The Devil's Beat (The Devil's Mark) Read Free Page A

leaned down to retrieve them from the parched ground.

Thriller
    Max felt as if he were being laughed at as he fumbled through at least fifteen keys. It was difficult to do with only one unencumbered hand. After an unsuccessful search through the pile of dirty clothes in his trunk for a bandage, he'd wrapped his damaged hand in a makeshift Armani T-shirt bandage—expensive and effective but bulky and awkward. He yanked out the last key in disgust. While he was fumbling for the next one, the door clicked and creaked open an inch. He tensed and waited to see if something was going to come out. When nothing did, he tentatively tried to push it open. It slammed shut, making Max jump back and drop the keys.
    Max retrieved his keys and angled towards the door, trying to make sure he could run at a moment’s notice. He gave it a tentative push. It didn't budge.
    “Hello?” No answer was forthcoming. “Hello, is anyone there?”
    Only silence greeted him. Max glared at the door and then at the keys. He'd lost his place on the key ring. Muttering imprecations, he started again, pushing, twiddling, and pulling each key.
    The eighth key jammed. It wouldn't turn, and nothing he did would free it. Max slapped the door in frustration and pulled his foot back to give it a kick. He stopped short and gingerly set it back down on the ground. Instead, he shouted, “Piss on you, Lucian! Do you hear me?”
    The keys fell out of the lock and the door clicked open.
    Max ground out an “arrrrgh” between clenched teeth as he bent down to grab the keys one more time. The door slammed shut and caught the top of his head. He jumped back, slapped both hands on his head, and fairly danced in pain and rage.
    The door opened a crack again. As soon as Max calmed down enough to notice, it slammed shut hard enough to rattle the nearby windows. A light dusting of plaster or something dribbled down upon Max's head.
    Max looked up at the porch roof just in time to dodge out of the way as a fist-sized piece of the exterior molding fell right where he had been standing.
    He stared at the chunk of plaster, and his rage broke from its chains. It flowed through him like sweet, molten freedom. He looked up to the sky (though maybe he should have looked down) and shook his fist. “I'm not gonna play this game Lucian! I'll burn this place down! I'll take a flamethrower to it! I don't give a—”
    The door swung open with a spooky groan.
    Max glared suspiciously into the dark hole thus revealed. When the door didn't immediately slam shut, his anger drained away. He crept forward, trying to keep his eyes simultaneously on the door and the distant porch roof. Nothing happened. He retrieved another stick from the yard and gingerly wedged it under the door. When he felt it was safe, he stuck his head in.
    From the doorway, a suspicious Max squinted into the darkness to examine the immense front hall. It had an ornate but dilapidated grand staircase curving up from the right to an open balcony on the second story. The smell hit him like a punch in the nose. Hot, stale air flowed past him and out the carved and weathered door. Mold, stagnant water, rot, and age all proclaimed their presence with joyous abandon. The nostril assault alone was enough to stop him, but fear also had a part in his hesitation. Without stepping into the house, he nervously leaned in and looked around.
    The insides were done in early Gothic vampire cliché. Every wall sported dark wood paneling that was intricately carved with grotesque reliefs of leering, distorted faces. That, combined with blood-red curtains and dirty windows, made the thick gloom of the place almost touchable.
    Under the two-foot waterline, he sourly noted mold growing on faded, warped wood. It would probably give him black lung disease or something. He wondered if that was a bad way to die. Probably.
    More black dirt coated the floor, and a rotting sofa nestled into the alcove created by the curving of the stairs. Above