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The cold, stone room was more like a tomb than a dungeon when Meg awoke hours later. The meager candlelight wavered in darkness from some unseen breeze, and the shadows were tall around her. She lay very still, shivering beneath the scratchy blanket, and told herself she had no reason to be frightened. This was almost the twenty-first century. She wasn't being kept prisoner in a mausoleum of a mansion by a deformed madman and his swarthy henchman. Even if it seemed like it.

She sat up, shoving her hair away from her face, pulling the terry robe around her. If only it weren't so dark. If only she had clean clothes and something to eat. If only...

Thinking about it was a waste of time, something to send her into weak-minded tears. She needed to pull herself together if she was going to finally face Ethan Winslowe and bargain her way out of here with her undeserving father's reputation intact. What meager light had come from the casement windows was now gone— surely he'd deign to see her soon.

She was fully dressed again, sitting cross-legged on her pallet and trying to read her novel by candlelight when she heard the scrape of a key in the lock. She held her breath, her heart pounding noisily beneath her thin cotton sweater, as a huge, menacing shadow preceded her visitor into the room. When the candlelight revealed Salvatore's impassive bulk, she breathed a sigh of relief, then wondered at it. Wasn't she more than ready to see the infamous Ethan Winslowe? Wasn't she more than ready to give him a piece of her mind?

"Have a good rest?" Salvatore asked.

"No." She stretched her legs out in front of her in an attitude of deliberate ease. Not for anything would she let him see how spooked she was. "I presume his highness is ready to grant me an audience by now?"

"Don't assume nothing, girly. I'm moving you to different quarters."

She raised an eyebrow, hoping the effect wasn't lost in the dim light. "Don't tell me you have other dungeons?"

"This place has so many different rooms, you could spend months and never stay in the same bed twice."

"I'm not going to be staying months," she said, unable to keep the slight waver of panic out of her voice.

The smile beneath Salvatore's thick gray mustache was positively wicked. "That's up to Ethan. At least in your new room, you'll have a real bed. And books." He chuckled at some private joke.

Meg didn't like that chuckle. "I think I'll stay here."

"Girly, you don't have any say in the matter. If you don't think I could carry a little bitty thing like you, then you don't know diddly. You're going to get up and come with me or we're gonna have a real undignified struggle."

"Don't call me girly," she said. "My name is Meg. Miss Carey to you." She waited long enough to assuage her pride, then rose, tucking the novel into her purse.

"That's the ticket. You'll like your new room. There's a nice view of this godforsaken countryside. That is, when it isn't dark outside and raining."

"I'd rather have a view of Chicago. When do I get to see him?"

"When he says so. And not a moment sooner. I wouldn't be in any great rush if I were you." He started out the door, confident she'd follow. Which, indeed, she did, too nervous to remain behind. "Haven't you heard what the townspeople say about him?"

"Why should I have talked with anyone in the town?" she countered.

"You stopped for gas at Ferdy's place. I don't imagine that old reprobate would let you go without filling you full of stories."

"How did you know I stopped?"

Salvatore didn't bother to turn around, and she had no choice but to keep up with him. "I have my ways. Bet he told you the one about Mrs. MacInerny going mad when she saw Ethan. And did he tell you about the cows? What few cows were left in the area dried up when Ethan came back here. Or what about the children?"

"The children?" she asked, her voice shaky. Iwon't believe this, she thought. He's only trying to frighten me.

"There've been any number of young people who've come out here and never been seen again."

"You're making this up." She told herself she was breathless from all the twisting stairs they'd been climbing, even though she could run six miles without getting winded.

"That's the sort of story that people like Ferdy tell. And they believe it and worse."

"It sounds like something out of the Middle Ages. Why haven't they burned him at the stake?"

"Oh, they'd like to, missy. They would surely like to. They just can't catch him. He's like a phantom. No one sees him and lives to tell the tale."

"Stop it! You're making this up."

Salvatore chuckled, a reassuringly normal sound. "Most of it. Either me or them. One part of it's true, though." They had stopped outside another door, this one made of a different heavy wood, with different hardware. She didn't know how far they'd come; she'd again lost track of the staircases and the sloping passageways.

"What's that?"

He opened the door, illuminating the inky darkness beyond with his candle. "The children really do disappear."

If the other room had been a medieval dungeon, this was more like a castle. The huge bed in the center of the room was on a raised platform, and it dominated even the lofty proportions of the place. The casement windows were set lower in the stone walls, and this time, there were no bars on them. A tapestry chair and carved chest stood in one corner, and the bed hangings were sumptuous gold and crimson.

She cast a suspicious look at Salvatore as he moved about the room lighting the candelabra that stood at either end. "Are you certain you brought me to the right place?"

"Ethan's orders. He thought you deserved better treatment. That's because he hasn't met you yet. Once you start in on him, you'll be back in the dungeon." Salvatore chuckled, stepping back. "Bathroom's through there, basically the same as the other one. I've ordered you some clothes, but they won't arrive until tomorrow. In the meantime, there are some things in the chest that should help."

"You ordered me some clothes? How? This place doesn't come equipped with a telephone, does it? And why should you bother? I'm only staying until my car can be pulled out."

"You're staying as long as Ethan says you are. And we have a dedicated fax machine. Federal Express will make the delivery."

"Then I can get a ride back with them—"

"Bring it up with Ethan."

"I will if I just get a chance to see the man."

"Now that's not likely to happen."

Meg's frustration level was reaching mammoth proportions, overcoming even her nervousness. She stomped over and plopped herself down on the bed, ignoring its inviting comfort. "What do you mean?"

"I mean Ethan doesn't like people looking at him, you should have figured that out by now. If and when he decides to talk to you, it will probably be in darkness."

For a moment, she was speechless. "If? What are the alternatives?"

"One, that you stay here until he changes his mind. Or two, he'll send you away and concentrate on crucifying your father. If I were you, I'd hope he chooses number one."

"I hope he chooses to stop this melodrama and talk with me tonight."

"That's also possible. I'll let you know when I bring you your supper."

"I don't want any."

"I'm bringing it anyway. Just relax, girly. At least you've got plenty of books to read." He gestured to the small bookcase she'd almost overlooked, stacked with paperback novels. The room was too dark for her to read the titles, but that was at least a minor comfort if she were forced to keep waiting.

"I'll be back." He'd already pulled out that heavy ring of keys as he headed to the door.

"You're not locking me in again," she said, her voice rising in panic.

"For your own safety, girly. This can be a dangerous place, and we don't want you wandering where you don't belong."

He'd already locked the door by the time she reached it, and the heavy wood muffled her cries, muffled the heavy tread of his footsteps as he walked away.

 

"She’s worse than the townspeople," Salvatore announced in disgust when he stepped back into the darkened room.

Ethan Winslowe didn't move. "No one's worse than the townspeople."

"She's just as gullible."

"That's because we're going out of our way to frighten her. The good people of Oak Grove have come up with horror stories on their own. We're doing our best to frighten Meg Carey witless," Ethan observed dispassionately. "It's working very well, too." He glanced over at the monitor. The candlelit room was murky, but he could see her leaning against the door, for a moment looking abject. He didn't want to see her cowed. If she were beaten too easily, he'd have to let her go. And he was feeling more alive than he had in a long, long time. "Feed her," he said. "Then bring her to me at midnight. Make sure she knows what time it is. I'll see her in the computer room."

"She won't eat."

"We'll simply have to convince her."

"Ethan." Salvatore's voice was troubled. "Are you sure you ought to be doing this? I mean, she hasn't done anyone any harm as far as we know. Her father's a crook, but we don't know that she's anything more than a loving daughter."

"I don't imagine she is," Ethan said in his slow, almost dreamy voice. "Are you feeling sorry for her, old friend?"

"A little. I don't think she deserves to be frightened."

"I should let her go?" He asked the question very softly. "Say the word, Sally, and I'll release her."

Salvatore shook his head. "That's up to you. She came here for a reason—you might as well hear her out. But then you should let her go back home."

"And if I don't want to?"

"I don't understand why not."

Ethan moved his head a fraction, to stare at the television monitor. She'd moved from the door, across the room to stare out the casement windows. She was wearing the clothes she'd come in, a baggy pink cotton sweater, a long, loose skirt, mudsplattered highheeled shoes. He liked her better in the terry robe. He'd like her even better in nothing at all. "Let's just say I'm enjoying being a voyeur," he said.

"Ethan..."

"Don't worry about it. She'll be safe from my evil designs. In a week, she'll be back in Chicago, safe and sound."

"A week. You're planning to keep her here that long? We might run into trouble when the workmen arrive on Monday."

"The house is big enough. Don't worry so much, Sally. For now, I feel like playing with fire. I don't even mind if I get burned."

Salvatore shook his head, knowing the gesture was unseen in the darkened room where his old friend stared at the woman on the television monitor. "I'm not worried about singed fingers, Ethan. I'm worried about the place burning down around us."

"You worry too much. I promise you I won't hurt her. I probably won't even scare her as much as you have. I just need a little distraction. It's been a long time since Ruth."

"Ethan..."

"Bring her to me at midnight, Sally. Who knows, she might even be able to convince me to let her go." She turned from the window, pushing her hair back from her face, and he watched the nervous parting of her lips, the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the baggy sweater. "Maybe," he murmured.

 

It had taken all her willpower to resist the tray Salvatore brought her. True to his word, he was a good cook, if she could judge by the devastating smells coming from the tray. Roast chicken and rice with baby peas, and something that looked and smelled like lemon cheesecake. He'd even brought her a glass of wine, something she would have killed for in her current strung-out state of mind.

She sat in the baronial-style chair and stared at the tray with mute antipathy. It made no sense, her refusal to accept food from their hands. It wasn't as if she suspected them of trying to poison her. After all, why should they? Drugged wine she wouldn't put past them, but that, too, was unlikely.

No, it wasn't from any fear of the ambrosial smells that had issued from the contents of the heavy silver tray before they cooled. It was an absurd fancy based on some Greek legend she'd read. Someone—was it Persephone?—had been kidnapped by the Lord of Darkness and stolen down to hell. She would have been just fine and dandy if she hadn't succumbed and eaten six pomegranate seeds. When someone finally showed up to rescue her, she'd already sealed her fate. For each pomegranate seed, she had to spend one month a year in the dark kingdom.

Of course, there were those who said the eating of pomegranate seeds was merely a sexual allusion. Persephone had given in to the powerful sexual lure of the Prince of Darkness, not her desire for pomegranates.

As for Meg Carey, she wasn't interested in either food or sex. Not that she envisaged the mysterious Ethan Winslowe as even remotely a sexual creature. Nevertheless, she was determined to keep her distance, to accept nothing from him she wasn't forced to accept, such as a bed for the night.

She fell asleep in her clothes as the night drew closer around her. She'd finished her book, then discovered that the only books the room held were Stephen King novels. She was already spooked enough—the last thing she needed was to read horror novels before she tried to sleep.

Even so, her dreams were bizarre, erotic and frightening. X'n*d, the lizard-blob hero of the book she'd finished, was a dead ringer for Ethan Winslowe. He was sitting in the middle of a muddy green pool, tubes and wires hooked up to him, keeping him alive, and he was beckoning to her. Sort of like Jabba the Hutt in one of those Star Wars movies, something huge and soft and evil that drew the unwitting heroine in.

And then he shifted, away from the amorphous mass into something leaner, more dangerous, with lizard scales that were surprisingly warm to the touch. And she was touching him, staring up into yellow eyes as she ran her fingers across the fine scales 

"Wake up, girly," a voice broke through. "He's ready to see you."

Meg didn't move. She'd slept so soundly, she hadn't heard Salvatore open the creaking door, slept so soundly that he was able to materialize beside her bed. "Go away," she said, pulling the heavy damask cover over her. "I'm not ready to see him."

"I'm glad you're enjoying our hospitality. It might be a hell of a long time before you get another chance."

She'd already accepted the fact that she had no choice in the matter. She pulled herself upright, pushing her hair out of her face, and glared at Salvatore. The candles around the room had burned down low, and several of them had guttered out. She felt rumpled and sleepy and bad tempered, and suddenly, oddly afraid. She no longer felt like some Greek maiden abducted into hell. She felt like someone approaching a Gorgon. One look, and she'd be turned to stone. Or, like the fabled Mrs. MacInerny, she'd go stark staring mad.

Ridiculous, she chided herself. The contents of the bookcase should have tipped her off. Salvatore and his employer clearly read too many Stephen King novels. She wasn't going to let them terrorize her, she simply wasn't.

"All right, I'm coming," she said grumpily, squinting at her watch. Her reliable Rolex, a present from her father on her twenty-fifth birthday, had inexplicably stopped working. All of a piece, she thought wearily. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Midnight," Salvatore said. He was holding a candlestick in one meaty hand, and his face looked shadowed and positively evil.

"What else? I'll be ready in a moment."

"He doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"I don't like to be kept prisoner," Meg shot back. "He can wait while I use the bathroom, can't he?"

"Maybe."

"He'll have to." She slammed the door behind her. For a moment, she leaned against the closed door whose hook held a terry robe that was a twin to the one in her dungeon. What was this place, the Gothic Hilton, she thought with a misplaced giggle.

Cool water didn't do much to help her wake up. Brushing her hair into a semblance of order didn't do much to restore her state of mind, and she wondered why she was doing it. Did she want to impress Ethan Winslowe? She wanted to murder Ethan Winslowe, and she had every intention of telling him just that. Maybe. Still, it didn't do a woman any harm to feel confident, she thought, pinching some color into her pale cheeks and wishing she'd brought her makeup with her. At least her lashes were naturally dark. Otherwise, she'd look like a ghost. A fitting resident for this house of horrors.

Salvatore was exactly where she'd left him, looking bored. His hangdog eyes surveyed her improvements and he smirked. Clearly he'd noticed everything she'd done, and she wished to heavens she'd left herself looking like something the cat dragged in. "Take me to your leader," she said flippantly.

She watched with sudden surprise as he unlocked the bedroom door. Why had he bothered to relock it in the first place? And the noise of the key in the lock, the sound of the door creaking open, was surprisingly loud in the room. How could she, normally a light sleeper, have slept through that? Unless he'd come in some other way.

She glanced over her shoulder as he stepped into the corridor. There were no other doors in the room besides the one leading to the bathroom. There was no way he could have gotten in. Was there?

"Don't fall behind," Salvatore warned. "I might have a hard time finding you."

She started after him, wishing she'd dared to leave her high heels behind. She needed every inch of support she could muster, but her ankles ached and her feet hurt, and if her two previous journeys were any example, she had a long hike ahead of her.

"Don't you believe in flashlights around here?" she questioned crossly, scurrying to keep up with him.

"Don't need 'em. I probably wouldn't even use a candle if you weren't with me. Rats don't bother me."

"Rats?" She didn't even care that her voice quaked.

"Every old place has 'em. As a matter of fact, I think Oak Grove and its environs have more than their share. Don't worry about it—they're more afraid of you than you are of them."

"I doubt that."

"Besides, Ethan keeps them well fed. Rats are only dangerous when they're starving."

"He keeps them well fed?" she shrieked, and her voice bounced off the stone walls and echoed down the dark passageway.

"Not so loud, girly. Ethan learned long ago that if you can't change something, get rid of something, then you accept it with good grace. It's a lesson you could learn."

"Sure. Next time I'm infested with rats, I'll buy rat food."

Salvatore only chuckled, turning a corner and heading into another part of the house. An electrified part. The wall sconces were dimly watted light bulbs, reassuring Meg that there were no rats keeping her company.

And then they were in darkness again, a darkness so thick that Salvatore's candle could barely penetrate it. "Watch your step," he muttered as they started down a steeply ramped passageway. Ramps again, she thought. Ethan Winslowe must be bound to a wheelchair.

"I can't see."

"Feel your way along the wall," Salvatore suggested irritably.

She did just that, almost afraid of what she might touch. But the walls were smooth there, plastered and solid, and she kept her left hand running along one side, needing the security.

At that point, she needed all the help she could get. She couldn't rid herself of the notion that someone, something was watching her in the dark. Salvatore's broad back was to her, so it couldn't be him. And no one could see in such inky blackness, could they? The only other resident of the house was Ethan Winslowe himself, and she expected to see him tied up to life support systems somewhere in the center of this monstrosity.

"How bad is Mr. Winslowe?" she asked suddenly, unable to stand the uncertainty any longer.

Salvatore stopped still in the hallway, an unwilling chuckle rumbling out of him. "Depends on what you mean," he replied, turning to look at her.

She was glad it was too dark to see her face flush. "I mean, how bad is his condition? Is it life threatening?"

"That's a matter of opinion. What do you think is wrong with him?"

"I'm asking you."

"Well," said Salvatore, "I ain't talking. You'll have to ask the man himself. If you dare." And he started onward at a faster clip than ever.    •

She hesitated a moment too long. He turned a corner ahead of her and she was momentarily plunged into darkness.

She bit down the scream that threatened to bubble up. He'd come back for her, he had to. If she just held very still...

It was like a soft breeze. A touch of warmth, of spring air, a breath, a caress. It ruffled through her hair, across her clothing, touching but not touching, more a promise of touching. The feel of warmth, insubstantial but real, and no threat at all. She closed her eyes in the darkness, trying to draw the odd feelings within her trembling body, and then as swiftly as it had come, it disappeared and she was alone in a dark, haunted, cold hallway.

The light from Salvatore's candle reappeared. "Are you just going to stand around in the darkness?" he demanded irritably. "Ethan doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"I—I think I'd rather go back to my room," Meg said in a weak voice. That brief, otherworldly encounter had left her more shaken than she would have imagined.

"Sorry, that's not an option. We're here."

"Where?"

"Around the corner. He's waiting."

He could damned well wait, for all she cared, Meg thought. She wanted to get out of there, away from the suffocating darkness, away from rats and danger and deformed creatures of the night. Though she wouldn't have minded feeling that almost-supernatural caress once more.

"I'm coming," she said between gritted teeth, following the light.

A door stood open in the next corridor. A pale blue light was emanating from beyond, and she could hear the unmistakable noise of machinery. Computers, perhaps. Life-support systems. Oxygen tents? Just how bad was Ethan Winslowe?

Salvatore moved out of the way, and Megan paused in the doorway, for one moment afraid to go on. The room beyond was dark, warm, with a myriad of tiny lights blinking from various machines. In the center of the room was a tall chair, almost a throne, and in that chair, in the darkness, was a motionless, shadowy figure.

"Come into my parlor," she muttered beneath her breath.

Whatever Ethan Winslowe's physical limitations, they didn't involve deafness. "Said the spider to the fly," a slow, deep, rich voice issued from that chair. Unwillingly, she stepped into the room. And Salvatore closed the door behind her, plunging her into darkness.