by Cory Barclay
The shouting died down as Jareth Reynolds stepped forward from the crowd. “This is a matter that should be discussed at our next Council meeting, my lord.”
Constantin gritted his teeth. He wanted to argue. But that would just bring them back to square one. It was clear he wasn’t going to get the marriage annulled on the spot, as he’d hoped. He would have to accommodate these fools for a little while longer. Maybe he could gain some friends within the Council who would support him . . . then he could make his move to break apart Annabel and Tiberius’ marriage.
“Hey,” another voice said, confused. “Where is my wife, anyway?”
Constantin felt his stomach drop. He turned and faced Tiberius, who was looking around the ballroom for Annabel.
As Tiberius scratched his head, Constantin opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off.
“Guests and friends!” Lady Nersi called from the stage. All eyes turned to her. She sashayed down the steps of the stage and came to stand within the group of people. The lower-born folk ogled and gawked at her, while the Council members eyed her bemusedly. A few of them had suspicious looks on their faces.
“If we can get back on track, I’d like to hold a private, intimate song and dance for our illustrious Overseer. In return for his gracious hospitality and invitation.”
A few chuckles broke through the stuffy tension. It was clear the siren was trying to alleviate the situation.
Constantin raised a single eyebrow at Nersi. He tried to gauge her loyalties. To him, it seemed she had saved him from the danger of having to explain where his daughter was. She was trying to focus the attention back on herself . . . almost as if she knew what Annabel was up to.
But how could she?
On the other hand, she could have simply been trying to calm the fiery moods of the partygoers.
“I like this idea,” the Overseer said, his eye twinkling with lust as he stared at the siren.
“Does that mean everyone should leave the room?” Constantin asked.
“Of course not,” Nersi said, shaking her head. Her golden hair swayed back and forth, mesmerizing half the crowd. “But if everyone would spread apart from this center aisle.” She put her palms together and then separated them, indicating where the crowd should split.
A few Council members grumbled their disapproval at being told what to do, especially by a woman. They glanced at Overseer Malachite. He gave a nod. The crowd split in the middle, without rhyme or reason, and formed a circle with an empty center walkway.
Charlene came to stand a bit behind Nersi, a flute in her hands. No one had paid much attention to the blue-haired girl.
“Gentlemen, something cheery, please.” Nersi inclined her head toward the musicians in the corner. After a few head scratches, they started playing, trying to get into the rhythm of things.
The song started with a single violin line. It was a high, upbeat melody. Before long, the other instrumentalists had entered the fray to play notes over it. The song was beautiful and modern, an escape from the classical and jazzy tunes they’d been playing up until then.
Almost immediately as the music started, Nersi struck a pose. Her sudden movement brought a few delighted yelps from the crowd. She gyrated her hips and ambled down the walkway, her arms and body weaving along with the tune. If anyone in the room had seen Terrus before, they’d have known what she was doing: belly dancing. But she doubted anyone in this room had experienced belly dancing before.
Overseer Malachite smiled and took his chair on the raised platform in front of Nersi. He leaned back, enjoying the pleasurable sight of a beautiful woman dancing seductively toward him.
Charlene put her flute to her mouth and started popping in notes along the edges of the musicians’ song. A few women in the audience held their hands together in glee, eager to see what would happen next.
It didn’t take long for Nersi to have the whole room mesmerized by her swaying hips and shoulders and arms. Her full, red lips curved upward in a small, satisfied smile. She didn’t take her eyes away from Overseer Malachite the entire time.
When she made it to one end of the clearing, she would pirouette or gyrate a certain way in the other direction. She did this a few times, all while the music accompanied her.
With the exception of the upbeat music and the pitter-patter of Nersi’s feet against the floor, the ballroom had fallen still and quiet.
Nersi worked the stage masterfully. It was a true testament to her ability to be able to defuse the volatile situation with song and dance.
Even Constantin was entranced.
At one point, the music died down and came toward its natural conclusion. As it did, Nersi drew closer to the raised dais and glanced up at the Overseer.
As the music stopped, she crouched. The last note rang out, then cut to silence. Before anyone could clap or cheer, Nersi leaped from the ground, landing on the dais effortlessly. More startled sounds rose from the bystanders.
Once she was on the dais, in dancing formation, the musicians abruptly broke into another tune. It was clearly not time to let the music die.
Nersi was just getting started.
She danced like a possessed pixie, winding her body around like a snake. Her smile grew more pronounced as she neared Malachite and the music got louder.
And louder.
By the time she turned and faced the crowd, her arms spread out like an eagle’s wings, the music had reached a voluminous crescendo. The beautiful sounds occupied the entire space of the room.
Nersi spun back around to the Overseer, took a few steps, and was standing directly in front of him. It drew a few idle chuckles from the crowd. He was a single widow, after all . . .
At the other end of the walkway, Charlene’s eyes were closed. She was completely lost in the moment as she played along with her flute.
In a flash, something appeared in Nersi’s hand. She smiled wide and leaned forward, toward the Overseer. Her curvy backside stuck out for the crowd to see. She got a few cheers for the provocative move. Some of the women had to slap their lordly husbands’ arms.
She whispered sweet nothings to the Overseer, something only he could hear . . .
The smug, languid expression on Malachite’s face slowly disappeared. He squinted up at Nersi again.
Something flashed in Nersi’s hand again, in front of the Overseer. The light from the candlelit fixtures above glinted silver, reflecting out toward the crowd.
Overseer Malachite’s eyes bulged.
Nersi twisted to her full height, shaking her ass as she rose. Then she backpedaled.
Overseer Malachite coughed. It wasn’t enough to break the reverie en masse.
Then he made a strange, inhuman sound. People finally glanced away from the siren and looked to him.
A few shocked cries rang out.
A confused expression overtook Overseer Malachite’s face. Baffled, his hand shot up to his neck, where he felt a spider bite or something similar.
From the small wound, blood spilled in rivulets down his neck.
The shocked cries grew louder and the music abruptly stopped.
Nersi’s coquettish face changed in an instant, becoming hard and focused on the crowd below her. She tried to cover whatever she held with her palm, but a few droplets of blood fell onto the wooden floor.
She took one look down the empty walkway, at Charlene, who seemed shocked and dumbfounded. The walkway closed as bodies competed for space. She lost sight of her blue-haired friend.
She turned around and faced Malachite. She was less than five feet from him, while the nearest blackguard or lord would have to leap up to the dais to get to her.
They’d never get there in time.
Lifting her finger, she pointed the thin, almost invisible dagger at the Overseer of Soreltris.
By now, the blood rushing down his neck had pooled in his hand as he held pressure on the tiny wound and tried to stop the incessant bleeding.
Malachite opened his mouth
to say something, but no words came out. He was mute, either from shock or from blood loss.
“This is for what you’ve done to my people, you wicked monster!” Nersi announced, taking a step forward. She raised her hand and prepared to finish the deed, thus ending the reign of Overseer Malachite, Richard Remington.
A cold sensation touched her outstretched hand as she brought the dagger down to slice Malachite across the throat.
The coldness turned to warmth, then astounding heat, in an instant. She cried out and dropped her dagger, lest it burn right through her hand.
She heard a whoosh and furrowed her brow confusedly as she gazed at her hand. It was turning blue and she could smell burning flesh.
It wasn’t turning blue, though—that was the oxygen sucking away.
In a moment of clarity, she realized her hand was on fire.
She screamed and took her hand to her white dress, trying to smother the flame.
Another whoosh sounded to her side and she turned to see where the sound came from.
Jareth Reynolds was at the side of the dais, running up the stairs, his hand outstretched. His fingers glowed red and orange from the flames emanating from within. He pushed his hand out and another fireball erupted from his fingers and palm, like a living thing, flying toward Nersi.
When it reached her, it didn’t explode—it made a soft sound, like gas and wind catching a burning kindle. The fire caught around her and before she knew it her dress was aflame, burning from the hems up.
Tears stung Nersi’s eyes as she cried out and tried to step back to flee. Her tears boiled and the streaks were burnt on her face, embedded in her skin. Her vision went blurry, as if she was staring into a roaring bonfire.
When Jareth reached the top of the dais, his face twisted and melted away. In its place was a demonic countenance straight from the depths of Hell itself. His entire body erupted in flames, engulfing his clothes. His hands became blackened and clawed.
He reached out to touch Nersi with his fiery, clawed hand. She yelled as he took hold of her wrist. The flesh sizzled, until Jareth held onto bone. Then the bone melted under the intense pressure of the flame.
Handless and cauterized, Nersi took one look at her newly formed stump. She opened her mouth to scream again.
Jareth shoved his blazing hand into her mouth like a striking snake. The inside of her face lit up. For a moment, the stunned audience could see every vein and piece of bone and muscle in her skull. Her eyes shined orange, then her pupils went to the back of her head and smoke billowed from her eyes, ears, and nose.
Jareth yanked his hand from her throat and she screamed no more. She’d been burned from the inside out, her brain and skull sufficiently melted.
Jareth’s hand was no longer on fire—the wetness in Nersi’s mouth had dampened the savage burning.
Dosira made it to the dais and was standing behind Jareth’s flaming, demonic body. She was unafraid of the heat emanating from him. She reached out and touched his back. In an instant the flames sputtered and died away, like she’d splashed water on a burning twig.
Jareth stood on the dais stark naked, his back turned to the crowd.
The audience in front of the dais watched the event unfold in horrified silence.
Overseer Malachite’s eyes had bulged as he realized his lifeforce was slipping away. His face had paled, but his red hand hadn’t moved from the wound on his neck.
Jareth stepped forward and examined the Overseer. He moved Malachite’s hand away from the wound. Malachite fought and tried to swat Jareth’s hand away, but it was no use. He was too weak from the blood loss.
Fearing for his life, Malachite whimpered.
Jareth frowned. He clenched his teeth and stuck the pointer finger of his right hand to the wound. His finger lit up—the color of the sun at twilight.
He pressed his shiny finger on Malachite’s neck and the Overseer cried out as his skin burned.
Then Jareth moved his hand away, putting his hand on his hips to examine his handiwork.
A black, ashy dot was the only evidence of the bloody wound on Malachite’s neck. Jareth had cauterized the wound shut.
Almost instantly color started coming back to Malachite’s face.
“Where’s the assassin’s friend?” a voice cried from the stunned audience. It was Tiberius. He scanned the room while the audience stared at the poor, smoldering body of Nersi Magdalin, the siren, now a black heap on the dais.
“And where the hell is my wife?” Tiberius voiced again.
Jareth snapped his fingers angrily at two blackguards standing at the foot of the dais. They hadn’t been able to react as quickly as Lord Onyx. They looked shamefaced at letting their Overseer down.
“You two, snap to it. Go find her,” Jareth commanded.
One of the guards nodded. Then the other asked sheepishly, “W-Which one, my lord?”
Jareth scoffed. “The blue-haired girl, you idiot! Bring her to me alive!”
The two guards took off running.
“What about Annabel?” Tiberius called out to his father.
“She’ll turn up, my son. She isn’t going anywhere while her father and mother are here . . .” Jareth trailed off and locked eyes on Constantin, who stood in the corner of the room next to the pull-cart.
Overseer Malachite croaked as he attempted to speak. It took him a moment, but he eventually managed. “You . . . saved my life, Lord Onyx.” He sounded very weak.
Jareth turned to his master. “Well, I wouldn’t say that, my lord . . .”
ANNABEL FOUND THE ROOM after much trial and error. She was surprised she only had to avoid a few blackguards. None of them had given her much trouble. They were not very adept guardsmen.
She ran across hallways and even scaled a small wall—all in her dress. Now she believed she was at her destination.
She took a deep breath and tried the handle on the wooden door.
It didn’t budge.
She looked around at her surroundings: a small nightstand next to the door; a lit candelabrum on the nightstand. She took a step back, hiking up her dress.
With all the power she could muster, she kicked at the door, near the handle. Her foot thudded and jarred against the wood. She thought she heard a crack from somewhere within, but the door didn’t move.
She stepped back and tried again.
And again. A fissure appeared near the frame of the door.
By now, she was sure she’d called the attention of every blackguard in the castle.
She kicked one more time. The lock gave way and the door burst open.
Without pause, she grabbed the candelabrum from the nightstand and went into the room. She didn’t bother closing the fractured door behind her.
The candles gave her a flickering of orange flame, and she could see a silvery reflection toward the back of the room:
The Parallel Reflector, resting on a stand.
The rest of the room was adorned with the usual amenities: a large bed made for a king, a few desk drawers, a writing table, a jewelry box, a locked chest, and a closet.
She placed the candelabrum on a nearby table. She sat on the bed and closed her eyes. She used all the inner power and reached out with her mind, trying to grapple something . . .
She thought of Steve, the man she loved, somewhere out there in another world, patiently waiting for her. While on the journey back from exhuming her brother, Lig had told her what Steve had said inside his mind.
Go to the Reflector. I’ll be waiting for you. Reach me, my love.
And here she was.
Sweat beaded her forehead. Despite her astute knowledge of dream-leaping, she’d never been great at actually doing it. She had always felt a twinge of jealousy that Steve had been able to leap so effortlessly.
But she tried.
When she opened her eyes, she was still sitting in the same room, but it looked different. The ancient candelabrum was gone. The kingly bed looked modern. Everything in the room was dus
ty and untouched, as if no one had lived there for years.
That’s because, on Terrus, no one had.
Steve stood in front of her.
She fought to hold on to her concentration—to focus—while Steve still stood in front of her. He was looking right through her. She hadn’t made a connection with him. She knew she was on his Ethereus plane, in the spirit world of his mind, but didn’t know how to reach out. He couldn’t see her.
She did the only thing she could think of to get his attention, before she lost control. She shouted: “I’m here!”
Then she felt dizzy and fell on the bed, back on Mythicus, sweat pouring down her face and arms.
A moment later, Steve was standing in front of her. Aiden the leprechaun was with him, too, holding onto his shoulder.
“Well done, my love,” Steve said, smiling. “A bit rudimentary, but it worked. I heard your voice like an echo called from a mountaintop.”
Annabel let out a deep gasp. She was both exhausted and excited. Steve had jumped to her own Ethereus plane.
Steve’s eyes grew large.
“What is it?” Annabel asked, sitting up.
A shadow passed over the light the candelabrum was giving off. Fear took hold of her as she craned her neck.
A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim hallway.
Steve turned to the Parallel Reflector behind him, taking hold of Aiden’s hand. They were still in Ethereus and he could see what Annabel faced, but could do nothing about it.
As Steve stepped forward into the mirror, the figure at the door stepped forward into the room.
It was a blackguard, armed with a spear.
Annabel shrieked—not with fear, though she was scared—with determined practice.
The figure stumbled and went to his knees as Annabel’s piercing, banshee howl reached him. He dropped his spear and both hands went to cup his ears, which bled.
At that moment, Steve and Aiden stepped through the mirror, simultaneously. Steve reached for Annabel’s arm.
They connected. Their hands didn’t pass through like ghosts trying to touch.