Chapter Ten

I am walking along a shabby, labyrinthine corridor. Its dreary beige walls are the colour of looming death. Fear blooms in dark corners. There are three doors on either side of me, their dark wood panels scarred by time. My vision is grainy, and I can hear my heart thudding like the dull, distant metronome of a woodcutter’s axe. Life and self no longer exist. The only sense I have is of searing evil and the clock ticking.

A huge responsibility has been placed on me. I must not open the wrong door…but time is running out. Drawing a shaky breath, I reach out my hand and open the middle door on the left. Shucky is there. A mild pleasure at seeing my friend penetrates the steamy fog of my chilling concentration. Unerring, the dog leads me to the last door on the right. He looks up at me expectantly, but I pause. Shucky’s eyes glow with a soft, golden light, and I am reassured. I open the door. Ceri is standing there—a tiny, lost white figure—waiting patiently for me. Tears course down her pale cheeks as the Hunter appears behind her. We both know it is my fault. I have hesitated too long. The door closes.

* * *

The next day, I felt sluggish and heavy limbed, as though the corridor dream had drained my strength like sunshine on April snow. Ceri made no reference to it, but she was fretful and whiny, and I caught her looking reproachfully at me once or twice. We were both tetchy during our lessons, and I sat on the kitchen step at lunchtime, hoping that nature’s glorious new summer wardrobe would soothe me. It didn’t. The valley was in mercurial mood. Bitter, low-anchored clouds brought a weary wind that teased and tickled the flowers. Shrugging impatient shoulders, the blooms hid their pretty faces. Questing bees sounded infuriatingly like old cars being started by an enthusiast wielding a noisy hand crank.

I walked to the lawn’s edge and stared moodily down the faintly gleaming passes of the valley. When I made my way back in an aimless, circuitous route around the house, I was surprised to see Gethin’s car still parked in front of the garage. I thought he had left hours earlier. Craving the creamed silk of his caresses, I went to his study in search of him. He was seated at his desk, frowning over some papers and he looked up with a start when I entered the room. An impatient—oddly furtive—look crossed his face, and he hurriedly shoved the documents into a drawer before coming to greet me.

He drew me into his arms, and I raised my face for his kiss. It was an undemanding embrace, giving, not taking. Yet the touch of his lips, as always, caused my heart to sigh with sweet, enduring rapture. I stayed there for a long time, resting my head against his shoulder, letting his warmth and strength soothe my cares.

“You seem blue-devilled, Lilly Divine,” he murmured, his lips against my ear.

“I was.” I raised my head with a smile. “Then I found you were still here.”

“And now, sadly, I must go,” he said with a grimace of reluctance. “I am tired of being pulled backward and forward by matters beyond my control.” It occurred to me then that I had absolutely no idea what this man who knew every secret of my body did for a living.

* * *

The moon’s light was faint and uncertain; heavy thunderclouds rolled across its pearly face, often leaving the scenery below in total obscurity. Vivid lightning darted from cloud to cloud and flashed silently on the mountains. It was fascinating to catch, in the intermittent gleam, glimpses of the gloomy landscape. Sometimes, as the cloud opened to shed its inner light upon a distant mountain, the sudden glory illuminated a chosen recess of rock while the surrounding scene remained in deep shadow. It was like a badly lit, low-budget but subtly horrifying film. My reflection—pale and ghostly—regarded me steadily through the rain-flailed darkness of the window.

It was past midnight when the storm abated and Ceri finally fell asleep. I watched her for a while, not wanting her to wake and be scared again. Her dark hair fanned out on the pillow, and she looked tiny and frail. The weight of both my mortal and spiritual responsibilities toward her felt heavy tonight. But I would not have relinquished them for all the world. I descended the nursery stairs and changed into my nightdress. I was just about to slide thankfully into bed when I heard the front door close. A minute later, with the briefest of knocks, Gethin marched into my room and pulled me roughly into his arms.

“I thought you were staying in London tonight?” I said when I was able to speak. Which was actually some considerable time later.

“Couldn’t stay away from you, Lilly Divine,” he informed me simply, pulling me down onto the bed.

His body pressed impatient and demanding against me. Gently he took hold of my chin, angling my face up to bring my lips closer to his mouth. As he kissed me I could feel his pulse race, instantly in time with my own. Our tongues met and began to dance and play, confident now in our knowledge of each other, delighting in anticipation of further sensual exploration. Our breathing grew heavy and languid. My nipples tensed painfully, aching for his wet tongue to soothe and torment them. As he ran his hand gently across my cheek and down my neck, I caught hold of it and placed it on my left breast. He swirled his finger around my nipple, through the thin cotton of my nightgown and then flicked it lightly. I gasped and lifted my hips off the bed toward him.

“Not so fast,” he murmured. With tiny, staccato kisses, he moved down the length of my neck, along my collarbone and down to the neckline of my gown. The tip of his tongue ran teasingly along the line where cloth and skin met. I shivered wildly as he continued this sensual exploration; his mouth, almost rough against the smoothness of my skin, slid lower and into my cleavage. Interrupting this anointment of my body he pulled my nightgown up and swiftly over my head. I cried out in triumph and relief as his lips at last closed around my nipple and his tongue flicked my maddened flesh. Hurriedly, he removed his own clothes while I lay on my side, watching him. When he returned to the bed, he gave me a mischievous grin, before tipping me onto my back and sliding a possessive hand up along the inside of my thighs. He lay on his side, propped on one elbow so that he could watch me. His cool fingers were like an electric shock against my moist warmth and I sighed, opening my legs wider to allow him access. His touch flirted with my flesh, teasing and stroking before delving deep inside me. Circling my throbbing clitoris with his thumb, he brought his lips back to suckle my nipple. The invisible cord that bound the nerve endings in those two places together tightened inside me, and I bucked wildly against him.

My hand trailed across his hip, needing to touch him, to feel him. Holding his length in my hand I guided him, with maddening slowness, inch by inch into me. Ignoring his groan of frustration, I continued to control him, until he was fully inside.

“You said ‘not so fast,’” I reminded him teasingly, whispering it against his lips.

Only then did I release him and raise my hips to meet his wild thrusts, pushing back against him so that I could feel him filling me. The steel of his cock slammed into me faster and wilder, and I wrapped my legs around him, deepening the sensation until I teetered on the edge of madness. He sensed my climax building and, with a wicked grin in the half-light, pushed hard and then held still.

“Do I have to say it again? Not. So. Fast,” he murmured, stopping my movements by clamping his hands on my hips and punctuating the words with kisses along my jaw.

My own hands beat wildly and helplessly against his chest until, taking pity on me at last, he lunged again, tipping us both—me gasping and him shuddering—over the edge and into a maelstrom of ecstasy.

When the world finally resumed its habitual axis, I leaned on my elbow, tracing my finger along his jawline and enjoying the rasp of stubble against my nail. “What did you think when you first saw me?” It was a cliché, I knew, but he was always so difficult to read that I had to ask.

“I thought you had the saddest, most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. They made me want to hold you close and never let you go,” he said, searing me with his honesty. “I couldn’t believe that, in the midst of all that manufactured, razor-sharp glitz and glamour, there you were. So natural and, well, just perfect.”

“As answers go,” I informed him approvingly, “that one really is quite good.”

“Of course, you are also sexy as all hell, so it wasn’t long before all I could think about was how much I wanted to get you into bed. And keep you there. But I didn’t want a business transaction.”

“That was what I was thinking, too,” I said with a sigh. “It took us long enough to do something about it.”

He tucked his hands behind his head. “I know. But when you came to work for me, you must admit that complicated matters. Then, if you remember, in the lake it was you who said it was a bad idea. And you were right, of course. At the same time, I just couldn’t bear the thought that I might never get to hear you call my name in ecstasy as you came.”

Blushing, I buried my head in the curve of his neck. I wanted to ask him a “what next” question, but the words stuck in my throat. What if he said there was no “next”? That this—magical though it was—was all there would ever be between us? Would it be enough? I told him I wanted everything. Perhaps everything was too much.

He seemed to read my thoughts. “Look, I have to go back up to London again today on urgent business. I wish to God, I didn’t. But I’ll be back tonight. We can talk more then.”

* * *

It was midafternoon when I heard the popping noise of a motorcycle on the drive. The post office in the village didn’t have the equipment to receive telegrams, so the post boy had come all the way from Dolgellau. The typed note was addressed to Gethin, but he had set off for London early—kissing me long and very thoroughly before he left—so I signed for it and carried it into the house. The cheap slip of paper was not in an envelope, but it was folded, and with the admirable intention of not peeking, I placed it on the parlour mantelpiece. It fluttered to the floor and flopped open. The signature line leaped out at me. Crowley. I paused. Trust was all very well. When the object of a girl’s adoration is receiving correspondence from the man labelled by the press as “the wickedest man in the world,” however…well, call me old-fashioned, if you must, but I feel she has a right to know more.

With a trembling hand, I flattened the slip of paper and read its typed message.

Delighted to hear from you again, old chap. Meet me London, usual place. Do what thou wilt. Aleister Crowley

As telegrams went, it was a long one, so Mr Crowley clearly had no compunction about spending an extra shilling or two. I could not even console myself that it might just be from a different Aleister Crowley. The motto “do what thou wilt” was famously known to be the guiding rule of his amoral, satanic movement. These thoughts took up a mere second of my time and then the breath left my body in a sudden rush, and I had to rest my head against the cool, marble mantle.

I did not stay that way for long. The drawer to Gethin’s desk was unlocked when I marched determinedly into the study and tried it. The papers he had been reading were still there, where he had shoved them when I interrupted him. Without pausing to examine my conscience, I pulled the sheaf of documents out. It was a legal title—some sort of contract—with a red wax seal at the bottom. At first I frowned over the technical language. Gradually, however, my hands began to tremble. The document was the deed to Taran House. Ownership had been transferred from Ceri to Gethin. The date of transfer had been filled in. It was tomorrow’s date.

Oh, what a fool I had been! That rogue idea of mine that Gethin wished to harm Ceri had seemed so silly and melodramatic at the time. But I had been right all along. What a bitter, anguished triumph! It was Gethin who was responsible for the attempts to scare us away, Gethin who had set up the satanic altar in the attic, Gethin who wanted Taran House because of its lights and legends and ley lines. Another thought struck me, driving all else from my mind. I knew at last who he—the spectre who haunted my dreams—really was. He was the same man who had driven me to screaming, sobbing ecstasy with his hands and lips mere hours ago. A crimson flush of mingled shame and hurt stung my face, and I buried my head in my hands.

But I did not have the luxury of wallowing in the misery of my betrayal. I had to get Ceri away from Taran House, and I had to do it before Gethin returned later that day. My mind rifled through the possibilities. Where could we go? Reverend Lewis might listen to my fears, but unsubstantiated alarms were all I could offer him. The telegram was fairly damning, but it didn’t prove that Gethin meant to harm Ceri. Matthew? My mind shied away from that option. Running to him in a crisis implied a relationship between us that did not exist. Besides, he wasn’t ideal knight-on-white-charger material. He was more likely to fall off his horse or trip over his sword.

I saw the corridor dream now for what it was. A warning. I had hesitated then, when Ceri needed me, and I had lost her. I would not fail her again. Leaping up from my seat, I returned the telegram to the mantel, securing it under a corner of the carriage clock. It was already five o’clock. I was in my room throwing clothes into a bag when Ceri came in.

“We need to go to Taran’s Chair,” she said simply, pointing to the mountain. I didn’t need to explain.

“No!” I shook my head. “We need to get right away. To London…” She sat down on the bed with a stubborn look about her mouth. I had to admit that, in matters of the psyche, she was usually right. “Why the chair?” I asked in a resigned tone.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I just know. I’ll get a bag.” When she had gone, I opened the drawer in my bedside locker and withdrew the knife. Its dull gleam mocked my miserable lost hopes. Purposefully wrapping it in one of my underskirts, I shoved it into my bag.

* * *

We took the woodland path, setting off, hand in hand, through the trees. The foliage was thick and green on either side of the narrow, overhung path. Beyond that it was dark and dense as a fairytale forest, without a glimpse of the stream to be seen. The wind sighed in the branches above our heads. There were no birds, no movement, no lapping water nearby. If we strayed from the grass and wandered amongst the trees, I knew we would be lost instantly. We could be buried here forever in the undergrowth and never found.

Late, slanting rays lovingly stroked the rocky outcrops as we crested the ridge. There was a feeling of tempests approaching. It was one of those days that linger on past living memory. The day the great tragedy happened, the day the war began. A day about which people said, “Do you remember what you were doing when…”

I was dressed for business. My slacks were tucked into a pair of stout walking boots I had unearthed from a cupboard. Two pairs of thick woollen socks ensured a comfortable fit. My blouse was hidden under a mannish jacket, and I wore my hair tucked up under a flat, tweed cap. I hoped that, from a distance at least, I resembled a man. My brain was trying to make all the right connections, but I felt woolly headed with the effort. I returned again and again to the same tired question. If Gethin wanted to kill Ceri, why had he not just done so when she was first placed in his care? What possible purpose could bringing me here have served serve? He might be a Satanist—that much seemed indisputable—but perhaps he was not also a murderer. My bruised heart clutched eagerly at this slender straw.

To my relief, the cottage was deserted. I was torn between trusting Ceri’s instincts that we would be safe here and fretting about what to do next. I had kidnapped a child. At some point I would need to go to the authorities with my wildly improbable story. It seemed reasonable to assume that my brief career as a governess was now at an end.

The neat simplicity of the cottage felt cold and barren. “Safety” and “shelter” were alien words tumbling over themselves in my mind. I slid the knife from my bag and placed it on the table.

“What do we do now?” I asked Ceri with a touch of acidity in my voice.

“We wait,” she replied serenely.

I prowled the confined space restlessly, like a truant child, unable to pause or linger in one place. How could I wait? And for what? For confirmation that my love was a hollow travesty, now destroyed. My heart rejected thoughts of patience and, instead, delighted in dwelling on harsh tortures. I would never again feel Gethin’s hands warm my blood like fine wine on a winter evening. Or see the look in his eyes—the one that was reserved just for me—the one that reminded me of sunlight breaking through a bleak cloud. How cruel to have found something so perfect only to have it snatched away, and like this! Fate chuckled at my pain. You knew it was impossible, Lilly, she whispered slyly. That great, once-in-a-lifetime love just doesn’t happen for a girl like you.

“If someone comes, you must go into the other room. And once you are there, don’t come out for anything, understand?” I said to Ceri as I lit the gas lamp I had brought. She opened her mouth to protest, but I forestalled her. “And no argument.”

“Don’t be sad, Lilly,” she said gently, and I gave her a smile that wobbled in the middle.

Before I could reply, we heard a slight noise outside. Obediently, at a gesture from me, Ceri slipped into the other room and closed the door. I went to the window, holding back the garish curtain and straining to hear. Perhaps I had imagined the sound of a booted foot slithering across the rocks. I chewed my lip nervously and almost bit through it when I saw Gethin crest the ridge and stand still looking around him. I had so badly wanted to be wrong, but I didn’t have time to dwell on my self-pity. He carried a torch and was walking purposefully toward the cottage.

The door creaked open. “Lilly!” The relief in his voice was palpable. He was still in the suit he had worn when he set off that morning and carrying his dark trench coat. Throwing this down onto the table, he started toward me. The look on my face brought him up short.

“Stay where you are.” I could hear the tremor in the words, but thankfully the hand holding the knife at my side stayed steady.

He didn’t listen and, instead, took a few steps closer. “Lilly, what’s going on? Where is Ceri?”

“Stop it!” I burst out.

“What the devil?” He looked down, recoiling slightly as he saw the knife.

“I’m tired of playing these games where we pretend it’s not you!” I drew a shaky hand across my brow. My voice splintered like my broken dreams. “I saw the telegram from your friend Crowley, and the deeds to the house.”

He was silent, his expression guarded, neutral. Eventually, drawing a shaky breath, he said quietly, “Please, Lilly, let me explain.” He advanced toward me, and I backed away, shaking my head. The stonewall halted my progress, and I looked around me for a means of escape. Ceri remained silent in her hiding place. “Put that bloody knife down and talk to me,” Gethin said roughly.

“Did you go to London today to see Aleister Crowley?” I demanded, my voice high-pitched and quavering. When he didn’t answer, I said, “I need to know, Gethin.”

“Yes, I went to see Crowley.” He lunged toward me in exactly the same second as I raised the knife in warning. The blade sliced through the heavy wool of his jacket and, with sickening ease, buried itself hilt deep just below his left shoulder. He reeled backward, stumbling and falling into a half-sitting position in the corner. “Help me, Lilly,” he begged.

“How can I?” I took a deep, steadying breath, trying to ignore the wild churning of my stomach. First kidnapping. Now murder. How, in the space of a few hours, had I become this person? “If I leave you here to bleed to death, Ceri will be safe,” I told Gethin bluntly.

“She won’t.” His voice was faint, his breathing harsh, and a sickly grey tint was leaching the colour from his face. “But I don’t have time to convince you now. He will be here soon….” He reached out a hand toward me. “You have to trust me, Lilly.”

The dream flashed a warning through my mind again. Don’t get it wrong. But don’t hesitate either. I looked into the dark eyes that I loved—yes, still loved—so much.

A question formed in my mind. “How did you know where we were?” I asked.

“Shucky, blasted animal. He brought me to the edge of the ridge and then ran off again.” His eyelids fluttered closed. That was enough. That was all I needed. If Shucky brought him to us, Gethin was not the Hunter.

“I will have to get the knife out first,” I said, dropping to my knees beside him. He lost consciousness as I tended to his injury, which was probably a good thing. The knife came out cleanly with a sickly squelch that turned my stomach. Fresh blood gushed from the wound. I manhandled him out of his dark suit jacket, undid his shirt and laid bare the deep, ugly wound that slashed open the flesh just below his collarbone. I’d carelessly flung some cotton blouses into my bag, and I used one of them now to staunch the flow of blood. Two others were ruthlessly ripped up as makeshift bandages. I bound them around his shoulder as tightly as I could. I was kneeling next to Gethin’s prone form surrounded by gore, bloodstained cloths and the telltale dripping knife, when Ceri peeped round the door.

Her saucer-like eyes took in the scene. “Why have you killed Uncle Gethin?” she asked me in an interested tone, tiptoeing lightly into the room. Her words nearly toppled me from the fine tightrope between reason and hysteria on which I was balancing. I drew in a ragged breath.

“I fell onto the knife.” Gethin’s voice was faint. “Clean this mess up, hide that jacket and help me get into my coat.” I started to protest, but he struggled into a more upright position, saying harshly, “Don’t argue with me, Lilly. When he comes, I don’t want him to know I’m injured.”

“Who is coming?” I asked, gathering up the bloodied cloths.

“The Hunter,” he said. My mind skittered wildly, trying to make sense of those words on his lips.

“You go, take Ceri back to the house,” Gethin pleaded when we had finished clearing up the mess. His face was ashen and drawn in the light of the torch, and I fought down the urge to panic.

“No, I can’t,” I said, trying to find the words to explain. How could I possibly explain the connection that existed between Ceri and me? I couldn’t begin to comprehend it myself.

“We need to stay together. We are stronger together.” Ceri said it for me.

“But one of us is missing.” I fretted, peering out into the gloom.

“He’ll come,” she said serenely. Gethin looked from me to her and then back again with a bewildered expression.

“Don’t try to understand it, just accept it. We are not leaving you,” I said with flat finality. I sat with my back against the harsh wall and drew him toward me so that he could rest his head on my shoulder. “You know what the legend says,” I told him lightly, “If we stay here tonight we will wake up as poets or lunatics.”

“I’ll be the poet,” Gethin said, his voice trembling. “It sounds like you two are halfway there already in terms of madness. Anyway, that only applies if you stay here alone,” he reminded me grimly. “If more than one person stays, the prophecy is that one of them will not wake up at all.”

With hearts weighed down by dread, we waited. We didn’t light lamps, boil water or bake cakes for the visitor we expected. No flowers or brightly hung banners would greet his arrival. We rehearsed no words of welcome. As if in anticipation of the deluge that ends the drought, we waited for an encounter we did not want. At last, we would meet the stranger we knew so well.