by Cory Barclay
“I remember her eyes flashing blue one time, in anger,” Steve said. “But what do the Reynolds family have to do with Edgar?”
“Don’t interrupt me again,” Lig said flatly. “Just shut up and listen.”
Steve nodded, pantomiming zipping his mouth shut.
“Undines resemble humans, but they lack a human soul. As such, Jareth wanted to help Dosira reach her fullest potential—he wanted to present her a soul. But the only way she could get one is by coupling her with a human. Jareth is not that.”
He cleared his throat and rested one leg over the other, getting into a more comfortable position. Resting his hands on his lap, he resembled a psychiatrist questioning a patient. “So, Jareth met Edgar and tricked him, if you will. Edgar was vulnerable after the death of his beloved wife, Virginia. Jareth befriended Edgar and brought him to this magical place called Mythicus. It fueled Edgar’s imagination to no end. The entire time Edgar was here, Jareth tried to get the writer to fall for Dosira. His plan was to have Edgar copulate with Dosira, to give her a human soul and spirit, and then do away with the poet.
“But that’s where things took a turn. Because our Edgar laid eyes on our Annabel.”
Steve sighed in amazement, his eyes widening. He was starting to understand where this convoluted story was going.
“And, as I’m sure you know, Annabel and Edgar had a fiery, passionate affair with one another—”
“Yes, yes,” Steve said, waving Lig onward past the gritty details he didn’t want to hear. “I know that part.”
Lig smirked. “When Jareth found out what his old friend’s daughter had done, he flew into a rage, as he is predisposed to do. He had Edgar ousted from Mythicus and returned to Terrus. The poet lived out the rest of his short life in despair, always wanting to return here, but never being able to. I suppose it drove him to madness, as Mythicus does to so many. Once you’ve found a magical new world and then are cast away from it, that must have a devastating impact on your mental stability.”
“I’m sure,” Steve muttered. He was thinking: It wasn’t Annabel’s parents that sent Edgar away, like she thought. She’s held that grudge against them for so long, but she doesn’t know that it was Jareth Reynolds! This is something I can use . . . though it doesn’t directly relate to her husband-to-be.
To make sure, Steve said, “So, Tiberius Reynolds had nothing to do with Edgar’s disappearance?”
Lig tilted his head to the side. “How could he? He wasn’t even born yet. Remember, this was over a hundred and fifty years ago, wafer-man.”
“Right. Of course.”
“But you will see from this,” Lig added, reaching into his tunic, “that what I say must be true.” He presented a piece of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to Steve.
It was a letter—or possibly a final confession of some kind.
“I found that in my master’s quarters, hidden away with other documents he deems important.”
It was dated October 25, 1849.
Lig said, “Edgar died on October 7, eighteen days before that was written.”
The letter explained that Edgar Allan Poe had been found roaming the streets in Baltimore, delirious, on October 3, 1849. The man who penned this letter, Joseph W. Walker, had found Edgar “in great distress and in need of immediate assistance.” Walker said Poe was wearing clothes that weren’t his. He was incoherent, and was said to have repeatedly called out the name “Reynolds” on the night before his death. Following the urgent calling out of “Reynolds,” Poe’s last words were: “Lord help my poor soul.”
Steve wondered to whom this letter was intended. Anyone who would listen?
To Steve, this was a revelation.
Poe had called out Jareth Reynolds’ name before dying, either in frustration, pity, or as a final God-Damning.
Either way, Steve thought he could use this. He could tell Annabel her parents were innocent of quashing her love with Edgar Allan Poe—that the family she is marrying into was responsible.
But will it be enough to help call off the wedding?
Steve’s enlightened feeling shifted. This could help her conscience, but how could it dissuade her parents from ending the wedding? It won’t.
Hell, Constantin clearly knows all this already. Perhaps the Reynolds family does, too.
“What’s wrong?” Lig asked.
“What do you mean?” Steve said, looking up fearfully.
“Your face went from ecstatic to frightened in the blink of an eye. Is this information worthless to you?”
Steve sighed. “No, I’m just not sure how I can use it yet.”
A creaking sound rolled through the house, coming from upstairs.
Steve caught his breath. It was the floorboards from the second level.
He shot his gaze to Lig, who also had wide eyes.
“You must leave!” the brownie shout-whispered.
“Is it already nighttime?” Steve questioned, but he was moving toward the front door even as he spoke.
“Do you have something for me?” Lig asked when Steve was standing outside the front door. The last remnants of day lit the pink sky. Twilight was fast approaching.
Steve reached into his pocket and came out with a few cold, buttered shrimp. “I’m sorry, it’s the least I could get on short notice.”
But Lig’s eyes gleamed. “I love butter.”
Steve narrowed his eyes. “In that case,” he said, handing over the shrimp to the greedy little man, “I have another favor to ask. There’s much more butter in it for you.”
“What is it?” Lig asked skeptically. He glanced behind him to make sure no vampires were lurking.
“I need you to set up a meeting with Fueda. I need to sneak into the Reynolds’ household, and I need you to come with me.”
“Why?”
“Because I need you to confirm something for me.”
Before he left, he told Lig what he was thinking—including a harrowing presumption he knew could have drastic consequences.
Lig responded by shaking his head sadly. “If you’re right about this, butter-man, it could spell death all around us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Night fell on the land. Steve only had three more days before the wedding. He had one clue Lig had given him, concerning Edgar Allan Poe’s death and Jareth Reynolds’ involvement. But that wouldn’t be enough to sway the direction of upcoming events. He needed something more, something substantial. He had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind he could no longer ignore.
The letter penned by Joseph W. Walker would hopefully be enough to clear Annabel’s conscience and make her forgive her parents. If they even deserved her forgiveness, however, was another question entirely.
He needed something strong enough to ruin the upcoming wedding—to destroy the alliance between the Reynolds family and the Lees. If he was wrong about what he’d told Lig, he knew brute force might be his only other option. Which was never his way, of course. And he doubted the Kinship would get involved in his petty situation. They had bigger problems, like dealing with the regime ruling their land. One human’s moaning about losing his lover would not persuade them to help him.
He was on his own.
He also wasn’t sure he wanted to be right about his speculation. It would be devastating . . . to one person in particular.
He left the Lee estate and escaped back into the undergrowth and trees, hiding and waiting for Lig to come out. He only had until morning to finish here: he’d told Geddon and the rest to “go on without him” if he wasn’t back by then.
He hoped Geddon hadn’t come up with any brash ideas, like ambushing Overseer Malachite’s entourage before it got down here.
Steve doubted the Kinship would have the means or nerve to try something that dangerous. The Overseer would likely have guards protecting him and his prisoner, while the Kinship was severely lacking in numbers.
Steve still didn’t know the outcome of the Orange County battle—if Barns or Ulu
Koa or the rest of the Nawao were still alive or not. He had an itching suspicion they weren’t.
After waiting for two hours in the thickets and branches, Steve started to give up hope. Then he felt a presence, turned and faced the driveway, and saw Annabel approaching. She shuffled along slowly, her head hung low.
Steve’s heart ached at seeing her so forlorn. He stood from his hiding spot and almost gave himself away, but then thought better of it.
It was one of the hardest things to do—not going to Annabel and taking her in his arms. He wanted to tell her what he’d learned about her parents and their involvement with Edgar Allan Poe, the man whose final poem had been named after her. Though it might not do any good, and might have the opposite effect. Learning something so drastic would invite questions from Annabel, such as, “Why were you interested in learning about my past? What gives you the right?”
Steve had no good answer to that. He didn’t want to explain his strategy to Annabel. Not now. Not until his plan was complete.
He feared Constantin and Mariana were roaming around the house, perhaps even hiding in the windows. He couldn’t give himself away.
So, he waited. Painfully, he waited.
By the time he decided he didn’t even care anymore—that he just wanted to feel her touch and talk to her, it was too late. She’d already made it to the door.
She went inside without a word and closed the door behind her.
Another hour passed. Then another. After four hours of waiting in the same cramped, tight spot, Steve was ridiculously antsy. He felt Lig would never get the chance to escape.
What if he was caught? Steve wondered with a sinking feeling.
Just then, a small form crept out from the shadows from the side of the house. Lig made his way to the trees.
“I never thought I’d be so glad to see your wrinkly face, Lig,” Steve said when the brownie had cozied up next to him.
Lig frowned. “I’m doing this for Annabel’s sake, not yours.”
Steve shrugged. “All the same.” He knew Lig was trying to be a tough guy, but he suspected that, deep down, Lig was trying to help him.
They left Steve’s homemade hovel and disappeared deeper into the woods.
They were in total darkness, led only by Lig’s tiny footprints. It was another reason Steve had wanted Lig to come along, so he wouldn’t get lost wandering in the woods.
When they came to a clearing, Steve recognized the pond where he’d first met Ulu Koa and the Nawao warriors.
As they made it halfway through the clearing, they heard a rustling to their left and spun around.
The jig’s up, Steve immediately thought. We’ve been discovered and we’re both dead!
A woman appeared from the swaying trees, her fair, naked body highlighted by the moon.
Steve identified her as the lover of the werewolf Tiberius had killed.
“It’s you!” he shouted, breaking the peaceful silence of the woods. Tired birds cawed into the air. Lig scolded him with a slap to the shin. He fell quiet and ducked, as if he would be less noticeable if he were lower to the ground.
The woman put her arms over her chest and huffed. “You haven’t helped me kill my lover’s murderers.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Steve stammered, “I’ve been . . . busy.” He knew how lame it sounded, but he hoped his voice came across as sympathetic. He really did care about bringing down Tiberius and Jareth Reynolds, just not in the way she thought.
“I hate excuses,” the woman said.
“I truly am sorry,” Steve repeated, “but we’re going to take care of the situation as we speak. I swear.”
The woman stared at Steve with her brilliant yellow eyes, until her nakedness made Steve uncomfortable. She had a lithe, young figure, and it was hard for him to look away, but he did.
“I-If you wish,” Steve said, “you could join us. I’m sure you know your way around these woods better than we do.”
Lig scowled, but said nothing.
To Steve’s surprise, the woman asked, “You are going to the den of those killers?”
Steve nodded.
“I will take you as far as there, to make sure you are telling me the truth.”
“Very well,” Steve said. The trio left the clearing and delved back into the woods.
As they walked, Steve started taking off his shirt.
“What are you doing?” Lig asked.
“I think she could use some clothes, don’t you?” Steve asked as his eyes glanced at the woman’s ass.
Lig shrugged. “I don’t see why that’s necessary.” He had an entranced look on his face, lost on the same subject as Steve. It made Steve smile—even though Lig was an elderly brownie, he was still a male, first and foremost.
Steve walked up beside the woman and handed the shirt to her.
“What’s this?” she asked, not taking the shirt.
“Wouldn’t you like some clothes to cover yourself?”
The woman scoffed. “Save your chivalry for someone else. I don’t need or want your clothes. I am one with nature.”
Steve sighed. He shrugged and put his shirt back on. He’d tried to be a Good Samaritan.
Oh well. He wasn’t going to complain about the view.
As they neared the Reynolds’ house, he said to the woman, “You’ve still never told me your name.”
“It is Fuscia.”
Steve smiled. “A pleasure, Fuscia. That’s a beautiful name. I’m Steve.”
“I assumed it was Wafer-Man.”
Steve’s smile disappeared and he glared at Lig. The brownie was smiling triumphantly.
They walked a little longer, then they were clear of the trees. Steve pushed past a low-hanging branch and emerged onto the driveway of the Reynolds’ estate.
“This is where we part company,” Fuscia said, “but I shall keep my eyes on you.” Before Steve could retort, she had vanished back into the woods.
“Strange woman,” Lig said once she was gone.
“I like her,” Steve said. “She is straightforward and—”
“You just wanted to keep staring at her breasts and backside.”
Steve shrugged. “Well, there’s that, too.”
They faced the house, which was about thirty yards in the distance. They put their game faces on and Lig said, “I will find Fueda and come back to find you.”
“I’m coming with you,” Steve said firmly.
“I can’t advise that. You’re too loud.”
“Yes, but I also know the secret tunnels and passageways. In this one instance, I think you’re more likely to get caught than I am.”
“I doubt it,” Lig said.
Steve wasn’t going to let Lig talk him out of it. “I also know about the hidden entrance into the house. If we’re lucky, we’ll be in and out before anyone even knows we’re there.”
“And what about Fueda? Don’t you need to speak with her?”
Steve shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t think it’s necessary. You’re the only person I absolutely need.”
“I’m flattered,” Lig said in a deprecating way.
They kept to the shadows of the overhanging branches, walking slowly down the driveway.
They submerged themselves back into the woods and emerged around the side of the large house. Staring at the windows, Steve could tell the main room of the house was occupied. Orange, candlelit flames illuminated the first-level windows.
“I think they’re having supper,” Steve whispered as he ducked low and went back into the woods.
“Then where are you going? Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Just trust—follow me.” Steve waved Lig on. They ventured away from the house, about a hundred yards east.
At first Steve thought he was lost—nothing around him seemed to ring a bell. Then he tripped over a branch, stumbled, and gazed into the dark cave entrance when he rose. He smiled as he dusted himself off.
“Why are you smiling so?” Lig
asked. “It’s unnerving.”
“This is it,” Steve said, spreading his arms out wide at the hidden entryway. They both disappeared into the cave entrance.
It went on forever, and before long not even the moon could light their way. Lig had eyesight better tuned to pitch-darkness, so he took the lead.
They were in the same tunnel Steve had used to escape from the house after eavesdropping on Constantin and Jareth’s dinner.
Eventually, they came to a door. Steve held his breath as he tried the handle, then exhaled with relief when it creaked open.
Once inside, the cold chill no longer bit at their skin. Steve left the door slightly ajar, in case they needed to make a rapid escape.
They were in a storage room of some kind, with crates stacked on top of each other in the corners. Steve went to the next door, opened it, and he found himself in the wide, long kitchen area. A small candle shuddered on an island in the middle of the kitchen.
Steve’s heart pounded in his chest as he took the candle. Almost as soon as he lifted it from its place, a door overhead squeaked open.
Lig gasped and Steve ran from the candle and hid behind the island, next to the brownie. He waited, trying to calm himself, though the effort was dizzying. Then he slowly put his eyes over the edge of the island and glanced at the staircase.
In the darkness, Lig noticed the small form before he did. He jumped out from behind the center island and startled Fueda unintentionally.
She had a plate in her hands, and when she laid eyes on Lig, her arms went up and the plate flew into the air.
Steve cried out wordlessly, his eyes following the plate as it moved in slow motion—up into the air and then down . . .
He dove.
He splayed his body horizontally and groaned as he thudded, stomach first, his chin bouncing off the ground. When the dust settled, the plate was in his outstretched hands.
He’d caught it before it smashed into pieces, thus eliminating a possible giveaway to his and Lig’s presence.
“What in all foolishness are you doing here?” Fueda exploded in a harsh whisper, turning to glance over her shoulder at the staircase.
Lig didn’t give her a chance to get angry. He smoothly slid forward, took the little woman in his arms, and kissed her. Her anger disappeared as rapidly as it had come. She was smitten by Lig’s tender touch.