"You still got Dana's on your balls?"
Jordan winced. "Tit for tat there. Question. Does that painting look as much like the other two as it does like Dana?"
"Oh, yeah," Flynn told him. "Different dos, but the faces are dead on."
"No question as to the age on it, Brad?"
"None."
Jordan sat silent a moment, nursing his drink, studying Dana's face. So still, so pale, so empty. "Okay, I'll take a side step out of logic and into the zone. There are six of us and three keys. And what, just over two weeks left to find the first one?" He reached for the bottle again. "It'll be a snap."
Beyond the puzzle to be solved, Flynn thought, it was good to have his friends back. Good to know even as he crawled into bed in the early hours of the morning that Jordan was crawling onto the mattress in the spare room. And Brad was already zonked out on the sofa downstairs, guarded by Moe.
It had always seemed to him that there'd been nothing they couldn't do together. Whether it had been fighting off imaginary alien invaders, learning how to unhook a girl's bra one-handed, or driving cross-country in a secondhand Buick. They'd always come through for each other.
When Jordan's mother had died, both he and Brad had been there, holding vigil during those endless nights at the hospital.
When Lily had dumped him, the one constant Flynn had been sure of was his friends.
Through good times and not so good times, he thought sentimentally, they'd been there for each other. Physical distance never meant a damn.
But it was better, a hell of a lot better, to have them here. Since they were, the first key was practically in the lock.
He closed his eyes and instantly fell asleep.
The house was dark, and bitterly cold. He could see his breath puff out in thin white vapors as he wandered aimlessly down dark corridors that turned, that twisted. There was a storm blasting, a crash and boom that shook the air and shot out fast, angry light, zigzagging in the dark.
In the dream he knew he walked the halls of Warrior's Peak. Though he could barely see, he recognized it and knew the turn of the corridor, the feel of the wall under his trailing fingers. Though he had never walked there before.
He could see the rain whipping outside the second-story window, could see the way it glowed blue in the lightning strikes. And he saw the ghost of his own face blurry in the glass.
He called out, and his voice echoed. On and on, like a rolling wave. There was no one to answer. And yet he knew he wasn't alone.
Something walked those halls with him. Lurking just behind. Out of sight, out of reach. Something dark that pushed him on, up the stairs.
Fear tripped into his heart.
Doors lined the corridor, but all of them were locked. He tried each one, turning, tugging the knob with fingers gone stiff with cold.
Whatever stalked him crept closer. He could hear it breathe now, horrible, somehow liquid pulls on the air that merged with his own rapid panting.
He had to get out, get away. So he began to run, loping through the storm-slashed dark while what pursued him followed, with rapid clicks on the wood like eager claws.
He burst out onto a parapet, into the storm where lightning speared down and set the stone to smoking. The air burned and froze, and the rain pelted him like shards of glass.
With nowhere left to run, with fear a cold snake crawling in his belly, he turned to fight.
But the shadow was so huge, so close. It covered him before he could raise his fists. The cold tore through him, drove him to his knees.
He felt something ripped from him—wild, unspeakable pain, dull, shocking horror. And knew it was his soul.
Flynn woke, shuddering with cold, clammy with the dregs of terror, and with the sun pouring in onto his face.
Struggling for breath, he sat up. He'd had his share of nightmares, but never one this intense. Never one where he'd actually felt pain.
Could still feel it, he thought as he gritted his teeth against the sharp stabs in his chest and belly.
He tried to tell himself it was the combination of pizza and whiskey and late night. But he didn't believe it.
As the pain dulled, he slid gingerly out of bed, walked as cautiously as an old man to the bathroom, and turned the shower on hot. He was freezing.
He reached up to swing open the mirrored medicine cabinet for aspirin and caught a glimpse of his face.
The pallor of his skin, the glassy edge of shock in his eyes, were bad enough. But they were nothing compared to the rest.
He was soaking wet. His hair was drenched, his skin beaded with water. Like a man who'd been out in a storm, he thought, and lowered himself to the seat of the toilet as his legs gave way.
Not just a nightmare. He'd been inside Warrior's Peak. He'd been out on the parapet. And he hadn't been alone.
This was more than a quest for magic keys. More than a puzzle to be solved with the promise of a pot of gold at the end.
There was something else here. Something powerful. Dark and powerful.
He was going to find out what the hell was going on before any of them got in any deeper.
He stepped into the shower and let the hot water beat on him until it penetrated the chill in his bones. Then, calmer, he downed some aspirin, pulled his sweatpants on.
He would go down and make coffee, then he'd be able to think. Once his head was clear, he would roust both of his friends and get their take.
Maybe it was time for the three of them to go up to Warrior's Peak and get the truth out of Rowena and Pitte.
He was halfway down when the bell rang, and Moe raced out barking like the hounds of hell on speed.
"Okay, okay. Shut up." Johnnie Walker hadn't given Flynn a hangover, but the nightmare had stepped up to the plate and knocked one home. He grabbed Moe by the collar, yanked back as he pulled the door open with his other hand.
She looked like a sunbeam. It was his only clear thought as he stared at Malory. Dressed in a pretty blue suit that showed off her legs, she smiled at him. Then stepped forward, wrapped her arms around him.
"Good morning," she said, and by pressing her lips to his drained even that single thought out of his mind.
His fingers went limp on Moe's collar, then fell away from it to lift up, dive into her hair. The aches and dread he'd awakened with fell away as well.
In that one moment he felt as if nothing would ever be beyond his reach again.
Moe gave up trying to shoehorn himself between them, and settled on leaping and barking for attention.
"Christ Jesus, Hennessy, can't you get your dog to…" At the top of the stairs, Jordan trailed off. Below him stood his friend and the woman, bathed in morning sunlight. And drowning in each other.
The fact was, even when Flynn eased back from the embrace and glanced up, he had the look of a man going under for the third time. Blissfully.
"Morning. Sorry to interrupt. You must be Malory."
"Yes, I must be." Her brain was a bit muddled from the kiss, but she was pretty sure she was staring up at a great-looking guy wearing nothing but black boxer shorts. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize Flynn had company… oh." Her brain cleared. "You're Jordan Hawke. I'm a big fan."
"Thanks."
"Hold it." Flynn held up a hand as Jordan started down. "Maybe you could go put some pants on."
"Sure."
"Come on back. I need to let Moe out." Giving her hand a tug, Flynn managed to dislodge her from the spot she'd frozen in to stare at Jordan. But she dug in again at the living room entrance.
Brad was facedown on the couch, with one arm and one leg drooping off. He was dressed like Jordan, though his boxers were white.
It was interesting to note, Malory thought, that the scion of the Vane empire had an excellent butt.
"Slumber party?" she ventured.
"Guys don't have slumber parties. We just hang out. Moe!" Flynn called the dog, who'd wandered in to lick the portion of Brad's face that wasn't smashed into the cushions. "Brad's always been able to sleep through anything."