Otherworld Protector - Jane Godman

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islands had been created at random intervals, breaking up the white-tiled floor space. In one corner, there was a sensory area with bubble tubes, soft lighting and—Stella noted as she completed her twirl—two men asleep on large beanbags. A shelf lined with hundreds of glass jars, filled with every kind of sweet, cookie and candy imaginable, sat alongside a soft drinks machine. It was a grown-up playroom.

      The man who had opened the door to Stella nodded his agreement and gestured to the drinks machine.

      “Get you something? I’m Diego, by the way.”

      Stella accepted a bottle of chilled water gratefully. “Do you live here?”

      Diego snorted. “Only the privileged few get to actually stay here in la casa. The rest of us drop by when there is a big project to work on or a deadline to be met.” He nodded in the direction of the sleeping men. “Thirty-six hours straight. We’ve been trying to iron out a kink in a new games title. Just about cracked it. Some people can’t take the pace. So you’re the crowd fund girl Moncoya’s been raving about.”

      Stella felt a blush tinge her cheeks. Moncoya and raving were not words she ever thought to hear put together and then applied to her. It was the stuff of every gamer’s fantasy. “Is he here?” She tried not to sound too eager.

      “Moncoya? He doesn’t greet new employees in person, you know.”

      Her enthusiasm popped like bubble gum on a pin. Of course he didn’t. How stupid of her to ask. Just as she was about to stammer out an apology for her foolishness, the front door opened and, with perfect timing, Ezra Moncoya walked in. Even if Stella had not spent an obsessive amount of time doing internet searches for her new employer over the past week, she would have known him anywhere. Let’s face it, she thought, looking into the most unusual eyes she had ever seen, unless you had lived as a hermit in a remote cave for the past twenty years, you could not fail to recognize Ezra Moncoya. And to an aspiring games designer, Moncoya was a god. He had been Stella’s idol for as long as she could remember. While the other girls in the children’s home had pictures of boy bands on their bedroom walls, Stella had Moncoya advertising posters, snippets cut from magazines and game covers.

      He was of less than average height with a slight build, but Moncoya’s presence instantly filled the vast room. He wore evening dress, but managed to bring a touch of his unique flair to the conventional outfit. Tuxedo and trousers in midnight blue were perfectly contoured to his slender physique, and he wore a cravat in place of a bow tie. It was his face, however, that drew—no, commanded—Stella’s attention. It was a face that graced the cover of thousands of electronics periodicals as well as the gossip pages of every international newspaper and magazine. Moncoya’s chiseled beauty was legendary, almost as well-known as his sexual prowess, but nothing had prepared Stella for the reality of the man. How had she reached the age of twenty-five without knowing you really could have your breath taken away by the presence of another human being? Moncoya ran a hand through his signature mane of tousled, morning-after hair, its highlights ranging from honey gold to caramel. The diamond studs in his ears caught the light. Until that instant Stella would have laughed if someone had told her she could find a man who wore black nail polish and blue eyeliner attractive.

      It was those eyes that drew her in and captured her, she decided. Bluer than a summer evening, the irises were edged with gold as if encircled by fire. The effect was devastating. Once you looked into Moncoya’s eyes, you couldn’t look away. Not even if your life depended on it. She shook the foolish, intrusive thought away.

      It didn’t seem to concern Moncoya in the slightest that Diego, after an initial blink of shock at his employer’s entrance, had faded away, leaving them alone. Or that, without the benefit of an introduction, a girl he had never met was gazing at him in spellbound silence across a distance of several feet. A slight smile touched his lips and he moved forward, holding out both hands.

      “Stella Fallon. You are everything I hoped you would be.” It seemed a strange comment since, in those few seconds, she had no way of demonstrating the abilities for which he had hired her. Such was the force of his personality that she took the outstretched hands. The oddest feeling, like a slight electric shock, shimmered from her fingertips then tingled throughout her whole body at his touch.

      Get a grip, Stella. He probably has this effect on women all the time. Stella collected herself with some difficulty. “Senor Moncoya, I want to thank you...”

      He had gone. Releasing her hands, he strode away to the glass wall at the rear of the room. Stella hesitated. Away from the power of those eyes, doubt washed over her. Was that it? Was she dismissed? Or was she meant to follow? When Moncoya glanced, with a touch of impatience, over his shoulder, she got her answer and hurried to join him. For a few minutes they stood side by side, their reflections staring back at them from the window’s mirrorlike gloss.

      Stella tried to see herself through Moncoya’s eyes. Short. Well, he wasn’t tall so that was good, wasn’t it? Stop it, Stella. Nothing is going to happen here. Slim. A bit too slim. Okay, I’m on the skinny side. Short, spiky hair. Hair that was a lot shorter than his. Wide eyes and pixie features—like a gremlin, a former boyfriend had once said...during a fight. Vintage dress and combat boots. It was her favorite look. 1950s movie icon meets steampunk rebel. Not the kind of woman for a man like Mon—Moncoya pressed a button and one of the glass panels slid back. With old-fashioned courtesy, he bowed slightly, indicating that Stella should precede him. She stepped out onto a wide terrace and inhaled the midnight scent of orange blossom. The entire city of Barcelona, lit up like a child’s fairyland, was spread out below them.

      “Welcome to your new home.”

      Stella turned to Moncoya with shining eyes, wanting to voice the thanks she had attempted earlier. As she did, her peripheral vision kicked in again, the movement urgent enough to make her pause. The feeling of contentment she got from knowing her protector was there was as powerful as ever, but this time there was something more. Something equally strong. She had never before experienced this particular sensation from her shadowy guardian. She took a second to examine the new perception. It felt a lot like a warning.

      As a child Stella would have long, imaginary conversations with her protector while playing with her toys. In these, his answering voice was quiet and masculine. He was the one person who always had time for her. He said what she wanted to hear. With him she felt safe and loved. If she was upset or fearful, she only had to think of him and he would come to her. It didn’t matter that he didn’t exist beyond the outer reaches of her vision, or that when she blinked he was gone. He was as real to her as any of her foster carers or teachers.

      Stella had been three when her parents were killed in a car crash. When she pictured that day it was as a sharp turn in the road, a change in the path of her life. Behind her was a meandering, sweet-smelling country lane, lined with flowers. Ahead there was a gray concrete highway with nothing on either side to alleviate the monotonous view.

      Every attempt had been made to find adoptive parents for her. “She has no other family and—I don’t know what it is, maybe it’s because she’s such a fey child or always lurching into mischief—but she doesn’t seem to take, if you know what I mean. And she should have grown out of the imaginary-friend phase long ago.”

      Stella had overheard that fractious comment one day as she sat outside the matron’s office in the children’s home waiting to take her punishment for her latest transgression. It had set the tone for a childhood spent alternating between kindly foster homes and a series of trying-too-hard-to-be-homely institutions. It didn’t matter. She always had him.

      No one else listened when Stella talked about the monster that lived under her bed. It didn’t matter where she slept, the monster would be there awaiting her arrival. Although its eyes were dark, sometimes they burned ember bright. In the dark reaches of the night, it whispered Stella’s name in a low, scratchy voice. The monster wanted Stella. Not just any little girl. Her. She would squeeze her eyes shut and her lips would

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