Autumn Lord (39 page)

angry at Denis's betrayal and ambition. He would not let himself make excuses for his son, either. Yes,

Denis had made bad choices based on the influence and examples of others, but those choices had been

his. Diane had finally convinced Simon that everyone made their own choices, their own mistakes, and

their own successes.

Denis spoke first when they were face to face, a sword's distance apart. "You look too healthy for my

taste, old man," he said. "Your foreign bitch must suit you."

Simon saw the anger in his son's eyes, eyes that were the image of his own in shape, but the same

color as Genevieve's. He would not let himself be angry at the young man's ugly words. Though he was

tempted to cuff the lad on the ear for being so hot with emotion before a battle. Hadn't the boy

remembered anything of what he'd taught him?

"My lady suits me well," he answered. Only to receive a low growl from Denis in reply. "Before you

reproach me with your mother," Simon went on, "kindly remember that she is a long time dead, through

no fault of mine."

"Vivienne says—"

"She lies. You'd better learn to control her, lad, or you'll spend your whole life in thrall to one who is

vowed to serve you."

Denis drew himself up proudly. "I didn't come here to listen to your advice."

"No," Simon agreed. "You came here to kill me."

"It's all I've wanted since you let my mother die!"

Simon nodded. "I know." He chuckled, and tilted a brow wryly at his son. "Why?"

Denis glowered. "What?"

"No. Why? It's a question I've been forced to consider a great deal lately. I thought I'd try it out on

someone else for variety's sake."

Denis fidgeted with his swordbelt. "I didn't come here to talk. You issued this challenge, old man.

Let's fight."

Simon took a step closer as he glared into his son's eyes. Denis flinched back a pace before he

managed to hold his ground. "I'm not an old man," Simon told the younger man. "If I want to kill you, you

will die. Don't doubt it, lad."

Denis drew his sword and rushed forward with a wordless shout. Simon sidestepped and drew only

his dagger. He thrust the pommel of it hard into an unprotected spot at the base of Denis's throat as his

son's momentum carried him past. Denis toppled, and Simon kicked his sword out of his hand.

When Denis was on his knees, choking, and trying to gather air into his lungs, Simon said, "How many

times have I told you to keep your head down?"

Simon kept his own shock that victory had come so easily to himself. He hadn't been certain of victory

when he came here. He hadn't been sure what would happen, which was why he hadn't explained his

plan to Diane. He came here with hope, a hope too fragile to share, for fear of making her

disappointment worse if he failed.

He barely heard the gasps and shouts of the people who watched. He did hear a woman scream.

Since it was a sound laced with fury, he assumed it was Vivienne, and that Jacques's magic was keeping

hers at bay. He concentrated on his son. Denis had obviously spent too much time playing the courtier

since he left home. And trusted too much in the powers of his sorceress for his own good. Simon shook

his head in disgust while Denis managed to look up at him from the ground.

"You better spend more time at fighting practice if you expect to keep Marbeau," he told his son.

Denis dragged in a great gasp of air and managed to croak, "What?"

"The question is why," Simon responded. He placed the tip of his dagger just under his son's nose,

and pressed ever so gently. With that threat between them their gazes met. "I'm giving you your life, and

your birthright a bit early, and you really should be wondering why. The thing is," Simon went on when

Denis didn't speak. "I don't want it any more."

"Don't want—" Denis coughed. "Want—what?"

"Marbeau. It's yours. And you're welcome to all the trouble as well as the responsibility. Serve my

people well," he added, "not that I can assure that you will this way any more than I could from the

grave."

Denis blinked in confusion, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Marbeau? Mine? You brought me

here to give me Marbeau?" Simon nodded. "Why?"

Simon laughed. He felt light as a feather. "I want to be happy," he told his son. And he was. Truly

happy. He wished he could share this buoyant joy with Denis. "It's foolish I suppose, to prefer love over

power, but that's the way of it for me. I'm going away. A long way away. The concerns of this world are

no longer my affair."

"You—you're entering a monastery?"

Simon laughed again. "Diane wouldn't like that. Goodbye, son." He sheathed his dagger. "I love you."

Simon sprinted back toward his people without waiting for Denis's reaction.

Diane had nearly fainted when Simon was attacked, then nearly cheered when Simon disarmed his

son. She managed to keep quiet through all of it because Jacques had warned her not to distract Simon,

or to draw Vivienne's attention.

But when Simon ran up to her and grabbed her by the wrist, she couldn't keep quiet any longer.

"What's happening?" she demanded. "What's going on?"

"We're leaving," he answered as he pulled her over to the boulder where Jacques was standing. He

glanced ques-tioningly at Jacques, who nodded.

"Stand just there," the wizard said. "Put your hands here."

Simon placed her hands, palms down, on the stone, then covered them with his own from behind. The

stone was surprisingly warm, as warm as his living touch over hers as he circled her in his protective

embrace.

"This is the Dragonstone," Jacques explained when she gave him a questioning look. "We have to call

on its magic for the journey."

She looked back at Simon. "Journey? Where are we going?"

His eyes sparkled with laughter. "Seattle."

"What?"

"Why," he countered.

"Hush," Jacques said. "I've got work to do. Close your eyes," he added.

“Wh— ?"

"Just do it."

"Because I love you," Simon said, and got an annoyed look from Jacques. "I'll be quiet now."

Diane closed her eyes and leaned back against Simon. Jacques began to speak in a low voice. She

didn't understand anything and didn't care. Simon was holding her, they were together. Everything else

was details.

Jacques's words almost seemed to have weight and texture. The language was unfamiliar, but the

sound of it was vast and deep and full of power. It was something to be listened to with your whole

being.

At first she thought it was her imagination that the rock beneath her hands was growing warmer. She

thought that her senses were alive, tingling with awareness, because of Simon's nearness. After a while,

or maybe only a moment, she realized that there was something more going on around them. Something

magical.

She could almost taste the magic. She could definitely feel it, like electricity flowing up out of the rock,

through her, into Simon and back again. A circuit. A circle.

A spinning circle.

She grew dizzy. Though her eyes were closed and the earth was solid beneath her feet, the world

began to whirl. Time began to tug at her, twist her into its forward flow. It was smooth, sweet. She felt

like cream being stirred into dark, rich coffee, like a twist of caramel in chocolate. If she was cream and

caramel, Simon was the coffee and chocolate. The imagery sent a wave of understanding joy through her.

Joy that was destroyed by sudden, hideous pain.

"Vivienne! No!"

The whirlwind turned into lava. She could feel herself melting into its blood-red flow.

"Leave my father alone!"

Simon's hands were torn from hers. She heard his cry of agony. She tried to claw her way back to

him. She tried to call his name. It was too late. She was already caught in the spell.

"Let them go!"

Diane was drawn down, forward, into a volcano's mouth, through a long, burning tunnel. There was

no escape.

Time flowed. She ran with it. Blind. Grieving.

Alone.

"Hello?"

"Diane?"

"What?" Where was she?

"Are you all right?"

She knew that voice. It seemed like she hadn't heard it in centuries. "Yeah, fine. Hi, Mom."

"You sound so depressed."

Diane blinked. She looked around. She could hear the shower running in the bathroom. The image on

the television was frozen. It was an old black-and-white film. She must have paused the tape. Her eyes

still burned from the intense flash of light. Everything seemed weird. Wrong. Out of place. The room

seemed too bright. Too empty.

Something awful had happened.

She remembered the thunder, then lightning. The whole process had happened in reverse, like time

running backward. Then—

What was she doing here?

She'd been standing in a clearing on the top of a wooded hill. She remembered the long, cold ride

from the—"Stand just there," someone had said, and had placed her hand on a flat-topped boulder.

"And don't move."

Then the world was torn apart. She reached out. Her hands closed on nothing. Then—

Then the phone rang and—

All was lost. Everything was gone. There was nothing to hope for after all.

Loneliness welled up in her, a dark, soul-crushing emptiness filled her. It was a physical pain. A wave.

Like drowning. How had she gotten here? Why was she so alone?

"Are you coming?"

She grabbed onto her mother's voice. There was music in the background, wherever her mother was.

Diane could make out a faint rumble of people talking, laughing. People who weren't alone. People who

didn't know how futile it all was—or at least pretended not to.

Where had this horribly depressed mood come from? This was ridiculous.
Lighten up, Teal,
she

commanded herself.

"Come where? Oh, the party. I don't know, I. .. "

"There's someone I want you to meet."

The firmness in her mother's voice told Diane that there was no way she was going to get out of this if

she wanted peace in her family. She didn't want to meet anyone new. There was already some . . . some

sort of weird dream, or something.

"Diane?"

She sighed. "I'm not sure I want to meet someone who plays lute for a living, Mom."

"He's a jazz musician," her mother reminded her. "The folk music is just a side project. Something new

he's gotten into."

"Right, of course." She didn't care.

"Are you coming?"

Diane looked down and was surprised to see the silk skirt and tunic she was wearing. It was clean

and fresh, sensually soft against her skin. For some reason, she remembered the shimmering ivory

material as a mud-soaked ruin. She didn't remember when she'd put on the silk shawl wrapped around

her shoulders. Weird. The dress getting destroyed must be something she'd dreamed.

She didn't recall when she'd had the dream, but bits of strange details about it were keeping her

confused and unhappy. She was going to have to shake it off. Being around people might help. And she

was dressed for the party.

"Is Dad going to be there?"

"Of course. Otherwise I might consider running off with the manager. He's
so
charming."

Diane was not used to hearing this sort of effusiveness from her mother. The cheerfulness made her

own unexplained depression worse. She refrained from commenting and stuck to the subject. "Good. I

want to talk to Dad about something."

Like maybe becoming an apprentice in the jewelry-making craft. She didn't know where the idea

came from, but it seemed right. She was suddenly tired of watching movies all the time, with criticizing

rather than creating things. She needed to
do
something. She had some artistic talent. When her father

had tried to talk her into this before she'd scoffed at the idea, she'd said she wanted to be an
auteur

someday, whatever that meant.

"Darling, I have something more important in mind for you than talking to your father."

Diane didn't try to argue, though she had every intention of avoiding any attempts at matchmaking.

"Yes, Mom."

"So get a move on. And bring your roommate. There's this cute roadie I want her to meet."

"Right. Fine. We'll be there. Cafe Sophie, right?"

Somehow, going to a party being held at an ex-mortuary seemed like an appropriate way to spend the

rest of the evening.

* * *

Diane wanted to leave the moment she walked into the party. If El ie hadn't pushed her into the crowd,

determined to find the food, she might have. Everyone was smiling. She hated that. She didn't know why

she resented everyone being so happy, but she did.

There was an undercurrent in the air, invisible but powerful, like electric perfume. Something sexy and

exciting scintillated through the room, and everyone seemed to feel the buzz but her. The crowd that