Jamaica Blue Magic: Chapter 6

There's a second viewpoint character in this book, and it's time we met him. He's very different...

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Chapter 6.

"Mr. Engelshand, might I speak with you a moment?"

Jared turned to face Professor Burroughs. "Of course, Professor." He wasn't sure why the Professor wanted to speak with him, but this was the last class of the day, and—in all honesty. Jared had no plans after school, save the usual studying. "Is something wrong?"

Burroughs—a middle-aged man with thinning hair that had once been brown, but eyes as sharp and bright as razors, studied him a moment. "Actually, Jared, I was going to ask you precisely that. Is something wrong? Something bothering you?"

The question caught him off-guard—a startling thing in and of itself, and Jared immediately berated himself for it. I am an Engelshand. I cannot allow myself to be surprised by such mundane and, if I were honest with myself, predictable turns of events. Still, he was not thinking as clearly as he might, and so he stalled. "Has something given you the impression that there is, sir?"

The professor surveyed him—eyes tracking up inevitably to the hilt of the immense sword that projected over Jared’s shoulder, then across the much younger man’s face before finally looking away, out the window of the classroom. "Your recent project made the top grade in the class," he said. "This is of course not a surprise by itself. But—in all honesty—it was not what I expected. It was… brilliantly pedestrian. Perfectly executed, yes, but I saw no trace of your usual spark, Jared."

Looking back over the engineering project in his mind, Jared realized with a dull startlement that the man was right. I simply did whatever the project required. I did it well, but I did not do more, and that is inexcusable.

Suddenly he felt tired, exhausted, and sank into one of the seats. "Scheiss," he muttered, a rare lapse into his native German that only happened when he was too upset and tired to maintain the control he prided himself on. With the word came the wave of loss and anger, and he clenched one fist tight, using the physical effort to force himself to concentrate, to stay calm. "I… Yes. You are correct. Professor. Very perceptive of you." He took a breath, let it out, realized that it sounded too much like a sigh. No. It was a sigh. "A very good friend of mine died just a little while ago. He was the last child of his family, too—his sister," his voice caught, exactly as he had sworn he would not allow it to, as he spoke, "his sister… had died a few years before."

"Oh, my. How terrible, Jared. How…?"

"He was in Paris."

There was, of course, no need to say more. The explosion that had centered on the Cimetière du Peré Lachaise—at first thought to have been nuclear, now a mystery to most—was the greatest disaster of Europe in the modern age, having killed tens of thousands and injured far more.

The professor looked aghast. "My God, Jared. I do apologize for intruding."

He shook his head, still startled by the effect of a simple memory, triggered by a few questions. "No apology needed, Professor. I will endeavor to bring my work back to its accustomed level as soon as possible. I am just… not quite myself now."

"Perfectly understandable. If you need any extra time…"

"No!" The thought of changing his course—admitting defeat by his own emotions—was in some ways worse than the loss. A part of him knew this was foolish, self-defeating, perhaps merely another way of hiding, but he wasn't ready to face that, either. "No, sir. I will be fine."

He forced himself to stand quickly and gave a short bow. "Thank you for your concern, Professor. I must be going."

Burroughs did not detain him, but Jared could feel his concerned gaze following until Jared disappeared into the hallway. Jared Engelshand strode as quickly as he could down the corridor. Other people, consciously or unconsciously, stepped out of his way. He knew what they saw—a young man over one hundred ninety centimeters in height, muscled like a swimmer, slender yet powerful, long, blond hair tied back in a single ponytail away from a long, patrician face, signs of something harder and more rigid than flesh under the shirt, and an immense sword slung over his back, a figure unique and perhaps perilous.

But walk as fast as he might, he could not outrun the images in his mind. The red-headed girl and her brother, twins in birth yet almost opposites in life; one practical, all business, yet warm and kind behind her calculations and plans, the other impulsive, a rebel, a punk, interested in parties and music. Both of them good friends.

Both of them gone.

And that is no accident, he thought to himself, feeling his fists clenching at his sides. Fiona was murdered, and I do not think it was an accident that took Keenan’s life either.

He remembered one of his last conversations with Claudius, the ancient witch-hunter’ voice and words giving a rare glimpse into the man’ hidden heart. He knew something terrible was going to happen to Keenan, and all he could do was try to prepare him for something beyond anything I can easily imagine. They would not involve me, but I know it had something to do with the life of the world itself.

It was odd, really; he had hardly seen anything of Keenan for months, a year, maybe more. Yet his friendship with the deliberately rebellious, uncontrolled heir to the Murray shipping empire had been deeper than he’d imagined. When he had heard the news, it had struck him with a sharp, burning pain in his heart that ripped open the older, deeper wound that Fiona’s death had left.

It was then he realized how very much he had cared about both of them. He had called them "friends", but never realized how completely he meant that word. I hope they knew, at least, how I felt about them.

He shook his head. Of course they did. Fiona did. She… told me as much. Let me tell her. And Keenan, too. We did… much together. He remembered an island, a ritual contest that turned out to be far more—and far more deadly—and how it had centered on Fiona’s status as the Faerie Queen.

Another shake of the head, this time at himself. No, it was not then that I realized how much they meant. It was then that I stopped making myself forget how much they meant to me. Because I had been running from that, running away in my own head.

With a tremendous effort, he forced his hands to relax, his jaw to loosen just a fraction. The hunt for Fiona’s killers will take time. And if Keenan was killed… I will begin that investigation too. But dwelling on it now does me no good and will do me no credit. Everything in its time, everything done when it must be done. And done as well as it can be done.

THAT is the Engelshand way.

That thought was enough to bring his head up. He was an Engelshand of Engelshand, and that was all that need be said to remind him of his duty and his pride—and of what his heritage was. The investigations continue without my immediate intervention. I have my own responsibility here. Mourn, yes, but do not let it divert me from my duty. Mourn in a way they would appreciate.

That was, actually, a cheering thought. He would go to one of the clubs that Keenan would have liked, filled with one of the ridiculously loud variants of punk music that proliferated in London, and raise a glass of something appropriately Irish for his friend. For the first time in a week, a smile touched Jared’s face. That was the way to say farewell to Keenan.

As he was about to call for his car, his phone lit up.

It was Ophelia.

Ophelia? What in Father’ name is she calling me for? If Jared was the somewhat spoiled youngest brother, Ophelia was the black sheep of the family. Rrather than following the political path of many of the siblings, or becoming a future titan of industry, Ophelia had taken her studies in biology and turned them to the use of organizations like Greenpeace, becoming a crusader for the environment and against many of the industries around the world.

She was rather typically Engelshand in that she was terribly good at her job, and very successful at gathering people to her cause. Still, when your family ran a country with a reputation for heavy industry—especially military—it put something of a crimp in the family relations when you were running around promoting conservation, environmentalism, and pacifism.

Not that Jared entirely disagreed with her, but Ophelia did tend to be a bit… militant at times.

These musings, however, were not getting him anywhere. He activated the phone. "Hello, Ophelia. To what do I owe this call out of the blue?"

"Jared," she said, and at that single word he was suddenly alert. Ophelia’s voice held none of its usual unconsciously confrontational tones; instead, it was worried, shocked, sad. "Jared, you are the only person I could think of who might be able to help."

I? What an odd development. "Help? Ophelia, what’s wrong?"

"It’s Antonio, Jared. He’s been murdered."

"Antonio?" For just an instant, he couldn't place the name. Then it suddenly came roaring back to him. "Antonio Niccoli? Aphrodite’s husband?"

"Yes."

"My God." He was momentarily speechless. Who would possibly want to kill them? They were some of the finest people I’ve ever met!

Then it occurred to him. "Ophelia? How did you know him? Or, rather, how did you know what he was?"

That was, after all, the real question. Antonio and Aphrodite had been very dedicated workers for the betterment of the world, fighting against pollution, injustice, and other causes that Ophelia favored. Knowing that side of them was not a surprise. But it was clear that Ophelia would only have called Jared if she knew how he knew them, and that would mean she knew that Antonio was a vampire, and Aphrodite one of the noble fae.

"They had informed me of the issues having to do with the Mother," his sister replied. "As you had already opened the subject in Engelshand, they thought it was no great risk to do so in order to get my full cooperation."

The Mother… what the fae and their allies call the spirit of the world. "I see why you would call me, then. What can I do for you?"

"Not for me, Jared. For Aphrodite."

He was puzzled. "For the lady? I would gladly do anything in my power to help her, of course, but she has her own resources—"

"That’s the question, Jared… does she? And will she live to claim them, even if so?"

Finally, his mind began to catch up, to grasp the entirety of the situation, to throw off the anger and horror and depression, and begin to think. "Of course. She has lost her match, her lifelong partner, and while he was vampire, she is fae. She was one of those who told me what can happen to a fae who loses their match."

"That is part of it, yes," Ophelia said, her voice showing some relief. "But that’s the more straightforward part. Either she will decide to carry on their work and live, or she will not. But the way in which the League handles inheritance does not in any way guarantee that she will inherit. And there will be those who neither want her to survive, nor, if she lives, to inherit anything of Antonio’. They have not approved of our activities."

A mission. A quest. Jared felt a full, unrestrained grin spreading across his face, and even though the news and mission were also very grave, did not make the slightest effort to stop it. "Say no more, Ophelia. Where is she?"

"Jamaica. And hurry, Jared."

"I will take my plane out within four hours. You have my word."

"Thank you, Jared."

"Think nothing of it. Take care, Ophelia—I must move now!"

He pocketed the cell and turned, strides lengthening as he headed for his rooms. A great Lady in distress in a distant land; can a knight do anything else but go forth?

He thought of Fiona, and this time she was saluting him with one finger and a wink.