Starblood (The Starblood Trilogy) (10 page)

She straddles the bike behind him and pushes her face into his leather jacket. Breathing deeply, the smells of leather and motor oil mixed with cigarettes and patchouli fill her. Putting her hands around his waist, she clings to him as he opens the throttle and drives away from her house.

When they reach the woods Freya sees five other bikes, black leather and gleaming chrome, parked proudly side by side.
So it really is a party.
She had hoped it was an excuse for Dave to get her alone. Disappointed, she wonders whether she can entice him away from his friends.

Dave pulls up at the far end of the row and kicks the bike stand into place. Freya lets him get off first and holds out her hand so he can help her dismount. He pulls his leather glove from his hand and grasps her fingers. His strength and warmth send shocks through her body.

‘Can we go somewhere quieter?’ she asks him.

His eyes widen and he looks delighted for a moment before confusion darkens his features. ‘It’s Jack’s birthday. Can we just stay for a few minutes?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Freya answers. A lump in her throat makes the words sound weak and false.

‘I didn’t realise. I should have asked you out sooner,’ Dave tells her. He’s smiling again. Leaning towards her, he carefully unbuckles her helmet and presses his lips against hers.

She feels weak, unable to believe that it could actually happen tonight. She has waited so long for this moment. Pressing her body against his, she pushes her tongue into his mouth. He grabs her hair with his free hand and she starts to sink to her knees, just as she watched Raven do, two years before.

‘Nohohooo,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘There’s no rush, Freya. Everything in its own time.’

Her face prickles and she wants to run. He must sense this because he grabs her arm and holds her steady. They lean towards the bike as he hooks his helmet over the handlebars then strokes her hair and kisses her eyes. His breath smells of cigarettes. Freya imagines curls of smoke rising from their bodies as they kiss again. She nods once and looks at the floor, at his big boots and the leather trousers wrapped around his calves. His rejection, temporary or not, tears at her stomach. She feels angry. Clutching her satchel, she realises she wants to hurt him.
I know I can, I will. I just have to wait a little longer.

There are seven people, five men and two women, dressed in leather. Some sit and others lie around the small bonfire. Bottles and cans make links between them, completing their circle. Two of the men are smoking pungent smelling joints. They all nod and smile at Freya and Dave as they approach. Dave leans over and grasps the forearm of a bearded man.

‘Happy fucking birthday, mate,’ he says, handing the man a white carrier bag.

‘Cheers, Dave. Come and join the party. Introduce us to your beautiful friend.’

‘I’m Freya.’ Maybe her voice is too soft because she hears Dave repeat it and watches them all nod in acknowledgement.

Dave joins the circle and Freya hovers behind him. He keeps looking over his shoulder at her, frowning.

She shifts her bag from hand to hand, watching it swing like a pendulum. She imagines herself hypnotising Dave, forcing him to obey her. The bastard just sits there with his friends talking about bikes and bike parts, music and other things she has no interest in.
Why won’t he hurry?

Pouting, she wanders from the group and sits down in front of a large tree. She can still feel the warmth of the fire and hear the edges of their conversation. Taking a torch and the book from her bag, she starts to read. The words are beautiful. They transport her to other worlds, other times. She wants to commune with her goddess but Lilith has been silent for a while now. Freya has her instructions. She knows what she must do to win Lilith back.

His silhouette blocks the fire’s warmth, and she feels her body shiver before she sees him standing above her.

‘You okay?’ he asks.

Freya nods. She stares at him willing him to sense her anger, her defiance. He is blind to both. He sees only what he wants to see.

‘Wanna go?’ He crouches down beside her. His fingers linger for a moment on her thigh and he exhales.

She drowns in the stench of beer and smoke.
Is it worth it? Maybe I should just go home.
Standing up, she brushes twigs and dirt from the back of her skirt. He goes to help her. His hand brushes the swell of her buttocks and she realises she will not ask to go home. Her breathing is ragged. Her stomach aches. She feels cold and hot. Her skin tingles. She sees only his face, his brown eyes and his blond hair, his pale but long eyelashes, his wide, crooked nose and his self-assured smile. Freya is sixteen and she is about to lose her virginity.

She takes his hand and pulls him into the darkness between the trees. She uses the torch to guide them. Their world shrinks. All that exists is his hand within hers, the fire inside her and the patch of blanched ground before them. She keeps walking. All hope that she will know where to stop, where to pull him to the ground, fades. She wonders whether it matters if she never finds the willow tree.
Will the spell fail?

Instinct tugs her towards her left, as she turns and starts walking in this new direction she feels Dave pull her back.

‘Why not here?’ he asks.

‘I waited,’ she answers. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

He stops resisting and follows. The beam of torchlight catches the trailing branches of the willow tree, Freya’s goal. She pulls Dave beneath its cage, kissing him. He presses her between his eager body and the willow’s narrow trunk. She clings to him as his mouth brushes against her ear, her cheek, her throat. Her nostrils grasp at his powerful scent. She licks his warm skin and tastes the salt of his sweat. Letting her bag drop to the floor, all her thoughts and her plan are wiped from her mind. She is lost. Her brain refuses to direct her. The only will she knows is his will. She senses only his urgency and allows her own to match it. Her skirt is lifted, her underwear tugged downwards. Her thighs pushed apart, and then she feels the pressure of him, a burning and tearing pain then the movement of him within her as though in a dream, too far away to mean anything. When it stops and he is holding her, kissing her again she realises her face is wet with tears. She turns away from him. Her goddess has not come. She is alone.

Chapter 15

Satori gathers a spade, crowbar and sledgehammer from the tool shed outside. His eyes dart around the garden as he carries the tools back to the house. It feels as though he is being watched, but he sees no one. First the tools and then Paul’s bones are carried down into the cellar. The flagstone floor should lift easily and he can bury the remains beneath the house. Wandering from wall to wall, he examines every stone and decides on the best ones to lift. There are a few to the edge of the room, which look looser than the rest. He bends and tries to lift them with his fingers. They are too close together and he cannot get the right purchase. He tries the crowbar next. The hook slips under the granite square and he pulls it up towards him. Bending his knees he holds it close to his chest and swings it about so he can pile it on top of a neighbour. He does this four times until he feels the gap is big enough. Below is a mixture of dirt and sand. Perfect. Plunging the spade into the earth, he pushes down on it with his foot, careful to pile the soil in one place as he digs.

About a foot below the surface he lifts a pale stick with the scoop of his shovel. He stops digging and picks the object up for a closer look. It is a bone. From its size and shape he believes it’s a child’s femur. He finds more bones as he digs, more than one skeleton worth. There are so many. Satori tries to catch his breath. His throat tightens, and a terrible thought grips him
. Paul killed them and scattered their bones here, in the exact spot I am now hiding his remains
. Dizziness claims him and he sits down among the stones and dirt.
Were the children used as sacrifices by a power hungry sorcerer travelling on the left hand path?
Satori wonders whether Paul found pleasure in the killings. He shudders. Skin so recently caressed by his now-dead friend crawls as he imagines the same fingers squeezing the life from a young boy’s throat.
Could Paul have really murdered these children?
Am I any better?

As he replaces the children’s bones in the soil and adds those of Paul he prays that he will not be responsible for any more death. This done, he scoops the dirt back into place and lays the flagstones on top. Even though he is careful, the stones look recently disturbed. He whispers a spell, a simple glamour to hide the truth from prying eyes until the dust has chance to settle over the grave.

The wooden staircase groans as he climbs it back into the kitchen. With filthy fingers, he pours himself a whisky. He wants to sleep, but he has work to do. The demon must be stopped and he has already wasted too much time. Instead of sleep he chooses coffee. He returns to the library. Driven by fear and guilt, he searches the pages of book after book looking for an answer. Accompanied by the angry cacophony of his growling stomach, he works through the night and deep into the following day, only falling into bed when his eyes refuse to focus on the words before him.

Satori wakes to the sound of Paul’s doorbell. Checking the time he realises he has slept late, yet still he feels exhausted. He peers out of the window and quickly pulls away again. It is Star. She would never understand what he had done last night. Neither will she go away without seeing him.
She could ruin everything.
He bites down on his bottom lip trying desperately to think of some solution. The doorbell rings again, a longer buzz this time, angry and insistent. He must act quickly. Of course … he can do this.

Satori runs down the staircase and into the hallway. With a few whispered words and a sweep of his hand his face is temporarily transformed: the perfect glamour.

Chapter 16

On Thursday and Friday Sarah tries Steve’s number again. In spite of his assurances, his phone is still switched off.
Typical
. She cannot concentrate at work. Her mind flits back to the grand house, which is hiding Steve from her. An all-consuming fear for his safety cannot be quashed. The murder Paul spoke of with authority five days ago has only just been reported.
How did Paul know about it then? Is he a killer? The killing was sexual, perverted, horrible. What if…

After lunch she tells her boss she isn’t feeling well. Wendy keeps her distance. The memories of Tuesday are probably still too fresh, and she does not seem satisfied by Sarah’s explanation.

‘Are you pregnant?’ Wendy asks.

Sarah shakes her head.
No I couldn’t be, could I?
‘Absolutely not, no. My housemates have been sick too. It must be a bug.’

‘Go then,’ Wendy says, frowning. ‘I’ll speak to HR and see if we can dock your pay, and Sarah…I don’t want this happening again. Do you understand?’

Sarah’s face reddens. Biting down hard on her bottom lip, she tells herself to keep quiet. She nods then leaves Wendy’s office to collect her bag and coat.

Leaving work, her conscience is heavier than her bag. She catches a bus towards Snuff Mills and Paul’s mansion.

Outside Paul’s front door she waits impatiently.
Answer the door, damn it
. She looks up and thinks she sees a movement in one of the windows. She rings the doorbell again, holding the button down and letting it ring long and loud.

At last she hears footsteps behind the door. Then it swings open.

There is a strange look in Paul’s eyes. He looks haunted.

‘Where is he?’ she asks, trying to push past Paul.

He smells different than before, familiar. He smells of Steve.

‘What have you done with him?’ she screams, hoping her voice will carry across the street and into one of the other houses.

‘Nothing, he’s fine. Calm down,’ Paul replies, his eyes glisten with tears but his lips are smiling.

‘I want to see him. I won’t leave here until I do.’

‘I’m sorry Star. He left this morning. He said he had to go to Gloucester then he would head home. He told me he’d call you. I guess he hasn’t yet.’ Paul’s tone sounds so reasonable, soft and patient, like a counsellor. Sarah doesn’t trust it. The tone is meant to subdue her. Memories of years spent in psychoanalysis reawaken inside her.

‘Would you like to come inside and take a look?’ Paul asks.

‘Pardon?’

‘I said would you like to come inside and take a look around? Reassure yourself that Satori isn’t hidden away somewhere?’ Paul moves slightly. The doorway is no longer blocked. Sarah could step inside.

Go inside with you? When I’ve just accused you of hurting Steve
? Sarah backs away and shakes her head.

‘No, thank you. I’ll phone his mum and find out when he’s due back. Sorry to have wasted your time.’ She turns and runs down the curved driveway and out on to the street.

When she has turned the corner she grabs her mobile phone from her bag. She dials Marian’s number but there is no reply. She leaves a message on the machine asking her whether she’s seen or heard from Steve and begging her to call back when she gets home.

She considers calling the police.
What would I tell them? That my ex-boyfriend is staying at a man’s house who I suspect is a murderer?
She can imagine their reply. Staring at the useless gadget in one hand, she bites the nails of the other. She stands that way for minutes, feeling like Rodin’s statue. The blue screen mocks her, her riddle has no answer. Shaking her head, she drops the phone back into her bag.

Wandering aimlessly, with nowhere to go, she spots a café and stops for a while to drink a cup of black coffee. The room is quiet and she feels everyone’s eyes on her as she sits down. The caffeine does nothing to settle her nerves. She can think of nothing but Steve. Two weeks ago she wanted to never think about him again, and now this, this all-consuming obsession. It is not merely fear for his safety that makes her feel sick. The constant ache between her thighs, whenever she thinks of him, forces her to acknowledge a truth she would prefer to bury.