Gift of Fire

of violent action. Nothing is moving within the image, and there are none of those energy snakes that always pour out of the scene and try to lock onto me.”
    “It’s as if whoever is sitting there has reversed the usual way things work in here,” Verity agreed.
    “Christ, I learn something new every time I step into this crazy place.” Jonas shook his head in bemusement. “Wish I knew what the hell this all means.”
    “I think,” Verity offered slowly, “that if that’s the crystal Digby eventually found, there might be some truth to the legends of a treasure buried here in this villa. Look at the chest behind that man. It’s heaping with gold and jewels. Maybe that guy in the cloak is the one who originally owned the treasure.”
    “I wonder if this piece of metal I’m holding was the hilt of that sword the man in the image is wearing. In the past, the object that took me into the corridor has always appeared in the vision. Something is very, very different here, honey.”
    Verity’s intuition was prodding her. “I think we ought to get out of here, Jonas. I really do not like this whole set-up, not one bit. This psychic thing has always been pretty weird, but this is stranger than ever.”
    “Okay. I want to see where this passageway goes. Guess we’d better get going.” He dropped the hilt of the sword.
    It clattered on the stone floor of the real-time corridor, and the psychic corridor vanished. A cold draft made Verity tighten the sash of her robe again.
    “You take the sword hilt,” Jonas said. “It’s got a strong pull. If I pick it up again, we’ll jump right back into the corridor.
    Verity scooped it up. “Got it.” She was about to comment on the dirt encrusting the ancient metal when the faint shaft of light that had been seeping into the passage from the bedroom dimmed. An ominous creaking sound from around the corner of the passage warned her too late of what was happening.
    “Jonas, I think the door is closing!”
    “Shit.” Jonas raced passed her, his face grim behind the flashlight.
    Verity limped after him, her heart pounding as the distant angle of light narrowed, then vanished completely. They rounded the corner of the passageway in time to see the heavy door slide into place with a very final thud.
    Something clattered eerily in the darkness behind the closing door. It sounded like a handful of kindling being tossed against rock.
    Or bones being dragged across stone.
    Jonas raised the flashlight and Verity sucked in her breath at the sight of the skeleton. It lay just behind the massive door. The bones were bound together by the remnants of what had once been a natty pair of pleated trousers, an oxford cloth shirt, and a corduroy sport coat with suede patches on the elbows. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles glittered in the dust near the skull. The sleeve of the jacket had gotten caught under the closing door and had jarred the bones, thus causing the unnerving rattle.
    “Oh, my God, Jonas. It was there all the time! We didn’t see it because the door was open.”
    Jonas ran the flashlight beam over the inside wall. There was no handle, knob, or other obvious means of reopening the stone gate. “We’ll have to assume that whoever built this place didn’t want to get accidentally trapped inside here himself. There’s got to be a simple way out.”
    “Apparently our friend here didn’t succeed in finding it,” Verity said grimly.
    Jonas looked down at the tangle of cloth and bones. Metal shone dully as the flashlight wandered over the remains of the body. Jonas knelt beside the bones and studied the blade that was projecting through the corduroy sport coat.
    “I don’t think our pal died of natural causes. And it doesn’t look as if he starved to death in this corridor.” He probed the pocket of the pleated trousers.
    “What are you doing?” Verity demanded.
    “I was just wondering who he is—or was. Ah, here we go.” Jonas tugged a stiff, scratched leather wallet out of the trouser pocket. He flipped it open and studied the driver’s license photo of the bald, smiling man wearing gold-rimmed glasses.
    “Well?” Verity prompted. “I don’t think I can stand any more suspense. Anyone we know?”
    “It’s Digby Hazelhurst.”
    “Good heavens! He’s supposed to have disappeared while swimming or something.”
    “Sailing.”
    “That poor man. What an awful way to die! I think I’ve got a new definition of Hazelhurst’s Horror. Imagine being