“Literature.”
“Liberal arts?”
“Yes.”
Patricia brought in a fresh tray of hors d'oeuvres, bringing with her another conversational lull.
As she left, Nancy asked, “What sort of things do you like to read?”
“Mysteries, love stories, anything,” Katherine said.
“I'm partial to ghost stories, novels about the supernatural,” Nancy said.
“I like those too.”
Katherine sipped her wine. Except for Nancy and her, everyone was silent and still, as if waiting for something. She had the distinct impression that the conversation was building to a pre-planned point.
Nancy said, “Devils and demons, witches and hideous things that crawl around in the night. All of that junk gets to me, for some reason — especially since these crazy Satanists have been operating around Roxburgh.”
Lena Mathews came in now, as if picking up her lines in a carefully rehearsed play. Or was that just Katherine's imagination. “I guess you've heard all about that ugly stuff.”
“A good bit of it, yes,” Katherine said.
“What do you think of it?”
“Excuse me?”
Lena said, “Do you think they really do summon up the devil?” She had come forward in her seat a little, holding her glass of wine in both hands, her eyes curiously alight.
“Impossible,” Katherine said.
“Still,” Lena said, settling back again, “if you believe in the Christian God, like we do, don't you also have to admit the existence of a Devil?”
“Perhaps,” Katherine said. “But though I'm Christian, I can't summon God when I want to. I doubt that the Satanists would have any more luck in summoning
A few of them laughed and applauded.
“Good point!” Alton Harle said.
Lena sighed and said, “But maybe the Satanists know the proper chants and all of that ritual stuff.”
“That doesn't make sense, though. Why should they know the proper magic words to summon up the Devil when no one knows the proper magic to call up God?” Katherine asked. “If one set of data exists, then the other should be as easily accumulated, don't you think?”
The room seemed to have gotten stuffy, the air still and thick and too warm.
Katherine put down her glass of wine and decided not to drink any more of it tonight.
“I guess so,” Lena admitted. “But you have probably just ruined any more supernatural novels I might pick up. They always seemed so real and spooky before. I guess, to continue enjoying them, I'll just suspend my critical judgment and let my emotions carry me away.”
“As usual,” John Kline said.
Everyone laughed, and that started them off on a new topic. The tension that had lain just below the surface while they had discussed Satanism dissipated in an instant.
Katherine found herself sipping the wine that she had said, only a short time ago, she did not want any more of. She frowned and put it down again.
The room was still stuffy, perhaps stuffier.
She remembered, suddenly, that she had not yet seen Yuri, had not had an opportunity to tell him about the footprints leading to Owlsden from the site of the devil's dance. She felt uneasy about being the only one with that information.
Paranoia…
She looked around at Alex's friends, but she found her judgment had not changed. Gloomy pessimists, a bunch of fault-finders. She did not care for them at all.
And she could not escape the nagging certainty that the whole conversation about Satanists had been carefully planned, that they had been…
Been what? Testing her?
Yes. It seemed almost as if they had posed a number of carefully worded test questions to ascertain where her sympathies lay, if she put any credence at all in superstitions.
But why?
It was as if they were feeling her out to see if she would like to—
“Don't you agree, Katherine?” Alton Harle asked.
She looked up, surprised that she had completely lost the thread of the conversation.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I seem to be wool gathering. I've had a very long day, and I suppose I should be getting to bed.”
“It's only eleven,” Harle said.
“Yes,” Bill said. “We don't really get moving around here until after midnight.”
And what did that mean? Katherine wondered. Did it imply that these people were somehow connected to the cultists whose ceremonies began after the witching hour? Or did it mean nothing whatsoever, merely an unfortunate coincidence?
“Stay, Katherine,” John Kline said. “It's so pleasant to have a fresh point of view for a change.”
“Just the same,” she said, standing, “I really should turn in now.”
“Next week, we'll get together again,” Alex said.
“How could we survive in this backwoods place if we didn't?” Alton Harle asked.
Goodbyes were said quickly. In a moment, Katherine was standing in the main corridor with the door closed behind her. The air was still heavy and unpleasant. She had a sudden urge to lean with her ear against the door and hear if they were talking about her. Realizing how crude this compulsion was, she walked swiftly towards the main stairs before she could give in to it.
In her room, with the door locked after her, she remembered that she had yet to speak to Yuri. She reached for the bolt latch, then thought about prowling the many dark rooms of the mansion in search of him. It could wait. She could talk to him in the morning.
She undressed, put on her pajamas and got into bed. At first, she was going to let the bedside lamp burn. Then, when she realized that she must have soaked up some of the gloomy thinking that permeated the conversation in the recreation room, she reached out angrily and snapped the light off.
The darkness was not so bad at all. In fact, having overcome the momentary fear, she felt a great deal better. Aside from finding the prints in the snow, and aside from Alex's party, the day had been wonderful. More credits than debits. Tomorrow would be even better. She was sure of that…
CHAPTER 9
Again, Katherine woke because some noise had startled her, and she sat straight up in bed, listening intently to the stillness of Owlsden. The clock on the nightstand beside her read 3:08 in the morning; darkness lay in the room like thick syrup. Had the owls gotten exceedingly loud again? She listened for them, though she was certain that she had been awakened by something else altogether, something—
Like a knifeblade tapped against a hollow bone, someone knocked on her bedroom door, softly, quietly.
“Yes?”
No one responded.
“Who is it?”
When no one replied a second time, she wondered if she had imagined the noise — or if she had misinterpreted its source. Perhaps there wasn't anyone at her door, after all. She looked at the window and saw
