Stalking Tender Prey Page 10

  Lily raised her eyes to the sky, to stare at the moon. She felt incredibly powerful. Was this exotic, unknown woman the person she really was inside? Distant memories tugged at her mind. Had she experienced this dream before? A quiet hiss behind her made her turn round.

  The stranger had also transformed, but in him the changes were far more dramatic. In his place stood a magnificent beast with the body of a lion and the necks and heads of seven horned serpents, with crowns upon their horns. Within the face of each serpent, Lily recognised the seven different personae staring out at her: a prophet, a hermit, a poet, a satyr, a scholar, a hunter and a warrior. A voice, which she sensed was her own, whispered in her mind. Behold the seven kings of the earth, the seven sages of old...

  Without fear, Lily approached the beast and touched its warm flank, feeling its muscles shudder beneath her hand. She gripped the long, shaggy hair on its shoulders and with natural ease, swung herself up on its back. The beast gave a great leap and rose high into the air. Lily’s exhilaration was complete. She felt light streaming from her hair in sparks. The force of the night stars crashed through the tattooed eye on her belly and poured throughout her whole body. She felt herself growing hot with an ignition of lust.

  The beast circled the island and then shot off towards Herman’s Wood, throwing an enormous shivering shadow over the hilltops. Lily gripped the beast with her thighs, urging him onwards. Looking down, she saw a clearing in the trees and recognised it as the High Place in the centre of the woods. Then, without warning, the beast began to plummet towards the ground. Sure that they would crash right through the earth, Lily threw her arms up across her face and uttered an alarmed cry. She felt the wind of their flight tugging her from the beast’s back. She was losing grip! Down, down...

  The impact, when it came, was simply the shock of awakening.

  Lily opened her eyes, gasping, to find that her body was threshing around wildly upon her bed. The feeling of flight was still very much with her, the power of the beast’s acceleration towards the earth. With awakening, came stillness. Her panicked body subsided into relaxation.

  Lily sat up, exhausted and shocked. She had never dreamed anything like that before; it had been so vivid. Quickly, she inspected her belly, expecting to find it still tattooed, but of course, the skin was bare.

  Chapter Six

  Sunday 18th October, High Crag House, Cornwall

  After breakfast, Aninka took a short walk around the grounds of the house, finding all the places where she’d loved to play as a child. Enniel had sent word he could not recommence their interview until after lunch. Feeling on edge and depressed, Aninka was drawn to the shadowed hollow, hidden by ancient hollies, where her cousin Noah had first made love to her, accepting the gift of her virginity with fumbling ardour. Aninka stooped to scramble in among the prickly, dusty branches. She sat down upon the ground, in hiding. Stiff, dead leaves pricked her skin through the fabric of her jeans. It would have been appropriate for tears to come, but her eyes were dry. Worse, a fantasy came, of an alternative life, where there had been no horror in Cresterfield, and she had brought Peverel Othman down here to the house to meet her family. She would have shown him this place, and they would have laughed together beneath the holly, their eyes meeting mid-laughter, and their expressions changing to that of desire.

  Aninka made an impatient noise to dispel this sad dream and virtually threw herself away from the holly patch. Such fantasies were dangerous. She had to keep in her mind the reason why she was here.

  As she walked back to the house, she saw Enniel’s tall figure standing at the French windows in the main drawing room. He thought she was a liability, Aninka was sure. Damn him! Gritting her teeth, she raised her arm in a cheery wave. After the briefest pause, Enniel responded in kind.

  He’s doing nothing at the moment, Aninka thought. We could be getting this horrible confession business over with, but no, he makes me wait!

  She presented herself at Enniel’s study ten minutes late on purpose. This time she noticed the tape recorder as soon as she entered the room. Who else would be listening to her confessions in the future, apart from her guardian? It was not a comforting thought.

  Enniel made a show of turning his computer off, despite the fact that Aninka could not see the monitor screen from where she was sitting on the leather couch.

  ‘I expect you’re waiting for the juicy bits!’ she said, an attempt at crudeness, as Enniel came to sit beside her.

  He pulled a wry expression. ‘It depends on your definition of ‘juice’.’

  Aninka rolled her eyes. ‘What do you want: gore, sex, mutilation, murder? I have a selection.’

  Enniel sighed patiently. ‘My dear, just begin where we left off, the tape’s already running.’

  Aninka’s story: Cresterfield, July

  Aninka and Peverel Othman’s first arranged meeting took place in a small, rather dingy pub on the outskirts of the city. She could not imagine why he’d chosen such a venue. Eccentricity, presumably. He’d called her the evening before and at first, she had pretended not to remember who he was. She did not want him to know how, since she’d met him, her heart had been leaping involuntarily every time the phone had rung. A hint of laughter in his voice suggested he was perfectly aware of this, however. At Aninka’s request, her cousin Noah had made some discrete enquiries about Peverel Othman among local family members, but no-one had heard of him. Still, he perplexed her, for he did not seem to be merely human. She recognised the contradictions within herself: since leaving home, she’d worked hard to be utterly absorbed into human culture, yet now found herself hoping this potential lover might be something more than just a man.

  When she walked into the pub, he was already waiting there for her, folded into a corner too small for him, his limbs sprawling gracefully, hugged by leather. She spotted him the instant she walked through the door, even though the room was crowded with noisy young people — none of whom were Aninka’s type. So as not to appear too eager, she bought herself a drink at the bar before pushing through the jostling, over-perfumed bodies to reach Othman’s corner. His hair was tied back, accentuating the chiselled lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Hunger flexed in Aninka’s belly at the sight of him. He greeted her with a half-smile, cynical and amused. This annoyed her, for she feared she had given him the upper hand.

  Sitting opposite Othman, Aninka drank gin and tonic under the yellow lights, dressed in black silk among the frowzy girls with ragged perms, and boys with shaved necks. Again, Othman questioned her gently about herself; nothing too intrusive. She sought to repay the interrogation, but he evaded answering her questions in any depth. This did not surprise her, somehow. ‘So what do you do with yourself?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘This and that. Some things above board, others not. I’m interested in art and antiquities.’

  ‘Hence the travelling.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you a dealer?’

  He smiled. ‘When I need to be.’

  His opaque answers began to irritate her. She decided to talk about herself instead. He seemed eager to pay attention. She spoke of her inspirations, the stories of Inanna, Ereshkigal, and — daringly — the earlier myths of Anu, Enlil, Ninkharsag. He did not bite by adding comments of his own, a response which she thought a Grigori would be unable to resist. Perhaps he did not recognise her words as bait.

  In a pause in the conversation, she said, ‘I thought you weren’t going to call me. It’s been some time since we met.’ She hoped to draw him out a little, at least, with that.

  ‘Ah, well, I’ve made friends,’ he told her.

  Was that why he’d delayed in contacting her? A pang of jealousy slithered through her. She imagined the other women who must populate his life, all adoring him, because he looked so fine. She felt herself withdraw from the occasion. She would not be second-best. ‘Good for you,’ she said, churlishly.

  ‘I’d like you to meet them,’ he said, undeterred.

&
nbsp; ‘Why?’ Did he want to impress them with his famous, or semi-famous, acquaintance?

  ‘I think you’d find each other interesting.’

  ‘I’m very picky about my friends,’ Aninka said. ‘I have to be.’ The comment hung between them. He did not question her about it.

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Is this why we’re here?’ Aninka asked. ‘Are you expecting someone else?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. We’re here because it’s honest. I feel like being honest tonight.’

  ‘What’s honest about it?’

  He gestured languidly at the room, although he did not take his eyes, a most penetrating blue, from her own. ‘The lack of trimmings, the lack of pretence. Would you prefer to be sipping Spritzer in some wine bar?’

  ‘Yes, actually. Sorry to disappoint.’ She was wondering: Why am I here? Their exchanges had become stilted, perhaps even hostile. Perhaps she should make an effort.

  ‘So what are your friends like, then? Why would I find them interesting?’

  ‘They are artists, of a kind,’ he answered. ‘Of the dark arts.’

  ‘What?’ She injected a little distaste into her voice.

  ‘Magic,’ he said. ‘Surely, you’re interested in that? All those paintings?’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe in it,’ she answered stiffly, lying. ‘It’s an excuse for perversion, I think.’

  ‘Not an excuse, but often an expression,’ Othman said.

  ‘Just what do you think I am?’ She cringed at the cliché.

  ‘I didn’t want to imply anything,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve set off on the wrong path. Let me explain. These people, they are into reconstructing ancient rites of Sumeria. It’s very impressive. In fact, when I first attended one of their rituals, it reminded me of your paintings: the colours, the costumes. It’s all very innocent, actually.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Inside, she was smiling. Whatever these people did, it could only be a poor and indistinct reflection of everything she already knew. Othman suddenly seemed pathetic. He had called her only once he’d found something he thought was bizarre enough with which to impress her. He liked to appear interesting and mysterious, she could tell. Still, he was beautiful. She wanted to touch him. Once she’d achieved that, she could dismiss him.

  ‘Would you like to meet them, then?’ he asked.

  Aninka detected a faint note of urgency in his voice. ‘They don’t mind outsiders knowing about them?’

  ‘You won’t be an outsider,’ he said. ‘You’ll be with me.’

  ‘You work quickly, to build such trust in only two weeks,’ Aninka said.

  He smiled.

  Later, he escorted her to her car. She asked him if he’d like to come home with her. This was perhaps a risk, for she knew hardly anything about him, but he declined anyhow. ‘Thanks for the drink,’ she said and kissed his cheek, hoping he’d take it further. He didn’t.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, and watched her drive away.

  The next day, at her drawing board, she tried not to think about him. Probably he wouldn’t call her now for another couple of weeks, if at all. He was interested in her, she felt, but it might not be carnal. What, then? She drew attenuated figures, wreathed in flowing hair, wearing his face. She drew a naked man, cupping his genitals in his hands, offering them like a sacrifice. That was perhaps her own magic.

  He called in the late afternoon. Was she free that night? ‘My friends are meeting later. Would you like to come?’

  So quickly? ‘Are you sure it’s all right?’ she asked.

  He was quite sure.

  She met him at a lay-by on a dual carriageway, at the edge of a residential area, where the houses were pricey. Here, he made her wait. Watching the drizzle obscure her windscreen, she smoked three cigarettes, wondering if she was doing the right thing. What was she walking into? Othman didn’t know anything about her. She could handle herself in any situation, but the family disapproved of overt displays of difference. She hoped she would not have to compromise her decision never to behave in any manner other than completely human.

  A sleek, black car drew up behind her at the lay-by. He has money, she thought. Othman got out of it and loped towards her. She watched him in the rear view mirror, her heart pounding. He came up to her door and she pressed a button to lower the window. ‘Shall I follow you?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No. Mind if I ride with you?’

  ‘Get in.’

  She gripped the steering wheel, fraught with nerves as he curled himself into the passenger seat. The front of his hair was wet from the drizzle outside. ‘I haven’t brought anything with me,’ she said, as she started the car. ‘Was I supposed to? Wine or something?’

  ‘No. Take the second turning off the next roundabout.’

  Othman directed her onto a new estate, built in the Victorian style, and even named Victoria Heights. Sharp-edged Gothic anachronisms loured beyond tarmaced driveways, where large silver, black or white cars were parked. Swags of lace and dried flowers were evident in nearly every bay window.

  ‘Your friends meet here?’ Aninka asked. She had expected a shabby communal building hired out for the evening, or else leased on a low rent.

  ‘Yes. Like it?’

  She gave him an arch glance. ‘Hardly the venue I anticipated. It’s so suburban. What must the neighbours think?’

  ‘You should know it’s the ideal place, the only place,’ Othman answered. There seemed to be a message behind his words. ‘Turn right here.’

  Aninka swung the car onto a road named Bronte Close. All the houses were detached, five or six bedroomed, by the look of them. The street lights were all imitation gas-lamps. In the approaching dusk, it was quite effective, but she wouldn’t have wanted to live there.

  ‘It’s like a conservation area,’ Othman said. ‘They’re not allowed to have visible satellite dishes, unsightly gardens or unworthy vehicles parked out front.’

  ‘Well, we can all play at it,’ Aninka remarked.

  Othman did not comment. ‘Here, pull over.’

  The house was called Grey Gables, although it was made of very red brick. Pointed eaves and tall chimneys combined to provide aesthetic effect. The drive sloped downwards to the road. Three cars were parked there: two BMWs, and the latest Audi.

  Aninka followed Othman up to the porticoed front door. She had dressed in a very businesslike fashion: a long-skirted suit of dull, black silk that hugged her figure. Her makeup was precise and severe, and she’d wound her long black hair up into a chignon. She felt like a PR person, or a cosmetics executive. Was this costume her armour? She wasn’t sure what to expect.

  The door was opened by a woman of early middle-age, wearing a plum coloured crushed velvet caftan, embroidered in bright emerald and gold. Her bosom was adorned with a tangle of coloured beads and pendants, which immediately attracted the eye. Yet when Aninka’s gaze was drawn to her face, the woman appeared plain: no make-up, and her hair was a mousy colour, straight and parted in the middle, wispily brushing her shoulders.

  The woman’s face lit up when she saw who was standing at her threshold. ‘Pev, how lovely you could come!’

  Othman stepped forward to embrace the woman, Aninka hovering behind. She could hear the buzz of voices emanating from somewhere in the house.

  Othman disentangled himself from the woman’s clutch and gestured at his companion. ‘Wendy, this is Aninka. Aninka Prussoe, the artist.’

  Aninka took hold of the proffered hand. Her palm felt cold against the woman’s warm, dry fingers.

  ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Wendy Marks. It’s good of you to come. Pev has told us so much about you.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Aninka murmured, wondering exactly what this slight acquaintance of hers had told these people.

  Wendy stepped back and gestured. ‘Come in, come in.’ She led her guests into a vast drawing room, decorated in Morris wallpaper, which was virtually covered by an array of Rossetti and De Morgan prints in
ornate frames. Aninka couldn’t resist a quick inspection to see whether any of her own work was present. It wasn’t. The people standing and sitting around the room could have stepped from the paintings. Hair rippled abundantly across the shoulders of the women, who swanned about in billowing gowns, anachronistically romantic rather than correct in historical detail. Similarly, the men were all wearing embroidered waistcoats, loose shirts and high boots. Aninka immediately felt incredibly visible in her tailored clothes. Also, apart from Othman, she was the tallest person in the room.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ Wendy Marks asked her. ‘Mineral water, fruit juice, or something a little stronger?’

  Aninka opted for caution. ‘A mineral water will be fine.’

  ‘Now, you must let me introduce you to everyone...’

  The group numbered ten people. Three of the women had evidently changed their names to some degree to reflect their esoteric interests, whereas the men had retained their original names. Apart from Wendy Marks and her jovial, skinny husband, Ivan, who owned Grey Gables, there was another married couple, Una and Ernie Brock. To Aninka, they did not seem the type of people to be interested in exotic rites, both being round and small, and looking rather like children dressed up in colourful clothes. Serafina (no surname), was the youngest of the group, a fey, white-faced creature, with thin, dyed black hair which hung nearly to her waist, who strove never to smile and wore mainly black. It was immediately obvious to Aninka that the girl fancied Othman desperately, from the way she became more sepulchral in his presence in an attempt to appear interesting. No doubt he would find that attractive, as it mirrored some of his own affectations. Serafina barely acknowledged Aninka, other than through a brief glance, probably to establish her age and appearance with regard to competing for Othman. Three single men were present: Farrell Sharpe, Nick Emmett and Martin Fortney. All three looked like teachers or computer programmers, although Nick had a certain appeal, Aninka thought. Despite the beard and short hair, a look she loathed, his eyes were compelling. She deduced he was a womaniser, and emitted conflicting signals while being introduced to him, which she hoped would confuse him. A slightly overweight thirty-something female with bright red hair, and violently applied makeup was introduced as Misty Kennedy. Misty? Aninka thought. Hardly. A large amount of Kennedy bosom was displayed, which was thrust mercilessly beneath Othman’s nose, as Misty breathed greetings in a quasi-mystical manner. The final group member was Enid Morningstar, a starved looking, earnest New-Ager, who had not yet hit thirty, but who would doubtlessly never recover once she had. She asked Aninka for her birth sign. Aninka replied, ‘The feathered serpent,’ to which the woman responded,