Detective Serrano frowned. “Stollins?” he called out, thensaid, as much to himself as to Harper, “What the hell is he doing up there?”
“Rearranging furniture?”
A new sound drifted down: voices intoning in unison. The words were indistinct but rhythmic, starting low and growing stronger.
Harper and the detective exchanged glances.
“Chanting,” Harper whispered.
“Wait here.” Serrano turned and sprinted up the basement stairs, flung open the door, and disappeared from sight.
Like hell I’m waiting alone in a mad scientist’s underground lair.
Dropping the journal on the workbench, Harper rushed up the stairs, her pepper spray clutched tightly in one hand. When she reached the first-floor hallway she saw the front door standing open again, heard the chanting noises coming from the second floor, and caught a glimpse of the detective as he rounded the stairway landing.
She hesitated. Following the detective, especially when it was clear he didn’t want her to, seemed like a bad idea, but waiting here by herself seemed worse. This house felt…wrong. Maybe waiting outside was a better option. Before she could decide what to do, Harper heard the thundering of boots coming toward her down the wooden stairs. She ducked behind the door and watched as several people in dark robes ran by her and out the open front door.
The hood fell from the head of one of them, and Harper thought she recognized her student Jenny. What in the world had they been up to?
Silence descended.
“Detective?” Harper called up the stairs.
There was no reply.
“Serrano?” she tried again. Had they hurt him?
She took a deep breath and mounted the stairs. The telescoping sensation returned worse than ever, and once again it felt as if her feet were moving but she was not going anywhere. Then suddenly she found herself standing in the upstairs hallway.
A door stood open in the middle of the corridor. She peeked in. The octagonal room held a messy circle of chairs and was entirely ringed with mirrors.
And there was blood. Everywhere.
How can I paint sweet land and oceanscapes, when there is so much else to see?
The wronged face has shown me the secrets of the Séance Garden, of the Witch Tree, of poor doomed Hero and Leander, of those who have died here, within these walls of ancient mud.
I try to portray them, but my brush and paints—and talents—fail me.
Fifteen
Detective Serrano stood stock-still in the middle of the gruesome scene.
All was silent except for the branches of the cypress, swaying in the wind, tapping at the panes of the big window looking out over the garden. There was an overwhelming metallic scent from the blood that marred the wood floor and splattered across several of the mirrors. And something else, white and fluffy.
Feathers?
The mirrors reflected the detective, and the bloody scene, infinitely, sending shivers up her spine.
“Detective?” Harper said. “Are you all right?”
He seemed startled by her presence, his eyes faraway and troubled. He shook himself. “I…I honestly don’t know what happened. They got away.”
“I saw.”
“Just kids. Bunch of stupid kids.”
She nodded. “The…the blood? Is it…?”
