Key Trilogy (23 page)

“There he is!” Rowena simply spread her arms in welcome, and had them full of dog when the women walked into the room. “How nice, how lovely. It’s like a party.”

“Sorry to burst in on you this way.” Malory scanned the room, then zeroed in on Flynn. “But there’s an issue of certain people thinking they should take over from the womenfolk.”

“That’s not exactly true.”

“Really? And what would be exactly true?”

“Just following a lead, that’s all. You were busy rushing into business partnerships, buying houses.”

“I’ve been rushing into a lot of things lately. Maybe we should debate the fact that I rushed you into bed.”

The twin claws of embarrassment and annoyance pricked him as he got to his feet. “Sure, we can do that. Maybe we can find a more appropriate time and place for it.”

“You want to talk about appropriate when you and your testosterone team try to take over my responsibilities, my business? Just because I’m in love with you, just because I sleep with you, doesn’t mean I’ll sit back and let you run my life.”

“Who’s running whose life?” Frustration had him flinging out his arms. “You’re the one who has mine mapped out. I’m in this, Malory, whether I want to be or not. And I’m here to find out what that means. And if it’s heading where I think it is, you’re out. All of you.” He shot scathing looks at Dana and Zoe. “Out.”

“Who made you boss?” Dana demanded. “You couldn’t tell me what to do when I was ten. You sure as hell can’t pull it off now.”

“Oh, you watch me. You made it seem like a game.”
He shot the accusation at Rowena. “Even some sort of romantic quest. But you didn’t tell them what might be at stake.”

“What are you talking about?” Malory jabbed at his shoulder.

“The dreams.” Ignoring Malory, Flynn continued to speak to Rowena. “They’re warnings, aren’t they?”

“You never finished telling us. Perhaps everyone should sit down, and you can start from the beginning.”

“You had a dream? Like mine?” Malory jabbed at him again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Just shut it down a damn minute.” Out of patience, he nudged her onto the couch. “Just be quiet,” he ordered. “I don’t want to hear anything out of you until I’m finished.”

He started at the beginning, with him wandering the house, with the sensation of being watched, stalked. He related the experience on the parapet, the fear and pain, and ended with his waking in his own bed, drenched with rain.

“He—it—wanted my soul, was letting me know that that could be the price for being in this.”

“This isn’t the way.” Pitte clamped a hand on Rowena’s and spoke to her as if no one else was in the room. “This can’t be the way. They aren’t to be harmed. That was the first and most sacred promise.”

“We can’t know. If we’re not allowed behind the Curtain, we can’t know what situation now exists. If he’s broken the vow, he must believe he can escape the consequences. He must believe . . . they are the ones,” she said in a whisper. “It can be done, and they can succeed. He’s opened the Curtain to stop them. He’s come through.”

“If they fail—”

“They cannot fail.” She spun around, her face set with purpose. “We’ll protect you.”

“Will you?” Shaken, Malory folded her hands on her
lap, squeezing her fingers until the pain cleared her head. “The way you protected the Daughters of Glass? Teacher and warrior. Somehow, you are.” She got up, walked to the portrait. “You’re here,” she said, gesturing to the couple in the background. “And here, in this room. In this place. And you think that what’s there, in the shadows of the trees is here too. You don’t show his face.”

“He has more than one.” Rowena spoke in a matter-of-fact tone that was utterly chilling.

“You painted this, and the two that we have.”

“Painting is one of my passions,” Rowena confirmed. “One of my constants. Pitte.” She turned to him. “They know this much.”

“I don’t know a damn thing,” Dana declared.

“Step over here, to the cynical side of the room,” Jordan invited.

“It’s what Malory knows that matters now.” Rowena held out a hand. “All that I have will be used to keep you safe.”

“Not good enough.” Flynn shook his head. “She’s out of it. They’re all out of it. You want your money back, we’ll—”

“Excuse me, I can speak for myself. This isn’t a matter of a refund, is it?” she asked Rowena. “There’s no turning back, no saying, uh-oh, the stakes are higher than I realized, game over.”

“The agreement was made.”

“Without full disclosure,” Brad put in. “Whatever sort of contract these women signed with you won’t hold up legally.”

“The issue isn’t legal,” Malory said impatiently. “It’s moral. And more than that, it’s destiny. As long as I am, as long as I know, I’m part of it. Until the four weeks are up. And if I find the first key, one of them is next.” She looked at Dana and Zoe. “One of them will be at risk for the next phase of the moon.”

“Yes.”

“You know where the keys are,” Flynn exploded. “Just hand them over. End this.”

“Do you think, if that were possible, we would remain in this prison?” In a gesture that mirrored both disgust and bitterness Pitte flung out his arms. “Year by century by millennium, trapped in a world not our own. Do you think we live with you out of
choice
? That we place our fates, the fates of those in our charge, in your hands because we wish it? We are bound here, bound by this single task. And now so are you.”

“You can’t go home.” After the boom of Pitte’s, Zoe’s quiet voice was like a hammer blow. “We are home. You had no right to trick us into being part of this without telling us the risks.”

“We didn’t know.” Rowena spread her hands.

“For a couple of gods, there’s a hell of a lot you don’t know and can’t do.”

Pitte’s eyes went to smoke as he rounded on Flynn. “Perhaps you’d like a demonstration of what we can do.”

Fists already clenched, Flynn stepped forward. “Bring it on.”

“Gentlemen.” Rowena’s heavy sigh was like a flood of cool water, designed to lower the rising temperature of the room. “The male, regardless of his origins, remains woefully predictable in some areas. Your pride and manhood aren’t at risk here, in either case. Flynn, whatever the world, there are laws woven through the fabric of it.”

“Rip the fabric. Break the law.”

“If it were within my power to hand out the keys at this moment, it would solve nothing.”

“They wouldn’t work,” Malory stated and earned a nod of approval from Rowena.

“You understand.”

“I think I do. If this spell . . . is it a spell?”

“That’s the simplest word for it,” Rowena agreed.

“If it’s to be broken, it has to be by us. Women. Mortal women. Using our brains, our wits and energies, our
resources in our world. Otherwise, no key opens the box. Because . . . we’re the real keys. The answer’s in us.”

“You’re so close to where you need to be.” Emotions storming across her face, Rowena rose, laid her hands on Malory’s arms. “Closer than any have come before.”

“But not close enough, not yet. And half my time is gone. I need to ask you some questions. In private.”

“Hey, one for all here,” Dana reminded her. Malory sent her a silent plea. “Okay, okay. We’ll wait outside.”

“I’ll stay with you.” Flynn laid a hand on Malory’s shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

“I said this was private. I don’t want you here.”

His face went blank and cold. “Fine, then, I’ll get out of your way.”

With obvious regret, Rowena gave Moe a little nudge to send him along. She frowned at the sharp slam of the door behind Flynn. “Your man has a sensitive heart. More easily bruised than yours.”

“Is he my man?” Before Rowena could speak, Malory shook her head. “First things first. Why was I taken behind the Curtain?”

“He wanted to show you his power.”

“Who is he?”

Rowena hesitated, then when Pitte nodded, continued. “He is Kane, a sorcerer. The dark one.”

“The one in the shadows, the one I saw in my dream. The stealer of souls.”

“He showed himself to you so you would be frightened. There’s no need to frighten you unless you can succeed.”

“Why did he hurt Flynn?”

“Because you love him.”

“Do I?” Malory’s voice thickened with emotion. “Or have I been made to think I do? Is that just one more trick?”

“Ah.” Rowena let out a soft breath. “Perhaps you’re
not as close as I thought. Don’t you know your own heart, Malory?”

“I’ve known him two weeks, and I feel as if my life will never be quite right if he’s not in it. But is it real? At the end of my four weeks, will I still feel that way?” She pressed a hand to her heart. “Or will it be taken away from me? Is it any worse to have your soul taken from you than your heart?”

“I think not, for one feeds the other. And I can’t give you the answer, because you already have it. If you choose to look.”

“Then tell me this. Will he be safe if I step away from him? If I close my heart to him, will he be safe?”

“You’d give him up to protect him?” Pitte asked.

“Yes.”

Thoughtful, he walked to the lacquered cabinet, opened it to take out a bottle of brandy. “And you’d tell him this?”

“No, he’d never—”

“Ah, so you would deceive him.” With a small smile, Pitte poured brandy into a snifter. “And justify the lie by saying that it was for his own good. Women, whatever their world, are predictable,” he said, with a mocking bow to Rowena.

“Love,” she corrected, “is a constant force in any universe. Your decisions, your choices, must be yours,” she told Malory. “But your man won’t thank you for any sacrifice you make to protect him.” She gave Pitte a mocking bow in turn. “They never do. Go now.” She touched a hand to Malory’s cheek. “Rest your mind a while, until you can think clearly with it. And you have my word, whatever can be done to keep you, your man, your friends safe will be done.”

“I don’t know them.” She pointed to the portrait. “But I know those people outside. You should know, if it comes down to a choice, I’ll choose those I know.”

Pitte waited until they were alone before bringing
Rowena a second snifter. “I have loved you through time and through worlds.”

“And I you, my heart.”

“But I’ve never understood you. You could have answered her question about love and eased her mind.”

“She’ll be the wiser, and the happier, for finding the answer herself. How much can we do for them?”

He leaned down, pressed his lips to her brow. “Our best.”

S
HE
needed time, Malory admitted. She’d been on a roller coaster since the first of the month, and though there’d been a thrill in riding those fast dips and sharp turns, she needed a break.

Nothing in her life was the same as it had been, she thought as she let herself into her apartment. She’d always counted on consistency, and that single element had slipped through her fingers.

Or been tossed aside on impulse.

She didn’t have The Gallery. She wasn’t completely certain she had her sanity. On one of those dips and turns, she’d stopped being sensible, dependable Malory Price and had become irrational, emotional, fanciful Malory Price—a woman who believed in magic, in love at first sight.

All right, maybe third sight, she corrected as she closed her curtains and crawled onto her bed. But it was the same thing, essentially.

She’d taken money that could have seen her through
several lean months and invested it in an enterprise with two women she’d known for less than four weeks.

And trusted implicitly, she decided. Without reservation.

She was about to embark on a business of her own, without any stock, any solid plan, any safety net. Against all logic, the idea of it made her happy.

And still her head was pounding, her stomach churning. Over the thought that she might not be in love at all. That the blissful confidence and pleasure she felt in Flynn was only an illusion.

If the illusion shattered, she was afraid she would grieve for the rest of her life.

She bunched the pillow under her head, curled into a ball, and begged for sleep.

IT
was sunny and warm when she woke, and the air smelled like summer roses. She snuggled in for a moment. Warm sheets carrying the faint scent of her man, the soft drift of silence.

She rolled over lazily, blinked. Something odd hung over her mind. Not really unpleasant, just odd.

The dream. The strangest dream.

She sat up and stretched, feeling the healthy pull of muscles. Naked, and easy with it, she slid out of bed, sniffed the butter-yellow roses on the dresser before picking up her robe. She paused by the window to admire her garden, draw in the fragrant air. She pushed the window open wider and let the sound of birdsong follow her out of the room.

The odd feeling was already fading—as a dream does on waking—as she glided down the stairs, trailing a hand over the silky wood of the banister. Jewel lights from the window over the door played on the floor. More flowers, exotic sprays of white orchids, speared out of the antique vase on the entrance table.

His keys were tossed beside them, in the little mosaic bowl she’d bought just for that purpose.

She wound her way through the house to the kitchen, then grinned. He was at the stove, sliding a battered slice of bread into the skillet. There was a tray beside him, already topped with a flute of sparkling juice, a single rose in a bud vase, her pretty coffee cup.

The back door was open. Through it, she could hear the birds continuing to sing and the dog’s occasional happy barks. Blissful, she crept forward, then wrapped her arms around his waist, pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck.

“Watch it. My wife could wake up any minute.”

“Let’s risk it.”

He turned, caught her up in a long, hard kiss. Her heart leaped, her blood fired, even as she thought, Perfect. It’s all so perfect.

“I was going to surprise you.” Flynn ran his hands over her back as he eased her away. “Breakfast in bed. The Hennessy Special.”

“Make it a better surprise, and have breakfast in bed with me.”

“I could probably be persuaded. Hold on.” He grabbed a spatula, flipped the bread over.

“Mmm. It’s after eight. You shouldn’t have let me sleep so late.”

“I didn’t let you get much sleep last night.” He winked at her. “Seemed only fair to let you catch a little this morning. You’ve been working so hard, Mal, getting ready for your show.”

“I’m nearly done.”

“And when it’s over, I’m going to take my incredibly beautiful and talented wife on a well-deserved vacation. Do you remember that week we spent in Florence?”

Sun-drenched days, love-drenched nights. “How could I forget? Are you sure you can take the time off? I’m not the only one who’s been busy around here.”

“We’ll make time.” He flipped the French toast onto a plate. “Why don’t you grab the paper, and we’ll crawl back into bed for an hour . . . or two.”

Sleepy cries began to sound from the baby monitor on the counter. Flynn glanced toward it. “Or maybe not.”

“I’ll get him. Meet me upstairs.”

She hurried up, part of her mind acknowledging the paintings lining the walls. The street scene she’d done in Florence, the seascape from the Outer Banks, the portrait of Flynn sitting at his desk in his office.

She turned toward the nursery. The walls there were decorated with her paintings as well. The bright faerie-tale scenes she’d done the entire time she’d been pregnant.

And in the crib with its glossy spindle bars, her little boy cried impatiently for attention.

“There now, sweetheart. Mama’s right here.” She picked him up, cuddled him close.

He would have his father’s hair, she thought, as she cooed and swayed. It was already coming in dark, with those hints of chestnut shining through when the light caught it.

He was so perfect. So absolutely perfect.

But as she carried him toward the changing table, her legs went weak.

What was his name? What was her baby’s name? Panicked, she clutched him close, then whirled as she heard Flynn come to the door.

“You look so beautiful, Malory. I love you.”

“Flynn.” Something was wrong with her eyes. It was as if she could see through him, as if he were fading away. “Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s exactly right. Everything’s just the way you wanted it to be.”

“It’s not real, is it?” Tears began to sting her eyes. “It’s not real.”

“It could be.”

A light flashed, and she was standing in a studio awash
with light. Canvases were stacked against the walls or rested on easels. She faced another, brilliant with color and shape. A brush was in her hand, and she was already daubing it on her palette.

“I’ve done this,” she whispered as she stared at the canvas. It was a forest, misty with green light. The figure walking on the path was alone. Not lonely, she thought, but solitary. There was home at the end of the path, and a bit of time yet to enjoy the quiet and the magic of the woods.

Her hand had done that. Her mind, her heart. She could feel it, just as she could feel and remember every brushstroke on every canvas in the room.

The power of that, the glory of it with all its pain and pleasure.

“I can do this.” With a kind of frantic glee, she continued to paint. “I have to do this.”

The joy was like a drug, and she was greedy for it. She knew how to mix just the right tone of color, when to sweep it on, when to switch for the fine, fine details.

How to create that light, that shadow so one might feel as if he or she could slip inside, walk that path, and find home at the end of it.

But even as she painted, tears began to run down her cheeks. “It’s not real.”

“It could be.”

The brush clattered to the floor, splattering paint, as she whirled.

He stood beside her, with the sun’s rays flooding over him. And still he was dark. His hair, black and glossy, spread like wings to his shoulders. His eyes were a strong stone gray. Sharp, high cheekbones hollowed his cheeks, and his mouth was full, appealingly wicked.

Beautiful, she thought. How could he be beautiful?

“Did you think I’d look like a demon? Like something out of a nightmare?” His amusement only added charm.
“Why should I? They’ve made you think poorly of me, haven’t they?”

“You’re Kane.” Fear was alive in her, with its cold hands closing around her throat. “You stole the souls from the Daughters of Glass.”

“It needn’t concern you.” His voice was beautiful as well. Melodic, soothing. “You’re an ordinary woman in an ordinary world. You know nothing of me or mine. I wish you no harm. The opposite, in fact.” With a dancer’s grace, he wandered the room, his soft boots silent on the paint-splattered floor. “This is your work.”

“No.”

“Oh, yes, you know it.” He lifted a canvas, studied the sinuous lines of a mermaid lounging on a rock. “You remember painting this, and the others. You know now how it feels to have that power. Art makes gods out of men.” He set the canvas down again. “Or women. What are we, in my world, but artists and bards, magicians and warriors? You want to keep the power, Malory?”

She swiped at the tears, saw her work through them. “Yes.”

“You can have it, all of it, and more. The man you want, the life, the family. I’ll give them to you. The child you held in your arms? It can all be real, it can all belong to you.”

“At what price?”

“So little.” He slid a finger over her damp cheek, and the tear he stole flamed on its tip. “So very little. You’ve only to stay within this dream. To wake and sleep within it, to walk, to speak, to eat, to love. All you can wish for will be here for you. Perfection—without pain, without death.”

She let out a shuddering breath. “There are no keys in this dream.”

“You’re a clever woman. Why care about keys, about bastard goddesses who have nothing to do with you? Why risk yourself and those you love for foolish girls who
should never have been born? Would you give up your own dream for strangers?”

“I don’t want a dream. I want my life. I won’t trade my life for your illusions.”

His skin went white, his eyes black. “Then lose all!”

She screamed as he reached for her, and again when the cold speared through her. Then she was pulled clear, tumbled free, to wake gasping in her own bed.

She heard the banging on the door, the shouting. Terror leaped out of bed with her. She made it to the living room at a stumbling run and spotted Flynn on the other side of her patio doors, about to smash one of her chairs through the glass.

He tossed it aside as she unlocked the door, shoved it open.

“Who’s in here?” He grabbed her shoulders, lifted her right off her feet, and set her out of his way. “Who hurt you?”

“Nobody’s here.”

“You were screaming. I heard you screaming.” He strode into the bedroom, fists ready.

“I had a nightmare. It was just a bad dream. No one’s here but me. I have to sit down.” She braced a hand on the couch, lowered herself.

His own legs felt a little shaky. She’d screamed as if something was tearing her to pieces. He’d had a good taste of terror the night before, but it had been nothing compared to what had pumped into him on the other side of that glass door.

He marched into the kitchen, poured a glass of water. “Here, drink some. Take it slow.”

“I’ll be okay in a minute. I woke up, and you were pounding and shouting. Everything’s still confused.”

“You’re trembling.” He glanced around, spotted a chenille throw. Wrapping it around her shoulders, he sat on the couch beside her. “Tell me about the dream.”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to talk about
it, or think about it right now. I just want to be alone for a while. I don’t want you here.”

“That’s the second time today you’ve said that to me. But this time you’re not getting your way. In fact, I’m calling Jordan and letting him know I’m staying here tonight.”

“This is my apartment. Nobody stays here unless I invite them.”

“Wrong again. Get undressed, get in bed. I’ll make you some soup or something.”

“I don’t want soup, I don’t want you. And I certainly don’t want to be coddled.”

“Then what the hell do you want?” He lunged to his feet, vibrating with fury and frustration. “One minute you’re all over me, telling me you’re in love with me, you want to spend your life with me. Then the next you want me to hit the road. I’m sick to death of women and their mixed signals and capricious minds and their goddamn expectations of me. Right now, you’re going to do what I want, and that’s getting into bed while I make you something to eat.”

She stared at him. A dozen vile and vicious words leaped into her throat. And she lost them all in a burst of tears.

“Oh, Christ.” Flynn scrubbed his hands over his face. “Nice job. Take a bow, Hennessy.”

He stalked to the window, stared out while she wept wildly behind him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do about you. I can’t keep up. You don’t want me here, fine. I’ll call Dana. But I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I don’t know what to do about me either.” She reached in the drawer for a pack of tissues. “If I’ve sent you mixed signals, it hasn’t been deliberately.” She mopped at her face, but the tears simply wouldn’t stop. “I don’t have a capricious mind—at least I never used to. And I don’t know what my goddamn expectations of you are. I don’t even know what my goddamn expectations
are of me anymore. I used to. I’m scared. I’m scared of what’s happening around me and inside me. And I’m scared because I don’t know what’s real. I don’t know if you’re actually standing over there.”

He came back, sat beside her again. “I’m here,” he said as he took her hand firmly in his. “This is real.”