An excerpt
from The Dragon's Lair ...

As Skye approached her quarters, she slowed. A small, oblong package lay propped against her door. She frowned and stopped. After looking both ways down the corridor and seeing no one, she continued on. Cautiously, she bent and picked it up. Simply wrapped in silver paper, it had no tag or card to hint at where it had come from. She turned it over, puzzled.

Maybe flowers from Kail? No, the box was too short for flowers. Candy, perhaps? Such an oddly shaped box -- almost a foot and a half long, and half that wide. Too big for jewelry, too small for clothing. What in Orion's Belt could it possibly be?

Skye brought the box into her quarters and set it on the kitchen table. She stared at it curiously as she poured herself a glass of cold orange juice, her mind still churning with possibilities. Both Sam and Kail were apt to have sent her a little something, Sam as a peace offering, Kail as a belated get-well present. And of course there was always the very rich, very persistent shipping executive who had taken a fancy to her some months back but refused to take the hint that the attraction wasn't returned. He'd sent her a little token every day for almost two weeks straight until he'd had to return home to the main office and, presumably, the wife and kiddies. Maybe he was back.

Sipping at the juice, Skye finally sat and pulled the package towards her, giving in to her curiosity and tearing off the wrapping. Under it was a plain white box. Again, there were no identifying markings to hint at its origin or contents.

Thoroughly intrigued now, Skye opened the lid. Delicate folds of paper added a final barrier to whatever secrets the box contained. As she carefully parted them, her smile froze in place, her breath catching in her throat.

With a strangled cry she shoved the box away violently, sending it flying over the edge of the table as she jumped out of her chair. The chair toppled over with a crash. Skye backed away until she collided with the counter, ignorant to the pain that shot through her hip, her mouth gone bone dry, heart racing. All she could do was stare in numb horror.

No, this isn't happening, this isn't happening, this can't be happening, that can't be the same one, it is I know it is but it can't be, how can it be?

The knife lay on the white tile floor, silently overwhelming her with its mute presence. But not just a knife.

The knife.

His knife.

Konnor's knife.

The one she'd left imbedded in his chest nine years before.

The ornate silver hilt glistened in the overhead lighting, winking at her seductively. Skye swallowed, not wanting to believe it, but it was unmistakably the same knife. It had been crafted to Konnor's exacting specifications, and after it was done, he'd killed the artisan who'd created it, just to ensure it would be a one of a kind. Skye still remembered the surprised look on the man's face when Konnor had sliced him open with his own handiwork. It had been a knife made for killing right from the start, and Konnor had taken it to his bosom as though it were a favorite child.

Her stomach threatening to send the juice back up, Skye slid slowly to the floor, trembling uncontrollably. Why? Why had it shown up after all this time? How? Who could have sent it? Who could've possibly known?

A chill crept over her as she forced herself to look at the knife a few feet away. His knife. Even just laying there, it seemed dangerous to her. It was a part of him, a part of then, and she had no room in her life anymore for either. Past was past, done was done. Still, the memories the knife was churning up froze her, holding her chest in a fist of despair.

He's dead. He can't hurt you. He's dead. He can't hurt you. Squeezing her eyes shut, Skye concentrated on those words. Konnor was dead, long dead. The knife was just a knife. Whoever had sent it, why ever they'd sent it, it was still just a piece of metal.

It was several long minutes before Skye dared to open her eyes again. The knife was waiting.

Silent. Patient. Taunting. Like one of her nightmares had finally jumped dimensions and sprung to life.

Forcing herself to her feet, Skye picked up the box. Using the lid to avoid touching the hated relic, she scooped the knife back into the box, then set it on the table and drew back quickly, as though it might come to life and strike out at her of its own volition.

After all these years, why?

As she stared at the knife, she noticed a small piece of parchment writing paper, folded in half, sticking out from under it. She hesitantly reached out, withdrew it, and unfolded it with hands that trembled more than slightly.

Vengeance is in my heart,
Death in my hand,
Blood and revenge
are hammering in my head.

The familiar Shakespearean quote chilled her. The note was unsigned, but the initials emblazoned at the top in gold leaf left no doubt as to the author. VR. Viktor Rycharik.

Damn him!

How had he gotten his hands on that knife? How had he known? How could he know? And what did he want from her? The knife was obviously a message, but what did it mean, exactly? Was it just as simple as it seemed, that he knew her secret and was going to use it to, what, blackmail her? Or was there a deeper meaning that she was supposed to divine from it?

Skye shook her head, staring at the damnable thing in the box. She could almost feel it in her hand, along with the blood that had covered it the last time she'd held it. She wiped her hand unconsciously down her leg.

"Damn you to hell, Konnor. Why couldn't you just stay dead?"

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