The Underground

by Michelle E Lowe

  He turned around and Pierce gasped at the sight of him.

  “Joaquin?” he said softly.

  “I . . . I think I’m dying, little brother.”

  Morning light had yet to make a full appearance. Pierce could see him, though—or, rather, what was left of him. Joaquin appeared to be a shell of his former self, as if the real Joaquin had shed his old form like a cicada beetle. His face appeared heavily bruised, as if he’d taken a good whupping, with black veins showing like twisted tree branches just beneath his discolored complexion. The brightness of his eyes had paled to a sickly green. The eyes themselves had sunken deep within their sockets. But what alarmed Pierce the most was how thin Joaquin was. He had wasted away to nothing more than a scrap of meat clinging to bone, with no real muscle or fat in between. His grey leather uniform, the same one he’d worn the last time Pierce had seen him, now hung off his body like an over-sized sack.

  “Dying? Christ, Joaquin, what’s happening to you?”

  Pierce honestly couldn’t think of what he should do. Joaquin needed help, but the fear Pierce held toward him remained. What was to stop him from trying something should Pierce get too close?

  The shuffling of feet came up behind him. From a sideways glance, Pierce spied Grandmother Fey.

  “Are you speaking to someone?” she asked as he moved aside from the doorway.

  “Aye. It’s . . .”

  “Joaquin,” she cut in, her face aglow. “You came!”

  Pierce tilted his head sideways. “Eh? You were expecting him?”

  “Oui. I summoned him here through the passageway of dreams.”

  What Joaquin had said about the voice suddenly became clear. Grandmother Fey had called him.

  She rushed over and instantly placed her hands upon Joaquin’s face. Pierce took a cautious step forward, worried about what he might do to her.

  “Do I know you?” Joaquin asked her.

  She looked at him with great concern. In a voice drenched with love, she said, “Oui, petit-fils. I’m Élie Fey, your grandmother.”

  “Grandmother Fey? I . . . I thought you died.”

  His legs wobbled. Grandmother Fey needed to hold him up.

  “Let’s get you inside.”

  She walked him toward the back door. If his fear hadn’t kept him at bay, Pierce would have helped. It seemed, though, it didn’t matter either way, for his grandmother held him just fine on her own. It was a complete change from the frail old woman he had first encountered in the Netherlands.

  Pierce moved aside, keeping his eyes on Joaquin before following them both into the dimly lit kitchen. Grandmother Fey led Joaquin to the breakfast nook in the corner of the room. By the time he took a seat, Joaquin was drenched with sweat. Cold sweat, judging by his shivers.

  Grandmother Fey walked by Pierce, heading for the stove.

  “What’s wrong with him?” he whispered.

  She shook her head worriedly. “I’m not sure, yet. It’s not good, though.”

  While Grandmother Fey fired up a burner and put the kettle on, Pierce moved to the doorway across the way and leaned on the wall beside it with his arms crossed. Joaquin sat upright a moment before stretching his arm across the table and laying his head down. Despite himself, Pierce worried for him.

  Even when Joaquin didn’t look like the walking undead, the two brothers had shared little resemblance. Pierce stood a couple of inches shorter, and his hair was multi-colored in shades of auburn, golden brown, and black with highlights of red, just like his mother’s, while Joaquin favored their father in height as well as his blackish-brown hair color. Pierce also appeared a tad younger than he actually was, unlike Joaquin, who looked his age . . . when not so sickly.

  “What’s going on?” Archie inquired with a deep yawn.

  Pierce turned his head to his friend as he appeared in the doorway. “My brother is here.”

  Archie went from sleepy eyes to wide eyes. He peered into the kitchen.

  “What’s happened to him?” he whispered.

  Pierce shrugged. “Dunno.”

  Grandmother Fey poured water from a jug into the kettle and placed the kettle over the fire. She glanced over at Pierce. “Go wake Nona and Jasper.”

  Pierce obeyed and left to fetch his parents.

  “Qu’est-ce qui se passe, Pierce?” his mother grumbled in her usual before morning tea tone.

  “Joaquin est ici, Maman,” he explained.

  She knitted her eyebrows together. “Ouoi?”

  He rose from his crouched position beside the couch and held out his hand to her. “He’s sick, Mum.”

  Nona entered the kitchen first, passing Archie, who was still at the doorway, without even a glance. The moment her eyes latched onto her long-lost son, she raced over with a burst of excited energy. “Joaquin!”

  He raised his head, and she stopped short with a gasp.

  “Hello, Mum,” Joaquin greeted her softly, followed by a slow, tired blink.

  She recovered and took a deep breath before continuing her approach. She touched his face, and he leaned into her palm with eyes closed.

  “Mon beau garçon. Tu m’a taunt manqué,” she murmured to him.

  “I’ve missed you too, Mum,” Joaquin replied weakly.

  The kettle whistled, making Nona jump. Joaquin opened his pale eyes as his father took a seat beside him.

  He clasped his son’s shoulder with a tearful grin. “Son.”

  “Father.”

  Jasper enfolded him in a tight embrace.

  Despite everything that had happened between him and Joaquin, Pierce permitted himself a smile. For the first time in years, the Landcross family was together again under the same roof. Pierce could almost taste his parents’ joy in the air.

  Grandmother Fey finished brewing the tea and whispered something to the teapot. Only Pierce and Archie took notice. She brought the teapot and a teacup over to the nook.

  Nona stood. “I’ll get more cups.”

  “Non,” her mother said sternly. “This tea is not for you.”

  Nona looked cross. Pierce knew that look all too well and braced for a mother-daughter showdown. His mum backed down, though, and took her seat.

  Take that, Mum, Pierce thought amusingly.

  “Drink,” Grandmother Fey said to Joaquin while she poured.

  Joaquin’s skeletal hand resurfaced from under the table and took hold of the cup. He drank. The morning light came over the horizon and burned through the front house windows. When the sunlight reached the kitchen, it seemed to bring a healthier color back into Joaquin’s face.

  Or, was it the tea?

  With every drink, he seemed to get a little better.

  “Are you seeing this?” Archie asked Pierce in astonishment.

  “Aye,” he whispered back. When his grandmother approached, he asked, “Grandma, what—?”

  “He’s very ill,” she interjected softly. “Something is eating out his insides. Bring some tea over for your mother before she goes mad.”

  Pierce snorted and headed for the stove. As he reached into the cabinet for another teacup, the sound of screaming echoed loud enough to wake the world up.

  It was Clover, who was looking right at Joaquin.

  “Bloody hell!” Pierce shouted irritably. “Arch!”

  Archie took his sister by the hand and quickly led her through the short hallway.

  “What is it?” Eilidh asked in alarm from the living room.

  “Why was Clover screaming?” Nona asked.

  “Because I kidnapped her once,” Joaquin admitted surprisingly.

  “What?” their father said.

  Pierce brought a teacup down from the cabinet. “Erm. It’s a long story.”

  “You know about this?” his mum demanded.

  Pierce rubbed the back of his neck nervously, wishing he hadn’t intervened. “I . . . er . . . well . . .”

  His father stood with a gawking, wide-eyed expression. “Where on Earth did you get that scar?” />
  Pierce suddenly realized he wasn’t wearing his scarf.

  He slapped a hand over his throat. “This? It’s, erm . . . just something that happened a while ago.”

  “I did that to him,” Joaquin again confessed, taking another casual sip of tea. “I tried to kill him.”

  Nona’s mouth dropped open, and she stood, staring at him in pure shock. Pierce couldn’t be sure if it was shame or his sickness, but Joaquin kept his head bowed and his eyes half-closed.

  “Why, son?” Jasper asked.

  Pierce waited for him to give them an explanation, one he’d been waiting for since he was sixteen.

  “Joaquin isn’t to blame,” Grandmother Fey chimed in.

  “Erm,” Pierce said crossly, “I beg to differ, Grandma. I was bloody well there.”

  “Pierce,” she retorted. “Pour the tea, s’il te plaît.”

  He didn’t appreciate the tone, but said nothing and poured the water from the kettle into the teacup.

  “What are you talking about, Mum?” Jasper asked Grandmother Fey.

  “There’s something inside him. Something in his blood.” She turned her focus on Joaquin. “Grandson.”

  He raised his chin to her.

  “Aye, Grandma?”

  “Come with me. Bring the tea.”

  Chapter Two

  Is this Going to Kill Me?

  The pekoe Joaquin had drunk returned some feeling to him and gave him enough strength to stand, although he was unsure how long he would remain on his feet. Joaquin didn’t understand how the brew had helped, but he listened to his grandmother and took his cup with him while she carried the teapot. He followed her over the brook, across the small meadow, and beyond, into the forest.

  “Sit,” Grandmother Fey gently commanded.

  Joaquin eased himself into a sitting position, his joints and muscles protesting with sharp pains along the way. The tea had helped him regain his mobility, yet it did nothing for his aches. His pains used to come over him in waves, yet it wasn’t until recently that they began ravaging his entire body. Joaquin was no fool. He knew his body’s breakdown had something to do with the cursed beast inside of him.

  Grandmother Fey poured more tea into his cup.

  “How is this making me better?”

  “Because I made it so,” she stated cryptically, sitting in front of him. “The tea will only make you well temporarily. I’ll need to pinpoint what has happened in order to figure out where to go from here.”

  “I don’t remember anything. One day I was as fit as a fiddle, and the next, I started feeling off.” He thought a moment. “It all began on the morning when I woke up in the woods.”

  Grandmother Fey offered a warm smile. “Do not worry. I can find the source—if you let me.”

  “If I let you?”

  “Oui. For me to understand, I’ll need to look into the past, as seen through your eyes. I only hope my abilities are strong enough to accomplish this.”

  He didn’t fully grasp what she meant, but he said, anyway, “Do what you must.”

  Grandmother Fey reached out and laid her hands on the sides of his cheeks, her thumbs over his temples. Her touch sent a harmonious chord strumming through his very soul. A ripple of forgotten time fluttered within him, tickling his throat. Taken by surprise, he pulled away. He looked at her with eyes welling up with tears, his heartbeat suddenly escalating.

  Grandmother Fey smiled again and said calmly, “When you were born, Joaquin, I held you in my arms for a long while. My love for you flowed into your very being, uniting us in so many ways. The connection between you and I is strong, for you were my first grandchild, and my excitement at becoming a grandmother was overwhelming.” She reached for him again. “S’il te plaît.”

  Joaquin breathed in deeply and leaned forward, preparing himself for her touch.

  His sight narrowed to twin pinpoints before going completely black. The grains of light returned and widened. He found himself walking alone on a narrow road.

  Joaquin didn’t know why he had led the gang to Lepe. Nothing could be gained here. He just needed to be there.

  The evening sky turned purple as Joaquin followed the desolate path. The cool, salty sea breeze whisked over him. Soon, another scent caught his attention.

  Chamomile.

  He came across a lane where the smell became more potent and decided to follow it. The surrounding trees blocked what natural light remained. The crashing of waves, breaking against the rocky cliffs, grew louder. The short stroll led him to a cottage. The sky had faded, yet he clearly saw the house ahead. Warm amber light burned through the windows, indicating an occupied home.

  Why am I here?

  The front door opened and out came a woman. He stopped to look at her.

  Stunning was the first thing to come to mind. She stood tall, her long, red hair hanging down to her shapely waist. Even though she was mostly a silhouette, Joaquin’s blood heated with a longing to touch her.

  “Enter,” she told him.

  Without arguing, he followed her inside a home filled with a unique décor.

  “Take a seat,” she offered with a flick of her wrist.

  Not much ran through his mind anymore. He simply obeyed. He sat on a stool by the counter that overlooked the kitchen.

  “Who are you? Have we met before?”

  The woman twisted around with a glass in hand. “I am your hostess. And as a good hostess, I shall offer you wine to drink.”

  She poured it from a jug. For a moment, he just held the glass she gave him. The liquid was dark, nearly black, but the scent of wine wasn’t there.

  “Don’t be rude,” his hostess chided. “Drink.”

  Joaquin pushed aside his cautious instincts and drank. The wickedly forbidden flavor filled his body with power and death that both excited and frightened him. The wine washed through his gullet and seeped into the tissue. He felt it happen like a breeze through his hair. The liquid spread as ink spills over paper, and it felt like fire and ice.

  His hostess left the kitchen and stood before him. That alluring chamomile scent emitting from her made him quiver.

  “You have violet eyes. I knew a girl once who had violet eyes.”

  When she kissed him, nothing else in the world existed.

  You have met her before. She’s dangerous. Get out!

  He tried pulling away, but she tasted so sweet, and when her hand reached between his legs, his passion was only ignited further.

  She brought him into the bedroom and had her way with him for hours. No woman he’d ever laid with before had felt as good as she did. He tried recalling where he had seen her. Every time a memory rose, it was whisked away by her pleasurable moaning. Only when she climaxed did he do the same. When he did, it was as though he had poured his entire self into her. In that crowning point of ecstasy, he had given something to her.

  “Time to leave,” she whispered breathlessly beside him. “But first, you must listen carefully, Joaquin. Obey my order.”

  He listened and then his world went dark.

  The sickness in his belly brought him around. He opened his eyes to find himself fully clothed and lying on the forest floor. The morning light was just appearing overhead. He tried to stand, but the illness became a sharp pain, like a bullet inside him. This was far worse than his other episodes.

  He collapsed to the ground while the torture spread throughout him and began banging against his brain as hard as a hammer. He clutched his head, screaming in anguish. Flashes of the previous night—the walk, the scent of chamomile, the woman, the wine, the hours of sex—fading from memory. The pain subsided after the last recollection vanished. He stayed in the fetal position for a long while before getting to his feet. Joaquin left the forest and headed back into town, suffering from a dull cramp in his gut.

  Memories, lost and now found, surfaced as if hidden behind a veil that Grandmother Fey had moved aside. When she lifted her hands off him, he half expected the memories to fade, but they
remained.

  “So,” Grandmother Fey huffed with vehemently. “It is her.”

  “Who?”

  She took the teapot and poured more tea. “Freya Bates.”

  The name made Joaquin rub the scar on his palm.

  Freya Bates. When they were both children, she found him in the forest beside a brook where he’d been unearthing worms. Her mother had recently died, and so, she lived alone in a shabby cabin. Freya was thirteen, then. When Joaquin brought his parents to her home, and they saw how she lived, they had offered to let her join the troupe. Freya and Joaquin became friends. They played games and got into mischief. Once it involved a horrible incident with a fairy. They were inseparable. Then, one day, Freya asked Joaquin for his blood. She cut his palm and collected it into a vial. By this time, Nona was pregnant with Pierce. Freya seemed very excited about it. On the night of Pierce’s birth, Joaquin caught Freya leaving with her bag packed.

  “I remembered you told her to leave, Grandma,” Joaquin admitted.

  She nodded.

  “Freya was a clever girl. I never suspected a thing from her. I found her holding Pierce and whispering a spell to him. I could sense it in her aura that her intentions toward him weren’t good ones.”

  Joaquin opened his mouth to say something when Grandmother Fey spoke. “It’s apparent she is knowledgeable of our family’s bloodlines. The question is . . . what she is trying to do with you and your brother?”

  “She wants something from both of us?”

  “Indeed. To protect you, I sent her off and threatened to use harmful magic if she returned. I placed a protective spell over you boys to keep both of you from ever crossing paths with her again. It seems I have failed.”

  “No,” Joaquin said, holding out his scarred hand. “I had given her my blood before she left. I lied to you, Mum, and Dad about accidentally cutting myself.”

  She examined the scar.

  “She must have used your blood to cast a spell, one that would draw you to her whenever she wanted.”

  “Freya asked for the blood,” he muttered sheepishly. “She was my friend, so I let her.”