by Nora Robets
"How'd you get scrapings?" Flynn wanted to know.
More color rose in her cheeks, but it wasn't the brandy that caused it. She cleared her throat, fussed with the clasp of her purse. "I took them when you went up there with me last week. When you and Moe distracted them. It was completely inappropriate, absolutely unethical. I did it anyway."
"Cool." Pure admiration shone in Flynn's tone. "So that means either Brad's experts or yours is off, or you're wrong about both being done by one artist. Or…"
"Or, the experts are right and so am I." Malory set her purse aside, folded her hands tight in her lap. "Dr. Bower would have to run more complex and in-depth tests to verify the date, but he wouldn't be off by centuries. I've seen both paintings, up close. Everything I know tells me they were done by the same hand. I know it sounds crazy. It feels crazy, but I believe it. Whoever created the portrait at Warrior's Peak did so in the twelfth century, and that same artist painted Brad's five hundred years later."
Brad slid his gaze toward Flynn, surprised that his friend wasn't goggling, or grinning. Instead, Flynn's face was sober and considering. "You want to believe that my painting was executed by a five-hundred-year-old artist?"
"Older, I think. Much older than that. And I think the artist painted both from memory. Rethinking bolting the door?" Malory asked him.
"I'm thinking both of you have gotten caught up in a fantasy. A romantic and tragic story that has no basis in reality."
"You haven't seen the painting. You haven't seen The Daughters of Glass" "No, but I've heard about it. All accounts place it in London, during the Blitz. Where it was destroyed. Most likely answer is that the one at the Peak is a copy."
"It's not. You think I'm being stubborn. I can be," Malory admitted, "but this isn't one of those times. I'm not a fanciful person either—or I haven't been."
She shifted her attention to Flynn, and her voice grew urgent. "Flynn, everything they told me, everything they told me and Dana and Zoe that first night was absolutely true. Even more amazing is what they didn't tell us. Rowena and Pitte—teacher and warrior—they're the figures in the background of each painting. They were there, in reality. And one of them painted both those portraits."
"I believe you."
Her breath shuddered out in relief at Flynn's simple faith. "I don't know what it means, or how it helps, but learning this—and believing it—is why I was picked. If I don't find the key, and Dana and Zoe don't find theirs after me, those souls will keep screaming inside that box. Forever."
He reached out, ran a hand over her hair. "We won't let that happen."
"Excuse me." Zoe hesitated at the entrance to the room. She was hard-pressed not to rub her hands over the satiny trim, or kick off her shoes to slide barefoot across the glossy floors.
She wanted to rush to the windows and study every view.
"The men outside said I should come right in. Um, Flynn? Moe's out there rolling around in something that looks a lot like dead fish."
"Shit. Be right back. Zoe, Brad." And he ran outside.
Brad got to his feet. He wasn't sure how he managed it when his knees had dissolved. He heard his own voice, a bit cooler than normal, a bit stilted, over the roar of blood in his head.
"Come in, please. Sit down. Can I get you something?"
"No, thanks. Sorry. Malory, I got your message and came right out. Is something wrong?"
"I don't know. Brad here thinks I've slipped a few gears, and I don't blame him."
"That's ridiculous." In her instant leap to defend, she forgot the charm of the house, the aloof charm of the man. Her cautious and apologetic smile turned into a chilly scowl as she strode across the room to Malory's side.
"And if you said any such thing, you're not only wrong, you're rude."
"Actually, I didn't get around to saying it yet. And as you don't know the circumstances—"
"I don't have to. I know Malory. And if you're a friend of Flynn's, you should know better than to upset her."
"I beg your pardon." Where had that stiff, superior tone come from? How had his father's voice popped out of his mouth?
"It's not his fault, Zoe. Really. As to being upset, I don't know what I am." Malory shoved back her hair and, rising, gestured toward the painting. "You should take a look at this."
Zoe moved closer. Then clutched her throat. "Oh. Oh." And her eyes filled with hot tears. "It's so beautiful. It's so sad. But it belongs with the other. How did it get here?"
Malory slipped an arm around her waist so they stood joined together. "Why do you think it belongs with the other?"
"It's the Daughters of Glass, after the… the spell or the curse. The box, with the blue lights. It's just the way you described it, from your dream. And it's the same— the same… I don't know how to say it. It's like a set, or part of a set, painted by the same person."
Malory glanced over her shoulder at Brad, cocked a brow.
"Are you an art expert?" Brad asked Zoe.
"No." She didn't bother to look at him, and her tone was flat. "I'm a hairdresser, but I'm not stupid."
"I didn't mean to imply—"
"No, you meant to say . Will it help you find the key, Malory?"
"I don't know. But it means something. I have a digital camera out in the car. Can I take some pictures of it?"
"Be my guest." Brad jammed his hands into his pockets as Malory hurried out and left him alone with Zoe. "Are you sure I can't get you something? Coffee?"
"No, I'm fine. Thank you."
"I, ah, came in on this after the first reel," he began. "You might give me a little time to catch up."
"I'm sure Flynn will tell you everything you need to know." She crossed the room, using the excuse of looking out for Malory as a chance to see the lovely river view.
What would it be like, she wondered, to be able to stand here whenever you wanted, to see the water and the light, the hills? Liberating, she imagined. And peaceful.
"Malory just told me she believes the Daughters of Glass exist, in reality. In some reality. And that the people you met at Warrior's Peak are several thousand years old."
She turned back, didn't so much as blink. "If she believes that, she has good reason. And I trust her enough to believe it too. Now would you like to tell me I've slipped a couple of gears?"
Irritation flickered over his face. "I never said that to her. I thought it, but I didn't say it. I'm not saying it to you either."
"But you're thinking it."
"You know, I only have two feet, but I'm managing to stay on the wrong one with you." "Since I doubt we're going dancing anytime soon, I'm not really worried about your feet. I like your house."
"Thanks, so do I. Zoe—"
"I've done a lot of business at HomeMakers. I've found good values and excellent customer service in the local store."
"Good to know."
"I hope you're not planning on making any major changes there, but I wouldn't mind a little more variety on the seasonal stuff. You know, bedding plants, snow shovels, outdoor furniture."
His lips twitched. "I'll keep that in mind."
"And it wouldn't hurt to add a couple more cashiers on Saturdays. There's always a wait at the checkout."
"So noted."
"I'm starting my own business, so I pay attention to how things run."
"Are you opening your own salon?"
"Yes." She said it firmly, despite the way her stomach muscles clutched. "I was looking at space before I got Malory's message to come out here."
And why didn't Malory come back in? She was running out of steam now that her temper had leveled off. She didn't know what to talk about with a man who lived in a house like this, one who helped run an enormous national conglomerate. If "conglomerate" was the word for it.
"In the Valley?"
"What? Oh, yes, I'm looking for a place in town. I'm not interested in a mall space. I think it's important to maintain a good downtown, and I want to be close to home so I can be more available to
my son."
"You have a son?" His gaze zeroed in on her left hand, and he nearly sighed with relief at the lack of a wedding ring.
All Zoe saw was the quick look. She straightened her shoulders, stiffened them. "Yes. Simon's nine."
"Sorry it took me so long," Malory apologized as she came back in. "Flynn's got Moe tied to a tree in the side yard. He's hosing him down, for all the good that's going to do. He'll just be a wet incredibly smelly dog instead of only an incredibly smelly one. He said to ask if you had any shampoo or soap you could spare."
"I can come up with something. Go ahead and take your pictures."
Malory aimed the camera, waited until Brad's footsteps receded. “Talk about gods," she murmured to Zoe.
"What?"
"Bradley Charles Vane IV. His kind of looks just smack a woman right in the hormones."
"Looks are genetic." Zoe very nearly sniffed. "Personality and manners are developed."
"It was one fine day in the gene pool when he was made." She lowered the camera. "I gave you the impression he was giving me a hard time. Really, he wasn't."
"Maybe, maybe not. But he's an arrogant snob."
"Wow." Malory blinked at the vehemence in Zoe's voice. "I didn't get that. I can't imagine Flynn being friends with anyone who fits the snob category. Arrogant is debatable."
Zoe jerked a shoulder. "I've run into his type before. They're more interested in looking good than in being human. Anyway, he's not important. The painting is."
"I think it is. And what you said about them being a set, part of a set. I think that's true, and there's at least one more. I have to find it. Something in them, or about them, is going to point me toward the key. I'd better hit the books."
"Want some help?"
"All I can get."
"I'll head back now. There are a couple of things I need to do, then I'll swing by your place."
About the time Brad unearthed a bottle of shampoo he heard a car start. He went to the window, cursed under his breath as he watched Zoe and Malory head down his lane.
As far as first impressions went, he'd made a complete mess of it. He didn't usually alienate women on sight. But then again, the sight of a woman didn't usually slam into him like a hard, sweaty fist. Considering that, he supposed he could be excused for not being at his best.
He went downstairs, then detoured back into the great room instead of continuing to the outside. He stood staring at the painting as he had the first time he'd seen it at the auction house. The way he'd stared at it countless times since he'd acquired it.
He'd have paid any price for it.
It was true enough what he'd told Malory and Flynn. He'd bought it because it was magnificent, powerful, compelling. He'd been intrigued by the one figure's face, its resemblance to his childhood friend.
But it had been another face in the painting that had dazzled him, consumed him. Undone him. One look at that face, Zoe's face, and he'd fallen unreasonably in love.
Strange enough, he thought, when the woman had simply been a figure in a painting. How much more complicated and impossible was it now that he knew she was real?
He thought about it while he put some of his house in order. He continued to think about it later when he and Flynn climbed up to sit on the wall surrounding Warrior's Peak.
They each opened a beer and studied the exotic silhouette etched against a gloomy sky.
Lights glowed against the windows here and there, but as they drank their beers in silence, they saw no figure pass behind the glass.
"They probably know we're out here," Flynn said after a time.
"If we take your girlfriend's theory to heart, and label them Celtic gods with a few thousand years under their belts, yeah, pretty safe bet they know we're out here."
"You used to be more open-minded," Flynn noted.
"Ah, no. Not really. Jordan would be the one inclined to bite on this kind of a story line and run with it."
"You see him lately?"
"A couple months ago. He's been doing a lot of traveling, so we don't manage to get together as often as we used to. Fuck it, Flynn." Brad flung an arm around
Flynn's shoulder. "I've missed you assholes."
"Same goes. You going to tell me what you thought of Malory?"
"Classy, intellectual, and very, very hot—despite her dubious taste in men."
Flynn tapped the heels of his ancient tennis shoes against the stone of the wall. "I'm about half crazy about her."
"Serious crazy, or let's mambo crazy?" "I don't know. Haven't figured it yet." He studied the house, and the quarter slice of moon that drifted over it. "I'm hoping it's door number two, because I'd just as soon not get serious crazy at
this point."
"Lily was a social-climbing opportunist with a great rack."
"Jesus, Vane." He wasn't sure whether to laugh or give his friend a hard shove off the seven-foot wall. So he did neither and only brooded instead. "I was in love with her. I was going to marry her."
"Now you're not and you didn't. Lucky break for you. She wasn't worthy, Flynn."
Flynn shifted. He couldn't see Brad's eyes clearly. Their color blended into the night. "Worthy of what?"
"Of you."
"That's a hell of a thing to say."
"You'll feel better about the whole thing once you admit I'm right. Now back to current affairs. I liked her—your Malory—if you're keeping score."
"Even though you think she's whacked."
Boggy ground, Brad mused, even when you were walking it with a friend. "I think she's found herself in extraordinary circumstances and she's caught up in the mystique. Why wouldn't she be?"
Flynn had to smile. "That's just a diplomatic, bullshit way of saying she's whacked."
"You once punched me in the face for saying Joley
Ridenbecker had beaver teeth. I'm not heading meetings on Monday with a black eye."
"See, you are a suit. If I admit that Joley did indeed have teeth like a beaver, will you believe me if I tell you I've never known anyone with less of a whack quotient than Malory Price?"
"Okay, I'll take your word. And I'll admit the whole thing about the paintings is intriguing." Brad gestured with the beer, then drank again. "I'd like to get a look at the one in there myself."
"We can go up, knock on the door."
"In the daylight," Brad decided. "When we haven't been drinking."
"Probably better." "Meanwhile, why don't you tell me more about this Zoe?"
"Haven't known her long, but I did some background checking. On her and Mal. Just in case Dana was getting sucked into some weird-ass scam. She moved to the Valley three years ago, with her kid."
"Husband?"
"Nope. Single parent. Looks like a good one to me. I met the kid. He's bright, normal, appealing. She worked at Hair Today, girly hair place on Market. Word is she's good at her profession, personable with customers, reliable. Got canned the same time Malory did, and around the same time they cut Dana's hours at the library to the bone. Another weird coincidence. She bought this little cardboard box of a house when she moved here. Apparently she's done most of the fixingup work herself."
"Boyfriend?"
"Not that I know of. She… wait a minute. You ask two questions. Husband, boyfriend. My razor-sharp reporter's instinct leads me to the conclusion that you're thinking of the mambo."
"Or something. I should get back. I've got a hell of a lot to do in the next couple of days. But there's this one thing." Brad took another pull on the bottle. "How the hell are we going to get off this wall?"
"Good question." Flynn pursed his lips, studied the ground. "We could just sit here and keep drinking until we fall off."
Brad sighed, drained the bottle. "There's a plan."
Chapter Ten
Malory was barely out of the shower when she heard the knock on her front door. She belted her robe, snagged a towel, and wound it around her hair as she hurried to answer.
“Tod. You're up and abo
ut early."
"On my way to the coffee shop to ogle the nine-to-fivers before heading to work." He peered over her right shoulder, her left, then gave her a leer. "Got company?"
Malory swung the door wider in invitation. "No. All alone."
"Ah, too bad."
"You're telling me." She tucked up the ends of the towel more securely. "Want coffee here? I've already put the pot on."
"Not unless you can offer me a skinny mocha latte and a hazelnut muffin."
"Sorry, fresh out."
"Well, maybe I should just give you the good news, then be on my way." Still, he flopped into a chair.
"Oh! New boots?"
"Fabulous, aren't they?" He stretched out his legs, turned his feet right and left to admire them. "They're killing me, of course, but I couldn't resist them. I made a quick run through Nordstrom's on Saturday. Darling, you've got to go." He sat up, grabbed her hand as she curled on the end of the sofa. "The cashmere! There's a cowl neck in periwinkle that's calling your name."
"Periwinkle?" She sighed, long and deep, like a woman under the hands of a skilled lover. "Don't say periwinkle cashmere when I'm in the middle of a shopping moratorium."
"Mal, if you don't treat yourself, who will?"
"That's true. That's so true." She bit her lip. "Nordstrom's?"
"And there's a twinset in a strong peachy pink that was made for you."
"You know I have no defense against twinsets, Tod. You're killing me."
"I'll stop, I'll stop." He held up his hands. "But on to our morning bulletin. The Pamela has stepped in deep and stinky doo-doo."
"Oh, boy." Malory wiggled into the cushions. “Tell me everything. Don't spare the details."
"As if. Okay. We got in a Deco bronze—female figure wearing a flapper-style dress, feathered headband, pearls, gorgeous open-toed shoes, trailing a long scarf. She's absolutely charming. Witty, terrific details, with this sly 'let's you and me Charleston, big boy' smirk on her face. I fell in love."
"Did you call Mrs. Karterfield in Pittsburgh?"
"Ah, see!" He shot a finger in the air, as if proving a point. "Naturally you would assume that, or would have done so personally had you still been in charge. Which you should be."
