by Nora Roberts
“I don’t understand.”
“The mirror in the attic at Indulgence. Kyna was in it. We looked at each other, then I stepped through, and I was there, in the garden of the painting. I was part of her.”
Rowena clamped a hand over Zoe’s wrist. “Tell me all. Exactly as it was.”
As she did, Rowena’s gaze never left her face. The fingers dug into her flesh until she could feel the blood gathering to bruise.
When she was done, Zoe felt those fingers tremble once before they dropped away. “A moment,” Rowena said in a thick voice, and rose to stand facing the fire.
“A ghra.” Pitte crossed to her, lowered his cheek to the top of her head.
“Is it bad?” Shaken, Zoe reached out, searching for Brad’s hand.
“I feared the worst for my world. That Kane would defy all law and go unchecked. That he would spill the blood of mortals and not be punished. Oh.” Rowena turned, pressed her face to Pitte’s chest. “My heart was dark and full of fear.”
“A battle rages, there can be no doubt. And I am trapped here.” Frustration scraped through Pitte’s words.
“Here is where you’re needed.” Rowena stepped back from them. Her cheeks were damp with tears. “This battle must be won as well.”
She moved to Zoe again. “There is new hope.”
Opening her purse, Zoe pulled out a tissue, offered it. “I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t see this, nor did Kane. Didn’t anticipate it, nor did he. If she was able to show you, to let you touch what she is, he was able to reach her.”
“Who?”
“The king. It is not only Kane who can use war to his own ends. If we can win on this ground, the king will win on his. You’ve been given a gift, Zoe. For a few moments you were a goddess, the daughter of a king.” Her face glowed. “You weren’t only shown what they are, what they lost, you touched it. Kane can never break that bond.”
“She tried to fight, but she couldn’t. She drew her sword,” Zoe said, and could feel—even now—the way it had all but flown out of its sheath. “But he struck her down before she could use it.”
“The battle’s not done.” Gently now, Rowena touched her hand. “In your world or in mine.”
“She knew him. She understood—when it happened, she understood, and she looked him in the face.”
“She touched you, lived in you for those same few moments, knew, I think, what you knew. That was your gift to her.”
“I’m not going to leave her there. I hope she knows that.”
BRAD hung back as they started to leave, and turned to Pitte while Rowena walked Zoe to the door. “If he hurts her I’ll come for you, whatever form you take.”
“I would do the same, were our situations reversed.”
Brad glanced toward Zoe, kept his voice low. “Tell me what to do to make him come after me.”
“He will, because you’re linked. All of you are linked. Make her love you, and it will be the sooner.”
Chapter Thirteen
SLEEP, Zoe decided, wasn’t going to be a priority for a while. The way she had things planned, it wasn’t even going to make the top five. She had a son to raise and she didn’t feel as if she’d been giving him the time or attention he deserved. She had a business to get organized, and that was going to eat up considerably more time.
She was having her first serious adult relationship with a man, and she hadn’t had the time to figure out how she’d gotten into it, much less how to enjoy it.
She had a quest, and if she didn’t cross the finish line in under two weeks, all was lost. What was trapped inside a glass box had for a miraculous moment lived inside her. She was prepared to sweat blood to save it.
So sleep would just have to wait until she could work it into her schedule.
She spent a day at Indulgence interviewing her prospective employees, working out potential hours and a pay scale. She spent the evening with Simon, helping him design a birdhouse for a school project, giving his hair a trim, and just enjoying his company.
Most of the night was split between paperwork and household chores she’d let slide for too long.
She crunched numbers, she juggled them. She stretched them, and she compressed them, but the results were the same. The start-up costs had devoured her capital at a staggering rate. A great deal of that had to do with her own determination to start up with style, she admitted. But she’d be damned if she would allow anything to dull this dream.
So, she would be running close to the bone, she acknowledged as she studied the spreadsheet she’d created on the computer. She had run close to it before. If they managed to have their opening the day after Thanksgiving, and if they actually had paying customers, they would quickly start to offset the outlay. In dribbles, but a dribble could become a trickle and a trickle a flood.
Those weeks before Christmas were the prime cut in retail, and just what Indulgence needed to get it off the ground.
If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was how to stretch a dollar. She’d make it. She would need to eke out another two years on her car without any major repair bills, please God.
She could nip at corners a little here, a little there, without it affecting Simon. Six months, maybe a year, and Indulgence was going to make such a big difference in their lives. It would give them the stability she so desperately wanted for her son. And it would give her the pride and respect she so desperately wanted for herself.
It was where she’d been heading since she’d walked out of that trailer at sixteen. A major intersection among the many in her life. One more direction. Considering, she sat back. What about the others?
If Indulgence was one of her crossroads, so was the house she lived in, the house she’d saved for and was paying for every month with her hard-earned money. It seemed to Zoe that if both a trip back to her roots and an exploration of the attic at Indulgence could churn up power and forces, then scrubbing her own kitchen floor might do the same thing.
She tidied her papers, shut off the laptop, and got out her scrub bucket.
She’d picked this house first because she could afford it. Barely. And she’d known, just as she’d known when she stepped into the house that had become Indulgence, that this was her place. The home she would make for Simon.
It hadn’t been much to look at then, she recalled as she soaped the floor on her hands and knees. Dirt-brown paint and a weedy yard hadn’t added up to much of a presentation. Inside, the carpets were worn and the plumbing questionable, the kitchen linoleum a disgrace and the walls pocked with nail holes.
But the size had been perfect and the price right.
She’d scraped, she’d painted, she’d dug, she’d planted. She’d scavenged from yard sales and flea markets, and even the town dump.
She hadn’t slept much back then, either, she recalled as she sat back on her heels. But it had been worth every hour. She’d learned a lot about herself and what she could do.
Smiling, she ran a finger over the shining square of vinyl. She’d laid that floor with her own hands. She’d watched for sales and had hunted up the clean white pattern at HomeMakers.
She’d bought the exterior and interior paint at HomeMakers, too, she realized. And some of the plumbing supplies, as well as the light fixture in the upstairs bath.
In fact, there wasn’t a room in the house that didn’t owe something to HomeMakers. That had to mean something.
It had to mean Bradley.
He was everywhere she looked, Zoe mused. And even when she wasn’t thinking of him, he was in there, circling around in her mind. Being involved with him was thrilling, and just a little frightening. But being in love with him . . . that was just impossible.
More, it was dangerous for him. She hadn’t missed what Pitte had said. The more she cared about Bradley, the more he could be hurt. She didn’t question that he was part of the quest, that he would be a part of her life somehow. But she wouldn’t let her own fantasies about what could be, if only things were jus
t a little different, put him in Kane’s path.
It was enough to have a man like him care about her, and care so much for her son. She wouldn’t be greedy and ask for more.
With the floor done, she glanced at the clock on the stove. It was nearly three-thirty in the morning. She had a spotless kitchen, a balanced checkbook, a menu design, and a price list. But if she’d taken another step toward the key, she didn’t know it.
She decided to get a little sleep and start fresh in the morning.
BRADLEY sat by the red glow of the campfire and drank lukewarm beer. The temperature didn’t matter. When you were sixteen it was all about the beer. His father would skin him if he found out—and he nearly always found out. But nothing could spoil the freedom of a hot summer night.
He didn’t intend to sleep. He was going to smoke another cigarette, drink the rest of his beer, and just be.
It had been Jordan’s idea to camp up here in the hills, close to the shadows of Warrior’s Peak. The spooky old place had always pulled at his friend, so he was forever making up stories about it and the people who might have lived or died there.
And Brad had to admit that the house was fascinating to look at. Interesting to think about. When you did, you had to wonder who the hell would build such a big-ass monster on a mountaintop in Pennsylvania. It was kind of creepy, but cool.
Still, he would leave the Peak to Jordan. He much preferred the rambling wooden house by the river. Even when he thought about moving to New York after college, or traveling around, he couldn’t really imagine living anywhere but the River House.
Not for keeps.
But college, New York, and for keeps were all a lifetime away. A million summers away. Right now, he liked being exactly where he was, a little buzzed on beer by a campfire in the woods.
Being so high in the hills only added to the adventure of driving up there with Jordan and Flynn, climbing over the high stone wall like a gang breaking into prison instead of out.
He had to work on Monday. Good old B. C. didn’t tolerate malingerers. Vanes pulled their weight, even during summer vacation, and that was okay. But he had the whole weekend to hang out with his friends. To tromp around in the woods, in the wild grass, to know there was no one to tell them not to.
He understood all about responsibility—to family, to the business, to the Vane name. One of these days he would make his own mark—like his grandfather, like his father had. But sometimes a guy just had to get away from all that and have a beer, a couple of burnt hot dogs, and a night around a campfire with good friends.
He didn’t know where the hell they’d gone off to, but he was too lazy to find out. He sipped the beer, ignoring the little voice in his head that said he didn’t actually like the sharp, yeasty taste all that much. He smoked a cigarette and watched the fireflies put on their nightly light show.
The hoot of an owl was just creepy enough to give him a thrill, and the steady hum of insects added a nice backdrop to his thoughts about how soon he might talk Patsy Hourback into the backseat of his car. So far she was being very strict about limiting their activities to tonsil-diving kisses and the occasional tantalizing handful of breast—on top of her shirt.
He really wanted to get that shirt off Patsy Hourback.
The trouble was, she wanted him to say he loved her first, and that was just way too intense. He liked her, a lot, and he had a serious case of lust going for her, but love? Jesus.
That was scary, long-time-in-the-future stuff. He didn’t love Patsy, and didn’t see his feelings going in that direction. When he took that fall it would be . . . later—that was for sure. It would be a hell of a lot later, and with someone he couldn’t quite see yet. Someone he didn’t even want to see yet.
He had a lot of things to do first, a lot of places to go.
But meanwhile, his just-in-case condom was burning a hole in his wallet, and he really wanted a shot at Patsy Hourback.
He finished the beer and contemplated having the second of his share of the six-pack. But it wasn’t much fun drinking it by himself.
The rustle in the brush made him grin. “That must’ve been the longest piss in history, especially when you’ve got that little dick to work with.”
He waited for the rude comment or insult, then frowned when the woods settled into silence again. “Come on, guys, I heard you out there. You don’t come back, I’m going to drink the rest of the beer myself.”
The answer was another rustle, from the opposite direction. He felt a chill creep up his spine, but defended his manhood by reaching for the second beer. “Yeah, that’s going to scare me. Jesus, it must be Jason in his hockey mask! Help, help. You two are so lame.”
He snorted, popped the top on the beer, and took a long swallow for form.
The growl came out of the dark, and was wet and hungry.
“Cut it out, Hawke, you asshole.” But the order squeezed out, thin and jumpy, from a throat that had snapped shut. His hand inched along the ground in search of one of the sharpened sticks they’d used to roast the dogs.
The scream ripped through the silence, horrible and packed with fear and pain. Brad shot to his feet, the stick clutched in his hand like a sword. He whirled in a circle, fear gnawing at his belly as he searched the shadows.
For a long, long moment, there was no sound but his own raging heart.
When the scream came again, it was his name.
Fireflies flashed in mad flicks of light as Brad sprinted toward the sound. It had been Flynn’s voice, a desperate high-wire sound of terror, of agony, that couldn’t have been faked. There was another call, equally urgent. This one from Jordan, from behind him, and it seemed to shatter the night.
Torn, panicked, he spun back. A thrashing sounded in the dark, rushed toward him with a force that couldn’t have been human. Suddenly the night was full of sound. The wind roared through the trees, limbs crashed to the forest floor around him. And cries came from every direction at once. As he ran, the summer heat turned to bitter, biting cold and a mist spilled over the ground, rising like a river until it was nearly to his knees.
Fear was wild in his belly—for his friends, for himself.
He burst out of the trees into the high grass that spread beneath the spears and towers of Warrior’s Peak.
The moon, fat and full, rode overhead. In its light he saw his friends, sprawled in that high grass. Torn to pieces. Mindless prayers ripped from his throat as he raced forward.
He slipped on blood, and worse, went down on his hands and knees in a gruesome skid near Flynn’s body. His stomach heaved as he clutched at his friend and his hands came away wet and warm.
The blood dripped from Brad’s fingers in the clear light of that perfect white moon.
“No.” He said it softly, in a voice that shook. Closing his eyes, he gathered himself, dug as deep as he could. “No.” His voice strengthened as he opened his eyes and forced himself to look again. “This is bullshit.”
While Brad stared, fighting grief and fear, Flynn turned his head on his torn neck and grinned. “Hey, asshole. Guess what? You’re next.”
Though his heart scrambled inside his chest, Brad pushed to his feet and repeated. “Bullshit.”
“It’s really gonna hurt.” Still grinning, Flynn rose. There was a chuckle, hideously juicy, as what had been Jordan did the same. They started toward him in lurching steps.
“We’re all meat,” Jordan said, and winked at Brad with the single eye that remained in its socket. “Nothing but meat.”
He could smell them, smell the death, as they closed in. “You’re going to have to do better, Kane. A hell of a lot better, because this is bullshit.”
It did hurt, a shocking, stunning pain that radiated from his chest to every cell of his body. Brad bore down on it, used it, and forced his lips into a smile as he stared at the horror-movie images of his friends.
“You guys are seriously messed up.” He managed what passed for a laugh, fought not to pass out.
; And woke shuddering with cold in his own bed.
Rubbing a hand on his throbbing chest, he sat up, took a deep gulp of air. “Well, it’s about fucking time.”
“SO, we really looked gross?”
Flynn offered Brad a sunny smile. They sat with Jordan at Brad’s kitchen table. He’d waited until morning to call, though it had been a very long two hours alone with the images of his experience chasing through his head.
He’d told them nothing but that he needed them to come. And, of course, they had.
Now, in the bright light, with the scent of coffee and toasted bagels, the entire experience seemed overblown and sloppy. Too many nightmares piled into one, in Brad’s opinion, for it to hold solid.
“Let’s see, most of your throat was gone, and a good part of your chest was missing. And you,” he said to Jordan, “your left eye was dangling pretty effectively out of its socket, and some of your face was torn away.”
“Could only be an improvement,” Flynn commented.
“I think I slipped on some of your brains,” Brad told him. “Not that you’ll miss them.”
“Flynn slips on his own brains half the time,” Jordan shot back. He studied Brad over the rim of his mug. “You hurt?”
“Chest throbbed like a bitch for about an hour, and I came back with the mother of all headaches, but that’s about it.”
“So the question hangs, how did you get back?”
“First, I had more time to prepare, knowing what happened to each of you. More time to figure out what might be coming and what to do about it. I had this little thing going in my head, what you could call a key word that I had planted there to snap me out. It worked.”
Flynn bit into bagel. “And the word is?”
“ ‘Bullshit.’ It’s crude,” he continued as Flynn sprayed crumbs. “And it’s human and to the point. And the other thing is, well, he was sloppy. I can’t say it wasn’t effective, especially at first. I felt sixteen. Hell, I was sitting by the campfire, drinking warm beer and thinking about Patsy Hourback’s body.”