Between by Kerry Schafer

Warlord—seek Excalibur.
    And that was all. Somewhere a clock ticked off seconds in the silent room. No other sound but Vivian’s uneven breathing, and Zee’s, measured and slow.
    After a moment he got up and walked away. Came back with a fresh cup of coffee, which he set on the table in front of her. “Drink,” he said.
    Vivian obeyed, several long swallows, feeling it burn all the way down into her belly.
    “Well?” Zee said at last. “You look like I handed you a hydrogen bomb on a timer.”
    She managed a shaky laugh at that. “When you met him, did he seem crazy to you?”
    His brow furrowed, thinking, and then he shook his head. “Crazy? No. Eccentric, I’d call him.”
    “Eccentric how?”
    “Well, giving me these things to keep for you, when I’d never met you. Buying that painting and making it into a book. He called me Warlord all the time—Vivian, what is it? Are you all right?”
    At his use of the name, the room restricted down to a small circle: the chair she was sitting on, the warmth of the ceramic mug in her hands, the fragrance of coffee, the low table with its scarred chessboard, a game half played,
across from her, half risen from his chair, frozen in time, a man with agate eyes and a face scarred beyond recognition, long hair bound back with a leather thong, callused hands bloodstained, holding a sword—
    “Vivian?”
    She blinked. Managed to draw breath. Zee’s hands were stretched across the table toward her, and his voice said again, insistent, “Are you all right? Do you need to lie down?”
    It was possible to shake her head no, she did not need to lie down. She held up one finger to signify that he should give her a moment. Air was necessary and in short supply, and she focused on drawing it deeply into her lungs and releasing. Once, twice, three times. And then she said, in a voice that sounded distant and strange to her own ears, “He left a message for you.”

Seven

    V ivian lay flat on her back in bed, wide awake and staring at the ceiling.
    Thank God she had the night off; she was in no condition to work. Her thoughts made her dizzy, alighting on one dilemma only to flitter away to another, forming connections that logic would have considered insane.
    She’d finally realized, sitting in A to Zee Books, that all of the science and logic that she’d held to be true was built on false premises. Reality was no more real than dream, perhaps less so. Nothing was as it seemed, and this knowledge had hit her like a ton of bricks. She scarcely remembered making hasty excuses, fleeing from Zee and his dangerous eyes, half-running all the way home.
    Maybe she would go back, tomorrow, and apologize to Zee. Maybe she wouldn’t. He was a disturbing and complicated piece of this puzzle, and she didn’t know how far she could trust him. Didn’t know that she could trust anybody.
    It had been a restless afternoon and evening, her body at once weary and unable to rest. She’d cleaned and polished and organized, then called Isobel’s family home to check in. No, they still hadn’t heard anything. The police were looking. They would absolutely let her know the second they heard a word.
    She called Sacred Heart to check on Brett. Still raving about penguins, still far too cold, still alive. She thought about making a call to find out how her grandfather had died and discovered that she didn’t want to know. She read through the will, carefully, forcing her distracted brain to focus and make sense of the convoluted phrases.
    Just in case, she pulled up Google Maps and found directions to the cabin she had inherited. Maybe she should drive up there, maybe even tonight. But cell phone service was likely to be sketchy driving through the pass, and she needed to be available if the police found Isobel. Or if a detective ever called back to talk to her about Mr. Smoot.
    At last she’d climbed into bed, hoping to sleep, but her thoughts refused to stop churning.
    Beneath the anxiety caused