Нора Робертс - Key Of Valor

"My friends—"

"Friendship? Another mortal delusion, and as false as luck. They'll desert you when you fail, and fail you will. A hand such as yours was never meant to turn the key."

His voice was soothing now as he straightened, as he stepped closer with the amulet swinging, swinging, a glittering pendulum. "I feel some sympathy for you. Enough to offer you some compensation. What, of the things Rowena and Pitte have so carelessly pushed into your life, would you like to keep? Your little business, this house, the man? Choose one, and I'll grant it to you."

He was hypnotizing her. She could feel herself drifting under, feel the mists crawling over her skin. So very, very cold. It would be so easy to slide down into those crooning promises, to take something . Her hands felt stiff and icy and useless, but she balled them into fists until she felt the prick of her nails biting into her palms.

With one vicious effort she tore her gaze from the pendant and looked into his face. "You're a liar." Her breath heaved out, ripped painfully from her lungs as she staggered to her feet. "You're a liar and a cheat."

He knocked her back. Though she didn't see the blow, she felt it like a strike of jagged ice across her face. Without thought, riding on temper, she leaped forward and raked her nails down his.

She saw the shock—one instant of utter disbelief that flashed into his eyes. She saw blood bloom in the grooves she'd sliced in his skin.

Then she was slammed back against the wall of the house, pinned there by a wild surge of wind so cold she saw crystals of ice, black as onyx, swirling through it.

And he stood, huge in his billowing black robes, with blood on his face. "I could kill you with a thought ."

No, he can't, he can't. Or he would have. He's a liar, she reminded herself frantically. And a bully. But he could hurt her, God, he could hurt her. And she felt the pain, tearing and bright, in her chest.

"Go back to hell!" she shouted at him. "You're not welcome here."

"When this is done, you will lose all. And I'll add your soul to my winnings."

As if a switch had been flipped, the wind died. Zoe fell forward on her hands and knees, gasping for breath, shuddering in shock.

She stared, baffled, at the wood of the deck and struggled to clear her mind. When she lifted her head she saw the night had turned into soft, misty morning. Through the dawn haze, at the verge of the trees, stood a buck with a coat that seemed to gleam gold. The jeweled collar around his neck shot fire through the mist, and his eyes burned green fire.

Those mists drew together, like a curtain, and when they parted again, he was gone.

"I'm not done." She spoke aloud for the comfort of her own voice. Kane had tricked her out of time, hours of precious time, but she wasn't done.

And when she got to her feet, she looked down at her hands, saw there was blood on them.

His blood.

"I hurt him. I hurt the son of a bitch."

Tears tracked down her cheeks as she stumbled toward the house. Her vision wavered. She thought she heard someone shouting, a threatening growl, a slam. Shapes and sounds melted together into one dark void.

While the mist smoked across the deck, it slithered over the bed where Brad slept. Chilled him. Trapped him. He turned in his sleep, reached out for warmth and comfort. Reached for Zoe.

But he was alone.

In the dark. The forest was dank with rot and alive with a bitter wind. He couldn't see the path, only the monstrous shapes of the trees, gnarled and twisted into nightmares. The thorns from wild briars ripped at his flesh, bit into his hands like greedy teeth.

He could smell his own blood, his own panic sweat. And something wilder.

He was being hunted.

There was sly movement in the brush, shadows. Not just hunted, he thought as he fought his way clear of the briars. Taunted. Whatever it was wanted his fear as much as it wanted his death.

He had to get out, get away, before what stalked him tired of the game. When it did, it would leap out and tear him to pieces.

Save yourself. There was a whisper in his brain, soft, soothing, as he stumbled into a clearing. This is not your fight. Go home .

Of course. That was it. He should go home. Dazed, disoriented, he stumbled toward a faint glow of light. Began to run toward it as he heard the howl of the predator behind him.

The glow was a door, and Brad's breath shuddered out in relief as he sprinted toward it. He would make it. He had to make it. He wrenched the door open even as he felt the hot breath of what pursued him at the back of his neck.

Light showered through the dark. And color, and movement. He stood in the doorway of his New York offices, his breath heaving from the run. Blood from his wounded hands fell onto the polished oak of the floor.

Through the wide triple windows, he saw the skyline, all those gleaming spears that rose into the morning sky.

A young blonde in a sharp black suit walked by, shot him a sunny smile. "Welcome back, Mr. Vane."

"Yes." His lips felt stiff. Why was it so cold in here? "Thanks."

Michael, his assistant, hurried up to him. He wore red suspenders over a blue shirt and carried a thick appointment book. "I have your schedule for the day, Mr. Vane. Coffee's on your desk. We'd better get started."

"I should…" He could smell the coffee, and Michael's aftershave. He heard a phone ringing. Confused, he lifted his hand, watched the blood drip from the puncture in his palm. "I'm bleeding."

"Oh, we'll take care of that. You just need to come in. All the way in."

"No." He swayed. Nausea roiled in his belly, sweat poured down his face with the effort. "I don't." Gripping the doorjamb for balance, he looked behind him, and into the dark. "This isn't real. This is just more bull—"

He broke off as he heard Zoe scream.

Whirling, he shoved away from the door.

"You'll die out there," Michael shouted after him, seconds before the door slammed. A bullet shot.

Brad plunged into the dark, calling for Zoe. He couldn't see, though he tore frantically through briars, he couldn't see anything but that unrelieved veil of black.

He couldn't find her, would never find her. And what was in the dark would kill them both because he hadn't held on to her.

She only wants your money. A rich father for her bastard son.

"That is such crap." Exhausted, sick, he fell to his knees. He was letting himself get roped in, letting himself believe the lies.

It had to stop.

He threw back his head, bunched his fists. "It's not real. It's not happening. Goddamn it, I am home. And so is she."

He woke, gulping in air, with the last tendrils of the mist fading and Moe standing on the foot of the bed, snarling like a wolf.

"Okay, boy. Christ." Still a little shaken, he started to reach out for the dog, but felt the pain shudder through his hand. Turning it over, he saw the blood smeared on his palm, welling fresh from several punctures. "Well, some of it was real."

On a long breath, he shoved his bloodied hand through his hair. And the next instant was leaping out of bed. Zoe . If the blood was real, her screams might be.

He raced to her room, threw open the door. In the soft morning light he could that see her bed hadn't been slept in. Pushed by panic, he whirled to Simon's room, shuddered with relief when he saw the boy curled up with the puppy.

"Stay with him." Brad ordered Moe into the room. "You stay with him," he repeated, then tore downstairs to look for Zoe.

Shouting for her now, he burst into the great room just in time to see her stumble in from the deck.

* * *

When she opened her eyes, Zoe saw Brad's face, pale, with his hair tousled around it.

"You need a haircut," she mumbled.

"Christ Jesus, Zoe." He gripped her hand hard enough to rub bone against bone. "What the hell were you doing outside? What happened? No, quiet." He snapped himself back from the line of utter terror. "Lie still. I'll get you some water."

He hurried to the kitchen, filled a glass, then just braced his hands on the counter while he fought to steady his pulse.

Ordering himself to take slow, deep breaths, he washed the blood off his hands, then picked up the glass of water and went back to her.

She was sitting up now, and the color was back in her cheeks. He'd never seen anyone so white as she'd been when she'd come through that doorway.

"Take it easy," he ordered. "Sip slowly."

She nodded, though it was hard to obey when her throat was on fire. "I'm okay."

"You're not okay." He didn't shout it, but there was a slapping edge to his voice. "You fainted. You've got a bruise on your face and blood on your hands. You're not fucking okay."

It was amazing how he did that, she thought. How he never raised his voice, but managed to have the temper and the authority crush you into dust.

"It's not my blood. It's his." It steadied her to see it again. To know what she'd done. "I scratched his goddamn face. I have good, strong nails, and I tore that bastard's cheeks open with them. It felt great."

She handed Brad the empty glass, and because she thought they both could use it, kissed his cheek. "I'm sorry I scared you. I was… oh!" On a sound of distress, she snatched his hand. "You're all scratched and cut."

"I had a little adventure in the woods while you were… whatever you were doing." "He worked on both of us," Zoe said softly. "But we're here, we're right here, aren't we?" She lifted his wounded hand to her lips. "Let's go clean up these cuts, and you'll tell me what happened to you. I'll tell you what happened to me, but first I want you to know something."

She took his face in her hands, looked into his eyes. "I want you to know it's going to be all right. Everything's going to be all right. Let's go in the kitchen. I want to wash my hands, bandage yours, and make some coffee."

She drew a breath and got to her feet. Her legs were steady, she noted with some pride. And her mind was set. "We'll talk about the rest while I work."

"Work?"

"I've got a turkey to stuff."

"I don't know how you can be so calm." Malory washed fresh cranberries at the kitchen sink.

"Oh, I've roasted turkeys before." Zoe shot a grin over her shoulder and continued to prepare the yams.

"I don't know how she can be such a smart-ass," Dana commented, scowling at the mountain of potatoes she had yet to peel. "You'd think a pissing match with an evil sorcerer god, a fainting spell, and cooking for an army would spoil her mood, but oh, no, our Zoe's in some form today."

"It's Thanksgiving."

"Which forces me to broach the question." Dana frowned at her paring knife. "Why are the three of us doing all the work in here while the men laze around like kings?"

"I wanted the three of us to be alone for a while," Zoe told Dana. "This was the simplest way."

Dana set another potato aside. "So you say."

"And Bradley watching me like a hawk makes me nervous."

"A man's entitled when you swoon into his arms," Malory pointed out.

"I don't blame him. It's interesting, too, that he was there to catch me. Don't you think? Romantic, I guess, but interesting, too. He's upstairs asleep, and I'm out there for—I don't know how long. Hours. It felt like minutes, but it was hours."

She glanced toward the doorway to make certain no one was hovering. "Then he's not just asleep—Kane's got him running around in the dark, getting his hands all cut up. He tried to get him to go back to New York in his head, where everything's ordered, everything's normal."

"But he didn't do it." Malory set the strainer of cranberries in the sink. "At the threshold—a moment of decision, and he made his choice."

"He made it, and so did I when I ripped Kane's face. Those are decisions we can both feel pretty damn good about today."

"Wished I'd seen you do it." Dana attacked the potatoes again. "My one regret."

"It was great," Zoe assured her. "I don't know when I've done anything that's made me feel that powerful. But anyway, after all that, Bradley gets downstairs just in time to keep me from falling flat on my face."

Zoe brought her knife down with a thunk. "Kane tried to keep him away, to trap him in that illusion."