Key of Knowledge

by Nora Roberts

  “I certainly didn’t use sex just so I could . . .” She broke off, heaved out a breath. He was grinning at her, and she could hardly blame him. “Hand over the Fritos.”

  Instead, he walked to the bed, sat back against the pillow. “Come and get them.” He reached into the bag, took out a handful, and began to munch.

  “Anyway, it was the screen saver. It was making me cross-eyed.” Casually, she thought, she sat back down on the bed and tugged the bag of chips out of his hand.

  “I hate that bastard.” He crunched into the apple, handed her the soda. “So, you want to know what happens next?”

  “I was mildly interested.” She popped the top of the Coke, took a long sip. She ate some Fritos, traded them for the apple, traded them back. And, she thought in disgust, he wasn’t going to crack.

  “Okay, who is he? What’s after him? How did he get there?”

  He took the Coke. Was there anything more satisfying than having someone who shared your love of books being so interested in one of yours? he wondered.

  If you added the fact that your literary partner was a very sexy, very naked woman, it was just gravy.

  “It’s a long story. Let’s just say he’s a man who’s made mistakes, and he’s looking for a way to fix them. Along the way he finds out there aren’t any easy answers, that redemption—the real thing—carries a price. That love, the kind that matters, makes the price worth paying.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Betrayed a woman, killed a man.” He ate more chips, listened to the rain drum and patter—outside the window, and in the forest in his mind. “He thought he had reasons for both. Maybe he did. But were they the right reasons?”

  “You’re writing it, you ought to know.”

  “No, he has to know. That’s part of the price of redemption. The not-knowing haunts him, hunts him as much as what’s with him in the woods.”

  “What is with him in the woods?”

  He chuckled. “Read the book.”

  She bit into the apple again. “That’s a very underhanded method of making a sale.”

  “A guy’s gotta make a living. Even if it is with ‘mundane and predictable commercial fiction.’ One of your pithy reviews of my work.”

  She felt a twang of guilt, but shrugged it off. “I’m a librarian. Former librarian,” she corrected. “And I’m about to become a bookstore owner. I value all books.”

  “Some more than others.”

  “That would be a matter of personal taste rather than a professional outlook.” Now she wanted to squirm. “Certainly your commercial success indicates you write books that satisfy the masses.”

  He shook his head and abruptly craved a cigarette. “Nobody damns with faint praise better than you, Dana.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” She was, she realized, digging a hole for herself. But she could hardly confess to being a fan of his work when she was sitting in his bed naked and eating corn chips. It was a sure way to make both of them feel ridiculous.

  And would make any honest praise seem like pandering.

  “You’re doing what you always wanted to do, Jordan, and successfully. You should be proud of yourself.”

  “No argument there.” He polished off the Coke, set the can aside. Wrapped his fingers around her ankle. “Still hungry?”

  Relieved that the topic had been tabled, she rolled up the bag of chips, tossed it on the floor beside the bed. “As a matter of fact,” she began, then jumped him.

  IT shouldn’t bother him so much, and it irritated the hell out of him that it did. He didn’t expect everyone to like his work. He’d long ago stopped being bruised or deflated by a poor review or a disgruntled comment from a reader.

  He wasn’t some high-strung, temperamental artist who fell into funks at the slightest criticism.

  But damn it, Dana’s dismissal of his work dug holes in him.

  It was worse now, Jordan thought as he gazed out the bedroom window and brooded. Worse that she’d been kind about it. It had been easier to take her scathing and unsolicited opinions of his talent, her snotty, elitist dismissal of his field than her gentle and kindly meant pat on the head.

  He wrote thrillers, often with a whiff of something other, and she dismissed them as hackneyed commercialism that appealed to the lowest common denominator.

  He could handle that, if she was an elitist book snob, but she was far from it. She simply loved books. Her apartment was crammed with them and there was plenty of genre fiction on her shelves.

  Though he’d noted there was nothing on them by Jordan Hawke.

  And, yeah, he thought, it stung more than a little.

  He’d been ridiculously pleased to come back into the bedroom and see her bent over his laptop, to see what he’d believed had been avid interest in the story he was building.

  Curiosity, as she’d said. Nothing more.

  Best to put that one away, he told himself. Lock it away in a box before it dug in too deep and started to fester.

  They were lovers again, and thank God for it. They were, he hoped, halfway to being friends again as well. He didn’t want to lose her, lover and friend, because he couldn’t get past her disinterest or disapproval of his work.

  She didn’t know what it meant to him to be a writer. How could she? Oh, she knew it was what he’d wanted and hoped for. But she didn’t know why it was so vital to him. He’d never shared that with her.

  There was a great deal that he hadn’t shared with her, he admitted.

  His work, yes. He’d often asked her to read something he’d done, and naturally had been pleased and satisfied when she’d praised it—intrigued and interested when she’d discussed the story and offered her opinions.

  The fact was, on a purely practical level, hers was one of the opinions he valued most.

  But he’d never told her how much he’d needed to make something of himself. As a man, as a writer. For himself, certainly. And for his mother. It was, for Jordan, the only way he knew to pay his mother back for all she’d done for him, all she’d given up for him, all she’d worked for.

  But he’d never shared that with Dana, or anyone else. Never shared with anyone that private grief, the drowning guilt or the desperate need.

  So, he would put it away again and concentrate on rebuilding what he could and starting fresh with what he couldn’t rebuild.

  His current hero wasn’t the only one looking for redemption.

  DANA waited until she’d painted an entire wall in what was to be Zoe’s main salon area. She’d bitten her tongue half a dozen times that morning, had talked herself out of saying anything, then had taken the internal debate full circle again.

  In the end she convinced herself that it was an insult to friendship not to speak.

  “I slept with Jordan.” She blurted it out, kept her eyes trained on the wall she was painting, and waited for her friends to burst out with comments and questions.

  When five long seconds ran by in silence, she turned her head and caught the look passing between Malory and Zoe.

  “You knew? You already knew? You mean to tell me that arrogant, self-satisfied son of a bitch ran right to Flynn to brag that he’d banged me?”

  “No.” Malory barely swallowed a laugh. “At least not that I know of. And I’m sure if Jordan had said anything about it to Flynn, Flynn would’ve told me. Anyway, we didn’t know. We just . . .” She trailed off, then studied the ceiling.

  “We were wondering how long it would take before the two of you jumped each other,” Zoe put in. “Actually, we thought about starting a pool on it, but decided that would be a little crass. I’d’ve won,” she added. “I had today as spontaneous combustion day. Malory figured you’d hold out another week.”

  “Well.” Dana fisted her hands on her hips. “That’s a hell of a note.”

  “We didn’t actually bet.” Malory chimed back in. “And see what good friends we are, not even pointing out that you’re telling us, though Jordan telling Flynn would m
ake him an arrogant, self-satisfied son of a bitch.”

  “I’m rendered speechless.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” Zoe shook her head. “At least not until you tell us how it was. You want to use the scale of one to ten, or do a descriptive retrospective?”

  The laugh escaped before Dana could stop it. “I don’t know why I like the two of you.”

  “Sure you do. Come on,” Zoe urged. “Tell. You’re dying to.”

  “It was great, and not just because I was ready to spontaneously combust. I missed being with him. You think you forget what it’s like to feel so . . . connected to somebody. But you don’t. You really don’t. We were always good in bed. We’re even better now.”

  Zoe let out a long sigh. “Was it romantic or insane?”

  “Which time?”

  “Now you’re bragging.”

  With a laugh Dana started painting again. “Been a while since I had anything to brag about.”

  “How are you planning to handle it?” Malory asked her.

  “Handle what?”

  “Are you going to tell him you’re in love with him?”

  The question brought a little shadow creeping in on the edge of her bright mood. “What’s the point of it? He’d either back off or feel guilty about not backing off.”

  “If you’re honest with him—”

  “That was your way,” Dana interrupted. “It’s the way you needed to deal with what you felt for Flynn. It was right for you, Mal, and for him. But for me . . . well, I don’t have any expectations of Jordan this time around, and I’m willing to take responsibility for my own emotions and the consequences. What I’m not willing to do is put my big, gooshy heart in his hands and force him into making a choice. What we’ve got right now is good enough for me. For now. We’ll worry about tomorrow when it gets here.”

  “Um . . . I’m not going to disagree with you,” Zoe began. “Maybe you need to take some time, let things settle or evolve. But more, maybe you’re meant to. Maybe it’s part of the quest.”

  The roller jumped in Dana’s hand. “My sleeping with Jordan is part of the quest? Where the hell does that come in?”

  “I don’t mean the sex, specifically. Though sex is, let’s face it, powerful magic.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe the gods sang and the faeries wept.” Dana ran her roller over the wall again. “But I’m not buying that doing the wild thing with Jordan’s going to lead me to the key.”

  “I’m talking about the relationship, the connection, however you want to say it. What was between you, what is between you, what’s going to be.”

  Zoe paused as Dana lowered the roller, turned with a speculative look on her face. “Isn’t that following along with what Rowena said to you about the key?” she continued. “Couldn’t it be part of the whole thing?”

  Dana said nothing for a moment, then dredged her roller in paint. “Well, that’s another hell of a note. It’s got some logic to it, Zoe, but I don’t see how it helps. Somehow I don’t think I’m going to find the key to the Box of Souls tangled in the sheets the next time Jordan and I make love, but it’s an interesting angle, which should also be fun to explore.”

  “Maybe it’s more something, or some place, that meant something to you, or both of you, before. And now. And later.” Zoe threw up her hands. “I’m not making sense.”

  “Yeah, you are,” Dana corrected as a line formed between her brows. “I can’t think of anything right offhand, but I’m going to think harder. Maybe talk to Jordan about it. No way to deny he’s an integral part of this, so he might as well be useful.”

  “I’m just going to say one thing.” Malory squared her shoulders. “Love’s not a burden, not to anyone. And if he feels otherwise, he’s not worthy of you.”

  After a moment’s surprise, Dana set down her roller. She walked over, bent down and kissed Malory’s cheek. “You’re a sweetheart.”

  “I love you. I love both of you. And anyone who doesn’t love you back is a moron.”

  “Jeez, for that you get a hug, too.” Dana gave Malory a squeeze. “Whatever the hell happens, I’m glad I’ve got the two of you.”

  “This is so nice.” Zoe stepped over to swing an arm around each of them. “I’m really glad Dana had sex so we could have this moment.”

  On a bray of laughter, Dana gave them both a little nudge. “I’ll see what I can do tonight, and maybe we can have a real weep fest after settlement tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eleven

  JORDAN slept with his arm flung over Dana’s waist, his leg hooked over hers, as if he would hold her in place. Though she hadn’t been the one to leave, this time around he was far from sure she would let him stay.

  In her bed, or in her life.

  But he held on to her as he wandered in dreams. Through the moonstruck night in the high summer heat where everything smelled ripe and green and secret.

  The woods were locked in shadows, with the flicker of lightning bugs quick blinks of gold against the black. In dreams he knew, somehow knew, he was a man instead of the boy he’d been when he’d walked through the wild grass at the verge of those woods. His heart pounding with . . . fear? Anticipation? Knowledge? As he’d stared up at the great black house that rose regally toward the swimming moon.

  His friends weren’t close by, as they had been on that hot summer night of his memory. Flynn and Brad weren’t there, with their contraband beer and cigarettes, the camping gear, or the youthful courage and carelessness three teenage boys made together.

  He was alone, the warriors of the Peak guarding the gate behind him and the house empty of life and silent as a tomb.

  No, not empty, he thought. It was a mistake to think of houses, old houses, as being empty. They were filled with memories, with the faded echoes of voices. Drops of tears, drops of blood, the ring of laughter, the edge of tempers that had ebbed and flowed between the walls, into the walls, over the years.

  Wasn’t it, after all, a kind of life?

  And there were houses, he knew it, that breathed. They carried in their wood and stone, their brick and mortar a kind of ego that was nearly, very nearly, human.

  But there was something, something he needed to remember about this house, about this place. This night. Something he knew but couldn’t quite bring clear in his mind. It drifted in and out, like a half-remembered song, teasing and nagging at him.

  It was important, even vital, that he turned whatever was in his mind, like a camera lens, until the image came into sharp focus.

  In the dream he closed his eyes, breathed slow and deep as he tried to empty his mind so what needed to come would come.

  When he opened them, he saw her. She walked along the parapet under the white ball of moon. Alone as he was alone. Dreaming, perhaps, as he was dreaming.

  Her cloak billowed up, though there was no wind to lift it. It seemed to him the air held its breath, and all the sounds of the night—the rustles and peeps and hoots—fell like a crash into terrible silence.

  In his chest his heart began to pound. On the parapet, the woman began to turn. In a moment, he thought, in just a moment, they would see each other.

  Finally . . .

  The sun was a violent flash that shocked his brain, blinded him. He staggered a bit from the displacement of being shot from inky night to brilliant day.

  Birds sang with a kind of desperate joy in music that sounded of flutes and harps and pipes. And he heard the rushing sound that water makes when it falls from a great height, then thunders into itself.

  He struggled to orient himself. There were woods here, but not any he recognized. Leaves were verdant, shimmering green or soft and glowing blue, and limbs were heavy with fruit the color of rubies and topaz. The air had a ripe, plummy scent, as if it too could be plucked and tasted.

  He walked through the trees, on ground springy and richly brown, past a waterfall of wild blue where golden fish danced in the rippling pool at its base.

  Curious, he dipped his hand into it. He felt th
e wet, the fresh coolness. And as he let it pour from his cupped hand, he saw that the water falling from his palm wasn’t clear, but that same deep blue.

  It was, he thought, almost more than the senses could bear. The sheer beauty was too intense, too vivid for the mind to translate. And once seen, once experienced, how did anyone survive without it, in the pale, dim reality?

  Fascination had him reaching toward the water again when he caught sight of the deer drinking on the opposite side of the pool.

  The buck was enormous, its coat sleek and golden, its rack a shining silver. When it lifted its great head, it stared at Jordan with eyes as green and deep as the forest around them.

  Around its neck it wore a jeweled collar with the stones catching the streams of sunlight and tossing them back in colored prisms.

  He thought it spoke, though there was no movement, and no sound other than the words that formed in his head.

  Will you stand for them?

  “Who?”

  Go, and see.

  The deer turned, and walked, silver hooves silent on the ground, into the woods.

  This is no dream, Jordan thought. He straightened, started to circle the pond and follow the deer.

  But no, it hadn’t said come and see, but go. Trusting instinct, Jordan took the opposite path.

  He stepped out of the trees to a sea of flowers so saturated with color they shocked the senses. Scarlet, sapphire, amethyst, amber glinted in that streaming sun as if every petal were an individual facet cut perfectly from each gem. And in the center of that sea, like the most precious of blooms, were the Daughters of Glass, trapped in their crystal coffins.

  “No, I’m not dreaming.” He spoke aloud, to prove that he could, to hear the sound of his voice. To center himself before he walked across the sea of flowers to stare down at the faces he already knew.

  They seemed to be sleeping. Their beauty was undiminished, but it was cold. He saw that, the cold beauty that could never change but was forever trapped in one instant of time.

  He felt pity and outrage, and as he stared into the face so like Dana’s, a tearing grief he hadn’t experienced since his mother’s death.

  “This is hell,” he said aloud. “To be trapped between life and death, to be unable to take either.”

  “Yes. You have it precisely.” Kane stood on the other side of the glass coffin. Elegant in black robes with a jeweled crown atop his dark mane of hair, he smiled at Jordan. “You have a keenness of mind sadly lacking in much of your kind. Hell, as you call it, is merely the absence of all without an end.”

  “Hell should be earned.”

  “Ah. Philosophy.” His voice held a touch of amusement, and a canny calculation. “Occasionally, you will agree, hell is merely inherited. Their sire and his mortal bitch damned them.” He swept a hand toward the coffins. “I was merely an instrument, so to speak, who . . .” He lifted the hand, twisted his wrist. “Turned the key.”

  “For glory?”

  “For that. For power. For all of this.” He spread his arms wide, as if to encompass his world. “All of this, which can never, will never, be theirs. Soft hearts and mortal frailties have no place in the realm of gods.”

  “Yet gods love, hate, covet, scheme, war, laugh, weep. Mortal frailties?”

  Kane cocked his head. “You interest me. You would debate, knowing who and what I am? Knowing I brought you here, behind the Curtain of Power, where you are no more than an ant to be flicked off a crumb? I could kill you with a thought.”

  “Could you?” Deliberately, Jordan walked around the crystal coffin. He wouldn’t have even the reflection of Dana between them. “Why haven’t you? Maybe it’s because you prefer bullying and abusing women. It’s a different matter, isn’t it, when you face a man?”

  The blow knocked him back ten feet. He tasted blood in his mouth, and spat it out onto the crushed flowers before he got to his feet. There was more than power on Kane’s face, he noted. There was fury. And where there was anger, there was weakness.

  “Smoke and mirrors. But you haven’t got the guts to fight like a man. With