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  Legacy

  The Forgotten Story

  Michelle E. Lowe

  Copyright

  Legacy: The Forgotten Story Copyright © Michelle E. Lowe 2019

  This is a work of creative fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead or immortal is purely coincidental.

  Michelle E. Lowe asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this book.

  All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Any copyrighted material is reproduced under the fair use doctrine.

  ISBN: 9781724188304

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank those who have helped the Legacy series along on its journey. First, I’d like to thank my daughters, Mia and Kirsten, who keep encouraging me to tell stories, and to my dad, Jim, and Aunt JoAnn for always being there. Special thanks to my husband, Ben Deda, for your support.

  Thanks to Alejandro Lee, Freddy Gutierrez, Yvette Bostic, MontiLee Stormer, Michael Arnold, Michael Baker, Jonathan Rose, Jessica Ellis, Kelly Evens, Dara Crawley, Mad Wilson, and William Bitner for their assistance and advice. Thanks to Amy Coughlin, Elena Lange, Elisa Jiang, Evan Pitman, Heather Pitman, Oliver Bagley, Ruth Daly, Glenn Ramos, Scott Carol, Kimberley Luce, Landry Prichard, TaunjiHurlbut, Tara Baumann, Erin Mulligan, Amber Heyman, Russell Hinson, John Cook, and Tom and Jennifer Allard for their time and generous support. Thanks to my editor, KH Koehler, for your hard work.

  Although they’re no longer here, I’d like to thank my mother, Janice, and my brother, Jimmy. Missyou both so very much. And a huge thanks and heaps of gratitude to my mentor, Catherine Rudy.

  Legacy

  The Forgotten Story

  “To dominate is power. Power fueled by more power will ultimately burn out and lead to downfall.”

  — Élie Fey

  The Connection

  Oxford, England

  Autumn, 1792

  Jasper Landcross’s illness had gotten worse. The three-year-old had been coughing up blood for weeks. His parents prayed to God for a cure. Their prayers were answered, but not by the god they’d beseeched.

  When the sick little boy was alone inside the family’s tent, Temenitis, the Pegaeae nymph, visited him. She stroked his sweat-drenched hair and sang sweet lullabies to him. The boy wouldn’t die from the clot in his lungs, for his thread insisted he live a long life. Even so, his suffering would hound him for the rest of his days.

  Very rarely did Temenitis visit the family she’d started when she gave birth to her son. She’d had her demon slave throw him to the mortals 140 years ago. But curiosity and boredom prompted her to check in on the family from time to time.

  Honestly, she thought they could have done better for themselves than to have become mere Gypsies, considering where they had come from. They had been wanderers ever since her son crossed into England. Sometimes, when visiting this nomadic troupe, Temenitis would observe those other than her descendants, such as the young enchantress named Élie Fey, who had recently found herself with child by a forest elf after the Gypsies traveled through the Netherlands. She was due to give birth in the spring.

  Keeping track of these earthbound mortals gave the 600-year-old nymph something to do other than dance and sing the same old songs. Nymphs were free spirits, but their world and lifestyle were very small. Having a Trickster offering sex in exchange for his Cambion demon had been the most thrilling moment in her entire existence. She didn’t even have any need for the demon, but the way the Trickster had lusted for her, turning down other bids for the demon in order to offer the creature to her, was exciting. Having Thooranu as a servant had proved entertaining enough, especially as he pandered to her every whim, trying to win her favor so she’d set him free.

  Jasper coughed and wheezed, clutching his violin. Temenitis decided to call for help.

  “Jack Pack,” she whispered with eyes closed. “Please, come to me.”

  Not a moment later, a voice uttered her name from behind. “Temenitis.”

  She smiled, but dropped it when she rose and peered over her shoulder. “Hello, Jack Pack.”

  “I go by Njáll these days. After trading Thooranu off, it was best to change the name that he knows me by.”

  Temenitis snorted. “Afraid Thooranu might find freedom and seek revenge?”

  “A demon, even a half-demon such as Thooranu, is deadly and not to be trifled with. Is he clever enough to take on a Trickster god like me? Not likely. No, I just don’t want to risk him ending up in the hands of any of my enemies, that they might use him against me.”

  “Perhaps you should have put more thought into such possibilities before capturing a demon.”

  “You got rid of him fairly quickly.”

  She shrugged. “I became bored with him. I bore easily.”

  He wrapped his arms around her from behind and cupped her breasts. “Do you? I know something ssssttttimulating we can do.”

  The Trickster was crafty, indeed. He emitted her favorite scent, roman chamomile, while his hands were busy caressing over all the sensual places of her body. Before her passion got the better of her, she remembered her reason for calling him.

  “Stop it,” she demanded, breaking away and turning to him. “There is a child present.”

  His beautiful and slightly feminine face was as she remembered it. He wore a wide-collared, red velvet coat adorned with lovely patterns, a leather vest, a kilt, and tall black boots. He had no hat, and his dark hair was pulled neatly back.

  Njáll studied sleeping Jasper, who shivered from his sickness. The child could neither see nor hear them at the moment, for they did not wish for him to notice them.

  “Him?” He pointed to Jasper. “Not that it matters, but we can go somewhere else more private, if you so desire.”

  “This child is of our bloodline and is in need of help.”

  Again, he looked at the boy, only much longer this time.

  “So?” he replied at length. “People fall ill all the time.”

  “I want him well. I want him cured. You are able to do this.”

  He clasped his hands behind him. “Are we negotiating?”

  She returned her focus to the child. It wasn’t that she really cared about him, but her instincts tugged at her, telling her something very special would come from him. To find out what, she needed first to play her cards right with the Trickster.

  “I know what you desire, Njáll, and you know I do not give myself over easily. I simply ask for the sake of our family. Please.”

  He considered her a moment.

  “I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Temenitis. When I first saw you, I believed my eyes would never again fall upon the sight of anyone more beautiful. And they haven’t.”

  “Stop trying to charm me, Trickster,” she warned. “It will not work.”

  “I’m not,” he declared sincerely. “I speak the truth.”

  Their surroundings vanished. The only thing that existed was the god and the nymph.

  “I remember how you looked, sitting on the rock by the water.”

  He pinched the edges of the gown resting on her shoulders and pulled them slowly until the clothing slid free and down her body.

  His eyes danced greedily over her naked form. “You were just like this, every firm muscle, every hair visible.”

  Njáll skimmed a hand down her arm to her hip.

  “Every inch of you,” he went on huskily, “exposed for me to see. I have never forg
otten it. Temenitis, you are not the same as your sisters. You have a tasteful mind that lusts for more.”

  She strained to not lose herself to him. His touch only made it more difficult. She found herself yearning to kiss him.

  “I shall do this,” he abruptly declared, releasing her.

  She staggered a bit before realizing she was again clothed and both of them were in the tent. It took her a few moments to return her focus to the source of this entire meeting.

  “You will?” she said.

  He went to the boy and knelt by the blankets where he lay sleeping.

  “Yes.” He placed a hand on Jasper’s chest just above where the clot sat inside his lungs. Njáll turned to her with a mischievous grin. “Perhaps you might call on me again someday.”

  Temenitis did her best to hold down the corners of her lips before they formed a smile.

  “Done,” he announced, standing. “He is cured.”

  “And he’ll live normally?”

  “As normally as someone who has a god and a nymph as their ancestors can, I suppose.” He gently grasped her chin. “Call on me anytime you wish. Farewell.”

  He vanished and she was alone. She looked at Jasper, who now slept in complete harmony within his own body.

  * * *

  In the spring, Temenitis found the troupe in the Netherlands. They had found shelter in an abandoned house that appeared to sit on the water. The young enchantress, Élie Fey, had gone into labor. Temenitis was there, watching. She was curious about what a half-elf child would look like. Would it have pointy ears?

  After many painful hours, the girl child arrived.

  “Nona,” the mother cooed as she held her daughter.

  Seeing the tender moment almost made Temenitis yearn to become a mother again. This time around, though, she would raise the child instead of getting rid of it. Then again, she might grow bored with it and if that happened, things would go very badly for the child. She needed a purpose, though. Being a nymph was utterly dull. Why could she not be born into something with more power, like the new mother?

  “Can I see her?” Jasper Landcross asked.

  The mother and the midwife looked at him.

  “Oui, bien sûr, jeune homme,” Élie granted. “Come say hello.”

  The boy walked over, carrying his violin. He stood beside Élie so he could see the babe clearly. A charge rose in the room. The elevation of energy made gooseflesh spread over Temenitis’s skin. Her interests piqued and she watched intently as Jasper reached out and gently touched Nona on the head. The babe made a tiny noise. The children were drawn to one another, Temenitis sensed. There was some sort of connection between them. What could draw two children, brand new to the world, together?

  “Can I play her a song, Élie?” the sweet boy asked.

  The mother nodded. “I think she would enjoy that.”

  Jasper set his violin under his chin. He rested the bow on the strings and played. For a three-year-old, he played the stringed instrument very well. An inherited trait he’d received from Temenitis’s own son, no doubt.

  What was this strange connection?

  The Teller of Forgotten Tales suddenly came to the forefront of her mind. The ancient one who roamed the known universe, telling stories—sometimes dangerous ones. He told them from underneath his magical tarpaulin, which kept anyone outside of it from hearing such tales, and then stole the memories of the stories from his audience once they’d left from under it. The last time she’d seen him, he’d told her a story, now lost to her, save for the title.

  “I sense it. We’re meant to be together. Do you not recognize it, as well?”

  Those words were spoken by the Trickster on the day of their first encounter. They echoed in her head. Temenitis had also felt it. There was a reason for why everything had occurred, her own pregnancy with her son and her coming to Jasper when he was seriously ill. Many impossible things have happened. Yes, of course, impossible things did happen, and it was proving true enough at this moment.

  * * *

  “You called, my lady?” Njáll said, appearing to her where she stood under the palm trees on a remote Caribbean island.

  “I have a request. One that I’m willing to pay for.”

  Njáll became highly intrigued. “Is that so? What is this request?”

  “Tell me a story. ‘The Story of the Priest.’”

  He gaped at that. “How do you know that story?”

  “I know it not. I’ve forgotten it. You do, though, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  She came close to him, and already she felt the heat of desire rising in him.

  “Tell it to me,” she ordered, kneeling in front of him and unbuckling his belt.

  The moment her lips touched him, he was hers. He told her the story, and she listened. As it carried on, she realized what she had at her fingertips. It was the bloodline within each of the children, Jasper and Nona, a privileged legacy bestowed upon them by their parents and ancestors. What might come of it wasn’t impossible; in fact, half of the work was already done. She needed a plan.

  When the tale ended, she brought him to his climax.

  “I shall call on you soon,” she told him.

  “I eagerly look forward to it,” he said breathlessly.

  It took a while for her to sort out her plan. She knew there would be trials and tribulations along the way, but the more thought she put into every detail, the easier the obstacles would be to overcome. Or, so she hoped.

  After mapping everything out, it was time to wait for the right year to call for the Trickster once again.

  On the mountaintop where the mist thickened around the peak, he again came to her. “What do you wish of me now?”

  “I want to die and be reincarnated as an enchantress. I have found a woman to birth me. She is a hermit living in the woods. She is to be attacked by a huntsman. Kill me and bring me back, but make certain I have all my memories of my previous life.”

  Her request took him aback.

  “May I ask why you desire this, Temenitis?”

  She had no qualms telling him what she’d found out and about her plan, for she had no doubt she would need his help again.

  “Interesting,” he mused. “And, do you fully understand the rules—rules that even I cannot break? Although your blood tie with the mortals will be severed, neither you nor I can harm the family if you wish to succeed.”

  “I have a plan for everything, Njáll. This is the closest the bloodlines of these beings have ever been since their destruction. I still need to alter the courses of these people’s lives, and as a witch, I can do so.”

  She suspected the Trickster held affection toward her. It was why she resisted him, and her instincts to do so had proven their worth. It was about the only useful talent a nymph had—the art of seduction. When it came down to trusting him, however, she had little choice, for he was all she had.

  “I will give myself to you, Njáll.”

  “Is that so?”

  “We shall create a natural disaster,” she promised.

  His eyes flickered with lust. “Then, my lady, I am happy to oblige you. When do you wish to start this new existence?”

  “Right after I’m dead.”

  He nodded. “Very well.”

  For hours, they fucked like primitive beasts that had only moments to live.

  When Njáll was just about to arrive, Temenitis screamed, “Kill me! Do it now!”

  The pressure around her neck made her eyes bulge. He choked the life out of her as he soared over his crowning point. His savage scream of pleasure and his killing of her was enough to form what people later stated was an orography effect, which caused flooding in Lynmouth, England.

  Temenitis felt her soul slip away, and as the light of the world dimmed, she heard the Trickster sobbing.

  Chapter One

  The Visions

  The Hawaiian Islands

  Summer, 1850

  The rain from the night
before had washed up loads of kelp and seaweed. The waves had also brought up a dead and mangled sea turtle. Evidence of a shark attack. Despite the storm, the lobster traps had stayed in place, and two of them had even caught a few.

  Pierce Landcross swam deep into the clear water and unhooked the trap doors. He grabbed one lobster at a time and shoved them into the sack he held. He had become accustomed to holding his breath for extended periods of time. Once he had the lobsters secure, he reset the wooden traps and headed up. He took the warm tropical air into his lungs as he broke through the surface of the water. He swam for shore until his feet found the seafloor.

  Pierce rather enjoyed the ocean, whether it was diving for lobsters or only going in for a swim. He’d become a true fish since arriving on the island of Maui.

  Seven years ago, Chief Sea Wind, captain of the Ekta and her crew of Sea Warriors, brought him, his new bride, Taisia, his parents, Nona and Jasper, and his grandmother, Élie Fey, over from England and to the islands. When they’d arrived, Taisia was nearly five months pregnant.

  The long time at sea was due largely because the Apaches had dropped anchor in Sonora, Mexico. The detour was an adventure all on its own. The scar on Pierce’s upper back, where an arrowhead had penetrated his shoulder blade, was as a testament to that. Nevertheless, they’d made it to the islands and now lived a perfect life together under the sun.

  Pierce headed up the white sandy beach toward the area close to a surfing village where the indigenous people of Maui resided. In order to be able to live in such a secluded area—virtually untouched by the outside world—Pierce and his family had needed permission from the village leader, a man named Ailani. His name meant high chief. It turned out Chief Sea Wind was mates with the Hawaiian chief who’d granted the Landcross family permission to stay.

  As Pierce drew closer to home, he spied his daughter, Galina, digging in the sand. When she noticed him, she abandoned her work to greet him.