When Lily Kline takes possession of a Gothic estate with Ian Hawke, her co-heir and a stranger, she soon realizes there is more than meets the eye within the many corridors of the sequestered mansion.
Ian is aloof and even hostile at times, and thou...
Mike slammed on the brakes and rolled down the window.
The black figure just stood there, the contours of his face obscured by the rushing rain.
"Ian—that you?" he said. "Come on man, no games. Is the power out?"
Without a word, the man strolled off the driveway; disappearing from the scope of the headlights.
Mike rolled up his window, his foot still on the brake pedal. "What the—"
No sooner had the words left his mouth when someone wrenched the driver's seat door wide open.
Lily yelped but was quick to regain her composure when the car's interior lights lit the face of their supposed assailant.
"Ian—" she shouted furiously, leaning over Mike's lap. "What are you trying to do?"
He was wearing a trench coat with the collar up, wet hair plastered and rivulets of water streaming down his face. "I could ask you the same question," he said. "I thought I told you to be gone by five o'clock."
"Just chill man," Mike interjected. "What's the hurry?" He shot a glance at Lily. "So—it was Ian who told you to leave."
"I didn't ask for your opinion," Ian said, voice low and intimidating. "Cut the idle chit-chat, grab a flashlight from the glove box, and go see if any fuses are blown."
Lily climbed out of the passenger seat and stepped into the deluge. Ian came around the front of the car and took her hand. "Come on, I'll get you inside," he said. "Sorry I don't have an umbrella."
They jogged the rest of the way up the flooded driveway—Mike in tow with a flashlight beam to guide their way—and hurried up the slippery stone steps. Ian let go of her hand and yanked open the heavy oak doors.
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Leaving Ian and Lily to their own devices, Mike hurried down the vaulted corridor and yanked on the warrior's axe, opening the wall panel leading to the basement.
There was a fuse box in a cellar-like room accessed through the scuba supply room. Mike had used it as a makeshift work area for three years now. He had a long work bench, a stool, some power tools, and shelving units used to store cans of paint and various household maintenance supplies.
With the aid of his flashlight, he went into the room and swept the beam across the floor to the far end—and dropped the flashlight.
Fumbling for it at his feet, he shone the light once more to the far end of the room, his breath shallow in his chest.
His worktable had been overturned, cans of paint were splattered across the floor, and his tool box was open and upside down. Instinctively, he flicked the flashlight back and forth—searching the nooks and crannies of the room for a lingering culprit. Satisfied that the room was unoccupied, he stormed to the fuse box, avoiding the paint splatters, and reached out to yank open the fuse box.
