The Golden Key Chronicles Read online

  Contents

  AJ Nuest

  Dedication

  Rowena’s Key

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Candra’s Freedom

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Caedmon’s Curse

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Braedric’s Bane

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  Bonus Material

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Love Romance?

  About HarperImpulse

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  AJ Nuest

  I am a multi-published, award-winning author who lives in the middle of a cornfield in NW Indiana. My loving husband, two beautiful children and a bevy of spoiled pets have agreed to stay and, in exchange for three rations per day and laundry service, tolerate my lunacy. While I spend most days happily ensconced in crafting romance across a multitude of genres, an underground coup has been percolating. The dog has just informed me the cat is secretly vying for dictatorship.

  For Lily Belle

  Fairy Princess of Light and Love

  Rowena’s Key

  Book I, The Golden Key Chronicles

  Chapter One

  What in the name of Zeus ever possessed her to buy such a ghastly armoire?

  Rowena stepped back, wading through bubble wrap and sheets of plastic strewn across her bedroom floor. She shook her head in disgust, fisted hands propped on her hips. Traitorous tears stung her eyes and she quickly blinked them away to better study the evidence of her epic failure. I must have lost my damn mind.

  Cracks split the armoire nearly a quarter of an inch in several places, the legs were wobbly and coated with mildew, the back panel warped in a protruding bow… She gritted her teeth against the hard knot of resentment constricting her throat. Was it really so much to ask for one piece, to own just one tangible memory of the life she had lost? Apparently so, all thanks to her father. No. She couldn’t blame him. Not this time. This time the fault lay squarely on her.

  She snatched the glass of Pinot Grigio off her nightstand and downed a generous swallow. Purchasing such a high-ticket item online—from a seller in England, no less—was undoubtedly one of the dumbest things she’d ever done. She was supposed to be the best antiques dealer in Chicago. She was renowned for having the sharpest eye in the business. Yet this impulse buy far exceeded the standards of even an amateur restorer. She’d allowed her desperation to cloud her judgment. Well, that plus her cloying need for instant gratification.

  Obsession was more like it. She’d been completely fixated. Six years she’d waited for such a piece, scoured and tracked down every possible lead, all to no avail: until the results of a late-night internet search led her to an obscure estate sale in Kent.

  Since she’d lost both her parents at the ripe old age of twenty-one, unearthing this direct link to her past had been like discovering a long-lost relative. Finally a part of her family’s history had surfaced. The idea such a prize could be hers kept her awake that night, distracted her the next day, until she’d finally succumbed and withdrawn the eight thousand dollars from her 401K—enough to pay the early withdrawal penalty and cover the hefty shipping charges to boot.

  Yet not once had she considered the most notable problem prior to clicking that stupid Buy It Now icon. The smell. No way would she ever be able to hang anything inside, even if “inside” included a hanger rod. The lingering odor of charred wood would taint every article of clothing. The thing reeked of a smoky campfire, or possibly like it had been rescued from a burning building. That would explain the water damage.

  Maybe, if she let the doors hang open a few days, the horrible stench would dissipate. She could set air fresheners in the closet and perhaps line the drawers with her favorite pomegranate sachets. Better that than trying to locate the seller who had vanished into thin air.

  She returned her wine to the nightstand, reached for the ornate brass handle and twisted. The bolt ground back and she tugged, but the door refused to budge. Grasping the handle with both hands, she braced her knee against the opposite panel and pulled, only to get the same result.

  Perfect. She shook out her hands before wiping them down the sides of her cotton nightgown. Oiling the hinges would be her first step, along with using a crowbar. Both of which were locked in her studio. Plus, she wasn’t about to traipse through the freezing October rain on a Wednesday night just to release a noxious odor into her second-floor walk-up.

  She backed to the edge of her brass bed and plopped down, the iron coils of the box spring squeaking in response. Ornate scrollwork edged the top of the armoire and she squinted at the design. The center oval undoubtedly once held a plaque of some kind. The wood was deeply gouged, like whatever was originally affixed to the spot had been pried off with a sharp tool…but what was with the strange seam around the oval’s edge?

  Rowena stood and approached the armoire, rose on tiptoe and swept a fingertip along the deep groove in the oval’s frame. Possibly some inlay once rested there, as decoration, to match the faded fleur de lis panel on each door. Or perhaps…

  She smoothed two fingertips to the center of the oval and pressed. An internal whirring echoed and a small hidden door sprang open, disguised by a square rosette just above the top-left hinge. Her heart leapt and raced forward. Thank God. Maybe she’d gotten lucky and her expert eye hadn’t failed her after all.

  She tossed a thick weft of hair over her shoulder and pushed the small door back as far as it would go. Reaching inside the hidden compartment, she squeezed her eyes tight in case she stumbled across a spider web or, worse yet, the shriveled remains of a dead animal.

  Her fingers snagged on a weighted object and she withdrew her hand, holding a long gold chain from which dangled a thick brass key. She frowned. As far as she could see, no locks were affixed to the armoire. So what was this key for?

  She swung the small door closed, returned to her bed and scooted back against the pillows, reclaiming her wineglass before lifting her newfound treasure for an intent inspection. Flipping the key over in her palm, she sprang up with such force wine sloshed over the lip of her glass and splattered her eyelet duvet. Three letters were crudely stamped along the side. RAL. Her initials. Rowena Analiese Lindstrom. What were the chances of that?

  She slowly returned her gaze to the armoire, excitement and trepidation stirring a faint omen in her belly.

  First thing tomorrow morning, she’d attack those doors with a vengeance.

  ***

  Old buildings settled all the time, and the one she lived in was no exception. This had to be the reason for the strange creak coming from the corner of her bedroom.

  Rowena tightened the blankets around her shoulders, curling her fists into a ball under her chin. The ticker tape in her brain picked up right where it had left off prior to when she’d dropped off to sleep.

  Despite downing two glasses of wine, she’d climbed into
bed uneasy, her thoughts spinning out a variety of scenarios in a futile attempt to explain the baffling appearance of the key. After draping it around her neck for safekeeping, she’d spent another hour scouring the armoire for additional clues but, until the doors were opened, whatever secrets were locked inside would remain a mystery.

  Another creak broke the silence of her bedroom—longer and louder than the first. Her eyes popped open, but the usual, comforting dark seeping through her windows was awash in an eerie glow. What the hell is that? She cautiously rolled over, the brass key swinging like a pendulum between her breasts.

  The armoire door hung ajar, and from within a golden light spilled a thin brittle triangle across her hardwood floor. She bolted upright, her heart stuttering like a street performer’s bongo drums in her ears.

  An internal lighting mechanism? Somehow connected to the door? But electricity didn’t exist in the fifteenth century…and wait a second. She hadn’t plugged a cord into the outlet!

  She scrambled out from under the blankets and stood, clenching her jaw tight against her fear. This had to be some sort of joke, and whoever thought to play such a trick on her in the middle of the night was in for a rude awakening.

  She slid the heavy, silver hairbrush off her dresser and crept forward. Lifting the brush over her shoulder like a baton, she reached for the armoire door, curled her fingers around the edge, and tossed it wide.

  A large gilded mirror swung loose and slammed back against the inside of the door. Warm light flooded the room. Inside the frame, a man sprang up from a desk and stumbled back, arms flailing, tripping over his upended chair. His black leather boots vertically swept the opposite side of the glass and he executed a backward roll on one shoulder, landing on both feet, knees bent in a crouch.

  Rowena gasped and instinctively extended her arms, gripping the hairbrush like a loaded handgun, hoping for some protection from whatever bizarre visual came next.

  This was no mirror. The picture had to be feeding through a flatscreen television or computer monitor of some sort. But, my God, the image was clear. There wasn’t a pixel in sight, as if she stared through a window or an open doorway.

  The man held up his palm, but he didn’t straighten from his defensive stance, and his chest expanded and contracted in the same labored tempo as hers. “Whatever spell you intend to cast, witch, be first counseled I am a warrior prince of King Austiere’s realm, duly sworn and sheltered under Wizard Fandorn. Despoiling me constitutes an act of war.”

  Rowena pulled her head back, frowning. “Despoiling you?” Was that even a word? And what the heck was he talking about, an act of war? Not to mention, no one had called her a witch since she broke up with that lying, cheating, good-for-nothing Brad.

  She snapped her jaw shut. Of course. Tonight’s entertainment was courtesy of her assistant, Oliver.

  Lowering the brush, she dropped her forehead into her palm, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Ollie had teased her incessantly about her fascination with the armoire, calling her cell almost every hour until the piece arrived. Now his actions made sense. He must have set up this whole charade for her benefit, hoping to ease the sting of her incompetent purchase.

  Wow. Talk about rising to the occasion. He got her good this time, boy oh boy, but how in the world had he done it? The details alone must have taken him hours of research.

  Inside the monitor, what appeared to be authentic animal skins lined a gray, slate floor. Along the far wall, a flickering fire crackled and snapped in a vast, stone hearth. That beautifully carved oak desk sat a few feet away and, when she went up on her toes, a quill and several rolled parchments came into view, red sealing wax and a lit candle. For God’s sake, frost even etched the corners of the narrow, stained-glass windows.

  Hot damn, Oliver deserved a hearty round of applause for conceptualizing this setting. Not a detail was out of place.

  Metal sang through the air, and Rowena jerked her attention back to the man. He tossed a jewel-encrusted scabbard aside and brandished a sword, cautiously sidestepping, ankles crossing, until he reached the center of the screen. He kicked the toppled chair aside with the toe of his boot, cocked a dark eyebrow and guardedly rounded the desk.

  So what was with this guy, with his sable, shoulder-length hair and closely trimmed beard? His white shirt was best described as puffy, with ballooning sleeves and wide, ruffled cuffs. The front hung open, exposing the muscled contours of his beveled chest, the roughly stitched tails skimming the thighs of his fitted, leather…breeches?

  Oh, God. She chuckled and shook her head. He had to be one of Ollie’s theater friends. Bravo for his stunning portrayal of a swashbuckling swashbuckler. Too bad this also meant he was gay.

  He lifted the sword in both hands and turned a broad shoulder toward the mirror, the taut planes of his stomach easing in and out with each controlled breath. A trail of dark hair arrowed down inside the waistband of his pants, where his perfectly cupped manhood bulged for her inspection. Oh yes, too bad indeed.

  “If you scheme to divert me with your alluring attire and guileless stare, I’ll have you know an abundance of courtesans await my nightly dalliance. I am not so easily swayed.”

  Rowena inched a slow perusal of the delectable landscape back up to his face. His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight, and she mirrored his arched eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

  Perhaps she’d pegged him wrong. Wouldn’t that be a treat?

  She glanced down at her gauzy nightgown, the flickering fire doing little to cover her rosy nipples, pert in the chilly air. But he invaded her space with this theatrical exploit of his. What else did he expect her to be wearing, showing up like this in the middle of the night?

  “You’d better be careful.” She wagged a finger at him. “Or I’m apt to get busy with some serious despoiling all up in here.”

  “Enough, Sorceress!” He lunged forward, the blade of his sword slicing the air when he aimed the silver pommel straight at the screen. “Let us be done with this trickery. Name your demands before I smash the glass and ensnare your bewitching guise for an eternity.”

  A low laugh tickled the back of her throat. Talk about living a role. Sheesh, take the drama down a notch. She stepped close and ran a hand around the edge of the frame. The signal had to be streaming live, what with his ability to interact with her, but there wasn’t a wire or a microphone, heck, not even a screw in sight.

  She stood back and crossed her arms, shifting her weight onto one hip. Okay, she would bite, as long as Ollie promised this whole escapade wouldn’t end up on YouTube.

  “Fine. You’re extremely gorgeous and very talented. Seriously, you’ve got the whole English accent down perfect. And while I appreciate all the work that went into this little program, it’s about two in morning and I have to get up early for work. Tell Ollie I said good show, props to the production crew and I’m nominating the wardrobe guy for an Oscar.”

  There. That should call the evening a wrap. She grabbed the edge of the door and swung it closed.

  “You wear Rowena’s Key.”

  She froze…and then tentatively eased the door back open.

  Chapter Two

  The barrier between their worlds gradually parted, the dark shadow receding to reveal her enchanting countenance.

  Caedmon narrowed his eyes at the apparition in the looking glass, steeling his heart. He had been warned. For centuries this tale had been foretold. All offspring in the kingdom could recite the legend by rote, but nothing could have prepared him for this ethereal vision. He was second-born, the progeny of King Austiere and his most beloved concubine, Isadora. Yet his elder brother, Braedric, stood as the favored one, whom prophecy named Rescinder of the Key. Caedmon had to be stronger now than ever he warred in battle, for her exquisite beauty shamed the nine goddesses.

  She floated on a background of deepest night, the gossamer layer of her gown hinting at the voluptuous contours of her perfect form. A distraction which tightened his gut, threatened h
is focus, and made a bead of sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades. Her golden hair cascaded to mid-back, the strands shimmering as if they’d been kissed by Helios, himself. Eyes the shade of a summer glade calculated his every move, as if she doubted his very existence. Her sultry laugh signaled disbelief. She considered him an utter fool. In the space of two heartbeats, she’d ascertained his falsehood. He wasn’t the one named for this arduous task. But to dismiss him as ignorant, as if he would discount the relic which determined the very future of his race? As if being passed over merely because of his bloodline hadn’t nearly destroyed him? Oh, she was a cruel sorceress, indeed. Vicious, with a perilous beauty.

  Seduction had never been his forte. He left those indulgent pursuits to his brother, but time was of the essence and Braedric was out on patrol. Caedmon’s best course would be to gather as much information as possible for the Council.