a short-term apartment, not that he’d been there often. He gave his hotel room to Alex and had been staying with her most nights. She’d offered to reserve her own room but he’d insisted, claiming that the room was already paid in advance.
She didn’t believe his story. However, a check with the hotel’s manager had yielded no information of value other than gaining access to the hotel’s after-hours gym.
The elevator arrived as Varik joined her, and the doors slid open. He gestured for her to enter first then walked in with a knowing smirk. She ignored him and pushed the button that would take them to the lobby.
As the doors shut, she heard another door open and close somewhere in the distance, bringing to mind her encounter—or lack of an encounter—in the Hall of Records. In the excitement that followed her trip to the Shadowlands, she’d forgotten about it. She was certain someone had been in the Hall. Why had they not shown themselves?
Machinery whirred overhead and while the elevator descended, she was on edge. Dread settled over her like a shroud and she couldn’t shake it. Irrational visions of monsters lying in wait in the lobby flittered through her mind. The same sense of a forgotten dream nibbling at the corners of her consciousness made her shudder.
Varik draped an arm over her shoulders. “Are you okay?”
She nodded and stepped away. “Just a little nervous to face Damian,” she lied.
His eyes narrowed but he didn’t press her.
The elevator reached the first floor, and the doors opened to reveal a well-lit and empty lobby.
Alex silently chided herself as they passed the vacant front desk. She had an opportunity to make up for some of her mistakes and was allowing the events of recent weeks to get to her. She was back in the field, where she wanted to be, and she needed to get her head in the right place.
And yet when she stepped into the rainy dawn, the sense that some unseen menace lay in wait, watching her from the darkness, made her reach for Varik’s hand.
He shot her a questioning look, but he never broke stride, and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
Once surrounded by the security of his sleek black Corvette and heading into the morning in silence, Alex pushed aside the anxiety that still swirled around her like a palpable cloud, determined not to squander the opportunity she’d been given.
And even more determined to stop jumping at shadows.
Basements weren’t possible in southern Mississippi for two reasons: a high water table and a layer of shifting clay within the ground. That was why so many old houses had immense attic space to compensate.
Above- or belowground didn’t matter to Peter. All he needed was privacy and the attic offered it. It had taken him nearly a year to perfect the space, tailoring it to his needs. The time had been wisely spent.
A door in the second-floor hall opened to stairs that led to one section of the attic. A very small portion used for actual storage.
The doorway to the remainder was well hidden. He’d made certain it wouldn’t be noticed by the casual observer. Not that he had any visitors.
A false panel concealed behind an oversized print of Marcel Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2 hid another set of narrow stairs. The Cubist painting depicted both a woman and a staircase consisting of blocks and overlapping angles with little separating the moving nude figure from the irregular background.
The irony was too much. He laughed every time he opened the panel and climbed the hidden stairs, as he did now. Reaching the top step, he entered the wide expanse that was his private heaven.
Shelves containing his most precious collection lined the walls. Bins filled with all the bits needed to create his masterpieces were arranged in a neat row on his workstation. Lamps hung overhead and bathed the table in soft light.
As Peter crossed the time-worn wooden flooring, he felt a rush of power filtering up from the archaic sigils he’d carefully carved into the boards. Each held meaning and purpose, and all were designed to bring him the one thing he most desired.
He pulled a rolling stool from under the table and sat down with a sigh. It felt good to be returning to work. He pushed a button on a remote control and the opening overture for Carmen filtered through concealed speakers. His eyes slipped shut. The music surrounded him, caressed him, and lulled his senses into