Key Trilogy (51 page)

“Wow.” Managing only the single word, Zoe put a hand on Malory’s shoulder.

“It’s just a thought,” Malory said quickly. “Something to unify what we’re all doing. Since we’re using the one name for everything. Then we could have this sort of thing on our individual cards, letterheads, invoices, whatever, with something like—I don’t know—‘Indulgence. For Beauty. Indulgence. For Books. Indulgence. For Art.’ And that would differentiate each aspect while keeping it under one umbrella.”

“It’s wonderful,” Zoe exclaimed. “It’s just wonderful. Dana?”

“It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect, Mal.”

“Really? You like it? I don’t want to box you in just because—”

“Let’s make a pact,” Dana interrupted. “Any time any of us feels boxed in, she just says so. We’re girls, but we’re not weenies. Okay?”

“That’s a deal. I can give this to Tod,” Malory went on. “He could make up a sample letterhead. He’d do it as a favor. He’s better at the desktop-publishing stuff than I am.”

“I can’t wait!” Zoe let out a hoot and did a little dance around the room. “First thing in the morning, we’re going to start some serious work around here.”

“Hold on.” Dana spread her arms to indicate the walls. “What do you call all this painting we’ve been doing?”

“The tip of the iceberg.” Still dancing, Zoe grabbed her champagne.

DANA had never considered herself a slacker. She was willing to work hard, insisted on pulling her weight, and she got the job done. Anything less was unacceptable.

She’d always viewed herself as a woman with high personal standards—both personally and professionally, and she tended to sneer at those who skimmed over work, who complained that the job they’d agreed to take on turned out to be too hard, too involved, too much trouble.

But compared to Zoe, Dana decided as she dashed into the market to pick up a few supplies, she was a malingerer. She was a wimpy-assed crybaby. The woman had worn her out in the first twenty-four hours.

Paint, wallpaper, trim samples, light fixtures, hardware, windows, floor coverings—and the budget for all that and more. And it wasn’t just the thinking and deciding, Dana realized as she pondered a bunch of bananas, that was enough to make your head explode. It was the labor as well.

Scraping, hauling, stacking, unstacking, drilling, screwing, hammering.

Well, there was no doubt about it, she mused as she picked through the oranges. When it came to the organization, delegation, and implementation of labor, Zoe McCourt was in charge.

Between the work, the decisions, the worrying search for the key, and her struggle to keep her head above her heart regarding Jordan, she was completely worn out.

But could she just go home, fall on the bed, and sleep for ten hours? Oh, no, she thought with a hiss as she moved on to the dairy aisle. No, indeed. She had to attend a big meeting at Brad’s place on the river.

She really needed about two solid hours of absolute solitude and quiet, but she’d had to trade a portion of that for groceries if she didn’t want to starve to death in the coming week.

On top of that, she no longer had any confidence that she would find the answer to the key in the stacks of books she’d accumulated. She’d read and read, followed every lead, but she didn’t seem to be any closer to a concrete theory, much less a solution.

And if she failed, what then? Not only would she let
down her friends, her brother, her lover. Not only would she disappoint Rowena and Pitte, but her inadequacy would doom the Daughters of Glass until the next triad was chosen.

How could she live with that? Depressed now, she tossed a quart of milk in her basket. She’d seen the Box of Souls with her own eyes, ached to watch those blue lights battering frantically at their prison walls.

If she couldn’t find the key, slide it into the lock as Malory had done with the first, everything they’d done would be for nothing.

And Kane would win.

“Over my dead body,” she declared, then jolted when someone touched her arm.

“Sorry.” The woman laughed. “Sorry. It looked like you were arguing with yourself. I usually don’t get to that point until I hit the frozen dessert section.”

“Well, you know. Whole milk, low fat, two percent? It’s a jungle in here.”

Then the woman angled her cart so another shopper could get through.

Pretty, brunette, late thirties, Dana observed, trying to place her. “Sorry. I know you, don’t I? I just can’t place it.”

“You helped me and my son a couple of weeks ago in the library.” She reached for a gallon of milk. “He had a report due the next day for American history class.”

“Oh, right, right.” Dana made the effort to tuck her dark thoughts away and answer the smile. “U.S. history report, Mrs. Janesburg, seventh grade.”

“That’s the one. I’m Joanne Reardon.” She offered her hand. “And the life you saved was my son, Matt’s. I stopped back in the library last week to thank you again, but I was told you weren’t there anymore.”

“Yeah.” That brought some of the dark thoughts back into play. “You could say I retired abruptly from library service.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. You were terrific with Matt. And
you made a big difference. He got an A. Well, an A-minus, but anything with Matt’s name on it that includes an A is cause for wild celebration in our house.”

“That’s great.” And particularly good to hear at the end of a long day. “He must’ve done a good job. Mrs. Janesburg doesn’t pass out the A’s like doughnuts.”

“He did, which he wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t pointed him in the right direction. More, if you hadn’t found the right key to turn in his head. I’m glad I got the chance to tell you.”

“So am I. You picked up my day considerably.”

“I’m sorry about whatever happened with the job. It’s none of my business, but if you ever need a personal reference, you can sure have mine.”

“Thanks. I mean that. Actually, some friends and I are starting our own business. I’m going to be opening a bookstore in a month or so. Probably a little more ‘or so,’ but we’re putting it all together.”

“A bookstore?” Joanne’s hazel eyes sharpened with interest. “In town?”

“Yeah. A combination thing. A bookstore, an arts and crafts gallery, and a beauty salon. We’re fixing up a house over on Oak Leaf.”

“That sounds fabulous. What an idea. All that in one place,
and
in town. I only live about a mile and a half from there. I can promise to be one of your regular customers.”

“If we keep up the pace, we’ll have it up and running for the holiday season.”

“Terrific. You wouldn’t be hiring, would you?”

“Hiring?” Dana eased back, considered. “Are you looking for a job?”

“I’m thinking about slipping back into the workforce, but I want something close to home, something fun, and something with fairly flexible hours. What you’d call a fantasy job. Especially when you consider I haven’t worked outside the home in over a decade, have only recently
become computer literate—actually, it may be a stretch to say that—and my main job experience was as a legal secretary for a mid-level law firm in Philadelphia—where I did not shine—right out of high school.”

She laughed at herself. “I’m not giving myself a very glowing recommendation.”

“You like to read?”

“Give me a book and a couple hours of quiet, and all’s right with the world. I’m also good with people, and I’m not looking for a big salary. My husband has a good job, and we’re secure, but I’d like to pull in a little of my own. And I’d like to do something to earn it that doesn’t have anything to do with laundry, cooking, or browbeating an eleven-year-old into picking up his room.”

“I find those excellent qualifications in a potential employee. Why don’t you come by the building sometime. It’s the house with the blue porch. You can take a look at the place, and we’ll talk some more.”

“This is great. I will. Wow.” She let out a laugh. “I’m so happy I ran into you. It must’ve been fate.”

Fate, Dana mused when they’d parted ways. She hadn’t been giving enough credit to fate. Needing to restock her pantry had brought her here, to the dairy section of her local supermarket.

A small thing, she thought as she continued through the aisles. An everyday sort of thing. But hadn’t it put her here at just the right moment? Bumped her right into a woman who might become another spoke on the wheel of her life?

And more than that. She’d bumped into the woman who’d said exactly what she’d needed to hear.

You found the right key to turn in his head.

Was it just coincidence that Joanne had used that phrase? Dana wasn’t going to blow it off as coincidence. No, her key—the right key—was knowledge.

She would find it, Dana promised herself. She would find it by keeping her mind open.

I
N
Dana’s opinion, there were a lot of things you could say about Bradley Charles Vane IV.

He was fun, smart, and great to look at. He could, depending on his mood and the circumstances, present a polished, urbane image that made her think of James Bond ordering a vodka martini in Monte Carlo—and then turn on a dime and become a complete goofball ready to spray seltzer down your pants.

He could discuss French art films with the passion of a man who didn’t require the subtitles, and be just as fervent in a debate over whether Elmer Fudd or Yosemite Sam was a more worthy adversary for Bugs.

Those were just some of the things she loved about Brad.

Another was his house.

Towners called it the Vane House, or the River House, and indeed it had been both for more than four decades.

Brad’s father had built it, a testimony to the lumber that formed the foundation of the Vane empire. Using that lumber,
and with a skilled eye for the surroundings, B. C. Vane III had created both the simple and the spectacular.

The golden frame house spread along the riverbank, edging itself with spacious decks and charming terraces. There were a number of rooflines and angles, all of them balanced into a creative harmony that showcased the beauty of wood.

It offered lovely views of the river or the trees or the clever hodgepodge of gardens.

It wasn’t the sort of place you looked at and thought, Money. Rather, you thought, Wow.

She’d spent some time there, tagging along after Flynn when she was a kid and tagging along with Jordan when she was older. It was a place where she’d always felt comfortable. It seemed to her it had been created with comfort as its first priority and style running a close second.

Another thing you could say about Brad, she decided, was that he didn’t skimp on the refreshments when he had a gathering.

It wasn’t anything fancy, at least it wasn’t presented that way. Just some sort of incredible pasta salad that made her contemplate going back for more, a lot of interesting finger food, ham slices, and some dense, dark bread for sandwich making.

There was a round of Brie skirted by fat red raspberries, and crackers nearly thin enough to see through that crunched with satisfying delicacy at every bite.

There was beer, there was wine, there were soft drinks and bottled water.

She already knew she wasn’t going to resist the mini cream puffs mounded in a tempting island on a platter the size of New Jersey.

All this was spread out casually in the great room, where a fire snapped and sizzled and the furniture was the kind you could happily sink into for weeks at a time.

Not fancy, not so you felt like you couldn’t rest your feet on the coffee table. Just classy.

That was Bradley Vane, right down to the ground.

Conversation buzzed and hummed around her, and she was drifting into a happy coma brought on by good food, warmth, and contentment.

Or would, she thought, if Zoe would stop squirming beside her.

“You’re going to have to do something about those ants in your pants,” Dana told her.

“Sorry.” Zoe shot another look toward the archway. “I’m just worried about Simon.”

“Why? He had a plate with enough food piled on it to feed a starving battalion, and he’s hunkered down in the game room. A nine-year-old’s wet dream.”

“There’s so much stuff in this house,” Zoe whispered. “Expensive stuff. Art and glassware and china and
things
. He’s not used to being around all of this.”

Neither am I, she thought, and struggled not to squirm again.

“What if he breaks something?”

“Well.” Lazily, Dana popped another raspberry into her mouth. “Then I guess Brad’ll beat him to a bloody pulp.”

“He hits
children
?” Zoe exclaimed.

“No. Jesus, Zoe, get a grip. The place has survived nine-year-old boys before—at least three of them are alive and in this room. Relax. Have a glass of wine. And while you’re at it, get me some more raspberries.”

Half a glass, Zoe thought and got to her feet. But even as she reached for the bottle, Brad lifted it.

“You look a little distracted.” He poured the wine into a glass, handed it to her. “Is there a problem?”

“No.” Damn it, she’d only wanted half a glass. Why didn’t he stay out of her way? “I was just thinking I should check on Simon.”

“He’s fine. He knows where everything is in the game room. But I’ll walk you back if you want to take a look,” Brad added when she frowned.

“No. I’m sure he’s fine. It’s very nice of you to let him play.” She knew her voice was stiff and tight, but she couldn’t help it.

“That, rumor has it, is what a game room’s for.”

Since Brad’s voice echoed her tone, Zoe simply nodded. “Um. Dana, she wanted some more. Of these.” Mortified for no reason she could name, she scooped some of the berries into a bowl, then carried them and her wine back to the couch.

“Pompous ass,” she said under her breath and had Dana blinking at her.

“Brad?” Dana snatched the bowl of raspberries. “Sorry, honey, you got the wrong number.”

Jordan wandered over, sat on the arm of the couch beside Dana and stole a couple of berries before she could stop him.

“Get your own.”

“Yours are better.” He reached out to play with her hair. “So, how’d you get this blond stuff in here?”

“I didn’t. Zoe did.”

Nipping one more berry, he eased forward to look past Dana, wink at Zoe. “Nice job.”

“Any time you need a haircut, it’s on the house.”

“I’ll remember that.” He sat back again. “So, I’m sure you’re all wondering why we’ve brought you here tonight,” he began and made Dana laugh.

“Now there’s a pompous ass.” But she laid a hand on his thigh. “I guess since we’re here to talk about the key, and I’m the one who’s supposed to find it, I’ll start.”

Handing Jordan what was left of the berries, she pushed herself off the couch and snagged her wineglass from the coffee table. Even as she took the first step, Jordan slid down into her seat. He gave her a quick grin and draped his arm behind Zoe over the back of the couch.

“Come here often?” he asked Zoe.

“I would have, if I’d known you’d be here, handsome.”

“You guys are just a riot,” Dana muttered, then eased past a frowning Brad to the wine bottle. What the hell, she wasn’t driving.

“Now, if everybody’s all comfy and cozy?” She paused, sipped her wine. “My key deals with knowledge, or truth. I’m not sure the words are interchangeable, but both, either, or a combination of them applies to my quest. There’s also a connection to the past, the now, the future. I’m taking this, after some fiddling around and dead-ending, to be personal, as applies to me.”

“I think you’re right about that,” Malory put in. “Rowena stresses that we’re the keys. The three of us. And mine was personal. If we’re going to consider a pattern, that’s part of it.”

“Agreed. The male-type people in this room are part of my past, and of my now. Odds are, I’m probably going to be stuck with them one way or the other, so they’re part of my future as well. We know, too, there are connections among all six of us. My connection to each of you, and yours to me, to each other. There are the paintings from Mal’s part of it that added a link.”

She, as did the others, glanced at the portrait Brad had hung over the mantel. Another of Rowena’s works, it showed the Daughters of Glass, after the spell that had taken their souls. Each lay pale and still in their crystal coffin.

“Brad bought that at auction, without knowing what was going to happen here, just as Jordan bought one of Rowena’s paintings, the young Arthur on the point of drawing the sword from the stone, at the gallery where Malory used to work. Also years before we knew what we know now. So . . . this, in turn, connects all of us with Rowena and Pitte and the goddesses.”

“And Kane,” Zoe added. “I don’t think it’s smart to leave him out.”

“You’re right,” Dana agreed. “And Kane. He’s messed with most of us already, and it’s pretty clear he’ll mess
with us again. We know he’s bad. We know he’s powerful. But those powers aren’t without limits.”

“Or someone or something limits him. He took a slice out of me,” Jordan continued. “Then Rowena sends a little potion home with Dana. You guys saw this yesterday.” He opened his shirt. The cuts were now only fading welts. “They started healing minutes after we slapped the stuff on them. The point is, whatever he did couldn’t hold up against Rowena. And whatever she did to counter it couldn’t erase it completely.”

“To which we conclude,” Dana finished for him, “that they’re pretty evenly matched.”

“He has weaknesses.” Absently Jordan rebuttoned his shirt. “Ego, pride, temper.”

“Who said those were weaknesses?” Dana wandered over, sat on the arm of the chair Brad had taken. “Anyway, it’s more. He doesn’t really get us—the whole human or mortal thing. He doesn’t get us as individuals. He skims the surface, picks up on our little fantasies or fears, but he doesn’t really get to the core—or hasn’t. That’s how Malory beat him.”

“Yes, but when he has hold of you, it’s hard to see clearly, hard to know.” Malory shook her head. “We can’t underestimate him.”

“I’m not. But up to now, I think, he has underestimated us.” Thoughtfully, Dana studied the portrait. “He wants them to suffer, simply because part of them is mortal. Rowena talked of opposing forces: beauty and ugliness, knowledge and ignorance, courage and cowardice. How without one the other loses its punch. So he’s the dark, and you can’t have light without dark. I figure he’s essential to the whole deal, not just an annoyance.”

She hesitated, then took a drink. “It’s no secret that Jordan and I were intimate. I don’t think it’s any secret that we’re . . . intimate now.”

Jordan waited a beat. “I’ve never known you to get flustered talking about sex, Stretch.”

“I just want to make it clear to . . . people. To you, that I’m not sleeping with you as a way to find the key. Even if that has something to do with it,” she continued quickly, “because as somebody told me recently, sex is powerful magic—”

“If you do it right,” Jordan interrupted.

“So let’s see what we know,” Brad said, trying to get back on track. “None of this would have happened—past—without Kane.” Brad tapped his index fingers together. “His presence and manipulations influence the search for the key. Present.” He held up a second finger. “And there’s no finish to the spell without him.” And a third. “He’s a necessary factor. There’s no reward without work, no victory without effort, no battle won without risk.”

“It’s another traditional element of a quest,” Jordan added. “An evil to be overcome.”

“I understand all this,” Zoe said. “And it’s important. But how does it help Dana find the key?”

“Know your enemy,” Brad told her.

“That nutshelled it,” Dana agreed.

“But there’s more,” Flynn noted. “Blood has been shed. Another traditional quest element. I can read, too,” he said. “Why was it Jordan’s blood? There’s a reason for it.”

“Might be because Jordan pissed him off, which he’s really good at doing,” Dana said. “But more likely it’s because I need Jordan to find the key.”

“Stretch, you need me for so many things.”

“Let’s ignore the ego burst and stay focused.” Dana gestured with her glass. “The key’s knowledge. Something I know, or have to learn. A truth that has to be sifted out from lies. Kane mixes his truth and lies. What is it he’s said or done that’s truth? That’s one of the angles I’m playing. Then there’s the last bit of the clue. Where one goddess walks another waits. That’s a stumper so far. Malory’s goddess was singing, and she re-created that moment, and the key, by painting it. Following that, my goddess, Niniane,
should be walking. But where, why, when? And which goddess waits? Would that be Zoe’s?”

“Maybe you’re supposed to write it,” Zoe suggested. “Like a story, I mean. The way Malory painted hers.”

“That’s not bad.” Dana considered. “The thing is, I never wanted to write, not like Malory wanted to paint. But maybe it’s something I’m supposed to read, and God knows I’m not hitting on anything in the six million books I’ve gone through so far. So maybe I have to write it myself, first.”

“Maybe Jordan does.” Flynn played absently with Malory’s hair as he thought it through. “He’s the writer—not to diminish my own considerable talent, but I report. He just makes shit up.”

“Really good shit,” Jordan reminded him.

“Goes without saying. I’m thinking here that if for nothing other than the cohesion and the exercise, Jordan could write all this out. In story form. Maybe when Dana reads it, the scales will fall from her eyes, she’ll pull out the key, and we can all have a party, with cake.”

“It’s not an entirely stupid idea,” Dana decided.

“I think it’s great.” Zoe shifted in her seat to beam at Jordan. “Will you do it? I just love reading your books, and this would be even more fun.”

“For you, gorgeous?” He picked up her hand and kissed it. “Anything.”

“I’m feeling a little queasy.” Dana patted her stomach. “How soon will you have something I can see?” she asked Jordan.

“Okay, now you sound like an editor. It could force me to have a creative tantrum and slow everything down.”