by Jane Godman
“Our founder, Bertha de Loix, believed children who have experienced severe mental stress need to learn life skills and have fun before they can face academic learning. We use a combination of both types of education here.”
As they watched, Jethro asked Ella questions about the administration of the orphanage. Vashti listened with half an ear. So this was the reason why he wanted that million-dollar bounty from the Alliance. He needed it to maintain this haven. And she had thought him grasping. The thought humbled her. Every day she was with him brought a fresh revelation about this man. Gradually the layers of privacy were being stripped away and she was seeing more of the real Jethro de Loix.
“We have to go.” Jethro jerked his head and they walked back through to the hall.
Vashti paused in front of the portraits. The largest canvas was of a woman in a traditional pose. Although she had been much younger when the picture had been painted, Vashti recognized Bertha. It was the central portrait that drew her attention, however. Clad in a soldier’s uniform and sporting a mustache, the man in the painting was unmistakable. The artist had perfectly captured the devil-may-care arrogance that was the essence of Jethro.
“The likeness is remarkable, isn’t it?” Ella asked. “Everyone comments on it.” She turned to Jethro. “This gentleman was...what? Your great-great-grandfather?” He managed a noncommittal smile as an answer. Turning to Vashti, Ella held out her hand in a formal gesture. “I hope your visit has been a productive one? Although I am surprised you have come so soon after your colleague.”
“One of her colleagues has been here recently?” Jethro asked and Vashti’s heart rate kicked up a notch as she sensed the matching tension in Jethro’s frame.
“Yes, just yesterday. Such a pleasant man. He was so interested in everything we do.” Ella turned her head to smile at Jethro. “I almost forgot. He asked me to pass on his regards to you. He was most insistent about it.”
“Do you remember his name?”
Ella frowned in an effort to concentrate. “I don’t. How odd. It’s not like me to forget someone’s name. I’m not sure he told me...but he signed the visitor’s book.” She led them to a grand oak desk at the side of the front door. Opening a book that lay on the polished surface, she tapped the page with one fingertip. “Here it is.” A crease appeared between her brows as she read what was written. “I hadn’t looked at it until now. What a strange thing to write.”
Jethro leaned over so he, too, could see what had been written. Concerned at the sudden change in his expression, Vashti read the words aloud. “‘They are all gone away, There is nothing more to say.’” She glanced from Jethro to Ella. “I don’t understand. What does it mean?”
“It’s a line from a poem by Edward Arlington Robinson who was born here in Head Tide in 1869,” Ella explained.
“We have to get going. Right now.” Grabbing Vashti by the hand, Jethro propelled her out the door. They barely paused to say goodbye to Ella, who stared after them in consternation.
Vashti was forced to break into a run to keep up with Jethro as they made their way back to the bike. “Is it Iago?”
“I’d put money on it.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to the old de Loix house.” He paused next to the bike, catching his breath. “That bastard has gone after Bertha and Gillespie.”
“How do you know?” The anxiety gripping his features was painful to see.
“Because the title of Robinson’s poem is ‘The House on the Hill.’”
* * *
The last time they had passed through Darwen, the town had seemed to be slumbering away a lazy, late morning. This time, when they arrived, the afternoon was well advanced and there was an energy about the place that was at odds with its former atmosphere. It wasn’t a pleasant mood. There was a dark, sinister feeling that made Vashti want to keep glancing over her shoulder. Or maybe it was the knowledge of Iago’s nearness that made her feel that way. Possibly it was the fact that the main street appeared to be filled with miniature ghosts, vampires and hobgoblins.
“Who are all these people?” Vashti moved closer to Jethro, eyeing the oddly dressed passersby with suspicion.
“Trick or treaters. It’s a Halloween tradition. Don’t worry, they’re just kids dressed up. This is the early crowd. The serious ones come out after dark.”
Vashti sidestepped a child in a bedsheet who carried a miniature bucket that was overflowing with candy. “I don’t know. I’ve got a bad feeling about some of these.”
“With good reason. There’ll be some chronic stomachaches later.” Although the words were light, that tension was still there. His whole body was like a coiled spring and Vashti knew that he was waiting for Iago to make his move. Or for what they would find when they reached the old house.
“Could Iago actually harm Bertha or Gillespie?” she asked as they commenced the steep climb out of town. The feeling of walking into peril took a grip on Vashti’s imagination as the squeals and laughter of the main street faded. “They are already dead.”
“As well as being a trickster, Iago is a necromancer. He’s as powerful as I am. I haven’t seen him at work, but Lorcan has. He told me Iago is capable of controlling a dozen zombies using the power of his thoughts.”
Jethro’s words conjured up an image too awful to contemplate. If Iago could wield that sort of power, what could he do to poor, confused Bertha and courteous Gillespie? “Why is Iago so evil? What made him this way?” All Vashti knew was that Iago’s story was tied into the legend of King Arthur.
“He is one of the two sons of Mordred, the illegitimate son of King Arthur and the notorious sorceress known as Morgan le Fay.”
That stirred something in the depths of Vashti’s memory. “That can’t be right. Morgan le Fay was King Arthur’s half sister.”
“They had a relationship before they knew they were related. Mordred was the result. Not surprisingly, it didn’t make for a happy outcome.”
Vashti grimaced. “And I thought my family was dysfunctional.”
“Mordred was killed by Cal at the battle of Camlan, just after he struck the blow that felled Arthur. Bizarrely, when Cal took Arthur to Avalon, it was Morgan le Fay who nursed him. That’s the point at which conflicting legends kick in. Some say she saved him and he still lives. Others say he died and was laid to rest on Avalon. Another story is he lies sleeping, waiting for a time when he is needed. When that day comes, Arthur will rise up and once again become the greatest king the world has known.”
They had reached the point on the hill where the weather vane on top of the de Loix house peeked through the trees. The sense of malevolence was tangible. Vashti felt as if she could reach out a hand and touch the darkness created by Iago’s hidden presence. The soaring trees hid their secrets well. Even the awakening creatures of the night fell silent in anticipation.
Just as he had done when they’d come to the house the first time, Jethro held out his hand and, with real gratitude, Vashti twined her fingers with his. Jethro raised his other hand and, in that way that was unique to necromancers, lit their path. When they followed the path to the house, despite the near darkness, the ramshackle old building looked much as it had the previous day. But it wasn’t. They both knew it. The circle of menace was closing in on them.
“You said my presence strengthens your instincts.” Jethro turned to face Vashti, taking both her hands in his. “What do you feel?”
The force of her response almost threw Vashti off her feet. “Iago. He is close and he is not alone.”
“You asked why Iago is evil.” Jethro’s gaze locked on hers steadied Vashti’s out-of-control emotions. “You were there, that day on Spae, when Iago told us he’d been raised on Avalon by Morgan le Fay and her half sister Niniane. Believe me, either one of those two could turn a saint into a sinner with a single look. T
ogether they were concentrated malevolence. Give them a child to raise? If he wasn’t determined to ruin the lives of people I care about, I could almost pity Iago.”
As if on cue, and in mockery of Jethro’s sympathetic words, an explosion tore the roof off the house, shattering the calm of the surrounding forest and sending a volcano of flames and sparks shooting into the darkening sky. It was a pyrotechnic spectacle of epic proportion. With one accord, Jethro and Vashti broke into a run toward the building.
When they reached the house, Jethro paused, holding Vashti back with an arm across her waist before she could bound up the steps. The sight that greeted them was pitiful. The blast had completely destroyed the roof, causing it to collapse in on itself. Bright cinders and billowing smoke were already pouring from the space. The air thrummed with the tang of wanton destruction.
Vashti placed a hand on Jethro’s restraining arm, pointing toward the ruin. From within the clouds of smoke, Gillespie staggered down the steps and came toward them, carrying Bertha in his arms. She was struggling to get away from him.
“She wouldn’t leave.” The words were a harsh rasp, as if the smoke had penetrated his throat. “Even now, she refuses to be parted from her beloved home.”
Jethro stepped forward, his face tight with a combination of pain and fury. Vashti sensed his frustration that he could not relieve Gillespie of his burden by taking Bertha from him. When a body had no substance, only another phantom could hold it. Her heart ached for Jethro, knowing he longed to comfort his parents with an embrace he could never give.
Instead, Jethro became brisk. “We don’t have much time. The bastard who did this won’t stop now. Let me send her to Otherworld. At least you know she’ll be safe in the phantom realm.”
“What about the two of you?” Gillespie glanced from Jethro to Vashti, concern on his face.
“We’re looking forward to meeting up with him again,” Vashti assured him, her voice grim. She hoped Iago could hear her.
“Very well.” Gillespie nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. Ghosts are more fortunate than the rest of us. You don’t need to find a portal to Otherworld. You can go there any time you choose. I’ll persuade Bertha the time has come for her to leave the mortal realm for good. Then all you have to do is depart together.”
“Will it hurt her?” Gillespie looked down at the figure in his arms. Bertha had begun to tire and her desperate writhing turned to quiet sobbing as she looked back at her ruined home.
“She won’t like it, but she will not be harmed,” Jethro promised him. Stepping closer, he held his hand above Bertha’s head. “Afaran. Depart this place.” His voice was soft and compassionate.
Bertha shuddered into awareness. “No!” Her eyes were wide and pleading. She turned her head to look reproachfully up at her husband’s face. “You promised I would not have to go. The fae one will seek me out...” Her voice drifted through confusion into nothingness.
“Take care, my son.” Gillespie held up a hand in farewell as the two ghostly figures faded into the surrounding dusk.
As they faded away, Vashti spoke quietly. “How is it you don’t do love when you have had such a perfect example of it before you all your life?”
“I’ve wondered about that. It’s as if something deep inside me is broken.” He looked down into her eyes. “Almost as if I’ve had a bad experience, but I’ve never been in love.”
“Sorry. That question was way too deep for this situation.” The two figures had gone completely now and Vashti reached out instinctively for Jethro’s hand. “What now?”
His fingers closed around hers. “Now we wait.”
* * *
While they waited for Iago to become visible and make his move, Jethro’s emotions swung back and forth on a pendulum between relief he had Vashti, a seasoned and ruthless fighter, at his side, and concern for her welfare. How did that happen? At what point had he gone from feelings of irritation at having her presence forced on him to caring about what happened to her? And why the hell hadn’t he noticed the change creeping up on him? Because now it was too late. He was backed into a corner with someone who mattered. A lot. And the evil trickster who was toying with him would not only know it...he would use it to his advantage.
“Shit!”
“What is it?” Vashti had been facing away from him but at Jethro’s exclamation, she swung around to face him.
He shook his head. How could he explain? The expletive had been wrung from him at the realization Iago would sense Jethro’s weakness and go after Vashti first. Would the fact she was the daughter of Iago’s ally, Moncoya, count in her favor? Jethro almost laughed aloud at the thought. This was Moncoya. The King of the Faeries had killed his own wife when she tried to leave him. He had tried to sell Vashti’s twin sister to the devil. He wouldn’t think twice about sacrificing his daughter if it meant winning a fight.
Could he tell Vashti to go? Get out of here? Leave him to deal with this? Jethro almost laughed out loud. First, at his chances of Vashti listening to him and, second, at the possibility Iago would leave her alone so she could escape to safety. No, they were in this together. He gripped her hand harder and Vashti gave him a questioning glance. Jethro returned the look with a reassuring smile. Despite his misgivings, together was how he liked it.
“What did Bertha mean when she said the fae one would be able to find her now?”
“Who knows? Her mind is so full of holes it’s like a fragile piece of old lace. Even when she does speak, she’ll say things that only make sense to her. I guess that was one of those things.”
He could see Vashti wasn’t convinced, but a debate about the state of Bertha’s mental health was not to be forthcoming. There were voices—normal, mortal voices—coming toward them along the path that lead from the road and he could see flashlights bobbing through the trees. A dog barked and someone shushed it nervously. Obviously a group of townsfolk had decided to make their way up the hill to find out what was going on.
“Damn. I suppose it was too much to hope Iago’s little fireworks display wouldn’t attract attention down in the town.” He sighed. “I do not want any innocent bystanders caught up in his games.”
“I think it might be too late.”
She was right. The shadows around them had started to undulate, flickering like candlelight in a breeze. Jethro could feel the darkness pounding in his blood. He knew that feeling. Vampires. Older than sin and twice as deadly. Within seconds there were dozens of beautiful vampires encircling him and Vashti, each one hell-bent on taking Jethro’s severed head back to Prince Tibor. Even as he tried to count them and assess what he was up against, more appeared.
Jethro could control the undead, but this many at once? And while he was busy with the bloodsuckers, what would Iago be doing? The answer came sooner than he anticipated. It was not the one he wanted. The flashlights in the woods changed direction as the focus of the group from the town shifted abruptly away from the burning house and toward something else. An animal howled, a woman screamed and a flurry of activity ensued.
“Lord! Was that a wolf?” The man who spoke was clearly shaken. “Did anyone bring a gun?”
“Get me out of this circle so I can deal with Iago.” Vashti kept her voice quiet and level.
“No way. Not on your own.”
A scream from the depths of the trees followed his words. “He’ll make us listen while he kills them one by one.” The obscure figures around them drew closer, adding to the sense of urgency. “We have no choice.”
She was right, of course. “Promise me you’ll be careful.” Who was he kidding? They both knew she wouldn’t be careful.
“Just do it.”
“Oflinnan.” Jethro issued the halt command and the vampires closest to them instantly stilled. It was the most powerful word in the necromancer’s armo
ry. The ancient Anglo-Saxon language of his predecessors worked on the dead at a soul-deep level. Even in the case of vampires whose souls had long gone. Yet even this powerful trick was no match for the sheer number of creatures before him. As the front rank of vampires froze, the next line was moving closer. It was a carefully planned maneuver.
“Swactrian.” Jethro gave the order to depart and the vampires under his control whirled obediently into their bat form, wings flapping as they flew away. This attack had Iago’s signature scrawled all over it. Jethro would be tied up doing nothing but issuing instructions to vampires, his psychic energy slowly draining. Meanwhile, Iago was free to do as he pleased.
“Can I go now?” Pulling her hand free of his, Vashti was already poised to sprint through the vampires and head in the direction of the trees.
“Oflinnan. Wait. Let me think. Swactrian.”
“Sorry. Thinking is a luxury we don’t have time for.” Without waiting for a response, she was gone.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Jethro returned to his alternating halt and retreat commands while trying to formulate a plan to break the cycle so he could follow her.
Chapter 10
Jethro took his responsibilities toward the dead seriously and always tried to keep his dealings with them ethical. It was his job to care for them in death as they wished to be cared for in life. That was the necromancer code. It included not raising the dead without good reason.
Yet faced with a never-ending swarm of barely visible vampires while Iago did God knew what to a group of innocent mortals, Jethro considered this situation a good reason. Having Vashti dealing with Iago alone counted as another—even better—reason.
He thought of the age-old question he and Lorcan debated now and then. Zombies versus vampires? Who would win that fight? The answer seemed straightforward. Vampires were possessed of immense strength, speed and intelligence, particularly now that darkness had fallen. Zombies, on the other hand, were slow, shuffling and operated on pure instinct. But they were hardwired to never give up. What would happen when an army of beautiful monsters faced a legion of unstoppable ghouls? It was time to find out. He wished Lorcan was here to see the end result. He wished Lorcan was here. Period.