One round pedestal bore a heavy sword held up by a Plexiglas stand. Unlike the no-nonsense weaponry on the wall, this one was a Scottish claymore with an ornate grip of dark wood with a swirling grain inlaid with metal filigree that looked like gold. On the hilt and the ends of the pommel and cross guard were huge, smooth stones of amber almost as large as chicken eggs. It didn’t look like the sword of a soldier to be sure.
Scarlett leaned in to read the tiny brass plaque on the side of the pedestal: Scottish Claymore, found on the battlefield of Flodden.
Running her fingers lightly over the engraved inscription, she pondered the implication of those words. Found on the battlefield of Flodden because its bearer had died there, most likely. Found because there was no one left to pick it up. Unexpected grief squeezed Scarlett’s chest. Sorrow too great for the mere mention of some long dead Scotsman, but it gathered heavily in her heart, nonetheless.
Scarlett lifted her fingertips to the sword’s edge. Though it looked dulled with age, the blade was unexpectedly razor-sharp and sliced the pad of her forefinger. Flinching back, she watched blood well through the narrow cut and her head swam unexpectedly. The darkness that should have normally accompanied such a head rush was overwhelmed by a blinding gleam of light. Blinking, she found the sword’s afterimage burned into her lids.
“Why can’t you ever just play along, Scarlett?” She turned to find Grayson Lukas assembling through her still spotty vision as if he were held in a Star Trek transporter beam. “It’s publicity. Just publicity.”
“It’s not just publicity,” she argued, sucking the sting away from her fingertip. “It’s my life as much as yours and I won’t play these games anymore with you. There are people out there who think they know what happened between us when nothing did. People… men who have treated me differently than they should have because of things you’ve said to the press. I don’t want that kind of attention.”
Grayson Lukas scowled down at her with none of the boyish charm that had been on display for the crowds outside. The sight wasn’t surprising. This was the Grayson she knew. “Bullshit! We all want the attention. It’s why we do what we do. We all want it.”
“I don’t. Especially not that kind of attention.”
“No, you’re the big, high fashion model now, aren’t you, Scarlett?” he sneered, grabbing her upper arm and pulling her close. “Too good for the rest of us?”
“No, just too good for you,” Scarlett told him and not for the first time as she swatted at his hands. “We’re not teenagers anymore to play at relationships, Grayson. I am not your toy, damn it! I never was and I refuse to lie for the sake of your career anymore.”
“You refuse?” His grip tightened painfully.
“Yes, I’m done. With all of it.” Scarlett pushed him away harder. Taken unaware, Grayson’s hold slipped and she stumbled backward. Her nemesis was close behind, latching on to her jacket to pull her back. It dragged down her arm and Scarlett shook it loose, gaining a few feet of freedom.
He yanked hard and she rotated, freeing the other arm but the jacket caught on her tote, keeping her within arm’s length. Her many necklaces were swinging back and forth, then cutting into her neck when Grayson latched on to them and tugged. “What do I have to do to get through to you?”
“Well, this isn’t helping your cause,” she bit out. Bending, she felt the necklaces slip over her head, heard them clatter to the floor. Grabbing up her skirt, she straightened and brought her foot up hard between his legs. With open scorn, she glared down at him as he curled protectively over his groin. She wasn’t afraid of him, merely sickened. “Too bad the paparazzi can’t see you now, huh?”
“You bloody bitch!” he yelled, his fist snapping out and catching her on the side of the head as he reared up.
Careening sideways with only one of the pedestals to break her fall, the crash of the column to the floor and the clatter of the ancient sword as it met stone echoed through the tower. With Grayson advancing menacingly, Scarlett tried to right herself but bells were tolling sickly in her head. He grabbed for her again but she managed to block him and twist out of reach. The motion made her head spin dizzily and darkness clouded her vision. She stepped back. Her sandal raked against the hem of her maxi dress and her bottom painfully met the stone floor.
Scrambling backward like a crab, she tried to put some distance between them so that she might defend herself as her self-defense instructor had taught her but her sandaled feet slipped on the floor and again caught on her skirt. She would have to wait until he was upon her to do anything now.
Back farther. Her fingers grazed the warm steel blade of the claymore and curled around it. Bright white light flared once more as she dragged it closer and found the hilt but the sword was too heavy for her to lift.
Somebody, please…
“What are you going to do, Scarlett? Slay me like one of those bloody CGI dragons from the film?”
“I will if you come a step closer. Just leave me alone!”
With a laugh, Grayson knocked the sword away. It clattered across the floor and Scarlett closed her eyes in dismay then…
Silence.
3
Shouts sounded from outside, breaking the blessed silence, and Scarlett opened first one eye, then the other in surprise. Grayson was gone.
A metallic clang rang out, and then another followed by a hoarse scream. Still dazed from his lucky punch and more than a little confused
