Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Author's Note: My husband has finally given up the ghost when it comes to this story. So, if any of you readers are willing to be a beta, let me know. Oh, and for the love of anything holy, please keep those reviews coming. I need the inspiration and the reinforcement since I have absolutely no confidence when it comes to my writing. So, please, please, please, keep them coming.

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Muses Behaving Badly

Chapter Thirteen: Lure

I had to give credit to Bors. He didn't mess with the radio or comment on my driving. Guess being with Vanora through eleven children had taught the big guy not to mess with a woman who was obviously on the verge of murder. As it was, the drive home was uneventful. The beltway was relatively clear of traffic and it took us approximately twenty minutes to get home from Tysons Corner mall.

Finally we were on the tree-lined street where my parent's house was located. The mp3 player hooked to my stereo had shifted to Sorten Muld's "Ulver," a Danish song with a Bluebeard-like scenario. I hummed softly with the song, tapping my fingers against the driver's wheel. I shot a pointed look at Bors who kept his eyes forward and his mouth shut. Pulling into the driveway, I hit the remote for the garage door and slid the car into the garage.

We both got out without saying a word, Bors grabbing my bags from the backseat without a word. Then we went inside. The kitchen butted up to the garage and was surprisingly empty. I waited until Bors had stepped into the kitchen before kicking the door shut with a bang.

"I'm home!" I shouted, slamming my purse down onto the kitchen table.

Still nothing and now Bors, being the intelligent man that he is, had vamoosed as well.

Joy.

Now it was a game of Marco Polo with the knights.

My stilettos clicked across the tile floor to the sink, where I poured myself a glass of water. Taking a sip, I closed my eyes and tried to formulate a plan. Sigh. No plan. I set the empty glass in the sink and turned to the living room, glancing out the sliding glass door to see if Lancelot was indeed hanging upside down from the apple tree like Methos.

No.

No Lancelot.

No Tristan happily torturing his brother in arms.

The living room was empty as well, though Rome was playing on the TV. I stepped to the television and turned it off. The house was deathly quiet. Maybe this had been a lure--wait, of course it had been a lure. Tristan threatens someone and I run like a chicken with my head cut off. When would I ever learn? Sighing, I began the search. First downstairs to the basement.

Tugging on the chain of the overhead light, I did a perfunctory sweep of the large underground room. It was all as I had left it. The exercise equipment was along one wall and the couches in front of the entertainment center were empty of knights. I walked to the bar in the corner and poured myself a shot of whiskey. Staring at the amber liquid, I considered my options. I could just leave Lancelot to his fate. After all, it wasn't like I was encouraging the lothario. Then there was the option to go and confront Tristan and make him let Lancelot go. Or I could bargain. I shuddered at the last option.

Gods only knew what Tristan or any of the other knights would take in trade to release Lancelot.

I threw back the whiskey, wincing at the burn as it slid down my throat. Another was poured and another hurtled down my throat. I sighed, setting the shot glass on the counter of the bar. I picked up the whiskey. Twenty-one years old. Dad had bought it when I was born and had cracked open the bottle on my twenty-first birthday. I sighed again, holding the bottle like a war club.

My stilettos echoed on the wood stairs as I climbed back up to the ground level. I started down the hallway, checking in Maria's playroom, the laundry room, the dining room, the family room. All was normal.

I frowned, looking towards the other half of the house. They weren't outside. They weren't in the basement. They weren't in the rooms that could have been termed "common rooms." The only other place that the muses could be was in the bedrooms.

But was it just Tristan involved? And was Lancelot really about to be tortured or was this some twisted "phone home" stunt? And were all the other knights involved? I rubbed my temple with the hand not currently occupied with holding the whiskey and shook my head. I was going to drive myself even more crazy than usual if I kept asking myself these questions and didn't just go Xena on these fifth-century children.

I started down the hallway, bottle held ready to bash into the head of anyone that came near. The hallway, like the rest of the house, was clear of any sign of the knights. I wasn't sure what I would do if I saw blood and entrails on the hardwood.

Thankfully I didn't have to deal with that.

I began to hum, softly, as I started down the hallway, pushing open doors. Maria's room was empty save all of her many stuffed animals. My brother's room, decorated with half-naked women pinned to the wall, was also empty. Next came my parent's room, since the master suite was in the middle of the other rooms. Nothing. I continued on, tightening my grip on the bottle. Then Dad's study, where he wrote his papers on international law and Mom's sewing/reading room. Both also empty.

That only left the bathrooms and my room.

I toed open the bathroom doors.

Nothing.

That left my bedroom.

Shit.

The door was closed, which meant that I couldn't just push it open. The knights, if they were all in my room, which I was seriously beginning to doubt, would be able to see me coming in because the knob would turn. Shaking my head, I headed back to my brother's room. Aside from being a connoisseur of porn, my brother was a baseball player. He played left field. Go figure.

Picking up his baseball bat, I headed back to my bedroom. The whiskey tucked in the crook of my arm and the baseball bat gripped in the other, I turned the knob and pushed the door open as fast as I could.

A pair of hands came out and caught me, slamming me against the wall at the side of the door as the door was shut with a bang. The Louisville slugger fell to the ground harmlessly. As did the bottle of whiskey, the bottle rolling unharmed on the thick rug spread across the wood floor.

I blinked, my head ringing from hitting it against the wall, and looked up at Cerdic, the man pinning me to the wall. I had forgotten how intimidating this Saxon was when he was pressed up against you. Forget intimidating, just…overwhelming.

"I believe that you told us we could not torture you," rumbled Cerdic, blue eyes glittering.

I nodded meekly.

Tristan padded forward.

Damn, a trap.

"Care to reconsider?" purred Tristan beside my ear.

TBC...

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Ysolde: Yup. That he would. And, you're right. Mom's Irish and Scandinavian (hence why I'm part Scandinavian) and they were always invading each other. Talk about cross-pollination. Explains the similarity in art as well. And yes, as a holder of a Bachelor of Arts in Archaeology and Folklore (congrats on the certificate!), you are allowed to run amuck.

Saxongirl1345: You're right. Thanks though. Glad you liked it. Don't worry, we're getting more in the next chapter. And boy were you right about something being about to happen. Good eye.

Cleopatra32003: Tristan playing almost anything is a frightening thought. And thank you. Blame the fact that I work for the cellular industry. And I doubt you'd ever look like a crazy person. Thank you.

Pastel Shades: So glad that you're enjoying. May this brighten your Thursday too.

Gargoyle13: So glad that you're enjoying. And, no, you're not the only one with muses like that. And be careful about letting them eat the three chocolate pudding cups from Swiss Miss--you'll never hear the end of it if you run out. And apologies for the Really Old Guy showing up. May he behave better for you than for me.