised.