Key of Light k-1

by Nora Robets

  "I don't expect to get much from them. It's the painting." Malory followed Dana into the little kitchen. It didn't surprise her to find books here as well, stacked in an open-fronted pantry where the average cook would have stored food staples.

  "The painting's important somehow," she continued while Dana rinsed off the dishes. "What it says, and who said it."

  She took a moment to explain the rest of the tale as Flynn had relayed it to her over dinner.

  "So they're taking on the roles of the teacher and the guard."

  "That's the theory," Malory confirmed. "I'm interested in how they'll react when I broach it. And I can use Flynn to distract them long enough to give me time to get another look at the painting and take a couple of pictures of it. That could lead to other paintings with similar themes. It might be helpful."

  "I'll do a search on mythological art this morning." Dana checked her watch. "I've got to go. The three of us should get together on this as soon as we can."

  "Let's see what we come up with today."

  They walked out together, and Malory stopped on the sidewalk. "Dana. Is it just crazy to do all this?"

  "Damn right. Call me when you get back from the Peak."

  It was a more pleasant, if less atmospheric, drive on a sunny morning. As a passenger, Malory could indulge herself with the scenery and wonder what it was like to live high on a ridge where the sky seemed only a hand span away and the world was spread out like a painting below.

  A fitting view for gods, she supposed. Lofty and dramatic. She had no doubt Rowena and Pitte had chosen it for its power as much as for the privacy.

  In another few weeks, when those elegantly rolling hills felt the chill of fall, the colors would stun the eye and catch the breath.

  Mists would hover in the morning, sliding into those folds and dips between the hills, spreading like sparkling pools until the sun dissolved them.

  And still the house would stand, black as midnight, with its fanciful lines etched against the sky. Guarding the valley. Or watching it. What did it see, she wondered, year after year across the decades?

  What did it know?

  The question brought on a shudder, a sudden sharp sense of dread.

  "Cold?"

  She shook her head, and rolled down her window. All at once the car seemed hot and stuffy. "No. I'm spooking myself, that's all."

  "If you don't want to do this now—"

  "I want to do it. I'm not afraid of a couple of rich eccentrics. In fact, I liked them. And I want to see the painting again. I can't stop thinking about it. Whatever direction my mind goes off in, I keep coming back to the painting."

  She glanced out her window, into the deep, leafy woods. "Would you want to live up here?"

  "Nope."

  Intrigued, she looked back at him. "That was fast."

  "I'm a social animal. I like having people around. Moe might like it." He gazed into the rearview mirror to see Moe, nose jammed into the narrow window opening, floppy ears flying.

  "I can't believe you brought the dog."

  "He likes to ride in the car."

  She angled around, studied Moe's blissful expression. "Obviously. Have you ever considered getting him clipped so his hair isn't in his eyes?"

  "Don't say clipped." Flynn winced as he muttered the word. "We're still not over the whole neutering deal."

  He slowed as they drove along the wall that edged the estate. Then stopped to study the twin warriors who flanked the iron gate.

  "They don't look friendly. I camped up here a couple of times with some friends when I was in high school. The house was empty then, so we climbed over the wall."

  "Did you go into the house?" "There wasn't enough courage in a six-pack of beer for that, but we had a hell of a time freaking ourselves out. Jordan claimed he saw a woman walking on the parapet or whatever you call it. Swore he did. He wrote a book about her later, so I guess he saw something. Jordan Hawke," Flynn added. "You might've heard of him."

  "Jordan Hawke wrote about Warrior's Peak?"

  "He called it—"

  " Phantom Watch. I read that book." As a ripple of fascination raced up her spine, she stared through the bars of the gates. "Of course. He described it all perfectly, but then he's a wonderful writer." She looked back at Flynn, suspiciously. "You're friends with Jordan Hawke?"

  "Since we were kids. He grew up in the Valley. I guess we were sixteen—me, Jordan, and Brad—sucking down beers in the woods, slapping mosquitoes the size of sparrows, and telling very inventive lies about our sexual prowess."

  "It's illegal to drink at sixteen," Malory said primly.

  He shifted, and even through the shaded lenses of his sunglasses, she could see his eyes laughing. "Really? What were we thinking? Anyway, ten years later, Jordan's got his first bestseller, and Brad's off running the family empire—that would be lumber and the HomeMakers chain for Bradley Charles Vane IV, and I'm planning on heading to New York to be a hotshot reporter for the Times ."

  Her eyebrows winged up. "You worked for the New York Times ?"

  "No, I never went. One thing and another," he said with a shrug. "Let's see what I can do about getting us through this gate."

  Even as he started to step out of the car, the gate opened with a kind of otherworldly silence that sent a chill dancing along the nape of his neck. "Must really keep it lubed," he murmured. "And I guess somebody knows we're out here."

  He slid back behind the wheel and drove through.

  The house looked just as strange and stark and stunning in daylight as it had in a night storm. There was no magnificent stag to greet her, but the flag with its key emblem flew high and white, and rivers of flowers ran below. Gargoyles clung to the stone, and looked, to Malory's mind, as if they were considering leaping, not so playfully, on any visitor.

  "I never got this close in the daylight." Slowly Flynn stepped out of the car.

  "It's spooky." "Yeah, but in a good way. It's terrific, like something you expect to see on a cliff above a raging sea. Too bad there's no moat. That would really top it off."

  "Wait until you see the inside." Malory moved up beside him, and didn't object in the least when Flynn took her hand. The tickle at the back of her throat made her feel foolish and female.

  "I don't know why I'm so nervous." She caught herself whispering it, then her hand jerked in Flynn's when the big entrance door opened.

  Rowena stood framed in the towering doorway. She wore simple gray pants with a roomy shirt the color of the forest. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, her lips were unpainted, her feet bare. But however casual the outfit, she managed to look exotic, like some foreign queen on a quiet holiday.

  Malory caught the glint of diamonds at her ears.

  "How lovely." Rowena held out a hand on which rings sparkled elegantly. "How nice to see you again, Malory. And you've brought me such a handsome surprise."

  "Flynn Hennessy. He's Dana's brother."

  "Welcome. Pitte will be right along. He's just finishing up a call." She gestured them inside.

  Flynn had to resist gawking at the foyer. "It doesn't seem like the kind of place you'd find telephones."

  Rowena's chuckle was low, almost a purr. "We enjoy the advantages of technology. Come, we'll have tea."

  "We don't want to put you to any trouble," Malory began, but Rowena waved her off.

  "Guests are never any trouble."

  "How did you find out about Warrior's Peak, Miss…"

  "Rowena." She slid an arm silkily through Flynn's as she walked them to the parlor. "You must call me Rowena. Pitte always has an ear to the ground for an interesting spot."

  "You travel a lot?"

  "We do, yes."

  "For work or pleasure?"

  "Without pleasure, there's little point in work." She trailed a fingertip playfully down his arm. "Won't you sit? Ah, here's the tea."

  Malory recognized the servant from her first visit. She brought the tea cart in silently, and left the same way.
r />   "What business are you in?" Flynn asked.

  "Oh, we do a bit of this and that, and some of the other. Milk?" she asked Malory as she poured. "Honey, lemon?"

  "A little lemon, thank you. I have a lot of questions."

  "I'm sure you do, as does your very attractive companion. How do you like your tea, Flynn?"

  "Black's fine."

  "So American. And what is your business, Flynn?"

  He took the delicate cup she offered. His gaze was direct, and suddenly very cool. "I'm sure you already know. You didn't pick my sister's name out of a hat. You know everything you need to know about her, and that would include me."

  "Yes." Rowena added both milk and honey to her own tea. Rather than looking insulted or chagrined, she looked pleased. “The newspaper business must be very interesting. So much information to be gathered, and dispersed. I imagine it takes a clever mind to know how to do both well. And here is Pitte."

  He entered a room, Flynn thought, like a general. Measuring the field, gauging his ground, outlining his approach. However genial his smile, Flynn was certain there was a steely soldier behind it.

  "Miss Price. What a pleasure to see you again." He took her hand, brought it to within an inch of his lips in a gesture that seemed too fluid not to be natural.

  "Thanks for seeing us. This is Flynn—"

  "Yes. Mr. Hennessy." He inclined his head. "How do you do?"

  "Well enough."

  "Our friends have questions and concerns," Rowena told him as she passed the cup of tea she'd already prepared.

  "Naturally." Pitte took a seat. "You're wondering, I imagine, if we're…" He turned that mildly curious look to Rowena.

  "Lunatics," she supplied, then lifted a plate. "Scones?" "Ah, yes, lunatics." Pitte helped himself to a scone and a generous dollop of clotted cream. "I can assure you we're not, but then again, so would I if we were. So that's very little help to you. Tell me, Miss Price, are you having second thoughts about our arrangement?"

  "I took your money and gave you my word."

  His expression softened, very slightly. "Yes. To some that would make little difference."

  "It makes all the difference to me."

  "That could change," Flynn put in. "Depending on where the money comes from."

  "Are you implying we could be criminals?" Now temper showed in the flush that swept Rowena's ice-edged cheekbones. "It shows considerable lack of courtesy to come into our home and accuse us of being thieves."

  "Reporters aren't known for their courtesy, and neither are brothers when they're looking out for their sisters."

  Pitte murmured something quiet and foreign, skimmed his long fingers over the back of Rowena's hand, the way a man might soothe a cat who was about to spit and claw. "Understood. It happens I've some skill in monetary matters. The money comes to us through perfectly legal means. We're neither lunatics nor criminals."

  "Who are you?" Malory demanded before Flynn could speak again. "Where do you come from?"

  "What do you think?" Pitte challenged softly.

  "I don't know. But I think you believe you represent the teacher and the warrior who failed to protect the Daughters of Glass."

  An eyebrow arched slightly. "You've learned more since you were here last. Will you learn more yet?"

  "I intend to. You could help me."

  "We're not free to help in that way. But I will tell you this. Not only teacher and warrior but companions and friends to those precious ones, and so only more responsible."

  "It's only a legend."

  The intensity in his eyes dimmed, and he leaned back again. "It must be, as such things are beyond the limits of your mind and the boundaries of your world. Still, I can promise you the keys exist."

  "Where is the Box of Souls?" Flynn asked him.

  "Safe."

  "Could I see the painting again?" Now Malory turned to Rowena. "I'd like Flynn to see it."

  "Of course." She rose and led the way into the room dominated by the portrait of the Daughters of Glass.

  Malory heard Flynn catch his breath, then they were moving together closer to the painting. "It's even more magnificent than I remembered. Can you tell me who painted this?"

  "Someone," Rowena said quietly, "who knew love, and grief."

  "Someone who knows Malory. And my sister, and Zoe McCourt."

  Rowena let out a sigh. "You're a cynic, Flynn, and a suspicious one. But as you've put yourself in the role of protector, I'll forgive you for it. We don't wish Malory, Dana, or Zoe any harm. Quite the opposite."

  Something in her tone made him want to believe her. "It's pretty disconcerting to see my sister's face up there."

  "You'd do whatever needed to be done to keep her safe and well. I understand that kind of loyalty and love. I admire and respect it. She's in no danger from me or Pitte. I can swear that to you."

  He turned now, zeroing in on what hadn't been said. "But from someone else?"

  "Life's a gamble," was all Rowena said. "Your tea's getting cold."

  She turned toward the door just as Pitte stepped to it. "There seems to be a very large, very unhappy dog of some sort outside."

  The temper and sharp words hadn't ruffled Flynn a bit, but that single statement made him wince. "He's mine."

  "You have a dog?" The change in Rowena's tone was almost girlish. Everything about her seemed to go light and bright, then bubble out as she gripped Flynn's hand.

  "He calls it a dog," Malory said under her breath.

  Flynn merely gave her a sorrowful look before speaking to Rowena. "You like dogs?"

  "Yes, very much. Could I meet him?" "Sure."

  "Ah, while you're introducing Rowena and Pitte to Moe, at their peril, could I take a minute to freshen up?" Casually, Malory gestured toward the powder room. "I remember where it is."

  "Of course." For the first time since Malory had met her, Rowena seemed distracted. She already had a hand on Flynn's arm as they started down the hall. "What kind of a dog is he?"

  "That's debatable."

  Malory slipped into the powder room and counted to five. Slowly. Heart pounding, she opened the door a crack and did her best to peer up and down the corridor. Moving quickly now, she dashed back to the portrait, dragging out the little digital camera in her purse as she ran.

  She took half a dozen full-length shots, then some of smaller details. With a guilty look over her shoulder, she shoved the camera back into the purse and pulled out her glasses, a plastic bag, and a small palette knife.

  With her ears buzzing, she stepped up on the hearth and carefully, gently, scraped flakes of paint into the bag.

  The entire process took less than three minutes, but her palms were slick with sweat, her legs loose and wobbly by the time she'd finished. She took another moment to compose herself, then strolled—with what she hoped was casual ease—out of the room and out of the house.

  The instant she stepped outside, she stopped dead. There was the regal and magnificent Rowena sitting on the ground with a mountain of dog sprawled over her lap.

  And she was giggling.

  "Oh, he's wonderful. Such a big sweetheart. What a good boy you are." She bent her head and nuzzled Moe's fur. His tail beat like a jackhammer. "What a kind, pretty boy." She looked up at Flynn and beamed. "Did he find you or did you find him?"

  "It was sort of mutual." One dog lover recognized another. Tucking his thumbs in his pockets, Flynn scanned the expansive lawns, the slices of woods. "Big place like this, lots of room to run. You could have a pack of dogs."

  "Yes. Well." Rowena lowered her head again and rubbed Moe's belly.

  "We travel considerably." Pitte laid a hand on Rowena's hair, stroked it.

  "How long do you plan to stay here?"

  "When the three months is up, we'll move on." "To?"

  "That will depend. A ghra ."

  "Yes. Yes." Rowena cuddled Moe another moment, then with a wistful sigh got to her feet. "You're very lucky to have such goodness in your life. I hope y
ou treasure him."

  "I do."

  "I see you do, yes. You may be cynical and suspicious, but a dog like this knows a good heart."

  "Yeah," Flynn agreed. "I believe that."

  "I hope you'll bring him if you come back. He can run. Good-bye, Moe."

  Moe sat up and lifted one massive paw with unaccustomed dignity.

  "Wow. That's a new one." Flynn blinked as Moe politely allowed Rowena to shake his paw. "Hey, Mal! Did you see—"

  As he said her name, Moe's head swiveled, and he was off at a sprint in Malory's direction, bringing a distressed yip to her throat as she braced for the onslaught.

  Rowena called out, a single indecipherable word in a calm, brisk tone. Moe skidded to a halt inches from Malory's feet, plopped onto his butt. And once more lifted his paw.

  "Well." Malory expelled a relieved breath. "That's more like it." She reached down, obligingly shook the offered paw. "Good for you, Moe."

  "How the hell'd you do that?" Flynn wanted to know.

  "I have a way with animals."

  "I'll say. What was that, Gaelic?"

  "Mmmm."

  "Funny that Moe would understand a command in Gaelic when he mostly ignores them in plain English."

  "Dogs understand more than words." She held out a hand for Flynn's. "I hope you'll all come back. We enjoy company."

  "Thanks for your time." Malory walked to the car with Moe trotting happily beside her. The minute she sat, she tucked her purse on the floor like a guilty secret.

  Rowena laughed, but the sound was a bit watery as Moe stuck his head out of the backseat window. She lifted a hand in a wave, then leaned against Pitte as Flynn drove away.

  "I have real hope," she murmured. "I can't remember the last time I felt real hope. I—it frightens me. It actually frightens me to feel it."

  Pitte wrapped an arm around her, drew her tighter to his side. "Don't weep, my heart."

  "Foolish." She dashed a tear away. “To cry over a stranger's dog. When we get home…"

  He shifted her, cupped her face in his hands. His tone was gentle, yet somehow urgent. "When we get home, you'll have a hundred dogs. A thousand."

  "One will do." She rose on her toes to brush her lips across his.

  In the car Malory let out a long, long breath.