Maybe she'd tried to be too organized, mimicking Malory's style. Or she'd depended too much on books, trying to follow Dana's lead. Why not try impulse and instinct with this task as she did with other projects?
What did she do when she wanted to pick new paint for the walls, or new fabric for curtains? She spread out a bunch of samples and flipped through them until something popped out at her.
And then she knew.
Here she had her own carefully written notes, copies of Malory's, of Dana's. She had Jordan's detailed flow of events, and the photographs Malory had taken of the paintings.
She picked up the notebook she'd bought the day after her first visit to Warrior's Peak. It didn't look so shiny and new now, she thought. It looked used. And maybe that was better.
There was a lot of work inside this notebook, she reminded herself as she flipped pages. A lot of hours, a lot of effort. And that work, those hours, that effort, had helped both Malory and Dana complete their parts of the quest.
Something in here was going to help her complete her part, and finish it.
She opened the notebook at random, and began to read.
Kyna, the warrior, she'd written. Why is she mine? I see Venora, the artist, in Malory, and Niniane, the scribe, in Dana. But how am I a warrior ?
I'm a hairdresser. No, hair and skin specialist— must remember to pump that up. I worked for it. I'm a good worker, but that's not the same as fighting .
Beauty for Malory, knowledge for Dana. Courage for me. Where does the courage come in?
Is it just living? That doesn't seem like enough.
Considering, Zoe tapped her pencil on the page, then earmarked it by folding down a corner. She flipped through the section until she came to a blank sheet.
Maybe just living is enough. Didn't Malory have to choose to live in the real world— sacrificing something of beauty, and Dana had to learn to see the truth, and live with it? Those were essential steps in their quests.
What's mine?
She began to write quickly now, trying to see the pattern, trying to form one. As the ideas and possibilities clicked in her mind, she wore her pencil down, tossed it aside, and reached for another.
When that went dull, she pushed away from the table to take the pencils to the sharpener.
Satisfied with the points, she stuck one behind each ear and turned to the stove to stir the chili and think.
Maybe she was on the right track, maybe she wasn't— and she sure as hell couldn't see the end of the road. But she was moving somewhere, and that was important.
With her mind wandering, she lifted the spoon to taste, then stared at the dull reflection in the range hood.
Her hair was a long spill down her shoulders, adorned with a wide gold band with a dark center stone, diamond-shaped. Her eyes were more gold than brown. Very clear, very direct.
She could see the green of her dress—a dark forest color, and the brown leather of a strap over her shoulder. The silver glint of a sword hilt at her hip.
There were trees, misted with morning, pearly gleams from dewed leaves, wavering beams of early sunlight. And through the trees were paths.
She could feel the smooth wood of the spoon handle in her hand, smell the steam from the simmering pot.
Not a hallucination, she told herself. Not imagination.
"What are you trying to tell me? What do you want me to see?"
The image moved back, so Zoe saw the whole of her— the slim build, the booted feet. For another moment they stood, staring at each other. Then the figure turned, walked through the mist, into the forest, and with a hand on the hilt of her sword, strode down a rough path.
"I don't know what that means. Damn it." Frustrated, Zoe rapped a fist against the range hood. "What the hell does that mean?"
With a sharp twist of her wrist, she turned off the burner. She'd just about reached the end of her patience when it came to gods.
* * *
Brad pulled up in Zoe's driveway a little earlier than he needed to. He imagined men who were riding on that fast wave of love, lust, infatuation—whatever the hell he had— tended to be early to see the women with whom they were obsessed.
It didn't surprise him to see Zoe step out of the house before he could do more than turn off the ignition. He'd been around her long enough to know she was dependable.
She was also loaded with a backpack, an enormous shoulder bag, and a huge cooking pot.
"Let me give you a hand," he called as he climbed out of the car.
"I don't need a hand."
"Yes, you do, unless you've got an extra one stuffed in that bag." He took the pot, mildly surprised when she tried to tug it back.
"You know, once in a while, it'd be a nice change if you actually listened to what I say." She yanked open the back door of his big, shiny SUV and tossed the backpack inside. "Even nicer might be if you bothered to ask instead of just ordering, or assuming."
"Why don't I just give this back to you."
She yanked the pot out of his hands, then bent to wedge it on the floor of the back.
"I didn't ask you to come by here and pick me up. I don't need to be picked up and hauled around. I have a car."
Love, lust, infatuation, he thought, they could all be put in the backseat, just like the chili, when irritation took the driver's seat.
"You were on the way. It didn't make sense to take two cars. Where's Simon?"
"He's having dinner and staying the night with a friend. Should I have checked with you first?" She stormed around the car, then just balled her fists when he beat her there and opened the door for her. "Do I look helpless? Do I look like I can't figure out how to open a damn door on some fancy car?"
"No." He slammed it shut. "Go ahead," he invited, and stalked around to the other side.
He waited until she'd whipped the seat belt across, shoved the buckle into place. "Would you like to tell me what crawled up your ass?" He spoke in the most pleasant tone, the same dangerously pleasant tone his father used when he was about to slice an opponent into small, bloody pieces.
"My ass is my own business, and so are my moods. I'm in a bad mood. I have them. If you think I'm sweet and accommodating and easy to manipulate, you're mistaken. Now are you going to drive this car, or are we just going to sit here?"
He turned the car on, threw it in reverse. "If you've formed the impression that I believe you to be sweet, accommodating, or easy to manipulate, you're the one who's mistaken. What you are is prickly, stubborn, and oversensitive."
"You would think that, wouldn't you, just because I don't like being told what to do, how to do it, when to do it. I'm just as capable and as smart as you are. Maybe more, since I didn't grow up having somebody catering to my every wish and demand."
"Now just a damn minute."
"I've had to fight for everything I've got. Fight to get it," she snapped out, "and fight to keep it. I don't need somebody coming along on his white charger, or his limousine, or his big Mercedes, and rescuing me."
"Who the hell's trying to rescue you?"
"And I don't need some—some Prince Charming—looking man coming around trying to get me stirred up either. If I want to sleep with you, I will."
"Right now, honey, take my word, I'm not thinking about sex."
She sucked in air and gritted her teeth. "And don't call me honey. I don't like it. I especially don't like it in that snotty private-school tone."
" 'Honey' happens to be the most polite thing I can currently think of to call you."
"I don't want you to be polite. I don't like you when you're polite."
"Is that so? Then you're going to love this."
He whipped the car to the curb, ignored the furious blast of horns behind him at the move. He hit the buckle of the seat belt with one hand, grabbed her sweater with the other. He yanked her forward, then knocked her back against the seat again with a kiss that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with temper.