Under Lock And Key. Sylvie Kurtz

fluttered open and he mumbled, “Lindsey, don’t leave me, Lindsey.”

      Spurred by a shot of adrenaline, Melissa scrambled off the bed and rewrapped the shawl around her face. When she turned to face him, he lay still once more, and the momentary speeding of her heart returned to normal.

      Armed with scissors and bandages of all kind, Grace reappeared. She positioned herself opposite Melissa. Her hands moved quickly as they cleaned, patched and secured the various wounds.

      Prodded by Grace, Melissa once again took up a post by his head. Sympathy for a creature in pain soon edged out her natural wariness of the human male. All the while Grace tended him, Melissa stroked the stranger’s straight brown hair, soothed him when he moaned. In his call to the mysterious Lindsey, Melissa had heard a familiar ring of grief. Who was Lindsey? How had she hurt him? Melissa calmed him with the same soft voice she used with her horses.

      When Grace finished, she covered him with a quilt and tucked in several hot-water bottles around his body. Then Grace picked up his damp jeans from the floor. From the back pocket, a wallet fell out and the contents spilled to the floor.

      “What’s his name?” Melissa asked. She’d grown used to the weight and warmth of him against her and still stroked the soft hair along the side of his head.

      “According to his driver’s license,” Grace said, stooping to pick up the wallet, “this is Tyler Blackwell, thirty-three, 184 pounds, six-two.”

      Tyler Blackwell. It had a nice sound.

      “Lives in Fort Worth. Oh, no!” As if the wallet had suddenly turned into a venomous snake, Grace dropped it. “Missy, he’s got a press ID.”

      The words hung heavily between them. Grace held her breath while she waited for her reaction.

      Slowly Melissa got up from the bed and moved to the farthest corner of the room. A chill colder than the hail stoning the castle walls iced through her. A reporter? Here? How dare he?

      “Get him out of here.” Melissa’s body shook and her blood ran cold. Another reporter trying to advance his dubious career at her expense. The last two had created the witch and sealed her permanently from the world.

      She wouldn’t be easy prey again.

      When Grace didn’t move, Melissa paced the stone floor while she fought the quickening of her anger, the sting of tears. “Now! I don’t want him here.”

      The idea of revenge crept unbidden into her mind. The poisoned thought fed on her anger and took on life. White-hot fury swirled deep inside. Grace positioned herself between Melissa and the wounded man.

      “Missy, he’s hurt.”

      Revenge soured her mouth with its venom, spread like fire through her blood. He was hurt, but so was she. He had a life. Hers had been stolen from her. Not once, but twice. By people like him. She couldn’t let that happen again. She had nothing left to lose.

      This time she would fight back. This time it would be different. She stopped her animal-like pacing and gazed down at the broken man on the bed. No longer did she see the sensual lines that had so pleased her earlier. She saw her last chance to reclaim her peace.

      Lightning clawed the sky. Thunder resounded, shaking the walls, matching the anger quaking inside her. Melissa spun on her heel and met Grace’s stern look squarely.

      “On second thought,” Melissa said, “if it’s a story he wants, let’s give him one he’ll never forget.”

      LIGHTNING AND THUNDER receded to low flickers and distant rumbles. Rain still crashed in fury against the windowpanes of Grace’s spare room. Its rhythm mirrored the wild beating of Melissa’s heart. She was tired of the pain.

      In her mind she heard the child’s sobs. They hadn’t bothered her in years. Not since Deanna had showed her how to cage her anger and her sorrow with the horses. She wanted to cry, too, like the child she’d once been, but the years of conditioning wouldn’t let that happen.

      “You can’t put him in the dungeon, Missy,” Grace said. “It ain’t right.”

      Anger’s slow growl thrummed through Melissa’s body. “Why not? He’s ready to sell my soul for a story. Why not give him a story that’ll fit right in with the trash he writes?”

      “You don’t know that.” Grace sidestepped, hiding the stranger from Melissa’s view. “You don’t know he was even heading here.”

      “What else is there around here? The thriving metropolis of Fallen Moon?” Melissa waved her hands at the buttressed ceiling. “I don’t think he’s here to admire the architecture.” She resumed pacing the far side of the room to keep from exploding.

      A part of her realized that her anger resulted from her encounter last summer with Brent Westfield. He’d wormed his way into the castle under false pretenses. One of her paintings had sold for a fantastic amount at a charity auction sponsored by James Randall, Dee’s father. She’d succeeded despite her condition, and that success had come as a pleasant surprise. For once she’d been normal. Pride at her accomplishment had let the reporter’s interest in her work lower her natural defenses.

      She cringed at the memory. The interview she’d never given, filled with lies and bizarre innuendoes, had hurt more deeply than she’d admitted to anyone. That the people of her own town had let the lies feed their imagination almost bled her dry.

      “You can’t put him in the dungeon when he’s hurt,” Grace said, her voice gentle.

      “His kind always survives,” Melissa scoffed, knowing Grace was right.

      Grace crossed her arms over her ample chest. “My eyes might not be so good, but some things you don’t need to see to know. Mark my words, Missy, you’re making a terrible mistake.”

      When Melissa didn’t answer, Grace caught her shoulders and shook her. “You keep him caged like that and you’re no better than the townsfolk who pass judgment without knowing any of the facts. Let him go.”

      “No,” Melissa said firmly. Her body shook. Her anger’s poison filled her veins and she couldn’t stop it. “I can’t, Grace,” she pleaded, wanting Grace to understand the desperate need she had to assert dominion over her tiny world. “I have to show them once and for all that I’m not a witch, that I need to be left alone.”

      “Are you sure that’s what you want, child?”

      No, it wasn’t, but she’d learned long ago certain things couldn’t be changed and certain prayers were never answered. And if she had to choose between being a freak and being alone, she would go with loneliness.

      This man couldn’t fulfill her dreams, but he could put an end to the witch. “That’s the way it has to be.”

      Grace rolled her eyes in exasperation. Ignoring her, Melissa moved away to gather the contents of Tyler Blackwell’s wallet from the floor. She riffled through the items, noting with interest that his wallet held no pictures—not even of his Lindsey. Why? Was this man as alone in the world as she was? Suddenly she had to know. She wanted to know everything about him. Adversaries needed to start the battle on an even footing. He knew about her, she had no doubt; she’d find out about him. Melissa tucked the wallet back in the jeans pocket, retaining only his driver’s license.

      “He’ll have to see a doctor for that head of his,” Grace said.

      Melissa stood up. “Send for Adam. After Adam’s seen him, put him in the dungeon.”

      “Missy—”

      “If he’s hurt that badly, Adam’ll have him transported to a hospital. If he’s not, he has a lesson to learn.” Melissa handed Grace the driver’s license. “And see what Dee can dig up on Tyler Blackwell.”

      “Missy—”

      “Tell her to bring me her report as soon as she has it.”

      Melissa