by Jane Godman
With a sob, Lisbet whirled around and ran inside the castle. Jethro stared after her, his anger turning in on himself. “Damn it all to hell.” He turned to Aydan. “I’m sorry. Will you go after her? The mood I’m in, I’m likely to say the wrong thing and make it worse.”
Aydan nodded. “For what it’s worth, I don’t blame you for losing your temper. It was a stupid question.”
Jethro gave him a shaky half smile of thanks. Left alone, he climbed the steps onto the battlements where he had met Vashti earlier. Where was she? Surely she must have finished talking to Rina by now? Vashti was the only person who could restore his mood.
Even so, as he stood surveying the scene, he felt he could be losing his mind. He hadn’t begun to confide the strangeness of his thoughts even to Vashti. Were they thoughts or could they actually be the memories they appeared? Since he’d arrived on Avalon, Jethro seemed to be viewing the world through someone else’s eyes. Things were coming back to him he never knew he’d experienced. No, that’s wrong. I can’t have experienced. Yet the things he was recalling were too real to have happened to someone else.
Was it something in the atmosphere of Avalon? If that was the case why weren’t Vashti, Aydan and Lisbet experiencing the same illusions? Was someone—Iago or Morgan—forcing these experiences on him? Was he being given hallucinogenic drugs or was some sort of subtle hypnosis at work?
Or am I simply caught up in the atmosphere? So susceptible to what this place means I have convinced myself I am an Arthurian knight, one of the legendary king’s faithful followers? Because that’s the only reason I can think of for these strange imaginings in which I picture Camelot—the true Camelot—and my own place within it.
A footstep behind him made him swing around, a smile on his face as he anticipated Vashti’s return. “Well, what did you discover?”
“I discovered you have no intention of taking my grandmother’s proposal seriously.” Iago’s usual smile was missing.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Play for time. Stall. Deny everything. Jethro wasn’t good at lying, but he was prepared to give it a damn good try.
“Let me remind you. I think the words you used were...‘demented old witch...trickster bastard’—who you plan to choke the life out of—and ‘hellhole.’ Do any of those things sound familiar?”
Clearly, Vashti had been right all along. He should have been looking over his shoulder. Morgan had some sort of omnipotent presence whereby she could see and hear what was going on all the time. With his little outburst, he had effectively announced his intentions. So what?
He shrugged. “You didn’t seriously think I would stay, did you? Or that, after the stunt you pulled with the Sluagh, there was any way I wasn’t going to rip your fucking throat out?”
The smile did appear then but it was a façade. Behind it, Iago’s eyes glittered pure evil. “So sad. But good news for me. This way, I get to keep your little princess.”
Jethro lunged at him. Or rather, he tried to. Nothing happened. It was as if an invisible force pinned him to the spot.
“Keep your filthy hands off her.” That was what he wanted to say. No words came out of his lips.
The edges of his vision began to darken. His limbs felt like lead. The last thing he saw was Iago’s smile. The last word he tried to say was “Vashti.”
* * *
By the time night fell, Vashti was frantic with worry. There was no sign of Jethro anywhere and she had scoured every inch of the castle twice over, enlisting help from Aydan.
She told him of her conversation with Rina. “She was adamant the challenger is not here on Avalon. I suppose she should know.”
“Did she say what happened to him after he left King Ivo’s castle?”
“She was vague about that,” Vashti admitted. “Just that she took him to a place of safety. Then she became tearful and incoherent. She was scared she’d said too much and Morgan would learn of it and punish her. I wanted to find Jethro and tell him what I knew. I intend to question her more tomorrow.”
They were close to Vashti’s room when Ilsa appeared. She looked surprised to see Vashti there. “My lady, the hour of the banquet approaches.”
Vashti’s lips opened but Aydan—perhaps sensing where she was about to confine Ilsa, the banquet and the whole of Avalon—stepped in diplomatically before she could speak. “Princess Vashti will join you now.”
Ilsa nodded and went along to Vashti’s room. “Look, wherever Jethro is, I’m sure he’ll turn up at the banquet. We can talk to him there.”
“You’re right. It’s this place. It makes you fear the worst.” Giving him a grateful smile, she made her way along to her room.
Ilsa was full of important news. “The largest guest suite has been prepared for a new arrival. I have been told an important visitor arrives tonight.”
“Is it Morgan le Fay?”
Ilsa cast that familiar, furtive glance over her shoulder. “She is not a visitor.”
“Who is it, then?”
“I don’t know. I think it is a man.”
“It must be hell living in a place where everything is a secret,” Vashti remarked as Ilsa poured water into a very un-medieval-looking bubble bath.
“What do you mean?”
Shaking her head, Vashti waved Ilsa away. They had engaged in a lengthy dispute about whether it was proper for Vashti to dispense with the services of a maid during her bath. Eventually, it had been decided that—proper or not—Vashti was going to bathe on her own. “Decided” was probably the wrong word. It implied a democratic process that had been conspicuously absent. Morgan is not the only one who can go around decreeing things, Vashti thought as she sank back into the scented water. In spite of recent events, I can still remember how to be regal when I want to. She had pulled rank and insisted on being left alone. Ilsa had clearly regarded this desire for privacy as bizarre and left the room muttering under her breath. Sighing with relief, Vashti sank further down under the mass of bubbles, closing her eyes with a sigh. It would have been too much to say she was enjoying its scented warmth—how could she possibly enjoy anything when she was on Avalon?—but a few minutes’ quiet reflection would be welcome.
It didn’t happen.
“What have you been doing to make that girl regard you as an eccentric?” The voice was cool, amused and unmistakable.
Vashti opened one eye. An important guest. A man. Since this place was a nightmare that only got worse by the hour, she should have already guessed his identity. Thank goodness for the bubbles. “You may be my father, but you never paid any attention to my bath time when I was a child. Why would you imagine I might feel comfortable with the arrangement now?”
Moncoya waved a dismissive hand. “I may be depraved, but you can acquit me of any unnatural designs upon you, my daughter.”
“I do. I would feel a whole lot more comfortable if you pulled that screen over here and stayed on the other side of it.”
Moncoya sighed but did as she asked. “You must have inherited these puritanical tendencies from your mother,” he remarked from the other side of the dressing screen as Vashti hurriedly finished her bath. “I certainly did not raise you to be prudish.”
Tying a full-length robe tightly around her body, Vashti emerged from behind the screen. Her father had elevated his already stunning good looks into an art form. His shoulder-length, signature mane of tousled, morning-after hair, was highlighted in shades ranging from honey-gold to caramel. The diamond studs in his ears reflected the firelight. His expertly manicured nails were painted with black polish. His eyes—so like Vashti’s own—were bluer than a summer evening, the irises edged with gold as if encircled by fire. Moncoya, not content with perfection, drew further attention to his eyes by encircling them with blue eyeliner.
Vashti had heard Cal and Lorcan joke about her father’s
fixation with his wardrobe and makeup, yet Moncoya in the flesh was devastating. She knew, of course, that his sexual prowess was legendary. It was impossible to live in the same palace—the same world—as him and avoid the rumors. The nail polish and eyeliner clearly did nothing to detract from his potency.
On this occasion Moncoya was clad in a peacock-blue doublet, with a jeweled coronet resting in his hair. He regarded Vashti with his head tilted to one side. “You look tired, my Vashti.”
For a brief moment she almost allowed herself to hear a fatherly note of concern in his voice. Almost dreamed this was not the man who had kidnapped Enja, her mother, because he’d had sexual fantasies about Valkyrie women. In that instant she nearly believed he had not murdered Enja when she’d tried to leave him and take her infant daughters with her. Even that this was not the father who had tried to sell Tanzi to Satan in a bizarre marriage pact. It was only when her memory took her back to the last time she’d seen Moncoya and reminded her that he had tricked her into releasing him from his constraints at knifepoint that Vashti’s mind finally rebelled.
“I could almost believe you cared.” She felt her lips curl back in a sneer reminiscent of his own.
Moncoya placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”
“I’d like to. What are you doing here?”
He took a seat in a chair by the fire, striking a graceful pose with his shapely, hosed and booted legs crossed in front of him. “I was invited.”
Vashti sat on the end of the bed. “I haven’t got time for riddles. A friend of mine is missing, possibly in grave danger.” As she spoke the words aloud, she knew they were true. Jethro would not be at the banquet tonight. “I thought you couldn’t leave your hiding place?”
His smile contained mischief and menace in equal measure. “Who will pursue me here? That half-blood mongrel who dares call himself my brother?”
“Merlin Caledonius is your brother, although he doesn’t care to admit it any more than you do. I suppose you are right about one thing. No one is going to follow you to Avalon. Not unless they have a death wish.”
“You see. We think alike, you and I. Who is this friend? The one you said is in grave danger.”
Vashti paused. She didn’t trust his motives for being here, but she didn’t see how telling him could harm Jethro. If her fae instincts were right, Jethro was in enough trouble already. “You already know him. It is Jethro de Loix.”
“What is it about these necromancers?” As always, Moncoya’s voice was caressing, slightly teasing and decidedly hypnotic. Even after everything he had done, his magnetism was such that it would be easy to be fooled by him. She had a feeling she wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. “Your sister was prepared to throw away the brilliant future I offered her in order to go and live on the very edge of civilization with her Irish sorcerer. Now I find you—the sensible one—have fallen under the spell of another necromancer. And not any necromancer. No, you had to choose the only one you cannot have. The one who has been claimed by none other than Morgan le Fay herself.”
Vashti regarded him speculatively. There was an outside chance she might get some answers here. Not because her father would take pity on her. On the contrary. Pity was an alien concept to Moncoya—along with so many other mortal emotions. But he loved gossip and he had a vindictive tongue. If he knew of any scandal, Moncoya would be unable to resist sharing it. “Why is that? Why has Morgan decided she wants an unknown American mercenary to be her mate?”
Moncoya’s laughter rang out and, in Vashti’s opinion, went on far too long. “Oh, my dear child, you really do not know?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t have asked.” She tried, and failed, to keep the caustic note out of her voice.
He studied her face, his head to one side. “Can it be true? You do not know who Jethro de Loix is?”
Vashti felt her temper rise at the same time as her heart sank. Moncoya was toying with her, but she was sure now he knew something. And that secretive smile was telling her it was something huge. “Don’t start being cryptic. I know as much about Jethro’s background as he does himself.”
Moncoya whistled. “Really? I wonder why Morgan hasn’t told him. She’ll play a deep game, that’s for sure.”
“She isn’t here, so she hasn’t been able to tell him anything.”
His eyes narrowed and Vashti thought he was about to say more. Instead he gave an elegant shrug. “I daresay Morgan will reveal all in her own good time.”
Vashti resisted the urge to stamp her foot. “Reveal what? For God’s sake, just tell me!”
Moncoya shook his head. “I’m not going to risk getting on the wrong side of Morgan at any time. If you think I’m going to do it here on Avalon, you can think again. Not even for you, my Vashti.”
“Then get the hell out of my room.” Vashti bounced up from the bed, her whole body trembling with suppressed rage.
With that feline grace that was his alone, Moncoya rose. His features were schooled into an expression of sadness that might have fooled anyone who didn’t know him. “I had hoped for a more pleasurable reunion.”
“Fuck off.”
“Have you been learning this interesting new vocabulary from that coarse necromancer? You did not glean it in our royal home.”
Vashti padded to the door in her bare feet and held it open. When Moncoya drew level with her, he halted, any pretense at paternal concern gone. “Don’t fight me, Vashti. You have enough problems.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Strangely, it is not. Call it a warning. You may not believe me, but I mean you no harm.”
Despite his huge personality, Moncoya wasn’t tall. Vashti only had to tilt her head back slightly to look him fully in the face. “I don’t believe you. You never think of anyone but yourself.”
“I never said that wasn’t the case.” With his customary swagger, he bowed slightly before walking away from her along the corridor.
Vashti waited until he was out of sight before closing her bedchamber door and leaning against it. Now he was gone, she found her limbs were shaking violently in the aftermath of the encounter.
Tanzi, please answer me! Why did it have to be here, on Avalon of all places, that their psychic bond was broken?
When Ilsa returned to help her, she was outraged to find Vashti was already dressed and only needed her assistance to lace the back of her gown. Ignoring the girl’s protests, she hurried down to the great hall, where the guests were already gathered for the banquet to welcome Moncoya. There was great excitement. From being an island that no one visited, Avalon had seen two such celebrations in a matter of days.
Vashti’s heart sank. There was no sign of Jethro. Lisbet arrived late, sidling into her chair, her eyes downcast and her manner subdued. Aydan explained in a whisper she was probably still upset after Jethro had lost his temper with her earlier. By the time the food arrived, Vashti’s nerves were stretched to the point where she wanted to do someone—probably Iago, though Moncoya would make a good substitute—a serious injury.
“If Iago is a trickster, why can’t he make himself look better?” Aydan speculated. In response, Vashti turned impatient eyes on him. He subsided into his chair. “Sorry.”
She regarded her father from beneath lowered brows. “Jethro disappears and my father arrives. I can’t believe this is a coincidence.”
“You think he knows something?”
“I asked him, but he wriggled his way out of giving me a straight answer. As always.” Vashti pushed her plate of uneaten food away. Where was Jethro? What was happening to him right now? The thought of the empty dungeons plagued her. There are no prisoners on Avalon. Displease Morgan and there is only one option...
“What did your father say?” Aydan asked. He, too, had eaten very little.
“He made a few cryptic comme
nts about why Morgan brought Jethro here, but he didn’t actually say anything useful. He likes being mysterious.” She rose from her seat. “I’m going to ask Iago.”
When Vashti crossed the room and halted in front of Iago, he ceased his conversation, regarding her across the table with speculation in his eyes. “Your beautiful daughter.” The words were addressed to Moncoya, although his gaze remained on Vashti. Moncoya remained silent.
“Where is Jethro de Loix?”
“Somewhere neither you nor I can help him.” Iago gave an exaggerated sigh. “He should have accepted the offer that was made to him.” He turned to Moncoya. “These necromancers. They seem to feel they can solve every problem with brute strength. I prefer a little finesse.”
Vashti placed her hands on the table, leaning close. “I will find him, and when I do, you and Morgan will discover brute strength works.”
“That’s the point—” Iago’s teeth gleamed as he smiled “—you won’t find him. Now, as you will observe, the musicians are beginning to play. Would you care to dance?”
Vashti launched herself at him across the table, her fingers curling into claws in preparation to gouge his eyes.
Moncoya rose in a fluid movement, but Aydan was faster. Catching Vashti around the waist, he hauled her away from Iago.
“If you get yourself in trouble here, you’ll be no use to Jethro. And there are no prisoners on Avalon, remember?”
Taking a deep breath, she nodded, allowing Aydan to lead her out of the hall. As she passed Lisbet, the other woman looked up and Vashti caught a glimpse of her expression. She frowned. Lisbet didn’t look upset. Far from it. The smile that played around her lips was radiant and curiously triumphant.