Wuthering Frights Part 8

I didn't say anything but nodded, knowing Quill had been brainwashed by my father for too long, his backbone having been compromised. But as for me, I wasn't used to taking no for answer and as long as there was breath in my body, I'd get myself out of this s.h.i.t if it was the last thing I did.

And from the sound of it, it very well could be.

Once we located the portal, Quill stepped through and within a few seconds, I was quick to follow. That bizarre feeling of balmy gel enveloped me but before I could respond to my growing feelings of claustrophobia, I felt a swish of air across my face and then felt like I was falling. I opened my eyes, realizing in a split second that the portal had kicked me out and into my father's office ... at ceiling height.

I shrieked and in apparent reflex, my wings suddenly started beating insanely, just saving me from hitting the floor. But now that I was airborne, I had a new problem-landing. I still couldn't exactly control my wings. Once they started beating, it was nearly impossible to get them to stop.

Quillan, apparently observing my quandary, reached out and grabbed hold of my leg, pulling me down beside him. Once my feet touched the ground, my wings continued to frantically thrash back and forth. I had to hold onto Quill's arm so I wouldn't float away again. Suddenly realizing we weren't alone, I looked up into Melchior's amused eyes. Taking a deep breath, I forced my poker face.

"The portals do have a way of depositing unsuspecting travelers in quite random places, such as the ceiling." My father's voice infiltrated the room and I felt myself recoiling.

I cleared my throat as my heart pounded in my chest. He looked the same as I remembered. His grey hair framed a very handsome face for a man of his age-appearing to be in his fifties although he was over one hundred, a fact which still amazed me. His emerald green eyes were the exact shade of my own, so similar, in fact, that I had to ask myself how I'd never made the familial connection between the two of us when I'd first met him.

"Quillan Beaurigard and my very own flesh and blood," my father greeted us as he took a few steps forward. His eyes fastened on me as his smile grew. "How are you both?"

"I've been better," I said with a frown, anchoring myself more firmly to the chair behind Quillan, my wings still beating incessantly.

My father had nothing to say, but never lost his irritating smile. Instead, he faced Quillan with an expectant expression. "And you, Quillan?"

"I'm good, thanks," Quill said, taking a deep breath, and eyeing me before looking at Melchior again. He seemed nervous. "To what do we owe this honor?"

Melchior nodded and walked around his executive desk, an ornate and overwhelming piece of cherry furniture, embellished with gold accents that matched the hutch directly behind it. In a word, it looked ... expensive. It also looked incredibly ostentatious and overdone. Melchior opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a black box. Then he walked back to us and handed the box to me.

"A present for my daughter," he said simply.

But there was no way in h.e.l.l I could or would accept anything from him. "Gifts weren't part of this bargain," I said without humor.

"Then don't think of it as a gift," my father answered, his lips drawn tight as he pushed the box further into my face.

I withdrew from him, clinging to the chair which was anchoring me in place. "How about I don't think of it at all?"

My father sighed and gave Quillan an expression that said, if nothing else, he found me exasperating. Then he faced me again and this time, there wasn't any trace of levity in his eyes or the hard line of his lips. "You will need it," he said simply. "It's a portal compa.s.s."

Realizing he was right, I took a big bite of humble pie and reached for the box. I mean, he had a good point-I couldn't always rely on Quillan when it came to catching a ride to the Netherworld. As my wings began to calm down, I released my hold of the chair back and stood still for a few seconds, testing myself to see if I might become airborne again. Once my wings appeared to be sitting peacefully, I opened the box. Inside, I found a silver watch, a Rolex, complete with diamonds to represent each hour. Smaller diamonds trimmed the periphery, highlighting the pink watch face. Obviously, my father knew nothing about me-I hate pink.

"Quillan will teach you how it works," Melchior said as Quillan obediently nodded.

Sighing heavily, I pulled up my sleeve and immediately saw Sam's Viking bracelet. A sense of warmth filled me as I thought about my best friend. Not wanting to taint the beauty of her bracelet with the gaudiness of Melchior's watch, I pulled my sleeve down and offered my other wrist, allowing Quillan to fasten the watch on me.

I glanced at Melchior, my lips tight, my hands crossed against my chest. "Now that we've taken care of that, Quill mentioned that I shouldn't be driving my ANC provided bike-that it would be too obvious should it be spotted while I'm in your employ."

Melchior nodded thoughtfully and then smiled. "I have a fleet of vehicles at my disposal on the bas.e.m.e.nt level of this building. My secretary will call the guard to inform him that you are in need of one." He paused as if considering the logistics before adding, "It will be shipped to you."

I turned to Quill, expecting him to get this show on the road. As far as I was concerned, I'd just ticked off everything on my list.

"How did the Yalkemouth import go with Baron?" my father asked, spearing us both with his trenchant gaze.

I didn't respond, so Quill nodded. "Good, just as planned."

"Very good, very good," my father said, but suddenly seemed uninterested, like there were bigger things on his mind. I figured he had to have known the import went off without a hitch, probably getting the report from Baron, himself. "Horatio arrived in High Prison just yesterday," he continued.

"And?" Quill asked.

"He is living the high life in one of my apartments for the next three weeks at least. Then I will release him back to Splendor."

"Beats High Prison," I said angrily, remembering what a s.h.i.thole it was and how I'd worried Knight and I would never get out.

"That it does," my father agreed, seemingly not sensing the acidity in my words or, more fittingly, not caring.

"Okay, so let's cut through the c.r.a.p here," I said, my temper finally getting the best of me. "Why did you call us here?"

My father faced me and frowned. "You will not speak to me in such a way ... I am the Head of the Netherworld and you will treat me with deference and respect."

"I don't care who you are," I began as my fingers dug into my palms and my hands balled into fists. "I agreed to do your bidding, but that's it. As far as I'm concerned, you are a piece of ..."

"Dulcie!" Quillan silenced me, grimacing with a knitted brow meant to discourage me from further speaking my mind.

"Do not forget, girl," my father interrupted him, turning his fuming eyes on me, as well as his long and bony index finger, "that I can end the life of your friend with merely a phone call," he finished, referring to Knight. "If you care for him as much as you appear to, you would do well to keep that in the forefront of your mind."

I gulped and tried to take a cleansing breath, realizing my father had bested me ... again. Yep, he had me exactly where he wanted me; and it was the second to worst feeling I'd ever had. The worst feeling was hearing that Knight was sentenced to death.

"Now that we've addressed your quarrelsome nature," my father continued and with a discouraging glance at me, returned his attention to Quillan, adding, "I would like to discuss my reasons for requesting your presence." I said nothing while Quill merely nodded and smiled at my father, so he continued. "First, I would like you both to meet someone."

Melchior walked back to his desk and turned the dial of the rotary phone. Immediately, the sound of ringing blared out over the speaker phone (the logistics of which I still hadn't figured out).

"Yessir?" A woman's voice picked up. Probably Melchior's a.s.sistant, if I had to guess.

"Please send Christina in," my father responded, lifting the handset, only to replace it again at the sound of a dial tone. None of us said anything for the next five seconds as we awaited Melchior's guest.

There was a knock on the door. "Enter," Melchior called out.

The door opened and a woman walked in. She pa.s.sed by both Quillan and me as she approached Melchior. She offered him a smile and extended her hand which he instantly clasped in his own, kissing the top of hers. I could only wonder at the nature of their relationship. Melchior admired this woman-I could see as much in his eyes, but as to what his admiration meant, who knew? Either way, I'd find out-the information seemed like a necessary arrow to have in my quiver.

"Melchior, it is good to see you again," she said with a slight New York accent. She was small in height (even shorter than my five foot one) and her frame, though also pet.i.te, was very toned. She was dressed well, wearing tailored, black dress pants with a matching black, unb.u.t.toned blazer. Beneath the blazer peeked a purple tank top. But what really captured my attention were her shoes ... They were white snakeskin, peep-toed heels with metal spikes on the heels, which had to be at least four inches high. I suddenly viewed my own ensemble of leather pants, black sneakers and faded, ripped, long-sleeved T-shirt with disinterest.

I watched her make small talk with my father as I admired her incredibly long, straight dark brown hair that ended at her b.u.t.t. And speaking of b.u.t.ts, hers was pretty nice. Um, not that I was into checking out women's b.u.t.ts, but sometimes you can't help but appreciate a good one. And she had a good one.

"Christina, I would like you to meet two of my colleagues," my father said. He faced us both as I felt like choking on his description of us as "colleagues." "Minion" would've been more fitting, or in Quillan's case, "groveling, a.s.s-kissing puppet."

The woman spun around and smiled at us both, her front side just as attractive as the back. Quillan had apparently come to the same realization as his eyes raked her up and down wolfishly. She offered him her hand and smiled politely as he shook it. Then she approached me and offered her hand again with another practiced and radiant smile. As soon as I shook her hand, I felt a sense of familiarity welling up within me. She had a certain power within her that spoke to the same power within me.

"You're a fairy," I said in surprise, having only ever met one other fairy in my lifetime-the fairy hooker, Zara. Even as the words left my mouth, I had to question them, because as far as I could tell, Christina didn't have wings. And in the Netherworld, all fairies had wings.

Her eyebrows raised in surprise as her smile widened. Her large eyes were nearly as dark as her hair and framed with perfectly shaped, dark brown brows. She was probably around the same age as me, maybe twenty-six, twenty-eight, with a young face. Her sensuality radiated out of her and I could only imagine how popular she was with the boys. But strangely enough, even dressed to the nines as she was now, something about her didn't seem totally girlie. Something about her hinted to the possibility that she could get muddy and do so happily.

"That's a true gift you have," she said, her dark eyes dancing. "And, yes, you're right; I am a fairy."

I frowned. "Where are your wings?" At the mention of "wings," mine suddenly unfurled. And like a Jack Russell on Red Bull, they began beating in full-steam-ahead-mode until I had to grab the chair back to keep myself grounded. Mortified, I could only a.s.sume I looked completely ridiculous.

"I have a special device in my jacket, which keeps them under control," Christina started as she dropped her gaze and tried to hide a smile. "It's one of the less-than-thrilling side effects we fairies have to suffer in the Netherworld." She waited for my wings to calm down and added, "I'm Christina Sabbiondo, pleased to meet you."

I smiled in return, finding her easy affability refreshing. I had to remind myself that she had some kind of relationship with my father and, as such, I shouldn't like her. "Dulcie O'Neil," I said abruptly.

Christina's eyebrows stretched for the ceiling as she turned back to face my father and said: "O'Neil? As in a relative of yours, Melchior?"

He nodded with the expression of a proud father. It was something which didn't suit him and it made me want to throw up all over Christina's expensive shoes.

"Yes, Dulcie is my daughter," he said, glancing at me as if I were a prize winning sow. I glared at him as I muttered something unintelligible, while my wings continued to imitate a hummingbird on fast forward.

Christina faced me again and seemed to be studying me. "Ahhh, I can absolutely see the resemblance. You both have stunning green eyes."

I failed to reply because I was all out of pleasantries. Besides, where my father was concerned, it was better to hold my tongue than p.i.s.s him off again. Especially since he didn't hesitate in reminding me that Knight's safety was always on the line.

"I wanted to introduce the three of you," Melchior started, "because I am tasking all of you with a team project."

A f.u.c.king team project? I said to myself, suddenly feeling like I was an unenthusiastic candidate on "The Apprentice."

No one replied, we just glanced back and forth at one another, waiting for Melchior to continue. He walked across his office to a coat closet in the corner of the room. Upon opening it, he reached for something and returned with a white Styrofoam box which looked like an organ transporting device. He opened the box and I almost expected him to pull out a lung. Instead, he placed a vial on his desk. It was about the width and height of my index finger, and filled with white pills that looked like Tic-Tacs. Melchior popped the cap and offered each of us a pill.

"What is it?" I demanded, feeling my heart drop. As a veteran ANC Regulator, I'd busted plenty of potions traffickers on the black market, and I was very familiar with illegal narcotics. But I'd never laid eyes on this small white pill before.

"It's an antidote, or should I say, an anti-buzz," Melchior said softly.

"An antidote to what?" I inquired, my tone of voice sounding less than thrilled as I continued to study the white pill.

"To Draoidheil," my father answered, as if the very word would ring a bell or two in my head. But, at the moment, the only thing ringing inside me was my temper.

"What is that?" Christina asked, sounding like an eager student. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who hadn't seen nor heard of Draoidheil before, much less the white pill.

Melchior reached inside the box again and produced another vial. This one was filled with what looked like iridescent glitter, although the particles were far smaller, almost like very fine sand. He handed the vial to Quill, who inspected it before handing it to Christina. She started to uncork the vial, but stopped when Melchior "tsked" her.

"I would not do that," he said simply.

Christina's eyebrows raised as she gulped and handed the vial to me; but I wanted none of it and simply shook my head. She gave me a strange expression before handing it back to Melchior.

"What does it do?" she asked.

"In Gaelic, Draoidheil means magic," Melchior said simply. "And that is precisely what it is and what it does."

"Magic?" I asked in a droll tone, feeling like I'd just found a Golden Ticket to w.i.l.l.y Wonka's Chocolate Factory. 'Course, I would've exchanged Melchior for w.i.l.l.y in a split second. And I didn't even like sweets.

My father faced me and frowned. "If I were to open this vial and hold it beneath your nose, with one whiff, you would be under the influence of Draoidheil. As simple as smelling a flower, whatever you most wanted in life would be yours."

"What?" I asked, frowning helplessly as fear began uncoiling within me. I'd never heard of a narcotic being activated by merely smelling it. Inhaling, yes, smelling, no. "What does that even mean, whatever I most wanted in life would be mine?"

"Not in actuality, of course," Melchior backpedaled. "But its influence would convince you that whatever you most desired; love, money, companionship, fame, intelligence ... was yours."

"And that's the narcotic's high?" Quillan asked, although it was really more of a statement. He glanced at the vial again with shock in his eyes. I'd never heard of anything like this before and apparently neither had he.

Thoughts started swarming through my head, causing alarm bells to peal through my entire body. "If I were to throw that vial into the air, with all of us in here," I started.

"We would all be under its influence," Melchior finished for me.

"For how long?"

"Perhaps five hours," Melchior responded, his countenance eerily casual and calm.

"How long does one vial of Draoidheil last?" I persisted.

Melchior held the vial up to his eyes, as if he were inspecting it. "The narcotic was designed to have an expiration date of two days after the uncorking of the vial."

"And let me guess, it's incredibly addictive?" I continued, the frown on my lips drooping all the way to my feet.

My father glanced from the vial to me and smiled pleasantly. "Precisely so."

A short shelf-life with an addictive chemical would predicate incredible demand. From a capitalistic standpoint, it seemed a winner. But from a humanistic standpoint, it was anything but.

"And how addictive is addictive?" Quillan asked cautiously.

"Currently, the most addictive potion on the market," Melchior answered. "One whiff and you would be at the mercy of the Draoidheil." I felt my mouth drop open in shock as Melchior held up the vial with the white pills in it. "That's why these little specimens are so important."

"Those pills invalidate the power of the potion?" Christina asked, her tone revealing she was as shaken as the rest of us.

"Yes, if taken right before or after exposing oneself to the Draoidheil," Melchior continued, "they nullify its effects." He glanced at Christina, then at me, adding: "I call it Snake Oil."

"Fitting," I said snidely, my heart racing as I began to put the pieces together. "This isn't on the streets," I said softly. "I've never seen it before."

My father's eyes narrowed on me. "Precisely so." He smiled then. "I am tasking the three of you with the mission of introducing and distributing it."

Ten.

No one said anything for at least five seconds-and the cloying silence in the room became uncomfortable. I was still in shock, allowing my father's words to sink in. I just couldn't come to grips with the idea that A, there was a potion available as dangerous and potentially devastating as Draoidheil; and B, that I was now in charge of distributing it. I could already imagine what that would entail-widespread addiction. It was the recipe for a large-scale disaster, the outcome of which would be absolute dictatorship for my father. Why? Because it would mean an immense amount of unlimited money-unlimited because the stuff was so addictive. And of course, Melchior had designed it that way for exactly that reason-to ensure his own tyranny.

The more I considered it, the more it concerned me. It wasn't farfetched to imagine half the population, on Earth and in the Netherworld, addicted to this stuff. One sniff and boom, you were hopelessly addicted! Actually, half the population was probably being conservative. It wouldn't be much of a stretch to imagine that eventually, everyone could become addicted since the stuff was basically airborne. Yep, this really was the perfect seedbed to Netherworld dominion, as far as Melchior was concerned.

"And does it work on humans?" Christina asked, her tone curious but wary.

I hadn't even considered that side of things and gulped hard. Most Netherworld potions didn't have any effect on humans (with the exception of one or two). Likewise, things like heroin, marijuana, cocaine and meth, for instance, did nothing to my kind.

Melchior shook his head and relief washed over me. "Not so far."