VirtualHeaven (27 page)

He grinned and laughed. “You must have a hard time living in
the real world.”

“Yes,” she said.
So much so, I want to leave it.

The artist settled far too close to her on the tan couch.
“What made you decide to write this article?” he asked, stretching out his long
legs. Maggie imagined them encased in black leather and felt her body heat.

She averted her eyes and studied Pike’s Peak before
answering. “I have a friend who owns a video game store and subscribes to
Video
Game
magazine. When I read about your concern over the lack of respect
accorded romance illustrators, it piqued my interest.”

They ate in silence for a moment, or he ate—she just
arranged and rearranged the sections of her sandwich. Abruptly, he stood up,
stretching his long frame. The sight was torture.

“Why don’t you stop by tomorrow? I’m doing a final photo
shoot for
Tolemac Wars
. The very last one. We’ll be doing a final piece
that will be used on a home computer version that will be in the stores for
Christmas.”

Maggie jumped to her feet. “Yes. Thank you. I’d love to.
What time?” The last one? What did that mean? How would that affect the game?
She had to find out.

“Three o’clock?” He offered his hand. She took it. His
fingers clasped hers, and she remembered all the limes Kered had touched her
with love. She gave his hand a perfunctory shake and walked away to gather her
jacket and bag.

Maggie took a final look over her shoulder at Derek Townsend
as she left the room. Everything about him was hauntingly familiar, the way he
cocked his head, the way he unfolded from the chair. Her vision blurred with
tears, her head ached with confusion.

He was Kered.

And he was not.

Derek Townsend placed the lunch tray on the kitchen counter.
He put the dishes in the dishwasher. He wiped the tray, carefully placing it on
top of the refrigerator. The whole time he cleaned up, he frowned. When the kitchen
was practically hospital-sterile, he slumped at the round oak table in one
corner and propped his chin on his hand.

“Maggie O’Brien,’’ he mused aloud. Now he knew her name. He
had put her in the game. Or suggested her. Never had he felt such an uncontrollable
urge to hug someone. She needed hugging. Damn it, he needed hugging.

She acted almost frightened.

People often reacted strongly to him—ever since
kindergarten—but they never fainted. That’s what happens when your mother is
six feet tall and your father tops her by several inches.

He tipped the chair back on its legs, but when it creaked,
he thought better of it. He let it drop with a thump and whacked the table. If
Maggie O’Brien didn’t arrive for the photo shoot tomorrow, he’d go get her.
After all, he needed to know if she was just a woman with an undefined aura
that drew him, or if she was the woman he’d put in the game—the Shadow Woman—a
protectress, a warrior in her own right.

Consuela strolled in and sat down across from him. “Where’d
that sweet child go?”

“Back to her hotel,” Derek said. And maybe out of my life
forever, he thought.

“So, explain yourself. Poor child looked as if she’d lost
her best friend. And don’t make up some fairy tale. I clean the studio, you
know. You can turn pictures to the wall or bury them behind others, but
eventually they gotta be dusted.”

“Snooping doesn’t become you,” he said, rearranging the
sugar bowl with the salt and pepper shakers.

“All I know is you’ve painted that poor girl without her
clothes, yet you two acted like you’d never met. Never could understand why you
can’t just paint a nice bowl of fruit or a vase of flowers—”

“So you’ve said. Many times.” Derek grinned, then he
frowned. “Consuela, do you believe in ESP or pre-cognition or any of those
things?”

“I believe in the PTA and the CYO. What do you mean?” She
put the sugar and salt and pepper back where she liked them.

“Two years ago, I did a
Tolemac Wars
convention in
Santa Fe. I was browsing around the Palace of the Governors when I saw this
woman in the square.” He looked off into a distant place. He could almost feel
the heat of the sun coming off the buildings in waves. He did feel the same
intense jolt of knowledge he’d felt then. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“The woman fascinated me. I tried to discover her name. She wore a distinctive
piece of jewelry that I thought might identify her, but no luck.”

Derek took a deep breath. “I sketched the woman, and her
necklace, to help me remember. She stood in the square with two children,
twirling in a circle. The look of joy on her face…mesmerized me.” In fact, he’d
raced back to his room to commit her to paper. And had been drawing her ever
since.

“So, you had to come home and paint her all bare?” Consuela
said with disgust, then rose and attacked the already clean countertops.

“No, I did not paint her nude—then. I did sketch her,
though. It seemed important at the time to meet her, but I looked away for a
moment, and when I turned back, she was gone. She had disappeared. No one knew
her name. I lost sight of her—until today.”

Consuela paused, sponge in hand. “That’s mighty creepy.
How’d you come to paint those other paintings of her?”

“Dreams, Consuela. Dreams.”

Maggie stood in Derek Townsend’s doorway and gaped in disbelief.
The artist stood before the great glass windows garbed only in buff breeches
and high leather boots—and arm rings. His hair lay in a tangled mane about his
shoulders. His glasses were nowhere to be seen. Every inch of his bare arms and
naked chest were as she remembered. Her body reacted. She took a deep,
steadying breath.

Derek abruptly turned as if sensing her scrutiny and impaled
her with an intent look. He lifted a leather jerkin from the hand of a small
woman whom Maggie had not noticed before, so mesmerized had she been by Derek
Townsend’s near nakedness.

She felt the heat of embarrassment sear up her cheeks. “Hi.
Consuela told me to come on back.”

“Hi, yourself,” Derek said, slipping on the jerkin. He
belted it, concealing from her the opportunity to see if he, too, bore a
birthmark shaped like a sacred eight on his chest. She sidled near and perched
on the arm of the couch. “This won’t take long,” he said.

The photographer, a woman in her early forties, bustled
about the end of the room that had held the stacks of canvases Maggie had
abused the day before. Now the area was crowded with a white backdrop and what
appeared to be umbrellas on poles.

Fascinated, she watched as the photographer maneuvered Derek
Townsend around until he stood just as she wanted. It was like watching a Great
Dane being led about by a very small terrier. Six-foot-eight to
five-foot-nothing.

The photographer posed him as he had been in the poster.
Last, she slapped the sacred sword in his hand. Maggie itched to snatch it away
and examine it. Was it the real thing? Was it made of finely tempered steel
with a turquoise stone entwined in silver, or was it just a replica? The way
the photographer used two hands to heft the blade told her it weighed quite a
bit.

“Where’s your boot knife?” the photographer asked him.

Derek Townsend raked his hair back with one hand. “I can’t
find it. I’ve looked everywhere.”

The photographer swore. “Probably stolen by some groupie at
that convention in Denver.”

“It’s okay. I can scan it into the pictures,” the artist
said.

Maggie walked away. She opened the sliding door in the wall
of glass and stepped out onto the deck despite the chill in the air. She could
not watch the photo shoot. She had thought she could, but he was too close to the
real thing.

Derek Townsend’s house stood on a rise, isolated from his
neighbors, surrounded by aspens and juniper trees and the rocky terrain.

Eyes on the distant peaks, Maggie mourned. How colorless and
washed out the world now appeared. How frightening her future.

She had lain awake all night contemplating her options. She
could go home to her parents. They loved her. No matter how insane she might
sound to them, they would take her in. Without a good story to offer them in
explanation of her disappearance, however, she would face months of psychiatric
treatment. Her mother would see to it.

Another option was to go back to Ocean City. Maybe she’d
tell Gwen some tale of following video game conventions, panting after the
Tolemac warrior, and then suddenly coming to her senses.

Or she could say she’d had amnesia. After all, it worked in
soap operas and horror novels. Eventually, when the furor died down, there
would be another empty shop to rent, and she could settle into her old business
of making jewelry. She supposed she could make jewelry anywhere. Even here in
Colorado Springs. No. Derek Townsend was here. And Pike’s Peak would loom over
her life and taunt her.

Last, she could try to get back into the game.

The door slid open behind her. Maggie inched along the deck
until she stood at the corner, rubbing her arms with her hands to warm herself.

“What’s wrong?” Derek spoke close by her shoulder.

Maggie turned to face him.

He loomed over her. His leather jerkin, open to the waist,
reminded her quite well that she had lost her mind. “I have something to give
you,” she said, “and then I have to go.”

The chill wind rose and whipped his hair about his
shoulders. He was the quintessential Tolemac warrior. Her heart ached. Head
down, she stepped back into the house and went to her tote bag. She dug deep
into the bottom and pulled out the boot knife.

The photographer was gone. The house was still. The scent of
paint and leather filled her nostrils. Across the coffee table, its blade
gleaming in the afternoon sun, lay the sword. The turquoise stone in the hilt
echoed that of her pendant, which was still in Tolemac, under Kered’s bed.

Maggie skimmed her fingers along the blade before turning to
the doors. He waited there, leaning back against the deck railing, as out of
place in Colorado Springs in his medieval garb as she had been on Nilrem’s Hart
Fell.

She extended her hand. “This is yours.”

He pushed off the railing and stood staring at her
outstretched palm.

Maggie memorized his face. She wouldn’t see it again. He
took a tentative step toward her, but did not move to take the knife. “Here,”
she said, nearly shouting. “Take it.” She jerked the blade from its sheath and
thrust it at him.

His hand closed over hers, imprisoning it about the hilt. A
fierce and powerful surge of energy ran through her arm. Pain and flames licked
up to her shoulder and coursed along her spine. Her hand felt fused to the
metal and his flesh.

In agony, she fell against him, her hand engulfed in his,
metal burning palm to palm.

The knife fell with a clang to the deck. Derek wrapped his
arms about her and held her tightly against his chest. Her arm hung limply at
her side; her whole body quivered against his. Heat ran from his hands and arms
along her spine and back. The air sang with energy. The smell of ozone filled
the air.

He lifted her chin with one hand, his breath warm on her
face. His lips touched hers. Maggie’s mind rebelled. Gasping, hand cradled to
her chest, she shoved herself away from him. “No, don’t,” she said, panting.
She reeled away to grip the deck railing. She could not look at him. Her mind
churned with the knowledge that when he’d touched his mouth to hers, the taste
of him had been one she craved.

Kered’s taste.

He shook his head as if waking from a trance, then took a
deep breath.

“No. Don’t speak,” she practically shrieked at him. “I know
I’m crazy. Just let me go,” she begged when he moved in her direction.

“You’re not crazy. Now stand still.”

The imperious tone of his voice made her stop.

“Pick up the knife,” he ordered.

She shook her head and edged away from him.

“Pick it up.” He softened his tone and took another step in
her direction. The wind had died. They seemed to be standing in a pool of heat.
The bright sun gilded his hair. The sight of him, and the gentle tone of his
voice, made her look at the knife where it lay on the deck. She knelt and
studied it. It looked no different. He crouched next to her. He linked his
fingers with hers and, hands joined, placed their fingers on the knife.

Her body sang with a pulse of sensation. She swayed and
collapsed into his arms. He held her tightly against him, then lifted her and
carried her into the sun-flooded studio. He placed her on the couch and knelt
beside her. Her eyes watched him with wary fear. Gently, he combed her hair
from her eyes. “You’re not crazy. And if you are, so am I.”

Derek watched Maggie close her eyes. Her tongue licked over
her lips.

“If I tell you what’s going through my mind, you’ll call the
police,” she whispered.

“Open your eyes, Maggie, and look at me.” She did as he
asked. He shoved the Tolemac sword aside and picked up his glasses and put them
on. “There’s no one here but you and me. I say we tell each other fantastic
stories over tea. Later, if you feel the need, you can deny every word you
said.”

An hour later, Derek Townsend sat across from Maggie, once
again garbed in his jeans and a flannel shirt. He was numb. He took a final
swallow of cold tea and carefully placed his mug on the coffee table. He
cleared his throat. “I guess it’s my turn for telling tales.”

“I don’t suppose you can top mine,” she said.

She sat on his couch, feet tucked up under her, hair in a
tidy braid over one shoulder. He wanted to undo the orderly plait and spread
her hair over her shoulder and breast. “Actually, I think I can,” he said.

“I’m all ears.” Her tone had turned impish, but her eyes
were wary. It was as if telling him her tales of being lost in the
Tolemac
Wars
game for about a year had cleansed her of something. She seemed almost
lighthearted. But the wariness told him she did not trust him. And why should
she?

He rose and paced the long length of his studio. “I haven’t
shared what I’m going to tell you with anyone since I was about seven years
old. I told it once and my father brought in the head doctors.”

Maggie nodded. Her silence encouraged him.

“I had a friend once. We were quite the little swordsmen. We
were always battling some evil knight or other in our games. This was in
England, by the way. We were visiting my mum’s family at the time. My friend
was a boy of five from down the lane. We had a lot in common because his father
was an American serviceman like mine. Well, one day, while playing our game, we
decided to lay siege to this old cottage filled with rubbish. His mum had
warned us away from the abandoned cottage, but you know small boys…”

He sat at Maggie’s side and leaned his head back and closed
his eyes. “Armed with our swords, we attacked. Inside we found a pile of
junk—metal, coils, an assortment of what looked like radio parts. A mountain of
fun for small boys. I don’t remember, or
won’t
remember, what happened
next.” He took a deep breath. “I only know that my friend disappeared. We had
been holding hands and jumping about on the rubbish when he tripped and…and
suddenly he was gone. I could feel his hand in mine, but he wasn’t there. Then
my arm disappeared.” He met her eyes as an old, familiar grief filled him. “I
did something I’ve been ashamed of all these years. I let go of my friend’s
hand.”

She touched his knee.

He warily covered her hand. No power surge, no shock, no
sear of desire swept up his arm. He felt only a warm wash of comfort. “I woke
up in my bedroom. My father told me my friend was missing. The police
questioned me over and over. It was quite a sensational case. I told my father
what had happened and, of course, I was sent to a psychiatrist. I learned the
value of silence there.

“I still have clippings from the case. My friend was never
found. I know where he went, but after a while, I stopped talking about it.”

Her fingers were warm and soft. He savored the feel of her
hand lying trustingly in his. How long had it been since he had trusted someone
enough to confide? “I started dreaming that same night. Now, I live one life by
day and another by night.” He lifted his head and met her gaze. “You’re part of
my night.”

Derek Townsend devoured a mountain of chili. Consuela had
cooked, served, and disappeared. Outside, the night sky was ink black. The
house was quiet, warm, and scented with spices and corn bread. Later, he’d
regret the spicy meal, but for now, he savored every moment it gave him to
observe Maggie O’Brien. The longer the meal lasted, the longer she would stay.
She rose and fetched them each another bottle of beer.

“What are we going to do about our ‘tales’?” she asked. “If
what you say is true, you think you’re Kered. Or part Kered.” Her eyes and
words challenged him.

“I don’t know what’s true. But I want to find out.” He
ignored the glass she had given him and drank directly from the long-necked
bottle. “I no longer know whether I’m drawn to the places I paint because they
remind me of Tolemac, or if I draw Tolemac like my favorite places.”

Maggie picked at her bowl of chili. “I’ve been there.
They’re the same…but different.”

He reached across the table and touched the sheathed knife
that lay between their bowls. “I knew you were no figment of my imagination
when you corrected my drawings. I was deliberately changing the color values.
You noted each time I got it wrong.”

She nodded, her eyes watching his long fingers trace the
edges of the knife sheath.

“No matter how sure you are that something exists,” he
continued, “if you can’t access it, I guess it doesn’t exist.”

“You can access it.” A drop of water falling from the
kitchen faucet rang in the silence that followed her words.

Derek cleared his throat. His heart thumped in his chest.
“I’ll have heartburn after this.” He rose and carried the empty bowls to the
sink, concealing his emotion with activity. He rinsed the dishes and stacked
them in the dishwasher. His hands were shaking.

He desperately needed to know if he was mad. He’d spent
almost his whole life unsure. He’d spent over twenty years in steadfast
silence, broken only this night, with this woman. To know, to understand, would
mean the bringing together of his fragmented life. He swallowed and nailed her
with his gaze. “How can you access Tolemac?”

She frowned. “I’m not sure of how it works—or not
completely. There was a lunar conjunction in Tolemac when I arrived. And when I
left. I know that there needs to be a storm. Or possibly the game needs the
boost of energy from a storm.”

Derek leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed his
arms on his chest. He grinned. “There’s bad weather on the way.”