by Cory Barclay
“I get it,” Steve said, holding his hands out in surrender. “In all honesty, I hadn’t even thought of doing . . . that . . . with Emilene.”
“Don’t lie to me, boy. Every male that has stepped foot in this house has thought of fucking Emilene.”
Steve flinched from Fueda’s abruptness.
They finished cooking dinner in silence, then headed to the kitchen with the pots and pans.
Before they reached the top of the stairs, a scream pierced the quiet house.
Steve stumbled on the next step and lost his balance. Falling forward, he dropped the crock of potatoes. It crashed to the floor, breaking into a million pieces. With his hands free, he was able to get his hands in front of him to prevent him from face-planting on the stairs.
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Fueda,” he said, gingerly helping himself back to his feet.
But Fueda was staring wide-eyed, ignoring him. With a sudden burst of energy, she leaped up the stairs and ran toward the scream. Steve was close behind.
They reached the kitchen, but the room was empty. Fueda and Steve turned to the foyer nearby, where the guitar sat. In the middle of the room was the burlap sack from earlier, on the ground. All four members of the Reynolds family stood around the sack. The drawstring was still pulled open from earlier, allowing the wolf’s head to peek from the opening.
Except it wasn’t a wolf’s head anymore.
Where the wolf’s head had been an hour before, now it was a human’s head—a dead man with curly brown hair and a rough, bearded face. The pale man was gray and still quite dead.
“By God!” Dosira said, her hand instinctively gripping her daughter’s shoulder. “Tiberius, you’ve killed a werewolf!”
DINNER WAS A GRIM AFFAIR. Everyone had lost his or her appetite. Steve wasn’t sure what the implications of killing a werewolf were. Judging by everyone’s long faces, it wasn’t good.
After the grisly discovery, Jareth had said, “Put the wolf-man on ice, Lig, until we figure out something more permanent.” Steve helped transport the body to the large kitchen freezer in the basement. They went back upstairs and the dining room was quiet.
He went to stand in the corner of the room, opposite Fueda. To lighten the mood, he said, “Should I play music while you eat, masters?”
Jareth shook his head. “No, man, now is not the time.” He slurred his words a bit. He’d been overindulging with wine, before dinner to celebrate the successful hunt, and afterward to drown his woes.
Steve thought he understood why the family was so glum. This was no longer a protective slaying, to save their livestock from a predator. Now, they had killed a citizen of Mythicus. Whether he’d been responsible for killing the cows or not, that could seriously come back to bite the family in their collective asses.
Steve had thought it strange that Jareth and Tiberius had only killed a single wolf. Wolves were pack animals. This one had been a loner. It shouldn’t have been proof the animal was actually humanoid, but it could have been a hint something was off.
Everyone in the family drank their weight in wine. Steve wouldn’t have been able to play guitar even if he’d wanted. He was kept busy refilling goblets and retrieving bottles from the basement kitchen.
At one point, Dosira put her fork and knife on her plate with a clank and steepled her hands on the table. She’d finished pushing her food around, had realized she had no appetite, and had given up eating. “What are we going to do?” she asked the table. Her tone was matter-of-fact and businesslike.
Jareth said, “We could petition the Brethren. Beg for forgiveness.”
“We don’t beg, husband,” Dosira answered in a flat voice. “It would make us look weak.”
It was clear to Steve, now, who wore the pants in this relationship.
“Will this foil our future plans? We’ve prepared for a long time to get these votes in the Council,” Jareth said.
Steve was confused, but he kept listening with a keen ear. Whatever they were talking about sounded important. The wine was making their tongues flap.
“How could it?” Tiberius asked.
“We don’t know who this man was,” Jareth said. “For all we know, he could be someone significant.”
“Do you think someone of influence would be living like a recluse in the woods?” Dosira asked with anger in her voice.
“Nonetheless, our choices are either to hide the body and hope it isn’t discovered, or bring it to the attention of the Council and hope for absolution.”
Tiberius crossed his arms. “When you put it like that, father, it doesn’t sound like much of a choice at all.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Dosira said. They both eyed Jareth. Only Emilene kept her head down, pecking at her food like a bird.
Jareth spread his hands wide on the table. “Then it is settled. We will keep this from our guests tomorrow night.”
“Guests?” Steve blurted. He immediately regretted it, knowing he’d spoken too quickly. It was clear he’d been listening closely to their conversation. He stared across at Fueda, who had a look of scorn in her eyes.
Everyone at the table seemed too drunk to care. Only Jareth looked at him, saying, “Yes, Steven, we are having guests tomorrow night. You will not be here for that, though, so don’t let it worry you. Now do not interrupt us again.”
Steve nodded. He stopped listening to the conversation, because his mind raced with what he’d just heard.
The Council . . . they mentioned appealing to the Council. That must be the branch of Brethren that Constantin and Mariana Lee are trying to join. Which means the Reynolds family must be much more prominent than I originally thought . . .
Are they enemies of the Lees? How can I find this out?
And how can I tell Geddon what I’ve learned?
THAT NIGHT, IN HIS little room in the basement, Steve kept rolling back and forth on his hard cot. He was tired—the day had been long and strenuous—but he’d also learned quite a bit.
He heard a soft tapping.
He stopped rolling, thinking it was his cot creaking, but then he heard more taps.
It came from the door.
He stood up, in nothing but his underwear, and crept toward the door. The room was dark, so he moved slowly.
He pulled the handle and cracked the door open.
Emilene stood in front of him, dressed only in a white sleeping shift.
“Shit,” Steve muttered under his breath.
Emilene smiled, her lips forming a seductive curve. She pushed the door open further and let herself into Steve’s room.
He was a servant. It wasn’t his prerogative to deny one of his masters entry into his room.
But he knew his excuse was just him being cute—this was dangerous.
When she stood in the center of the room, she put her hands behind her and gazed at him.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” Steve asked in a low whisper.
“Kiss me,” she whispered back. Her words were deep and surly, much different than usual, and Steve attributed it to the wine from earlier. She kept bouncing on her heels, too, as if either nervous or excited. Or both.
“No,” Steve said.
Emilene frowned. She looked beautiful, even in the darkness.
“Fine,” she said. She took a step toward him, raised herself on her heels once more, and kissed him on the lips.
Her lips were warm and soft. She smelled of booze. It almost trapped Steve in a state of blissful unawareness—his base emotions overpowering his conscience.
She tasted and felt much different than Annabel.
And that’s what snapped him out of it.
Annabel!
He unhinged his lips from hers and took a step back.
“You don’t like it?” Emilene asked, pouting.
“It’s not that,” Steve said, trying to be gentle. “I . . . can’t. I’m promised to someone else.”
Emilene was quiet.
She shocked Steve by chuckling.
“You fool,” she said, her bubbly, drunken voice now deep and blunt. “Everyone’s promised to someone else. I am, you are, my brother is. It’s the way of the world. It doesn’t mean anything.”
All her innocent charm had washed away in a matter of seconds. Even in the darkness, Steve could tell she stared at him with cold, heartless eyes. She had changed.
But changed into what, Steve wasn’t sure.
She surprised him again by saying, “What will it take for you to lay with me?”
Steve didn’t like this position he was in. Not at all. But he figured if he was going to be forced to do something against his will, he might as well benefit from it in some other way . . .
“Who are the guests your parents are having over tomorrow night?” he asked. “Why don’t they want me to attend the dinner—to serve their food?”
Emilene snorted. “If I answer your questions, you’ll do as I say?”
Steve hesitated, then nodded.
“I can’t see why it matters to you, but I’ll tell you,” she said as preamble. “Their names are Constantin and Mariana Lee. They are dangerous vampires, and our neighbors.”
Steve’s eyes widened, but he tried to hide his shock. Emilene was staring right at him, but it was very dark in the room, and he hoped she didn’t see how distraught he looked.
“Are they friends or enemies? Your parents and these . . . vampires.”
Emilene shrugged. “They’re making a deal with each other, so I would consider that . . . friendly . . . no?”
Steve wondered what the Lees and the Reynoldses could be plotting. Why would they be working together? Toward what end?
He wished he knew as much about Mythicus politics as Geddon did.
That would be the person he’d have to talk to about all this. Geddon would be proud of the intel he’d uncovered.
Emilene took a step forward.
Steve opened his mouth to say something, but Emilene’s finger shot up and rested over Steve’s lips, quieting him.
“Enough questions,” she said. She went on her tiptoes.
She kissed him again and he felt an immediate wave of passion wash through him, followed closely by a wave of guilt.
He couldn’t do this.
Not to Annabel.
He took a step back and stubbed his heel on the corner of the cot. He was standing on something that unbalanced him—he looked down—it was his pants.
He kicked his pants out of the way and noticed a gold coin roll out from the back pocket.
“Emilene . . .” he muttered, shaking his head.
Emilene pushed him. The back of his knees gave way against the cot’s edge and he plopped down in a sitting position on the bed.
“Just sit there and shut up,” Emilene said. She reached for the bottom of her night shift and started to pull it over her head, revealing her flat, fit stomach and the bottom of her breasts—
“Emilene!” a voice called from the door.
Steve’s eyes shot over to the sound.
Fueda’s small, shadowy figure stood in the doorway.
Emilene’s dress fell back over her body. She growled and turned to the brownie. “Dammit!” she cried out, glaring at Steve ferociously.
She stormed out of the room, pushing past Fueda on her way out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
FUEDA GLARED AT STEVE with a burning rage that didn’t seem like it belonged on such a small creature. Steve felt guilty, but he also felt thankful. Fueda had saved him from doing something terrible—something he’d probably regret forever.
As she stormed away from his lodging, he also realized he’d lost her trust. And that was troubling, because she had been the only source of normalcy since coming into this house. Fueda was Steve’s link to Lig, and therefore his link to Geddon. And he’d done the exact thing she’d ordered him not to do: fraternize with Emilene.
Not by his own will, but that wouldn’t matter in her matronly eyes. He had been weak.
Steve leaned forward on his bed and put his head in his hands. He rubbed his temples, trying to contemplate what to do.
Should I leave this place? I’ve only been here for a day and already I’ve made an enemy of my only ally. Things are not going well.
Then he started to think about what brought him here in the first place: being close to Annabel. And needing somewhere to go so the Brethren wouldn’t find him.
Now that he’d learned the Reynoldses were members of the Brethren, he was scared he’d drifted too far behind enemy lines.
In a flash of inspiration or epiphany, he realized something: a puzzle that hadn’t made sense until now.
Lig was the Lees’ house brownie, but he was also at the Bayfog summit that night. He must have been part of the Kinship rebellion. Steve had a nagging feeling Geddon knew Lig, in which case Geddon also knew Fueda.
Did that mean Fueda was a Kinship member, too?
The thing bothering Steve the most was he was starting to understand he was not here by accident. It wasn’t mere coincidence.
No, Steve thought, Geddon planned this. Either to keep an eye on me, through Fueda and Lig, or to place a mole in the Reynolds’ house.
I am that mole.
He must have known the Reynolds’ allegiance to the Brethren to begin with.
And if he’s trying to keep watch over me, to make sure I don’t do anything stupid, then he still doesn’t trust me. He lied to me, if that’s the case.
But if I’m supposed to be a mole . . . maybe he does trust me . . .
All this late night thinking was giving him a headache. He was conflicted: stay or go—help the rebellion by staying or hurt the rebellion by leaving.
Steve hated the position he’d been put in, again. Nothing he’d done since he’d come to Mythicus had been his decision to make: losing Annabel. Aiding the Kinship on the Bayfog summit. Becoming a Kinsman. Living in this strange household as a servant.
He was a pawn in everyone’s schemes.
Well, not anymore, he told himself, shaking his weary head. If I’m going to get Annabel back, I have to start doing things for myself. No one is going to help me retrieve her, just as no one helped me on Earth.
Except he knew that wasn’t true. He’d had help dealing with these magical people on Terrus—
Dale, he thought sadly. My friend who doesn’t even remember me anymore. I must find out how to fix that!
He remembered he’d had other allies, too: January Amos, the Druid who was murdered. Her daughter, Scarlet the succubus, helped when he needed her most.
Perhaps she’s someone I can call on for aid . . .
He yawned. There was nothing to be done tonight. If Scarlet is still on Terrus, how could she help me here?
With his head still in his hands, he peeked through his spread fingers. He noticed something shiny on the floor, reflecting moonlight at him.
It was the gold coin Geddon had given him to pay for Francesca the Third. It must have rolled out of his pants pocket during his scuffle with Emilene.
He bent down and picked it up, turning the coin over in his hand. He put it on his thumb and flipped it, catching it as it whirled in midair.
He laid back on his cot, put one hand behind his head, and kept tossing the coin and catching it as it fell.
After doing that over and over for a few minutes, he caught the coin one last time, rested his hand on his chest, and closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he stood in a strange hallway he’d never seen before. It was large, with a high ceiling, like a transept from some gorgeous European cathedral. The walls were black and gold, covered with brilliant tapestries and old paintings. He admired the walls as he walked, his bare feet tapping the hardwood floor. Eventually, he came to a huge room.
An old grandfather clock stood in the back of the room. Two aisles of books flanked it on either side. A bright, golden chandelier hung from the ceiling in the center. The edges of the bookshelves, grandfather clock, and sections of the wall were plated
in gold.
“Whoever lives here must be the Donald Trump of Mythicus,” Steve said, to no one.
“Close, but not quite, mate. Though I will say the skin tone of the man closely matches my hair. And that’s a sentence I hope never to say again.”
Steve spun around, startled at the familiar sounding voice. A feeling of dread overcame him.
Aiden O’Shaunessy stood at the end of the hall, his hands in his jacket pockets. He wore a sly grin on his face, like he was either pleased to see Steve in his trap, or suspicious about why and how he was here.
Steve’s latter inkling was confirmed when Aiden said, “What the hell are y’doing in me house, mate? And how?”
Steve took a step back toward the grandfather clock as Aiden took a step toward him.
“This all belongs to you?” Steve asked, motioning to the books and the gold, trying to buy himself time. His eyes flickered to his sides and he saw a passageway leading down another hall.
Aiden pulled his hands out from his pockets, throwing them in the air. “I am guilty of being posh and glamorous, yes. But that doesn’t answer my question . . .”
“I dream-leaped,” Steve sputtered. “I don’t know how I got here. I’m not very experienced. You’re back on Mythicus, then?”
Aiden shook his head. “No. Still Seared on Terrus. Isn’t it ironic how my whole goal was to bring you to my Seeker so I could return home . . . and now you’re there and I’m still stuck here?” He wore a mirthless smile on his freckled face. Steve knew that dangerous look.
He started to panic and sweat.
“What’s stopping you from coming back to Mythicus?” Steve asked.
“It turns out my Seeker is dead. Or our connection was severed, at least.”
“You’re trapped there?”
Shrugging, Aiden took another step forward. “It would seem that way. Unless I run across another Myth Maker.” As an afterthought, he muttered, “Or if Overseer Malachite can get the mirror working. Perhaps I can use that . . .”