Three Fates

But, she reminded herself, she had a great wardrobe. And the start of a very impressive art collection. Which she’d have to sell, piece by piece, and most likely at a loss to keep a roof over her head if Pamela brought the axe down.
    But maybe tonight would buy her some time and good will. She hadn’t wanted to attend the cocktail reception at Warrior’s Peak. A fanciful name for a spooky old place, she thought. Another time she’d have been thrilled at the opportunity to see the inside of the great old house so high on the ridge. And to rub elbows with people who might be patrons of the arts.
    But the invitation had been odd. Written in an elegant hand on heavy stone-colored paper, with a logo of an ornate gold key in lieu of letterhead. Though it was tucked in her evening bag now along with her compact, her lipstick, her cell phone, her glasses, fresh pen, business cards and ten dollars, Malory remembered the wording.
     
    THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY IS DESIRED FOR COCKTAILS AND CONVERSATION EIGHT P.M., SEPTEMBER 4 WARRIOR’S PEAK YOU ARE THE KEY. THE LOCK AWAITS.
     
    Now how weird was that? Malory asked herself, and gritted her teeth as the car shimmied in a sudden gust of wind. The way her luck was going, it was probably a scam for some pyramid scheme.
    Warrior’s Peak had been empty for years. She knew it had been purchased recently, but the details were lean. Some outfit called Triad, she recalled, and assumed it was some sort of corporation looking to turn it into a hotel or mini-resort.
    Which didn’t explain why they’d invited the manager of The Gallery, and not the owner and his interfering wife. Pamela had been pretty peeved about the slight—so that was something.
    Still, Malory would have passed on the evening. She didn’t have a date, just another aspect of her life that currently sucked, and driving alone into the mountains to a house straight out of Hollywood horror on the strength of an invitation that made her uneasy wasn’t on her list of fun things to do in the middle of the workweek.
    There hadn’t even been a number or contact for an rsvp. And that, she felt, was arrogant and rude. Her response in ignoring the invitation would have been equally arrogant and rude, but James had spotted it on her desk.
    He’d been so excited, so pleased by the idea of her going, had pressed her to relay the details of the house’s interior to him. And had reminded her that if she could discreetly drop The Gallery into conversation from time to time, it would be good for business.
    If she could score a few clients, it might offset the Escada and the bimbo comment.
    Her car chugged up the narrowing road that cut through the dense, dark forest. She’d always thought of those hills and woods as a kind of Sleepy Hollow effect that ringed her pretty valley. But just now, with the wind and rain and dark, the less serene aspects of that old tale were a little too much in evidence for her peace of mind.
    If whatever was pinging in her dash was serious, she could end up broken down on the side of the road, huddled in the car listening to the moans and lashes of the storm, imagining headless horsemen, while she waited for a tow-truck she couldn’t afford.
    Obviously, the answer was not to break down.
    She thought she caught glimpses of lights beaming through the rain and trees, but her windshield wipers were whipping at the highest speed and still barely able to shove aside the flood of rain.
    As lightning snapped again, she gripped the wheel tighter. She liked a good, hellcat storm as much as anyone, but she wanted to enjoy this one while she was sitting inside, anywhere, and drinking a nice glass of wine.
    She had to be close. How far could any single road climb up before it just had to start falling down the other side of the mountain? She knew Warrior’s Peak stood atop the ridge, guarding the valley below. Or lording it over the valley, depending on your viewpoint. She hadn’t passed another car for miles.
    Which only proved anyone with half a brain wasn’t driving in this mess, she thought.
    The road forked, and the bend on the right streamed through enormous stone pillars. Malory slowed, gawked at the life-sized warriors standing on each pillar. Perhaps it was the storm, the night, her own jittery mood, but they looked more human than stone, with hair flying around their fierce faces, their hands gripped on the hilt of swords. In the shimmer of lightning, she could almost see muscles rippling in