Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

word she would have
    used about herself before she came to Logres. But now her whole world had changed, and perhaps the Empire too. Humanity was becoming something new, something darker. Sometimes it seemed to Emma that the only thing that hadn't changed for the worse was her.
    She still believed in what it meant to be a Paragon.
    She soared slowly over the city, and down in the streets below people looked up at her, and didn't wave or cheer or smile. She was no longer their protector. She was the enemy.
    Emma Steel frowned and wondered almost helplessly what to do next.
    Anne Barclay sat alone in her office, swiveling back and forth in her familiar old chair, watching her display of monitor screens with the sound turned down to a bare mutter. She glanced from screen to screen but saw nothing. None of it mattered, not really. The House would be going into Session soon, and there were all kinds of urgent matters that ought to be commanding her attention, but she couldn't seem to concentrate on any of them. She had a mug of hot, sweet black coffee in her hand, and she Sipped at it now and again, when she remembered it was there, but she didn't really taste it. Her other hand moved slowly over her close-cropped red hair, an old familiar caress that for once failed to comfort.
    Anne was feeling unappreciated. She worked all the hours God sent, practically ran the House's Security single-handed these days; and no one cared. She always made sure Douglas had every bit of information he needed, often hours before anyone else had it; and she couldn't remember the last time he said Thank you. She rushed from room to room and meeting to meeting, making the secret necessary deals that Douglas couldn't be seen to make himself; and all for what? Despite all her hard work, despite all the miracles she worked every day on Douglas's behalf, he just took her for granted. He didn't even talk with her anymore. Oh, he'd pop in to make sure she knew all about his latest problems and orders, sometimes throw her a brief meaningless smile, and then he was off and on his way again. He never paused to say Well done, or Couldn't do it without you, or even You're my good right hand, Anne, I'm so proud of you. Not much to ask for, really. She knew he was busy. She knew he worked even longer hours than she did. She knew she was being unfair. And she didn't give a damn.
    She'd never felt so alone, so desolate. So miserable. Jesamine was always too busy, or perhaps too guilty, to talk with her anymore. And Lewis was unofficially but very definitely in disgrace, and only allowed into the House on special occasions. Anne sighed and drank more coffee she didn't want. She couldn't go to see Lewis without risking seeming disloyal to Douglas, and the King had been hurt enough.
    All of which meant there was no one left for Anne to talk to, or at least no one she could trust. So she came to the office early and left late, and worked and worked till she was numb, because that was all she had left. Bringing the House, and its Security, under her control because she couldn't control her own life.
    She looked almost reluctantly at the lowest drawer of her desk, securely locked and sealed, where she kept the bright pink feather boa Jesamine had given her. She should have thrown it away, given it to someone who could appreciate it, or at the very least was brave enough to wear it in public. But somehow she couldn't bring herself to do that. The boa was important to her; it represented something valuable, though she wasn't sure what. Freedom, perhaps. The freedom to be someone other than boring old dependable Anne Barclay. Someone who had the guts to go and find a life of her own; someone who knew how to have fun. To do all the things Anne Barclay dreamed of, but had never found the time or the courage to go looking for. Someone who knew how to live, instead of just exist.
    There was a single mirror on her desk; small, plain, and functional. Nothing at all of vanity about it. Anne looked at her own face in the mirror and didn't recognize it. That wasn't her; that grim scowling mask
    with hollow desperate eyes. That old, dead woman.
    You don't know what I want. None of you know what I want. What I need. I want . . . to go dancing, wearing something scandalous, in the kind of sleazy, cheap joint where people like Anne Barclay don't belong. I want to drink too much, make an exhibition of myself, pull some good-looking boy off the dance floor and into the toilets, and