Entice (17 page)

He turns slowly, very slowly. “I forgot how human you are still, how very young.”

“That’s not answering the question, Astley.”

“I was wrong to do that. I know that you consider it not to be my place, but in my world”—he makes a sweeping motion with his hands to indicate all around us—”in this pixie world, it is very much my place to protect my queen. It is instinctive. I know when you are hurt even in the subtlest of ways, even when you yourself may not realize it, when you may be repressing it.”

“My mother is a good mother,” I insist.

“I believe you, but to me … sending you back to Maine and not accompanying you—”

“Her job keeps her from being there all the time. She still has ten months on her contract.”

He eyes me and doesn’t answer. I can tell just from how he’s looking at me that he thinks it is a pretty bad excuse, but it isn’t. There are huge financial penalties if hospital CEOs just up and leave their jobs. It is unfortunate but true. Now that I’m pixie and my father is dead, I don’t know if she’ll want to come to Maine to stay at all. She might want me to move back to Charleston.

I decide to change the subject. “We’ve been standing here forever. Are you sure it’s okay for us to be here? It’s late. Should we wait until morning?”

“Do not worry. I called and she agreed to meet us. She is quite capable of being nice. It will be fine,” he says. Even though he says this in Mr. Reassuring voice, it’s pretty flat and fake. I mean, seriously? “Quite capable of being nice” is not very reassuring.

I give him my own fake cheery smile. “I know. Don’t worry. It will be just fine.”

And it’s right then that I decide I will make it fine for him. It’s the least I can do for someone who has done so much for me, for someone who is helping me get to Nick.

We stand there another moment. I am so antsy and impatient that I just give up waiting and offer, “Do you want me to ring the bell?”

He half gasps, as if realizing he hasn’t even rung it, and then he shakes his head, smiling softly. For a moment he looks truly human, regular, like any other guy around seventeen or eighteen years old.

“I shall do it,” he says quietly. “I think I am capable of at least that.”

He reaches out but hesitates. His face is one big plea for help, and so I just do it, pressing the gold bell button embedded in the exterior wall. A short older man opens the door. He wears a suit coat and a pressed white shirt, and he carries himself with this absolute rigid confidence. He reminds me of someone from an old black-and-white movie about aristocracy, the kind that Betty watches every Saturday night when she’s not on shift. Behind the man is an expensively furnished foyer with off-white walls and elaborate gold-frame mirrors that look like they weigh a ton, a dark green velvet sitting couch, and a staircase that winds up to the next floor. Doors lead to other rooms on both sides. The man watches us both. No expression crosses his face. I can’t even feel any emotion coming from him at all, which is a first since I’ve turned pixie.

“Master Astley, we’ve been expecting you.” His accent is British and formal. “This way.”

I raise an eyebrow and hope it makes me look all bad girl.

“My mother’s butler, Bentley,” Astley whispers.

I lower my eyebrow. The house is warm and somewhat stuffy. Dove soap smells fill the air along with roses and lilacs. There’s the distant sound of someone walking on the floor above us. Water drips from Astley’s umbrella and softly plops on a plush white area carpet, which is partially covering the deep-colored wood floor.

The butler’s right ear twitches and he says suddenly, “Oh, sir. I am terribly sorry. Let me take your umbrella.”

Before Astley can respond, the Bentley man grabs the umbrella and looks at it as if it is a rat carrying the plague. He thrusts it out and away from him and deposits it in an umbrella stand near the front door. Once he’s done with the offending umbrella, he gestures toward a doorway. “After you.”

I follow Astley and it is instantly pretty obvious that this is the kind of home where nothing is allowed to be out of place. There will be no dirty spaghetti pots or colanders left in the sink. There will be no crumpled-up tissues hiding beneath the sofa. I wonder if they even have a television or a computer. Somehow it doesn’t seem they would.

“Did you live here when you were growing up?” I ask Astley.

“Here and other similar places,” he answers.

“It’s lovely,” I say, trying to be polite as I imagine other similar town houses in other cities. Maybe a condo in a ski resort, a home in the hills, an estate in England. There are so many things I don’t know about Astley or about how pixies work and live. I mean, are all pixies wealthy? Or is it just the kings? Do I automatically get some sort of queenly allowance now? Not that it matters.

Astley leads us into a big parlor with one large window. The walls are the same off-white and the fireplace mantel has been painted to match. Afghan rugs rich with color cover the hardwood floor. Couches and chairs face each other. I stand there as primly as possible with my injury. I feel bad for getting the floor wet and hope that Astley’s mother won’t hold it against me and not help us find Nick.

“Your mother will be down shortly. Shall I get you anything to take off the chill? Tea? Brandy?” Bentley offers, still standing up as Astley and I settle into a plush velvet couch. My feet can’t quite touch the ground when I sit all the way back, so I scoot up and perch on the edge. I won’t get the couch as wet that way anyway, right?

“No, thank you,” Astley answers for both of us. He’s probably noticed my horrified face over the whole brandy offer. I wonder if pixies can get drunk. I should ask that sometime, maybe when things mellow out …
if
things ever mellow out.

“As you wish,” Bentley says, and does this quiet, gentlemanly bow, bending stiffly from his waist.

I try to imagine Astley growing up here. I bet he had a nanny and a tutor. I bet he wasn’t allowed to slide down that big mahogany banister or spill his milk (or should I say brandy?) or leave his wet towels in a pile on the bedroom floor.

“Was it hard?” I ask him as Bentley leaves the room.

“Was what hard?” His eyes are distracted.

“Growing up here? Wait. Do you live here now?” I ask. “You know … when you aren’t trying to stop a rogue pixie king in Bedford, Maine.”

He shudders. “No, I have my own home.”

Wow. His own home? That’s crazy. Then I remember that I’m actually his queen, which is even weirder. He doesn’t answer my original question, which probably means that it
was
terribly difficult to grow up here. Sympathy fills me. We sit there in a companionable sort of silence.

“Are you nervous?” he asks.

I nod.

“She promised to help,” he says, taking my hand. “We shall find your wolf, Zara.”

Once again, I wonder why he cares so much, but I don’t have time to ask, because there is motion on the stairs and the distinct smell of roses. I look up just as a small blond woman flutters into the room. I check for feet because it seems as if she is gliding instead of walking. Feet are definitely there. They are ensconced in glittery silver designer heels.

As she enters, Astley instantly lets go of my hand and leaps up from the couch. He walks toward her and I hang back as he opens his arms. “Mother.”

She floats over to him, reminding me of Glinda the Good Witch in
The Wiz
and
Wicked
and
The Wizard of Oz
, and lifts her arms open in a super-melodramatic way.

“Astley.” She almost jingles when she says his name. “How good to see you again, my dear, dear son.”

The air bristles as they hug. She lets go first and looks around him toward me. Her gold hair ripples in waves. As she smiles her face transforms from something regular into something almost shockingly beautiful. Her nose is a bit long but straight. Her mouth takes up most of the bottom half of her face. She appraises me quickly, bluish silver eyes roaming up and down my body before fixing on my face.

She opens her arms again. “You must be Zara. Our newest queen.”

She glides over to me in those shiny heels and her arms quickly wrap around me in a hug. She’s thin and soft. I hug her back. I let go first.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. I don’t know what to call her.

It’s like she has read my thoughts. “Isla. Call me Isla, sweet girl.”

“Isla,” I repeat, looking up at Astley. His eyes narrow, watching us. Tension oozes off him and I don’t quite understand why. His mother seems so very nice, actually. She’s pretty. Her voice is a little high, but that’s okay, right? I mean, it’s silly to feel put off by someone’s voice. It’s silly to be put off by something as small and inconsequential as a voice or a smell, and, seriously, who am I to be put off by someone at all? She is so beautiful and lovely and short, and I am sure that she would never, ever do anything even remotely wrong—ever—and she’s going to help me find my perfect, amazing Nick, which is a perfect and amazing thing for her to do and I love her for it, and I love how beautiful her eyes are, and they are coming closer to me—those eyes—and they are switching back and forth from blue to silver to blue to silver to blue to—

“Mother!” Astley’s voice cuts through the air.

Her voice is sweet, sweet innocence. “What, dear?”

“Let her free,” he orders.

She giggles. It is the light, sweet tinkling of bells. It is music to my sad, sad ears. It is a promise of beauty and butterflies and warm Charleston days and—

“Mother! I mean it. As your king I command you!”

She pouts. “Very well then.”

The world suddenly shifts and my vision is clearer somehow. I must be staring or something, because her cold hand reaches up and gently pushes on the bottom of my chin.

“Dear girl,” she simpers. “Your mouth is hanging open.”

Right then, even though I know that she is our best hope for finding Nick, and even though I know she is a pixie queen and Astley’s mom, right when she touches my face I want to haul off and smack her. That’s not very pacifist of me. I used to be a pacifist. I used to be human. I used to be a lot of things.

I clamp my mouth shut and glare at Astley, who looks aghast.

“Did you do some sort of glamour on me, ma’am?” I ask. My voice drips with Southern charm. I make it that way on purpose. I am accusing her of something, which is totally un-nice, but I will be polite about it.

She bats her eyelashes. “Who, me?”

It starts again. Stars seem to zigzag into my eyes through to my brain. She is suddenly so beautiful and so kind. I want to touch her cheek. I want to … I shake my head.

“Mother!” Astley warns and comes to stand in front of me, blocking me from her.

She giggles. Old women should not giggle. “She fought it this time.”

“You gave her no warning. It was abominable of you,” he counters.

I try to gather my wits. My head still seems foggy. I focus and scoot around Astley so I can face his mother. “What did you do to me?”

“It is called a mystique, not a glamour, little princess,” she says. She coos it, really, and then turns to Astley. “Have you taught her anything?”

“He taught me the glamour,” I say, bristling. Seriously, I know she’s his mother and everything, but that doesn’t give her the right to be such a bitch.

“She defends you!” Isla throws up her hands in triumph, making little fists. “How adorable.”

“Adorable?” I repeat. Does she mean “adorable” like a kitten or a baby? Does she mean “adorable” as in harmless?

Astley smiles. He actually smiles and says, “Now you have done it, Mother. You have incurred the wrath of Zara.”

Isla’s petite shoulders move slightly up and down in a tiny shrug. “Oh, she will forgive me. She knows that I only want to ensure that she can deal with the trials that await her if she is to venture on the journey to the gods.”

A clock rings in the background. Another sounds a moment after. The entire building seems to vibrate with the sounds as more and more clocks chime. I scan the walls. There are three hanging in this room alone, plus a grandfather clock that stands in the corner. Isla closes her eyes and seems to sway with the noise. It’s like dancing, but more primal. Astley meets my gaze and rolls his eyes as if his mother is way too embarrassing for words. He also shifts a little bit closer to me.

The chimes stop. Isla opens her eyes, which have gone black. She blinks hard. They are silvery blue again. The change is so quick that I almost think I imagined it.

“Do you like clocks, Zara?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am. I do,” I answer as she motions for us to sit again. The last thing I want to do is rest on a couch. I feel like pacing, running, screaming, and begging her to tell me where Nick is.

Once again I perch on the end of the velvety couch, trying not to look uncomfortable or show my pain, which isn’t the easiest of tasks at the moment. I flinch as my wound stretches. Astley sits in the middle, crossing his legs at his ankles. He gives me a look of concern, but I don’t respond, because there are more important things than my personal health right now.

“So, ma’am, I’d really like to know how we can get to Valhalla,” I begin.

She raises a hand to stop me. “Are you sure you
truly
want to retrieve your wolf, Zara? It will complicate your relationship with my son, and wolves are so”—she sniffs her nose disdainfully—”furry.”

I want to scream out, “What relationship?” but I know that would hurt Astley’s feelings. And wolves are messy? What a bigot. Instead of going ballistic on her, I will my fingers to unclench out of super-tight fists and take a deep breath. My lungs burn, angry and still hurt, before I manage to say, “I am sure.”

She harrumphs. Her hands smooth down her hair. They are constantly moving. Once she is done with her hair, she fidgets with her hands in her lap. She seems like she’d rather be pacing or running, doing something frantic.

“Mother …” Astley uncrosses his legs. He seems to have inherited her impatience. I wonder what else he has inherited from her.

“Please desist from that incessant ‘mothering.’
Mother this … Mother that …
” She flops down in a Queen Anne chair. “Must you always remind me that I am your mother?”