0945820950924859

devised to lift water….I recognized that screeching sound.”
“What do you mean lift water?” Trevor shouted back in complete disorientation. “Where the devil
did she go?”
But before Rayley could answer, the door at the top of the stairs wrenched open.
The garret was full of candles, as many as a shrine or chapel, and thus, when the door was pulled
back, the stairs beneath it were suddenly flooded with light. Enough so that Rayley blinked, and
turned toward Trevor below him. But Trevor was standing in open-mouthed wonder as LaRusse
Chapman stumbled from the turret.
He was wild, incoherent, nearly foaming. He had been trapped there for hours, it would seem, held
hostage by not only the lead toxins within the white paint but also by ceaseless images of the woman
he had destroyed. For now that his eyes were adapting to the light, Rayley could see that the multiple
images of Rose on the stairwell were only the beginning. A dozen other canvasses bearing her face
were grouped around the small turret room, her eyes staring down at the men from every direction.
LaRusse staggered. He weaved. Rayley struggled to stand, still shaky from his blow to the head, and
Trevor scrambled up the remaining steps. But they were both too late. LaRusse paused at the top
stair, teetering on the edge of the abyss, and then, with a single step, he was gone. But this was no
angelic flutter, no swirling ghost. It was the straight sharp fall of a mortal man and the slap at the
bottom, below them in the darkness, was the sound of death.
Rayley and Trevor stumbled down the steps as best they could. The light at the top of the stairs was
fading as they made their way to the bottom, but just as they reached the last step, a door opened from
the dining room. John Paul coming in to investigate the sound of the crash, a torch in one hand and his
beer mug in another, and his minions behind him.
Trevor left Rayley to confirm the inevitable – that LaRusse Chapman had instantaneously died upon
hitting the stone floor – while he sprinted past the confused cluster of colonists and out the front door.
She was still in sight, just as expected, running in the moonlight away from the castle and toward the
open fields. Trevor was portly, a man too fond of his food and drink. But in times like this he had a
low and efficient sort of run, and so, despite his arduous climb and rapid descent of the stairwell, he
was able to close the distance between them within minutes. She was barely across the moat when
his reaching hand found her trailing robe and he seized it, yanking her roughly.
The girl all but tumbled out of the white cape. She hit the ground inelegantly, knocked down with
more force than Trevor had intended and instinctively he reached a hand to assist her. A gentleman
to the end, he thought. Even when confronted with ghosts and angels and murderesses, what do I
do? Apologize for my roughness, offer the assisting hand. They are right to tease me, for I am a
fool. The ladies will be the ones who kill me in the end and I will go willingly, I suspect, with a
gentleman’s obliging smile on my face.
His hand grasped hers. And when he felt the paint on her palms and fingertips, still wet, he at last
understood it all. She offered one last spasm of resistance, made one final attempt to twist in his
arms, but he held her firm.