The Awakening (Immortals)

by Joy Nash

  She cupped the mug in her hands, inhaling deeply. It smelled okay, but the first sip nearly choked her. Sludge would have tasted better. It wasn’t likely to be drinkable without, say, six or seven spoons of sugar and a half pint of cream. Christine didn’t bother pointing that out to her surly hostess.

  “It’s delicious,” she lied, setting the mug discreetly aside and picking up her spoon.

  Pearl grumbled. Moving to a sideboard, she hoisted a fat pitcher and poured a drink of her own—a mug of ale. She took a long swig, giving a sigh of satisfaction as she licked foam from her upper lip.

  “So,” she said, looking Christine up and down. “You’re Kalen’s latest whore.”

  Christine nearly spewed a spoonful of porridge across the table.

  “Doan’ be thinking ye’ll last long,” the housekeeper warned. “The human besoms never do.”

  “Does Kalen bring women here often?” she asked casually.

  “Often enough.”

  Christine doggedly ate another spoonful of porridge. It was fine, but she really craved something salty. Potato chips. She would have cut her right arm off for a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips.

  “Pushy creatures, Kalen’s women be,” Pearl continued. “Though to be fair, the human ones are a fair sight more tolerable than his Sidhe bitch.”

  Christine looked up. “You don’t like Leanna?”

  Pearl let out a sharp bark of disgust. “Like her? About as well as I like poison in my well, I’d say.”

  At last, a point upon which Christine and the odd little housekeeper could agree.

  “When that luid first started sniffing about the master, I told him she was trouble. But did he listen to me?” Pearl took a swig of ale. “Nay.”

  “You’ve worked for Kalen a long time, then?”

  “One hundred and seventy years,” she replied proudly. “Since I was a wee lass.” Another swig of ale. The drink must have been potent; Pearl’s hard tone was quickly softening. “Found me on the cliffs, he did, not far from here. Barely alive, I was.”

  “Why? What happened to you?”

  “I was cast out.” Her thick lips twisted. She stared into her mug for a long moment, then tilted it to her lips and drained it.

  Christine quickly lifted the ale jug for a refill. “Cast out by who?”

  “My own clan. The halfling side. My blood had started to tell.” She grunted. “I’m mixed race, ye see. My father was a gnome, if ye can believe that.”

  Christine had no difficulty at all believing it. “And your mother was halfling?”

  Pearl’s mug hit the table with a thud. “Aye. Never knew how it came to pass. Ma died when I was born. Eight years later, it became clear what I was. The clan turned me out.”

  “That’s horrible!”

  “It’s the way of things in these parts. Halflings,faeries, Sidhe—they’re clannish races. Mixed blood’s a thing to be rooted out. I was lucky enough my kin didn’t kill me outright.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault! You didn’t choose your parents!”

  Pearl refilled her mug a third time, her hand none too steady. Ale splashed over the side. “The clans need pure blood. If they kept all the ones like me, what would they be? Not halfling.”

  “It’s still barbaric. Are the brownies here mixed race,too?”

  “Nay. ’Twas humans what drove them from their home down near Glasgow. Factories and pollution got to be too much. Kalen took ’em in, every last one. He’s got a heart of gold, that one. That’s why he needs me.” She scowled. “To protect him from beacharn like you.”

  Taking a final swig from her mug, she rose and gave Christine a pointed look. “Are ye through stuffing your face, then?”

  Christine looked down at her half-eaten bowl of porridge. “Er, yes. I suppose so.”

  “Then come along. The master bade me put you in the Rose Room. Fair startled me, that. He must be planning to keep ye.”

  Christine started. “Keep me?”

  “For a while,” Pearl amended. “Like I said, his human whores doan’ last long. Most dinna make it farther than the library. He’s put a few in the smaller bedrooms on the lower level. But the Rose Room?” She shook her head grimly. “He’s never put one there, not in my day, at any rate.” She waddled from the room.

  Christine took a last gulp of porridge and followed. No use in taking offense with Pearl’s prickly demeanor. After all, she was half gnome. Gnomes, even though they were life magic creatures, were not renowned for their good cheer.

  Pearl led Christine back up the stairs to the hallway outside Kalen’s bedroom. Opening the door of the room next to his, the housekeeper stood back and scowled as Christine preceded her into the room.

  She could hardly believe her eyes. There was no sign of the brownies, but it was clear they’d been hard at work. The white sheets she’d seen when she’d looked into the room earlier were gone. The shutters and windows had been thrown open to the sea air. Every square inch of the room sparkled.

  It was a small chamber, sumptuously decorated in various shades of pink and rose. Miniature roses decorated the flocked wall coverings; a rich oriental carpet woven with a pattern of rose vines covered the polished wood floor. The paintings gracing the walls were Impressionist—Monet, Renoir, Degas.

  A graceful bed with a pink ruffled canopy, an ornate writing desk, a gilded settee, and a marble washstand all contributed to an air of cultured beauty. A mirrored wardrobe, a smaller, more feminine version of the one in Kalen’s room, stood in one corner. A copper bathing tub filled with steaming water occupied the floor in front of the hearth. Christine’s gaze fell on the painting above the mantel. It was Hayez’s The Kiss, transferred from the tower room.

  “Ye must turn a good trick on the mattress,” Pearl said in a snide tone. “The master ordered that painting moved.”

  “But—it was still in the tower room when we left just an hour ago!”

  “A brownie fetched it right after,” Pearl replied. “Master’s orders.”

  He must be planning to keep ye.

  Oh, Goddess, what had she gotten herself into?

  Pearl gave her a sharp look. “Ye know who he is, don’t ye? What he is?”

  “Yes, I know. It’s why I came here.”

  “Ye want something from him. Your kind always does.” The housekeeper’s tone was laced with disgust.

  “It’s not what you think,” Christine protested. “It’s not just for me. It’s important—”

  “Aye,of course. It always is. Never,to my knowledge, has a female whored for Kalen without wanting something important.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “And I dinna want to. Ye’ll use him,like all the rest,plain and simple. The how and the why of it hardly matters.”

  Lumbering to the wardrobe, Pearl wrenched the doors wide. “Now then. The master says ye’re to dress in something bright for dinner. No black, no gray.”

  Rummaging through the closet,she pulled out several dazzling dresses in silk,satin,and lace. They looked like something from a theater production or a long-ago ballroom.

  “Ye’re to wear one of these,” Pearl said, tossing them on the bed.

  Christine touched the lace sleeve of a gown fashioned from exquisite indigo silk. “But…where did they come from? Whose are they?”

  “I dinna ken. They were here before I came.”

  Christine closed her eyes. Had the dresses belonged to one of Kalen’s long-ago lovers? Or several long-ago lovers? How many women had there been, anyway, over the centuries? The question didn’t bear consideration.

  She opened her eyes to see a stiff,wickedly curved white lace corset dangling from Pearl’s stubby gray fingers. The thing looked like some kind of primitive torture device.

  “You’ll need this underneath.”

  “Oh no,” Christine said. “There’s no way I’m going to wear a corset.” The thing would push her breasts practically up to her chin.

  Pearl’s expression was distinctl
y unsympathetic. “The master ordered it, lass. I don’t suggest ye disobey. After all, whatever ye want from him will come easier if ye work a bit to please him.”

  The contempt in the housekeeper’s voice rankled, but what could Christine say? Pearl was right—Christine was here to get something from Kalen. How could she explain that something wasn’t the reason Christine had made love to him? That the thought of trading her body for Kalen’s cooperation was repugnant to her? She’d made love to Kalen because…because it had been impossible to turn him away. Especially when she’d seen the stark need in his eyes.

  Pearl flung the corset on the bed with the dresses. “Strip and get in the bath. I’ll nay be sending the brownies to heat the water again if it cools too much for yer delicate skin.” She grinned, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Will ye be wantin’ me to scrub yer back?”

  “No,” Christine said quickly. “I’ll manage.”

  “I’ll return to help ye dress.”

  “There’s no need—”

  “Aye, there is. Those gowns want help. Both going on and coming off. Now, ’tis already midafternoon, so ye’d better move quickly. The master’ll return at six. He expects ye in the dining room then.”

  “Do you happen to know where he’s gone?” Christine asked, feigning interest in the dresses on the bed.

  Pearl’s expression contorted, the gray tinge of her skin deepening. “To his Sidhe bitch,” she muttered. “Perhaps ye didna please him as well as ye thought.”

  “That little American beacharn has to pay for what she did, Kalen. No human insults me and lives.”

  Kalen put his arm across the back of Leanna’s butter-soft leather couch, his pose deceptively relaxed as he watched her pacing. Her black stilettos clicked restlessly on the marble floor.

  Somehow—he suspected magic was involved—she’d compressed her voluptuous body into a dress that was little more than a section of synthetic rubber tubing. Her curves were now all but nonexistent and she carried the odor of petroleum. It was supremely annoying—she knew he hated that costume.

  Her movements lacked her usual sensual grace. Her spine was rigid, her motions jerky. She had to be experiencing more than a little stiffness in the aftermath of Christine’s spell. He also knew Leanna would damn herself to hell before she admitted such a thing.

  “What do you care about one small witch?” he said dispassionately. “So she managed to get lucky and knocked you flat for a few hours. So what? Forget it. It’s not worth your time looking for her.”

  “Satan’s Gate,Kalen—how can you say that!” She halted in front of the sofa and leaned over him. Her faint industrial scent filled his nostrils. “The incident’s all over town. Those cursed East Enders told everyone. It’s humiliating.”

  “But good for business, I imagine.”

  She shot him a nasty look. “Not funny.”

  He shrugged. “The talk will die down soon enough.”

  “Not soon enough for me. I want that American witch’s head on a platter. Preferably in time for tonight’s show. It’s the only thing that will save my reputation. I won’t kill her until afterward,of course,” she added as an afterthought.

  “You will do no such thing.”

  She waved a hand. “Oh no, Kalen. You’re not going to talk me out of this. I know how squeamish you are when it comes to killing humans, but in this case my mind’s made up. Where is she?” When he didn’t answer, her eyes narrowed. “I know you took her. Dougal told me.”

  He pulled his arm from the back of the couch. “Surely you don’t expect me to lead you to her.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I do.” Her lower lip nudged forward. “Once I have her back,maybe I’ll forgive you for taking her.”

  “The spell she cast was harmless. She doesn’t deserve to die.”

  “Damn you, Kalen. It’s not for you to interfere in Sidhe matters. Where did you put her?”

  “I took her home. To the States.”

  She sent him a baleful look. “I do not believe that for an instant.”

  Kalen made an impatient gesture. “Forget the witch, Leanna. She’s not worth your trouble. And besides, she’s under my protection now. You’ll never get at her.” He unfolded his large frame from the couch. “Take out your anger on something else. A zombie, maybe. Or a vampire. Something that will get you on Mac’s good side.”

  Leanna sent him a glance that could have withered an ancient oak. “The day I care about Mac’s good side will be the day Annwyn turns to mist. And anyway,” she added with a venom-tinged smile, “when was the last time I saw you acting the part of the fucking parapolice auxiliary?”

  “Point taken.” Aiding local law enforcement was, to Kalen’s shame, another risk he couldn’t afford.

  Leanna turned with a huff, striding toward a black lacquered sideboard, where a Waterford decanter and six matching glasses were set out on a silver tray. Pouring three fingers of single malt into one of the glasses, she downed the amber liquid with one smooth flick of her wrist. Glass empty, she flung it at the floor. Crystal shattered on marble, punctuated by a blast of elfshot.

  “A shame to break up the set,” Kalen said mildly.

  “You know,you’re absolutely right.” She picked up a second glass and launched it after the first. The rest of the glasses followed,one by one,exploding in bursts of green fire.

  “Feel better?” Kalen asked when she was done.

  “A little. You are a stubborn ass, you know.”

  Kalen inclined his head.

  Grasping the neck of the decanter, Leanna brought it to her lips and took a long draught. “I need to make the little witch scream.”

  “There will be other amusements,” Kalen said dryly.

  She met his gaze. The tip of her tongue emerged to trace a circle on the decanter’s rim. Then her lips parted, engulfing the neck of the bottle completely. She tilted it, sucking gently.

  Kalen watched her.

  She slid the bottle from her lips and placed it on the silver tray. “Other amusements,” she said, her voice hitting a husky note. “I do like the sound of that.”

  She slid toward him, all grace and pure, sexual motion, her earlier stiffness gone. Entwining her arms around his neck, she rubbed her body against his. “We’ve got the whole afternoon and evening before tonight’s tour,” she purred. Her tongue flicked the shell of his ear. “Plenty of time to fuck. Plenty of time for you to paint, afterward. Then after we attend the tour, we can make our baby.”

  Kalen didn’t respond. Leanna’s hips cradled his cock, pulsing with seductive rhythm. But the mention of her sex tour killed any lingering attraction. Why did Leanna want his child? He no longer believed her story about being accepted by Niniane. Was Christine right? Had Leanna drawn death runes, been prepared to spill blood? To what purpose?

  She rocked her pelvis against his crotch. Instead of inflaming him, as the bold maneuver usually did, it raised only revulsion. In a flash, he saw himself as if from a distance. The scene resembled nothing so much as the first frames of a particularly disgusting human porn flick.

  He thought of the masterpiece he’d created after making love to Christine. It was the first artwork he’d ever created that he hadn’t wanted to immediately destroy. Human though she was, Christine possessed a muse’s magic. But none of Leanna’s selfishness. The joy of what he’d shared with Christine made him giddy.

  Leanna’s rocking movements stilled as it dawned on her his body wasn’t responding. She peered up at him. “What’s so fucking funny?”

  Kalen realized he was smiling. “Just thinking of…a book I was reading this morning.”

  Leanna made a sound of disgust. “One of your dry, ancient tomes, no doubt, in Latin, or Greek, or some other equally horrid language. Well, whatever it was, forget it. I want you in bed.”

  She tugged at the laces of his shirt, baring a patch of skin just below his throat. She graced the spot with a wet, openmouthed kiss. She slid a palm down his stomach, cupping him through his kilt.<
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  He grabbed her wrist and stopped her. “Leanna, no. There’s not going to be any child.”

  She reared back. “What?”

  He studied her stunned expression dispassionately. Ten years ago, he’d thought her the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Now the attraction had definitely grown thin. Yes, Leanna’s body was every man’s fantasy, and yes, she was an extremely inventive lover. But any feeling he might have had for her had evaporated. Because now that he’d experienced Christine’s lovemaking, he realized the truth about Leanna. The Sidhe had never released the full energy of her muse magic to Kalen. She’d saved that for her human lovers, the artists who gave her their souls and their lives.

  “Kalen.” Leanna’s tone had taken on a wheedling note. He still held one of her wrists—she sank into his body as if he were using the contact to draw her closer. “You have to give me a child. I need the baby to claim my rightful heritage with the Sidhe.”

  He released her. “I’m sorry,Leanna,but I can’t help you. What’s more,I think it’s best we end our affair completely.”

  Her face drained of color. “You’re dumping me?”

  “Your words, not mine. Frankly, I can’t imagine you’ll miss me. How many other lovers do you currently have? Five? Six?”

  “Seven,” she muttered. “But they’re humans!”

  “They’re artists. Brilliant ones. You enjoy them.”

  “For a few months. A year at the most. They’re too fragile to last any longer than that.”

  “Then it’s fortunate there’s always new talent to discover.”

  “No. Don’t do this, Kalen.” She reached for the hem of his kilt. The movement was seductive, graceful, but he recognized it for what it was: the desperate grasp of a desperate woman. He stood motionless as her hand skimmed up his thigh.

  “You’re…you’re just frustrated your art isn’t improving as it should. We can fix that. Give me your child tonight. You’ll see then how good it will be.”

  How had he ever thought her alluring? Why had he permitted himself to care, even a tiny bit? “There will be no child, Leanna.”

  “But—you can’t just walk away! I’m leannan-sidhe! No man can resist me!”