by Ann Lawrence
Fascinated, she watched as the photographer maneuvered Derek Townsend around until he stood just as she wanted. It was like watching a Great Dane being led about by a very small terrier. Six-foot-eight to five-foot-nothing.
The photographer posed him as he had been in the poster. Last, she slapped the sacred sword in his hand. Maggie itched to snatch it away and examine it. Was it the real thing? Was it made of finely tempered steel with a turquoise stone entwined in silver, or was it just a replica? The way the photographer used two hands to heft the blade told her it weighed quite a bit.
“Where’s your boot knife?” the photographer asked him.
Derek Townsend raked his hair back with one hand. “I can’t find it. I’ve looked everywhere.”
The photographer swore. “Probably stolen by some groupie at that convention in Denver.”
“It’s okay. I can scan it into the pictures,” the artist said.
Maggie walked away. She opened the sliding door in the wall of glass and stepped out onto the deck despite the chill in the air. She could not watch the photo shoot. She had thought she could, but he was too close to the real thing.
Derek Townsend’s house stood on a rise, isolated from his neighbors, surrounded by aspens and juniper trees and the rocky terrain.
Eyes on the distant peaks, Maggie mourned. How colorless and washed out the world now appeared. How frightening her future.
She had lain awake all night contemplating her options. She could go home to her parents. They loved her. No matter how insane she might sound to them, they would take her in. Without a good story to offer them in explanation of her disappearance, however, she would face months of psychiatric treatment. Her mother would see to it.
Another option was to go back to Ocean City. Maybe she’d tell Gwen some tale of following video game conventions, panting after the Tolemac warrior, and then suddenly coming to her senses.
Or she could say she’d had amnesia. After all, it worked in soap operas and horror novels. Eventually, when the furor died down, there would be another empty shop to rent, and she could settle into her old business of making jewelry. She supposed she could make jewelry anywhere. Even here in Colorado Springs. No. Derek Townsend was here. And Pike’s Peak would loom over her life and taunt her.
Last, she could try to get back into the game.
The door slid open behind her. Maggie inched along the deck until she stood at the corner, rubbing her arms with her hands to warm herself.
“What’s wrong?” Derek spoke close by her shoulder.
Maggie turned to face him.
He loomed over her. His leather jerkin, open to the waist, reminded her quite well that she had lost her mind. “I have something to give you,” she said, “and then I have to go.”
The chill wind rose and whipped his hair about his shoulders. He was the quintessential Tolemac warrior. Her heart ached. Head down, she stepped back into the house and went to her tote bag. She dug deep into the bottom and pulled out the boot knife.
The photographer was gone. The house was still. The scent of paint and leather filled her nostrils. Across the coffee table, its blade gleaming in the afternoon sun, lay the sword. The turquoise stone in the hilt echoed that of her pendant, which was still in Tolemac, under Kered’s bed.
Maggie skimmed her fingers along the blade before turning to the doors. He waited there, leaning back against the deck railing, as out of place in Colorado Springs in his medieval garb as she had been on Nilrem’s Hart Fell.
She extended her hand. “This is yours.”
He pushed off the railing and stood staring at her outstretched palm.
Maggie memorized his face. She wouldn’t see it again. He took a tentative step toward her, but did not move to take the knife. “Here,” she said, nearly shouting. “Take it.” She jerked the blade from its sheath and thrust it at him.
His hand closed over hers, imprisoning it about the hilt. A fierce and powerful surge of energy ran through her arm. Pain and flames licked up to her shoulder and coursed along her spine. Her hand felt fused to the metal and his flesh.
In agony, she fell against him, her hand engulfed in his, metal burning palm to palm.
The knife fell with a clang to the deck. Derek wrapped his arms about her and held her tightly against his chest. Her arm hung limply at her side; her whole body quivered against his. Heat ran from his hands and arms along her spine and back. The air sang with energy. The smell of ozone filled the air.
He lifted her chin with one hand, his breath warm on her face. His lips touched hers. Maggie’s mind rebelled. Gasping, hand cradled to her chest, she shoved herself away from him. “No, don’t,” she said, panting. She reeled away to grip the deck railing. She could not look at him. Her mind churned with the knowledge that when he’d touched his mouth to hers, the taste of him had been one she craved.
Kered’s taste.
He shook his head as if waking from a trance, then took a deep breath.
“No. Don’t speak,” she practically shrieked at him. “I know I’m crazy. Just let me go,” she begged when he moved in her direction.
“You’re not crazy. Now stand still.”
The imperious tone of his voice made her stop.
“Pick up the knife,” he ordered.
She shook her head and edged away from him.
“Pick it up.” He softened his tone and took another step in her direction. The wind had died. They seemed to be standing in a pool of heat. The bright sun gilded his hair. The sight of him, and the gentle tone of his voice, made her look at the knife where it lay on the deck. She knelt and studied it. It looked no different. He crouched next to her. He linked his fingers with hers and, hands joined, placed their fingers on the knife.
Her body sang with a pulse of sensation. She swayed and collapsed into his arms. He held her tightly against him, then lifted her and carried her into the sun-flooded studio. He placed her on the couch and knelt beside her. Her eyes watched him with wary fear. Gently, he combed her hair from her eyes. “You’re not crazy. And if you are, so am I.”
Derek watched Maggie close her eyes. Her tongue licked over her lips.
“If I tell you what’s going through my mind, you’ll call the police,” she whispered.
“Open your eyes, Maggie, and look at me.” She did as he asked. He shoved the Tolemac sword aside and picked up his glasses and put them on. “There’s no one here but you and me. I say we tell each other fantastic stories over tea. Later, if you feel the need, you can deny every word you said.”
An hour later, Derek Townsend sat across from Maggie, once again garbed in his jeans and a flannel shirt. He was numb. He took a final swallow of cold tea and carefully placed his mug on the coffee table. He cleared his throat. “I guess it’s my turn for telling tales.”
“I don’t suppose you can top mine,” she said.
She sat on his couch, feet tucked up under her, hair in a tidy braid over one shoulder. He wanted to undo the orderly plait and spread her hair over her shoulder and breast. “Actually, I think I can,” he said.
“I’m all ears.” Her tone had turned impish, but her eyes were wary. It was as if telling him her tales of being lost in the Tolemac Wars game for about a year had cleansed her of something. She seemed almost lighthearted. But the wariness told him she did not trust him. And why should she?
He rose and paced the long length of his studio. “I haven’t shared what I’m going to tell you with anyone since I was about seven years old. I told it once and my father brought in the head doctors.”
Maggie nodded. Her silence encouraged him.
“I had a friend once. We were quite the little swordsmen. We were always battling some evil knight or other in our games. This was in England, by the way. We were visiting my mum’s family at the time. My friend was a boy of five from down the lane. We had a lot in common because his father was an American serviceman like mine. Well, one day, while playing our game, we decided to lay siege to this old cottage fil
led with rubbish. His mum had warned us away from the abandoned cottage, but you know small boys…”
He sat at Maggie’s side and leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Armed with our swords, we attacked. Inside we found a pile of junk—metal, coils, an assortment of what looked like radio parts. A mountain of fun for small boys. I don’t remember, or won’t remember, what happened next.” He took a deep breath. “I only know that my friend disappeared. We had been holding hands and jumping about on the rubbish when he tripped and…and suddenly he was gone. I could feel his hand in mine, but he wasn’t there. Then my arm disappeared.” He met her eyes as an old, familiar grief filled him. “I did something I’ve been ashamed of all these years. I let go of my friend’s hand.”
She touched his knee.
He warily covered her hand. No power surge, no shock, no sear of desire swept up his arm. He felt only a warm wash of comfort. “I woke up in my bedroom. My father told me my friend was missing. The police questioned me over and over. It was quite a sensational case. I told my father what had happened and, of course, I was sent to a psychiatrist. I learned the value of silence there.
“I still have clippings from the case. My friend was never found. I know where he went, but after a while, I stopped talking about it.”
Her fingers were warm and soft. He savored the feel of her hand lying trustingly in his. How long had it been since he had trusted someone enough to confide? “I started dreaming that same night. Now, I live one life by day and another by night.” He lifted his head and met her gaze. “You’re part of my night.”
Derek Townsend devoured a mountain of chili. Consuela had cooked, served, and disappeared. Outside, the night sky was ink black. The house was quiet, warm, and scented with spices and corn bread. Later, he’d regret the spicy meal, but for now, he savored every moment it gave him to observe Maggie O’Brien. The longer the meal lasted, the longer she would stay. She rose and fetched them each another bottle of beer.
“What are we going to do about our ‘tales’?” she asked. “If what you say is true, you think you’re Kered. Or part Kered.” Her eyes and words challenged him.
“I don’t know what’s true. But I want to find out.” He ignored the glass she had given him and drank directly from the long-necked bottle. “I no longer know whether I’m drawn to the places I paint because they remind me of Tolemac, or if I draw Tolemac like my favorite places.”
Maggie picked at her bowl of chili. “I’ve been there. They’re the same…but different.”
He reached across the table and touched the sheathed knife that lay between their bowls. “I knew you were no figment of my imagination when you corrected my drawings. I was deliberately changing the color values. You noted each time I got it wrong.”
She nodded, her eyes watching his long fingers trace the edges of the knife sheath.
“No matter how sure you are that something exists,” he continued, “if you can’t access it, I guess it doesn’t exist.”
“You can access it.” A drop of water falling from the kitchen faucet rang in the silence that followed her words.
Derek cleared his throat. His heart thumped in his chest. “I’ll have heartburn after this.” He rose and carried the empty bowls to the sink, concealing his emotion with activity. He rinsed the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher. His hands were shaking.
He desperately needed to know if he was mad. He’d spent almost his whole life unsure. He’d spent over twenty years in steadfast silence, broken only this night, with this woman. To know, to understand, would mean the bringing together of his fragmented life. He swallowed and nailed her with his gaze. “How can you access Tolemac?”
She frowned. “I’m not sure of how it works—or not completely. There was a lunar conjunction in Tolemac when I arrived. And when I left. I know that there needs to be a storm. Or possibly the game needs the boost of energy from a storm.”
Derek leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms on his chest. He grinned. “There’s bad weather on the way.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Maggie shivered in her gown, the same gown she’d worn the last time she’d stood on Nilrem’s mountain. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Hail pelted the windows of Bits and Bytes, the equivalent of Virtual Heaven in Colorado Springs. Cars whooshed by outside on Academy Boulevard. The rattle of the hail seemed freakish to Maggie.
It was long after business hours at Bits and Bytes, but apparently the creator of Tolemac Wars had little trouble getting a game store opened for just his pleasure.
Behind her, Derek was involved in a spirited negotiation with the shop owner. In exchange for exclusive rights to Tolemac Wars II in the Colorado Springs area, the shopkeeper would give Derek the key to his store for the night. No questions asked. Of course the lewd glances the man shot in Maggie’s direction told her his imagination had painted a hot time in the game booth for Derek and his groupie girlfriend.
She hugged her arms across her chest. She was acutely conscious of the press of her breasts against the filmy gown.
Finally, Derek obtained the key. He locked the shop door and placed the key on the counter. “It isn’t too late to back out.”
She couldn’t back out. Her mind said this man was Kered, but her heart wasn’t sure. “What if he comes back tomorrow and finds his game on?” she asked to distract him.
“He’ll assume I didn’t turn it off.” He walked the length of the shop to the familiar freestanding booth that Maggie recognized from Gwen’s shop. She tagged along, reiterating every point of their night-long discussion—and argument—on how the game booth might have worked to send her into the game.
Derek rounded on her before entering the booth. He held his hands palm up and stemmed the flow of her words. “Look. We’ve checked on conjunctions. There are dozens. Pick any date and you can find a conjunction—at least in this place. We have all the bad weather we could wish for; it might even snow by morning. Who knows how long we’d have to wait for another storm like this one? If there’s anything else we’ve missed, well then, it won’t work.” An edge entered his voice. “But I have to know, Maggie. You can stay here, if you want. But I’m going.” His tone softened, and he avoided her eyes as emotion tinged his words. “I feel a gnawing desperation. I have to know. I have to make some sense of my life.”
Maggie whirled away from him and looked out the shop window. The world was a dismal gray. The man of her dreams was waiting for her. Somewhere. Perhaps right here. Why prolong the agony? Why hold back? Because Kered had pushed her away. Could she bear to know the reason why? Not knowing had led her to a small deception, one she hoped would not have deadly repercussions.
Derek’s dreams of Tolemac were not always specific. His last dreams were of carnage and blood, but not of the actual events of Samoht’s last days. Maggie had not provided those missing details. Instead, she had told him over and over only of the dangers that Tolemac held for him. After all, if Kered had sent her away to protect her, might not Derek refuse to take her into the game if he knew she, too, was in danger?
She had to go with Derek—to protect him. Whatever perils existed in Tolemac when she’d left, still existed. Derek was determined to face them—with or without her. He was as stubborn as his counterpart.
Another fact made it imperative she go. Without Kered, the most important part of her life was missing. Once in the game, she’d find the real Kered and come back—with him this time. And if Derek was Kered and he seemed to be in any danger, she’d be there to help.
With resolute steps, Maggie followed Derek Townsend into the game booth as he put on the lights. He stood with his hands on his hips. He wore his Tolemac warrior garb; the engraved knife was in his boot and the sword was strapped at his hip. He looked magnificent and worried.
“I’ve been dreaming of this place all my life. I draw it. I think about it. I feel as if half of me is missing. I have to know where I belong. I need to know how hard I must fight to preserve
the game.”
His thoughts so echoed her own feelings that she relaxed. “I’ve read a little science fiction,” she said. “What if you do get into the game and meet yourself?”
He gripped her arms and drew her near. “This isn’t fiction. You’ve been there. What will be will be.”
She gasped. His fatalistic words struck like a dagger to her breast. “No. Don’t say that.” She pressed her fingers to his lips. They stood very still, their breath the only sound in the booth. Slowly, Maggie skimmed her fingers down his throat to his chest. She parted the leather of his jerkin. How many times had she touched this distinctive mark on his chest with her fingertips, anointed it with her kisses during lovemaking?
Derek gripped her elbows in his palms and drew her against him, but she pulled away.
“You can’t accept who I am,” he said softly. “Look at me, Maggie. Really look.”
She was afraid to look, afraid to have him see the doubt in her eyes. It was like having a lover who’d gone away on a long journey—on an Arctic expedition or something—and while he was away, inadvertently discovering the lover had a twin brother. Her attraction to Derek was as powerful as to her attraction to Kered. Yet she was filled with ugly sensations of betrayal, as if she had lustful thoughts for a boyfriend’s brother. She, too, needed to know who this man was. A mark on the chest, a taste, a magnetism that drew her was not enough to quiet the fearful treachery she felt in her heart.
Derek felt more than the stir of his blood. He felt an urgency that was ill-defined. She marched to the raised platform like a soldier going off to war. He admired her courage. She touched the weapon at her waist, a game gun she’d brought with her from her friend’s shop.
He had another reason for trying to access Tolemac that he’d not shared with this mysterious woman. He was uncomfortable with his deceit, but he needed to know if she was the woman he’d put in the game; he needed to know if she was worthy of the position he’d created for her.
