The Spirit Watcher

by Cory Barclay

  And louder.

  By the time she turned and faced the crowd, her arms spread out like an eagle’s wings, the music had reached a voluminous crescendo. The beautiful sounds occupied the entire space of the room.

  Nersi spun back around to the Overseer, took a few steps, and was standing directly in front of him. It drew a few idle chuckles from the crowd. He was a single widow, after all . . .

  At the other end of the walkway, Charlene’s eyes were closed. She was completely lost in the moment as she played along with her flute.

  In a flash, something appeared in Nersi’s hand. She smiled wide and leaned forward, toward the Overseer. Her curvy backside stuck out for the crowd to see. She got a few cheers for the provocative move. Some of the women had to slap their lordly husbands’ arms.

  She whispered sweet nothings to the Overseer, something only he could hear . . .

  The smug, languid expression on Malachite’s face slowly disappeared. He squinted up at Nersi again.

  Something flashed in Nersi’s hand again, in front of the Overseer. The light from the candlelit fixtures above glinted silver, reflecting out toward the crowd.

  Overseer Malachite’s eyes bulged.

  Nersi twisted to her full height, shaking her ass as she rose. Then she backpedaled.

  Overseer Malachite coughed. It wasn’t enough to break the reverie en masse.

  Then he made a strange, inhuman sound. People finally glanced away from the siren and looked to him.

  A few shocked cries rang out.

  A confused expression overtook Overseer Malachite’s face. Baffled, his hand shot up to his neck, where he felt a spider bite or something similar.

  From the small wound, blood spilled in rivulets down his neck.

  The shocked cries grew louder and the music abruptly stopped.

  Nersi’s coquettish face changed in an instant, becoming hard and focused on the crowd below her. She tried to cover whatever she held with her palm, but a few droplets of blood fell onto the wooden floor.

  She took one look down the empty walkway, at Charlene, who seemed shocked and dumbfounded. The walkway closed as bodies competed for space. She lost sight of her blue-haired friend.

  She turned around and faced Malachite. She was less than five feet from him, while the nearest blackguard or lord would have to leap up to the dais to get to her.

  They’d never get there in time.

  Lifting her finger, she pointed the thin, almost invisible dagger at the Overseer of Soreltris.

  By now, the blood rushing down his neck had pooled in his hand as he held pressure on the tiny wound and tried to stop the incessant bleeding.

  Malachite opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He was mute, either from shock or from blood loss.

  “This is for what you’ve done to my people, you wicked monster!” Nersi announced, taking a step forward. She raised her hand and prepared to finish the deed, thus ending the reign of Overseer Malachite, Richard Remington.

  A cold sensation touched her outstretched hand as she brought the dagger down to slice Malachite across the throat.

  The coldness turned to warmth, then astounding heat, in an instant. She cried out and dropped her dagger, lest it burn right through her hand.

  She heard a whoosh and furrowed her brow confusedly as she gazed at her hand. It was turning blue and she could smell burning flesh.

  It wasn’t turning blue, though—that was the oxygen sucking away.

  In a moment of clarity, she realized her hand was on fire.

  She screamed and took her hand to her white dress, trying to smother the flame.

  Another whoosh sounded to her side and she turned to see where the sound came from.

  Jareth Reynolds was at the side of the dais, running up the stairs, his hand outstretched. His fingers glowed red and orange from the flames emanating from within. He pushed his hand out and another fireball erupted from his fingers and palm, like a living thing, flying toward Nersi.

  When it reached her, it didn’t explode—it made a soft sound, like gas and wind catching a burning kindle. The fire caught around her and before she knew it her dress was aflame, burning from the hems up.

  Tears stung Nersi’s eyes as she cried out and tried to step back to flee. Her tears boiled and the streaks were burnt on her face, embedded in her skin. Her vision went blurry, as if she was staring into a roaring bonfire.

  When Jareth reached the top of the dais, his face twisted and melted away. In its place was a demonic countenance straight from the depths of Hell itself. His entire body erupted in flames, engulfing his clothes. His hands became blackened and clawed.

  He reached out to touch Nersi with his fiery, clawed hand. She yelled as he took hold of her wrist. The flesh sizzled, until Jareth held onto bone. Then the bone melted under the intense pressure of the flame.

  Handless and cauterized, Nersi took one look at her newly formed stump. She opened her mouth to scream again.

  Jareth shoved his blazing hand into her mouth like a striking snake. The inside of her face lit up. For a moment, the stunned audience could see every vein and piece of bone and muscle in her skull. Her eyes shined orange, then her pupils went to the back of her head and smoke billowed from her eyes, ears, and nose.

  Jareth yanked his hand from her throat and she screamed no more. She’d been burned from the inside out, her brain and skull sufficiently melted.

  Jareth’s hand was no longer on fire—the wetness in Nersi’s mouth had dampened the savage burning.

  Dosira made it to the dais and was standing behind Jareth’s flaming, demonic body. She was unafraid of the heat emanating from him. She reached out and touched his back. In an instant the flames sputtered and died away, like she’d splashed water on a burning twig.

  Jareth stood on the dais stark naked, his back turned to the crowd.

  The audience in front of the dais watched the event unfold in horrified silence.

  Overseer Malachite’s eyes had bulged as he realized his lifeforce was slipping away. His face had paled, but his red hand hadn’t moved from the wound on his neck.

  Jareth stepped forward and examined the Overseer. He moved Malachite’s hand away from the wound. Malachite fought and tried to swat Jareth’s hand away, but it was no use. He was too weak from the blood loss.

  Fearing for his life, Malachite whimpered.

  Jareth frowned. He clenched his teeth and stuck the pointer finger of his right hand to the wound. His finger lit up—the color of the sun at twilight.

  He pressed his shiny finger on Malachite’s neck and the Overseer cried out as his skin burned.

  Then Jareth moved his hand away, putting his hand on his hips to examine his handiwork.

  A black, ashy dot was the only evidence of the bloody wound on Malachite’s neck. Jareth had cauterized the wound shut.

  Almost instantly color started coming back to Malachite’s face.

  “Where’s the assassin’s friend?” a voice cried from the stunned audience. It was Tiberius. He scanned the room while the audience stared at the poor, smoldering body of Nersi Magdalin, the siren, now a black heap on the dais.

  “And where the hell is my wife?” Tiberius voiced again.

  Jareth snapped his fingers angrily at two blackguards standing at the foot of the dais. They hadn’t been able to react as quickly as Lord Onyx. They looked shamefaced at letting their Overseer down.

  “You two, snap to it. Go find her,” Jareth commanded.

  One of the guards nodded. Then the other asked sheepishly, “W-Which one, my lord?”

  Jareth scoffed. “The blue-haired girl, you idiot! Bring her to me alive!”

  The two guards took off running.

  “What about Annabel?” Tiberius called out to his father.

  “She’ll turn up, my son. She isn’t going anywhere while her father and mother are here . . .” Jareth trailed off and locked eyes on Constantin, who stood in the corner of the room next to the pull-cart.


  Overseer Malachite croaked as he attempted to speak. It took him a moment, but he eventually managed. “You . . . saved my life, Lord Onyx.” He sounded very weak.

  Jareth turned to his master. “Well, I wouldn’t say that, my lord . . .”

  ANNABEL FOUND THE ROOM after much trial and error. She was surprised she only had to avoid a few blackguards. None of them had given her much trouble. They were not very adept guardsmen.

  She ran across hallways and even scaled a small wall—all in her dress. Now she believed she was at her destination.

  She took a deep breath and tried the handle on the wooden door.

  It didn’t budge.

  She looked around at her surroundings: a small nightstand next to the door; a lit candelabrum on the nightstand. She took a step back, hiking up her dress.

  With all the power she could muster, she kicked at the door, near the handle. Her foot thudded and jarred against the wood. She thought she heard a crack from somewhere within, but the door didn’t move.

  She stepped back and tried again.

  And again. A fissure appeared near the frame of the door.

  By now, she was sure she’d called the attention of every blackguard in the castle.

  She kicked one more time. The lock gave way and the door burst open.

  Without pause, she grabbed the candelabrum from the nightstand and went into the room. She didn’t bother closing the fractured door behind her.

  The candles gave her a flickering of orange flame, and she could see a silvery reflection toward the back of the room:

  The Parallel Reflector, resting on a stand.

  The rest of the room was adorned with the usual amenities: a large bed made for a king, a few desk drawers, a writing table, a jewelry box, a locked chest, and a closet.

  She placed the candelabrum on a nearby table. She sat on the bed and closed her eyes. She used all the inner power and reached out with her mind, trying to grapple something . . .

  She thought of Steve, the man she loved, somewhere out there in another world, patiently waiting for her. While on the journey back from exhuming her brother, Lig had told her what Steve had said inside his mind.

  Go to the Reflector. I’ll be waiting for you. Reach me, my love.

  And here she was.

  Sweat beaded her forehead. Despite her astute knowledge of dream-leaping, she’d never been great at actually doing it. She had always felt a twinge of jealousy that Steve had been able to leap so effortlessly.

  But she tried.

  When she opened her eyes, she was still sitting in the same room, but it looked different. The ancient candelabrum was gone. The kingly bed looked modern. Everything in the room was dusty and untouched, as if no one had lived there for years.

  That’s because, on Terrus, no one had.

  Steve stood in front of her.

  She fought to hold on to her concentration—to focus—while Steve still stood in front of her. He was looking right through her. She hadn’t made a connection with him. She knew she was on his Ethereus plane, in the spirit world of his mind, but didn’t know how to reach out. He couldn’t see her.

  She did the only thing she could think of to get his attention, before she lost control. She shouted: “I’m here!”

  Then she felt dizzy and fell on the bed, back on Mythicus, sweat pouring down her face and arms.

  A moment later, Steve was standing in front of her. Aiden the leprechaun was with him, too, holding onto his shoulder.

  “Well done, my love,” Steve said, smiling. “A bit rudimentary, but it worked. I heard your voice like an echo called from a mountaintop.”

  Annabel let out a deep gasp. She was both exhausted and excited. Steve had jumped to her own Ethereus plane.

  Steve’s eyes grew large.

  “What is it?” Annabel asked, sitting up.

  A shadow passed over the light the candelabrum was giving off. Fear took hold of her as she craned her neck.

  A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim hallway.

  Steve turned to the Parallel Reflector behind him, taking hold of Aiden’s hand. They were still in Ethereus and he could see what Annabel faced, but could do nothing about it.

  As Steve stepped forward into the mirror, the figure at the door stepped forward into the room.

  It was a blackguard, armed with a spear.

  Annabel shrieked—not with fear, though she was scared—with determined practice.

  The figure stumbled and went to his knees as Annabel’s piercing, banshee howl reached him. He dropped his spear and both hands went to cup his ears, which bled.

  At that moment, Steve and Aiden stepped through the mirror, simultaneously. Steve reached for Annabel’s arm.

  They connected. Their hands didn’t pass through like ghosts trying to touch.

  He was on Mythicus.

  Annabel’s shriek had subsided. The blackguard struggled to his feet, trying to regain his equilibrium.

  Aiden reached in his pocket and something flashed gold. He flicked his wrist and threw a coin as hard as he could—a metallic projectile whistling through the air.

  The coin struck the rising blackguard in the neck, implanting itself in his carotid artery. For a moment, the blackguard looked annoyed at whatever had hit him. He reached for the coin and removed the annoyance from his neck . . .

  Blood spurted from the wound immediately after. Within ten seconds he was writhing on the floor in a pool of his own gore.

  “We must go,” Steve whispered to Annabel. He was still in a bit of a daze—they all were—but he knew enough to know they were in grave danger.

  He didn’t expect Annabel’s next words:

  “I have to make sure my parents are all right!”

  Steve stuttered. He wanted to say, “Your parents? Since when do you care about them?! Do you know how long I’ve been trying to reach you? How will you escape them this time? I don’t know how many more jailbreaks I have in me!”

  But he didn’t say any of that.

  “Okay,” he said. He knew better than to argue with Bel once she got an idea in her mind. “We’ll go with you.”

  “No,” she said. “Have you gone mental? You’ll be instantly recognized and jailed. Then I really don’t know how I’ll get you out.”

  Steve tried to retort, but she cut him off. “Look, dear, you’re here now. You’re in Mythicus. You’ve made it. That means I’ll be able to find you, but I have something I need you to do for me.”

  “What?”

  “Escape into the woods and don’t get caught. Go to my house, where you’ll find Lig. Hopefully Geddon and Selestria will be there, too.”

  “Why would I want to have anything to do with those fuckers?” Steve asked incredulously.

  “Selestria never did anything to you, my—”

  “Why would I want to have anything to do with that fucker, Geddon?” Steve amended.

  “We have no time to argue. Every blackguard in the keep must have heard my wail.”

  “That’s why you must come with us!” Steve argued. “You’ll be taken captive!”

  Annabel shook her head. “Just do as I say, please, Steve. The moment I know my parents are safe, I’ll escape from here and meet you at the household. Plus, I don’t want the Overseer to know of my deeds up here.”

  “What am I supposed to do with Geddon and Sela?”

  “Keep them there. My father is going to use them for his mischievous plot to overthrow the Brethren.”

  Aiden spoke for the first time. “Well, why didn’t you say that to begin with, lass? I’m game.”

  Steve still didn’t like it, but now it was two against one. I can’t believe she’s being so . . . so . . . stubborn!

  At the same time, Steve admired her tenacity. It was the most courageous and in control she’d ever acted. She was making the moves, not letting people make them for her. He respected that. So, he said, “I don’t like this, but I’ll do it. For you, Bel, I’ll do it.”

  A
nnabel smiled. “Thank you, my love.” She embraced him and kissed him, then pushed him away. “Now go!”

  “How do we get out of here?”

  Annabel pointed behind them, at the Parallel Reflector.

  “I think it only works from Ethereus,” Steve said. “I don’t want to chance it.”

  Annabel’s finger moved to a window next to the reflector.

  Steve sighed. He bent down and picked up the bloody gold coin Aiden had thrown. He tossed it to the leprechaun. Aiden caught it in midair with a snap of his wrist.

  Steve nodded to the window.

  Annabel stepped over the dead blackguard and left the room. She shut the half-broken door behind her.

  Aiden cocked his arm back, preparing to throw the coin at the window. As he did, the blackguard’s blood began to flow underneath the door, into the hallway.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “What is the meaning of this, Jareth?” Overseer Malachite bellowed. He had regained his strength from the cut to his neck. He’d lost quite a bit of blood, but the wound had missed the mark: an inch in either direction and Nersi probably would have struck an artery. As it stood the flesh wound was now a blackened dot.

  A few people in the crowd gasped at Malachite’s words, calling Lord Onyx “Jareth.” It was taboo to use a Council member’s real name in a formal setting with other Council members. Even something as informal as a party still dictated proper decorum.

  Jareth, still naked as the day he was born, shrugged. He stood with his hands on his hips, his buttocks facing the crowd behind him.

  “Step down, man,” Malachite added, standing up from his chair. He hobbled as the blood rushed to his head, and reached a hand out to grasp the arm of the chair. Then he stood, less than a foot from Jareth. He was a tallish man, taller than Jareth, but the senior lord didn’t seem intimidated.

  “I’m afraid not, Malachite.” The fact he didn’t use his master’s own title of “Overseer” spoke volumes. He said, “I couldn’t let you die, but it is time for you to relinquish control over the Brethren. I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment.”

  “This is madness!” Malachite said through gritted teeth. His eyes lingered to his right and he saw a cat scampering into the ballroom, limping along. “Misty, why did you not warn me about this treasonous insurgence?”