Blue Moon: Blue Crystal Trilogy, #1

THE BEGINNING

Monday 25th March was an ordinary day, no different to any other. But when I look back, I see now that this was the day things began to change.

I can also see that I couldn’t and wouldn’t have changed a thing. It was as if everything that happened was somehow pre-ordained, and I was simply playing my part in a story that was meant to be, that had started many thousands of years ago....

PART ONE: ATTRACTION

1. The Viewing

The estate agent glanced impatiently at her watch, and looked out of the window for the fifth time that minute. ‘Time-wasters,’ she muttered to herself pursing her lips with irritation, ‘they probably won’t show. Just like that lot the day before. And if they do, there’s no way they’ll want to buy this old heap’. A look of distaste passed across her carefully made-up face as she glanced around the room. The once ornate fireplace had long since lost its earlier splendour and was now dimpled and chipped. A large chandelier hung from the central ceiling rose, cracked and mottled, and pieces of the delicately decorated ceiling scattered the floor like old confetti, yellowed with age. Everywhere, the stench of damp and decay hung heavy, the windows too rotten to open and let in fresh air.

Outside, the grounds fell away into the distance, a mass of tangled vegetation and thick undergrowth. The once formal gardens were now desolate and unkempt, the flowerbeds ravaged by age and neglect, and the pathways choked by an advancing army of weeds and lichen. Above it all the Cedars of Lebanon towered, majestic and tall, looking sadly over the mayhem below.

The estate agent moved her manicured forefinger down the filthy glass, trying to see out a little better and get a glimpse of her missing clients.

Without warning, a loud bell sounded in the hallway, making her jump.

What the...? she muttered.  How did they get to the front door? I never saw them coming.

Baffled, she rushed out of the ballroom and into the vast hall. The huge brass bell echoed again in the cavernous walls.

Alright, alright, she called, hurrying to open the huge, metal studded oak door, stiff with disuse. The door creaked open, its hinges rusty and unyielding, and the estate agent peered out, her eyes struggling to take in the brightness of the sunshine after the gloominess within. A man and a woman stood on the doorstep.

Mr and Mrs de Lucis? she asked falteringly.

That’s us. So sorry we’re late, said the blond woman before her, with a voice as soft as butter candy. I hope we haven’t kept you.

No, not at all, said the estate agent, her eyes wide open in disbelief, taking in the sleek black car that stood outside and the swarthy chauffeur who lounged nonchalantly against the passenger door. I didn’t see you arrive, that’s all.

Can we come in? said Mr de Lucis, with a smile, revealing perfect white teeth.

O... of course, said the estate agent, stepping back, and allowing the couple to enter. She swung the heavy oak door back into place, feeling so unsettled she quite failed to register that it swung easily and noiselessly back into place, without a hint of rust or creakiness.

She turned to look at the couple, noticing how they seemed to light up the dark entrance hall.  Tall, elegant and well dressed, each wore a pair of large sunglasses, giving them an air of mystery and more than a touch of Hollywood glamour. Mrs de Lucis wore a pale pink pencil skirt with matching jacket, showing off her slender figure to perfection. A string of pearls nestled at her neckline, and her blond hair was pinned back in a chignon, giving emphasis to her high cheekbones, small straight nose and pale pink lips. To say she was beautiful was plainly an understatement.

Like his wife, Mr de Lucis was impossibly good looking. His face was strong and chiselled, framed by tousled, blond hair, and there was no denying the athletic build beneath his expensive pale blue suit. To the estate agent, he was the closest thing to a Greek god she had ever encountered.  They were probably in their early thirties, she guessed, staring enviously at their flawless pale skin. It was as smooth and white as alabaster. Simultaneously, they removed their sunglasses, revealing the most electric blue eyes she had ever seen.

She stared, fascinated, and for a moment struggled to find a word to describe them. Striking? That didn’t do them justice.  Stylish? They were more than that. Then she had it. Radiant! That was it. They were like two exquisite jewels, shining brightly.  

Are you alright? enquired Mr de Lucis, in a caramel smooth voice that took her breath away.

Yes, I’m fine, she said, gazing into his deep blue eyes and feeling a strange fluttering in her stomach. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your car. I was a little surprised to see you, that’s all.

It has a very quiet engine, said Mrs de Lucis, in her smooth, silky voice. One doesn’t always hear it. Now, perhaps you could tell us about the house.

The estate agent snapped into professional mode.

Yes, of course. Please, follow me.

She led the way into the ballroom, talking animatedly.  Hartswell Hall is a wonderful example of Victorian architecture. It was built by a wealthy merchant in 1851 for his wife, who sadly died before she could move in.  It had many uses over the years, but was most recently owned by a recluse, who shut himself away from the world. It went on the market nearly two years ago, when he died. As you can see, it is in need of a little re-decoration. She laughed affectedly.

More than a little, said Mr de Lucis, prodding one of the rotting window frames and revealing the black decay beneath.

But nothing we can’t handle, said his wife, running her fingers down the chipped stone fireplace, then removing a cobweb that hung from the chandelier, Have you had many viewings?

The estate agent stared.  Was it her imagination, or did the chandelier suddenly look brighter, as if life had suddenly been breathed back into it? And didn’t the carvings on the fireplace look somehow a little more defined? She shook her head and focused on the question.

Viewings? Oh, yes, she said, seizing the opportunity. There are plenty of people interested in this property. I wouldn’t be surprised if it went to sealed bids. It has great potential.

It certainly does, said Mrs de Lucis, her voice barely discernible. I think it will suit our purposes admirably. She glanced at her husband. We’d like to make an offer.

You would? asked the estate agent, in surprise. Don’t you want to look around?

That won’t be necessary, replied Mr de Lucis. We’ve seen enough.

It was enough for the estate agent. Scenting a deal in the making, she drew out a clipboard from her large shiny handbag and snapped into pecuniary mode.  

Right, she said, as you know, it’s on the market for £1.5 million, but we do have other interested parties."

£2 million, purred Mrs de Lucis. That’s what we’re prepared to pay.

For total exclusivity, added her husband. No other viewings, no other offers considered. Do we have a deal?

The estate agent could hardly believe her luck.

£2 million? We most certainly do. I’ll need to run it by the Executors, of course, but I don’t anticipate a problem. Consider Hartswell Hall yours. Congratulations!

She went to shake Mr de Lucis’s smooth white hand, starting slightly as an electrical charge seemed to pass from his hand to hers. As she looked into his eyes, she noticed small flecks of grey that glinted like granite amidst the electric blue.

Behind her, Mrs de Lucis smiled agreeably.

Outside, the rust-bound hands of the three golden clocks that adorned the old Clock Tower began to move slowly and inexorably around their tarnished faces.

2. Meeting Theo

I wiggled my toes to the bottom of the bed, feeling cosy and warm. I tried to open my eyes, but the effort was just too much and I lay back on the pillow, luxuriating in its downy softness and trying desperately to get back into my dream. Somewhere in the distance I could hear my name being called, but the pull of sleep was just too great. I couldn’t respond.

Emily, the voice sounded, getting louder. Wake up.

I felt someone shake my shoulders gently.

What time is it? I rubbed my eyes, trying to see the red digital figures on the alarm clock.

Time for you to get up if you don’t want to miss the bus, came my mother’s voice.

There was an edge to her voice that said, ‘If you don’t respond now, I will get very annoyed,’ and I sat upright, noticing with horror that it was already 7.30am.

Mum, have you seen the time? I shouted. I’ve only got half an hour before the bus goes. Why didn’t you wake me sooner?

‘Better get a move on, then, hadn’t you? she retorted. Your breakfast is ready, all you have to do is eat it and put some clothes on."

I quickly pulled on a pair of old grey jeans, ripped at the knee, a black T-shirt and my new grey SuperDry jacket, a recent purchase on eBay. Converse trainers and a black leather rucksack completed the look. Yes, that worked. I might be late, but I still had an image to keep up.

Running into the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face and took a good look in the mirror. Yuk. Dark circles under my eyes made me look ancient. I searched through the various pots and potions on the shelf until I found my mother’s Instant-Action Anti-Fatigue Eye Gel.

‘Refreshes skin, reduces puffiness, regenerates appearance. Proven formula. Instant results....’

Great, just what I needed. My mother swore by this. I applied it liberally and was instantly disappointed. If anything, it accentuated the dark circles, which now glistened brightly. Sighing impatiently, I attempted to wipe it off and applied eyeliner to my now greasy eyes, usually my best feature. Why did these disasters always occur when you were late? I quickly dragged a brush through my tangled blond hair and tied it up in a high ponytail. That would have to do. One day I would find the time to have a proper beauty routine. Grabbing my rucksack, I ran to the top of the stairs, and letting my hand slide down the stair rail, took the steps two at a time, rushing into the breakfast room, breathless and flushed. 

Granddad was already there, wearing his brown cardigan and eating his usual boiled egg and toast. Mum was in the kitchen, stacking up the dishwasher.

This was my family: Mum, blond, pretty, a young-looking forty year old, who worked as a wages clerk for a local timber company, and Granddad, aged somewhere in his 70’s. Mum had divorced my dad when I was just two and had never remarried despite various offers. He lived in America and worked in sound production, but I didn’t have much to do with him. There’d been sporadic contact over the years, when he’d visited the UK on business, but when I was ten, he’d remarried and started a new family.

After that, there’d never been room in his new life for me and, to be honest, it didn’t much bother me. I’d been too young when he left to have established a relationship with him, and on the few occasions I had seen him there’d been such a distance and awkwardness between us I was always glad when the visit came to an end. Enforced trips to McDonalds and the cinema were hardly my idea of a laugh, and I dreaded the obligatory questions about school and family. Over the years, he’d sent me a few photos of my new half-siblings, twin girls and a boy, but they looked nothing like me. They were thickset and dark, and I could never relate to them as family. It would be quite interesting to meet them, I suppose, but there again, you don’t miss what you’ve never had. So I didn’t give them much thought and was actually quite relieved when dad stopped visiting. And, of course, we had Granddad.

We’d lived with Granddad for fourteen years now, ever since my gran had died and the house had got too big for him. It was an arrangement that suited us all. Mum and I had exchanged our small, rented flat in the city for a nice house in a village, in the right catchment area for the best local schools. Granddad had company and we had security. Mum had a permanent baby-sitter and I had a surrogate father figure, albeit a granddad. Although, mum did get a bit miffed when people occasionally mistook him for her elderly husband, which was always a source of amusement for me. I mean, who in their right mind could think my mum and granddad were an item? He looked just like a granddad: snowy white hair, twinkly bright eyes and a kind, friendly face that was always smiling. There again, by implication those same people must have thought he was my dad, which is a bit embarrassing now I think about it, although it’s hardly something I’d lose any sleep over. He was just my Granddad and he was there when I needed him. I didn’t think much beyond that. His nose was permanently in a book, and when not reading, he’d be listening to jazz records - most of my formative years had been spent listening to Acker Bilk, Kenny Ball and his Jazz Men, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie and other notable greats. He also had a predilection for wearing carpet slippers and brown cardigans, despite mum’s best efforts to smarten him up. As you can see, not exactly the kind of husband you’d automatically place with a well-presented, fit-looking, forty year old woman. 

Morning Gramps, I shouted at him, making him jump, then grinning widely at him.

Morning, Emily, he said, neatly cracking open his egg. Ooh, good, a nice dippy yolk. Yours’ll be hard. It’s been standing there for ten minutes. He looked up. What’s wrong with your eyes?

Nothing. I shouldn’t have watched the late film, that’s all. It didn’t finish till 1.30 this morning. Don’t tell mum, I added quickly.

Don’t tell me what? asked my mother, coming out of the breakfast room.

That your Instant Action Anti-Fatigue Eye Gel is complete rubbish, I said. I’ve just tried it. Doesn’t work.

You have to give it time. You know, that thing you don’t have much of... she answered.

Then why is it called ‘Instant-Action’? I pointed out, Honestly, I think most of these potions are a complete waste of time. And I bet it wasn’t cheap.

No, it wasn’t, she answered sharply. So don’t waste it. Anyway, you don’t need potions and lotions just yet.  You’re only seventeen. Make the most of your youthful skin while you can. You’ll be on the anti-ageing treadmill all too soon.

Not me, I’m going to stay young and beautiful for ever, I told her, confidently.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling. Yes, we all thought that when we were in our teens.

Granddad gave me a knowing wink over the top of his spectacles. Then with intense concentration, he carried on mopping up the yolk that spilled out of his egg. He was right, mine was rock solid and so I quickly peeled it and put the whole egg in my mouth at once.

Emily, that’s disgusting, said my mother.

I pointed at my watch and raised my eyebrows, momentarily unable to speak.

Gotta go, I managed to splutter, grabbing my school bag from under the breakfast table with one hand and taking the piece of buttered toast Gramps held out for me with the other.

If you got your car sorted out, you wouldn’t need to set out so early on the bus, I heard my mum calling out behind me, and wipe that stuff off your eyes...

I let myself out of the front door and walked past my old mini, fondly known as Martha, standing sadly on the driveway. Its failed MOT meant I couldn’t drive it and since I’d left my part time job at the local Garden Centre, I couldn’t afford the new tyres, exhaust, spark plugs and various other items it required. I set off at a brisk walk, eating my toast rapidly.

I glanced at my watch. 7.55am. I would just make the bus if I hurried. Further up the road I saw Seth, my next door neighbour, walking with Tash, who lived just down the hill. We all attended Hartsdown College.

Tash was my best friend in the whole world. We’d met at Tiny Tots when we were both three years old and had bonded instantly. Since that point onwards, we’d been inseparable, through infant school, juniors and senior school. We’d laughed and cried together, fallen out, made up and knew just about everything there was to know about each other. I shared my innermost secrets with Tash and trusted her like no one else.

Seth was literally the boy next door. Funny, annoying, bit of a smartass, just your average boy. I’d known him since I was five years old, when he moved in, and it seemed like he’d always been around. I suppose I’d always had a bit of a crush on him, but that was something I barely admitted to myself, let alone anyone else. Even Tash.

Tash, Seth, I called, wait for me.

They both turned and looked, shielding their eyes against the early morning sun.

Hi, Em, shouted Tash, her long red hair glinting vividly in the sunshine.

She reminded me of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, that one of Ophelia lying in the lake. Slim, pale and interesting, with big green eyes and hair to die for.

Come on, called Seth. Run! The bus is coming.

Seth, on the other hand, was olive-skinned and dark. Good looking, with a permanent ‘who-gives-a-damn’ slouch, lazy manner and unruly black hair that flopped over his face. He sometimes rode into college on a moped, but generally preferred the bus as it took less effort.

They both started walking quickly up the hill and I reached them just as they reached the bus stop.

What’s happened to your eyes? asked Tash, peering at me. They look odd.

Nothing, I replied, it’s just this gel I put on. It’s supposed to refresh you but it obviously hasn’t.

You can say that again, said Seth. You look like you’ve gone ten rounds...

Just ignore him, advised Tash. If you want to tighten your skin up, I’ve got this amazing beer face-pack you can use. I’ll bring it in, if you like.

Yeah, and you’ll end up looking like this, said Seth, pulling back the skin on his face with his fingers, so his eyes and mouth stretched widely, and staggering around. Drunk and tight.

Stop it, Seth, that looks horrible.

Within seconds the bus pulled up and we climbed inside along with the office workers, village school kids and other Hartsdown students. Seth, Tash and I went to the back of the bus and, unusually for us, got the rear seat. This prized place was usually taken by the Meriton Mob, a bunch of sixteen-year olds from the next village, but today the back of the bus was strangely empty.

Where are the usual suspects? I asked, sitting in the centre, with Tash and Seth either side of me.

Geography field trip, said Seth. They’ve gone to the Blythe Sewage Works. Had to leave early.

Let’s hope we lose a few of them, said Tash. I can’t think of a better place for Sarah. Or Imogen.

Or Micky, I added. Mind you, you couldn’t really tell if he fell in. He already looks like the Creature from the Swamp. And his breath certainly smells like it. He’ll probably feel quite at home there.

Heard Micky had a bit of a thing for you, said Seth, looking at me and grinning.

Don’t even go there, I warned. He’s young, spotty and obnoxious. I’d rather wash out my mouth with hydrochloric acid than get anywhere near him!

That’s not what he says about you, persisted Seth.

Get lost, Seth.

Hey, have you heard the latest about Hartswell Hall? asked Tash, changing the subject, as the bus passed the private road leading up to the village’s Victorian mansion, its imposing gate posts guarding its mysterious entrance like huge stone sentries.

The bus came to a halt at the stop just past the hall entrance and the school kids from the other end of the village clambered aboard. Seth, Tash and I peered through the side windows of the bus, trying to catch a glimpse of the old house, but it remained tantalisingly hidden behind a mass of overgrown vegetation.

"Go on, what’s the story?’ asked Seth.

There’d been a great deal of speculation about Hartswell Hall ever since it came on the market. First it was going to be a care home, then trendy apartments, there was even a rumour it was going to be an animal sanctuary. For years, an old man had lived there as a recluse, allowing the house to fall into disrepair and the grounds to grow wild. As kids, we used to think it was haunted and would dare each other to run up the driveway and look through its small panelled windows, thick with grime, into its crumbling interior. Then the old man had died, adding a further element of scariness to the stories. A midnight raid on the property by a gang of local daredevils ended in terror, when they swore they’d seen something moving on the first floor. They hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out what it was.

I heard Dizzy Detroit wants to buy it, said Tash conspiratorially. You know he used to live in Birmingham? Well, apparently, he wants to come back to this area and is looking for an old place to do up.

Could be true, I suppose, said Seth.

But how do you know? I asked.

The man in the corner shop told my mum, explained Tash. He said the other day a long, black limousine with darkened windows drove up the High Street and into Hartswell Hall entrance. Someone told him they saw Dizzy Detroit get out.

Cool beanz, said Seth. Imagine having a rock star in the village. That’d shake things up a bit....

Just what this village needs, shaking up a bit, I murmured, gazing back through the rear window, as the bus resumed its journey and the grounds of Hartswell Hall gradually disappeared from view.

Hartswell-on-the-Hill was a typical middle class village. True, it had history, as you could see from the High Street with its pretty black and white fronted cottages, quaint old pub and medieval stone church. But a combination of picture postcard appeal and a wide selection of large properties, dating from Victorian times to the present day, along with the addition of a new housing estate of luxury detached homes on the edge of the village, had given it an affluent, commuter-belt appeal.

Someone once told me there were more consultants per square inch in Hartswell-on-the-Hill than any other neighbouring village, due to its vicinity to a nearby major hospital, but I don’t know if that was true.

One thing was certain, to live in Hartswell you needed money, as its expanding population of doctors, lawyers, accountants, businessmen and other upwardly thrusting young professionals testified. There was the obligatory council estate at the other end of the village, where Tash lived, and a number of smaller houses in some of the less desirable roads, such as the one where Seth and I lived, but for the main part, the houses were large, expensive and afforded only by birthright, inheritance or a big salary. All of which meant one thing. Desirable as Hartswell-on-the-Hill was from a real estate point of view, it was a fairly boring place to live. Especially if you were young. An infrequent bus service into the neighbouring town meant you were back in the village by 10pm on a weekday, and 10.30pm on a Saturday night, which was hardly conducive to partying. For a few months, until it gave up the ghost, my old mini had been our passport to freedom, but now we were beholden once more on the bus service or our parents, which was not an option we favoured.

The bus pulled up outside Hartsdown High, the local red brick senior state school, with its assortment of add-on Portakabin classrooms housing a growing population of fifteen hundred plus pupils, and the majority of passengers alighted.  The campus also housed Hartsdown College, the post-16 educational facility, and it was to this more exclusive area that we headed.

We settled noisily into our tutor group, more interested in discussing the previous weekend than the forthcoming lessons, and very glad this was the last week before the Easter break. There was one piece of news to make these last few days a little more interesting. A new student was to join us, according to our tutor, Mrs Pritchard, and we waited expectantly while she took the register.

She’s taking English Literature, Art, History and Philosophy, said Mrs Pritchard, studying the file, so any students enrolled on those courses, please help her to settle in.

Same as us, apart from Philosophy, I said to Tash, who nodded back. We’d both attempted this mind-expanding subject, but after sitting through one tutorial had decided it was far too mind-boggling and altogether strange for our liking. Instead, Tash had opted for Geography and I’d chosen Business Studies, both solid, down-to-earth subjects you could get your head around.

By 9.10, the new girl had failed to show, and Seth, Tash and I went down to our first class, double English Literature, wondering when she would arrive. There was an unmistakable buzz of excitement in the air, based on a sense of expectation that something new was about to happen, and as hard as we tried to concentrate on Shakespeare’s use of language in Macbeth, it proved increasingly difficult to focus on Miss Widdicombe’s monotone voice. A general sense of disinterest settled over the class as we all tried and failed to follow the lesson.

Where is she? Tash mouthed to me, turning round from the row in front.

I shrugged my shoulders and started to mouth a reply when Miss Widdicombe zoomed in on me.

Emily, would you like to explain the difference between Shakespeare’s use of an iambic pentameter and trochaic rhythm as found in Macbeth, and give an example of each? she asked pointedly. 

Er, trochaic rhythm is, er, where Shakespeare, er..... I floundered, and struggling to answer, looked down at my textbook for inspiration, my cheeks scarlet. I hated being picked on, especially when I didn’t know the answer.

Yes? asked Miss Widdicombe. Can anybody help Emily with this?

The whole class looked at her blankly and she tutted in irritation, about to launch into yet another diatribe on our lack of appreciation of the subtleties of the English language, when her attention was distracted by a knock on the door. It opened almost immediately, revealing Mrs Pritchard followed by the long awaited new student. Suddenly we were all interested.

Sorry to interrupt, said Mrs Pritchard quickly to Miss Widdicombe. "I have