by AJ Nuest
Well, whatever was supposed to happen, they’d better hurry up about it. Much longer, and her fingers would go numb.
The guy finally withdrew his hand and frowned at the creases lining his palm. “I do not understand.”
Hey, welcome to the club.
Hushed murmurs and some nervous shuffling came from the group as a whole.
“You have somehow erred.” The wizard lifted his finger. “Braedric has displeased her.”
“I’ve done nothing of the sort.” He spun and stalked back across the room. “The glass is flawed. Caedmon should have summoned us the moment she appeared.”
“Hold your tongue, Braedric.” King Austiere shouldered between the two men.
His next words were muffled as the murmurs grew to angry shouts. Shaking her head, Rowena rubbed two fingers across her brow.
Displeased her? What was the old guy talking about? Whoever was handling the special effects had obviously dozed off at the wheel. “Wait a second.”
Several men jostled, shoving back and forth. Others grabbed the front of their coats and yanked.
Geez, chillax. They were acting as if the entire world was at stake. But they were the ones who’d choreographed this production. They were in charge of what came next, not her. “Just wait a second.”
In the abrupt silence that followed, every set of eyes shifted to her. Maybe it was time they rein in the high-octane theatrics and get back to square one. “Where is Prince Caedmon?”
His name was muttered as everyone darted glances around the room.
“Well, go get the boy!” King Austiere flung his hand toward the door at the same time the gray wizard stepped forward.
“Wizard Fandorn, Your Radiance.” The end of his beard brushed his knees as he bowed so low she kinda worried the old guy wouldn’t be able to straighten. “Prince Caedmon is being sent for.”
Hold on, her radiance? She squinted. What, was giving her that title supposed to soften the blow?
A few seconds later, a side door swung open and Caedmon rushed through. Clothes disheveled. As if he’d just put them on. Dark waves a sexy bed-headed mess he tried to fix by raking his hand through his hair.
A sharp tug to the bottom of his padded, leather vest, and he centered the ties before facing her.
Rowena lifted a shrewd brow. “Where’ve you been?”
He bowed, sweeping his hand across his thighs. “My presence was not required at the ceremony.”
Ceremony? Ha! Good one. Like that made the slightest difference in what was going on here at all. “You make a da—an appointment with me, don’t even bother to tell me you’re not coming, and then have these men wake me up in the middle of the night so I have to deal with this mess by myself?”
“I implore your forgiveness.”
“And what’s the point of all this? Who are these people? I didn’t let Ollie spend an hour glossing and lacquering just so I could referee a bunch of idiots I can barely understand.”
His shoulders fell. A slow blink, and he shot a frown at Wizard Fandorn. “Beseeching your pardon, Sorceress, the point is so the Council can witness the naming of the Rescinder.”
The Council, huh? As in, all these extras were meant to represent some sort of political faction?
Craning her neck, she tried for a clear shot at the lighting stands or boom mics hidden in the corners. Just how far was the mastermind behind these shenanigans willing to go?
Based on the panic stamped on each face in that room, pretty darn far.
Fine, whatever. If she named this stupid Rescinder of theirs, then hopefully they’d finally leave her alone.
“All right. Bring it on.” She waved Caedmon forward and slapped her hand to the screen.
“Me, Sorceress?” His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline.
“Yeah, why not?” She’d eliminate them one at a time if she had to, until she’d met the hand of every last man standing. Since this obviously wasn’t the “date” Ollie had alluded to, once they’d all tried and their Rescinder had finally been chosen, they could move on to the next poor schlub on their list. Perform a botched version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Caedmon stole another glance at Fandorn and was nodded forward before he hesitantly approached. Lifting his hand, he swallowed and placed his palm on the glass.
White light zipped along each scroll on the frame. Turning her head, Rowena squeezed her eyelids closed as the flashpoints momentarily left her blind. Deep rumbling shuddered underfoot. The building pitched, and she braced her legs as undulating waves rippled across her bedroom floor.
Holy shit, an earthquake?
Perfume bottles rattled on her dresser. Car alarms beeped and wailed. The streetlight flickered, and she ducked as electricity popped and sparked along the street.
Snatching her hand back, she stumbled to the side, grabbing the edge of the armoire to avoid falling flat on her ass in a heap.
The rumbling slowly stabilized. She lifted her eyes to the screen.
One by one, the men crawled to their feet.
She snapped her jaw shut. What in the hell had they done? And better yet, how?
Off to the side, a tall candelabra had toppled over. The candles smoldered near the fringed tassels of a wall tapestry, nine beautiful women under a full moon depicted in the weave.
Fandorn passed his hand in an arc and the candelabra lifted to standing. The flames sputtered and the smoke gradually disappeared.
“I protest.” Braedric leapt out of a chair and aimed his finger at the grisly snarl of a bearskin rug. “These proceedings are a farce. I am to be named Rescinder. Caedmon is impure.”
The building pitch of a police siren and flashing red lights zoomed past her window.
Oh, no. That’s where he was wrong. Things had just skipped way beyond a “farce” as far as she was concerned.
A tectonic shift in a city rarely known for seismic activity? Rowena smacked her palm to her forehead. And what about the timing? What was their explanation for that?
“You dare denounce the Sorceress’ choice in her presence?” Fandorn’s warning boomed so loud the center of her chest vibrated. “Silence your forked tongue, Braedric, or I shall wither it in your throat.”
Molars grinding, Braedric clenched his fists. A glance at her, and his face darkened to heart attack red. Straightening their hats, the men bowed and rushed to exit stage left.
Braedric was the last to leave, shooting a glare at Fandorn over his shoulder, and Rowena jumped as he slammed the door so hard she wouldn’t have been surprised if the wood splintered.
Dang. What, in the name of all that was holy, was going on here?
King Austiere propped his crown back on his head and waved Fandorn and Caedmon closer to the fireplace. The three of them huddled up and Rowena leaned in even though she couldn’t hear a damn thing they said.
“Hey.” Uh-uh. No way they were leaving her out of the conversation. She’d done exactly as they’d asked and it was high time they came clean and offered up some answers.
Inching closer to the armoire, she rapped her knuckle against the glass. “Hel-l-l-o-o. What’s going on over there?”
Caedmon nodded and stole a peek in her direction. She frowned at how his cheeks had gone a sickly shade of green.
Offering a reassuring smile, King Austiere placed his hand on Caedmon’s shoulder. “Good luck, my boy.”
“And, above all, remember to keep your wits about you.”
Fandorn faced her and the king and Caedmon quickly followed his example. The two older men bowed and started for the exit, the wizard grinning at her through his bushy whiskers and mischief sparkling in his eyes.
The hasp clicked into the latch, and Caedmon tipped his head back. A deep breath, and he exhaled what had to be every ounce of oxygen in his lungs toward the ceiling.
No. Not good enough, dude. She was gonna need a few more details than that. “Would you please tell me what’s going on?”
Lowering his chin, he
met her gaze and slumped. “War is upon us. The veil will remain open for three days. The time of Gleaning has begun.”
* * * * *
“They’re saying it registered a five point five on the Richter Scale.” Shaking open the newspaper, Oliver held the pages in front of his face.
Rowena sat back on her heels and re-read the headline Earthquake Rocks Chicago emblazoned across the front page. “I know. I heard.”
But it had to be some sort of bizarre coincidence. It just had to be.
“The rumbling woke me from a dead sleep. For a second there, I thought aliens had landed and begun their systematic invasion.” The pages rustled as he folded the paper and tossed it toward the arm of the couch. “What about you?”
She leaned forward and resumed sanding the side panel of the Louis XVI end table. “I was already awake.”
“At three in the morning?” Silence stretched before he sprang forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “Your mystery date showed up and you didn’t tell me? Start talking, doll. Right now.”
“It wasn’t a date.” She sighed. If only she would’ve listen to herself in the first place, maybe she could’ve camped out on the couch and avoided the whole thing. “Last night was more like a…town meeting.”
“What do you mean?”
Flipping over the sandpaper, Rowena began spelling out the details of her late-night visit, leaving off the part where she and Caedmon had placed their hands on the glass…and how she’d spent the remainder of the pre-dawn hours staring wide-eyed at the television as reports of the earthquake had come in.
Hard as she’d tried, she still hadn’t been able to come up with a single excuse to explain what had happened. Maybe…if she set all attempts at common sense aside…Caedmon and his band of cohorts could’ve figured out how to shift the foundation of her building.
But shaking an entire city? No way.
In the end, she’d been left no choice but to consider the unthinkable. Although the idea a Narnian Empire had somehow taken up residence inside her armoire had her seriously questioning her sanity.
God knew, one word of her suspicions to Ollie, and he was likely to check her into the nearest psych ward.
“So, you were online with him all night?” He wagged his brows. “Giddy up.”
“No.” She chuckled. “He said we should take the night to prepare. That he planned to spend the next twelve hours in private meditation.”
“Really? How wonderfully Zen of him.” Reclining against the cushions, Oliver crossed his legs, arms extended along the back of the couch. “I tried meditation once. Didn’t stick.”
She grunted. If that didn’t sum up his personality, nothing would. Oliver had dodging anything that might stick down to an art form.
“I only have one question. What does gleaning mean? Sounds terribly invasive, if you ask me.”
Case in point.
Pushing up from the floor, she tossed the sandpaper to her desk and recited the definition she’d found online.
“To collect gradually, bit by bit.” She met Ollie’s sky-blue eyes and shrugged. “I Googled it this morning.”
The corners of his lips turned down, and he angled his head. “What’s your Prince Charming planning to collect?”
“I have no idea.” Dusting the grit from her hands, she stomped her feet, swiping a cloud of brown powder off the front of her jeans.
“Hmmm…” He frowned, spacing out at some distant point over her left shoulder. “When are you two planning to see each other again?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Shifting uncomfortably, she lowered her gaze to the floor.
After struggling two days to get the armoire open, now it seemed the damn door was refusing to stay shut. In an effort to offer them both some privacy, Caedmon had said his goodnights and draped a blanket over the screen. Meanwhile, she’d stood there like a dork with her mouth hanging open, trying to shuffle the night into a cohesive picture that would make sense.
It hadn’t worked.
“I just received the lab report on your key.” Violet ducked inside the studio, waving several sheets of paper in the air.
Yes, thank God. If Violet’s talents were anything to go by, maybe Rowena would finally get some answers that wouldn’t leave her with a whole bunch of brand new questions. “And?”
“Looks like you’ve got the genuine article, based on the metallurgic data.” Crossing to the couch, Violet took the spot beside Oliver and flipped to the second page. “But that’s not the most interesting part. Says here Rowena’s Key is a fictitious object shrouded in legend. It supposedly played a strategic role in some Kentish war a few centuries ago. The problem is, most historians doubt the real Rowena ever existed. There’s no record of her birth, so the references are very vague. Some reports describe her as a heroine of the Saxons, a beautiful femme fatale who won her people a foothold in Britain by seducing the British King. Others state she was a villainess who poisoned the king’s eldest son when he rebelled against her, and that she was an enchanting sorceress, skilled in the arts of seduction and weaponry.”
Sorceress… The word swept over Rowena like a warm tide. Her heart thudded, and she grabbed the edge of her desk to steady her defective knees.
For whatever reason, Caedmon and his cast of characters had assigned her the lead of this badass bitch from history. Unless, of course, they were real and actually believed she was the Rowena.
Oh, God. She dug her thumb and index finger into her itchy eye sockets and scrubbed at her tired lids. Had she really just entertained that lunacy?
“You don’t look so good.”
She glanced at Ollie and nodded. “I think I’d better sit down.”
Violet scooted closer to Oliver and patted the cushion on her right.
Joining them on the couch, Rowena fiddled with the key between her breasts. “Does the report say anything else?”
“Only one last thing, but it’s so silly I’m almost embarrassed to mention it.”
Oliver mimicked her motions as Rowena leaned over the papers on Violet’s lap.
“You know how some fairytales involve a magic mirror?”
They locked eyes across Violet’s black leather mini skirt and nodded at the same slow speed.
“Evidently the idea originally came from the story of Rowena. She supposedly had this magic mirror which allowed her to peer through time, and whoever was on the receiving end risked falling hopelessly in love with her.”
Shit. Rowena shot to her feet and paced. The similarities were so damn eerie they gave her a bad case of the heebie-jeebies. Not a screen, but a mirror? A magic mirror which peered through time?
No. That was nuts. And if she had to forfeit another night’s sleep to prove the whole thing was a hoax, then so be it. Someone was seriously trying to drive her bat-crap crazy, and based on what she’d been thinking, they were doing an excellent job of pushing her straight off the cliff.
But never again would be she be gullible enough to automatically believe everything she heard. She wasn’t about to make the same mistakes she had with Brad.
Spinning on her heel, she pinned Oliver with a hard stare. “I need to go home.”
“Let’s go.” He shoved up from the couch with a brief nod. “I’m parked right outside.”
* * * * *
Despite Oliver’s insistence to follow her inside, Rowena entered her condo alone. Truth be told, he was her one ace in the hole. With his connections, when and if she got her hands on the actual not-made-up name of this supposed Prince Caedmon, Ollie would be able to sniff out who was responsible in a way no one would never see coming.
That was, as long as she didn’t introduce him to the entire cast and crew right from the get-go.
Gently placing her keys and coat on the kitchen counter, she stole down the hall. A slight push against the door, and she poked her head inside her room.
The armoire remained open, the light from a flickering fire dancing on the opposite side of the glass. S
oft muttering reached her ears, and she hesitated, but only one voice echoed across her hardwood floor.
Rounding the end of her bed, she lifted her chin as Caedmon inched into view. Head down and his shoulders hunched over his desk, a bunch of rolled papers, inkwells and several quills scattered along the top.
He picked up one of the sheets and held it in a ray of sunlight, lips moving as his eyes shifted back and forth. A glance toward the screen, and he quickly pushed to his feet. “Good morning, Your Radiance.”
“Morning.” Even though it was well after one in the afternoon, she wasn’t about to split hairs about the difference in time zones. If his appearance was anything to go by, she had her hands full.
Instead of his mouthwatering leather breaches, he’d changed into a pair of navy pantaloons that landed right past his knees—a total bummer, if anyone asked her. White tights encased his shins and led down to a pair of sparkly blue shoes that would’ve done Dorothy’s trip through Oz proud.
The embroidered coat resting on his shoulders touted huge leg-o’-mutton sleeves. And, God forgive her, at some point in the very near future, the fur-trimmed cape swirling near the backs of his thighs would need to be bleached from her brain.
Propping a ridiculous feathered hat on his head, he walked to the center of the room, held that same piece of paper in the air and recited.
“To Rowena Fair
Cheeks akin to roses white
Her hair a shaft of wheat
Lips that spark a man’s desire
To grovel at her feet.
“Eyes the green of glades in spring
Her breast a downy bed
Oh, fair Rowena of the glass
Do bless me on the head.”
Her brows rose. She rolled her lips to stifle a chuckle.
Turning away from him, she cleared her throat but, nope. None of those things did a damn bit of good.
Doubling over, she held her stomach as uncontrollable laughter hit her so hard her muscles ached. Holy crap, that had to be the worst poem she’d ever heard. But the way he seemed so god-awful serious was what really killed her.
