The Chosen

thought. Feldspar always wore a big amethyst pinky ring. And there could be no mistake: Kyle, too, wore an amethyst. Vera clearly remembered the bright purple stone hung about the man’s neck the night he’d invited her to the pool. And one more thing—

She also remembered the large, finely cut amethyst set into the stone transom above The Inn’s front door…

And the last passage:

Little is actually known on Magwyth, save for the minuscule registry left by certain pre-Druidic settlements. It is known, though, that Magwyth is the offspring of the first earthly generation of the pre-Adamics, or the initial foundry of Satan’s failed attempt to rule the physical world. The original Magwyth, according to the early Britonic archives, was originally imprisoned for heinous misdeeds, sentenced, and executed by knife upon an altar of the then-abundant sedimentary rock: feldspar.

— | — | —

^{CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO}

Paul parked off a little layby in the woods rather than The Inn’s parking lot; he wanted to be discreet. He crunched up through the winter thicket. It was starting to snow. When he made it to the elaborate, paved cul-de-sac, he stood gazing up in awe.

The Inn was immense, grandly refurbished, eloquently lit by spotlights planted in the outer yard. It’s a palace, he thought, then noted with some astonishment that the resort’s parking lot was empty save for a beat-up Plymouth station wagon and two Lamborghinis. He traipsed to the huge stone-framed front door, passing granite verandas before high windows. But a sign on the door indicated that The Inn was closed for repairs.

All this money for this big place, and they’re closed? Paul wondered. Was Vera inside now? If so, what was she doing?

An oddity caught his eye: the large, finely cut gem-stone set into the door’s granite transom. Its darkness flashed in the strangest way. Midnight-purple razor-sharp facets. Amethyst, he realized. But the largest amethyst he could ever imagine.

He pulled away, skirted around the front facade. In the center of the cul-de-sac, a heated fountain gurgled, whose splattery noise seemed to follow him along the building’s left wing. He wasn’t even quite sure what he was doing; bitter cold air and some vague impulse propelled him around the corner of the building and down a steep slope. Several times he almost fell, and he had the sensation of submerging into dark. When he came around the bend, though, more floodlights lit the back of The Inn. And behind that, there were only dense woods.

Except…

He peered down, shivering. Through branches of winter-starved trees he spied what seemed a curving sweep.

It was the snow, he realized. Glittering on…pavement.

He followed the incline down farther, then pushed into the woods. Something was there, he just didn’t know what. Was it some kind of hiker’s trail? A service road, he realized once he’d trundled through the net of trees and vines. The light snow sparkled like halite on fresh, new asphalt. He followed the road around the bend.

Deeper, he discovered an embankment, a man-made one judging by the way it was cut against the declivity of the landscape. What he was looking at now appeared to be a loading dock, which made sense in a way, because all hotels had loading accesses. What didn’t make sense, though, was the distance. Why put the loading dock here? Paul at once questioned. It was a good hundred yards from The Inn. Almost as if the building’s designers had—

Hidden it, Paul realized.

Why hide a supply access?

Then he saw the stranger part.