Dance with the Devil

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 that nothing was out of place there…
        The rap came again, softly, lasting a long time.
        She got out of her bed and stepped into her slippers. The insides of the slippers were cold and made her shiver-or, at least, that was her own explanation for the tremors that raced up and down her spine.
        “Lydia?” she asked.
        No one answered.
        She put on her robe, carefully buttoned it, taking her time, then she stood by the bed for a few moments, waiting for something more to happen. “Is that you, Alex?” she asked, ashamed at the quaver in her voice but unable to control it. What was she afraid of? “Yuri?”
        Only silence.
        She flicked on the bedside lamp and waited for the knocking sound to come again. When several long minutes had passed, she went to the door and pressed her ear so tightly against the wood that it pained her a little. She held her breath as she tried to detect the sounds of someone beyond, but she could not hear anything other than the profound silence of Owlsden.
        “Who's there?”
        When she still received no reply, she slid back the iron bolt on the door, gripped the antique knob and swung the portal outward onto the unlighted corridor.
        The light from her own room plainly showed that there was not anyone nearby. Perhaps the darkness beyond the stairwell, in the other wing, concealed a watcher. But she did not feel much like walking down there in order to find out. Too, she had an undeniably strong suspicion that that was just what was wanted of her-to walk into the shadows down there…
        Wondering if, after all, she had imagined it, she turned to enter her room and saw what had been done to the outside of her door. A large, dark circle lay in the center of the door, filled with Latin words which had been scrawled hastily in white chalk.
        She looked quickly toward the far end of the corridor, hoping to catch someone unawares. She saw only the shadows.
        Raising a hand, she tried to wipe away the markings. In the dim light, she had thought that the circle was drawn in a dark-colored chalk, but she now found that it was wet and sticky. Stepping back into her room, she held her hand out before her and looked at the rich brightness of fresh blood which had been used to paint the mark.
        She closed the door, locked it with her clean hand, tested the bolt, then went into her private bath and thoroughly washed her hands. She scrubbed the sink vigorously when she was done, so that not a single red smear remained to remind her of what she had just done.
        As she looked up to be sure that no blood spotted her face, she was shocked by her expression. Her eyes were too wide, her lips drawn into a thin, hard line, her jaw thrust forward. She realized, at the same moment, that she was gritting her teeth. Bending over, she looked away from the mirror and took several long, deep breaths. They only helped a little bit.
        She washed her face in warm water, then splashed it with cold, dried on a new hand towel from the linen closet. When she looked in the mirror again, she did not look quite so close to the brink of an uncontrolled shriek, but she did not look normal. Her complexion was waxy, pale. The flesh below her eyes was smudged purple-brown, and the eyes themselves were still too open and staring.
        “Where's the famous Sellers smile?” she asked her reflection.
        But she knew what the trouble was. Always before, she had bounced back from an unpleasant development, swung from fear to joviality in an almost