by Nora Roberts
She'd had relationships with two men while she'd lived there, men she liked. But it was all so transient.
Because, she realized, that had never been her place. It hadn't been a destination but a stoppingoff point.
She hadn't known it then, but she'd been heading to the Valley. To Malory and Dana. To the Peak, to the key.
Had she been heading to Bradley, too, and was he to be as essential to her life as the rest?
Or was he just another crossroads, there to lead her from one point to the next?
Move forward, she told herself. Move forward and see.
She checked her watch, measuring the time it would take her to drive, to spend the time she needed in Morgan-town, then get home again.
She should be able to manage it and still get back before Simon got home from school. But she should stop and call, just in case. She should let Dana and Malory know she wouldn't be in to work.
She would go in early the next day to make it up, and she could work that night on the slipcovers for the sofa, maybe swing by HomeMakers at some point the next day and pick up the shelving she wanted. If she could get that together, and the next shipment of her supplies came as scheduled, she could…
Her busy thoughts trailed off as she stopped and turned in a circle.
She'd detoured off the path, she realized, which served her right for letting her mind wander. The undergrowth was thicker here, and armed with thorns that would play hell with her pants and jacket if she wasn't careful.
She looked up to try to judge her direction by the sun, but the sky had gone to pewter, with a few angry clouds crawling across the dull plate of it.
She would just go back the way she'd come for a bit, she decided. It hardly mattered, as the woods were no wider than a football field, creating a wedge between the field and the trailer court.
Annoyed with herself, she stuffed her hands in her pockets and started back. The air had chilled while she walked, and the scent it carried was more of snow than rain. She walked quickly, in a hurry to be on her way as much as to keep warm.
The trees looked bigger, closer together than they should have, and the shadows much too long for so early in the day. There was no tapping woodpecker now, no rustling from squirrels running about their business. The woods had gone quiet as a tomb.
She stopped again, baffled that she should be so disoriented in a place where she'd run tame as a child. Things changed, of course, everything changed. But hadn't it struck her when she'd come into it how little this place had changed?
Her stomach dropped as she stared down at the long, deep shadows crossing her path.
How could there be shadows when there was no sun to cast them?
As the first flakes of snow fell, she heard the low, throaty growl from deeper in the trees.
Her first thought was bear. There were still bear in these hills. As a child she remembered seeing their tracks and their droppings. Once in a while they would wander into the court at night and bang around in the garbage if it hadn't been stored properly.
Even as her heart fluttered at the base of her throat, she ordered herself to be calm. A bear wasn't interested in her. She had no food, she posed no threat.
She simply had to get back to the court, or out to the field and her car.
She walked backward for a time, scanning the trees in the direction of the growl. And began to wade through a creeping fog that was edged with blue.
Turning on her heel, she walked quickly now through the thickly falling snow, and dug in her back pocket for her penknife.
As weapons went, it was pitiful, but she felt better with it in her hand.
She heard the growl again, closer, and on the other side. She quickened her pace to a jog and gripped her shoulder bag with her free hand. It had weight and a long strap. It could suit up as another weapon if necessary.
She set her teeth to keep them from chattering. Around her the snow fell so fast and hard, it filled in her footprints almost as soon as they formed.
Whatever stalked her matched her pace, turned as she turned. It had her scent, she knew. Just as she had its— strong and wild.
Briars seemed to spring up, straight out of the ground fog to block her path, with stems thick as her wrist, with thorns that glinted like razors.
"It isn't real. It's not real," she chanted, but those thorns tore at clothes and flesh as she fought through them.
And now she smelled her own fear, and her own blood.
A vine whipped up like a snake to wrap around her ankle and send her face-first onto the ground.
Panting, she rolled onto her back. And saw it.
Perhaps it was a bear, but not one that had ever wandered these woods or foraged for food in the garbage.
It was black as the mouth of hell, with eyes of poisonous red. When it snarled, she saw teeth long and sharp as sabers. As she hacked desperately at the vine with her pocketknife, it rose on its hind legs and blocked out the world.
"You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch." Tearing free of the vine, she sprang to her feet and began to run.
It would kill her. Tear her to pieces.
She sucked in the breath to scream as she darted left, and let one rip. She heard its answering call behind her, and it sounded like laughter.
Not real, not true, she thought frantically, but deadly all the same. It toyed with her, wanting her fear first, and then…
She was not going to die here. Not this way, not on the run. She was not going to leave her child without a mother to satisfy and amuse some hell-bent god.
She bent down, scooped up a fallen branch on the fly, then spinning around, she held the branch like a club and bared her own teeth.
"Come on, you bastard. Come on, then."
She held her breath and reared back as it lunged.
The buck came out of nowhere, one high leap out of the air. The rack speared into the bear's side, gored it. The sound of rending flesh and the furious howl was horrible. Blood gushed, splattering red over white as it turned to swipe the buck with those vicious claws.
The buck made a sound that was almost human as his white flank bloomed with blood, but he charged again, rack to claw, pivoting to range his body in front of Zoe's like a shield.
Run! She heard the command explode in her head, jerking her out of the shock of watching the battle. She shifted her grip on the branch and, using all her strength, swung hard.
She aimed for the face, and aimed true. The force of the contact had her arms vibrating, but she swung again.
"See how you like it," she muttered mindlessly under her breath. "See how you like it." And slammed wood against flesh and bone.
The bear screamed, stumbled back. As the wounded buck bunched, dipped its head for a killing charge, the bear vanished in a swirl of filthy mist.
Gasping, Zoe went down on her knees in the bloody snow. Her stomach clutched, had her retching uselessly. When the nausea and the wracking shudders eased, she lifted her head.
The white buck stood, knee-deep in the snow. The gouges on his side glistened with blood, but his eyes were steady and unblinking on hers.
"We've got to get out of here. It might come back." She pushed to her feet and, swaying, dug into her shoulder bag. She came up with a pack of tissues. "You're hurt, you're bleeding. Let me help you."
But he stepped back as she approached. Then he bent his forelegs, lowered his great head in what was unmistakably a bow.
And vanished, in a shimmer of light.
The snow was gone, and the path to the field was clear once again. She looked down where the blood had stained the ground, and saw a single yellow rose.
She bent to retrieve it, and let herself weep a little as she limped out of the trees.
"They’re just scratches, but some of them are nasty." Malory pressed her lips together hard as she swabbed the cuts on Zoe's flesh. "I'm glad you came straight here."
"I thought… No, I didn't think." She was feeling a little drunk, Zoe realized, a little lig
ht-headed and punchy now that she was back. "I just drove here, didn't even consider going home first. Jesus, I hardly know how I got here. It's all one big blur. I needed to see you and Dana, tell you about it, make sure you were both all right."
"We weren't the ones off in the woods alone, fighting monsters."
"Hmm." Zoe tried to ignore the sting of antiseptic.
She'd driven back to the Valley in a fog that had kept her numb. She hadn't started to shake until she'd walked through the doors of Indulgence.
She'd had to shower. She'd needed hot water, soap. Clean. The need for it had been so urgent that she'd asked her friends to come up to the bathroom with her so she could explain while she washed.
Now, wearing only her underwear, perched on a stool in the bathroom with Malory tending her hurts and Dana off to get her some clean clothes from home, it all felt like a dream.
"He couldn't even come after me like a man. Fucking coward. Guess I showed him."
"Guess you did." Overcome, Malory dropped her forehead to the crown of Zoe's head. "Oh, God, Zoe, you could've been killed."
"I thought I was going to be, and I have to tell you, it seriously pissed me off. I'm not trying to make light of it." She gripped Malory's hand. "It was awful. It was just awful—and, and primal . I wanted to kill. When I picked up that branch, I was ready to kill. I was hungry for it. I've never felt like that before."
"Here, let me get these cuts on your back. This one just missed your faerie."
"Good faerie today." She winced at the burn. "The buck, Mal. He saved me. If he hadn't charged that way, I don't know what might've happened. And he was bleeding, he was hurt. Hurt a lot more than I am. I wish I knew if he's okay."
She snorted out a laugh. "I was going to mop him up with a bunch of Kleenex. How dopey is that?"
"I bet he didn't think it was." Wanting to take inventory of her friend's hurts, Malory stepped back. "There. That's as good as it's going to get."
"My face isn't too bad, is it?" She got up cautiously, turned to the mirror over the sink. "No, it's okay. I guess I'm snapping back if I'm worried about my face."
"You look beautiful."
"Well, some lipstick and blush would help." She shifted her gaze, met Malory's in the mirror. "He didn't beat me."
"No, he sure as hell didn't."
"I got somewhere. I don't know exactly where, but I did something right today, took some step, and it's got him worried."
She turned around. "I'm not going to lose. Whatever it takes, I'm not going to lose."
In the high tower of Warrior's Peak, Rowena mixed a potion in a silver cup. However troubled her mind, her hands were quick and sure. "You'll need to drink all of this."
"I'd rather a whiskey."
"You'll have one after." She glanced over to where Pitte stood, scowling out the window. He was stripped to the waist, and the gouges on his side were red and raw in the light.
"Once you've taken the potion, I should be able to treat the wound, and draw the poison out. Even with this, you'll be tender for a few days."
"And so will he. More than tender, I'd say. More of his blood spilled than mine. She wouldn't run," he recounted. "She stayed and fought."
"And I thank all the fates for it." She stepped over, held out the cup. "Don't frown at it. Drink it, Pitte, all down, and you'll not only have whiskey, but I'll see that there's apple pie for dessert."
He had a weakness for apple pie, and for the look in his lover's eyes. So he took the cup, tossed back the contents. "Damnation, Rowena, can you make it any more foul?"
"Sit now." She opened her hand, held out a thick glass. "And drink your whiskey."
He drank, but he didn't sit. "The battle lines have changed again. Kane knows now we won't stand back and do nothing, bound by the laws he's already broken."
"He risks all now, too. He banks on the power he's gathered, what he's twisted and surrounds himself with. If the spell can be broken, Pitte, if he can be defeated, he won't go unpunished. I have to believe there is still justice in our world."
"We'll fight." She nodded. "We've made our choice, too. What will you do if this choice keeps us here? If this choice means we can never go home again?"
"Live." He stared out the window. "What else?"
"What else?" she replied, and laying her hand on his wound, she cooled the burn.
Chapter Eleven
He had to work at being calm, to strap himself down so he didn't march into Zoe's house and start spewing orders. That, Brad knew, was his father's way.
And it was damned effective.
Still, as much as he loved and admired his father, he didn't want to be his father.
All he really wanted at that moment was to assure himself that Zoe was all right. Then to make sure she stayed that way.
And there was Simon to think of, Brad reminded himself as he pulled up in front of Zoe's house. He couldn't go shoving his way in, spouting off about how reckless she'd been in running off on her own, putting herself in the crosshairs, with the boy around. He wasn't going to frighten a child while venting his own fears and frustrations.
He would just wait until Simon was in bed, then vent.
An instant before he knocked, barking exploded inside the house. One thing you could say for Moe, nobody snuck up on you when he was around. He could hear the boy's shouts, his laughter, then the door swung open.
"You should ask who it is first," Brad told him.
Simon rolled his eyes even as Moe leaped up to greet Brad. "I looked out the window and saw your car. I know all that stuff. I'm playing baseball, bottom of the seventh." He grabbed Brad's hand and pulled him toward the living room. "You can take over the other team. You're only two runs down."
"Sure, bring me in when I'm two down. Listen, I need to talk to your mom."
"She's up in her room, sewing something. Come on, I've only got a few minutes before she calls the game and sends me to the showers."
The kid was a gem, Brad reflected, with eyes that made you want to give him the world. "I really have to talk to your mother, so why don't we schedule a game for later in the week? Head to head, pal, and I will rock your world."
"As if." He might have thought about arguing, but gauged his ground. If Brad kept his mother talking, she might forget when his hour was up. "A whole nine innings? You promise?"
"Absolutely."
His smile went sly. "Can we play at your house, on the big TV?"
"I'll see what I can do."
With the crowd in the video bleachers cheering again, Brad started toward Zoe's room. He heard the music before he reached the doorway. She had it on low, and he could just catch her voice as she murmured more than sang along with Sarah McLachlan. Then the voices were drowned out by the hammering hum he recognized as a sewing machine.
She was working with a portable set up on a table in front of the side window. The framed photographs and painted chest he remembered she kept on it were moved to her dresser now to make room for the machine and what looked like miles of fabric.
It was an essentially female room—very Zoe-esque. Not fussy, not fancy, but very feminine in its little touches. Bowls filled with potpourri, pillows edged with lace, the old iron bed given a luster with pewter paint and a colorful quilt.
She'd framed old magazine ads for face powder, perfume, hair products, and fashion and had them grouped on the wall in a kind of quirky, nostalgic gallery.
She sewed, he noted, like someone who knew what she was doing, in a steady, competent rhythm while her foot— clad in a thick gray sock, tapped to the music that jingled out of the clock radio by the bed.
He waited until she'd stopped the machine and begun to rearrange the material.
"Zoe?"
"Hmm?" She shifted in the chair and gave him the blank look of a woman whose mind was considerably occupied. "Oh. Bradley, I didn't know you were here. I didn't hear you…" She glanced at the clock. "I was trying to get these slipcovers finished before it's time to get Simon ready for bed.
I guess I'm not going to make it."
"Slipcovers?" His train of thought took a detour. "You're making slipcovers?"
"People do." Irritation sizzled under the tone as she tugged the material. "I'm covering a sofa for the salon. I wanted something friendly and fun, and I think these big hydrangeas do the trick. Color works, too. And there's nothing wrong with homemade."
"That's not what I meant. I'm just amazed that I know somebody who would have a clue how to sew something like this."
Her back went up. She knew it was stupid, but it went up anyway. "I imagine most of the women you know have seamstresses, so they don't have to know one side of a sewing machine from another."
He walked over to lift a length of the fabric, and studied her speculatively. "If you're going to be determined to misinterpret everything I say, we're going to fight about something entirely different from what I came over to fight about."
"I don't have time to fight with you about anything. I need to get this done while I have the chance."
"You'll have to make time. I've got—" He broke off, scowled over at the clock radio as the alarm went off.
"I can't make what I don't have," she shot back and rose to turn off the alarm. "That's set so I know when it's time to get Simon up here for his bath. That process takes the best part of half an hour, if he cooperates. And it's Monday, and we read together for half an hour before bed on Mondays. After that, I've got at least another hour of sewing, then—"
"I get the picture." Just, he thought as he put his hands in his pockets, as he knew when a woman was determined to brush him off. "I'll handle Simon's bath and the reading."
"You'll… what?"
"I can't sew, but I know how to bathe and how to read."
She was so baffled she couldn't make her way around the words and into a sentence. "But it's not—you're not…" She paused, did her best to pull her thoughts together. "You didn't come over here to take care of Simon."
"No, I came over to yell at you—which you already know, which is why you're annoyed. But I can yell later. I imagine Simon's got the bath-and-bed routine down. We'll do fine. Finish your slipcovers," he said as he started out of the room. "We'll fight when we're both done."