Read Online The Thirteen Hallows by Michael Scott, Colette Freedman - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Scott, Colette Freedman
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picking his way through gossamer strips of flesh that coiled with the consistency of old paper. He carefully lifted the crystal queen from the woman’s long-nailed fingers and dipped it in the pool, cleansing it. “A thousand years, certainly,” he said eventually. “And possibly another thousand beyond that.” Holding the piece up to the light, he tilted it, admiring the ancient craftsmanship. “The Chessboard of Gwenddolau,” he whispered, “each piece based upon a living figure. Each piece imbued with a fragment of the soul of that person.” He smiled thinly. “Or so the legend has it.”
“And do you believe in legends?” the woman asked, looking at the chess pieces in the velvet padded box.
Slowly, sensuously, he rubbed the queen across her pale face, pressing it between her moist lips, pushing it into her mouth. “ These are legend.”
Vyvienne grabbed the chess piece, feeling its surge of power that charged her mentally and aroused her physically. As she clenched the piece in her palm, she undressed, allowing her spectacular body to reflect in the pool’s glass surface. As Ahriman’s hands caressed her body and she held the piece, Vyvienne turned her attention to the middle of the pool, where Richard Fenton’s frozen expression of sheer terror gaped at her as his body slowly sank to the bottom.
The corpse was barely recognizable as human.
And there it was again.
A disturbance.
A tremble in the ether, a shifting in the perpetual night.
Something ancient had been awakened.
Something powerful.
Wednesday, October 28
11
I made you some tea. I wasn’t sure how many sugars—”
Sarah Miller stood in the bedroom door, her mouth wide open in surprise.
The room was empty: Judith Walker was gone.
Her brother’s bed was neatly made, the bright blue duvet folded down and smoothed flat, the hodgepodge zoo of stuffed animals nestling neatly against the pillows. The only clue that someone had been there was the faintest trace of a floral perfume in the air. Puzzled, Sarah returned to the kitchen, sipping the tepid tea and eating the Walkers biscuit she had commandeered from the bottom shelf of the cupboard where her mother squirreled them away. An impossibly tanned TV anchor was reading the seven o’clock news.
What time had Judith Walker left? And why?
Sarah heard creaking upstairs, her mother’s distinctly heavy steps on the floorboards. The walls were so thin, she could trace her mother’s path from the bedroom to the bathroom. No wonder Judith had left. Her mother was famous for her shrill voice, and last night she had been in rare form. Naturally Judith had sensed the icy atmosphere. No wonder she’d escaped at the crack of dawn.
After finishing the tea, she spent ten minutes looking for her Coach briefcase before she remembered that she’d left it in the office. Sarah was dreading going in; what was she going to say to Mr. Hinkle? She’d just walked out at lunchtime and not returned. Her mother had taken an almost malicious pleasure in reminding her that she might very well lose her job. Last night she hadn’t cared, but this morning…
She was pulling the door closed behind her as James meandered down the stairs. Occasionally—very occasionally—they managed to catch the train together. Sarah hated that; a journey into the city with her mother’s lover was always vaguely embarrassing. She never knew quite what to say to him, and she knew James wanted nothing more than to be left alone to read the newspaper and enjoy a moment’s respite from Ruth Miller’s constant haranguing. But he’d not be on the train with her this morning. James was still wearing the obnoxiously loud terry bathrobe that her mother had given him at Christmas. Sarah had seen the empty tequila bottles in the sink and knew that the balding car salesman was going to miss yet another day of work. Sarah grimaced, realizing that once again almost her entire paycheck would have to be handed over to
“And do you believe in legends?” the woman asked, looking at the chess pieces in the velvet padded box.
Slowly, sensuously, he rubbed the queen across her pale face, pressing it between her moist lips, pushing it into her mouth. “ These are legend.”
Vyvienne grabbed the chess piece, feeling its surge of power that charged her mentally and aroused her physically. As she clenched the piece in her palm, she undressed, allowing her spectacular body to reflect in the pool’s glass surface. As Ahriman’s hands caressed her body and she held the piece, Vyvienne turned her attention to the middle of the pool, where Richard Fenton’s frozen expression of sheer terror gaped at her as his body slowly sank to the bottom.
The corpse was barely recognizable as human.
And there it was again.
A disturbance.
A tremble in the ether, a shifting in the perpetual night.
Something ancient had been awakened.
Something powerful.
Wednesday, October 28
11
I made you some tea. I wasn’t sure how many sugars—”
Sarah Miller stood in the bedroom door, her mouth wide open in surprise.
The room was empty: Judith Walker was gone.
Her brother’s bed was neatly made, the bright blue duvet folded down and smoothed flat, the hodgepodge zoo of stuffed animals nestling neatly against the pillows. The only clue that someone had been there was the faintest trace of a floral perfume in the air. Puzzled, Sarah returned to the kitchen, sipping the tepid tea and eating the Walkers biscuit she had commandeered from the bottom shelf of the cupboard where her mother squirreled them away. An impossibly tanned TV anchor was reading the seven o’clock news.
What time had Judith Walker left? And why?
Sarah heard creaking upstairs, her mother’s distinctly heavy steps on the floorboards. The walls were so thin, she could trace her mother’s path from the bedroom to the bathroom. No wonder Judith had left. Her mother was famous for her shrill voice, and last night she had been in rare form. Naturally Judith had sensed the icy atmosphere. No wonder she’d escaped at the crack of dawn.
After finishing the tea, she spent ten minutes looking for her Coach briefcase before she remembered that she’d left it in the office. Sarah was dreading going in; what was she going to say to Mr. Hinkle? She’d just walked out at lunchtime and not returned. Her mother had taken an almost malicious pleasure in reminding her that she might very well lose her job. Last night she hadn’t cared, but this morning…
She was pulling the door closed behind her as James meandered down the stairs. Occasionally—very occasionally—they managed to catch the train together. Sarah hated that; a journey into the city with her mother’s lover was always vaguely embarrassing. She never knew quite what to say to him, and she knew James wanted nothing more than to be left alone to read the newspaper and enjoy a moment’s respite from Ruth Miller’s constant haranguing. But he’d not be on the train with her this morning. James was still wearing the obnoxiously loud terry bathrobe that her mother had given him at Christmas. Sarah had seen the empty tequila bottles in the sink and knew that the balding car salesman was going to miss yet another day of work. Sarah grimaced, realizing that once again almost her entire paycheck would have to be handed over to
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