by Jane Godman
“Have you met the ghost lord?” Gillespie had gestured to Vashti to take a seat on the studded velvet sofa near the window. He had taken a winged chair at right angles to her. Jethro remained standing.
“I have not met the new leader of the ghosts, although I did meet his predecessor a few times. Before he went into exile, my father often entertained the leaders of the other dynasties.” Vashti smiled. “He believed in keeping his friends close and his enemies closer.”
Gillespie laughed. “I was under the impression Moncoya did not have many friends.”
“He liked to keep up the pretense.”
“So, our new leader—” Gillespie seemed reluctant to let the topic go. He tented his fingers under his chin, his eyes probing Vashti’s face. “What have you heard about him?”
“Very little. The change has been recent and unexpected. All I have heard is the former leader grew tired of the machinations of those such as my father and Prince Tibor and decided it was time to retire. His replacement is well respected among the phantom race.” Jethro sensed she was choosing her words carefully and was surprised. Diplomacy was not a skill he associated with Vashti. “I always think those leaders who have followers in both Otherworld and the mortal realm have the hardest task. The vampire prince and the wolf pack leader are ruthless in their authority and, whenever there is a hint of trouble in the mortal realm, they are quick to stamp it out. It is more difficult for the ghost lord.”
“Why is that?” Gillespie’s piercing eyes focused on her face.
“Because ghosts do not dwell in the mortal realm for the same reasons vampires and werewolves do. They do not come here to feed or for sexual gratification. Ghosts choose to be here for many reasons, as individual and personal as the lives they left behind. It is said the new ghost lord follows the example of the previous leader in doing a good job of respecting that. As long as his people do not transgress on the lives of the earthbound, he is content to allow them to live here in peace.”
“And yet there are cases of ghosts crossing the boundary and causing problems. Poltergeists, for example.” Jethro knew how much his father loved this sort of debate.
“In that case, we must rely on this recently appointed ghost lord to deal with those cases swiftly and effectively. Now and then, they will inevitably come to the attention of mortals before he can intervene.” Vashti’s face was earnest. “Merlin Caledonius was speaking about this the other day in a Council meeting. Just as the occasional vampire, werewolf, even faerie, on the loose in the mortal realm is inevitable, so, too, is the random haunting. On the whole, these things are contained.”
“There are those who advocate employing someone such as Jethro here to rid the mortal realm of ghosts, vampires and lycanthropes. I have heard it said the Dominion, the Angels of the Fourth Choir, would support such a move.”
Vashti looked surprised. “I am the faerie representative on the Alliance and I have not heard this proposal. Besides, a necromancer would only be effective against those who are undead.” She glanced in Jethro’s direction. “He could not remove faeries, witches, elves, or so many other races from the mortal realm.”
Gillespie turned that direct gaze in Jethro’s direction. “Did you hear that, my boy? There may no longer be any use for your services.”
“Don’t try and drag me into this debate. There will always be a use for my services, but I hope I’ve never been guilty of trying to banish a harmless ghost to Otherworld against his or her will.”
“That was almost diplomatic. And most unlike you.” Gillespie shot a searching glance at Jethro. “Why have you brought that?” The change of subject brought about an abrupt transformation in mood as Gillespie pointed to the wooden box Jethro had placed on top of the piano.
“I may need it.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I need to ask Bertha a question.” The words hung in the air alongside the motes of dust for a long, silent moment. “You know I would not do this if it wasn’t important.”
Finally, Gillespie sighed. It was the same sound as the brittle leaves on the path outside. “Tell me.”
Even though he knew Bertha was locked in her own world and couldn’t hear him, Jethro lowered his voice. “When I was a child, before her mind started to fade, she used to tell me the most fantastic stories.”
Gillespie’s smile was laden with sad reminiscence. “She was a wonderful storyteller.”
“The best ones were always about the court of Good King Ivo.” Jethro noticed Vashti sit a bit straighter. “Bertha weaved a world around the Seelie Court and King Ivo’s Code, the rule by which the good faeries lived.” He laughed. “I can still quote the values I learned from those stories now... ‘Death before dishonor, love conquers all, beauty is life and repay all debts.’ As I grew older, I knew what Bertha was doing, of course. Through her stories, she was instilling my own moral code into me.”
The angular lines of Gillespie’s face softened. “She did a good job.”
Involuntarily, Jethro’s eyes flickered to Vashti’s face. Would she agree with that summary of his character? She still saw him as the notorious necromancer who sold his skills to the highest bidder. Unlike Gillespie, she had no idea what he did with that money. Those glorious eyes were fixed on his face as she listened intently.
“I was fascinated by tales of King Ivo’s battles with his enemies. They were the evil faeries of the Unseelie Court. Their code was the opposite of his. They believed chaos was mighty, kindness to mortals was a sin, honor was a lie and passion came before duty.” Again he glanced at Vashti. Was it his imagination or did a faint blush touch her pale cheeks? Was she thinking of Moncoya and recognizing him in the Unseelie code? Don’t get your hopes up. You are not on a campaign here. Converting Moncoya’s daughter is not the purpose of this visit. “In the stories Bertha told me there were constant plots by the followers of the Unseelie code to overthrow King Ivo.”
“And, of course, the stories she told you all had a basis in truth.”
Jethro looked again at the solitary figure by the window. Bertha turned another card and hummed her melancholy lullaby. “Which is why I need to speak to her. Do you remember my favorite bedtime story when I was young?”
Gillespie frowned in an effort of recollection. “Something about a lost prince?”
“It was the tale about the great massacre. The night on which Moncoya led his followers into King Ivo’s palace and slaughtered the king, his family and all his followers. It brought about the end of the Seelie Court and the beginning of centuries of domination over the faerie race by the Unseelie Court.” Vashti’s long eyelashes fluttered down, hiding the expression in her eyes from his view. “But a baby—one of King Ivo’s great nephews—was smuggled out of the palace by his nurse and taken to a place of safety. I always thought my mother made that story up, but now I know it really happened.”
“And why does it matter so much?”
“I have been given the task of finding that last remaining member of King Ivo’s family. Don’t you see what it means? It’s not just about challenging Moncoya. This is a chance to restore the Seelie Court to its former glory.”
Gillespie frowned. “What makes you think your mother can tell you any more now than she did then?”
Jethro drew a deep breath. “Because, from some of the things she said, I think Bertha knew where the child was taken.”
* * *
“She is too fragile.” Gillespie’s face was anguished.
“I swear I won’t hurt her.” If she hadn’t heard it for herself, Vashti never would have believed Jethro’s voice could be capable of such gentleness.
“I thought you didn’t use the dark arts of the ancient necromancers.” Gillespie pointed to the box. “If that is so, why do you need that?”
“I need to try to restore her memory for a brief period of time
. We both know she won’t respond if I simply speak to her as I’m talking to you now. That is because her mind was already damaged when she died, the decline had begun before she crossed over.” Jethro shot Gillespie a look from under lowered brows. “And, if you’ll let me, I can get her to release her grip on this house and send her to Otherworld where much of her consciousness will be restored.”
“I promised her I would never make her leave here.”
“Some promises are made to be broken.” The softer note was back.
“I will permit you to question her, as long as you stop immediately if she becomes distressed.”
Jethro nodded.
Vashti noticed Gillespie made no further reference to Jethro’s offer to remove Bertha from this house and Jethro didn’t try to force the issue. It seemed to be a well-worn subject between the two men.
“That goes without saying.” Jethro undid the brass clips on the case and opened it. The interior was divided into compartments lined with worn, red velvet. Unable to contain her curiosity, Vashti rose from her seat and came to stand closer. Some of the compartments contained bones, others small jars with symbols etched on yellowing labels. One contained a large book, another a folded cloth and in the center there was a large, black candle. Aware of her scrutiny, Jethro turned his head. “Many people believe necromancy is simply another form of witchcraft.” He lifted the cloth from his case as he spoke and spread it over the piano top. It was a delicate, shimmering silk, embroidered all over with celestial symbols. “It is easy to dismiss that which we don’t understand as evil, and necromancers have been viewed throughout the centuries as masters of the dark arts. But we are not witches. Our gifts are sacred and noble. They confer upon us the power to channel the spirit world according to our wishes. The responsibility that brings is huge.”
“But you don’t use these methods—” Vashti indicated the candle he was now placing in the middle of the cloth “—all the time?”
“No. Necromancing is rare. There are very few of us around and the best of us—me, Lorcan, Cal and Stella—don’t use the older forms of the art often. Nevertheless, there are times when nothing else will do.” He lit the candle and an acrid smell, like stale, dried herbs, made Vashti wrinkle her nose. Jethro looked at Gillespie. “I need some of Bertha’s hair. From when she was alive.”
With the unusual movement that was somewhere between gliding and walking—the one that had first alerted Vashti to his undead status—Gillespie left the room. When he returned, he brought with him a silver-handled hairbrush. Strands of long, black hair clung to its bristles and he hesitated before handing it to Jethro. He cast a dubious look at the items on the piano before taking up a protective stance close to Bertha.
“You know I would never harm her. She means too much to me.” Jethro extracted several hairs from the brush and placed them in a small copper dish. Opening several jars in turn, he added a few grains from each to the dish. Extracting a taper from the case, he held it to the candle’s flame, a frown of concentration on his face. Pausing, with the lit taper an inch or two above the dish, Jethro chanted a few words in a guttural language Vashti had never heard before. When he finished, he set light to the contents of the dish. Blue flames and white sparks shot into the air and a loud hissing noise ensued. A strong scent of sulfur filled the air.
“Mother.” As soon as he said the word, Bertha paused in the act of dealing her next card and looked up. A smile as sweet as the happiest dream dawned on her face.
“How long will the sorcery last?” A single tear tracked its way down Gillespie’s cheek as he watched his wife.
“Not long.” Jethro took the chair opposite his mother at the table. “It will be as if she has been hypnotized. She will be unable to lie to me while she is under the influence of this spell.”
Bertha appeared not to hear him. “My boy—” although she was unable to touch him, her hands hovered an inch above Jethro’s on the tabletop “—I’ve missed you.”
The shadow that crossed Jethro’s face caused something hard and tight to form inside Vashti’s chest. “Whenever you need me, I will be here. Can I ask you a few questions?”
Bertha laughed, a high, musical sound that dispelled some of the grief in the atmosphere. “Why so formal? Surely you know you can ask me anything.”
Vashti flinched. She doesn’t know. Oh, dear Lord, she has no idea what’s going on here.
“It’s about the story you used to tell me of King Ivo’s lost heir.”
A cautious look came over Bertha’s face and her hands fluttered nervously. “I’m not sure...”
“Do you know what happened to him after he was smuggled out of the palace on the night of the massacre?”
A soft sigh of resignation escaped her lips. “Yes, I do.”
Vashti leaned forward. She wanted to jump in with a dozen questions of her own. How could Bertha possibly know what had happened that night? The massacre had taken place in another world. In the end, there was only one question that mattered and Jethro asked it next. “Where did his nurse take him?”
Bertha’s eyes darted around the room. “I can’t say.”
Jethro frowned, his eyes moving from Bertha’s face to Gillespie’s. “She should not be able to evade my questions. Not unless there is some powerful force at work preventing her from answering.”
Vashti ventured a suggestion. “Perhaps if you ask her specific questions, so she has to answer yes or no?”
Jethro nodded. “Was he taken to Avalon?” Bertha continued to gaze around the room, anywhere other than meeting his eyes. “To another location in Otherworld?” Bertha began to rock back and forth. “To the mortal realm?” Bertha started to sob quietly.
“Enough.” Gillespie placed his arm around Bertha’s shoulder. “Even if she knows the answers, it is clearly causing her pain to think of it.”
Although Jethro ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration, he inclined his head in acceptance and rose. “She will be lucid for a few more minutes. We’ll leave you alone.” He drew Vashti away so Gillespie could talk privately to his wife. “I feel like I just wasted over a week of our precious time.”
“You know her better than I do, but it seems to me she was afraid to tell you what she knew.”
“Whatever her secret is, it must be huge if she has never confided in Gillespie about it.” He looked across to where Bertha was gazing up at her husband with shining eyes. “Shit. We’re right back to square one.”
Are we? Vashti wanted to point out his use of the word “we” felt like a step in the right direction to her. Are we becoming a team? The thought made her want to laugh out loud. She didn’t, because her attention was drawn to Bertha, who’d returned to her seat and, after glancing around with an expression of bewilderment, resumed her humming and card sorting.
“I’m sorry.” Jethro packed away his necromancing artifacts and shook his father’s hand in farewell.
“I know you would not have done it if it wasn’t important.” A slight smile touched his lips. “And those few minutes were very precious.” Gillespie turned to Vashti. “The circumstances were unusual, but it was a pleasure to meet you, my dear.”
They were almost out of the room when Vashti spoke again. “Wait a moment.” She left Jethro waiting by the door.
She returned to where Gillespie stood watching his wife as she dealt her cards and hummed her endless tune. He looked up as Vashti approached. Although she couldn’t touch him, she went as close as she could so he could feel her presence. There was a question in his eyes.
“For what it’s worth, I believe the ghost lord chose the right successor. I think you will do a good job.”
The smile lines around his eyes deepened. “How did you know?”
“Intuition.” She shocked herself with her use of the word. I don’t do intuition. Her eyes dropped to take in
Bertha. “You should think about Jethro’s offer. Otherworld isn’t perfect, but she would have more of a life—” Gillespie raised his brows and she smiled “—okay, a death, there than she has here.”
“I will consider it.” His expression told her he was serious. “Will I see you again, Vashti?”
“If you ever join the other leaders around the Alliance table, most certainly.”
He lifted his eyes to where Jethro—a silent, brooding figure—stood watching them. “That is not what I meant.”
Vashti felt the tell-tale blush creep into her cheeks. Oh, good heavens, how was she going to explain to this dear, sweet ghost that he shouldn’t regard her as daughter-in-law material? She was surprised he couldn’t pick up on the fact Jethro had no romantic inclinations toward her. Ghosts must be immune to those sorts of undercurrents. Or had he sensed she was attracted to his son? Was it a diplomatic way of probing her feelings?
“This is work.” Her voice was firm. “For both of us.”
* * *
Dusk was falling as Jethro cooked dinner while Vashti watched him. She got the feeling this was what he did to calm down after a bad day. He must have had days that were more violent and energetic, but he could not have had many as intense as the one he had just spent watching his mother climb out of her decline before spiraling back into it. A dozen questions rose to Vashti’s lips but Jethro’s expression was closed and distant. She knew that look. She had used it herself often enough.
Eventually he opened a bottle of red wine, poured two glasses and handed one to her. “Go ahead.”
Vashti didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. “When did your parents die?”
He grinned at her, tilting his glass in a mock salute before gulping down half its contents. “Good question, and not the one I thought you’d go for first. What really you mean is ‘what’s a nice mortal boy like me doing with a couple of ghosts for a mom and dad?’”
