The Golden Key Legacy

by AJ Nuest

  “Now whatever shall you do?” Grit rasped under his boots as he pivoted away from her and sauntered for the door. “A member of the royal guard locked in the king’s chamber, only her and the armoire in attendance whilst her parents are absent from the castle walls?”

  Sweet tits. She snapped her head up. He couldn’t actually be suggesting she purposely disobey their father’s—the king’s—decree?

  “And lest you forget, Faedrah.” He grabbed the doorknob and winked. “I shall be watching you.”

  Her brows shot heavenward. He’d just called her Faedrah.

  With a quick glance toward the armoire, he swung the door open and left.

  Chapter 3

  The secret release carved within the top scrollwork of the armoire easily descended under the press of her fingertips. An internal whirring sounded and a small hidden door sprang open, disguised by a square rosette above the top left hinge. Anxiety skittered down Faedrah’s spine and she darted a quick glance over her shoulder. On several occasions during childhood, she’d been scolded for surrendering to her curiosity and opening the concealed compartment wherein lay the key. ʼTwas no surprise the instinctive bracing of her body bespoke its preparedness to receive a swift, judicious smack on her backside.

  She reached inside and her fingers snagged upon the links of a heavy chain. Candlelight winked along the golden cord, snaking from the opening as she withdrew the mysterious treasure. A second glance toward the entrance to her parents’ bedchamber, and she carefully lowered the necklace over her head.

  Whatever ruse Vaighn had employed to detain the servants, she mustn’t dally. Though the onset of spring ensured Helios’ delayed descent past the horizon, the king and queen would certainly return soon after Setting…but, by then, their discovery of her disobedience would come too late.

  She would not allow their apprehensions to determine her destiny. The Goddesses had placed this task at her feet, and she would follow the path, no matter the risks, until her purpose had been fulfilled.

  The soft creak of worn hinges spun her attention back to the armoire, and she withdrew a pace as the door swung wide. A blinding flashpoint zipped around the edge of the mirror’s frame. She splayed her fingers in front of her face and squinted past the iridescent shadows impairing her vision. The earth grumbled a warning. The floor pitched and she stumbled to the side as the castle walls heaved a shrug upon their foundation.

  Goddess wept. Surely every soul in the realm had experienced the consequence of her forbidden meddling…the results of which guaranteed her parents’ homecoming much sooner than she’d originally expected.

  Her heart thudded a leaden beat as she reclaimed the distance to the armoire, her knees trembling with excitement and trepidation. There, decorating the back of the door, the veil shimmered and hummed, the flawless glass sparkling like sunlit snowfall upon a winter field.

  The view within its frame was dimly illuminated. Beige curtains hung drawn along the far wall of an empty room. A high-backed leather chair sat in the corner, the front legs and padded footstool standing atop the fringed end of a decorative rug. Beside the right arm, a brass fixture sat centered upon a small wooden table, the unwavering light above shaded to a subtle glow.

  She lightly skimmed the surface of the glass and her breath caught when her fingers submerged as if she’d dipped them into a silver pool. The reflective liquid stuck to her skin as she withdrew her hand, until the tension broke and sprang back to the mirror, rippling outward as if she’d cast a pebble into a pond.

  A door slammed and she flinched. Angry shouts echoed from the king’s receiving room. Armor jangled as footsteps neared. The moment for hesitation had expired. Spinning back to the armoire, she closed her eyes, filled her lungs to their capacity and leapt.

  Myriad colors pulsed and swirled behind the thin barrier of her eyelids. The corrosive scent of grinding gears, the acrid taint of burnt oil and the coppery tang of spilled blood layered upon her tongue. She tumbled and twirled, arms stretched forward, fingers flexing as she sought purchase on the other side.

  The loose strands of her hair whipped a tangled halo around her head. The agitated fanfare of birds taking flight rushed her ears and she was pitched forward, landing on her ass with a solid thump.

  The ground teetered unsteadily and she pressed two fingertips to the resonating pulse between her brows. Sweet tits, the disorientation was enough to challenge the most stalwart of men. No wonder her father had balked at the mention of such a journey.

  “Well, it’s about time you showed up.”

  She froze; slowly lowered her hand. A lanky gentlemen occupied a tan settee placed along the side wall, his long legs crossed at the knees, fingers curled around the ends of several sheaves of thin, oversized paper he held open before his face.

  She frowned. He spoke as if her arrival had been expected.

  He turned down one corner of his papers and quickly flipped them back up. “There’s a bathrobe behind you. I’m guessing you’ll want to put it on.”

  But…whatever for? A glance down at her naked body and she scrambled to her feet, snagged the garment off a hook beside the armoire and crammed her arms into the sleeves. A jerk to the tie at her waist and she clasped both sides of the collar, twisting them closed beneath her chin.

  Movement caught the corner of her eye, and she spun to the side as a dark-haired man entered the room. He glanced at her and his high-pitched scream drilled into her skull. The tray he held clattered to the ground as he slapped both hands to his chest. China shattered against the wooden floor. A small decanter of milk exploded and sugar sprayed as silver spoons bounced and flipped with an ear-splitting clang.

  She stared wide-eyed at the mess at his feet before glancing between the two men. Or perchance, she’d not been expected at all.

  The man occupying the settee risked a second peek over the edge of his papers, sighed and folded them in half. He tossed his reading aside and stood, tugging on the pointed ends of his buttoned waistcoat before propping his fists on his hips. “Some days, I don’t know how I put up with you.”

  “Well, she scared the bejeezus out of me.” The shorter of the two was dressed in much more casual attire than his sharply creased counterpart, yet he affected the same stance, hands punching the hips of his cotton drawstring trousers, the hem of his white shirt bunching above his curled fingers. Though what a “bejeezus” was, she had not a clue. “A little warning might have been nice.”

  The blond man’s brows shot toward his high hairline and he crossed his arms. “You mean besides the earthquake?”

  “Chicago has experienced seismic activity before, you know.” The silken ends of his wavy hair whispered across his shoulders as the second man shook his head. “I swear to God, I will never get used to how those people jump back and forth through that mirror.”

  Those people? Apparently, these two men were acquainted with her mother and father, and had witnessed such an unceremonious tumble through the veil before.

  She squinted as the faint recollection of a bedtime story her father had oft told her whispered across the tableau of her mind. Could it truly be…?

  Awareness swooped in like the wings of a dove and she dropped to her knees in display of reverence and devotion. At the time, she’d believed her father’s tale a mere fable, a moral founded on friendship and the strength of unselfish love. How mistaken her assumptions. Quite certainly, these men had foreseen her arrival. She’d abandoned her realm for the province of gods.

  “Forgive me. I was uninformed the veil would deliver me to your presence, Wizard Oliver, Sir Jon the Brave.” She clasped her hands before her chest. “I beg for clemency in this hour of my kingdom’s need.”

  Remaining abeyant in the long moments that stretched above the heavy beat of her heart, she awaited their divine commands.

  “Oh, my darling girl.” Wizard Oliver cupped his narrow palm along her jaw and tipped her head back, and she was struck by the profound yearning in his azure gaze. “Who
told you to call us that?”

  Fearing their displeasure, she resisted the urge to frown. How could they not know? “My father, His Royal Majesty King Caedmon Austiere, commissioned the bard pen songs in your honor. Every soul in the far reaches is privy to the tale. The gallantry of your heroics is legendary.”

  Sir Jon hitched a breath, pressing three fingertips to his lips. “I always did love that man.”

  “Shush, Jon.” Wizard Oliver gripped her upper arms and lifted her to her feet, and she held steady and firm under the scrutiny of his lengthy perusal. “My God,” he whispered, his eyes awash with the sheen of unspent tears. “You’re the spitting image of Rowena. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Princess Faedrah Isadora Austie—”

  He whisked her close and enveloped her in his arms, cradling her cheek against his chest. Sir Jon rounded the broken crockery and joined their embrace, and the two men swayed her back and forth as if reunited with a long-lost companion.

  A smile tickled her lips as she basked in their heartfelt welcome, and she wound her arms around both their waists to hug them back as well. Their propensity for kindness was exactly as the bard had described it, and she sent a prayer of thanks heavenward for safe deliverance to their gracious home.

  “We knew, of course.” Wizard Oliver withdrew and skimmed both his palms down her arms. Lifting her hands to the sides, he absorbed the measure of her from head to foot. “Of course, we did. It’s just that seeing you like this…”

  “Having you here with us after so long…” Sir Jon fluttered a hand before his clean-shaven face as if to dry his watery gaze.

  “It just means the world to us that we’re finally able to meet you.” A grand smile creased the skin near Wizard Oliver’s eyes as he clutched her hands near his chest. “You must call us Uncle Jon and Uncle Oliver. We insist.”

  “You really must, you know. Princess Faedrah…” Sir Jon sighed her name, combing his fingers down the length of her hair. “And don’t be shy about telling us exactly how we can help.” He wrinkled his nose at his taller companion. “Isn’t this exciting, Ollie? We finally get to participate in another quest.”

  Faedrah chuckled, yet she could not deny their enthusiasm to aid her cause was a welcomed relief. She glanced toward the armoire then snapped her head around, slipping her hands from those of Wizard Oliver as she crossed the rug to the open door.

  The veil had dimmed to an obsidian sheet of glass. Gone were the shimmering light and hum of energy which had emanated from its surface. She placed her hand along the smooth plane and her stomach sank as the hard resistance of a solid barrier cooled her palm.

  The magic surrounding the mysterious portal had locked her within the future. Perchance her impulsive leap had angered the Goddesses and they’d imprisoned her as penance. Or perchance this unforeseeable circumstance held a more dire warning, and a certain evil wizard employed his black magic to keep her escape at bay. Regardless, her choices had narrowed to the head of a pin. Whatever secrets she’d been entrusted to unearth, she must now do so without the luxury or guidance of her parents…and, in the process, determine the clues to regaining admittance to her realm.

  She turned back to her honorary uncles, lowering her hand from the glass. “You stated my visit was expected. Can you tell me how such knowledge came into your possession?”

  The two men traded a meaningful stare before facing her. “We can do better than that.” Uncle Oliver folded her arm through his and steered her down a long narrow hall on their right. “We can show you.”

  A few steps down the corridor and he stopped her before a closed door. A twist of the knob, a gentle push, and the hinges swung wide to reveal a small, private chamber.

  The full volume of her lungs expanded as she violently inhaled what seemed all the air in the room.

  Across the distance, propped against another set of beige drapes, awaited a large hand-painted portrait of…her.

  The plush rug silenced her footsteps as she neared. Her heart thrummed a heady, erratic rhythm. Whomever had fashioned the piece had wrought the strokes with a bold hand. Slashes of black pigment offset the line of her shoulders, the curves of her breasts, the narrowing of her waist above the voluptuous contours of her hips. She’d been captured in her white leather fighting garb, and yet it was the absence of color which so clearly depicted the width of her stance, the bend in her knees and the tense muscles in her arms as she perched on the edge of attack. Silver buckles adorned the white leather straps crossed between her breasts. The hilts of her short swords jutted over each shoulder through the untamed mass of her hair. Fierce determination had been forged within the angle of her clenched jaw, the glint of anger in her eyes, the hint of challenge subtly masked by the seductive curl of her lips. Yet ʼtwas the golden chain depicted round her neck, the rounded edge of a key peeking from the low-cut seam of her bodice which demanded her full attention.

  The artisan who had struck her image upon this canvas grasped the entirety of her existence down to the marrow of her bones.

  A soul-wracking shudder wrenched her body. Only one enemy bore the wrath of the single-minded resolve etched across that girl’s face. The one who had called her here and then left this summons as his invitation, so no doubt would remain she’d landed in the proper place.

  “The moment we saw the piece, we assumed it was Rowena.” Uncle Oliver joined her before the painting and twiddled his fingers in the air. “But there were too many inaccuracies to be sure. The dark strip of hair, the wrong weapons—”

  “And those beautiful brown eyes belong to your father.” Sir Jon stepped forward and stroked a fingertip along the arched eyebrow of her painted visage.

  “Yep, the eye color was our first clue something wasn’t right and, on second look, there was no mistaking that face belonged to Caedmon and Rowena’s daughter.” Balancing his elbow on the back of his hand, Wizard Oliver pinched the tip of his pointed chin. “The gallery had several others on display, but the artist refused to sell no matter what price I offered.”

  Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Why ever not?” In her realm, the commission of sold works ensured an artisan’s distinction, not to mention food and clothing for their family.

  “The owner said the artist was unusually attached to the pieces.” Oliver studied her face as if awaiting the deliverance of some mysterious epiphany.

  “Well, who could blame him?” Jon wound an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her to his side. “Just look at her. She’s absolutely gorgeous.”

  Faedrah scowled at the strange rune slashed along the inside length of one leather boot, squatted and ran her fingertips over the sharp edges of the raised paint. “What is this odd demarcation?”

  “The artist’s signature.” Oliver sank to his knees beside her, yet the weight of his gaze carried more than his simple willingness to join her on the floor. “Rhys McEleod.”

  She snatched her hand back. Ah, yes. Her uncles would be privy to Gaelloed’s loathsome deeds through her parents, and had undoubtedly formulated her same suspicions upon learning the artist’s name.

  McEleod…Gaelleod. The similarities were too parallel to ignore.

  Not that she dare refute the implications of such an obvious overture. The vile bastard had lured her to the future and then manipulated the keen attentiveness of her two most-trusted allies. He’d encroached upon their good graces and exploited their efforts on her behalf.

  He longed for their union? Gaelloed dabbled with paints while she cowered in fear through the tangled web of his hauntings? Well, certainly not if she had anything to say in the matter.

  She stood and offered her uncle a hand up when he grunted above the protesting creak of his knees. “I would see this Rhys McEleod.” Her hands curled into fists as she glanced between the knowing smiles of her two, dear uncles. “And make known to him the exact particulars of my own dire warnings.”

  “Way ahead of you, Princess.” Jon sauntered to a recessed panel in the wall and rolled
the door aside. Facing her, he opened a flat hand toward a long bar hung with a myriad assortment of clothing—presumably, her new wardrobe. “Tonight we drink wine and bring you up to speed on all things twenty-first century.” He crossed his arms. “Then first thing tomorrow morning, we drive straight to the gallery and confront the asshole once and for all.”

  * * *

  Chains rattled overhead as he delivered a series of hard one-two jabs to the punching bag. Pain exploded through his taped fingers, radiating into the bones of his wrists. Good. Maybe he’d finally be able to beat some skill back into his worthless hands.

  Fucking Nate.

  Diaphragm, diaphragm, upper cut.

  Rhys steadied the swing of the bag with one swollen hand, swiping a forearm over his brow to clear the sweat burning his eyes. A pivot on his foot, and his grunt punctuated the jolt of the bag as he delivered a violent kick to the side. How he’d let that pansy-assed weasel talk him into selling her picture, he’d never know.

  “Give the interested party a price he’ll never agreed to,” Nate had suggested. Jab, cross-cross, hook. “Shoot him the highest number you can think of and he’ll lose interest, guaranteed.”

  Shit. Before his next blink, the deal had gone down and Rhys had been left staring at the blank spot on Nate’s gallery wall, a check for more money than he’d earned off his art in ten years crumpled in his fist.

  All because of her.

  Cross, upper cut, jab-jab.

  The bag leapt on it chains and his knuckles left the imprint of a dark stain on the brown leather. He stepped back, his lungs burning, and glared down at his hands. A deep red trickle crept through the frayed edges of the tape separating his fingers, but it wasn’t like the damage mattered. He’d been on lockdown for a week and the time alone with his muse hadn’t done him a damn bit of good.

  His fingers curled in on themselves as he ground his back molars. Christ, he’d wanted to pummel Nate’s face right then and there. Unfortunately, the sickening realization had come way too late. Rhys had already lost the most important piece in his collection, the one that perfectly captured her from his mind’s eye. By comparison, none of the others he’d painted came remotely close, and ever since he’d been unable to recreate that same image no matter how many tubes of paint he wasted.