Key of valor, p.3
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       Key of Valor, p.3

         Part #3 of Key series by Nora Roberts
 

  “A quick pep talk before we get started.” Malory took Zoe’s hand again. “Kane will try to hurt you. He’ll try to trick you. In fact—and I’ve thought a lot about this—because this is the last round, win or lose all, he’s going to be only more determined to stop you.”

  Dana took Zoe’s other hand. “Feeling peppy yet?”

  “I’ve thought a lot about it, too. I’m afraid of him.” Zoe squared her shoulders. “I think you’re telling me I should be afraid. That if I’m really going to be prepared, I should be afraid.”

  “That’s exactly it.”

  “Then I guess I’m as ready as I’m going to get. I need to talk to Rowena before she takes us into the portrait room. I’ve got one stipulation before we move to the next stage.”

  She looked over, hissed under her breath as she saw Rowena already in deep discussion with Brad. “Why is he everywhere I want to be?”

  “Good question.” Dana gave her a quick pat on the back.

  Malory waited until Zoe started across the room. “Dana? I’m scared, too.”

  “Well, that makes three of us.”

  Zoe stopped in front of Rowena, cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Rowena, I need to speak to you for a minute, before we get started on the next . . . thing.”

  “Of course. I imagine it concerns what Brad and I were just discussing.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s about Simon.”

  “Yes.” In invitation, Rowena patted the cushion beside her. “Exactly. Bradley’s been very insistent that I do something tangible, something specific, about Simon.”

  “Kane’s not going to touch the boy.” There was steel, cold and immovable, in Brad’s tone. “He’s not going to use the boy. Simon is to be taken out of the mix. That’s not negotiable.”

  “And you are setting terms now for Zoe, and her son?” Rowena asked.

  “No.” Zoe spoke quickly. “I can speak for myself, and for Simon. But thank you.” She looked at Brad. “Thank you for thinking about Simon.”

  “I’m not just thinking about him, I’m making this crystal clear. You and Pitte want the third key,” he said to Rowena. “You want Zoe to succeed. Kane wants her to fail. There were rules, you said, about causing harm to mortals, shedding their blood, taking their lives. He broke those rules last time, and would have killed Dana and Jordan if he could have. There’s no reason to think he’ll go back to fighting fair this time. In fact, there’s every reason to believe he’ll fight even dirtier.”

  The muscles around Zoe’s heart seemed to clench, leaving her breathless. “He’s not touching my boy. You have to promise. You have to guarantee it, or this ends now.”

  “New terms.” Rowena lifted her eyebrows. “And ultimatums?”

  “Let’s put it this way.” Before Zoe could speak again, Brad silenced her with one sharp look. “If you don’t do something to remove Simon from the board, if you don’t shield him from Kane, he could be used against Zoe and cause her to fail. You’re close, Rowena. Too close to let one stipulation stand in your way.”

  “Well played, Bradley.” Rowena patted his knee. “Simon has a formidable champion in you. And you,” she said to Zoe. “But it’s already been done.”

  “What?” Zoe looked across the room at Simon, who was sneaking Moe a bit of crust from his pie.

  “He’s under protection, the strongest I can make. It was done while he slept, the night Dana found the second key. Mother,” she said gently, touching a hand to Zoe’s cheek, “I would not ask you to risk your child, not even for the daughters of a god.”

  “He’s safe, then.” She closed her eyes against the sting of relieved tears. “Kane can’t hurt him?”

  “As safe as I can make him. Kane would have to go through me, and Pitte. I can promise you, such an attack would cost him dearly.”

  “But if he got through—”

  “Then he’d come up against us,” Brad put in. “All six of us—and a big dog. Flynn and I talked about it earlier. You should take Moe with you, keep him around the way Dana did. An early-warning system.”

  “Take Moe? Home?” That big, clumsy dog in her tiny little house? “I’d think you’d consult with me before you made such decisions.”

  “It’s a suggestion, not a decision.” He angled his head, and though his voice was mild again, his face was set. “It’s just a sensible and reasonable suggestion. Besides, a kid Simon’s age ought to have a dog around.”

  “When I think Simon’s ready for a dog—”

  “Now, now.” Swallowing a laugh, Rowena patted Brad’s knee again, and Zoe’s. “Isn’t it silly to argue when you’re both only thinking of what’s best for Simon?”

  “Can we just do what comes next? I’m getting all twisted up waiting for it to be official.”

  “All right. Perhaps Simon could take Moe out for a walk around the grounds. He’ll be watched,” she assured Zoe. “He’ll be safe.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll arrange it. Then we’ll move into the next room.”

  Zoe found herself sitting on the sofa with Brad, without Rowena as a buffer between them. She linked her hands in her lap as he picked up his coffee cup.

  “I’m sorry if I sounded ungrateful and rude,” she began. “I’m not. Not ungrateful.”

  “Just rude?”

  “Maybe.” Knowing she had been brought heat to her cheeks. “But I didn’t mean to be. I’m not used to anybody—”

  “Helping you?” he prompted. “Caring about you? About Simon?”

  There was a bite in his voice, but there was something both careless and cool about it that made her feel small. She countered it by shifting and looking him dead in the eyes. “That’s right, I’m not. Nobody helped me raise him, or feed him, or love him. Nobody helped me put a roof over his head. I’ve done it myself, and I’ve done a decent job of it.”

  “You haven’t done a decent job of it,” he corrected. “You’ve done an extraordinary job of it. So what? That means you have to slap away every helping hand?”

  “No. No, it doesn’t. You get me so mixed up.”

  “Well, that’s a start.” He took her hand, and had it to his lips before she could protest. “For luck.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” She got quickly to her feet when Rowena came back into the room.

  “If everyone’s ready, we’d like to continue the tradition of beginning the quest in the next room.”

  Brad kept his attention on Zoe. She was a little pale, but she was holding her own. Still, as they started down the wide hallway, he noted how Malory and Dana moved in to flank her.

  They’d become a team, a triad, even a family over the last two months. He didn’t think anything would change that now. They would need that unity through what was coming.

  His heart took a bump when he stepped into the next room and looked up at the portrait that dominated it.

  The Daughters of Glass, moments before their souls were stolen, gathered close. Just as the three women who shared the faces of those tragic demigoddesses now gathered close.

  Venora, with Malory’s vivid blue eyes, sat with a lap harp in her hands and a smile just blooming across her face. Niniane, with Dana’s strong features and dense brown hair, sat beside her on a marble bench and held a scroll and quill.

  Standing, a sword at her side and a small puppy in the crook of her arm, Kyna looked back at him. Her hair was a long fall of inky black rather that the short, sharp, sexy style Zoe wore. But the eyes, those long, topaz eyes, were the same.

  They pulled at him, as if they’d dug hooks into his heart.

  The three daughters radiated beauty, joy, innocence, in a world sumptuous with color and light. Yet, a closer look showed the hints of darkness to come.

  In the thick green forest was the shadowy shape of a man. Just slithering onto the bright tiles was the sinuous figure of a snake.

  In the corner, the sky was bruised with a brewing storm that the daughters were yet unaware of. And the lovers who embraced in the back
ground were too wrapped up in each other to sense the danger edging close to their charges.

  To look closer yet was to see the three keys worked cleverly into the painting. One, disguised in the shape of a bird, seemed to fly through the cerulean sky. Another hid itself within the lush green leaves of the forest. And the third reflected deep in the pool behind the daughters who were sharing their last moment of peace and innocence.

  He’d seen how they’d looked after the spell. White and still as death in the crystal coffins as Rowena had painted them.

  He’d bought that painting, titled After the Spell, months before he’d even come back to the Valley or known of this guest and these women. Been compelled to buy it, he thought now, as he’d fallen in love, or into fascination or obsession—he wished to God he knew—with Zoe’s face.

  “Two keys are found,” Rowena began. “Two locks are opened. Now there is but one.” She moved to stand under the portrait as she spoke, with the fire snapping gold and red flames behind her.

  “You agreed to this quest because you were curious, and you were each at a point where aspects of your life were unsettled and dissatisfying. And,” she added, “because you were paid. But you’ve continued to quest because you’re strong and you’re true. No one else, not in three millennia, has come so far.”

  “You’ve learned the power of art,” Pitte continued, and stepped over to join Rowena. “And the power of truth. The first two journeys bring you to the third.”

  “You have each other,” she said to the women. “And you have your men. Together you make a chain. You must not let him break it.” She stepped forward and spoke to Zoe as if they were alone in the room. “It is for you now. It was always for you to finish.”

  “For me?” Panic wanted to gush into her throat. “If that’s true, why did we pick before? With Mal and Dana?”

  “There must always be choice. Fate is the door, but you choose to walk through or turn away. Will you walk through?”

  Zoe looked up at the portrait, and nodded.

  “Then I’ll give you your map, your clue to the key, and pray that it guides you.” She walked over and took up a scroll.

  “Beauty and truth,” she read, “are lost without the courage to hold them. But one pair of hands can grip too hard, so that the precious slips through the fingers. Loss and pain, sorrow and will, blaze the rough path through the forest. Along the journey there is blood, and there is the death of innocence and the ghosts of what might have been.

  “Each time the path forks, it is faith that chooses the way or doubt that blocks it. Is it despair, or will it be joy? Can there be fulfillment without risk of loss? Will it be an end, or a beginning? Will you move into the light, or return to the dark?

  “There is one who stands on either side, with hands held out. Will you take one, the other, or close your hands in fists to hold what is already yours until it’s ground to dust?

  “Fear hunts, and its arrow strikes heart, mind, belly. Without tending, wounds fester, and scars too long ignored harden into shields that block the eyes from what needs most to be seen.

  “Where does the goddess stand, her sword in hand, willing to fight each battle in its time? Willing, too, to lay down the sword when the time comes for peace. Find her, know her power, her faith, and her valiant heart. For when you look on her at last, you will have the key to free her. And you will find it on a path where no door will ever be locked against you.”

  “Oh, boy.” Zoe pressed a hand to her stomach. “I can keep the paper, right? I’m never going to remember all that.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” She worked hard to keep her voice calm and even. “It sounded a little . . .”

  “Violent,” Dana put in.

  “Yeah, that.” Zoe felt better, considerably, when Dana’s hand came to rest on her shoulder. “But, it seemed, compared to the others, that my clue was more a lot of questions.”

  Rowena held out the scroll. “Answer them,” she said simply.

  WHEN they were alone, Pitte stood beside Rowena, studying the portrait.

  “He’ll come after her quickly,” Rowena said. “Won’t he?”

  “Yes. He’s had more time to study her, to learn her weaknesses, to understand her fears and her needs. He’ll use them against her.”

  “The boy is safe. Whatever we do, whatever it costs us, we must keep him so. He is a sweet boy, Pitte.”

  Hearing the pain, the longing in her voice, he drew her close. “He’ll be safe. Whatever the cost.” He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “He won’t touch the child.”

  She nodded and, turning her head, stared into the fire. “Will she trust, I wonder, as completely as I trust you? Can she, with all that has gone before, and all she has to risk?”

  “Everything comes down to the courage of one woman.” He tipped her head up, let his thumb graze her jawline. “If she has even a glimmer of yours, we will win this thing.”

  “She hasn’t had you. She’s had no one. They’ve all come to touch my heart, Pitte. I never expected to feel this . . .” She laid her fingers to her breast. “Attachment. But she most of all, brave little mother, she touches me.”

  “Then trust in her, and her army. They are . . . resourceful and clever. For mortals.”

  With that he made her laugh, and lifted her mood again. “Three thousand years among them, and still you find them a curiosity.”

  “Perhaps. But unlike Kane, I’ve learned to respect them—and never to underestimate a woman. Come.” He swept her up in his arms. “Let’s to bed.”

  LONG after she’d put Simon to bed, Zoe found dozens of things to occupy her around the house. Long after Simon stopped whispering to the dog, long after Zoe heard Moe clamber up on the bed and Simon’s desperately muffled laughter, she wandered around, looking for something to occupy her hands, her mind.

  Her quest started at sunrise, and she was afraid she was going to be awake to see it, and the day, begin.

  It was hardly her first sleepless night, she reminded herself. She had countless others to her credit. Nights Simon had been fussy, or sick. Nights she’d tossed and turned, worried about bills. Nights she’d filled with a dozen chores because the day simply hadn’t been long enough to get them finished.

  There had even been times she hadn’t been able to sleep because she was too happy to close her eyes. Her first night in this house, she remembered, she’d spent hours walking around, touching the walls, looking out the windows, making plans for all the work she wanted to do on it, to make a home for Simon.

  This was another big occasion, so there was no point in complaining about a few hours of lost sleep.

  At midnight she was still too restless to settle, and decided to indulge in a long, hot shower—one that wouldn’t be interrupted by a young boy wanting her attention.

  She hung her best sleep shirt, a poppy red one, on the back of the door, then lit one of the jar candles she’d made herself so the room would fill with fragrance as well as steam.

  Little rituals, she believed, set the tone for sleep.

  She soothed herself with the pulse of water, and the silky feel of the peach blossom shower gel she was considering as stock for her salon. She would let the clue roll around in her head, she decided, try to see it as a whole first. Then as pieces of the puzzle. One piece was bound to lodge itself, and she would pursue that until . . . until the next, she thought.

  Step by step, until she began to see the picture. A painting for Malory, a book for Dana. What did that leave for her? Shampoo and face cream? she wondered with a half laugh. Those were the kinds of things she knew. Those and what was important in a young boy’s world. She knew how to make things, she considered. How to build or transform.

  She was good with her hands, she reminded herself, and turned them under the water while she studied them. But what did any of that have to do with paths in a forest, or a goddess with a sword?

  A journey, she thought as she turned off the water. That had to be
a kind of symbol, as she’d never actually been anywhere. And that didn’t look to be changing anytime soon.

  Maybe it had to do with her coming to the Valley in the first place, or starting her business with Malory and Dana. Or, she mused as she toweled off, maybe it was just life.

  Her life? The daughters’ lives? It was something to work out, she decided as she smoothed peach-scented cream over her skin. Nothing all that interesting about her life, but nothing said it had to be. She recalled that Dana had taken specific words from her clue and worked with them. Maybe she would try that.

  The goddess with the sword—that was easy enough. Kyna had the sword, and Kyna was hers. But that didn’t explain how she was supposed to know her in order to find the key to free her.

  With a shake of her head, Zoe turned, glanced at the steamy mirror over the sink.

  Her hair was long, a spill of black over her shoulders that made her face look very, very pale. Her eyes were direct, intense, and golden. The mists, warm from the shower, drifted between Zoe and the glass, shimmered like a curtain as she lifted her hand to reach with fingers that trembled toward a reflection that wasn’t her own.

  For a moment, it seemed her fingers would pass through the curtain, through the glass, and touch flesh.

  Then she was standing, alone, in a steamy bathroom, her fingers pressed to the streaked mirror. And staring at her own face.

  Imagining things already, she thought, and let her hand fall. Projecting, that’s what it was called. Trying to see herself in the young goddess, and just tired and worked up enough to think she could. Another angle to consider, she decided. In the morning when her mind was sharper.

  She got into bed with her files, and went over her supply lists. For the salon, for the day spa she planned to attach to it. For the house itself.

  She toyed with some new ideas, made some notes, tried to concentrate.

  But the key and the clue kept winding back through her mind.

  A forest. There were lots of forests in the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania. Did it mean a literal forest, like with trees, or was it a metaphor?

  She wasn’t good with metaphors.

  Blood, what did the blood mean? Did it refer to Jordan’s blood when he’d been hurt? Or was it someone else’s? Was it hers?

  She’d certainly had her cuts and scrapes over the years. She’d sliced her thumb once, when she was, what, eleven? Cutting tomatoes for sandwiches. Her brother and sister had been fighting, and one of them had bumped her.

  The knife had cut right along the side of her thumb, from the tip past the knuckle, and the gash had bled like a fountain. She still had a scar, she mused, turning her thumb up to trace the faint line.

  But the scar wasn’t hard, and it certainly wasn’t any kind of shield. So that probably wasn’t it.

  Pain and loss and blood and despair. Christ, why did her clue have to be so depressing?

  She would just have to make the best of it, she decided, and picked up her notes again. She blinked when her vision started to blur, and slid into sleep with the light still burning.

  She dreamed of her blood, dripping steadily on a dull brown linoleum floor while children screamed around her.

  Chapter Three

  SHE overslept. Zoe couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that. Certainly not in the past decade. As a result, it was nearly ten by the time she arrived, boy and dog in tow, at Indulgence.

  She parked on the street, as the driveway was already loaded. Flynn’s car, Jordan’s. And one of Brad’s. He had two that she knew of, and probably more.

  She managed to snag Moe’s leash before he leaped out of the car, and with a mother’s skill for juggling, grabbed her purse and her cooler, controlled the dog, and kept a sharp eye on her son as she loaded everything up.

  “You keep a good hold of this dog,” she told Simon as she passed him the leash. “You make him mind you. We have to find out what Flynn wants to do about him today.”

  “He can stay with me. We can fool around out back.”

  “We’ll see. You go on, but stay where I can see you from the house until I get sorted out.”

 
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