by Nora Roberts
He stared at her, but there was nothing of fear, nothing of surprise in those glinting eyes. There was, if such things were possible, a kind of amused disdain. Then he simply walked away, through the curtain of rain, the rivers of fog, and was gone.
“Wow.” She let out a long breath, shivered in the warmth of her car. “And one more wow,” she murmured as she stared at the house.
She’d seen pictures of it, and paintings. She’d seen its silhouette hulking on the ridge above the valley. But it was an entirely different matter to see it up close with a storm raging.
Something between a castle, a fortress, and a house of horrors, she decided.
Its stone was obsidian black, with juts and towers, peaks and battlements stacked and spread as if some very clever, very wicked child had placed them at his whim. Against that rain-slicked black, long, narrow windows, perhaps hundreds of them, all glowed with gilded light.
Someone wasn’t worried about his electric bill.
Fog drifted around its base, like a moat of mist.
In the next shock of lightning, she caught a glimpse of a white banner with the gold key madly waving from one of the topmost spires.
She inched the car closer. Gargoyles hunched along the walls, crawled over the eaves. Rainwater spewed out of their grinning mouths, spilled from clawed hands as they grinned down at her.
She stopped the car in front of the stone skirt of a wide portico and considered, very seriously, turning back into the storm and driving away.
She called herself a coward, a childish idiot. She asked herself where she’d lost her sense of adventure and fun.
The insults worked well enough that she soon was tapping her fingers on the car’s door handle. At the quick rap on her window, a scream shot out of her throat.
The bony white face surrounded by a black hood that peered in at her turned the scream into a kind of breathless keening.
Gargoyles do not come to life, she assured herself, repeating the words over and over in her head as she rolled the window down a cautious half inch.
“Welcome to Warrior’s Peak.” His voice boomed over the rain, and his welcoming smile showed a great many teeth. “If you’ll just leave your keys in the car, miss, I’ll see to it for you.”
Before she could think to slap down the locks, he’d pulled her door open. He blocked the sweep of wind and rain with his body and the biggest umbrella she’d ever seen.
“I’ll see you safe and dry to the door.”
What was that accent? English? Irish? Scots?
“Thank you.” She started to climb out, felt herself pinned back. Panic dribbled into embarrassment as she realized she had yet to unhook her seat belt.
Freed, she huddled under the umbrella, struggling to regulate her breathing as he walked her to the double entrance doors. They were wide enough to accommodate a semi and boasted dull silver knockers, big as turkey platters, fashioned into dragons’ heads.
Some welcome, Malory thought an instant before one of the doors opened, and light and warmth poured out.
The woman had a straight and gorgeous stream of flame-colored hair—it spilled around a pale face of perfect angles and curves. Her green eyes danced as if at some private joke. She was tall and slim, garbed in a long gown of fluid black. A silver amulet holding a fat, clear stone hung between her breasts.
Her lips, as red as her hair, curved as she held out a hand sparkling with rings.
She looked, Malory thought, like someone out of a very sexy faerie tale.
“Miss Price. Welcome. Such a thrilling storm, but distressing, I’m sure, to be out in it. Come in.”
The hand was warm and strong, and stayed clasped over Malory’s as the woman drew her into the entrance hall.
The light showered down from a chandelier of crystal so fine that it resembled spun sugar sparkling over the twists and curves of silver.
The floor was mosaic, depicting the warriors from the gate and what seemed to be a number of mythological figures. She couldn’t kneel down and study it as she might have liked and was already struggling to hold back an orgasmic moan at the paintings that crowded walls the color of melted butter.
“I’m so glad you could join us tonight,” the woman continued. “I’m Rowena. Please, let me take you into the parlor. There’s a lovely fire. Early in the year for one, but the storm seemed to call for it. Was the drive difficult?”
“Challenging. Miss—”
“Rowena. Just Rowena.”
“Rowena. I wonder if I could take a moment to freshen up before joining the other guests?”
“Of course. Powder room.” She gestured to a door tucked under the long sweep of the front stairs. “The parlor is the first door on your right. Take your time.”
“Thank you.” Malory slipped inside and immediately decided that “powder room” was a very poor label for the plush, spacious area.
The half dozen candles on the marble counter streamed out light and scent. Burgundy hand towels edged in ecru lace were arranged beside the generous pool of the sink. The faucet gleamed gold in the fanciful shape of a swan.
Here the floor mosaic showed a mermaid, sitting on a rock, smiling out at a blue sea as she combed her flame-colored hair.
This time, after double-checking to make certain that she’d locked the door, Malory did kneel down to study the craftsmanship.
Gorgeous, she thought, running her fingertips over the tiles. Old, certainly, and brilliantly executed.
Was there anything more powerful than the ability to create beauty?
She straightened, washed her hands with soap that smelled faintly of rosemary. She took a moment to admire the collection of Waterhouse’s nymphs and sirens framed on the walls before digging out her compact.
There was little she could do for her hair. Though she’d drawn it back and anchored it at her nape with a rhinestone clip, the weather had played havoc with the dark blond curls. It was a look, she thought, as she dusted her nose. Sort of arty and carefree. Not elegant like the redhead, but it suited her well enough. She reapplied her lipstick, satisfied that the pale rose had been a good investment. Subtle worked best with her milkmaid coloring.
She’d paid too much for the cocktail suit. Of course. But a woman was entitled to a few weaknesses, she reminded herself as she straightened the slim satin lapels. Besides, the slate blue was right for her eyes, and the tailored lines pulled it all together into a style both professional and elegant. She closed her bag, lifted her chin.
“Okay, Mal, let’s go drum up some business.”
She stepped out, forced herself not to tiptoe back down the hall to drool over the paintings.
Her heels clicked briskly on the tile. She always enjoyed the sound of it. Powerful. Female.
And when she stepped through the first arch to the right, the thrilled gasp escaped before she could block it.
She’d never seen its like, in or out of a museum. Antiques so lovingly tended that their surfaces gleamed like mirrors; the rich, deep colors that demonstrated an artist’s flair; rugs, pillows, and draperies that were as much art forms as the paintings and statuary were. On the far wall was a fireplace she could have stood in with her arms stretched out at her sides. Framed in malachite, it held enormous logs that snapped with tongues of red and gold fire.
This was the perfect setting for a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a faerie tale.
She wanted to spend hours there, to wallow in all that marvelous color and light. The uneasy woman who had huddled in her car in the rain was long forgotten.
“It took five minutes for my eyes to stop bugging out of my head after I walked in.”
Malory jolted, then turned and stared at the woman who stood framed in the side window.
This one was a brunette, with dense brown hair skimming between her jawline and shoulders in a stylish swing. She was perhaps six full inches taller than Malory’s compact five-four, and had the lush curves to match the height. Both were set off with trim black pants
and a knee-length jacket worn over a snug white top.
She held a champagne flute in one hand and extended the other as she walked across the room. Malory saw that her eyes were deep, dark brown and direct. Her nose was narrow and straight, her mouth wide and unpainted. The faintest hint of dimples fluttered in her cheek when she smiled.
“I’m Dana. Dana Steele.”
“Malory Price. Nice to meet you. Great jacket.”
“Thanks. I was pretty relieved when I saw you drive up. It’s a hell of a place, but I was getting a little spooked rattling around by myself. It’s nearly quarter after.” She tapped the face of her watch. “You’d think some of the other guests would be here by now.”
“Where’s the woman who met me at the door? Rowena?”
Dana pursed her lips as she glanced back toward the archway. “She glides in and out, looking gorgeous and mysterious. I’m told our host will be joining us shortly.”
“Who is our host?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Haven’t I seen you?” Dana added. “In the Valley?”
“Possibly. I manage The Gallery.” For the time being, she thought.
“That’s it. I’ve come to a couple of showings there. And sometimes I just wander in and look around avariciously. I’m at the library. A reference librarian.”
They both turned as Rowena walked in. Though glided in, Malory thought, was a better description.
“I see you’ve introduced yourselves. Lovely. What can I get you to drink, Miss Price?”
“I’ll have what she’s having.”
“Perfect.” Even as she spoke, a uniformed maid came in bearing two flutes on a silver tray. “Please help yourselves to the canapés and make yourselves at home.”
“I hope the weather isn’t keeping your other guests away,” Dana put in.
Rowena merely smiled. “I’m sure everyone who’s expected will be here shortly. If you’ll excuse me just another moment.”
“Okay, this is just weird.” Dana picked a canapé at random, discovered it was a lobster puff. “Delicious, but weird.”
“Fascinating.” Malory sipped her champagne and trailed her fingers over a bronze sculpture of a reclining faerie.
“I’m still trying to figure out why I got an invitation.” Since they were there, and so was she, Dana sampled another canapé. “No one else at the library got one. No one else I know got one, for that matter. I’m starting to wish I’d talked my brother into coming with me after all. He’s got a good bullshit barometer.”
Malory found herself grinning. “You don’t sound like any librarian I’ve ever known. You don’t look like one either.”
“I burned all my Laura Ashley ten years ago.” Dana gave a little shrug. Restless, moving toward irritated, she tapped her fingers on the crystal flute. “I’m going to give this about ten more minutes, then I’m booking.”
“If you go, I go. I’d feel better heading back into that storm if I drove to the Valley behind someone else.”
“Same goes.” Dana frowned toward the window, watched the rain beat on the other side of the glass. “Crappy night. And it was an extremely crappy day. Driving all the way here and back in this mess for a couple of glasses of wine and some canapés just about caps it.”
“You too?” Malory wandered toward a wonderful painting of a masked ball. It made her think of Paris, though she’d never been there except in her dreams. “I only came tonight in hopes of making some contacts for The Gallery. Job insurance,” she added, lifting her glass in a mock toast. “As my job is currently in a very precarious state.”
“Mine too. Between budget cuts and nepotism, my position was ‘adjusted,’ my hours trimmed back to twenty-five a week. How the hell am I supposed to live on that? And my landlord just announced that my rent’s going up first of next month.”
“There’s a rattle in my car—and I spent my auto-maintenance budget on these shoes.”
Dana looked down, pursed her lips. “Terrific shoes. My computer crashed this morning.”
Enjoying herself, Malory turned away from the painting and raised a brow at Dana. “I called my boss’s new wife a bimbo and then spilled latte on her designer suit.”
“Okay, you win.” In the spirit of good fellowship, Dana stepped over and clinked her glass against Malory’s. “What do you say we hunt up the Welsh goddess and find out what’s going on around here?”
“Is that what the accent is? Welsh?”
“Gorgeous, isn’t it? But be that as it may, I think . . .”
She trailed off as they heard that distinctive click of high heels on tile.
The first thing Malory noticed was the hair. It was black and short, with thick bangs cut so blunt they might have required a ruler. Beneath them, the tawny eyes were large and long, making her think of Waterhouse again, and his faeries. She had a triangular face, glowing with what might have been excitement, nerves, or excellent cosmetics.
The way her fingers kneaded at her little black bag, Malory went with the nerves.
She wore red, stoplight red, in an abbreviated dress that clung to her curvy body and showed off terrific legs. The heels that had clicked along the tile were a good four inches high and sharp as stilettos.
“Hi.” Her voice was breathy and her gaze was already flicking around the room. “Um. She said I should come right in.”
“Join the party. Such as it is. Dana Steele, and my equally baffled companion this evening, Malory Price.”
“I’m Zoe. McCourt.” She took another cautious step into the room, as if she was waiting for someone to tell her there’d been a mistake and boot her out again. “Holy cow. This place, it’s like a movie. It’s, um, beautiful and all, but I keep expecting that scary guy in the smoking jacket to come in.”
“Vincent Price? No relation,” Malory said with a grin. “I take it you don’t know any more about what’s going on than we do.”
“No. I think I got invited by mistake, but—” She broke off, ogling a bit when a servant entered with another flute on a tray. “Ah . . . thanks.” She took the crystal gingerly, then just smiled down at the bubbling wine. “Champagne. It has to be a mistake. But I couldn’t pass up the chance to come. Where is everybody else?”
“Good question.” Dana angled her head, charmed and amused as Zoe took a small, testing sip of champagne. “Are you from the Valley?”
“Yes. Well, for the last couple years.”
“Three for three,” Malory murmured. “Do you know anyone else who got an invitation for tonight?”
“No. In fact, I asked around, which is probably why I got fired today. Is that food just to take?”
“You got fired?” Malory exchanged a look with Dana. “Three for three.”
“Carly—she owns the salon where I work. Worked,” Zoe corrected herself and walked toward a tray of canapés. “She heard me talking about it with one of my customers and got bent out of shape. Boy, these are terrific.”
Her voice had lost its breathiness now, and as she appeared to relax, Malory detected the faintest hint of twang.
“Anyway, Carly’s been gunning for me for months. I guess the invite, seeing as she didn’t get one, put her nose out of joint. Next thing I know, she’s saying there’s twenty missing from the till. I never stole anything in my life. Bitch.”
She took another, more enthusiastic gulp of champagne. “And then bam! I’m out on my ear. Doesn’t matter. It’s not going to matter. I’ll get another job. I hated working there anyway. God.”
It mattered, Malory thought. The sparkle in Zoe’s eyes that had as much fear to it as anger said it mattered a great deal. “You’re a hairdresser.”
“Yeah. Hair and skin consultant, if you want to get snooty. I’m not the type who gets invited to fancy parties at fancy places, so I guess it’s a mistake.”
Considering, Malory shook her head. “I don’t think someone like Rowena makes mistakes. Ever.”
“Well, I don’t know. I wasn’t going to come, then I thought it would
cheer me up. Then my car wouldn’t start, again. I had to borrow the baby-sitter’s.”
“You have a baby?” Dana asked.
“He’s not a baby anymore. Simon’s nine. He’s great. I wouldn’t worry about the job, but I’ve got a kid to support. And I didn’t steal any goddamn twenty dollars—or twenty cents, for that matter. I’m not a thief.”
She caught herself, flushed scarlet. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Bubbles loosening my tongue, I guess.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Dana rubbed a hand up and down Zoe’s arm. “You want to hear something strange? My job, and my paycheck, just got cut to the bone. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do. And Malory thinks she’s about to get the axe at her job.”
“Really?” Zoe looked from one face to the other. “That’s just weird.”
“And nobody we know was invited here tonight.” With a wary glance toward the doorway, Malory lowered her voice. “From the looks of things, we’re it.”
“I’m a librarian, you’re a hairdresser, she runs an art gallery. What do we have in common?”
“We’re all out of work.” Malory frowned. “Or the next thing to it. That alone is strange when you consider the Valley’s got a population of about five thousand. What are the odds of three women hitting a professional wall the same day in the same little town? Next, we’re all from the Valley. We’re all female, about the same age? Twenty-eight.”
“Twenty-seven,” Dana said.
“Twenty-six—twenty-seven in December.” Zoe shivered. “This is just too strange.” Her eyes widened as she looked at her half-empty glass, and she set it hastily aside. “You don’t think there’s anything in there that shouldn’t be, do you?”
“I don’t think we’re going to be drugged and sold into white slavery.” Dana’s tone was dry, but she set her glass down as well. “People know we’re here, right? My brother knows where I am, and people at work.”
“My boss, his wife. Your ex-boss,” Malory said to Zoe. “Your baby-sitter. Anyway, this is Pennsylvania, for God’s sake, not, I don’t know, Zimbabwe.”
