Otherworld Challenger (6 page)

“Yours should be to rest.” Jethro's gaze skimmed the bruises on her face.

“Can we skip the bit where we pretend that might happen?”

He paused in the act of gathering the empty coffee cups. “Have you ever listened to advice from another person?”

“Only one.”

“Moncoya?”

Vashti shook her head. “I used to do as he asked if it was also what I wanted. But my father and I are equally stubborn.” A slight smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “Our fights were legendary. No, when we were children, Tanzi and I had a nurse who cared for us. She was probably the only person I listened to.”

Jethro's expression was inscrutable. “It sounds like you were fond of her.”

She gazed out across the dark blue water. The memories—or rather the recollections of which they'd been deprived...the mother they'd never known—didn't get any easier. “We both were. Our mother wasn't around, you see. At the time we believed she'd left our father when we were babies. Now we know he murdered her when she tried to leave and take us with her. Rina was the closest thing we had to a mother.”

“Rina?”

Vashti turned back to look at him. There was a slight frown in Jethro's eyes, as though he was searching for something just out of reach. “Our nurse. Her name was Rina.” The frown persisted. “What is it?”

“That name. It seems familiar, but I can't place why.”

“It is unusual, but not unique.”

He nodded, the frown clearing. “If it's important, I suppose it'll come back to me. Now, back to your question about plans for today. If you insist on coming with me, we're going visiting.”

* * *

When they reached the sleepy mainland town of Darwen, Jethro left the motorbike close to the town square, complete with its decorative bandstand, and led Vashti along the main street. He carried a small, flat box made of polished wood, but didn't reveal its contents. The street boasted a handful of shops and a few bars and restaurants. A sign outside one invited them to a cider tasting evening. Another boasted it served the best lobster in town.

Vashti was conscious of a few stares directed her way and tugged her knitted cap farther down over her ears.
It won't be far enough to cover what they're looking at
, she thought glumly.
I'd have to wear a mask to do that.
As a fae, she would heal quickly, but not fast enough for her liking. Perhaps those watching them thought Jethro was guilty of inflicting her bruises? He seemed unaware of the interested looks. Oblivious, in fact, that there were other people around at all.

Once they were away from the main street, the road climbed steeply and colorful wooden houses lined wide tree-lined streets.

Vashti had to quicken her pace to keep up with Jethro's purposeful strides. “Who are we going to visit?”

He glanced down at her and she got the distinct impression he had momentarily forgotten she was there. “Some people I know.”

Well, that was helpful
. She resisted the temptation to say the words aloud, sensing something within him. Some inner turmoil. And that in itself was unusual. Sensing anything about the feelings of others was new to her. She wasn't sure she liked it. Intuition wasn't for her. It brought with it a responsibility toward the other person she didn't want or need. And when that person was Jethro, things could start to get complicated. On the whole, she'd have preferred to remain detached.

Exactly how
did
you see this mission unfolding?
She supposed that, at the outset, she'd started out with a vague hope of catching Jethro if he tried to deceive the Alliance leaders in some way. Or at least of imposing her presence on him so he had no way of engaging in a hoax.
I never imagined a situation where I'd have to interact with him.
A second inner voice chastised her.
That's because you didn't think this through.
She had been so focused on her anger, so determined to punish him for his sneering, taunting approach toward her. What would happen once they set off and were alone together had never crossed her mind. The fact he might have redeeming features, some of which she might even like, had never crossed her mind. She had certainly not envisaged a situation where she might actually be intrigued by him or—heaven forbid—care about how he was feeling.

The houses were larger and farther apart now, the trees older and taller. Pine and spruce stood proud and green. The shorter beeches and maples were showing the first signs of changing to autumnal shades of red and orange. Branches stretched across the lane above their heads, meeting and, in some places, entwining to form a tunnel of green and gold. The sunlight barely penetrated and Vashti shivered slightly as a sudden chill touched her face. That was new, as well. A sense of foreboding. This strange, fluttering awareness that something about this place just wasn't right. An impression of being watched by unseen eyes.
I'm not sure the mortal realm agrees with me. Within the space of a few days, I've been beaten black-and-blue and developed an imagination, among other characteristics I never knew I had. The sooner we set out for Otherworld, and I can return to normality, the better.

They had almost reached the top of the hill and Jethro stopped, looking back down upon the town. The views were incredible, affording a sight of fishing boats huddled into the tiny harbor and beyond to the wide expanse of bay dotted here and there with pine-coated islands. Vashti got the impression Jethro had not stopped to admire the vista.
Here we go again. Perception. Awareness. Just because you've discovered it, does that mean you have to use it?
Clearly she did. It was unshakable. She knew what Jethro was doing. He was mentally preparing himself for whatever was coming next.

He pointed up through the canopy of trees. Vashti followed the direction of his finger. Barely visible through the leaves and fronds, she could just make out a pointed roof topped by a rusted weather vane. “That's where we're going.”

“What is it?”

“It's a house. The oldest and largest in this area. It was built in 1830 for one of the wealthiest landowners in Maine, and it stayed in the same family for generations. It fell into disrepair after an arson attack.”

“How horrible.” Vashti watched Jethro's face. There was something behind his expression she couldn't understand. She got the feeling there was more to this story than his curt words were telling her. “Why would anyone deliberately set fire to a family home?”

“There have always been rumors about this house. Locally, it has always been known as a haunted house and a place of bad luck.”

“And is it?” If anyone should know the answer to that question, surely it would be a necromancer.

“Yes and no.” Jethro dragged his gaze away from the pointed rooftop and smiled down at her, genuine amusement lighting his eyes. “Yes, it's haunted. No, it's not a place of bad luck.” He held out a hand and, surprised at the unexpected invitation, Vashti entwined her fingers with his. “Don't be scared. Let me show you the place where I grew up.”

Chapter 6

A
s they crested the hilltop, the house came fully into view. Even in its neglected state it was a magnificent sight. Built in a quirky, individual style, the main house was three floors high. Vashti's eyes scanned the building, taking in such unusual features as the fact that each window was of a different design and the colored roof tiles were laid out in a mosaic pattern. In addition to the central property, with its wraparound porch and the pointed tower they had glimpsed from the road, there was a separate long, low building jutting out at right angles. This looked like an overlarge summerhouse, and it appeared to have escaped the fire damage that had left sections of the main house blackened and charred.

“It looks like—”

“Something out of a fairy tale?” Jethro interrupted her. “And you should know, I suppose?”

She ignored the deliberate gibe. “I can see why mortals might believe it to be a place of evil. I have heard they are a superstitious lot.”

He gave a harsh laugh. “Yes, that's us mortals. Forever avoiding walking under ladders and staying indoors on Friday the thirteenth.”

“Am I supposed to understand what you are talking about?”

He shook his head. “Never mind.” They made their way along a drive fighting a losing battle with weeds and creepers. “It's always the same. Whenever I come here, it's like I've ceased to live in the here and now. I get transported back to different points in my life, depending on what my mind decides to dwell on each time. So many memories come back to me.”

“What are you recollecting now?”

He pointed to a broken-down gatepost. “I was running along the drive here, chasing a butterfly.” He raised a brow as Vashti made a suspicious choking sound. “Are you laughing at me?”

She did her best to keep her expression prim but it didn't quite work. “Maybe a little bit. It's a new image, one that will take some getting used to. How old were you?”

“I'm not sure. I was very young. Anyway, I tripped and went headfirst into that post. I still have the scar.” He turned his head.

Vashti stood on the tips of her toes so she could see the white mark above his right cheekbone. Some primeval instinct deep within her, a powerful urge she had never experienced before, prompted Vashti to reach out one fingertip and lightly trace the crescent-shaped scar. Jethro jerked beneath her touch, his eyelids fluttering closed. Raw heat arced from her finger to him and back again. It sparked through their bodies in a series of low-level electric currents. Although Vashti wanted to break the contact and stop the storm of sensation coursing through her, the force compelling her was too strong. Helpless to do anything else, she placed her other hand on Jethro's shoulder, clinging to him as her body shuddered in time with his.

Jethro's eyes flew open, their expression unreadable. He caught hold of her wrists, moving her away from him. One final surge crashed through them and then the contact was broken. Jethro released her. “What are you doing?”

“I don't know.” Vashti felt the blush rise from her neck, heating her cheeks.

“It's a bit late to try to cure my hurt, if that's what you were attempting.” His eyes continued to probe her face as though seeking an answer there. “Is it true the touch of a faerie has healing qualities?”

“It may have been once, way back in the mists of time. You've met my father, the great modernizer. He has no use for the old ways. I can fight half a dozen men, but I have few of the traditional fae powers. I couldn't heal you any more than I could enchant you with my touch.” And yet, hadn't that strange, lightning-bolt instinct been telling her to do both those things? She tilted her head back, looking away from him and up at the cloud-scudded sky. “It wasn't about your scar.”

“What was it about?”

She shook her head, frustration making her tongue-tied. “I wish I knew.” How could she put into words something she didn't understand herself?

“Which powers do you have? Cal said you could shape-shift.”

Vashti cast a glance toward the house. It loomed over them, watchful and waiting. Patient. It had all the time in the world. Was Jethro interested in her abilities or was he finding a way to postpone the moment when they would walk up those lopsided steps? “I can shift, but not in the way true shape-shifters do. My body doesn't change. Because I am fae, I can create the illusion of shifting instead. So I fool those around me into thinking I have changed rather than actually changing. It is something Tanzi and I taught ourselves to do when we were children, a talent we kept hidden from our father. Oh, and I can levitate. I always wanted to be able to fly like the faeries in the tales, but I can only manage to rise a few feet off the ground.” She gave him the benefit of her mischievous grin. “It comes in handy if I have to fight someone taller than me.”

Jethro's features relaxed as he returned the smile. “If we ever get into a fight with each other, I'll remember to chain you to the ground first.” Sighing, he looked back at the house. “Let's get on with this.”

“If the house is derelict, who are we going to visit?” Vashti walked beside him along the last few feet of uneven path.

“My parents.”

* * *

It had always been a matter of pride to Vashti to be the best at everything. As children, she and Tanzi had been fiercely competitive, and it was a trait Moncoya had encouraged. He had wanted to ensure that, beneath their delicate, ethereal beauty, they were hardened killing machines, devoid of feeling. That was why it had come as such a shock when Tanzi had tumbled headfirst in love with Lorcan Malone. That was why now, as she stepped onto the porch of the de Loix mansion, Vashti was stunned at the violence and range of emotion ricocheting through her.

I'm not meant to be like this. I'm meant to be the best at being a hard-hearted, brutal warrior. It's what I do. If I don't have that, who am I?

This property refused to be ignored. It oozed character, yet it didn't have the sort of atmosphere Vashti had expected when Jethro spoke of a haunted house. This unconventional mansion seemed to leak a thousand family memories into the ozone. Some of them happy, some of them sad. All of them powerful. None of them frightening. As she looked up at the uneven chimney pots and the once bright, now faded paint on the eaves, she envied the childhood Jethro must have had and the contrast to her own rigid upbringing. She was conscious of him watching her face, measuring her reaction. As if it mattered to him.

“It's—” she searched for the right word, sensing the importance of what she said next “—extraordinary.”

His expression held a world of memories. “Ordinary is certainly not a word I'd use to describe it. Shall we go inside?”

The front door gave a classic horror-movie creak as he opened it and stepped aside to let Vashti go first. She was inside a narrow hall, gloomy because of a thick film of dirt on the huge, arched window above the turn on the stairs. Motes of dust danced in the air and mingled in her nostrils with the scents of dried apples, wax candles and mildew. Old newspapers were stacked in piles on the uncarpeted stairs and leaves, blown in from outside, lay scattered over the worn floorboards. The paint on the walls was cracked and peeling, its original color an indeterminate shade somewhere between gray and green. If Jethro was serious about his parents living here, they needed to hire themselves a decent housekeeper.

“Through here.” He indicated a set of double doors to the left of the staircase. Vashti heard the breath he took, as if steeling himself for an ordeal, before he opened the doors and stepped inside.

The room they entered was a shabby museum piece, a perfectly preserved century-old parlor, cluttered with dark wood furniture, pictures, framed photographs and knickknacks. Worn velvet drapes hung at the windows and rugs were scattered in threadbare pools of faded color across the floor. A huge, black-leaded fireplace dominated one wall, although no blaze warmed the room. A large piano stood in one corner, its once glossy surface dull and dusty.

A woman was seated at a small table near the window. She was clad in a full-length, high-necked black gown, and there was an air of quiet elegance about her. Apparently unaware of their entrance, she continued dealing out cards from a pack at her elbow and studying each intently. She hummed a tune under her breath. As they drew closer, Vashti saw that the cards she drew were from a tarot pack.

“Bertha.” Jethro spoke her name with infinite gentleness.

She paused, tilting her head slightly as though listening for a distant sound. Without replying or acknowledging them, and without interrupting her humming, she returned to the cards.

“More and more often these days she retreats into her own world.”

The man who entered the room was tall, handsome and very old. Despite his age, he had a proud, upright bearing that made Vashti think he must have been a military commander in his younger years. As he moved forward, Vashti took in the faded blue of his eyes, the pallor of his skin and the graceful way he moved. She turned wide eyes to Jethro as realization hit her.

“But where are your manners, my son? Who is this lovely lady you have brought to visit us?”

Either his eyesight was fading or his old-fashioned courtesy prompted him to stretch a point. “Lovely” was the last word Vashti would have chosen to describe her bruised and battered appearance.

“This is Vashti.” She knew why he didn't use her title. Even here in the mortal realm, association with Moncoya could be dangerous. “My parents... Bertha and Gillespie de Loix.”

“You are welcome, my dear.” Gillespie bowed with old-fashioned courtesy. His eyes narrowed. Even without her title, her name was too well-known to escape attention. “I have heard of your father, of course.”

Although he was currently in exile, Moncoya was well-known throughout Otherworld. His fierce ambition had driven him to clash with most of the other leaders at some time or another. He wanted to be the undisputed ruler of all Otherworld. He made no secret of it. How could he, when he repeatedly invaded the lands inhabited by other dynasties? It was how the faerie territory had grown to be the largest and most powerful in Otherworld. It was why Moncoya was the most feared and hated of all the leaders.

Moncoya's political machinations were also legendary. His two main allies were the vampires and the wolves. Unsurprisingly, these were—apart from Moncoya himself—the most bloodthirsty and ambitious races in Otherworld. Moncoya switched allegiance as often as he changed his clothes. He thought nothing of signing a peace agreement one day and invading the territory of the dynasty with whom he had made the pact the next. But there was one dynasty he could not predict or manipulate. One ruler he could not outmaneuver. The ghost lord was one of the few leaders who was not an aggressor. For that reason Moncoya had misjudged him and thought he could be bullied. He was wrong. The ghostly realm had stayed quietly neutral throughout all the bloody conflicts that had marked the centuries of Moncoya's domination of Otherworld history.

So, it was no wonder that Gillespie de Loix had heard of her father. Because Gillespie de Loix was a ghost.

* * *

Jethro watched his mother out of the corner of his eye while his father talked to Vashti. It was a surreal situation. For obvious reasons he'd never pictured himself introducing anyone to his parents. He was shocked when he realized the way Gillespie's mind was working. Was it appropriate for Jethro to intervene and state this was not a bringing-a-girl-home-to-meet-the-folks thing? He decided to leave it alone. Vashti could look after herself. She might look like a delicate flower, but she had the hide of a rhino. And if Gillespie thought there were going to be bridesmaids and wedding bells in the near future...well, he'd have to think again. Jethro almost laughed aloud at the whole image, anyway. If he ever did get married—and that “if” wasn't just big, it was a yawning chasm of immensity—the groom's side of the church was going to take some explaining.

“Have you met the ghost lord?” Gillespie had gestured to Vashti to take a seat on the studded velvet sofa near the window. He had taken a winged chair at right angles to her. Jethro remained standing.

“I have not met the new leader of the ghosts, although I did meet his predecessor a few times. Before he went into exile, my father often entertained the leaders of the other dynasties.” Vashti smiled. “He believed in keeping his friends close and his enemies closer.”

Gillespie laughed. “I was under the impression Moncoya did not have many friends.”

“He liked to keep up the pretense.”

“So, our new leader—” Gillespie seemed reluctant to let the topic go. He tented his fingers under his chin, his eyes probing Vashti's face. “What have you heard about him?”

“Very little. The change has been recent and unexpected. All I have heard is the former leader grew tired of the machinations of those such as my father and Prince Tibor and decided it was time to retire. His replacement is well respected among the phantom race.” Jethro sensed she was choosing her words carefully and was surprised. Diplomacy was not a skill he associated with Vashti. “I always think those leaders who have followers in both Otherworld and the mortal realm have the hardest task. The vampire prince and the wolf pack leader are ruthless in their authority and, whenever there is a hint of trouble in the mortal realm, they are quick to stamp it out. It is more difficult for the ghost lord.”

“Why is that?” Gillespie's piercing eyes focused on her face.

“Because ghosts do not dwell in the mortal realm for the same reasons vampires and werewolves do. They do not come here to feed or for sexual gratification. Ghosts choose to be here for many reasons, as individual and personal as the lives they left behind. It is said the new ghost lord follows the example of the previous leader in doing a good job of respecting that. As long as his people do not transgress on the lives of the earthbound, he is content to allow them to live here in peace.”