The Grigori: Stalking Tender Prey Part 20

Owen rolled him onto his back. Daniel could hear him laughing. He felt Owen's lips brush his own. I take it this means yes,' Owen said.

To Othman, it was like a fine brandy, a perfect Armagnac, rolled around the tongue. Such fiery, yet delicate flavours! The garden of Low Mede was ancient, timeless. Hanging there, a ragged shadow some inches above the ground, hidden among the old-fas.h.i.+oned shrubs, the ecstatic bouquets of flowers rooted in the earth, Othman enjoyed vicariously the pleasures of the flesh. Hadn't he primed Owen for this? Yes. Owen, innocent sibling, unaware of his latent abilities. The Cranton boy too, a power-house, a receiver and transmitter, long unused. It should have been dragged out of him and used while he was still suckling the breast.

A dim light shone in the attic room, but no shadows moved across it. Othman could tell that Daniel thought Owen was skilled and experienced. Othman knew Owen was not. Lily was his only lover, his only testing ground. Owen was scared and exhilarated, aware of the fragile nature of Daniel's offering of love. They were incapable of s.e.x, as such, but were learning the communion, the special language of fingers, sensitive against flesh. They kissed, and were afraid to stop, because then they might have to do something else. Othman floated in the waves of their timid pa.s.sion. It was like a drug to him. They were oblivious of his presence lapping up the etheric cream seeping from their souls. The only acceptable sustenance. Blood, flesh: what were these? Coa.r.s.e, brutish victuals, the things that dogs ate. With his more refined palate, Peverel Othman could only imbibe a more subtle sustenance.

Chapter Fourteen.

Thursday 22nd October: Little Moor While Owen Winter timidly made love to her brother in the attic room, Verity Cranton lay in her single bed, dreaming. She dreamed she was lying in her bed, with the curtains open and moonlight was falling into the room, across the floor in bars and coins of white radiance. She felt warm and cosy, utterly secure, and could hear the heating system humming, the slow tick of the clock downstairs in the hall. She was thinking about the evening, the dinner party's success, and how, for once, she had genuinely enjoyed other people's company. It had been so long since she had socialised like that. Not since she'd fled the flat, and Netty's tears, Netty's hurt, accusing eyes. She wondered how she'd been seduced into it now. Her resolutions had been strong. She had designed a new life for herself, a new persona. The severe creature she had become scorned the company of others, the taking of alcohol in excess. It could lead to unpleasant things.

In her dream, Verity turned on her side in the bed, one hand beneath her cheek. She did not feel at all sleepy. Where was Raven? He had taken to sleeping across her feet, but she could not feel the pressure of his body now. She leaned over the side of the bed to see whether the cat was asleep on the rug. There was his great, black shape curled up. She called his named softly, patted the duvet. Raven, come on. Here...'

She saw the large head lift, his eyes open, enormous and colourless, but glowing. She held out her hand, a ghostly shape in the darkness. Best not to think of disembodied hands. They might belong to a disembodied voice. Raven... Raven...'

Slowly the cat began to stretch out his paws. His mouth opened wide in a yawn. He began to move towards her. How enormous his jetty shadow looked, flowing across the rug. He was a magnificent animal. His shadow, rather than his body, seemed to spill onto her bed, and she reached out to stroke his silken fur. She could feel the powerful muscles beneath the skin. How deceptive was a cat's skin. It seemed delicate, easily torn, yet she knew it could withstand greater heat or more intense cold than any human integument. It was tougher too, harder to break. Raven began to purr. He was so heavy. Verity closed her eyes and grabbed hold of the cat, pulling him towards her. In bed, he allowed her to hug him. It was strange, how he'd tolerate greater intimacy with her in the privacy of her bedroom. Downstairs, every corner of his body was off-limits, but for his broad head.

His paws kneaded her shoulders, and his purr hummed close to her face. The weight of the cat was like the weight of man, Verity thought, and unconsciously her legs opened a little beneath the duvet. The paw on her right shoulder was clawing at her night-dress. She reached up to stop him scratching her skin, put her hand over the paw and stroked it. How long his diminutive toes felt. It could almost have been a furred hand lying there. She traced her finger along Raven's foreleg. How thick it was. As thick as the arm of a woman, or a young man. For a moment, her breath stilled. This was a dream, after all. She did not open her eyes, but ran her hand up the furred limb, encountered an elbow, biceps, a shoulder, the hollow of a throat. All sleekly furred. Her hand ran down over the back, describing muscles beneath the skin. She cupped a firm, pelted b.u.t.tock, felt the upper part of a thigh. The beast-man - not Raven, surely not Raven - was still purring.

She felt the clawed hand, with its long agile fingers, gently stroke her shoulder just inside her night-dress. Still she did not open her eyes. She was afraid of what she might see, even though the touch and presence of the creature excited her. She felt no sense of threat, only a heavy desire hanging in the air. She reached up to clasp the hand that was moving inside her night-dress. She felt the bony knuckles through the fur, the naked palm with its raised pads. He raised her arms above her head. Verity moaned, opened her legs wider. The duvet was between them. She wanted to kick it off, feel all that fur against her body. The creature's breath was warm upon her throat. She felt a rough tongue licking the top part of her right breast. She felt the brief, playful nip of sharp teeth. Her back arched. He let go of her arms and she felt the weight of him lift from her body. She opened her eyes, afraid of losing him.

There was a black silhouette kneeling over her. She could see the moonlight s.h.i.+ning on his fur, but could make out no details of the face, other than the sulphur glow of his eyes. Were there lips to kiss, or simply the wedge-shaped muzzle of a cat? He had a long mane, like a lion. Verity threw back the duvet covers, and ran her fingers over the mattress beside her. The beast-man was very still, watching her, perhaps considering. Come to me, dream creature, Verity thought. In dreams, a thought must be as loud as a shout. She began to pull off her night-dress, and a timorous hand was offered to help her. Her body shone pale as ashes in the owl-light, white to his depthless black. She leaned on one elbow, reached out to stroke his belly, found beneath it the naked, wet p.e.n.i.s, erect, nothing like the organ of a man, yet as large and hard. At her touch, the creature uttered a soft growl and pounced forward. Verity clasped him to her, wriggling beneath him, wondering whether she should guide the dream-c.o.c.k into her waiting body, her aching body. But the beast-man had other ideas. He turned her onto her belly and bit the back of her neck. Like a cat, of course, like a cat! Verity raised her hips. He found her instantly, entering her with one swift thrust. Then he remained still, growling around her flesh where it was gripped in his teeth. His claws had found her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She could feel the needling caress. For what seemed like long minutes they were locked together in stillness, then he began to move, rapid, tiny thrusts, hardly a movement at all. Verity moaned in pleasure and luxury. She had never felt any thing like this: the unusual organ that felt so different inside her, the odd flicking movements. An o.r.g.a.s.m was already beginning to rise within her. She tried to hold it at bay, wanting to enjoy this experience for as long as possible. Just before the wave of feeling crested, the creature stopped moving. She could feel the contractions of his p.e.n.i.s inside her as he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed his alien seed into her. Then he tore himself out of her. She had forgotten. The organ of a male cat was barbed. The pain seared right through her, in time to the spasms of a powerful climax. She howled, the cry of a female cat in heat, her hips bucking upon the bed. But he had already left her, flowed off the bed like a liquid shadow, back into the world of dreams.

Lily, in her drunken sleep, dreams of the house of her ancestors. She knows she is in the garden, and its fabulous terraces are set out before her, disappearing down and down into a mist. The air smells strongly of perfumes she has never smelled before. The world feels different. It is not her world, its contours are unfamiliar, yet she knows, at the same time, it is the earth. She is standing on a gravel path with a rockery behind her, where small-leafed climbing plants spill over the stones. Below her lies the next terrace of the garden, beds of plants set out in a geometric pattern. When she turns, she sees behind her a screen of cedars rearing against the sky, their branches spreading out to obscure the high building behind them. Yet the sun dapples its walls; she can see the glow of hot stone. It is a hot country. Turning slowly, she looks down upon the garden. Small figures are working there among the neat crops, paddling in the irrigation streams, panniers tied to their bent backs. Other, taller figures, stand by, as if supervising. They are strangers. She does not know them.

Someone comes towards her along the path, appearing between a hedge of evergreens. She presumes it is a man, although she can't be sure. This person is very tall, and has long hair which flows loose around his shoulders and chest. His skull and his face are long, like the faces of ancient Egyptians, yet his features are sensual and beautiful. He is wearing a long robe, belted at the waist, and sandals on his feet. Lily realises she is in the past; this is history. The person speaks to her, and she apprehends that what she thought was a man is a woman.

My lady, all is ready for your inspection.' The woman bows slightly.

Lily does not have to look up to this person. She too is very tall. What is she supposed to say? Even as she thinks this, her body replies, Very good, I shall be along shortly.'

Lily knows then that this is not her body, she is merely lodging in it, and the consciousness that owns it has now become aware of her presence. She feels the body tense, the intake of breath, very shallow. Then the whispered thought, Who are you?.

I am Lily, she answers. Who are you?

The true owner of this body! What do you want?

Nothing. I am dreaming. I'm not really here.

Lily senses laughter. This strange, tall woman seems to take it in her stride, finding an alien presence in her mind and flesh. Do you want to see the garden, child?' she says aloud.

Yes please.

The woman will not give her name, although Lily senses she could look for it in this borrowed mind if she tried hard enough. However, it seems rude to do that when her hostess is being so kind. They walk down the terraces, between the dark hedges, into the areas of light, and back into shadow. Water spills over the terraces, and great wooden wheels turn in dark pools, which are come upon unexpectedly. As the woman with whom Lily travels pa.s.ses the workers, they bow from the waist. She acknowledges them warmly.

Are you a queen? Lily has to ask.

No, my dear, not a queen. I suppose you could say I am a gardener.'

They walk down the steps of the hanging gardens, and the light of the raw sun reflects brilliantly off the water as it tumbles down the tiers of cultivation. Ahead is a series of domed buildings, constructed of obsidian gla.s.s. These are the greenhouses,' explains Lily's hostess. We have created a new strain of corn here. It is very important. We did not think the seeds would sprout, but now they have.'

They turn down a narrow path, tall evergreen bushes to either side. The entrance to one of the greenhouses is straight ahead. The path is wet as if it has been recently hosed. Then there is a man blocking the pathway. He is standing with his back to them, very tall, a flag of thick golden hair spread out over his shoulders, trailing down his spine. At first, Lily thinks he has wings: six of them, iridescent as crystal, glowing with peac.o.c.k colours. Then the image s.h.i.+fts, and he is simply a tall man. The woman says abruptly, What are you doing here?' Her voice is sharp, almost hostile, but there is a secret tone behind it. Lily can feel her surprise, the sensations of both disapproval and pleasure. Momentarily, the woman has forgotten about her parasitic traveller. The man turns, and Lily knows him, although his skin is paler, almost translucent, the blue veins faintly visible below the surface. His eyes are bluer too, an unnatural peac.o.c.k blue.

Pev...

Shemyaza,' says the woman. If they catch you here, you are dead.'

My lady Ninlil.' The one she called Shemyaza sweeps a mocking bow. Then you must contain yourself from betraying me.'

What are you doing here?'

Shemyaza shrugs and saunters into the greenhouse. Working.' Ninlil follows him. A strange light envelops them, sunlight through the obsidian. Lily can see the circular ranks of plants growing thickly within. It is like a maze. One of the small people - a human man, Lily now realises - is adjusting some irrigation taps just inside the doorway. Ninlil makes an abrupt gesture and the human bows and leaves the building quickly.

Shem, you are confined to the High House until this matter has been dealt with,' Ninlil says. Lily can feel her despair. She wants to help this man, but knows he is stubborn and proud.

Their rules, not mine.'

Then why don't you get out?' Ninlil snaps. Get out of here, go down the lower plains, anywhere! You flaunt your transgressions in their faces and they will punish you. Don't you realise that?' She pauses. The woman isn't worth it.'

Shemyaza wheels around at that. He looks furious. Lily feels Ninlil wince inside, although she doesn't show it. Don't presume to judge affairs of which you are ignorant!' he says. His voice is low, reasonable, although his eyes are shouting and wild.

Ishtahar is using you, Shem. Why can't you see that?' Ninlil holds out her hands in appeal, as if to show she is concealing nothing. She wants your knowledge and the power to hold council.'

She deserves it.'

No!' Ninlil wrings her hands together. Her people can't cope with it, they are far too primitive. You will cause catastrophe if you give her what she wants!'

Don't you think I haven't heard all this before?' Shemyaza plucks a leaf from what appears to be the prototype of a tomato plant. I refuse to hide or bend to the will of anyone I consider ignorant. I shall explain my position to the Parzupheim as and when required. My opinions are valid. Humans aren't animals, Ninlil, and we have been treating them as such for far too long.'

That is your loins speaking!' Ninlil announces. Humanity will never be Anannage. You are deceiving yourself if you think otherwise.'

He nods. True, but we can mingle, Ninlil. We can become one. Humanity must gain, and Anannage might lose a little, but it is the only proper way. We are watchers, aren't we? We have chosen to come to this place and reveal ourselves to them, therefore we should a.s.similate ourselves with their culture.'

Lily feels Ninlil's defeat as her own. My word will not be enough to save you, Shemyaza. If you persist in this, they will banish you, despite your beauty, despite your wisdom, despite your inordinate capacity to love. The High Lord values you, but not enough.'

He laughs. Banish me? Never! The Lord loves me. I can talk him round.'

Your folly has blinded you to reality, Shem.' Ninlil reaches out to touch his bare arm. His skin is smooth and warm. Go back to the High House. Please!'

No, I am completing my tasks here as normal.' Shemyaza clasps Ninlil's hand. Don't worry. Everything will be resolved.'

Lily feels Ninlil's thoughts. No, you are wrong, you are so wrong.

Lily woke up in darkness, struggling to keep the flavour, the smells and textures of her dream vivid in her memory. Dry mouthed, still half drunk, she scrambled from her bed and hurried to her dressing-table where her notepad lay. Fumbling, she turned on a lamp standing dustily among the empty perfume bottles and dried jars of face cream. In a scrawling, barely legible hand, she scribbled down all she could remember. Shemyaza,' she said aloud, the name clear and resonant in her head. Where had she heard that name before?

Naked, she ran out onto the landing and hurried, without knocking, into Owen's room. She felt she had to tell him about the dream. It was important. It was only after she had excitedly begun to speak that she realised the room was empty. She hardly needed to turn on the light to confirm that Owen's bed had not been slept in. For a moment, she felt numb, and sat down on his bed. She could remember him bringing her home. Where had he gone? What time was it? She picked up Owen's alarm clock. Two-thirty. Owen, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' she said aloud. Where are you?' Probably he'd gone sneaking off with Othman to investigate the church again, or something.

Sighing, Lily got to her feet. She felt ill, nauseous and light-headed. Had she made a fool of herself at the Crantons'? She could remember dancing with Louis, but nothing too horrendous. Her throat was dry. She needed a drink.

After going to her room for her dressing-gown, Lily went downstairs. The house had that horrible desolate feeling it always had when Owen stayed out all night. Lily found half an inch of cloudy orange squash at the bottom of a bottle in the back of the pantry. This she diluted in a murky gla.s.s and drank down in one gulping swallow. The squash felt sticky and too sweet on her tongue, feeding her thirst rather than quenching it. She drank water from the tap, taking up handfuls and splas.h.i.+ng it into her mouth, almost choking when someone knocked at the kitchen door. For a moment Lily stood frozen, stooped, water dripping from her chin, the ends of her hair. Then, she straightened up, wiped her mouth, went to the door and said, Who is it?' Could Owen have forgotten his key? It seemed unlikely. He'd never locked himself out before.

Lily, it's me. Can I come in?'

Pev?' Lily opened the door. Othman stood at the threshold, a dark shadow among a host of shadows. Lily brushed back her hair. What do you want? It's the middle of the night? Where's Owen?' She wondered then, with dread, if anything could have happened to her brother.

Othman came into the kitchen, filling it with his presence. Owen's fine. He's still at the Crantons.'

Oh.' Lily frowned, but decided not to pursue any thoughts on the matter. She was wondering just how much Othman looked like the man in her dream. Perhaps the differences were greater than she thought, but then Othman looked thin, even rather unhealthy, and his hair was dull in comparison to the mane of Shemyaza. His eyes did not burn in the same way. Perhaps she had dreamed of an idealised version of the man.

I saw your light on, wondered if you'd like some company.'

Bit late to be out walking, isn't it?' Lily had unconsciously hugged herself, as if protecting her body.

Othman shrugged. I needed to clear my head.'

I'll make us a drink.'

Othman laughed. Oh Lily, do you always fly to the kettle whenever you're unnerved?'

She grinned uncertainly. Don't you want a coffee or anything?'

Othman came towards her, put his hands upon her shoulders. Lily felt her legs go weak, suddenly conscious of last night's make-up smeared under her eyes. He might not be the radiant being of her dream, but Peverel Othman was still the most beautiful man she had ever met.

I knew you were alone,' Othman said. It doesn't happen very often, so I thought I should make good use of the opportunity.'

I just dreamed about you, or someone who looked like you,' Lily said, uncurling her arms from their position of defence and tentatively placing her hands flat against Othman's chest.

Good,' said Othman. He leaned forward to kiss her, and Lily was alarmed by the sense of repressed hunger in every taut fibre of his body. He must have been desperate to get her alone, she thought, for this hunger to be waiting here. She allowed him to open her dressing-gown, run his hands over her body. Such long, cool hands.

Outside, in the lane, Emilia Manden watched with interest what was happening in the cottage. She was able to observe everything clearly, surfing a tide of Othman's energy in her body. Already, she felt better, stronger and more alert. Earlier that day, she'd noticed her hair had begun to grow dark at the roots again, pus.h.i.+ng out the grey, and even more miraculously, there were painful lumps in her gums where new teeth were s.h.i.+fting against the flesh.

So, Othman was taking his pleasures with Helen's daughter, was he? That made sense. He would impregnate her, of course, continue the process the Lord had started. Soon, Othman would want Emilia as well, once she had filled out again, regained her beauty. She felt no envy towards Lily. Lily was merely fulfilling her natural function.

Emilia sat down on the fence opposite the cottage, swinging her legs in the night air. She watched Othman and Lily disappear from the kitchen, undoubtedly up into Lily's bedroom. Presently the unmistakable sounds of a woman's pleasure came through the open bedroom window, drifted out into the lane. Oh, he was seeing to her well, he was, but they'd all had the knack for that. More than men, the Grigori, all of them. Emilia had sometimes overheard Owen making love to Lily on the rare occasions one of her nocturnal prowls round the village had coincided with the twins' desire to be close. Lily hadn't made noises like that then, though! Quite reserved in comparison. Emilia giggled to herself. The village had become like a dried up old stick since the Murkasters had left. All the pa.s.sion gone, all the l.u.s.t. Even the fields had suffered for it. Times would change now. This one would bring it all back. She was sure of it.

Chapter Fifteen.

Thursday, 22nd October: Little Moor Barbara woke up with rather a headache, and, for some reason, a feeling of guilt. Barney had already got up, and she could hear the sounds of the dray-man unloading his barrels outside. At first, the previous evening's events were rather a blur in her mind. She remembered the food, the dancing, even her twinges of jealousy over Lily and Verity. Then, the painful recollection flooded through her. Dancing with Louis to an old song, swaying in front of the fire, and Louis putting his cheek against hers, saying, Oh, Barbara, if only this body of mine hadn't betrayed me.'

She had pressed herself more firmly against him. Don't be ridiculous, Lou. You're still a very attractive man.'

Louis had looked at her then, almost warily. Tonight, I feel like I'm coming awake after a long sleep, coming out of a coma.'

I'm glad,' Barbara said, and then, with drunken bravado, risked a provocative remark. I've been waiting here for you.'

Have you?' Louis squeezed her, the ends of his fingers touching the side of her breast.

At that moment, Barbara had noticed Barney watching them. He had been standing with cigar in hand, whisky gla.s.s raised, his eyes like stones. Barbara had felt the heat rush through her, had to laugh in a high, braying manner in order to defuse the moment. She'd grinned at Barney, but he'd only pulled a sour face and turned away.

The subject hadn't been mentioned on the way home, but then that was typical of Barney. He'd nurse his painful suspicions in silence, curled around them. He'd never accuse, shout or get violent. Othman had left them at the end of Low Mede's drive, talking about going for a walk to sober up. Barney hadn't even said good night. Walking down the lane to The White House, Barbara had kept up a cheerful chatter, conscious of her voice being slurred. The atmosphere of the early morning seemed heavy, drowsy, dripping with floating bags of emotions that were ready to burst. Barbara had commented on the night, the feeling of it. Barney had grunted in response. He had no imagination at all. Barbara forcefully prevented the hot spasm of irritation that shot through her from escaping her lips in harsh words.

In bed, Barney had wanted to have s.e.x, which again, Barbara supposed, was typical. He obviously needed to rea.s.sert his rights, exercise his owners.h.i.+p of her. Still, Barbara made no objection: the night seemed conducive to carnal urges. While Barney heaved and grunted on top of her, she fantasised happily: first about Othman (although it was very difficult to imagine Barney's large, hairy body being Othman's), and then about Louis. Poor Louis, so damaged. Barbara thought he probably hadn't had a woman since his wife died. She wanted to smother him in love, make him feel good about himself. The evening had started so badly, what with all those silly thoughts she'd had about the girls, but by the end of it, she'd felt empowered, attractive again. No young girl could do for Louis what she could. She imagined he would be a sensitive lover: they could talk about poetry in bed, languorous in the afterglow of love.

Perhaps if Barney had whispered some endearment to her, she would have felt guilty about her secret desires, but he simply rolled off her without a word, leaving her unsatisfied. Barbara didn't care. She stared out of the window at the sky, where the curtains hung open, and began to make plans.

Othman left the Winters' cottage early in the morning. Lily guessed he didn't want to risk running into Owen although she did not mention it. In the kitchen, Othman kissed her tenderly, stroked her face. I'll see you soon.' Lily wondered whether difficulties with Owen were presaged. Othman certainly seemed eager to pursue an affair with her, and she had the feeling Owen was not to be included in it as she'd first thought.

She washed the dishes in a dream, replaying all the events of the previous night in her imagination. She'd asked Othman questions about himself, from which he managed to slip away, by asking her about her mother and what their lives had been like before she had brought her children to Little Moor. He seemed very interested in Helen Winter, reminding Lily of how Owen had suggested Othman might be an old friend of their mother's. A cold dart had gone through her, prompting her to blurt, Are you my father?', which seemed absurd now. It was obvious he was far too young. He'd laughed at her question, ruffled her hair, leaning over her in the bed. No, Lily, I'm not, though even if I was, I'd still be here with you like this, for my people have no taboo about such things.'

Who are your people, Pev?' Lily asked.

A very old family,' he answered. Far older than you can imagine. I can trace my lineage back before Adam.'

Lily laughed at him. She did not believe that was the exact truth. Why are you interested in us?'

He'd stroked her bare arm. Because you're special, my lovely. Soon, I will be able to tell you more, and then you'll understand completely. But not yet.'

When he made love to her, Lily experienced fragmented visions, flashbacks, she thought, to her dream of Shemyaza. She told him about this. Who is Shemyaza? Have you ever heard such a name.'

He's dead,' Othman said abruptly. He lived a long time ago.'

But you know who he is... He is a real person?'

Othman shrugged, reaching out to her bedside table for a cigarette. Yes, I suppose so, in a sense. He lives on only in legend.'

But I've never heard of him. Why would I dream of him? And there was so much detail, Pev! It was like I was really there. I could feel it, smell it. Could I really invent this person? He wasn't human, and neither was the woman who carried me. They were something else. Anannage. You see, I remember the name. I feel like I know it.'

You must have heard of... him before,' Othman said.

Lily noticed he was oddly reluctant to say the name.

The old church here in Little Moor is dedicated to him,' he continued. to St Shem.'

Of course!' said Lily, although she doubted she would have made the connection herself. But why would I dream of a saint, and why make him look like you? And if he was a saint, then he would have been human, so why...'