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They skirted the large black and white timbered house, half moonlit, half in
shadow, a place that seemed to brood, its windows eyes that scrutinised her.
Down paths that twisted and wound back on themselves in places. Once Miranda
would have fallen headlong had not Royston been gripping her wrist; he caught
her, pulled her roughly upright in the same movement. There was no time to
linger.
She saw the yawning black hole before her but did not understand; had her
captor not steadied her she would have fallen head first down the flight of
broken steps that led below. Royston went first, picking his way carefully,
holding her close to him, gripping her as though he both hated and lusted for
her, fingers squeezing with intent to hurt.
A narrow passage, its stone walls running with moisture, its roof bulging in
places as though it might collapse at any second. The floor was uneven, water
splashing Miranda's ankles where the seepage from above had formed puddles.
She was breathing unevenly, her respiratory system rebelling at the pungent
musty odour, her skin goosepimpling because it was so very cold down here. Yet
she was not aware of any discomfort.
Light was coming from somewhere ahead, a soft yellow glow that grew brighter
with every bend in the passage until at length they emerged into a large
underground room. Again the walls were rough hewn and the ceiling was
supported in places by wooden props in addition to the existing stone pillars.
A row of black wax candles filled the area with an oily smoke that took its
time filtering out into the passage down which the two newcomers had arrived.
And people moved amid the smoke haze.
Heads were turned towards them, eyes glinting with the same carnal lust that
was to be seen in
Royston's, all focused on the girl. Even in her trance-like state she sensed
their hostility, their evii a vibrant wave that hit her and set every nerve
tingling, seemed to fan that tiny spark of terror within her to a flame.
Wide-eyed she took in the scene; a dozen naked men and women, the younger ones
erotic in their arousement, the older ones wrinkled and revolting. Both were
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frightening. They had been doing something, some kind of group activity that
inspired a feeling of guilt because their leader had arrived without warning
and witnessed their perverted orgy. But their shame vanished as they gazed
upon
Miranda, willing her to be thrown naked into their midst so that they could
vent their unsatisfied lust upon her shapely body, finish whatever they had
been doing.
The shock had brought an awakening to Miranda, now seeing and beginning to
understand. That altar with its dark tapestries, the gleaming white object
that was stretched below the twin candles, the flickering flames showing the
fractured bones, how some had been rejoined in an attempt to ... Oh God,
they'd repaired that broken human skeleton, made it into a complete frame
again . . . resurrected William
Gardinerfor some awful purpose"
!
The empty eye sockets seemed to single her out as though they saw her, the
mouth cavity an evil welcoming grin. But that was impossible because this
century-old skeleton was dead, no matter what
Royston tried to make out. She shuddered, recalled what had happened to Sheila
Dowson; what they'd done to Sylvia Adams' corpse. They'd do the same to her,
desecrate her body before and after death.
That was the thought that had the scream rising from deep inside her, a
full-bodied yell of terror that was suddenly checked in her throat, bulging
and painful like a block of trapped wind. Because Royston was standing
directly in front of her, clad in black and mauve robes with a high cowl, the
material embroidered all over with inverted crosses. Miranda wanted to laugh,
to double up with mirth because he reminded her of a bishop and all church
people looked comical in their various regalia. Yet she could neither laugh
nor scream, finding her eyes focused on his own, seeing into those dark pools
- and beyond them into eternal darkness.
That exchange of gazes seemed to last an eternity. Royston looked different
but she knew that he was capable of changing his features at will, or rather
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