Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

Claire continued. “I was very careful, after what happened. I wanted to know when things were meddled with. You never knew when there might be…” She glanced at Katherine, “whether they might try again. The ceremony this year, it went as planned but there was something missing. We did everything as we should, but it wasn’t right. If it goes well… I just know. Is that hard to believe?”

“No,” said Blackbird. She could hear a tension between truth and falsehood in Claire’s words, but she let it go. “Those are the sorts of feelings you should trust.”

“Afterwards Jerry knew too. He told me, after the ceremony. He said, he was on the point of saying, ‘Good number!’, and it stuck in his throat. He covered it with a sip of water, and the ceremony completed without interruption, but it wasn’t perfect. Do you see?”

“Were the nails, the knives, and the horseshoes all there?” asked Blackbird.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure? Could there have been substitutions? Some sort of switch?”

“How? How could such a thing happen?”

Blackbird could hear something in Claire’s tone. She wasn’t lying exactly but there was evasion there. “That’s a very good question,” she said.

“Who has access to the safe?”

“Only Jerry and I do.”

“A spare key?”

“Jerry has the spare. I don’t think he actually knows what it’s for.”

“Jerry’s in Australia,” said Blackbird.

“He is now,” said Claire.

“Could a copy have been made?”

“I don’t know.” Claire was running her fingers repeatedly through her hair.

“Tell me the rest,” said Blackbird.

“Would anyone like a cup of tea?” asked Katherine.

No one answered. Even Alex was focused on Claire.

“You’ll laugh,” said Claire, “I read something in the journals — I tried to summon you by writing your name and Niall’s on pieces of paper and burning them. It didn’t do any good.”

“It wouldn’t. You need a talent for that kind of summoning,” said Blackbird.

“In the end I contacted Sam — Sam Veldon. It was strange. He didn’t even ask me why I wanted to know — he got me an address for Niall, but he said Niall no longer lived here. When I asked him for a more current address he laughed. He said, ‘Try behind the mirror, or under the bed.’ What did he mean?”

“Niall can be elusive.”

“I wrote to Niall, here. That was days ago. I’ve been on the run, ever since. Katherine said she gave him the letter, but only yesterday — God, it seems like weeks have passed.”

“On the run from what?”

“From whom… sorry, old habits.” Claire tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’d taken precautions. You know I’m careful. I had a horseshoe on the front door. I had one on the back too, but there’s a short-cut. The recycling — you can take it downstairs, walk around the back in the dark and put it in the bins — or you can drop it into the alley and then put it into the bins on the way out in the morning when it’s daylight. Everyone does it.”

You dropped the recycling over the fire escape?” said Blackbird.

“I was making supper,” said Claire. “It was pasta, with peppers and tomato and… anyway, I heard a noise, or maybe just sensed a change. I couldn’t put my finger on it. And then I wondered — did I put the horseshoe back after putting the recycling out. I couldn’t remember. I knew I should have. I just couldn’t remember if I did.”

“What did you do?” asked Blackbird.

“I turned and saw the horseshoe, on the counter by the sink. That was where I’d left it. It should be on the back door, but it was in the kitchen. That meant… something could be in the flat.”

Blackbird was silent while Claire gathered herself. “I took it with me, intending to put it back, I suppose. I went quietly to where the fire exit is, and he was there.”

“Who?”

I don’t know!” She calmed herself, lowering her voice. “I don’t know. I saw a dark figure. I just reacted. I lashed out.”

“You hit him?”

“With the horseshoe,” said Claire. “It was in my hand.”

“You punched him with it?”

“I don’t remember. It was instinctive. He went down — collapsed in the passage like he’d been poleaxed. I panicked. He shouldn’t have been there. He was in my flat! I didn’t know what to do.” She was clasping and unclasping her hands. “I ran into the kitchen. I was in shock. I’ve never done anything like that before. I was afraid. You must understand.”

“Understand what?” asked Blackbird.

“I stabbed him.” Her face went white. Her hands started to shake.

“You did what?” said Blackbird.

“He was lying in the passage, out cold.” Claire’s words were soft, but she was close to breaking. “I look one of the kitchen knives and stabbed him through the heart.”

“A kitchen knife?”

“I had this idea. The Feyre, they… when they die they vanish. I don’t know how, but it says so in the journals. It crossed my mind — if I killed him he would go back to wherever he came from.”

“Not quite the truth,” said Blackbird.

“Only he didn’t die! He wasn’t one of them! He was just a guy who was breaking into my flat. The blood just welled up out of his chest. He was real, and I killed him.”

Blackbird sighed. “We’re all real, Claire. The Feyre bleed and hurt, just the way you do.”

“Only he wasn’t fey!” said Claire. “He just lay there, bleeding! I’m going to have to turn myself in,” she said. “I can’t go on. I can’t live like this, not as a fugitive.”

“There’s no body,” said Blackbird.

There was a moment’s silence. Then Claire said, “What?”

“Niall was in your flat. There’s blood, but no body.”

“Niall?”

“He was looking for you. The place has been turned over. The furniture is destroyed. Everything’s a mess.”

“No body?” said Claire.

“Where’s your heart?” asked Blackbird.

“Are you implying that I am without compassion?” said Claire, offended again.

Blackbird shook her head. “Point to it. Show me, on you, where you stabbed him.”

Claire took her index finger and pointed to a place just left of her breast bone. “Here, isn’t it?”

“You missed,” said Blackbird. “You may have grazed it, but it wasn’t enough. You have to be right on the mark.”

“How do you know?” said Claire. “How can you be certain he wasn’t a human burglar faced with a knife-wielding mad woman?”

“A human intruder, having been stabbed through the chest, would not trash your flat, or spray blood all over your bathroom, or go berserk and cut your furniture to pieces. He’d just bleed to death on your carpet.”

“That means it’s OK,” said Claire, clearly relieved. “I didn’t kill anyone. I can go home.”

“I hate to spoil your illusion,” said Blackbird, “but you don’t understand. One of the Feyre came for you. You hit him with a horseshoe and then tried to finish him off with a kitchen knife.” She paused. “You didn’t finish it. You failed to kill him.”

“I’m not a murderer,” Claire protested. “It’s not something I’ve even thought about before. People don’t kill other people. Do they?” She looked to Alex for support. Alex froze, caught on the question, unable to lie directly.

“Alex?” said Katherine. “Claire asked you a question.”

Alex shook her head. “You don’t want to know,” she said.

“I think I have a right to know,” said Katherine. “Don’t you? You’ve never killed anyone, have you Alex? Not for real?”

“Tracy Welham,” said Alex. “Natasha Tolly, Jennifer Longman.” Her expression was blank, her eyes cold, meeting her mother’s gaze.