Otherworld Challenger (5 page)

Catching hold of her by the waistband of her pants with one hand while he once again flew the plane one-handed, he watched out the corner of his eye as she leaned as far out of the open plane doorway as she could get. The strain of holding on to her was almost too much for the numb muscles of Jethro's right arm and, as Vashti angled out and tried to loop the belt around the door handle, he once or twice almost lost his grip on her. Finally, on the sixth attempt, she got the belt around the door handle and, battling against the wind, pulled it closed. Instantly the tornado that had been tearing through the cockpit died away.

Slumping into her seat, Vashti picked up her headphones. “So—” her teeth were still chattering like castanets as her voice sounded in Jethro's ear “—if flying is the safe option, tell me about a day in the life of a necromancer.”

* * *

The gouges in the flesh of Vashti's right calf were deep and bloody. Her black jeans hung in ragged strips below the knee on that leg and she winced as Jethro swabbed the wounds with a sterile wipe.

“Serves you right.” Now that they were safe on the ground, he seemed determined to fire a series of grim questions and allegations at her. “What the hell possessed you to open that door?”

“I thought it would be fun.” From the scorching look of fury on his face as he glanced up from his task, Vashti gathered he was not in the mood for humor. She sighed. “I knew Iago was about to shift into something deadly. I was all that was stopping him getting to you. Opening the door and pushing him out seemed to be the only way to get rid of him.”

Was it her imagination or did his expression soften ever so slightly? It was still stony, just perhaps not as granite-edged as it had been. “You were lucky he chose a leopard. You'd have lost this leg if he'd decided to become a tiger instead.”

“I think his choice was dictated by the space available. He didn't have room to shift into anything bigger.”

They were still inside the plane. Jethro had insisted they weren't going anywhere until he'd taken a look at her leg. Having cleaned up the scratches, he was now searching through the first-aid kit he kept on board the plane.

“I need to put a temporary dressing on your leg. When we get to my house, I can take another look and decide if you need to see a doctor.”

“I'm fine.” It felt strange to have those big, capable—surprisingly gentle—hands on her flesh.

“You won't be if these cuts get infected.”

“How far are we from your house? Tell me we don't need to do any more flying.”

He grinned and she thought how much smiling suited him. It took that hard edge off his looks. She wanted to tell him to do it more often, then she remembered they didn't have that sort of relationship. It was strange how sharing a plane journey with him and a leopard had made her forget that Jethro was almost a stranger. And an antagonistic one at that.

He returned to his task, his fingers deft as they placed sterile dressing pads over her wounds and bandaged them in place. “No, just a motorbike ride followed by a short boat journey.”

“Now I know why you were so angry about the distance from the portal to your home.” Vashti remembered Cal's question—“Do you have to go home first?” And Jethro's brusque response—“Yes.”

She wanted to ask him more. Like, “Why, when time is so important, are we starting our journey here in Maine?” She suspected, since Cal, who was his friend, had gotten the almost-silent treatment, she wouldn't fare any better. No doubt about it. The man was an enigma. “I didn't realize it meant you had to travel from one end of the mortal realm to the other.”

Jethro had finished tending to her leg and was surveying her ruined jeans with a grim look about his mouth. “Nothing I can do about them. You may get some strange looks, but I'm sure you can give them one of your haughty royal stares in response. Can you walk?”

“There's only one way to find out.”

His eyes lingered on her face. “You are a very unusual girl, did you know that?”

“I've had an unusual upbringing.”

Something changed then in the dark depths of those eyes. It was as if he withdrew from her without moving. “So you have. I almost forgot.” The words seemed to rouse him into action. “Wait there.”

After Jethro had landed the plane he'd taxied straight from the runway into a private hangar. His booted footsteps echoed now on the concrete floor as, having jumped down from his side, he walked around the front of the aircraft and opened the passenger door. “Give me your hands.”

Vashti hesitated a moment. Her fierce independence went to war with the fear of looking foolish. What if she found she couldn't walk and fell flat on her face? Pride won. Placing both her hands in Jethro's, she allowed him to assist her out of the plane and onto the ground. To her intense relief, her legs, although shaky, held her weight. She leaned against the side of the plane while Jethro retrieved their bags from the space behind the seats, the scene of her recent fight with Iago. Her muscles were stiffening and she was going to have some serious bruises tomorrow to remind her of that encounter.

“Will Iago come after us again?” She would need all her strength if he did.

“Sooner or later, yes. All I know for sure is he'll do it when we least expect it.” Jethro moved to another part of the hangar. Pulling back a tarp to reveal a mean-looking motorbike, he quickly checked the machine over. Apparently satisfied, he beckoned Vashti over and handed her a helmet. “Put this on.”

She glanced around the hangar. There were numerous other large, vehicle-size, canvas-covered shapes within the building. “Is everything in here yours?”

Jethro was stowing their bags in a cargo box on the bike, but he glanced up at that. “Yes. Why?”

“Necromancing must be a lucrative business.”

There was that grin again. The one she had thought, until so recently, she hated. Now, all of a sudden, it managed to turn her insides to liquid. Vashti wasn't sure she liked the change. She didn't have time to examine her reasons, but it felt a lot like control had somehow been handed over to Jethro.

“It pays the rent.”

Once they were out on the open road, Vashti found some of the tension that had gripped her oozing away. The greenery and freshness reminded her of home. Perhaps the mortal realm wasn't so different or threatening, after all. If you took Iago out of the equation. She had been here before, of course. Moncoya had used his daughters to intimidate and threaten—sometimes to kidnap or assassinate—his enemies. On those occasions, Vashti and Tanzi had been closely guarded. Their focus had been on their assignment not their surroundings.

Vashti remembered a conversation with her father about those missions.

“Why do you send us and not your sidhe warriors?”

Moncoya's eyes had narrowed. Those eyes were as blue as her own and with the same sidhe ring of fire, yet subtly different. Probably because Moncoya wore eyeliner and Vashti didn't. “Do you question my judgment?”

“No. I'm not stupid enough to do that.” It was true. Vashti might be more defiant than Tanzi, but she never deliberately incurred his wrath.

He had laughed. “You are my statement to the world. My beautiful twin daughters. My perfectly matched pearls. No one expects you to also be my killing machines. Each time I send you into the mortal realm, it gives two messages. One is about your loyalty to me. The second goes deeper. It tells the world the faerie race is not what legend would like mortals to believe. We do not sit at the bottom of the garden benignly waiting to bestow our favors upon the earth-born race. We have stepped out from between the pages of a child's tale. Yes, we still look good—” he'd waved a hand to encompass them both “—but we can kill a mortal with one hand.”

Even though, at that time—before she had known the full scale of his villainy, including the fact he had murdered their mother—her loyalty to Moncoya was absolute, the words had caused Vashti to shiver. Yet she knew there had been a time when faeries and mortals had coexisted amicably. Their childhood nurse used to tell Vashti and Tanzi tales of the old days. Days before Moncoya's rule. It was dangerous talk, but she had risked it. Vashti knew Cal hoped the challenger—if he could be found—would restore some of that lost harmony between mortal and fae.
It isn't lost. It has been systematically destroyed by my father.
It had never occurred to Vashti to question the origin of her father's hatred for mortals.

Cal and Moncoya were half brothers, sharing the same faerie father. While Moncoya's mother was a sidhe, Cal's mother was a mortal woman, a nun who had hidden her talented sorcerer son away from his scheming father during childhood so he could not be given to Satan as part of an evil pact. Cal had grown up to become Merlin, the great sorcerer and now the leader of the Otherworld Alliance. Moncoya, through his ruthless drive and ambition, had usurped the faerie throne in a bloody coup. They might share a father, but no two brothers had ever been less alike. Perhaps the fact the brother he hated was half mortal explained Moncoya's all-encompassing loathing for the earth-born.

Under Jethro's skillful handling, the powerful bike purred along the country roads like a dream, eating up the miles until they reached a rugged stretch of coast. They followed the scenic route, hugging a dramatic shoreline of soaring, jagged rocks and gunmetal waters on one side and patchwork trees in every shade of green, gold and orange on the other. Finally, Jethro pulled into a narrow lane and halted the bike alongside a wooden boathouse. On the pebbly shore where they stood, the little building was level with the ground, but, as Vashti walked around to stretch her aching limbs, she saw it extended out into the water on raised stilts. A small motorboat, big enough for two people, was pulled up onto decking at the rear of the boathouse.

“Don't tell me. This is your place and that's your boat.” She was beginning to wonder if Jethro had transport tucked away all over the mortal realm. But surely she'd heard it was meant to be a big place and that would be beyond his means?

Jethro nodded as he wheeled the bike into the boathouse. He indicated the boat. “Twenty minutes and we'll be there.”

Where is “there”?
Vashti supposed she would find out soon enough. When Jethro had finished stowing their bags in the boat and locking the bike away in the boathouse, she joined him in the little vessel. “It feels like we've been traveling forever.”

“Welcome to my world.” He started the engine and the boat was soon skimming over the dark waters. Behind them the coastline with its tall pines and dramatic rocks began to fade. Ahead, an island, roughly horseshoe in shape, covered in the same spiky pines, came into view. “Home.”

There was something in Jethro's voice as he said that single word. A note Vashti had not heard before. Emotion was something she still could not fully understand, but she had a feeling she was witnessing it now in its rawest form.

As they drew closer, she could see a jetty poking out from the island into the water. Above that, there was a single wooden house. Tall and majestic, set like a jewel among the encircling pine trees, with the sun's dying rays glinting on high, arched windows. It was hauntingly beautiful.

“Who else lives there?”

“Just me.” Jethro steered the boat toward the end of the jetty. “Welcome to de Loix Island.”

Vashti shook her head. “You own this?”

He laughed at her expression. “I'm a loner. I don't like sharing. Besides, it belonged to my parents before me.” He brought the boat to a halt alongside the jetty. Springing lightly onto the wooden boards, he reached down a hand to help Vashti.

“A fleet of planes. Motorbikes and boats strategically placed where you need them. Your own island. I may not know much about the mortal realm, but I know enough to know none of those things are normal.” Her hand was still in his as she gazed up at him. “Who are you, Jethro de Loix?”

“Just an ordinary boy—” his irresistible grin appeared; the one that made her want to grab him and kiss him until he begged for mercy “—who happens to have outrageously wealthy parents and kick-ass necromancer powers.”

Chapter 5

J
ethro leaned his forearms on the deck rail and looked out over the darkened water. The half-empty glass of Scotch whiskey in his hand was doing its job, as was the feeling of being home. Cal had asked him if he had to come back here. The answer was simple. Yes, he did. He had to remind himself every now and then that life wasn't all about fighting monsters. That peace and beauty still existed. That his own little corner of tranquility was here any time he wanted it. And he had to check everything was right in his world. This time, of course, he had another reason to return. One he hadn't divulged to Cal.

Who are you, Jethro de Loix?
He'd given Vashti his standard, flippant response. It was the answer he'd honed over the years. Because the truth was too difficult to contemplate explaining to another person.
I don't know who I am. How crazy does that make me sound?

Most of the time it didn't bother him. He didn't think about it. Then there were times—like now—when Jethro was reminded of the kindly, elderly couple who had brought him up and the unanswered questions would buzz around inside his head like an annoying, trapped fly. He knew he had not come into their lives by any conventional means. The thought made him smile. His parents—Bertha and Gillespie de Loix—had been older than the grandparents of other boys his age...and they'd both looked younger than their actual years. There had been no baby pictures, no anecdotes about first steps or first words, and no family tree to help him establish his place in the world. Jethro had grown up knowing that, despite their wealth, he meant more to them than gold.

Bertha and Gillespie had done their best to give him a conventional upbringing, yet they had been overawed as they'd watched him grow up to be stronger, faster and smarter than his peers. Gradually their pride had become tinged with fear when it became obvious he had other talents.

How many other children who, having just learned to speak, spent hours sitting alone in the graveyard holding lengthy conversations with unseen companions? When Bertha's aging tabby cat had been trampled by a horse, it should have been dead. It
was
dead, she'd insisted later to Gillespie. But after Jethro had whispered a few soothing words and laid his hands on the poor, broken creature, old Mitzi was like a kitten again.

And they never mentioned—because it would really be too foolish to dwell on it—the woman Gillespie had seen in the woods here on their holiday home island. A woman with white hair and pale skin, dressed all in white. She'd reached out her hands to Jethro, beckoning him to her and, enthralled, Gillespie had begun to walk toward her, leading his son with him. It was only when they'd gotten close that her expression had become a mask of malevolent triumph. Too late, Gillespie had realized he was walking into a trap with no way of escaping. At the last minute Jethro had stepped between his father and the apparition and spoken in a language Gillespie hadn't recognized. The woman froze. When Jethro spoke again—in a voice of command—she had simply vanished.

“What did you say to her, son?” Gillespie had asked later, when he had recovered from the shock.

“I told her to go away. Didn't you hear me?” Jethro had regarded his father with mild surprise.

Now Bertha and Gillespie were gone from this world, and the only identity Jethro had was his power as a sorcerer. The status conferred on him by his ability to control the dead defined him, and he loved and loathed it in equal measure. Unlike other necromancers, it had never been enough for him. He had always been searching for something more, but what that something might be he had yet to discover.

For a long time he thought what he craved was danger. Money wasn't important to Jethro, but his skills were highly prized in Otherworld. The more perilous the mission, the bigger the purse. He gained a name for himself as the mercenary who would take any necromancing job...for the right price. He knew other necromancers—purists like Cal and Lorcan—looked down on his lifestyle simply because they never understood why he was prepared to sell his skills for money. If they knew he was already a wealthy man, they would understand it even less. And Jethro, the most intensely private of a solitary group, wasn't about to confide in them. That had been before the great battle for control of Otherworld, of course. Before he had put himself on their side in the attempt to topple Moncoya from his throne. That attempt had not been wholly successful. Moncoya had escaped from the battlefield. He was still the King of the Faeries. Just because he was in hiding didn't mean he was any less of a threat.
Still, I suppose we should thank the evil little shit for bringing us all together. Bonds deeper than friendship were forged that day.

Lately, Jethro wasn't so sure it
was
adventure he sought. The adrenaline rush of a new mission was still a high. Confronting and defeating a hostile undead being gave him a sense of a job well done. Even a day like today, one that brought an unexpected brush with death, was a white-knuckle ride he would miss if he gave it up. But that niggling sense of missing something fundamental was increasing...

A sound behind him made him swing around. Vashti had finally emerged from the hot bath where she had been attempting to soak away the effects of the beating she had taken earlier. Her face was showing signs of bruising and she walked stiffly. Wrapped in one of Jethro's robes, which looked ridiculously large on her, she appeared unbelievably fragile. Jethro felt his features soften into a sympathetic smile.

“Better?”

“I feel like I've been trampled by an elephant.”

He grimaced. “Ouch. Come and sit down.” He pointed back inside the house. “I need to take another look at that leg.”

Obediently—she must be tired, he decided, since submissiveness was not the first word he associated with her—she followed him into the family room and settled into one of the cozy corner sofas. Angling a nearby lamp so he could see, Jethro pulled up a footstool. Lifting her foot and placing it on his knee, he turned her leg so he could view the gouges in her pale flesh. Somehow they looked worse in the soft, golden lamplight. His mouth hardened. That bastard Iago was going to pay for a lot of things, but this came high on the list.

“You said I might need to see a doctor, but I can't. Any mortal doctor would know in an instant I'm not earth-born.”

Jethro glanced up at her. “There are mortal doctors who will treat other races...for a price. But I don't think you're going to need medical treatment. Not tonight, anyway. I'll put a fresh dressing on these cuts then you can get a good night's sleep.”

Vashti sighed, her whole body appearing to relax back against the cushions. “That sounds like heaven.” She watched as he busied himself with his task. “What do you do while you're here?”

“On the island? This was my parents' vacation home. We'd relax. Do some fishing, swimming, walking, sailing, read a ton of books, go across to the mainland and visit friends. Just unwind.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose.

“You look like you have no idea what I'm talking about.”

Because she did it so rarely, when Vashti smiled it was like the sun had broken through storm clouds. “I suppose people might think unwinding would come naturally to a princess. Perhaps for most princesses that might be true. But Tanzi and I are Moncoya's daughters. We've spent our whole lives on a tight schedule.”

Something in the matter-of-fact words tugged at a chord of sympathy deep within him. Who'd have thought? Empathy toward the faerie princess. He'd have to watch himself. Vashti was still Moncoya's daughter. Like her father, she was beautiful, destructive and untrustworthy. He had seen that firsthand on the night when Moncoya escaped from captivity on the Isle of Spae. Vashti had claimed her father held her at knifepoint, but would any father do that to his daughter? Surely even Moncoya wouldn't stoop so low. No, she must have helped him and lied about it later. Now was a good time to remind himself of that...while he was gazing up into those incredible blue eyes with his hand encircling her ankle. It probably wouldn't hurt to give himself regular warnings while he was in such close proximity to her.

“Speaking of tight schedules, I expect you're wondering why I've made this detour when Cal wants the challenger found urgently.” Why was he explaining himself to her? She had chosen to tag along. It wasn't like he'd invited her.

“It crossed my mind.”

“There is someone here I need to see. Someone who may be able to help with this mission.” Vashti was clearly waiting for him to say more, but that was enough for now. It felt like too much. It felt like intimacy. Something Jethro didn't do. “I'll show you to your room.”

Her tiny, indrawn breath as he released her and rose indicated Vashti had also felt something more than their usual antagonism. Damn. Coming home was supposed to make life less complicated. Coming home and bringing an achingly beautiful faerie princess for company was starting to look like it might have the opposite effect.

* * *

Vashti awoke from a sleep so deep it felt like she was being pulled down into quicksand. Fighting her way to the surface, she became conscious of two things. The smell of fresh-baked bread and the sound of tuneless humming. Both seemed to be coming from the kitchen, which was directly below her room. She lay still for a few minutes, gradually allowing the memories of the last few days to infiltrate her lethargy. With the recollection of Iago came a resurgence of her aches and pains and she groaned, levering herself out of bed. There was a mirror over the dresser and a glance at her reflection confirmed the worst. Her face was an interesting array of bruises.

As she dragged on her clothes, every muscle screamed in protest.
Remind me again why I was so keen to be the one to accompany Jethro on this mission?
She peered inquiringly into the mirror once more, directing the question to her battered reflection.
Oh, I remember now. It's my duty. I need to see this through for the sake of my people. Once this challenger is found, the faerie dynasty will be plunged into a bloody civil war. I know my father well enough to be certain of that. He will not go without a fight. And I wanted to make Jethro de Loix suffer. He accused me of helping Moncoya escape from justice. I owe him a little pain, and how better to cause that than by inflicting my presence upon him?
She winced as she moved toward the door.
So why the hell am I the one hurting?

Navigating the spiral staircase felt like she was descending one of the great mountains around Valhalla. Used to her well-trained limbs doing exactly what she wanted them to, Vashti was impatient of injury. After the battle for control of Otherworld, she had been close to death. It was only through the skill of the faerie doctors and Tanzi's patient nursing that she had survived. It had not been through her cooperation or adherence to their instructions.

She found Jethro in the kitchen. This was the biggest room in the house, running the entire length of the rear of the property with spectacular views across the bay to the mainland. Vashti blinked in surprise at the sight of him removing a loaf of bread from the range oven.

“You should have stayed in bed.” He looked up in surprise as she limped into the room.

“If I did, how would we find the challenger?”

“
We
are not going to find the challenger.
I'm
going to find the challenger and you are going to watch me.” The familiar arrogance was back in his tone.

“While serving up a delicious meal?” She gestured to the bread.

The arrogance vanished and was replaced by a smile that was almost—she hesitated to use the word in relation to Jethro—
shy
. “My mother used to bake. It's therapeutic.” He pointed to another loaf standing on a cooling rack. “Want to try some?”

Vashti's stomach gave an enormous rumble in response, and she tried to remember the last time she'd eaten. It was on the plane when the flight attendant had been so attentive to Jethro while casting an occasional dismissive glance in her direction. She nodded and, within minutes, she was seated at the vast, scrubbed table with a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of bread and butter in front of her.

“You do not strike me as the domesticated type.”

Jethro lounged in a chair opposite hers, his long legs extended in front of him. He wore a white shirt and his biceps stretched the thin material of the rolled-up sleeves to its limits. The V shape of the buttons left open at his chest revealed dark hair. His broad chest tapered to a narrow waist and flat stomach. He had obviously recently showered since his still-wet hair hung loose and slightly wavy below his collar. The crisp scent of citrus reached Vashti's appreciative nostrils. Big, dark and dangerous, he invaded her senses. Domesticated was about the last word she would have applied to him.

“You can't see me in a flowered apron?”

She pretended to consider the matter, tilting her head to one side. “Not flowered, no.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “But you do see me in an apron? Now that's an interesting fantasy, princess.”

Vashti, who had taken a bite of bread and butter, choked as his meaning dawned on her. At least dealing with the coughing and the streaming eyes gave her time to consider how to respond. She decided the best plan was
not
to respond. To pretend she hadn't heard or she didn't understand what he meant. That sort of banter was probably like breathing to Jethro. All that thrumming masculinity needed an outlet and any woman, even one he disliked as intensely as Vashti, would do. At least the redness of her face could be ascribed to her mild choking fit and not extreme embarrassment at the image—vivid and suddenly very tempting—of Jethro in an apron and nothing else.

“What's the plan for today?” Vashti asked when she had gained control over her voice.