Jasmyn Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - Dead Swans

  Chapter 2 - Black Knight

  Chapter 3 - Wedding Photos

  Chapter 4 - Jaxon Thorpe

  Chapter 5 - Luke

  Chapter 6 - Mischief-Maker

  Chapter 7 - Bones and Roses

  Chapter 8 - Adrian Halsbach

  Chapter 9 - Lohengrin

  Chapter 10 - Hohenshwangau

  Chapter 11 - Lukas

  Chapter 12 - Travel Chess

  Chapter 13 - The White Lady

  Chapter 14 - Swan Princess

  Chapter 15 - Swan Tattoo

  Chapter 16 - Broken Violin

  Chapter 17 - Lost in the Mountains

  Chapter 18 - Faery Funeral

  Chapter 19 - Separation of a Couple

  Chapter 20 - The Catacombs

  Chapter 21 - The Black Rose

  Chapter 22 - Bewitchment

  Chapter 23 - Ice Palace

  Chapter 24 - Evacuation

  Chapter 25 - The Edge of Faeryland

  Chapter 26 - Ice Dragon

  Chapter 27 - The White Violectra

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Alex Bell

  The Ninth Circle

  Jasmyn

  ALEX BELL

  Orion

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  Copyright © Alex Bell 2009

  All rights reserved

  The right of Alex Bell to be identified as the author of

  this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by

  Gollancz

  An imprint of the Orion Publishing Group

  Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin’s Lane,

  London WC2H 9EA

  An Hachette UK Company

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  eISBN : 978 0 5750 8817 7

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Typeset by Deltatype Ltd, Birkenhead, Merseyside

  Printed in Great Britain by

  CPI Mackays, Chatham, Kent

  The Orion Publishing Group’s policy is to use papers that

  are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made

  from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and

  manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the

  environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  www.orionbooks.co.uk

  For Shirley Bell - my Mum, my best friend, my role model, my Wizard of Oz - and the lady who has inspired me more than any other person on this earth.

  You have never heard a story quite like this one. I can hear you protesting already but, the fact is, it doesn’t matter how old you are, how many books you’ve read, how many things you’ve seen ... this story will be new to you. Maybe it will even haunt you a little. Because what happened to me ... well, I don’t think it’s ever happened before ...

  Have you ever read a dark fairy tale that, for some reason, niggled at you afterwards? A story that was quite clearly made up but which, nonetheless, contained some tiny grain of truth that prickled at you uncomfortably like the pea beneath the princess’s mattress? Fairy tales are fluid things, changing and adapting all the time, but they’re also based upon events that really did, at some point - in some form - actually happen.

  This story is like that. It has the ribbons and the glitter and the magic. But it also has the blood and the sacrifice and the twisting evil - for this is a real fairy tale, not the sugar-coated imitation. It is a story of love, loss, illusion, castles, hatred, seduction, ice palaces, adventure and knights.

  Don’t start this book unless you mean to finish it.

  1

  Dead Swans

  Things started to happen after Liam died ... strange things that I could not explain and did not understand. As if trying to work out how to live without him wasn’t difficult enough on its own. The incident at the funeral was only the start, which is ironic when you consider that I stood there thinking it was the end. I thought it was the last difficult thing I had to do before I could concentrate on nothing but grieving and hurting and coping.

  When the time came, I couldn’t imagine Liam inside the coffin. The very idea that he was sealed inside that wooden box seemed laughable to me and, indeed, for some moments I was afraid that I really was going to burst into shrill, hysterical laughter. It bubbled up in my chest, but I thrust it back down and in another moment the urge to laugh was completely gone as a fresh wave of sadness swept over me. This was so unfair. I shouldn’t be here doing this right now. I shouldn’t have to do this for years and years.

  For the first time in my life, I longed for old age. In fact I yearned for it. I wanted to put as much time as possible between myself and this present moment of raw, undiluted pain. No one I’d loved had ever died before. I’d only known two of my grandparents and they were both still alive so I’d never even seen a funeral before, except on TV.

  I met Liam’s parents outside the church. At first I thought Ben wasn’t there and anger flared inside me. Liam had fallen out with his older brother about ten months ago, just before we were married, and they hadn’t seen much of each other since then. They were complete opposites in personality. Where Liam had been outgoing, Ben was introverted; where Liam had been popular and well-liked, Ben was solitary and antisocial; where Liam had always been a chatterbox, Ben used words sparingly if he used them at all.

  His parents had told me earlier in the week that Ben was abroad, working in Germany, and they weren’t sure if he was going to come back for the funeral or not. I could hardly believe it. I knew the two of them had not been on the best of terms recently but the idea that Ben wouldn’t bother to attend his brother’s funeral disgusted me.

  But then I saw him standing a little apart from his parents outside the church and an overwhelming flood of emotion swept over me. For whilst he may have been Liam’s opposite in character, he was remarkably similar to him in looks. Just two years older, he was of a similar height and build with the same chestnut-brown hair. The only obvious difference between them was that Ben’s hair was cut slightly shorter and he had brown eyes instead of green. I hadn’t seen him for ten months or so and I’d forgotten just how similar they looked. Even some of their mannerisms were the same. It could almost have been Liam standing there and a lump rose in my throat at the sight of him.

  He looked more angry than sad - grinding his jaw as if he was going to file right through his teeth, his eyes dark and bitter. He saw me then and walked over to us. ‘Hello, Jasmyn,’ he said quietly, holding out his hand to shake mine.

  A half-sob rose in my throat and I flung my arms around his neck. He looked so much like Liam that I just wanted to cling to him and never let him go. He recoiled a little at my touch and I felt him stiffen. If he’d tried to push me away I think I would have redoubled my grip like some kind of limpet, holding on for dear life because he made me feel closer to my husband than I had done since the evening he died. But in the end, Ben did the sensible thing and patted my back awkwardly until I released him, horribly aware that I’d made a mess of his black jacket.

  We walked into the church and took our places on the front pew reserved for close family. Being an albino, I looked awful in black - it made my white hair and skin look even whiter and my pale-blue eyes even stranger, especially as I was only twenty-seven years old.

  The vicar had asked me if I wanted to speak during the service but the very idea had horrified me for I knew I couldn’t do it. I wanted to. I just couldn’t. So in a fit of madness, I’d said I would play something instead.
We’d been asked to pick out one of Liam’s favourite songs for the service and that, at least, was easy for I knew he had always loved ‘Bridge over Troubled Water’. But rather than bringing a CD, I was going to play the song myself on my violin. I wanted to contribute to the service even if I couldn’t speak and - this will sound odd if you’re not a musician - but I needed an excuse to bring my violin with me. I felt somehow that the whole thing would be easier to bear with the reassuring feel of the familiar instrument on my lap.

  I kept myself under control in the church until the first hymn but after that it was quite hopeless. Music has a way of amplifying my emotions. It makes me happier when I’m happy but it unravels me altogether when I’m sad. Throughout the service I desperately willed my hands to stop shaking and the tears to stop pouring down my cheeks. I couldn’t play the violin like this and I had to play it - otherwise I would regret my weakness for the rest of my life.

  My lovely electric violin lay on my lap and as I stared down at it I couldn’t help remembering how I had got it. I’d wanted one for some time but they were all too expensive. And then, one October, Liam had gone out and bought me one. It was meant to be a Christmas present but he was so excited about it that he couldn’t wait to give it to me. So one Saturday afternoon I was surprised by his particular insistence that I play ‘Bridge over Troubled Water’ for him.

  ‘I’m in the middle of an exciting bit,’ I said, keeping my eyes on the novel I was reading on the couch. ‘I’ll play it for you later.’

  ‘Play it for me now, Jaz,’ Liam insisted, pulling the book out of my hands.

  ‘Hey!’ I said, sitting up and trying to snatch it back. But Liam held it above his head out of my reach.

  ‘I’m your fiancé,’ he said with a grin, ‘and I’m commanding you to play for me now, not later.’

  I sighed and rolled my eyes as I got off the couch but really I liked the fact that he enjoyed my music. I liked him taking pride in my one talent and that he was interested enough in it to have special requests whenever I played for him.

  ‘All right,’ I grumbled, walking over to my violin case, lying against the wall. ‘But I’m just playing it once and then I’m going back to my book. I’m in the middle of a really good bit.’

  But I soon forgot all about the book. I knelt on the carpet and unzipped the violin case, and as I flipped it open I turned around to grab a piece of sheet music from the coffee table. When I turned back to the case I jumped with a cry of alarm. For where my gleaming golden violin had been nestled in the red interior there was now a silver and blue skeletal-looking thing in its place. It was a beautiful new electric violin.

  I let out a sort of strangled yelp of delight. ‘That’s ... that’s a Violectra!’ I gasped.

  ‘It’s the right one, isn’t it?’ Liam asked, looking anxious for a moment. ‘That was the one you wanted?’

  I stared around at him incredulously. ‘Are you kidding? Are you kidding? I was going to spend a few hundred pounds and buy a Yamaha Silent Violin. I just ... God, I just never dreamed I’d be able to get a Violectra! Are you sure we can afford it?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said with an airy wave of his hand and the boyish grin I knew so well. ‘It’s an investment. So you won’t forget all about me when you’re a world-famous violinist ...’

  ‘Jasmyn,’ my mother whispered in my ear. ‘It’s time for you to play.’

  Her voice brought me sharply back to the funeral. I clenched and unclenched my hands but they were still trembling.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ she said, noticing at once. ‘It doesn’t matter. I gave the priest a CD of the song before the service. He can play that instead if you want.’

  I shook my head, my throat too frozen up with the numbness of trying not to cry to be able to talk. I had to play. I owed him that. I got up from my seat and walked to the front of the church on legs that felt as if they were going to betray me at any second. Of course the whole thing was a farce, really. I wasn’t doing this for Liam. Liam was dead - it hardly mattered to him what I did any more. I was doing it for myself, trying to wring some small measure of comfort from anything that I possibly could. I plugged the violin into the amplifier and tucked it under my chin, hoping its familiar feel might relax me a little. But as my fingertips pressed down on the strings and I gazed down its neck, hesitating, I clearly heard Liam’s voice from two years ago when he’d first given it to me and I was still staring at it in its case - love at first sight:

  ‘Are you going to play that thing or just look at it?’

  His voice seemed to echo round the church, even though it had only been in my head. I kept my eyes firmly turned away from the coffin and the man I knew to be inside it, so close to me and yet at the same time so very far away. He was in there. Liam was right there in that box and I was afraid that if I dwelt on that I’d throw down the violin, run to the coffin, pull open the lid and cling to him to stop them from taking him away, not letting go until my fingers were forcibly prised off and I was dragged out of the church like some kind of a lunatic.

  I took a deep breath and raised the bow, but for all that I had played this instrument hundreds of times before, my arm was shaking so much that I didn’t put the right amount of pressure on the strings and the note came out faint. I tried again, but this time I overcompensated and the bow scraped off the strings altogether with a horribly discordant sound quite unlike the beautiful music the violin usually made for me. It was almost as if the Violectra itself was refusing to play funeral music because it would be too awful, too heartbreaking, too utterly devastating ... I took another deep breath, desperately trying to steady myself but starting to feel light-headed by now.

  I saw my mother half-rise from her chair as if about to come and take me back to my seat. I think it was this that panicked me into pulling it together at last. I raised the bow again and this time the note came out clear and perfect. I had played this song for Liam many times before and now - playing it for the last time - I meant to play it well. But I couldn’t stop the tears from running down my face. I could feel them collecting in the hollow of the chin rest so that the violin would have slipped from my grip had it not been for the shoulder rest holding it firmly in place.

  When I was halfway through the piece, I noticed Ben stand up and leave the church. I knew how he felt. I wished I could walk out too. Even as I played it, the music seemed to almost rip my heart out. But I carried on and finally it was over and - half-blinded with tears - I was able to go back to my seat amongst my family.

  By the end of the service the tissue clutched in my hand was little more than a grotty bit of sodden rag - I was making a mess of myself and fumbled blindly through my pockets for a clean one. I knew I’d brought a whole handful from home, but I couldn’t find a single tissue. Then I realised my mother was holding a handkerchief out to me and I took it from her gratefully.

  The coffin was being carried outside. It was time to go. I realised for the first time as we followed on behind that the pall-bearers were all men from the undertaker’s. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t right at all. They hadn’t known Liam and his death meant nothing to them. I should have asked his father and Ben and his friends ... I shouldn’t have allowed him to be carried away by strangers like this. I knew the undertakers must have asked me about the pall-bearers when we were making the arrangements but I couldn’t remember. In fact I could remember practically nothing of any of my conversations with them. At some point it had all become a blur. I had stopped caring and just agreed to whatever they or my family suggested. For what did it matter? What did any of it matter? The type of wood for the coffin, the hymns, the pall-bearers, the food served at the reception ... it all seemed so pointless.

  But now that it was actually happening it suddenly did seem important - ridiculously so, even. I silently apologised to Liam for not getting his funeral right and gritted my teeth to stop myself from wailing into my handkerchief. Before the ceremony I had been so determined not to cry but now I simply
couldn’t stop. I hated that other people were seeing my tears - they should have been saved for a more private place. I didn’t want them to see my pain, and I didn’t want their sympathy, for it only intensified my sense of loss to see myself through their eyes:

  That poor widow ... And she’s so young ... As was her husband, of course ... An aneurysm, apparently. Tragic, simply tragic ...

  A juicy tragedy - something to be relished and gossiped about over the coffee cups before going on with their day as if nothing was different and things weren’t horribly, horribly, horribly wrong and would never be right ever again ...

  When we stepped out of the church I was surprised to discover that the sky had darkened whilst we’d been inside: the sullen clouds of a summer thunderstorm covered the sky and it was raining. A yellow flash forked overhead, followed moments later by a dull rumble of thunder. I was aware of other people putting up umbrellas behind me. I hadn’t brought one and I pushed aside the one my mother tried to give me. I wanted to be cold and wet. I wanted to be soaked through and chilled to the bone. It couldn’t make me feel any worse than I already did and at least it would match my mood. Ben had been waiting by the front doors and fell into step beside us as we walked across the wet grass to the graveside.

  The vicar was talking but, hard as I tried, I just couldn’t focus on what he was saying. My attention was fixed instead on the drumming sound the raindrops made as they hit the coffin and the little splashes they created across its smooth, clean surface. This was it, then. I really was burying Liam today. God help me, this was not a dream. And as I stood there I wondered hopelessly how I could ever possibly recover from the agonising pain of it. Nothing could ever be good after this, nothing.