The Spirit Watcher

by Cory Barclay

  The cat meowed.

  “Lady Opal,” Jareth said, motioning for her.

  Dosira walked to him. “You’re lucky I held onto it, husband, or else it would have burned in your fury . . . like the rest of your belongings.” She handed her husband a folded piece of parchment. She gave Jareth’s naked body a quick up-and-down look and a smirk showed on the corner of her lips.

  Jareth unfolded the paper and cleared his throat. He showed Malachite the official letterhead of the Brethren Council as a header. He said, “What I have here, Malachite, is a Council vote. It decrees your immediate expulsion from leadership.” He turned the paper so it faced Malachite. “As you can see, it has seven signatures for ‘aye,’ and six signatures for ‘nay.’ The ‘aye’ vote wins, which in this case means the end of your Overseer career.”

  Malachite sputtered, unable to believe what he was hearing and seeing. He snatched the paper from Jareth. For an instant, he considered the juvenile reaction of ripping it to shreds. He read each name on the ‘aye’ half of the page, committing the names to memory. He would have his vengeance . . .

  Lord Obsidian and Lady Chalcedony, Lord Onyx and Lady Opal, Lord Constantin and Lady Mariana, and Lady Jade. They all voted to expel Malachite from his duties. In a moment of epiphany, the puzzle came together. He realized why Jareth Reynolds had been so adamant about continuing the marriage between his son and Constantin’s daughter. Without the votes of Lord Constantin and Lady Mariana, the ‘nay’ vote would have carried one more tally than the ‘aye’ vote. Jareth would have lost.

  The marriage was Jareth’s way of solidifying the result he desired. But what could he have promised the Lees to get them to vote with him? Malachite wondered. They hate each other!

  Maybe it was the position on the Council itself, and the power it brings.

  Malachite seethed. He balled his hands into fists, crumpling the paper, watching as Jareth refused to show any worry on his face.

  The tricky bastard is so smug . . .

  “Everything on the form is legitimate, whether you rip up the contract or not,” Jareth said.

  “I’ll have your head for this,” Malachite growled. His eyes snapped left and right. He noticed a few blackguards standing erect and idle, awaiting orders. “Guards, seize this buffoon and carry him off!” he shouted.

  The blackguards didn’t move.

  Malachite shook his fists with anger. He stomped away from Jareth and plopped onto his chair, unable to decide what to do with himself. Everyone in the audience stared at him, wide-eyed with disbelief.

  Malachite said, “It was your idea to interrogate Geddon and Selestria. Your idea to pursue the Kinsmen leaders.” He realized he was treading a thin line, speaking about things that were secrets to other Council members. He didn’t mention the word “assassinate,” but he didn’t need to.

  The thing that angered him most was that he had confided in Jareth. He could now see it was all a ruse to foment rebellion, but how could he harbor such betrayal and deceit?

  How could I be such a fool not to see it?

  “Yes, those were my ideas,” Jareth said. Dosira came to his side with a black cloak in her hand, taken from one of the blackguards below. She threw it over her husband’s shoulders, so at least his ass wasn’t displayed for the entire gentry any longer.

  Jareth gave his wife a nod and continued. “Yes, I helped you make those decisions. And if it weren’t for me, nothing would have come from them. You see, Malachite, that’s precisely why you must go. You are weak. It’s not your fault—you are human, after all. But you have no place leading the Brethren of Soreltris.”

  “You helped me get to this position!” Malachite cried. His voice started wavering, the more he spoke. A few bystanders looked away, embarrassed for him.

  Jareth nodded. “I know. It was my mistake, which is why I take responsibility in delivering you from the position now. You were a good mascot for a time, but no longer.”

  After a short pause, Malachite said, “How am I weak, you bastard?”

  “You lack the drive to rid yourself of your enemies,” Jareth said. He wrapped the cloak around his body, tired of the windy draft. “What have you done to dispatch the Vagrant Kinsmen? They are a threat to your rule, yet you keep their leaders locked away in your castle, imprisoned but out of danger. They’re on vacation. A more industrious ruler would have been rid of them by now. Eradicated them.”

  Malachite’s face blanched. “They’ve already led us to multiple Vagrant leaders—”

  “Which we could have found on our own, I’m sure.” Jareth squinted one eye at the frightened face of his former lord. There was something else eating away at that pale skin. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” Jareth said, “why you’re keeping them alive. It isn’t to find the Vagrants . . .”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Jareth scoffed and waved a hand nonchalantly. “Tell me, or I’ll have them brought into this room and executed this instant.”

  “You don’t have the power.”

  “But I do.”

  Malachite gritted his teeth and brooded in silence. His fear turned to rage, but he had no one to direct that rage toward. After a moment, it simmered, and he realized with utter contempt that he’d lost.

  Leaning forward in his chair, he murmured, “Geddon is still Bound with my son on Terrus. I use him and Selestria to keep track of Steve, hoping I might bring him to me some day.”

  “Your care that much for your foolish, liar of a son? The same son who refused to join you?”

  Malachite snarled and pointed past Jareth, toward Constantin and the pull-cart with his son’s body. “He wasn’t lying about that. You did kill Charles Lee. And, if I had believed him, maybe I wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

  Jareth turned and faced Constantin, who had a stony, dark look on his face. Then he shrugged. “Charles Lee was killed, but not for sport. It was no accident we killed him—he had been eating my family’s livestock. It was not known to me at the time that he was a werewolf of some importance.”

  The blue veins on Constantin’s neck bulged. He had to be held back by his wife. “You savage,” the vampire said, baring his teeth.

  “So, what, you will become Overseer? You will usurp my rightful rule and become the monarch of the three regions?” Malachite asked, changing the subject and drawing Jareth’s attention back to him. He looked past Jareth, at the lords and ladies in the audience. He locked eyes with Lord Obsidian, but the dwarf maintained a stony expression. Moving onto Lady Jade, the beautiful, widowed yōkai demon, she averted her gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

  “You’ve all agreed to this? To allow this madman to rule you?” Malachite received no response. He was amazed at how easily they were folding and falling into line.

  Then again, they had done the same thing when he had become Overseer. Maybe it was time to put the women back in charge, after all. This egotistical dick-measuring contest seemed to be tearing the Council apart.

  “We’ve all agreed it is temporary,” Jareth said. “I will take the burden upon myself to make the decisions of the Overseer, day by day. And if I can lead the Brethren to prosperity, why not?”

  Malachite said, “And what is prosperity, in your mind, Lord Onyx?”

  “Terrus.” Jareth’s voice had a hard edge to it as he spat out the word.

  Malachite stifled a chuckle. “What about Terrus? Tell me, you would invade the parallel plane?”

  Jareth nodded.

  “Ha! You are truly a madman. I believe in the commingling of humans and Mythics, like any good Brethren. But to force ourselves upon them will only result in vicious backlash. You will see, Jareth. You will see. All the work we’ve done to create relationships with the leaders of Terrus will fall away like dust in the wind.”

  Jareth frowned. He was tired of being berated like a toddler. He said, “Kansas?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I know what is at stake, Malachite.
And I will not ruin the relationships we’ve built over the years. I will make them stronger. Don’t you see? I’ll give them roots—blood bonds that can never be broken.”

  “You’ll breed with the humans.”

  “Why not?” Jareth said. “It’s already being done on a small scale. We will create more Seekers and Makers—”

  “My people will dilute your people’s magical blood,” Malachite warned. “You’re making a grave mistake, all because you’re intrigued by humans. Like they’re your pets.”

  Jareth smiled. “Once we have enough of them Bound to us, they will be just that, Malachite. I’m impressed at your awareness, despite your lack of it up until this point.”

  Malachite frowned and slumped back in his chair. He was a defeated man, uncaring about the insults any longer. With a flat voice, he said, “What will you do with me now? Kill me? Will I at least be allowed to choose the manner of my death?”

  Jareth’s smile grew wider. It was unnerving. “Don’t be foolish, Malachite . . . or should I call you Richard? You’re much too important to have killed. I have plans for you yet.”

  “What do these plans involve?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see.” Jareth snapped his fingers and two blackguards at the bottom of the steps came to attention. He said, “For now, I’ll have you share a room with your favorite prisoners. Guards, lead them up to Geddon and Selestria’s prison room.”

  One of the blackguards bowed his head. “Y-Yes, my lord . . . Your Grace . . .” It was clear he didn’t know what to call Jareth, so he went to stand next to Malachite. “My lord, may I help you to your feet?”

  Malachite slapped the blackguard’s hand away as he stood. With anger pulsing in his eyes, he said, “I know the way, buffoon. This is my castle.”

  Malachite walked in front of the blackguards, down the steps, his dignity shot.

  Jareth yelled out to him: “It won’t be yours for much longer, so you know!”

  If the barb was meant to get a rise out of Malachite, it failed. The deposed Overseer waved a weary hand at Jareth and disappeared from the ballroom.

  Once gone, a low murmur of voices carried through the room as the crowd started speaking to one other. The party was clearly over. The musicians began packing up their instruments.

  “Jareth,” Constantin called from the corner of the room. His voice was cool and collected, but on the verge of righteous indignation. “You’ve just admitted to murdering my son in front of all these lords and ladies. What will you do about the marriage between your son and my daughter?”

  Jareth snorted in annoyance. “Yes, I did do that, didn’t I? Well, I’m afraid it’s too late for all that, my friend. The marriage will go on, since I have the capacity to say so. You two want to remain on the Council, don’t you? Don’t you wish to continue being important?”

  Constantin said nothing. The disappointment was clear on his face. He’d lost a lot this day—his nemesis had started out more powerful than he had, but now he was exponentially entitled. There would be no convincing the Council to aid him now, not against a man as powerful as Jareth Reynolds . . .

  Mariana stepped forward from her husband’s side. “As long as our daughter is safe in your son’s hands, we will allow it . . . for the time being.” She spoke as if she had a say in the matter.

  Her words stung Tiberius, who was standing on the other side of the ballroom. He had been gawking at his father, astounded that his family had just gained so much power. Now he turned on Constantin and Mariana. “I do not treat her poorly, you saps, and even if I did, she is obligated to obey me, correct?”

  Hushed voices came from the audience. Speaking about women in such a way, in a society that was recently run by women, was frowned upon. That was a wound that would sting the women in the Council. Even Jareth winced at his son’s foolishness.

  “You do not have the temper of your father, you’re telling me?” Mariana asked, remaining calm despite the pain she felt inside her cold, dead heart.

  Tiberius smirked. “I suppose only time will tell.”

  Jareth tried to divert the attention away from his son. “And while we’re here,” he said, “at the Naming Day ceremony, why don’t we complete it?”

  Constantin furrowed his brow.

  “You will henceforth be known as . . .” Jareth trailed off and waved his finger around a bit, pointing near Constantin. “Lord Bloodstone,” he said. “And your wife will be Lady Tourmaline.” He paused for a while longer, then smiled. “And I suppose while we’re in the spirit of things . . . I will be Overseer Onyx.”

  No one dared dispute the ruling. Not now. Not while a pile of ash and bones sat next to him, all that remained of the siren assassin, Nersi Magdalin. It was too soon to question the Ifrit’s motives or legitimacy.

  As conversation picked up in the ballroom again, heavy footsteps sounded overhead. The newly anointed Overseer Onyx stepped off the dais and watched the top of the stairs. Two blackguards were running down a hall.

  Before they made it halfway down the stairs, Jareth called out: “What is the problem, gentlemen? Why are you perspiring?”

  The blackguards stopped mid-stride and glanced at each other. One of them gulped loudly, while the other cleared his throat.

  “We have a problem, my lord,” the braver of the two men said.

  Jareth arched his eyebrows.

  “Geddon and Selestria are not in their room. They’ve escaped their holding, my lord. Overseer—er, Lord Malachite is the only one inhabiting the room, currently.”

  “Goddammit,” Jareth said, enjoying the Terrusian term he’d heard so many others use. If he was going to assimilate the humans, he might as well start speaking like them.

  “What should we do, my lord?” the blackguard asked.

  Jareth snorted. “What do you think, fool? Search for them! I want the entire premises searched. There has to be hidden hideaways in this place. Then you will search the surrounding woods. You won’t stop until they’re are found!”

  The blackguards nodded and barreled down the rest of the stairs, heading for another room.

  Dosira walked up beside Jareth, putting a hand on his shoulder and rubbing his back. “A minute ago you chastised Malachite for keeping those two as pets, my sweet,” she whispered in his ear. “Why do you care what happens to them now? What’s changed?”

  “It’s the principal, my love. I can’t let two rebel fugitives escape under my watch. It’s the first thing people will remember me by.” Jareth shook his head and sighed. He glanced at Dosira.

  She still didn’t seem convinced.

  He added, “I wasn’t Overseer when I said those things. Now I am.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Steve and Aiden peeked over the edge of the balcony. It was about a ten-foot drop to the ground from the second level of the castle. Steve wasn’t excited about making the leap. Painful flashbacks came back to him, jumping from the art gallery balcony with Geddon and Kaiko. He’d twisted his ankle then and expected the same result here. To make matters worse, a lone blackguard stood directly below them, facing outward, watching for enemies.

  Steve looked over his shoulder, at the window they’d smashed to get to the balcony.

  “There’s no going back, Steve,” Aiden whispered to him.

  “No shit.”

  “We have to make a move. Preferably before we’re discovered.”

  Steve took a deep breath. He held the candelabrum Annabel had used for light. The candles had gone out, but it was still a big hunk of metal.

  “I’ll go first,” Steve said. Aiden looked at him with raised eyebrows and a smirk.

  “Follow my lead,” Steve said.

  “Roger that, Batman.”

  Steve scowled at the leprechaun. At least he wasn’t Robin. He peered over the edge again and watched the top of the blackguard’s helmet. A crazy, stupid idea came over him.

  Without another word, Steve stood up. He positioned himself over the blackguard and then let himself fa
ll . . .

  It felt like eons as the wind rushed past him.

  He kicked out as he landed, using the unsuspecting blackguard as a cushion. He connected with the blackguard’s shoulder—a sidelong glance. His airborne weight was enough to bring the confused guard to the ground.

  The blackguard grunted as he rolled on the ground. He quickly got his bearings and stumbled to his feet.

  But Steve was quicker, using the moment of impact to begin rolling. As the blackguard stood, his helmet dislodged and covering his eyes, Steve was already standing in front of him, his arms cocked back.

  Steve swung the candelabrum as hard as he could. It slammed into the side of the blackguard’s face with a tinny clank, and down he went. He moaned on the ground, grappling for his crushed helmet.

  Steve brought the candelabrum down again, hard. This time the blackguard made no more noise. Steve hoped he hadn’t killed him.

  A moment later, Aiden landed on the ground awkwardly and fell over. He stood and brushed himself off, trying to act like nothing had happened. He said, “Good work,” and took off away from the castle.

  Steve followed him. Together, they ran as hard and fast as they could, not bothering to look back. They headed toward the gate of the castle, downhill. Already they could see there would be trouble there.

  But the blackguards at the gate weren’t looking in. They were looking out toward the surrounding, hilly landscape.

  Steve and Aiden ran down the hill, picking up speed. They cut away when they were less than a hundred yards from the gate. They ran into a wooded area that surrounded the road on both sides. They would have to make their way to an unguarded part of the gate at the edge of the woods.

  Steve wondered if this was how immigrants felt when they tried to escape into America, trying to avoid the Border Patrol. He glanced at Aiden and figured his observation would be lost on the leprechaun.

  They pushed past trees, moving as quickly and quietly as possible. Every time a dry leaf crackled underfoot, Steve winced.