Isla's Inheritance Page 9

After a few minutes of directionless driving—fleeing—through the suburbs, I took a deep breath and pulled over. My hands trembled, and pain radiated from my burnt palm where it gripped the steering wheel. I was going to get myself killed if I wasn’t careful, and my bare feet were freezing. I flicked on my hazard lights and, hurrying across the rough surface of the road, scurried around the car to check the boot.

  To my relief, my gym bag was there. I threw it onto the passenger seat and, sliding my seat back, put my socks and sneakers on. Then I stared out the windshield at the quiet street.

  My mobile phone rang. Home. I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, unanswered.

  What I wanted was somewhere quiet, somewhere I could gather my thoughts… Mount Ainslie. Located north of Lake Burley Griffin, the mountain reserve boasted a lookout facing the city and a gorgeous view. And at this time of night there wouldn’t be too many people.

  I tried not to think on the drive in, concentrating on the road. When my mobile rang again I turned the radio up, listening to a too-enthusiastic pop song instead. There wasn’t a lot of traffic at this time of the evening so the drive only took about twenty minutes.

  When I turned off Limestone Avenue and onto the winding road that climbed to the top of the mountain, I flicked my headlights onto high beam and slowed down to well below the speed limit. The drop to the car’s left loomed in the moving shadows cast by the headlights.

  At the top of the mountain, I pulled into a car park and stopped the engine with a relieved sigh. There was one other car at the lookout: an older-model green sedan with steamed-up windows.

  My phone beeped a text message alert. It was from Sarah. Are you okay? Where are you?

  I thought about calling her, but I couldn’t be sure Dad wasn’t using her phone. He’d never done that before … but he’d never hurt me before either. So instead I replied, I’m safe. Talk later.

  My palm throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I flicked the car’s interior light on and stared at my right hand. A faint red mark curved from the base of my pinkie finger to the mound beneath my thumb. So long as I didn’t move my hand too much it only ached, and not as much as it should have given the intensity of the pain I’d felt when I pushed the iron circlet to the floor.

  I jumped when my phone rang again, and started to push it away—but then saw Dominic’s name and grabbed it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Isla, it’s me.”

  “Hey, you.”

  There was a little pause. “I just got off the phone with Sarah. She said you had a fight with your dad and took off. Are you okay?”

  Sarah was an interfering wench, but I couldn’t find it in me to be upset at her. “I’m alright. I just needed to get out of there.”

  “What happened?”

  “I … I don’t want to talk about it.” Because I don’t know what happened.

  “Did you want some company?”

  I thought about that for a moment. “Sure.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the Mount Ainslie lookout. I just got here.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there in about a half hour,” he said. “Did you want me to bring anything?”

  “Um. A hot drink?”

  “Can do. Cappuccino with one sugar, right?”

  “Yes. Thanks.” He remembered. The ache in my chest eased a little.

  “See you soon. And be careful up there.”

  “I’ll be fine. There’s hardly anyone here.” I decided not to mention the people making out in the other car.

  “That’s sort of what I was worried about,” he replied.

  After I hung up, I put my phone on silent and slid it into my jeans pocket before flicking off the overhead light and sliding out of the car. The last of the spring day’s warmth was fading and the pleasant breeze I’d enjoyed while I studied on the porch a couple of hours ago—it seemed a lifetime ago—had cooled. At least I had jeans on, but I was still in my baby doll tee, complete with its black paint smudges. My gym bag was not so well stocked that it also contained a jumper. I hadn’t needed long sleeves during the day for weeks now.

  Hugging my arms to my sides, I walked down from the car park to the lookout area clinging to the edge of the mountain.

  The bejewelled lake spread out below me, ringed with national monuments and strung with bridges: diamond bracelets sparkling on an outstretched arm. The bright, distant lights of vehicles moved like red and white fireflies, far enough away that I couldn’t hear traffic noise. The airport was a series of orderly lights to my far left; an airplane took off like a cast spear, its wingtips aglow.

  I took several deep breaths, the cool air filling my lungs and the tumult inside me fading to silence as I absorbed the serenity. Drifting to the right-hand side of the lookout, I could see the built-up glow of Civic through the trees. Touching the cold railing eased the pain in my hand. How had Dad burnt me? And why? It couldn’t have been deliberate. Not once in my eighteen years had he ever shown me anything but love. Sure, we’d had arguments. I’d always thought he was overprotective compared to other kids’ parents, and a lot more strict, but I knew it was his way of looking out for me. As I’d grown older I’d assumed it was because of what had happened to my mother: that losing her had made him more afraid than most people of the harm that can befall a loved one.

  But was Aunt Elizabeth right? Was there some significance to the fact my mother hadn’t had a funeral?

  I turned my back on the view, leaning on the rail and looking up at the stairs to see whether there was any sign of Dominic’s car. The area was deserted. Looming above the car park was a huge pole topped with a rotating beacon to warn off low-flying aircraft. Tiny insectile specks swarmed around the light in a chaotic, joyful dance.

  “You should not be up here alone,” a voice said.

  Heart in my throat, I spun so quickly I nearly fell. Standing a few metres away from me was a figure in baggy jeans and a soft grey jumper. A hood was pulled up to cover his head, casting his face into deep shadow.

  “I’m not alone,” I lied, squaring my shoulders and putting one hand on my hip. The other I slipped into my jeans pocket, getting a good grip on my car keys. Natalie had told us after she did a self-defence course that the individual keys, protruding from a clenched fist, could serve as an improvised weapon.

  My heart raced so hard I was sure the stranger could hear it.

  “You are,” he corrected me. At least, I thought it was a he, judging by the voice.

  “My boyfriend’s just gone to the bathroom.” Absurd; there were no public bathrooms up here. Before he could call me on it, I added, “It’s none of your business anyway.” He wasn’t any taller than me, which made me feel a little more confident.

  “It is not safe for you, lady.”

  What? “Who are you?” He hesitated, and I took a step forward. It was foolish, but I’d had enough tonight. “Tell me!”

  The stranger pushed his hood back.

  His dark eyes, fixed on my face, were the first things I noticed. They were large, like those of a baby animal that hadn’t grown into its skin. In the poor light I couldn’t determine their colour. His nose was on the small side; his chin pointed; his skin pale and covered in delicate wrinkles, especially around the mouth and eyes; and his hair straight, either dark blond or light brown. And his ears…

  They protruded from the fall of his hair, long and pointed, the tips a good hand span away from his skull.

  I stared. He stood there, waiting.

  “You’re the one who sniffed me and pushed me over,” I exclaimed at last. “The kid from Halloween.”

  “I did not mean for you to fall,” he said.

  “But you sniffed me!”

  “I had to be sure you were the one I had sensed, lady. It could have been your male companion.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Earlier that evening I had sensed the presence of an unknown duinesidhe, but your heritage confused me. I am not usually so rude.”


  I frowned. I knew what most of the words he had said meant—although what was a “din-ah-shee?”—but the way he’d put them together made no sense.

  I gave up on that for the moment and raised another point. “Your mask. It’s very good.”

  “It is not a mask, lady.”

  “Of course it is.” My insistence felt hollow.

  He stepped forward and I jumped. “I will show you. Give me your hand?” He held his own out, fine-boned and fair. “I swear I mean you no harm.” The words, soft-spoken and intense with meaning, shivered across my skin.

  Even though my burned right palm ached, I tightened my grip on my keys, which were still in my pocket. I laid my left hand in his. My skin, I noticed, was almost as pale as his. Children of the sunscreen generation.

  His fingers were warm, despite the cool air. He curled them around mine and lifted my hand. He touched my fingertips to his face, running them across his features.

  I felt the fine indentations of the wrinkles; the softness of his cheek and chin, both free of stubble; the seamless transition to the gentle curve of his lips. He lifted my hand and placed it in his hair, so I could feel that there was no edge of a mask hidden in his hairline. His hair was fine, like a baby’s: silken to the touch. Finally, he ran my hand along the length of his ear so I could feel the flex of the cartilage and the flawless skin. There was no mistaking any of it for rubber or another synthetic material.

  Touching his skin was overwhelming and strangely intimate, and when I took my hand back, my fingertips tingled. I cleared my throat before I spoke. “Who are you?” I asked him again.

  He bowed and, because he was standing so close to me, we almost touched. I took a step back, feeling the cold metal of the railing against my back. “I am Jack the Unsworn,” he said.

  “What are you?” I whispered. The question felt ridiculous. Was ridiculous. But I had no doubt this was real, not an elaborate hoax.

  “I am a duinesidhe.” When I didn’t say anything, he elaborated, “One of the fae.” Another pause; then he grimaced. “A faerie.”

  “A … faerie.”

  “Yes.” His eyes grew wide. “You do not know, do you? About us?”

  I shook my head. His shocked look prompted me to speak in my defence. “Well, I’ve read about fairies in kids’ books. The tooth fairy and stuff like that.”

  He smiled, showing a flash of even white teeth. “Any resemblance those books bear to the real thing is coincidental at best, I am afraid.”

  “Oh.”

  “Your ignorance… Forgive me, but it makes it even more dangerous for you to be up here alone,” Jack said. “You should leave at once, return to your home.”

  “I can’t right now.”

  “Why?”

  For reasons I couldn’t have begun to explain, I told him about the scene with my father. And he nodded as though it made perfect sense. “He knows what you are, or at least suspects. Iron burns our kind.”

  “What do you mean, what I am?” Frustration bled into my tone. Our conversation verged on madness, but it seemed this Jack understood me better than I did.

  His next statement confirmed it.

  “You are an unheard of thing, the child of a human and a duinesidhe.”

  “… pardon?”

  He repeated his outlandish claim.

  “You think I’m some sort of faerie half-breed?” My mouth fell open with shock.

  “I would say half-blood, but yes, I suppose you could say that, lady. Can you not feel the power in your blood?”

  “The only thing I feel is a burned hand.”

  “Show me.”

  That meant letting go of the keys and, as ridiculous a weapon as they made, my grip on them gave me some comfort. After a moment I pulled them out of my pocket and transferred them to my left hand. I held my right hand out, palm upwards, for Jack to examine. My fingers trembled.

  He gently took my wrist and turned it so the light fell across the curved red weal. “Does it hurt much?”

  “It aches.”

  He looked up at me. “Do you want me to take it away?”

  “What do you mean?” I leaned in closer, looking from my palm to his large, serious eyes.

  “I can take the wound from you.”

  “Heal it?”

  Jack hesitated before nodding.

  “Okay. I guess.”

  I’d imagined he might pull out a pot of salve and a bandage. Or wave a magical faerie wand. What he did instead was to lower his face to my palm and lick the length of the wound. Startled, I tried to pull my hand away; his grip tightened on my wrist so I couldn’t free myself. But before I could panic, he stood straight, releasing my hand and stepping back.

  “It is done,” he said.

  I examined my palm; the skin was unbroken and smooth, showing no sign of the burn. It glistened with saliva. I really wanted to wipe it clean against my jeans, but that seemed rude. Of course, he’d just licked me, so maybe his idea of rude was different than mine.

  “How did you do that?”

  “It is a gift of my blood.”

  “Is that the sort of thing I might be able to do?” I had a sudden mental image of myself in a nurse’s uniform, licking my way through a hospital ward. A hysterical laugh bubbled up and I took a breath, willing it away. If I started, I might not be able to stop.

  “Maybe. It depends on the blood in your veins, and who your duinesidhe parent was.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, although I suspect he or she was aosidhe.” Another strange word: “ay-oh-shee”. He elaborated, “Aosidhe is one type of duinesidhe. Would you like me to see if I can find out, lady?”

  “Sure. One more thing, though. Can you stop calling me ‘lady’? I have a name.”

  “What would you prefer I call you?”

  “My name’s Isla.” I held my hand out for him to shake and he looked at it, holding his right hand cradled against his chest like a wounded animal. My eyes widened. “Show me your hand.”

  The curved burn mark that had ached against my skin now stretched across his palm.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” I said, feeling guilty even though I hadn’t known what would happen, what his offer entailed.

  He shrugged. “I heal quickly.” Then he reached out—with his left hand—and touched one of the charms hanging from the silver bracelet I wore around my wrist. “I am pleased you found this again,” he said.

  I knew a change of subject when I saw one. But… “Did you leave the bracelet on the doorstep?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then thank you,” I said. “It means a lot to me.”

  “You are welcome, Isla.” I liked the lilting way he pronounced my name. It was musical.

  A car rumbled into the turn at the top of the mountain road, tyres crunching. Its headlights swept through the air above us.

  The car pulled in next to mine and one person got out. “That’s Dominic,” I told Jack. “My boyfriend.” I wasn’t afraid anymore, but I did feel uneasy at the idea of Dominic’s reaction to Jack’s strange appearance.

  “The one who had gone to the bathroom.” He smiled. “I will go.”

  He turned and walked away, towards a flight of stairs leading down to one of the walking tracks that girdled the mountain. “Wait a minute,” I called after him. He looked over his shoulder. “Where will I find you again?”

  “Go to the park across the road from your house. I will be there.”

  “When?”

  “Whenever you like.” He smiled again, and was gone.

  Chapter Seven