Otherworld Challenger (8 page)

“I will consider it.” His expression told her he was serious. “Will I see you again, Vashti?”

“If you ever join the other leaders around the Alliance table, most certainly.”

He lifted his eyes to where Jethro—a silent, brooding figure—stood watching them. “That is not what I meant.”

Vashti felt the tell-tale blush creep into her cheeks. Oh, good heavens, how was she going to explain to this dear, sweet ghost that he shouldn't regard her as daughter-in-law material? She was surprised he couldn't pick up on the fact Jethro had no romantic inclinations toward her. Ghosts must be immune to those sorts of undercurrents. Or had he sensed she was attracted to his son? Was it a diplomatic way of probing her feelings?

“This is work.” Her voice was firm. “For both of us.”

* * *

Dusk was falling as Jethro cooked dinner while Vashti watched him. She got the feeling this was what he did to calm down after a bad day. He must have had days that were more violent and energetic, but he could not have had many as intense as the one he had just spent watching his mother climb out of her decline before spiraling back into it. A dozen questions rose to Vashti's lips but Jethro's expression was closed and distant. She knew that look. She had used it herself often enough.

Eventually he opened a bottle of red wine, poured two glasses and handed one to her. “Go ahead.”

Vashti didn't pretend to misunderstand him. “When did your parents die?”

He grinned at her, tilting his glass in a mock salute before gulping down half its contents. “Good question, and not the one I thought you'd go for first. What really you mean is ‘what's a nice mortal boy like me doing with a couple of ghosts for a mom and dad?'”

Vashti didn't answer. She was surprised to experience a pang of sympathy for him. He was trying to pick a fight with her, that much was obvious. Maybe she should let him take his anger out on her. She could be his verbal punch bag, if that was what he needed. Except she didn't think using her as a distraction from his emotions
was
what he needed. And there it was again. Since when had she become the expert on what was best for Jethro de Loix? When had he gone from being someone she hated to some who intrigued her, to someone whose feelings she cared about? And how the hell had the transition happened so fast?

The pause while she went through those thoughts seemed to work. Running a hand through his hair in the gesture he used to signal frustration, Jethro turned to gaze out the window at the darkened landscape. “Would you believe me if I told you their deaths happened almost a century ago?”

Treading carefully around the feelings of another person didn't come naturally to Vashti, but she understood what she said next mattered. More than mattered. It might make the difference between whether this intensely private man opened up to her—perhaps the only time he had ever opened up to anyone in his life—or clammed up forever. “I have no reason not to believe you, but I'm not sure I understand.”

He kept his face averted. “I'm not sure how long I've been alive.”

Vashti dug deep into her memory, dredging up everything she knew about necromancers. “Isn't it true that necromancers, although born mortal, will, along with their powers, have immortality conferred upon them?”

“Yes.”

“Forever is a long time. I don't know many immortals who count the passage of time in mortal years.” Jethro didn't respond. “Perhaps you are right. Asking how long ago your parents died was the wrong question. Tell me about your childhood.”

His laugh was bitter. “Oh, you're good. Whatever Moncoya did to try to destroy your fae-ness—is that what you call it?—it didn't work.”

He was trying to drive her away with his harshness, but she wasn't going anywhere. Among the many traits she had inherited from Moncoya, tenacity was the one she could put to good use in this situation. “Believe it or not, it did. I'm usually crap at intuition, but it must have been lying dormant inside me all along. Today, for some reason, it seems to have surfaced with a vengeance. You get to be on the receiving end.”

“What the fuck does that say about me? I'm such a sad specimen even the most unfeeling faerie around gets pity vibes from me?” Jethro's hand shook slightly as he took another gulp of wine. “Sorry, that was uncalled for. Okay, my childhood.” He shrugged. “It was unremarkable.”

Vashti tried a different approach. “You said the house was built for a wealthy landowner. What was his name?”

His eyes narrowed. This was it. He was either going to answer her or storm out into the night. After a moment, during which he appeared to be fighting an internal battle, Jethro gave a bleak laugh. “Let me serve this food and then we can eat while you interrogate me. How does that sound?”

Vashti hadn't realized she was hungry, but, at those words, her stomach gave a rumble so loud she was surprised Jethro didn't comment on it. “It sounds wonderful. On one condition.” He raised his brows. “I interrogate. You answer. Truthfully.”

“You are one bossy faerie. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Vashti grinned at him over the top of her wineglass. “All the time...but you're the first person to mention it today.”

* * *

Was he going to tell her? All of it? And why her? After a lifetime—and, let's face it, a bloody long one—of determinedly
not
sharing, why was he contemplating opening his heart to Moncoya's daughter, of all people?
Ridicule. Humiliation. Public scorn. Have those things been missing from your life? Because, once she knows, they will become a permanent feature. Everything you've worked so hard to avoid will be a reality.

At the same time as Jethro's rational self was trying to warn him against confiding in Vashti, something deep inside him, something basic and primeval, was refusing to listen. He didn't just
want
to tell her. He needed to. Had to. Had no choice. The force dragging him to her was like the pull of the earth's magnetic field. He could fight it, but it was a battle he was never going to win. He'd heard about faerie glamour, but having never seen it used or been on the receiving end of it, he'd always been skeptical about its potency. Was Vashti using it on him now? If she was, he suspected she didn't know. Which somehow made it more frightening.

When she didn't question him further as they ate, he actually found himself becoming impatient.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Having made the decision that he was going to do as she'd asked and tell her everything, he suddenly wanted to get on with it.

“This is delicious.” Vashti gestured to the plate of pasta in front of her. “You are full of surprises.”

“You're not exactly predictable yourself.” His eyes lingered on her face, enraptured by the purity of her complexion. An impulse to reach out his hand and run the back of it down her unbruised cheek—just to feel if her skin was as soft as it looked—surged through him and, with an almost superhuman effort, he fought it. Because he knew he wouldn't be able to stop there. He'd have to move on to check if those tempting lips tasted as sweet as they appeared. And if those high, pert breasts fitted into his hands as neatly as they did in his imagination...

“Do you?”

Jethro realized Vashti had asked him a question and he had no idea what it was. What the hell was going on here? He didn't do fantasizing about women. If he liked someone, and the feeling was mutual, they did something about it, then moved on. It was as uncomplicated as that. If the feeling wasn't mutual... He frowned. Had that ever happened? Not that he could recall. He wasn't vain. At least he didn't think he was. It was the way his life had always been until this damn faerie had come along. She wasn't even his type. Petite. Ethereal. Uptight. Know-it-all. Hell, she was the complete opposite of his type.

“Well?”

Oh, shit. She was still waiting for an answer to the question he hadn't heard.

Vashti frowned. “Are you listening to me?”

No point lying about it. He grinned. “No.” Gazing into her eyes, Jethro cursed himself for feeling the way he did right now. Something about
this
woman brought a range of new and disturbing emotions storming through him. His need for her was primal, raw and exposed. God knew, he was no stranger to sex, but he had never felt like this before. An insane, intense urge was driving him to carry her up those stairs, throw her down on his bed and bury himself inside her. To shut out the world and lose himself in her.

Vashti slumped back in her seat, regarding him in astonishment. “Why not?”

“Because I couldn't stop thinking about how much I wanted to do this.”

Her eyes widened as he leaned forward and, lifting his hand, ran his knuckles down her cheek. Her skin was as smooth and inviting as he'd imagined. When she didn't move away, he brought both hands up to cup her face, his touch gentle because of her bruises, drawing her to him so he could crush her lips beneath his. A tiny exclamation of surprise escaped Vashti before she twined her arms around his neck, pressing closer to him. His mouth caressed and demanded and he was delighted at the willingness with which her lips parted for him.

Hesitantly at first, Vashti's tongue met his, becoming bolder as they twisted and swirled in an ever more frenzied dance.

Jethro felt desire spiral harder and faster than anything he'd known before. Everything changed in that instant. Not just his relationship with this woman. Everything Jethro knew about himself, his world and his feelings shifted and was centered on this moment. On Vashti. There was nothing else. And, if he'd been frightened before, he was fucking terrified now.

He broke the kiss and moved away from her.

“What just happened?” Vashti's voice was husky, her eyes slightly unfocused.

“It was a kiss. That's all.” All? Who was he kidding? That had been
the
kiss. The one poets clutched their brows over and singers poured their hearts into lyrics about. That once-in-a-lifetime, perfect kiss. Why the hell did it have to happen to him with a woman he didn't even like?

“I know that. I meant...is it always like that?” A blush tinged her cheeks with pink, making her appear suddenly vulnerable.

“Haven't you ever kissed anyone before?”

Vashti shook her head shyly. “No. You have, I know.”

This was it. His way out. The coward's way. He grabbed it. “Yeah, hundreds of times. It's pretty much always the same. No big deal.”

Surely he was about to be struck down for a lie of such enormity? Nothing. No thunderbolt, no pit of hell opening beneath his feet. Of course, he was in deep shit when she kissed someone else and discovered the truth, but Jethro comforted himself with the thought that he was unlikely to be around at the time.

“Oh.” Her long lashes swept down, hiding her eyes momentarily. “So you mortals do that sort of thing all the time?”

“Yes.” He decided to drive the message home further. “It doesn't mean anything.”

The lashes lifted. Those eyes were like headlamps pinning him in their glare. “In that case, can we do it again?”

Jethro tried to maintain his blasé attitude. It was a task made more difficult when her words prompted an instant erection so enormous it seemed to be making its own superhuman efforts to break free from the restraining confines of his jeans. It made even talking a monumentally difficult task. Because there was nothing in the world he wanted to do more than to kiss Vashti again. Except keep kissing her, then maybe take her by the hand and lead her up the spiral staircase to his bedroom...

“I'm going for a run.” Anything to take his mind off the throbbing ache in his groin.

“Okay.” Should his ego be dented by the fact she didn't appear the least bit concerned? One minute she wanted to kiss him again, the next she was scraping her chair back from the table as if nothing had happened.
I thought I was more memorable than that.
It seemed an encounter with a faerie princess was an effective way of deflating his ego...but not his cock. That remained stubbornly hopeful. “I'll come with you.”

“No!” He needed to put some distance between them. “I prefer to run alone.”

Vashti shot him a sidelong glance. “I'll clean up here.” He'd almost made it to the staircase when her voice halted him. “And, Jethro? I don't know if the kiss was meant to be a distraction. If it was, it was a pretty successful one, but I haven't forgotten. You still owe me some answers.”

Chapter 7

Y
ou still owe me some answers
. Vashti pressed her fingertips to her lips long after Jethro had departed the house.
Leaving aside your strange family life, Jethro, let's start with how you can kiss someone like that and walk away completely unaffected
. How could he be unaware he had turned her life upside down with that first touch of his lips?

Mortals do that all the time? It doesn't mean anything?
She gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. If that was the case, why was her whole body on fire with a restless, burning longing, the source of which she didn't understand, but at which she could hazard a pretty good guess?
I'm not mortal, so perhaps that's why I felt it so powerfully? Who cares? You made me want you, Jethro de Loix. Not only that, you made me determined to have you.
Her chin tilted stubbornly.
You don't know me very well...but, when I want something, I get pretty tenacious about it.

How long could one man run for on an island this size? And what was he running from? It was fully dark now and Vashti gazed out the full-length window. The bay was an inky nothingness, lit only by the moon. Jethro must know the path around the island's perimeter like the back of his hand to be able to do this. She was glad now he had gone without her. Glad of this time away from him to gather her thoughts. It hadn't made her change her mind about her feelings toward him, it had just calmed the raging need to hurl herself at him and beg him to kiss her again. She was glad she had found the strength to restrain herself when he'd refused. It had been difficult, but she had managed it. Moncoya had taught his daughters to behave with dignity at all times. She doubted her father had been thinking of quite such an occasion as this when he'd insisted on etiquette lessons. Nevertheless, she silently thanked him.

To her surprise, about an hour after he had set off, Jethro came down the spiral staircase. Clearly having just emerged from the shower, he was clad only in sweatpants and had a towel slung around his shoulders. The hair on his hard-muscled chest curled damply and the ridges of his abdomen rippled as he moved. It took every ounce of restraint Vashti possessed not to throw herself at him and crawl all over him like an out-of-control kitten. She attempted to view the situation dispassionately. Vashti had always ruthlessly suppressed her own femininity. As she'd grown up, she had been as disappointed as Moncoya that she was not the son he craved. Most of her life had been spent trying to prove she could do anything a man could do. And more. Now, all of a sudden, she found herself rejoicing in the fact she was a woman. Because she wanted this man with a fierceness that was sweet agony.
I might just not mention it to him yet.
Her newfound intuition was working overtime.

“I thought there was only one door.”

Barefoot, Jethro crossed the kitchen to the coffee machine. “No, you can get into my bedroom through the deck on the upper floor.”

He held up the coffeepot in invitation and Vashti nodded. It was incredible the way his presence filled a room. As if every speck of light and matter was suddenly concentrated on him and everything else faded into nothingness.
Is it just me he has that effect on?
She decided not. She had witnessed firsthand his effect on other women.
I am one of many.
The thought didn't enhance her self-esteem. Then Jethro smiled at her as he handed her a mug of coffee and nothing else mattered.

They took their drinks over to the sofa in the family room. “You wanted answers.”

“And you wanted to avoid giving them.”
Is it weird we're sitting this close and not mentioning the kiss? Is he even thinking of the kiss? How can he
not
be thinking of the kiss?
She was lurching from one emotional high to another without pausing for breath. It was the most exhilarating yet alarming thing she had ever experienced. Like being on an out-of-control roller-coaster ride.

“I'm not great at a lot of things. I don't do opening up to other people. I don't do love.” He turned side-on so he could watch her face. When she didn't respond to that blatant warning, he continued. “And I'm not great at sharing.”

“I can relate to that.” She shot him a glance that was pure mischief. “As a child my motto was always ‘Why have half a cake, when you can grab the whole thing and outrun your twin sister.'”

Jethro's laughter was infectious. “Let me ask you something.”

Vashti frowned. “When did that become part of the deal?”

He grinned. “Do we have a deal? It seems I'm not the only one who doesn't like questions.”

She made an attempt at appearing casual. “Ask away.”

The grin deepened.
Damn the man.
He clearly wasn't fooled by her fake nonchalance. “Why does it matter?”

The confusion she felt must have appeared on her face, because Jethro clarified, “Why do you want to know about my life?”

Ah. It was a good question. One she should spend a little time considering carefully. “Because Bertha and Gillespie fascinate me.”

It was true. It just wasn't the whole truth. Although she was being unfair to herself by dismissing her interest as being just about Jethro. Bertha had clearly had some involvement, however minor, in the life of the true heir to the faerie crown. It was frustrating Jethro had been unable to discover the extent of his mother's knowledge. But did that mean they'd reached a dead end with this line of inquiry? Only by finding out more about his fascinating family could she learn the answer to that question.

“Okay. Ask away.”

Vashti studied his face briefly, an occupation that did strange things to her heart rate. His expression was unguarded, yet it gave her no clue about his feelings. What had brought about this sudden change in approach? From extreme reluctance to easy openness. Was it the kiss or the run that had changed things? Or something else of which she was unaware? She returned to the question she had asked before dinner. “What was the name of the wealthy landowner who built the house we visited today?”

Jethro's eyes were fathomless pools of darkness. “I think you've already figured that out.”

Vashti went with what her instincts were telling her. “Very well. If I'm right, his name was Gillespie de Loix. Did you father build the house in 1830?”

It was as if her words released a world of tension inside him. Although they were more than a foot apart, she felt his whole body relax. “Yes.”

The next question followed seamlessly. “How long after that did you run into the gatepost?”

“You are scarily good at getting to the point.” There was a pause then Jethro released the long, shuddering breath he'd been holding. “It was the day we moved in.”

* * *

“So you were a young child in 1830, but you don't know exactly how old you were?”

Jethro had decided he needed whiskey instead of coffee and he came through from the kitchen carrying a bottle, an ice bucket and two glasses. Resuming his seat on the sofa, he set the glasses down on the table and commenced pouring them both a hefty measure of the amber-colored liquor.

“No. I've never known that.” Jethro tilted his head back on the cushions so he was looking at the ceiling. “I don't believe Bertha and Gillespie were my real parents.”

“Ah.” That explained a lot, while deepening the mystery. “Did you ever ask them outright if you were adopted?”

“I tried to raise the subject once or twice, but it wasn't easy. They loved me very much, you see.” A reminiscent smile twisted his lips and he sat straighter so he could take a drink. “And they gave me everything a child could have wanted. It always felt like a betrayal to cross-examine them about my birth. As though I was saying they weren't enough for me. Does that make sense?”

“Yet they must have anticipated you would want to know.”

“I'm not so sure. For a number of reasons. First, there would have been nothing formal about my adoption. Think about it. As you've so astutely figured out, I was born before 1830. How long before is anyone's guess. There were no adoption laws back then.”

Vashti wrinkled her brow in confusion. “I have to confess I struggle with the concept of mortal time. We are talking many mortal years between then and now, I take it?”

“Several mortal lifetimes. So, however it was that I came to live with Bertha and Gillespie, it is highly unlikely there was any legal contract involved. Although I don't know exactly how old I was when we moved into the old house, I have always believed I was born in about 1825.”

Because his face was in shadow, Vashti couldn't read his expression. “What makes you think that?”

“I'm a necromancer. Our immortality works in a specific way. We progress into adulthood at a normal rate and then simply stop aging. That day in 1830 is my earliest memory, so I guess I was born not long before that.”

“You must have inherited your necromancing powers from your birth parents.” It was a fascinating story, one that went some way toward explaining the enigma that was Jethro de Loix.

“From one or both of them. I'm one of the strongest necromancers around, part of an elite group that includes Stella, Cal and Lorcan—and Iago—so it's possible they both had the power.”

“You said there were other reasons that led you to believe Bertha and Gillespie might not have expected you to ask questions about your birth parents,” Vashti reminded him.

“Yes. And those are to do with my necromancing powers. I think I was under some sort of spell during my childhood. A spell that was intended to suppress my abilities. It's precisely because I
am
so powerful that my abilities were able to override the spell.” He sighed, leaning back again. “I've been over and over it. I think it's possible Bertha was so desperate for a child—and Gillespie would do anything to make her happy—that she tried to erase all trace of my background so I wouldn't ask questions.”

“But you did question it?” Vashti had never drunk whiskey before. It was having a curious effect, spreading mellow warmth through her veins.

“It was hard not to. They were so old, you see. It was obvious Bertha adored children. She'd devoted her whole life to them, yet she had none of her own. It didn't take much imagination to work out she couldn't have a child of her own. There was no way I was the late arrival in their lives they claimed. I wish I had been. If anyone deserved happiness, it was them.” He took a long slug of his drink. “Then Bertha's mind started to go and it wasn't possible to ask her anything. You saw what she was like.”

“When did they die?”

“They were killed in 1918. I was away, fighting on the Western Front in Europe.” At Vashti's look of confusion, he explained further. “The mortal realm was involved in a great war and I fought as an enlisted soldier. When I returned home, it was to find Bertha and Gillespie had been brutally murdered.”

“My God! Who did it?”

“I never found out, but I will never stop trying.” Jethro turned his head on the cushions so he was looking directly at her. His face was a mask of sorrow. “This is harder than I imagined it would be. I've never spoken about it before.”

Her eyes widened. There it was again. That huge weight of responsibility. The importance of getting it right. “Is that why they stayed? Because they have unfinished business here?”

“They didn't remain in the mortal realm out of any desire for revenge. Even in death, she refused to leave the house she loved. And she couldn't let go of the charity work to which she'd devoted her life.” His laughter was affectionate, the sadness gone now. “She insisted on being around to make sure her good work continued. Over the years, Gillespie became more involved in what was happening in the Ghost realm in Otherworld, but Bertha has steadfastly refused to leave here. Her mind had started to deteriorate when she was alive, and strangely, the decline continued after her death. Even when the dementia took a hold so firm she was scarcely recognizable as the strong woman we once knew, she made us promise we would never make her leave her home. Which is why Gillespie is still adamant she must be allowed to stay.”

“And the fire you spoke of? That really was an arson attack?”

“I think so. It happened a few years ago on Halloween—” he groaned at her confused expression “—talking to you is like a minefield. I feel like I have to start every conversation with Mortal Culture 101...”

“You do know I have no idea what you are talking about, right?”

“Introductory college classes are traditionally numbered 101. It was my feeble attempt at a joke.”

“And Halloween?”

“Much more interesting. Essentially, it is the Celtic pagan festival of Samhain, which celebrates the end of harvest season. It is the time when the walls between our world and the next become porous, allowing spirits to pass through. They return to life on the day of Samhain to bring mischief to the mortal realm. The name Halloween comes from the words All Hallows Eve. It has become a commercialized festival in recent years.”

“Sounds like a lot of fun. Particularly if the burning of houses is involved.”

“As I told you, the house has always attracted a lot of superstitious attention locally. That intensifies around Halloween, which, coincidentally, is tomorrow night. I believe it was a random act of vandalism. Am I sure?” He shrugged. “As far as I can be. So there you have it. My life story...what I know of it.”

Vashti scanned his shadowed features. Why did she get the feeling he was still keeping something from her?

“Any questions?”

“Just one.” Jethro quirked a brow at her. “Why did you change your mind and decide to tell me this, after all?”

Instead of answering he leaned closer, reaching for her hand. “Because I think there is an affinity between us.”