Key Trilogy (25 page)

“She expected you to stay.”

He remembered what he’d said about expectations. “Yeah. Do my duty. I was pissed off at her for a year, then irritated for another. Somewhere in year three I hit resigned. I don’t know exactly when that became . . . I guess you could say contentment. But around the time I bumped into contentment, I bought the house. Then I got Moe.”

“I’d say you’re off your mother’s plan and on your own.”

He let out a half laugh. “Son of a bitch. I guess I am.”

T
HERE
was very little that Dana dragged herself out of bed for. Work, of course, was the primary incentive. But when she had the morning off, her main choice for entertainment was sleep.

Giving that up at Flynn’s request demonstrated, in her opinion, extreme sisterly affection. And should earn her major points, to be redeemed in any future necessity.

She knocked on Malory’s door at seven-thirty, wearing a Groucho Marx T-shirt, ripped jeans, and a pair of Oakleys.

Because he knew his sister, Flynn opened the door and shoved a steaming cup of coffee into her hands.

“You’re a peach. You’re a jewel. You are my personal treasure chest.”

“Stuff it.” She strode in, sat on the couch, and began to inhale the coffee. “Where’s Mal?”

“Still sleeping.”

“Got bagels?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t look. I should’ve looked,” he
said instantly. “I’m a selfish bastard, thinking only of myself.”

“Excuse me, but I’d have liked to say that.”

“Just saving you the time and energy. I’ve got to go. I need to be at the paper in . . . shit, twenty-six minutes,” he said when he looked at his watch.

“Just tell me why I’m in Malory’s apartment, drinking coffee and hoping there are bagels, when she’s asleep.”

“I don’t have time to get into it. She had a rough one, and I don’t want her to be alone. At all, Dana.”

“Jesus, Flynn, what? Did somebody beat her up?”

“You could say that. Emotionally speaking. And it wasn’t me,” he added as he headed for the door. “Just stick with her, will you? I’ll shake loose as soon as I can, but I’ve got a full slate today. Let her sleep, then, I don’t know, keep her busy. I’ll call.”

He was out the patio door and loping away while Dana scowled after him. “For a reporter, you’re sure stingy with the deets.” Deciding to make the best of it, she got up to raid Malory’s kitchen.

She was taking the first enthusiastic bite of a poppy-seed bagel when Malory came in.

Heavy-eyed, Dana noted. A little pale. Considerably rumpled. She imagined the rumpled part was on Flynn. “Hi. Want the other half?”

Obviously groggy, Malory just blinked. “Hi, yourself. Where’s Flynn?”

“He had to run. Go stand for journalism and all that. Want some coffee instead?”

“Yes.” She rubbed her eyes and tried to think. “What’re you doing here, Dana?”

“Don’t have a clue. Flynn called me, at the ungodly hour of about forty minutes ago, and asked me to come over. He was short on details but long on pleading, so I hauled my ass over here. What’s up?”

“I guess he’s worried about me.” She considered it,
then decided she didn’t mind very much. “That’s sort of sweet.”

“Yeah, he’s sugar. Why is he worried about you?”

“I think we’d better sit down.”

She told Dana everything.

“What did he look like?” Dana demanded.

“Well . . . strong face, leaning toward the ascetic side. Wait a minute—I think I can sketch it.”

She got up to take a pad and pencil from a drawer, then sat down again. “He had very well-defined features, so it won’t be too hard. But more than how he looked was the way he felt. Compelling. Even charismatic.”

“What about the house you were in?” Dana pressed while Malory worked.

“I just got impressions. It seemed so familiar in the dream, the way your home does. So you don’t notice a lot of details. Two-story with a lawn in the back, a pretty garden. Sunny kitchen.”

“It wasn’t Flynn’s house?”

Malory looked up then. “No,” she said slowly. “No, it wasn’t. I didn’t think of that. Wouldn’t you assume it would be? If it’s my fantasy, why weren’t we living in his house? It’s a great house, it’s already in my head.”

“Maybe he couldn’t use Flynn’s house because it’s already occupied, and . . . I don’t know. It’s probably not important.”

“I think everything’s important. Everything I saw and felt and heard. I just don’t know how yet. Here . . .” She turned the pad around. “It’s rough, but that’s the best I can do. It’s a pretty decent impression of him anyway.”

“Wow!” Dana pursed her lips, whistled. “So Kane the sorcerer’s a hottie.”

“He scares me, Dana.”

“He couldn’t hurt you, not really. Not when it came right down to it.”

“Not this time. But he was in my head. It was like an invasion.” She pressed her lips together. “A kind of rape.
He knows what I feel, and what I wish for.”

“I’ll tell you what he didn’t know. He didn’t know you’d tell him to kiss your ass.”

Malory sat back. “You’re right. He didn’t know I’d refuse, or that I’d understand—even in the dream—that he wanted me trapped somewhere, however wonderful, where I couldn’t find the key. Both of those things surprised and irritated him. And that means he doesn’t know everything.”

WITH
considerable reluctance, Dana tagged along when Malory decided to work at Flynn’s house. It made sense, as the two paintings were there. But so was Jordan Hawke.

Her hopes that he would be out somewhere were quashed when she saw the vintage Thunderbird in Flynn’s driveway.

“Always had a thing about cars,” she muttered, and though she sniffed at the T-Bird, she secretly admired its lines, the sweep of tail fins and the sparkle of chrome.

She’d have paid money to get behind the wheel and open that engine up on a straightaway.

“Don’t know why the jerk has to have a car when he lives in Manhattan.”

Malory recognized the tone, both the sulkiness and the bitterness, and paused at the door. “Is this going to be a problem for you? Maybe we can make arrangements to see the paintings again when Jordan’s not here.”

“No problem for me. He doesn’t exist in my reality. I long ago drowned him in a vat of ebola. It was a messy, yet oddly satisfying, task.”

“Okay, then.” Malory lifted a hand to knock, but Dana nudged her aside.

“I do
not
knock on my brother’s door.” She shot her key into the lock. “No matter what morons he might have staying with him.”

She strode in, prepared for a confrontation. Unwilling to be so easily deflated when she didn’t see him, she slammed the door.

“Dana.”

“Oops. Slipped.” Hooking her thumbs in her pockets, she strolled into the living room. “Just where we left them,” she said with a nod at the paintings. “And you know what, I don’t see anything different about them either. Job’s done for today. Let’s go shopping or something.”

“I want to do a more thorough study of them, and I want to go through all the research notes. But there’s no reason for you to hang around.”

“I promised Flynn.”

“Flynn’s a worrywart.”

“Well, yeah, but I promised.” Sensing movement in the doorway behind her, she stiffened. “And unlike some, I keep my promises.”

“And hold a grudge with equal fervor,” Jordan commented. “Hello, ladies. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to go over the paintings and my notes again,” Malory told him. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Who’s he to mind? It’s not his house.”

“True enough.” Jordan, tall and tough in black jeans and black T-shirt, leaned against the doorjamb. “Help yourself.”

“Haven’t you got something better to do than lurk?” Dana tossed out. “A book to pretend to write, a publisher to skin.”

“You know us commercial fiction hacks. We just knock ’em out in a couple weeks, then lounge around on our royalties.”

“I don’t mind if the two of you want to fight, really, I don’t.” Malory dumped her briefcase, fat with notes, on the crate. “But maybe you could take it to another room.”

“We’re not fighting.” Jordan replied. “This is foreplay.”

“In your dreams.”

“Stretch, in my dreams you’re usually wearing a lot less. Let me know if I can help you out with anything, Malory.” He straightened, then strolled away.

“Be right back.” Dana was after him like a rocket. “In the kitchen, hotshot.” She streamed by, then gritted her teeth while she waited for him to catch up.

He moved at his own pace, she thought, and always had. Her temper sparked as he wandered in. She was readying the first salvo when he stepped right up, gripped her hips, and covered her shocked mouth with his.

The blast of heat blew straight through her.

That had always been, as well.

Fire and flash and promise all balled together in some sort of molten comet that exploded in the brain and left the system wrecked.

Not this time, not this time. Not ever again.

With considerable force she shoved him back a step. She wouldn’t slap. Too predictable and female. But she very nearly punched.

“Sorry. I thought that was what you called me out here for.”

“Try that again, and you’ll be bleeding from various fatal wounds.”

He shrugged, sauntered over to the coffeepot. “My mistake.”

“Damn right. Any rights you had to touch me expired a long time ago. You may be part of this thing because you happened to buy that damn painting, and I’ll tolerate you because of that. And because you’re Flynn’s friend. But as long as you’re here, you’ll abide by the rules.”

He poured two mugs of coffee, set hers on the counter. “Spell them out for me.”

“You don’t ever touch me. If I’m about to step in front of a damn bus, you don’t so much as reach out to pull me back to the curb.”

“Okay. You’d rather be run over by a bus than have me touch you. Check. Next?”

“You’re a son of a bitch.”

Something that might have been regret flashed across his face. “I know it. Look, let’s step back a minute. Flynn’s important to both of us, and this is important to Flynn. That woman out there’s important to him, and she’s important to you. We’re all connected here, whether we want to be or not. So let’s try to figure it out. He was in and out of here in about three minutes flat this morning. I didn’t get much more out of him then, or when he called last night, than that Malory’s in trouble. Fill me in.”

“If Malory wants you to know, she’ll tell you.”

Hand her an olive branch, he thought, and she rams it down your throat. “Still a hard-ass.”

“It’s private stuff,” she snapped. “Intimate stuff. She doesn’t know you.” Despite a thousand vows, she felt her eyes fill. “Neither do I.”

That single tearful look punched a hole in his heart. “Dana.”

When he stepped toward her, she snatched a bread knife off the counter. “Put your hands on me again, I’ll hack them off at the wrist.”

He stayed where he was, slid his hands into his pockets. “Why don’t you just stick it in my heart and get it over with?”

“Just stay away from me. Flynn doesn’t want Malory left alone. You can consider this your shift, because I’m leaving.”

“If I’m going to be guard dog, it would help to know what I’m guarding against.”

“Big, bad sorcerers.” She yanked open the back door. “Anything happens to her, I’ll not only jam that knife in your heart, I’ll cut it out and feed it to the dog.”

“Always were good with imagery,” he drawled after she’d slammed out.

He rubbed a hand over his stomach. She’d tied it in
knots—something else she was damn good at. He looked at the coffee she hadn’t touched. Though he knew it was foolishly symbolic, he picked up the cup and poured the coffee down the sink.

“Down the drain, Stretch. Just like us.”

MALORY
studied the paintings until her vision blurred. She made more notes, then stretched out on the floor to stare at the ceiling. She jumbled what she knew in her head, hoping it would form a new, clearer pattern.

A singing goddess, shadows and light, what was within herself and outside herself. To look and see what she hadn’t seen. Love forged the key.

Hell.

Three paintings, three keys. Did that mean there was a clue, a sign, a direction in each painting for each key? Or was there a compilation in the three paintings for the first key? For hers?

Either way, she was missing it.

There were common elements in each portrait. The legendary subject matter, of course. The use of forest and shadows. The figure cloaked by them.

That would be Kane.

Why was Kane in the portrait of Arthur? Had he actually been there at the event, or was his inclusion, and Rowena’s and Pitte’s, symbolic?

But still, even with those common elements, the Arthurian portrait didn’t seem part of what she was certain was a set. Was there another painting, to complete the triad, of the Daughters of Glass?

Where would she find it, and what would it tell her when she did?

She rolled over, examined the portrait of young Arthur once more. The white dove at the right top. A symbol for Guinevere? The beginning of the end of that shining moment?

Betrayal by love. The consequences of love.

Wasn’t she dealing with consequences of love now, within herself? The soul was as much a symbol of love and beauty as the heart was. Emotions, poetry, art, music. Magic. Soulful elements.

Without a soul, there were no consequences, and no beauty.

If the goddess could sing, didn’t that mean she still had her soul?

The key might be in a place where there was art, or love. Beauty or music. Or where the choice to keep them or discard them was made.