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

the reach of the water, things seemed more intact. The builder of this house had obviously been wealthy and had spared no expense in its construction. Above it all hung a crystal chandelier made with ornate flourishes of brass. It had been originally crafted for candles but now sported electric bulbs. Throughout the room, blackened brass fittings were used on every corner, rail, and picture frame.
    The ragged opulence gave Max an odd feeling of kinship with this old house. It was glamour and extravagance brought low, then covered with mud and rot. Like him, she felt brooding—angry at her fall.
    There was no light switch near the door, so he stood and weighed his options. Stay or Go were the only two he could think of. Childhood terrors of the dark, and dozens of cheesy haunted house films swam to the fore of his mind and clamored for option two. Pride, dignity, and practicality weighed-in just about equally on the side of option one. It was his kindling feelings of kinship with the building that finally tipped the scales.
    Max forced himself to walk into the dark house, paying close attention to the creaking of the floor. Now that he had faced down his fantasy fears, he had to deal with the more pragmatic one of falling through rotted floorboards. He stamped his undamaged foot a few times to test the dirt-encrusted, water-damaged boards, ready to spring back at the first sign of the floor giving way. They seemed solid, so he took a couple of steps. When nothing happened, he started to relax and walked into the room.
    With his undamaged hand, Max pulled out a large flashlight which doubled as a handy steel club. Its circle of bright blue light pushed back the dark while its heft made him feel armed and less vulnerable. He walked further into the stale darkness, silence, and heat. At random, he headed into the first room on his left.
    At first flash, it appeared to be an old-fashioned and ornate sitting room. He stopped a few steps in. A strange sight near the top of the ten-foot ceiling snagged his eyeballs. The walls sported faux columns at regular intervals, capped with ornate capitals and carved plaster or stone statues.
    The statues, gargoyles or some other sort of grotesque creatures, looked balefully down into the room. All had raised arms that appeared to hold up the ceiling. Max took a couple more steps into the room, then shuddered.
    Who would voluntarily design a room like this? He could practically feel the malevolence in the gaze of the statues.
    A quick sweep of the edges of the room with the light revealed dark shadows of moldering chairs and sofas. The once-rich red fabric was torn, rotted, and stained by the flood waters.
    His beam flashed across the floor and momentarily illuminated two bodies, both fish-belly white and dead, lying intertwined bonelessly on the floor.
    The sight speared through his brain, causing shock waves that smacked into his adrenals and squeezed them dry. He squeaked, jumped, and swept the beam back to horrible sight.
    The light revealed that the bodies were actually just cushions, draperies, and sheets piled up in a heap.
    Max's heart thudded in his chest. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!” He tried to catch his breath, momentarily closed his eyes to give his over stimulated brain a break, and stepped back.
    A terrible crash shattered the silence.
    He screamed, jumped about two feet, twisted around desperately, and tried to take out his unseen foe with the flashlight. His makeshift club swept unimpeded through the air. Only with a heroic effort did he stay on his feet. In a panic, he brought the light to bear on the floor, where it illuminated the former pile of old beer cans scattered by his backward step. He put his hand to his heart to help his ribcage hold it in place and quickly checked to make sure none of the gargoyles had jumped off their pedestals while his back was turned. With every thrumping beat, a red tinge speared in from the edges of his vision, then subsided. He tried to