by Jane Godman
Under Jethro’s skillful handling, the powerful bike purred along the country roads like a dream, eating up the miles until they reached a rugged stretch of coast. They followed the scenic route, hugging a dramatic shoreline of soaring, jagged rocks and gunmetal waters on one side and patchwork trees in every shade of green, gold and orange on the other. Finally, Jethro pulled into a narrow lane and halted the bike alongside a wooden boathouse. On the pebbly shore where they stood, the little building was level with the ground, but, as Vashti walked around to stretch her aching limbs, she saw it extended out into the water on raised stilts. A small motorboat, big enough for two people, was pulled up onto decking at the rear of the boathouse.
“Don’t tell me. This is your place and that’s your boat.” She was beginning to wonder if Jethro had transport tucked away all over the mortal realm. But surely she’d heard it was meant to be a big place and that would be beyond his means?
Jethro nodded as he wheeled the bike into the boathouse. He indicated the boat. “Twenty minutes and we’ll be there.”
Where is “there”? Vashti supposed she would find out soon enough. When Jethro had finished stowing their bags in the boat and locking the bike away in the boathouse, she joined him in the little vessel. “It feels like we’ve been traveling forever.”
“Welcome to my world.” He started the engine and the boat was soon skimming over the dark waters. Behind them the coastline with its tall pines and dramatic rocks began to fade. Ahead, an island, roughly horseshoe in shape, covered in the same spiky pines, came into view. “Home.”
There was something in Jethro’s voice as he said that single word. A note Vashti had not heard before. Emotion was something she still could not fully understand, but she had a feeling she was witnessing it now in its rawest form.
As they drew closer, she could see a jetty poking out from the island into the water. Above that, there was a single wooden house. Tall and majestic, set like a jewel among the encircling pine trees, with the sun’s dying rays glinting on high, arched windows. It was hauntingly beautiful.
“Who else lives there?”
“Just me.” Jethro steered the boat toward the end of the jetty. “Welcome to de Loix Island.”
Vashti shook her head. “You own this?”
He laughed at her expression. “I’m a loner. I don’t like sharing. Besides, it belonged to my parents before me.” He brought the boat to a halt alongside the jetty. Springing lightly onto the wooden boards, he reached down a hand to help Vashti.
“A fleet of planes. Motorbikes and boats strategically placed where you need them. Your own island. I may not know much about the mortal realm, but I know enough to know none of those things are normal.” Her hand was still in his as she gazed up at him. “Who are you, Jethro de Loix?”
“Just an ordinary boy—” his irresistible grin appeared; the one that made her want to grab him and kiss him until he begged for mercy “—who happens to have outrageously wealthy parents and kick-ass necromancer powers.”
Chapter 5
Jethro leaned his forearms on the deck rail and looked out over the darkened water. The half-empty glass of Scotch whiskey in his hand was doing its job, as was the feeling of being home. Cal had asked him if he had to come back here. The answer was simple. Yes, he did. He had to remind himself every now and then that life wasn’t all about fighting monsters. That peace and beauty still existed. That his own little corner of tranquility was here any time he wanted it. And he had to check everything was right in his world. This time, of course, he had another reason to return. One he hadn’t divulged to Cal.
Who are you, Jethro de Loix? He’d given Vashti his standard, flippant response. It was the answer he’d honed over the years. Because the truth was too difficult to contemplate explaining to another person. I don’t know who I am. How crazy does that make me sound?
Most of the time it didn’t bother him. He didn’t think about it. Then there were times—like now—when Jethro was reminded of the kindly, elderly couple who had brought him up and the unanswered questions would buzz around inside his head like an annoying, trapped fly. He knew he had not come into their lives by any conventional means. The thought made him smile. His parents—Bertha and Gillespie de Loix—had been older than the grandparents of other boys his age...and they’d both looked younger than their actual years. There had been no baby pictures, no anecdotes about first steps or first words, and no family tree to help him establish his place in the world. Jethro had grown up knowing that, despite their wealth, he meant more to them than gold.
Bertha and Gillespie had done their best to give him a conventional upbringing, yet they had been overawed as they’d watched him grow up to be stronger, faster and smarter than his peers. Gradually their pride had become tinged with fear when it became obvious he had other talents.
How many other children who, having just learned to speak, spent hours sitting alone in the graveyard holding lengthy conversations with unseen companions? When Bertha’s aging tabby cat had been trampled by a horse, it should have been dead. It was dead, she’d insisted later to Gillespie. But after Jethro had whispered a few soothing words and laid his hands on the poor, broken creature, old Mitzi was like a kitten again.
And they never mentioned—because it would really be too foolish to dwell on it—the woman Gillespie had seen in the woods here on their holiday home island. A woman with white hair and pale skin, dressed all in white. She’d reached out her hands to Jethro, beckoning him to her and, enthralled, Gillespie had begun to walk toward her, leading his son with him. It was only when they’d gotten close that her expression had become a mask of malevolent triumph. Too late, Gillespie had realized he was walking into a trap with no way of escaping. At the last minute Jethro had stepped between his father and the apparition and spoken in a language Gillespie hadn’t recognized. The woman froze. When Jethro spoke again—in a voice of command—she had simply vanished.
“What did you say to her, son?” Gillespie had asked later, when he had recovered from the shock.
“I told her to go away. Didn’t you hear me?” Jethro had regarded his father with mild surprise.
Now Bertha and Gillespie were gone from this world, and the only identity Jethro had was his power as a sorcerer. The status conferred on him by his ability to control the dead defined him, and he loved and loathed it in equal measure. Unlike other necromancers, it had never been enough for him. He had always been searching for something more, but what that something might be he had yet to discover.
For a long time he thought what he craved was danger. Money wasn’t important to Jethro, but his skills were highly prized in Otherworld. The more perilous the mission, the bigger the purse. He gained a name for himself as the mercenary who would take any necromancing job...for the right price. He knew other necromancers—purists like Cal and Lorcan—looked down on his lifestyle simply because they never understood why he was prepared to sell his skills for money. If they knew he was already a wealthy man, they would understand it even less. And Jethro, the most intensely private of a solitary group, wasn’t about to confide in them. That had been before the great battle for control of Otherworld, of course. Before he had put himself on their side in the attempt to topple Moncoya from his throne. That attempt had not been wholly successful. Moncoya had escaped from the battlefield. He was still the King of the Faeries. Just because he was in hiding didn’t mean he was any less of a threat. Still, I suppose we should thank the evil little shit for bringing us all together. Bonds deeper than friendship were forged that day.
Lately, Jethro wasn’t so sure it was adventure he sought. The adrenaline rush of a new mission was still a high. Confronting and defeating a hostile undead being gave him a sense of a job well done. Even a day like today, one that brought an unexpected brush with death, was a white-knuckle ride he would miss if he gave it up. But that niggling sense of missin
g something fundamental was increasing...
A sound behind him made him swing around. Vashti had finally emerged from the hot bath where she had been attempting to soak away the effects of the beating she had taken earlier. Her face was showing signs of bruising and she walked stiffly. Wrapped in one of Jethro’s robes, which looked ridiculously large on her, she appeared unbelievably fragile. Jethro felt his features soften into a sympathetic smile.
“Better?”
“I feel like I’ve been trampled by an elephant.”
He grimaced. “Ouch. Come and sit down.” He pointed back inside the house. “I need to take another look at that leg.”
Obediently—she must be tired, he decided, since submissiveness was not the first word he associated with her—she followed him into the family room and settled into one of the cozy corner sofas. Angling a nearby lamp so he could see, Jethro pulled up a footstool. Lifting her foot and placing it on his knee, he turned her leg so he could view the gouges in her pale flesh. Somehow they looked worse in the soft, golden lamplight. His mouth hardened. That bastard Iago was going to pay for a lot of things, but this came high on the list.
“You said I might need to see a doctor, but I can’t. Any mortal doctor would know in an instant I’m not earth-born.”
Jethro glanced up at her. “There are mortal doctors who will treat other races...for a price. But I don’t think you’re going to need medical treatment. Not tonight, anyway. I’ll put a fresh dressing on these cuts then you can get a good night’s sleep.”
Vashti sighed, her whole body appearing to relax back against the cushions. “That sounds like heaven.” She watched as he busied himself with his task. “What do you do while you’re here?”
“On the island? This was my parents’ vacation home. We’d relax. Do some fishing, swimming, walking, sailing, read a ton of books, go across to the mainland and visit friends. Just unwind.”
“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose.
“You look like you have no idea what I’m talking about.”
Because she did it so rarely, when Vashti smiled it was like the sun had broken through storm clouds. “I suppose people might think unwinding would come naturally to a princess. Perhaps for most princesses that might be true. But Tanzi and I are Moncoya’s daughters. We’ve spent our whole lives on a tight schedule.”
Something in the matter-of-fact words tugged at a chord of sympathy deep within him. Who’d have thought? Empathy toward the faerie princess. He’d have to watch himself. Vashti was still Moncoya’s daughter. Like her father, she was beautiful, destructive and untrustworthy. He had seen that firsthand on the night when Moncoya escaped from captivity on the Isle of Spae. Vashti had claimed her father held her at knifepoint, but would any father do that to his daughter? Surely even Moncoya wouldn’t stoop so low. No, she must have helped him and lied about it later. Now was a good time to remind himself of that...while he was gazing up into those incredible blue eyes with his hand encircling her ankle. It probably wouldn’t hurt to give himself regular warnings while he was in such close proximity to her.
“Speaking of tight schedules, I expect you’re wondering why I’ve made this detour when Cal wants the challenger found urgently.” Why was he explaining himself to her? She had chosen to tag along. It wasn’t like he’d invited her.
“It crossed my mind.”
“There is someone here I need to see. Someone who may be able to help with this mission.” Vashti was clearly waiting for him to say more, but that was enough for now. It felt like too much. It felt like intimacy. Something Jethro didn’t do. “I’ll show you to your room.”
Her tiny, indrawn breath as he released her and rose indicated Vashti had also felt something more than their usual antagonism. Damn. Coming home was supposed to make life less complicated. Coming home and bringing an achingly beautiful faerie princess for company was starting to look like it might have the opposite effect.
* * *
Vashti awoke from a sleep so deep it felt like she was being pulled down into quicksand. Fighting her way to the surface, she became conscious of two things. The smell of fresh-baked bread and the sound of tuneless humming. Both seemed to be coming from the kitchen, which was directly below her room. She lay still for a few minutes, gradually allowing the memories of the last few days to infiltrate her lethargy. With the recollection of Iago came a resurgence of her aches and pains and she groaned, levering herself out of bed. There was a mirror over the dresser and a glance at her reflection confirmed the worst. Her face was an interesting array of bruises.
As she dragged on her clothes, every muscle screamed in protest. Remind me again why I was so keen to be the one to accompany Jethro on this mission? She peered inquiringly into the mirror once more, directing the question to her battered reflection. Oh, I remember now. It’s my duty. I need to see this through for the sake of my people. Once this challenger is found, the faerie dynasty will be plunged into a bloody civil war. I know my father well enough to be certain of that. He will not go without a fight. And I wanted to make Jethro de Loix suffer. He accused me of helping Moncoya escape from justice. I owe him a little pain, and how better to cause that than by inflicting my presence upon him? She winced as she moved toward the door. So why the hell am I the one hurting?
Navigating the spiral staircase felt like she was descending one of the great mountains around Valhalla. Used to her well-trained limbs doing exactly what she wanted them to, Vashti was impatient of injury. After the battle for control of Otherworld, she had been close to death. It was only through the skill of the faerie doctors and Tanzi’s patient nursing that she had survived. It had not been through her cooperation or adherence to their instructions.
She found Jethro in the kitchen. This was the biggest room in the house, running the entire length of the rear of the property with spectacular views across the bay to the mainland. Vashti blinked in surprise at the sight of him removing a loaf of bread from the range oven.
“You should have stayed in bed.” He looked up in surprise as she limped into the room.
“If I did, how would we find the challenger?”
“We are not going to find the challenger. I’m going to find the challenger and you are going to watch me.” The familiar arrogance was back in his tone.
“While serving up a delicious meal?” She gestured to the bread.
The arrogance vanished and was replaced by a smile that was almost—she hesitated to use the word in relation to Jethro—shy. “My mother used to bake. It’s therapeutic.” He pointed to another loaf standing on a cooling rack. “Want to try some?”
Vashti’s stomach gave an enormous rumble in response, and she tried to remember the last time she’d eaten. It was on the plane when the flight attendant had been so attentive to Jethro while casting an occasional dismissive glance in her direction. She nodded and, within minutes, she was seated at the vast, scrubbed table with a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of bread and butter in front of her.
“You do not strike me as the domesticated type.”
Jethro lounged in a chair opposite hers, his long legs extended in front of him. He wore a white shirt and his biceps stretched the thin material of the rolled-up sleeves to its limits. The V shape of the buttons left open at his chest revealed dark hair. His broad chest tapered to a narrow waist and flat stomach. He had obviously recently showered since his still-wet hair hung loose and slightly wavy below his collar. The crisp scent of citrus reached Vashti’s appreciative nostrils. Big, dark and dangerous, he invaded her senses. Domesticated was about the last word she would have applied to him.
“You can’t see me in a flowered apron?”
She pretended to consider the matter, tilting her head to one side. “Not flowered, no.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “But you do see me in an apron? Now that’s an interesting fantasy, princess.”
; Vashti, who had taken a bite of bread and butter, choked as his meaning dawned on her. At least dealing with the coughing and the streaming eyes gave her time to consider how to respond. She decided the best plan was not to respond. To pretend she hadn’t heard or she didn’t understand what he meant. That sort of banter was probably like breathing to Jethro. All that thrumming masculinity needed an outlet and any woman, even one he disliked as intensely as Vashti, would do. At least the redness of her face could be ascribed to her mild choking fit and not extreme embarrassment at the image—vivid and suddenly very tempting—of Jethro in an apron and nothing else.
“What’s the plan for today?” Vashti asked when she had gained control over her voice.
“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.”