by Nora Robets
"It's my business when she's just become my business partner. When prior to that we were partners of another sort, and it's my business because I like her a lot, and she's in love with you. This shows a remarkable lack of taste, but is nonetheless the way it is."
Guilt crept slyly into his belly. "It's not my fault she thinks she's in love with me." "I didn't say 'thinks.' She's not an idiot, despite her lousy taste in men. She knows her own mind and heart. And if you're not taking her feelings into consideration before you unzip your fly—"
"For Christ's sake, give me a break." He sat up now, dropped his head in his hands. "She won't listen to me. And she did the unzipping."
"You were just an innocent bystander."
"There's no point in blasting me about this. I've spent considerable time blasting myself, for all the good that's done. I don't know what the hell to do."
She sat on the table, leaned toward him. "What do you want to do?"
"I don't know. She sent me flowers."
"Excuse me?"
"She sent me a dozen red roses this morning. The card said, "Think of me.' How the hell could I not think of her?"
"Roses?" The idea just tickled her. "Where are they?"
He squirmed. "Um. I put them up in the bedroom. Goofy. This role reversal, it's just not right. It's not natural. I think it flies in the face of countless rules of scientific order.
I need to put things back on track. Somehow. Back on track. Stop grinning at me."
"You're hooked."
"I am not hooked. And that's another term I object to. Someone with a degree in library science should be able to find more appropriate terms."
"She's perfect for you." She kissed his cheek. "Congratulations. I'm not mad at you anymore."
"I don't care who you're mad at. And it's not a matter of who's perfect for me. I'm not perfect for anyone. I'm a slob. I'm inconsiderate and selfish. I like having my life loose and unstructured."
"You're a slob, no question. But you're neither inconsiderate nor selfish. It's that inconsiderate and selfish bitch Lily who put that in your head. If you buy that, you're just stupid."
"So, are you wishing a stupid slob on your new pal?"
"Maybe. I love you, Flynn."
"Man, I'm getting a lot of that lately." He tapped a finger on her nose. "Love you, too." "No. Say: 'I love you.' "
"Come on."
"All three words, Flynn. Choke them out."
"I love you. Now go away."
"I'm not finished."
He groaned and fell back on the couch. "We're trying to take a nap here, for our mental health."
"She never loved you, Flynn. She liked who you were in the Valley. She liked being seen with you, and she liked picking your brain. You may be stupid, but you're pretty smart in some areas. She used you."
"And that's supposed to make me feel better. Knowing I let myself be used?"
"It's supposed to make you stop blaming yourself for what happened with Lily."
"I'm not blaming myself. I hate women." He showed his teeth in a vicious smile. "I just want to bang them. Now will you go away?"
"You've got red roses in your bedroom."
"Oh, man."
"Hooked," she repeated and drilled a finger in his belly.
He took the sisterly poke like a man. "Let me ask you something. Did anybody like Lily?"
"No."
He hissed out a breath, stared up at the ceiling. "Just checking."
The knock on the door had him cursing and her bounding up. "I'll get it." She sang it out. "Maybe it's more flowers."
Amused, she pulled open the door. And it was her turn to curse, with more imagination and viciousness than Flynn had managed.
"Hey, nice mouth, Stretch."
Jordan Hawke, handsome as the devil and to Dana's mind twice as evil, gave her a wink and strolled back into her life.
She considered, for one brief, heady moment, tripping him. She grabbed his arm instead, imagined twisting it into cartoon taffy. "Hey. Nobody asked you in."
"You living here now?" He shifted his body in a slow, easy move. He'd always had moves. At six three he had five inches on her. She'd once found that fact exciting, but now it was simply irritating.
He hadn't gotten fat, or ugly, or fallen victim to male-pattern baldness. And wasn't that just too damn bad? No, he was still lanky and gorgeous, and all that thick black hair remained sexily rumpled around a tanned, rawboned face set off by sizzling blue eyes. His mouth was full and sculpted and, she had reason to know, very inventive.
It curved now in a lazy, mocking smile that made her want to bloody it.
"Looking good, Dane." He smoothed a hand over her hair, and had her head jerking back before she could stop herself.
"Hands off. And no, I'm not living here. What do you want?"
"A date with Julia Roberts, a chance to jam with Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, and a really cold beer. How about you?"
“To read the details of your slow, painful death. What are you doing here?"
"Annoying you, apparently. But that's just a side benefit. Flynn home?"
He didn't wait for an answer, but stepped away from her and headed for the living room. Moe roused himself, sent out a halfhearted growl.
"That's it, Moe," Dana said cheerfully. "Sic 'im."
Obviously unconcerned about being attacked by an enormous mass of canine, Jordan crouched down. "So this is the famous Moe."
Veterinary trauma forgotten, Moe scrambled up. He charged, flopped both front paws on Jordan's shoulders, and gave him a welcoming kiss.
Dana could only grind her teeth as Jordan's laugh joined Moe's happy bark.
"You're a big guy, aren't you? Look at that face." He rumpled Moe's fur, scratched his ears, then glanced over at Flynn. "How's it going?"
"Okay. Didn't know you were coming so soon."
"Had some time. Got a beer?" "Sure."
"I hate to interrupt this emotional, heartfelt reunion." Dana's voice was an ice pick aimed at the nape of Jordan's neck. "But what the hell's he doing here?"
"Spending some time with friends, in my hometown." Jordan got to his feet. "Still okay to bunk here?"
"Absolutely." Flynn unfolded himself from the couch. "Man, it's good to see you."
"Same here. Big house. Great dog. Bad couch."
With a laugh, Flynn swung his arms around his oldest friend. "Really good to see you."
For a moment, just an instant, as she watched the two grown men hug, Dana's heart softened. Whatever else she could say about Jordan Hawke—and the list was long— he was and had always been Flynn's. As much brother, she supposed, as friend.
Then those hot blue eyes met hers and baked her heart hard again.
"How about that beer, Stretch? We can play catch-up and you can tell me how you got roped into looking for imaginary keys."
She shot her brother one accusatory look, then jerked her chin up. "Unlike the two of you, I actually have things to do."
"Don't you want to see the painting?"
That nearly stopped her, but giving in to curiosity would've spoiled her exit. She continued to the door and strode out without a backward glance.
She had things to do, all right. The first of which was to carve a wax doll in Jordan's image and stick pins in sensitive areas.
"Did you have to piss her off?" Flynn demanded.
"My breathing pisses her off." And knowing that put a little hole in his gut. "How come she's not living here? The house is big enough."
"She won't." With a shrug, Flynn led the way back to the kitchen. "Wants her own space and blah-blah. You know Dana. Once her mind's set you can't move her with a forklift."
"Tell me about it."
Because Moe was dancing around, Flynn dug out a dog biscuit and flipped it to him before getting the beers. "You brought the painting?"
"Yeah. I don't know what it's going to tell you."
"Me either. I'm hoping it tells Malory something."
"So
when am I going to meet this Malory?" Jordan leaned back against the counter.
"I don't know. Soon."
"I thought there was a deadline on this deal," Jordan said.
"Yeah, yeah. We've still got a couple weeks."
"Problem, pal?"
"No. Maybe. We've gotten tangled up, and it's getting really serious really fast. I can't think."
"What's she like?"
"Smart, funny, sexy."
"You put sexy third." Jordan gestured with his beer. "That's serious. What else?"
"Goal-oriented, I'd say." He began to pace. "With a kind of tidy nature. Honest. Not much gameplaying there. Grounded. You could say she's grounded, which is why her getting wound up in this key business makes it all seem possible. She's got blue eyes. Big blue eyes," Flynn sighed.
"Again, the physical falls well down the list. You're stuck on her."
Uneasy, Flynn lifted his beer. "There are degrees of being stuck."
"True enough, but if she's got you this worried I'd say you're already in to your knees, and sinking. Why don't you give her a call? She can come get a look at the painting, and I can get a look at her."
"Let's give it till tomorrow."
"You're scared of her. Make that up to your waist and sinking."
"Shut up. I just think it'd be smart for Brad to bring his painting over, let the three of us give them both a good look. See what we come up with, without the female element."
"Works for me. You got any food around here?"
"Not really. But I've got all the takeout and delivery places on speed dial. Take your pick." "Surprise me. I'll go get my stuff."
* * *
It wasn't so different from their youth, unless you considered that the living room where they sprawled belonged to one of them rather than to a parent.
Since the choice had been left to Flynn, they were eating Italian, but the beer had been upgraded to a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue that Brad had brought with him.
The paintings were propped side by side against the wall while the three of them sat on the floor. Moe took the couch.
"I don't know much about art," Flynn began.
"But you know what you like," Brad finished.
"I wasn't going to stoop to a clichй."
"Actually, it's a valid statement." Jordan agreed. "Art, by its very nature, is subjective. Warhol's Campbell's Soup Can , Dali's Melting Watch , da Vinci's Mona Lisa . It's all in the eye of the beholder."
"As impossible to compare Monet's Water Lilies with Picasso's Lady in Blue as it is to compare Dashiell Hammett and Steinbeck. It's all in the style, purpose, and perception."
Flynn rolled his eyes toward Brad. "What I was going to say before the two of you went off on that little intellectual riff is that it seems to me that the same person painted both of these. Or if it was two different people, one was emulating the other's style."
"Oh." Brad swirled the liquor in his glass and grinned. "Okay, then. I'll go along with that. And what does that tell us?"
"It'll tell us a lot if we have Jordan's painting tested. We already know the one at Warrior's Peak and Brad's were done more than five hundred years apart. We need to know where Jordan's fits in."
"Fifteenth century."
Flynn turned his head, stared at Jordan. "You had it dated already?"
"A couple years after I bought it. I needed to get some stuff insured. Turned out it was worth several times what I paid for it. Kinda weird when you think of it, as The Gallery's got a rep for being pricey."
"Why'd you buy it?" Brad asked him. "I don't know how many times I've asked myself that. I don't even know why I went in there that day. It wasn't one of my usual stops. Then I saw it, and it just grabbed me. That moment, that breath just before destiny, between innocence and power. He'll pull the sword free. You know it. And in that moment, the world changes. Came-lot's born, Arthur's fate is sealed. He'll unite a people, be betrayed by a woman and a friend, and sire the man who'll kill him. In this moment, he's a boy. In the next, he'll be a king."
"Some would argue that he was born a king."
Jordan shook his head at Brad's statement. "Not until he put his hands on the hilt of the sword. He could have walked away from it. I wonder if he would have if he'd known what was coming. Glory and grandeur, sure, and a slice of peace, but then deceit, deception, war. And an early death."
"Well, that's cheerful." Flynn started to pour another drink. Then he stopped, looked back at the paintings. "Wait a minute. Maybe you're on to something. In the other, you've got the results after that moment of destiny you were talking about. Would the god-king have married the mortal, conceived three daughters, if he'd known then-fate? Is it about choices, which direction we take?"
"And if it is?" Brad put in. "It doesn't tell us much."
"It gives us a theme. And if we make the leap that the paintings are clues to the location of the keys, then we have to follow the theme. Maybe the first is in a place where a decision was made, one that changed the course of lives."
"Flynn." Jordan hesitated, swirled his drink. "You seriously believe these keys exist?"
"That's right. And if you guys had been around since the beginning of this, you'd have come around to that by now. There's no way to explain it, Jordan, no more than you can explain why that boy was the only person in the world who could pull Excalibur from the stone."
"How about you?" Jordan asked Brad.
"I'm trying to keep an open mind. You've got to add up the coincidences, or what appear to be coincidences. You and I own those paintings. We're all back in the Valley, and so are they. Flynn's involved, personally involved with two of the women who were invited to Warrior's Peak. Jordan and Dana used to be an item. And I bought the painting because I was caught by that face— Zoe's face. It just about knocked me on my ass. And let's keep that little tidbit among the three of us."
"You're interested in Zoe?" Flynn asked.
"Yeah, which is dandy, since she appears to have taken an instant dislike to me. Which I don't get," he added with some heat. "Women don't dislike me right off the bat."
"No, it usually takes a little time," Jordan agreed. "Then they dislike you."
"On the contrary. I'm a very smooth operator. Usually."
"Yeah, I remember how smooth you were with Marsha Kent."
"I was seventeen," Brad argued. "Fuck you."
"Do you still have her footprint on your ass?" Jordan wanted to know.
"You still got Dana's on your balls?"
Jordan winced. "Tit for tat there. Question. Does that painting look as much like the other two as it does like Dana?"
"Oh, yeah," Flynn told him. "Different dos, but the faces are dead on."
"No question as to the age on it, Brad?"
"None."
Jordan sat silent a moment, nursing his drink, studying Dana's face. So still, so pale, so empty. "Okay, I'll take a side step out of logic and into the zone. There are six of us and three keys. And what, just over two weeks left to find the first one?" He reached for the bottle again. "It'll be a snap."
Beyond the puzzle to be solved, Flynn thought, it was good to have his friends back. Good to know even as he crawled into bed in the early hours of the morning that Jordan was crawling onto the mattress in the spare room. And Brad was already zonked out on the sofa downstairs, guarded by Moe.
It had always seemed to him that there'd been nothing they couldn't do together. Whether it had been fighting off imaginary alien invaders, learning how to unhook a girl's bra one-handed, or driving cross-country in a secondhand Buick. They'd always come through for each other.
When Jordan's mother had died, both he and Brad had been there, holding vigil during those endless nights at the hospital.
When Lily had dumped him, the one constant Flynn had been sure of was his friends.
Through good times and not so good times, he thought sentimentally, they'd been there for each other. Physical distance never meant a damn.
But it was better
, a hell of a lot better, to have them here. Since they were, the first key was practically in the lock.
He closed his eyes and instantly fell asleep.
The house was dark, and bitterly cold. He could see his breath puff out in thin white vapors as he wandered aimlessly down dark corridors that turned, that twisted. There was a storm blasting, a crash and boom that shook the air and shot out fast, angry light, zigzagging in the dark.
In the dream he knew he walked the halls of Warrior's Peak. Though he could barely see, he recognized it and knew the turn of the corridor, the feel of the wall under his trailing fingers. Though he had never walked there before.
He could see the rain whipping outside the second-story window, could see the way it glowed blue in the lightning strikes. And he saw the ghost of his own face blurry in the glass.
He called out, and his voice echoed. On and on, like a rolling wave. There was no one to answer. And yet he knew he wasn't alone.
Something walked those halls with him. Lurking just behind. Out of sight, out of reach. Something dark that pushed him on, up the stairs.
Fear tripped into his heart.
Doors lined the corridor, but all of them were locked. He tried each one, turning, tugging the knob with fingers gone stiff with cold.
Whatever stalked him crept closer. He could hear it breathe now, horrible, somehow liquid pulls on the air that merged with his own rapid panting.
He had to get out, get away. So he began to run, loping through the storm-slashed dark while what pursued him followed, with rapid clicks on the wood like eager claws.
He burst out onto a parapet, into the storm where lightning speared down and set the stone to smoking. The air burned and froze, and the rain pelted him like shards of glass.
With nowhere left to run, with fear a cold snake crawling in his belly, he turned to fight.
But the shadow was so huge, so close. It covered him before he could raise his fists. The cold tore through him, drove him to his knees.
He felt something ripped from him—wild, unspeakable pain, dull, shocking horror. And knew it was his soul.
Flynn woke, shuddering with cold, clammy with the dregs of terror, and with the sun pouring in onto his face.
Struggling for breath, he sat up. He'd had his share of nightmares, but never one this intense. Never one where he'd actually felt pain.
