The Sword And The Pen (15 page)

Across from him, Wanda fidgeted. He studied her. Though a bit more rounded, with a few extra lines around her mouth and eyes, at thirty-two she didn't look much different from when they'd met and married so many years ago.

Shy and reclusive by nature, he'd been attracted to her zest for life, her ability to charm people. What attracted her in return he'd never been quite sure. They mixed like the proverbial oil and water. He'd hoped being with her would help him blend into the world better; instead, her demands had driven him deeper into himself.

Now he knew her cotton candy looks, her helpless-little-me act and scatterbrained behavior hid a cunning little cat, too. She used her childlike demeanor to fool people and get what she wanted from life. But in marrying him, she'd miscalculated. He regretted he wasn't capable of giving what she needed. He pitied her for that.

He finally picked up and read the papers she kept shoving in front of him. Every remnant of peace drained away. The day went from bad to worse.

"Married! We're still married?" Panic-induced sweat beaded his upper lip.

"Just until you sign the papers," she soothed, then went on in a breathless rush. "It's not that bad. Nothing else changes." She wrapped his numb fingers around a pen and guided his hand to the paper. "Just sign. Please."

As much as he wanted to dash his signature off and have her gone from his life, he hesitated. Why was she in such a hurry? She never did anything without a reason. "What's going on, Wanda?"

To his horror, she burst into tears. "I'm getting m-married n-next week," she explained between heaving sobs. "Daniel d-doesn't know about the mix-up with the p-papers. He already thinks I'm s-scatterbrained."

Brandon had to agree with Daniel's assessment. Despite her deviousness, he sometimes wondered how the woman managed to breathe and walk at the same time. She was an odd mix of traits.

"And I'm p-pregnant," she wailed.

Muffin started to bark. The kittens in Brandon's lap woke with a hiss. Tiny claws dug into him as the beasts climbed up his chest. He grabbed one cat in each hand. Without a word, Seri carefully put down her cup and slipped out of the room.

Hillary rushed in from the other room to Wanda's side. "What did you do to her?" she barked.

Great. At some point during the night, the two women had bonded. He deposited both kittens under the table where they proceeded to try and climb up his leg again. Wincing at the prick of their claws, with one hand he tried to shoo them off, and with the other he scribbled his signature on the provided forms then thrust them into Wanda's hands.

"Oh, thank you, Brandon!" She hurried to his side and enveloped him in a quick hug. The cloying scent of her sweet perfume tickled his nose, making him long for the clean scent of woman and leather that clung to Seri. He wondered how he'd ever fallen for his ex.

"You're welcome. And congratulations." He sneezed and grimaced as the kittens made it up into his lap. Muffin bounced around his legs, yapping.

"This is such a weight off my mind." Wanda gathered the papers to her chest. "I was so afraid Daniel would want to postpone the wedding if he found out."

Brandon shook his head in disbelief. "I'm no marriage counselor, but I think you might want to tell him the truth."

"Thank you again. You're a life saver." She didn't respond to his suggestion. "Goodbye."

Typical Wanda, once she had what she wanted, she left.

After she was gone, Brandon turned to meet Hillary's glare. "What?" he asked in confusion.

She stood, arms crossed over her chest, her high-heel clad foot tapping an incessant rhythm. She sniffed. Muffin nipped at Brandon's foot.

"Hell! Okay, okay! I'll be in my office, writing."

*** *** ***

I watched Brandon's bondmate--no, former bondmate, I reminded myself--leave. After the roar of her vehicle faded, the older woman, Hillary, stomped into the living room and plopped down on the sofa. Her little canid jumped into her lap and bared its teeth at me before curling up for a nap.

"Men. I'll never understand them." Hillary's tone indicated disgust. "Brandon thought he was divorced from Wanda and claimed he was happy about it. Now, when she arrives here asking him to sign a few papers to validate that divorce, he hesitates. What's with that?"

I understood none of her logic. The concept of dissolving a marriage outside of death made me uncomfortable, as I suspected it did Brandon. Else, why would he have made it impossible in the world he created?

His release from Wanda could mean nothing to me, either. I wasn't free to claim him. Nonetheless, I couldn't deny my relief that he was no longer bound to another woman.

*** *** ***

Brandon hung up the phone. The conversation with Sam had been easier than he feared, as if the time they hadn't spoken had been days rather than years. Brandon acknowledged the ease between them was Sam's doing rather than his. After talking with his old buddy, Brandon wondered why he'd let the friendship lapse.

Either way, he'd given Sam all the information he had about Seri--which, granted, wasn't much--and Sam had promised to get right on it. Until then, as he'd told Hillary, Brandon decided to finish up his last Warrior Woman book.

He slipped upstairs to his office. Though he wasn't one hundred percent happy with the story, to get Hillary out of his hair and house and back to New York, he'd turn it in as written. He'd deal with revisions and edits later, when and if his life reverted to normal.

After he forced himself to separate Serilda from Seri in his mind, the words began to flow; his writer's block had dissolved. He let the real world fade away and he immersed himself in the final, deadly confrontation between Serilda d'Lar and Andre Roark.

As his fingers flew over the keyboard, he saw the bodies. Tasted the blood. Smelled the death. Heard the screams. Felt the pain. Tears of rage and grief streamed unnoticed down his cheeks.

Pulling her sword, Serilda stepped forward into the tempest. The hidden entrance at the back of the castle opened onto a narrow ledge overlooking a deep chasm. Icy rain lashed her cheeks, freezing her hot tears, but couldn't cool the rage burning inside her.

Mauri lay dying. The girl's innocent blood stained Serilda's sword, but Roark's evil was the cause. She'd taken the girl's life, but Roark had stolen her soul. Now he'd pay.

Lightning flashed. She saw Roark creeping along the castle wall, away from the edge of the cliff.

"Stand and face me, coward!" Against the roar of thunder and the pounding of the rain, her shout was no more audible than a whisper.

Sword in hand, Roark whirled. The wind whipped away his answer. Unmindful of the dangerous footing, she surged forward.

He met her attack. Metal clanged against metal, blade against blade. Sparks flew into the night. Long, breathless minutes passed as they fought their way down the edge of the narrow ledge. One wrong step and they'd tumble into the blackness below.

Serilda lunged. Swords crossed above their heads, and their bodies collided.

"Did you think I'd let you escape my justice?" she snarled in his ear.

With a laugh, he wrenched free. Metal screeched as their swords scraped apart. She circled, looking for an opening. Her feet danced along the slippery rock.

"I had confidence you'd follow." He gripped his sword in both hands and moved in concert with her attack.

"Before you die, tell me why?"

"Why what, daughter?"

At the reminder that his blood flowed like acid through her veins, she swallowed in disgust and pressed forward, testing his defense.

He countered her blows. The impact ran through her arms. She staggered back.

"The question is not why, but 'why not?'"

She wiped the rain from her eyes. Or was it tears? "You were the king's most trusted advisor, his friend and confidant. You had wealth, status, power. His love. Anything you wanted was yours."

Roark shook his head. "It wasn't enough. The people worshipped him like a god when he was just a man. He had more than he deserved--what I deserved. And I had the ability, so I took it."

"You're a fool. You betrayed and killed the royal family, and in the end it gained you nothing. When the people learned of your treachery they turned against you."

Above the pounding rain and behind her, she heard the clatter of boots, but she didn't dare turn to look if friend or foe approached; Roark would seize such an advantage and make her pay.

Her enemy glanced over her shoulder, but his face revealed nothing. "I wanted you to reign at my side, daughter. But your misplaced loyalty to a dead king makes that impossible. When you're gone, the people's last hope will fade. They'll return and swear me allegiance."

"My death wouldn't secure their love, only their fear and loathing. But when you're dead, and when the heir to the throne is found, peace and prosperity will return to Barue."

His chuckle chilled her. "Without me, you'll never find him."

"Who is he? Where is he? Tell me and I'll allow you to live."

As she took a step forward, her feet slid on the slick stone. She struggled to regain her balance. Her sword dipped. Roark lunged.

"No!"

Serilda heard Donoval's anguished cry from behind her. She looked down. Roark's sword protruded from her chest. Funny, but she felt nothing more than a slight pressure. Her fingers went numb. Her sword slipped from her hand to the stone wall as she struggled to maintain her balance.

Roark gripped her shoulder and pulled her close, forcing his blade through her to the hilt. Pain stole her breath while his blew warm across her icy cheek. His eyes blazed with triumph--and something more. Surprised, Serilda recognized it as regret.

Over his shoulder she saw Donoval, sword raised, rushing toward them.

Too late, my love, she mouthed. He shook his head in denial, and tried to increase his speed across the treacherous ledge.

She turned her gaze back to Roark and rasped, "Tell me who he is." As her life drained away, and with the last of her strength she curled her fingers around his upper arms.

"Your dying request? Of course, daughter."

"Who?"

"Young Jole."

In the silence after a peal of thunder, Roark's voice sounded loud and clear. For a brief moment, pleasure wiped away pain and sorrow. Serilda looked up and met Donoval's gaze. His hair whipped around his face. Yards still separated them, but he'd heard. And he knew what she intended.

A sense of peace came over her. Though she'd never trusted Donoval with her heart, she trusted him with everything else--most especially, to see to the welfare of Barue and its rightful young king.

Roark let go of her shoulder and tried to step back, but she held him fast. Her legs buckled, and she swayed toward the ledge.

Panic flared in Roark's eyes. He struggled to pry her fingers loose. "What are you doing? Let me go!"

Even as the world faded from view, she smiled. "I think not, Father." And she folded Roark into her embrace and leaned into nothingness.

"Serilda! No!" Over the thunder, Donoval's cry echoed through the night. It was the last word she heard.

Drained of energy, Brandon leaned back in his chair. It was done. Finished. Ended. The book and the series. And he knew it was good. Powerful.

So, why did it feel wrong?

*** *** ***

Brandon had left to meet with his friend in a place called Chicago--he'd given me a strange look and explained something had come up expectedly--and Hillary, manuscript in hand, had departed smiling. Alone in the house, I let my feet take me toward Brandon's office. I peeked in. He'd never said anything about the damage I'd caused, and the desk had been straightened.

The still, humid air that filled the house, heavy with the promise of more rain, matched my mood. Though it wasn't necessary to wear my sword here, I found comfort having a piece of my world on my hip. I knew what I needed to do, what I'd been considering for a while now, but my nerve nearly failed me as I approached the office bookshelves. I reached out and picked out a volume, and settling into Brandon's chair I began to read. In moments I was transported back to my world--at least, in my mind; my body remained tenaciously planted in Brandon's reality.

Word by word, I relived the horror of my siblings and parents' murders, the senseless destruction of the gentle monks, my vows of vengeance against Roark, my warrior training, my love affair with Donoval. Against my will I re-experienced every emotion, every sensation. On and on it went until my heart, which I'd believed no longer capable of feeling, seemed to tear apart inside me.

And still, I read. I no longer wondered at Brandon's magic with words, how he'd brought me to life. I read it on the page. He'd captured my isolation, my anguish, my rage, my fear.

Hours passed. The light outside faded to dusk. With each page I felt myself being sucked back into my world, growing less anchored in Brandon's reality. This was what I'd hoped for, what I wanted.

As I finished the sixth book, the weather reflected my churning emotions. Windblown rain battered the windows. Lightning streaked through rolling black clouds. Thunder growled across the sky.

Yet, nothing I'd read was new to me. I'd lived it all. Felt it all. And my body clung stubbornly to this existence, to hope.

There had to be more. What came next? I had to know. Maybe this would be what I sought.

Beside the board with the keys sat my answer. A stack of paper with neatly printed words beckoned me. The top page read:

This was what Brandon was working on. My hand trembled as I reached for those pages. My future, my fate lay in the words printed there. Did I have the courage to read them? To know? To leave this world and experience my fate for the sake of those I loved? To leave Brandon?

I read--and learned why Roark hadn't killed me along with my family when I was a child. Why my mother and father hadn't been able to love me. Why Roark had tried so hard to force me to his side. The pages fell to my lap. The answer broke the heart I'd believed I no longer had: Andre Roark was my father. I was his child from the rape of my mother.