Hell and High Water

  Hell and High Water

  (Fae Fatales, 1)

  by

  Charlotte E. English

  Copyright © 2020 by Charlotte E. English

  All rights reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold.

  This one is for you, Dad

  Because if I grew up to be a tough, go-getting kind of dame,

  I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Rest in peace.

  Chapter One: Fionn

  ‘Fionn!’

  Jane’s voice, rising above the hubbub around me; I paused in pinning a rippling azure skirt to the model before me, and looked up.

  There she was, shoving her way past the model wearing my summer lake-water ensemble, clutching her phone like a lifeline. She’d probably been calling me, and I hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Fi. Girl number eight’s put her arm through the morning mist shirt, and no one’s seen girl twelve in half an hour. Previously spotted heading for the ladies at an unseemly pace. What do you want to do?’

  ‘Right.’ I took a second to breathe. The show began in twenty minutes, if not less. Now wasn’t a great time for complications, but these were fixable problems. ‘Gina can do nothing with the shirt?’

  Jane shook her head, emphatic. She has the kind of hair, buoyant and exuberantly curly, that has a life of its own; it adds emphasis to gestures like this one. ‘It’s a wreck. Only you can sort it, if anyone. And before you ask, I’ve sent runners to the bathroom. Can’t locate the girl.’

  “The girl” had a name, but I swallowed my objections to the moniker; Jane had too much on her plate to remember everybody. ‘We’ll slot me in for twelve,’ I decided. Not a problem. The outfit the missing model was wearing would be a loss — sea-green tulle and frothing sea-foam, that kind of thing — but this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. I’d got into the habit of making up a secret, additional ensemble with every collection, just for me. I took a great deal of pleasure in doing so, and usually I didn’t need to employ it for the show.

  Times like this, I was glad of the custom.

  ‘As for the shirt.’ I handed over the model I’d been working on — Melly, a fellow selkie, though her colouring was markedly different to mine — to one of my sewers, and turned back to Jane. ‘Let me at it.’

  We’d booked a stunning, urban garden space for the show, right at the top of the skyscraper they call the Walkie Talkie. Striding through the venue in search of the beleaguered shirt and its no doubt mortified model, I received a heart-lifting glimpse of stunning, gold-drenched London through the mile-high glass walls. The sun was on its way down; I’d timed the opening of the show deliberately to coincide with it. Golden hour, followed by twilight, and the rippling waters of the Thames only a short walk away; it did things to the soul. Mostly good things, though there were times…

  Number eight was Jessamy, a dryad, and a regular at my shows. I’d used her several times before; she was reliable, so the wreck of the shirt could only be a mistake. I found her close to tears.

  ‘So damned clumsy of me,’ she said, looking at me like I might be expected to swing an axe at her face.

  Not sure why. I’m not exactly known for flashes of temper.

  ‘It will be all right,’ I told her, though from the look of the thing I wasn’t as sure of that as I sounded. She placed the flimsy garment into my hands and stood by my elbow, gnawing a lower lip and looking hangdog.

  I focused, filtering out the ruckus made by the swarm of people around me. It was a big show; we had thirty-two models set to walk, and a small horde of sewers, dressers, assistants, and set designers to make it all work. The milling about, chattering, panicking and last-minute organising of it all might get under my skin, were I to let it, but the hubbub rolled off me like water.

  Pity that it had to be the eighth in the line-up to throw out complications, though; were it the twenty-eighth, I’d have had more time.

  ‘Might have to cheat a bit,’ I murmured, for half the sleeve hung free of its armhole, and there’s no darning fabric that fine in a hurry. ‘Can you get me Sunny?’

  Jessamy nodded and dashed off, her mass of sage-and-grass hair flying. Ordinary humans thought it was dyed. It really wasn’t.

  Sunny came sprinting up a few minutes later, Jessamy trailing after, and I stuffed the mess into her hands. ‘I know I said we wouldn’t do this,’ I told her with a rueful smile. ‘But needs must.’

  ‘You want me to witch it?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but nodded and set to work. A subtle ripple of magic teased at the edges of my senses, and as I watched, the wispy fabric wove itself back together and neatly realigned with the armhole.

  I wasn’t usually in favour of “witching” up the ensembles, as Sunny put it. It was risky; not everyone involved with the show, or the venue, was fae. And it didn’t seem right, somehow. A fashion show was a display of skill and artistry, not magic.

  But the shirt was back on Jessamy in a trice, perfect again, and the smile was restored to her face. I ran a quick eye over her and nodded, satisfied. The shirt was ideal on her, wreathing her slight frame in puffs of gossamer like dawn mist. She wore a trailing skirt with it, all twinkling green velvet, and just the right skyscraper heels to elevate her diminutive frame. Make-up had done a fabulous job on her eyes, too.

  ‘Right, I must go, if I am to be walking twelfth,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ said Jessamy. ‘Where’s Narasel?’

  ‘Last seen heading for the bathroom,’ I said, already walking away. ‘Nowhere to be found.’

  In truth, I was a little worried. Narasel, another of my selkie girls, was a regular. I had never known her to bail on a show before. But she couldn’t help it if she was ill, of course. I would send somebody to her house shortly, and make sure she was okay.

  I missed the opening of the show, to my regret; I was still getting changed. I can’t switch outfits as fast as some of my models do. Out of the habit, perhaps. All that pale gold charmeuse proved a challenge to don quickly; I hadn’t exactly designed it with a quick-change in mind, and I had Jessamy’s mishap with the sleeve fresh in my mind’s eye. But in due time I was dressed in my rippling, back-bearing gown, all the sea-green tulle properly afloat around me, and my pearls a comforting weight at my neck and my left wrist.

  I did something glamorous and gold with my eyes, left my mass of black hair hanging loose to my waist, and swept out to the show-room.

  The next twenty minutes or so passed in the usual chaotic haze: lights, music and shimmering fabrics, applause, a rotating blur of faces, the satisfying swish-swish of the cool charmeuse around my legs as I took my turn around the catwalk. It’s always over too quickly, even when I am not in the thick of it myself.

  After the show, when the noise fades, the bustle is over, and peace returns, there is always a mix of feelings to process. Relief, if the show went well; regret and frustration if it didn’t. In the aftermath, my mind is already racing ahead to the next collection, the next show. Perhaps it helps to mask the odd sense of loss I always feel. A species of anti-climax, perhaps. A show like tonight’s is always months in the making, and it’s over in the blink of an eye.

  It’s the sort of thing that sends me to the bar.

  Sunny found me later, lingering over a prismatic gin in a quiet corner. I was still wearing my gold charmeuse, hadn’t bothered to change. It made sense for a while, as there were always people to be met with post-show: reporters looking for comments from the designer; boutique owners expressing interest in displaying or selling some part of the collection; fellow designers coming to congratulate, or possibly to pick my brains. I tended to let them. It’s tough out here. />
  ‘Good night for Serenity,’ said Sunny, and nodded at my glass. ‘Gin?’

  ‘Among other things.’ The bartender at the garden knows my tastes, and since he’s a clurichaun, he’s not bound by the usual rules of mixology. My glittering drink had the salt-tang scent of the sea about it, and refreshed me almost as much as a dip in the ocean.

  ‘I’m getting one,’ said Sunny, and vanished in the direction of the bar.

  I sank back in my seat, and let my head rest against the plush upholstery. Weariness was setting in. I don’t sleep much in the week before a show, as a rule; there’s too much to do. I take a great deal of pride in bringing off a show without a hitch, and that takes work.

  I’d spend another hour or two at the bar, then I’d slip back to my flat, and spend the next week or two catching up on my rest. Everybody knows not to disturb me too much in that time.

  By the time Sunny returned, clutching a tall glass filled with a glittering, bright-blue drink, Jane had tracked me down and taken a chair. Melly wasn’t long in following, and soon I had a chattering crowd around me, all excitedly talking about the show. They had reason to be elated: it had been a good night for my label, Serenity. I knew tonight’s collection to be one of my best yet, and the press had been great.

  I had little to add to the conversation, but it was pleasant to sit, blissfully immobile, and listen to the others. We’ve been doing shows together for years, and have developed a passable closeness over that time. These women know me better than anybody else these days, and I am fond of them.

  I tried not to keep looking past them, scanning the glittering crowd for someone else.

  Every damned show, I thought, disgusted with myself. Every single show, year after year; always there was the hope, faint but inextinguishable.

  Always I was disappointed.

  Today was no different. I caught a glimpse, occasionally, of a tall, dark-haired woman with more or less the right carriage, nearly the right skin-tone; a wicked smile, a glimmer of something dark. Always a stranger. And while the short, slight woman coming in the door might have a recognisable air of restless energy, and a suitably riotous style, I didn’t know her either.

  Absent friends, I thought in a silent toast, and drained the dregs of my drink.

  I’d had enough gin. ‘Time I left,’ I announced, and rose to my feet, teetering just a bit in my exaggerated heels. Those I should certainly have changed out of, if nothing else.

  ‘Mind out,’ said Sunny mildly, and caught my elbow.

  ‘Thanks,’ I muttered, and mustered a smile. ‘Ladies. You were, as always, fantastic. Thank you for tonight.’ I toasted them, too, albeit with an empty glass, and received a chorus of praise in return.

  I achieved a reasonably dignified exit, my silks trailing around me. I briefly considered a trip to the ladies’ and a quick change into something more reasonable for a walk home, but abandoned the idea. Midnight had not yet struck, and there was no law against wearing an haute couture outfit all the way from the bar to the bed.

  The chill, fresh nightly breeze cleared my head, and went some way towards sweeping away the weight of regret I’d begun to wallow in. Good. A few drops of rain sailed down, cold on my skin, and the charmeuse flowed around me as I walked, rippling and fluid, almost like water; perfect. The streets were far from quiet on a fine April night: too many carousers for that. But the tumult in my mind lessened, quieted, and by the time I arrived at my flat, I felt restored to the more-or-less characteristic serenity for which I named my brand.

  I took the lift up to the penthouse floor, and let myself in. Without pausing to notice the emptiness of the place — if I don’t dwell on it, it’s almost like it isn’t even there — I went straight through to my bedroom, slipped out of my catwalk ensemble, and fell into bed.

  I didn’t stir for many hours.

  Chapter Two: Tai

  Fionn didn’t see me.

  She never does.

  I slipped out of the garden a few minutes before the end of the show, and headed for the river. The cool air hit me pretty hard after the warmth within; I never will get used to the prevailing chill they seem to think necessary in England. I think the good British people believe that April is one of the warmer months. Tell that to my toes.

  It’s not really fair of me to blame Fi for missing me in the crowd: I go to some trouble to hide myself. A little gramarye. Maybe a hood. I was wearing the latter today, and grateful for it; it was some proof against the night’s winds.

  Why do I hide myself from Fi? I don’t know. I do so out of habit — hoping, the while, that she’ll see through the illusions and recognise me. Fearing the same. What I think is likely to happen if she does, I have no idea.

  Could be great. Could be disaster.

  Hell. If she wanted to see me, she could. It isn’t as though I’m hard to find.

  I crossed over London Bridge, lingering a while to admire the glitter of moonlight on the dark water. Cold waters, never very inviting, although Fionn’s never seemed to mind. There is solace in watching the currents, even if I feel no inclination whatsoever to dive in.

  I went on after a time, descending into the Tube via London Bridge station. It’s quieter late in the evening; I received an unimpeded view of my own face and figure, blazoned across one of the many posters lining the tiled walls. Farewell Fatales screamed the headline — my band. We were coming to the end of a run of gigs; we’d be playing the O2 Arena in a week, and then… peace. Sleep. Restlessness, probably, until it was time to work on the next album.

  Fionn must have seen the posters. Daix, too. I’d chosen the band’s name deliberately, though whether I hoped to impress them or to rile them I couldn’t tell you. Maybe just to get their attention.

  It hadn’t worked.

  I’ve been to most of Fi’s shows since she took to the catwalk. I wonder sometimes whether she’s ever been to any of mine.

  Arriving home half an hour later, I walked up the three brick steps to our back door, and let myself in. My roommate was away in Athens, a development arousing my deepest envy. If I could’ve joined her, I would. I was left to silence instead, a thing I have never loved, so I didn’t stay long.

  There’s a bar on the corner where they play live music all night long. They let me sing more than is seemly, but we never play the new stuff. Mostly oldies, from better days: Sinatra, Vera Lynn…

  I disappeared gratefully into the music, letting the strains of guitar and clarinet carry me far away. Twenty-first century London disappeared; in my mind, I was miles back in the past.

  …until I became aware of an insistent buzzing sound, discordant with the melody. Disharmony just slices right through me, so whoever the hell thought 4am was a great time to call my phone was rapidly earning a place on my shitlist.

  I ignored the phone.

  Half a minute later it rang again.

  And again.

  Somebody really wanted to get hold of me.

  ‘Hey,’ said Ted, looking up from his guitar. ‘You going to get that?’

  ‘I could,’ I allowed. ‘Or I could introduce it to the nearest heavy object, the interesting way.’

  ‘Might be important.’

  ‘Fine. Save me a drink.’ I turned from the mic. The bothersome device lay where I’d dumped it on a nearby table, merrily buzzing away. The things are convenient, I grant you, but I sometimes miss the days without high technology. Being constantly on call is exhausting.

  I snatched it up and slammed it to my ear as I shoved my way outside. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tai?’

  The voice belonged to Coronis, a nymph of my fairly close acquaintance. She’s been in a steady relationship with Mearil, my roommate, for a while.

  ‘Something wrong?’ I said, sharply. Coronis sounded upset, and that wasn’t like her. Besides, she and Mea should be sunning themselves in Athens by now. What was she doing calling me at four in the morning?

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me,’ said Coronis. She was breat
hing too fast, almost sobbing.

  ‘Not making any sense,’ I said. ‘Take a breath. Talk to me.’

  ‘It’s Mea. Tell me she’s with you.’

  ‘What? She was meant to be with you.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Right.’ My turn to take a breath. ‘I dropped her at the airport, what, eighteen hours ago.’

  ‘She wasn’t on the plane. I haven’t heard from her, and I can’t reach her.’

  ‘Hold on a sec.’ I scrolled through the messages on my phone, none of which I’d answered, but it didn’t matter. None were from Mea, and she wasn’t online anywhere that I could see.

  ‘I’ve got nothing,’ I said, returning the phone to my ear.

  ‘Shit.’

  I dismissed most of the questions I wanted to ask. If there was likely to be a reasonable explanation for Mearil’s disappearance, Coronis would not be this upset.

  This is… not the kind of thing that’s supposed to happen nowadays.

  ‘Called the police?’ I said.

  ‘The police.’ Coronis took the shaky kind of breath that suggested she was about to yell at me. ‘Tai. I can’t do that.’

  ‘You… could, I mean, her cover is pretty good, and so’s yours. Right?’

  ‘Not that good. The police will turn our lives upside down. You really think they aren’t going to find anything weird?’

  Mearil is a selkie. Coronis is a nymph. I’m a siren. Camouflaging ourselves from prying — and mortal — eyes is a necessity we all become adept at, but Coronis had a point. Could their joint cover withstand an intensive missing person investigation?

  Could mine?

  ‘Shit,’ I said. ‘Coronis, I don’t know what you want me to do.’

  ‘Find Mea. What else could I possibly want?’

  ‘Just… find her? Me? I’m a singer, Cor. They don’t issue those with special detecting powers.’

  ‘A singer. Yes. But you weren’t always, were you?’

  ‘You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’