In many ways, I should be calling this a cross-over fic, between Being Human and Joanna Clarke's 'Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell', which, as a point of interest, Toby Whithouse does claim as one of his favourite books (it's mine too!). So I couldn't resist. I wanted to imagine what might happen in Series Four if the new supernatural turns out to be inspired by Clarke's book. One thing's for sure, the housemates are going to need some help to hold back Wyndham and his vampires.
The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
Yawning widely, George shuffled into the bathroom, still rubbing the stubborn crusts of sleep from his eyes. He stopped before the sink, allowed himself a brief inspection of his reflection in the bathroom cabinet door, then opened it to retrieve his razor. Sighing sleepily, he closed the door. And jumped back, with a startled squeal.
"What the f-?" he cried, spinning round to look behind him. There was no one there. He spun back round to face the mirror again, confused.
And there she was again. A girl, with long, dark hair. In the mirror, where his own face should be. She was looking at him, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She raised a finger to her lips in a 'shush' gesture.
He stared quizzically at the image. Was he still dreaming? He fumbled for his glasses in his dressing gown pocket and hastily put them on. He peered again at the mirror.
Now the girl crooked her finger and beckoned him to come closer.
He stepped forwards, warily, never moving his gaze from the girl in the mirror.
"We don't want to wake the rest of the household, do we?" she whispered in a conspiratorial tone.
George shook his head, dumbly, mesmerised by the girl's wide, green eyes, which slanted curiously upwards, like a cat's. There was something strangely familiar about her face, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
"S – s- sorry, what?" he murmured.
The girl lowered her gaze coyly. "I hope you can forgive me this … intrusion." She leaned towards him. "But, as you know, you are being watched and I didn't want to draw any attention to myself. It's very important that the vampires know nothing about my visit to you."
George blinked. "Know nothing ...?" he repeated, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing.
"I'm here to help, George. Mitchell sent me."
"Mitchell sent you? Mitchell's - " He swallowed uncomfortably and steadied his voice. If Mitchell had sent her, she must be a friend of his. "Mitchell's dead," he finished quietly.
The girl nodded sadly. "I know about that too."
"Sorry, but who are you? And – and – what exactly - ? How -? I mean – how are you - in my mirror?"
"Oh. That's easy," she answered, grinning impishly. "Magic."
"Magic?" he breathed, incredulously.
The girl chuckled lightly. "Oh, George! Surely you've seen enough of this world to know that it is full of magic!"
"Magic?" he repeated, a little squeak emerging in his voice now.
"Yes!" she laughed, shaking her head and smiling indulgently at him.
"So, you're not – actually – in – my mirror?"
She wrinkled her nose and inclined her head as if considering how to answer his question. "Mirrors are funny things, George. Very magical things. Have you ever wondered why it is that vampires can't see their reflection in mirrors?"
This change of direction threw George somewhat. And yet, he had, of course, pondered this question before. He had even asked Mitchell once and got a brief, mumbled explanation about silver somehow 'repelling' vampires. It hadn't made much sense at the time, and George had decided that the likely reason for this was that Mitchell didn't really know himself, so he hadn't pressed him further on the subject.
"Go on," he said shortly.
"Mirrors are doors. Doors to another world. A magical world," she explained. "The silver, you see. Silver is a magical element. Of course, not everyone can open a door in a mirror, only those of us that possess the magic to do so." She pointed to herself and winked.
George narrowed his eyes at her and folded his arms. He was not in the mood for games.
"Vampires are full of magic," she continued. "They ooze it from every pore. Only very powerful, dark magic can summon a soul from Purgatory to reanimate its dead body. A spell binds them in a state of 'life' even though they are dead. An ancient spell, forged in blood, enchanted blood."
"Riiiiiighht," said George, frowning sceptically.
"A wooden stake to a vampire's heart shatters the spell."
He took a moment to process this, scratching his head absently. Somehow, this made a strange kind of sense to him. "So….Sorry, how does this explain why they can't see their reflection in a mirror?"
"I was just getting to that. As I said, vampires are magical creatures. When a vampire looks into a mirror, they see the magical world behind the mirror, not a reflection of the world in which they stand, as humans do."
"But – but – what?" His voice had risen again.
"Oh, I know it may look very like the room in which you stand right now - " She indicated the bathroom behind her – "but that is just an illusion."
As she said this, she raised her hand level with her head and slowly turned her fingers in a circling motion. At this, the room behind her began to darken and blur. George stared, wide-eyed, transfixed by the mirror. A glimmer of light appeared behind the girl, a long way in the distance, and it was as if the room behind the mirror had suddenly lurched backwards. There was a shift in the light within the bathroom, and he shivered. Somehow, the dimensions of the bathroom seemed to flatten, briefly, like a painting, and George felt a deep uneasiness. In the pale, far-off light, the mirror room revealed itself to be a long, gloomy corridor. It did not feel like a friendly place. And what exactly was she, this girl with magic in her fingertips? Was she a witch? Could he trust her?
As he regarded her now, lit by the depressing, otherworldly light, her face no longer seemed quite so engaging and pretty as it had at first. She smiled at him, showing what to seemed to him like rather too many teeth, little and sharply pointed, and her eyes seemed to have become further apart, unnaturally so. Instinctively, he recoiled from her. Perhaps she realised she had been exposed, as there was another sudden shift in the light, and she appeared again as she had before. George, however, was in no doubt any longer: this creature may look human, but she most decidedly was not.
He straightened up and found his voice again. "I'm sorry, but you never did give me your name," he said coolly.
"You may call me Faye," she answered sweetly.
George thrust his hands into his dressing gown pockets and glared at her, challengingly. "Faye. Right. That's it? No surname?"
She returned his look with one of cold assessment, as if deciding how much she thought he deserved to know, and how much she wanted to keep from him. "Alright," she conceded. "Faye O'Donnell."
"And you knew Mitchell how, exactly?"
That knowing smile again, tinged with a sneering triumph, as if she were about to lower her cards and reveal a winning hand. She levelled her eyes to meet his in a steady, steely gaze. "We were related," she answered.
He nearly choked. He had not been expecting that! "You – you were – related?" he managed to splutter. His eyes took in her swathes of dark, wavy hair and her cat-like eyes, and he cursed himself for not seeing it before, for not making the connection. Could she be -? Surely not! "You're not – not - " he stammered, his hands flailing wildly as he tried to form the word.
She laughed then, flashing those teeth once more. "His daughter? Goodness, no! Vampires can't reproduce! Well, not in the conventional sense, anyway. No, my Grandmother Norah was John Mitchell's first cousin, on his father's side. Norah Mitchell O'Connell. A curious thing about the Mitchells, George, is that it's rumoured we have a fairy ancestor. What do you think of that?"
"A f - f - f - fairy?"
"Yes. Imagine that! A fairy ancestor! Do you think Mitchell may have had some fairy blood in him, George?" Her eyes flashed mischievously.
He noted the frequent use of his name and her playful tone and suspected she was poking fun at him. He scowled darkly at her. "So, let me get this straight: you're telling me that you - and Mitchell – have – had - " he corrected himself – "fairy blood?"
"Hmmm…Mitchell? Just a trace, like a kiss. But you could glimpse it now and then – in his eyes, in his smile, his laughter; in his wild, untamed nature, capricious and unpredictable; his heated temper, his lusty passion. I did wonder if perhaps Herrick might have guessed his ancestry, the way he was drawn to Mitchell so. But really, Herrick was a very mundane little man. His 'grand visions' never stretched that far. I doubt he ever understood why it was that Mitchell could exert such a pull on his affections."
This was almost too much to take in. Mitchell had had fairy blood? George shook his head slowly in disbelief. But there was no reason for her to lie to him about this, was there? And once you accepted there were werewolves and vampires, why draw the line at fairies? He stared into those wide, smiling, cat-like green eyes once more, and let himself accept her words. "And you?"
"Is it not obvious?" Her green eyes glittered. "My human father became fascinated by the old Irish legends about our family and the fairy ancestor. Did a little hands-on research, so to say. Travelled to a strange country. On the other side of the mirror." She blinked pointedly at him.
"And how did you know Mitchell? You said he sent you here."
She shrugged. "I've always known Mitchell, ever since I can remember. I was aware of him, over there, a vampire. My family. But we met just twice."
"Twice?"
"The first time, in Ireland, 1975. He went there in search of family, but found no one living who could remember John Mitchell, the young sergeant in the Irish Guards who had died in 1917. Even so far away, his loneliness pierced my heart like a raven's cry, shattering the boundaries between this world and yours. So I reached out to him, crossed into your world, and found him in the corner of a pub near the city of Dublin, attempting to drown his misery in a bottle of whiskey. I offered to help him. I offered to bring him back here, to show him a different life, an escape from Herrick, but he turned me down. Had his own way to make, apparently."
"1975?" he exclaimed. "Were you even born then?"
"We fairies have little concept of time, as you do, George. You construct dates and calendars and hours, minutes, days. You are mortal and must count down the hours you have left to live. To us, such notions are peculiar and facile. For us, a hundred years might pass in the blink of an eye, or the time it takes me to comb my hair."
"And the second time you met Mitchell?"
"Seven nights ago. He summoned me, with the words I had given him in Ireland when we met before. He asked me to help you, and Nina, and Annie. He said that the Old Ones were returning from overseas, and that they would be very interested in the three of you. He said that he believed you were all in grave danger."
George nodded glumly.
"So, here I am." She beamed prettily at him.
"And you can help us?"
"Vampires are magical creatures. They can see into Faerie. They can enter it, too, though their magic is weak here and they would be easily overpowered. They do not understand this world. Only very few of them are even aware it exists. In your world, they are the top of the food chain; here, they are no more remarkable or significant than a fly. If you were to come here, I could offer you a sanctuary, which the vampires could not penetrate. You would be safe. Nina could have her baby without Wyndham lurking outside the delivery suite, ready to snatch your child away and raise it as his pet. Until he got bored, of course, and decided to have his pet put down." She paused here to allow the full import of her words to sink in, to allow George to form a picture of this scenario in his mind.
He clutched the sink to steady himself.
Wyndham, who was so fascinated by the possibility of a baby born to two werewolves - he would never let them keep their baby, would he? And how long would he let him and Nina live, once they'd outgrown their usefulness? And what of their child then? What would Wyndham raise him as? A monster? A freak? A pet? And how long would it be before the fascination faded? He thought he might be sick. He leaned over the sink and took in several large gulps of air. Slowly, he raised his head.
"You'll hide us? You'll keep Nina and the baby safe?" he asked her, trying to disguise the desperation in his voice.
"My promise."
Those words triggered a memory in George. An echo, down the years, from a childhood long ago. Stories his mother had told him: promises and gifts from fairies - they came at a price.
"And what do you want in return?" he asked her, hoarsely.
Faye blinked innocently at him.
"Your price," he persisted. "What is your price?"
And there it was again: the look of fairy. Her eyes, too far-apart, too slanting and glittering with malice. Just fleeting, but enough for George to know that he had caught her out. And she did not like it. But at so direct a command from him, she could not wriggle out of this. She had to give a truthful answer.
"I'm a fairy. I want the baby," she answered with a look of defiance.
"Never!" George hissed. He raised his finger at the fairy in the mirror and jabbed it at her furiously. "You – stay – away – from – our – baby!"
"Now, now, George," she chided him, her charming demeanour perfectly restored. "Don't be so hasty to reject my help. Think about it. What choice do you have? Say no, and Wyndham will take your baby. Is that what you want? Whatever you choose, you and Nina will not get to keep your baby, but at least if you give it to me, I can raise it here, in a magical world to which it will be far better suited, in safety and in love. Your child will dwell in my palaces of dewdrop crystals, filigree and whimsy, clothed in fine silks, gossamer and lacewings! And I will furnish him with all my wealth and all of my love! In my kingdom, your child will be free – George – free from the curse which blights your life! There are no moons here, and precious few humans. Here, your child can be whatever he turns out to be amongst creatures of his own kind, and he can discover his true, magical destiny. What's more, you, Nina and Annie may stay here too, under my protection, where Wyndham and his vampires can't reach you."
He realised then, as he listened to her breathless petition, that she was as desperate to get her hands on his child as he was to protect it from her. "We will never give you our baby!"
She ignored his angry response. "Why don't you think about it?" she said smilingly. "We'll see how you feel in a few weeks time, as the birth draws closer and Wyndham tightens his grip." Her fierce, fairy look returned.
"I've thought about it. We don't want your help," he answered through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to slam his fist into the mirror.
"Have it your way. But remember this, George Sands: Mitchell sent me because he knew that I was the only one who could help you, the only one with the power to defeat the vampire threat. My price is a fair one, and the best offer you'll get. When you've changed your mind, just knock on this mirror three times and I shall come."
With that, the image in the mirror shimmered and vanished, and George found himself staring only at his own, grim-faced reflection. Gripping tightly onto the sink, he lowered himself slowly to sit down on the closed lid of the toilet.
He pressed his fingers to his brow and closed his eyes, with a groan. So this was Mitchell's idea of help! They were lining up to snatch his child away, the vampires and the fairies. Wyndham or Faye. A choice between the devil and the deep blue sea!
"Thanks, Mitchell," he muttered. "Thank you very bloody much."