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  Her makeup had smeared on her face, her mascara filling the normally invisible crow's feet at the comers of her eyes. He tried not to notice. "Christa--" he began, then halted, remembering Eric's warnings. "You were used by a paranormal entity. Do you remember what happened?"

  "We had sex, here, on the floor, didn't we?"

  "Yeah."

  She stared at him, at the long scratches on his arms and legs and torso, at the bruises in the shapes of hand and fingerprints that were already forming on his flesh. "Did I do that?"

  "Yes and no." He couldn't get over it. The woman had been possessed, truly possessed. That was another thing he'd never believed possible. Lizzie had passed through him, gathering his energy, and that, he almost understood. But possession. My God.

  "David?"

  "I'm sorry. Don't blame yourself for these." He indicated the scratches, and almost added, don’t blame yourself for most of them, then thought better of it. "Let's get out of here and get dressed."

  She nodded and, meek as a lamb, let him lead her from the room. In the hall, just outside the stained glass doors, he found his pants and gratefully slipped them on, though every movement was painful. He wished he could remember more, but it was all a blur of animal passions untempered by any sort of intellect. Whatever Christabel's powers were over men when she was alive, she certainly still possessed them now.

  "Come on," he said, putting his arm around her. "Let's get your coat. We don't have much time before Amber gets back."

  Halfway down the stairs, he heard Kelly Cox's voice. "Amber, you can't just go up there and barge in on them."

  "Like hell I can't," his daughter replied.

  Oh, shit! "Go back to my room and shut the door," David whispered. Immediately, Theo turned and ran, obviously not as sore as he. Swallowing hard, he walked down the rest of the stairs, coming face-to-face with Amber in the thankfully dim hallway. Her face was set with a determination he remembered seeing on her mother's face years and years ago. Behind her, Kelly Cox fidgeted, obviously very unhappy.

  "Had a picnic, Dad?" Amber asked smoothly.

  She’s your daughter, not your mother. Steeling himself, he smiled at her. "Yes, Theo brought a gourmet picnic basket over for dinner. We had a nice evening. Did you?"

  She stared pointedly at his bare chest and feet. "I guess."

  "We were just upstairs going through Dr. Shayrock's photo album," he said, even though he knew he owed her no explanations.

  "We're going to my room," Amber said coolly. She passed him, then Kelly skittered by, mumbling, "Hi, Mr. Masters," in a tone that suggested Amber might shoot her if she said more.

  Sighing, he grabbed Theo's coat and glanced around to make sure there were no more incriminating articles of clothing in sight. Thankfully, there weren't.

  Quickly, he moved up the stairs and found his door locked, thank God. He knocked quietly. "It's me," he whispered, and Theo opened the door.

  "We've got to get you out of here," he said as she donned the coat and belted it.

  She nodded. "Guess you were right about the champagne. I'm sorry I didn’t listen to you."

  He shrugged--what could he say?--and led her to the door. He looked out to be sure the hall was clear, then led her down the stairs, pausing to pick up her shoes on the landing.

  In the parlor, he helped her gather everything up and get it out to the car. She closed the trunk. "What happened, David? I don't understand."

  "You were used," he said simply. "And so was I." Chastely, he kissed her cheek. "Good night."

  Back upstairs, he showered and quickly got into bed. Past experience with ghostly phenomena told him there would be no more visits from Christabel tonight and, as he lay back against the pillows, he tried to remember, or at least reconstruct, the blur of the evening's events.

  There had been more than mindless sex, and as he lay there, images drifted into his brain; images of Christabel--in Theo's body--putting him under her spell with promises of sexual pleasures beyond his wildest dreams if he would come with her to the secret stairway on the third floor and descend it with her to destroy the doll and set her free.

  They'd left his bedroom and he clearly remembered following her down the hall. Just after they turned the corner to walk the corridor, he was almost certain, something had blocked their way, just outside the ballroom. Suddenly, he remembered catching the scent of lavender. Lizzie. Of course. Try as he might, he couldn't remember any other details, except for the anger flashing in Theo's eyes when she--or rather, Christabel--grabbed him and pulled him into the ballroom.

  In the huge, empty room, she had attacked him, taking out her anger on his body, using him, clawing him, taking him over and over. Somehow, she had caused him to perform in a way men normally could not. Voodoo. That's all it could be, he told himself. The way he felt now, he never wanted to make love again. I used to want sex all the time, but thanks to the Christabel Baudey Center for the Control of Fucking, I'll never have that craving again.

  The ringing of the phone startled him just as he began to drift toward sleep. Quickly, he snatched the cordless from the bedside table and extended the antenna. "David?" Static crackled on the line, but it didn't mask the urgency in Theo's voice.

  "Theo? What's wrong?"

  "I thought I should tell you--someone's prowling around on your grounds. He stepped out in front of my car as I was driving away. I nearly hit a tree when I swerved to miss him."

  "What did he look like?"

  "I couldn't see much. He was tall, broad-shouldered, I think, and dressed in dark clothes."

  "Which way was he headed? Toward Widow's Peak or toward town?" He paused, wondering if Captain Wilder had left his lighthouse home.

  "He was near the house, that's all I'm sure of. One minute he was there, the next, he'd just vanished into thin air."

  The static worsened. "Thanks for letting me know, Theo. I'll call the police, get them to take a look around." Through a burst of interference, they said their goodnights.

  "God," he whispered, hanging up. He rose and shrugged on his robe. He had no intention of calling the cops. He thought Theo, in her shaken state, had probably imagined the man--after all, she'd said he had simply vanished--but he thought he should check the locks downstairs.

  Preternaturally silent, Body House seemed to be holding its breath as he moved through the hallways and down the stairs. Nothing creaked, nothing scuttled. He checked the back kitchen door, the hairs on his neck slowly rising.

  The air felt cloyingly thick as he moved to the front door. Body House is waiting for something. Chilled, he put his hand out to check the lock, then jumped backward as someone on the other side rapped twice, loudly.

  Jesus! He tried to see out, but the colored glass was too thick. Two more raps sent his adrenals into overdrive. Grow up, Masters! Prowlers don't knock before entering!

  "Who's there?" he called.

  No reply, except two more raps, closer together, more impatient. He stepped back up to the door. "Who's there?"

  Two raps, nothing more.

  David hesitated, then the door latch started to jiggle, then rattle. The door itself shook under the force of whatever it was that was trying to break in.

  "Shit!" he cried, remembering the broken hasp on the lighthouse door. The same someone--or something--that was responsible for that break-in was about to do the same to this door. Its going to come in whether I open the door or not. Might as well…

  He twisted the lock and stepped back, wondering if he was going to lose control of any bodily functions. The rattling ceased as he glanced behind himself, hoping to spot a weapon, but there was nothing.

  When he looked back and saw the latch depressing, he said a silent prayer. As the door slowly began to open, the silence of the house itself was broken as the ghostly pianist began to play.

  Six inches, and he saw nothing, but he recognized the tune: "I'm Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage." Somehow that seemed very appropriate right now. The door suddenly swung wide open
and a tall silhouette blocked the night behind it.

  Time seemed to slow as the figure stepped forward into the light. David thought he was going to faint, then he saw who it was and still thought he might pass out. "Captain Wilder!"

  Appearing to hear its name, the ghost focused--seemed to focus, David corrected--on him. It stepped forward and reached for him. As shocking as this was, David, knowing this entity meant him no harm, felt ready to faint from relief as he waited to be engulfed in the massive arms.

  It was as before. Wilder felt cool but solid, though when David tried to touch him, his hand moved through the ghost as if through cool water.

  Then, also as before, the spirit began to send emotions, in visual form, into his brain. At first, they were like the ones sent previously--full of Lizzie and feelings of love and sadness. Then came a wash of hate and fear in the form of Christabel--and a chilling image of the dark sailor represented by the doll that had been stolen.

  Relentlessly, Wilder pounded the images into David's mind, pounding until David couldn't tell Wilder's emotions from his own. There was a feeling of desperation behind it all, and when the image shifted into that of Body House itself, a blood-curdling sense of danger pervaded it. In front of the house, Lizzie appeared, eyes wide with fear, mouth open in a silent scream, and then, suddenly, the captain's hug became so tight that David could barely breathe and Lizzie's screaming, terrorized face metamorphosed into Amber's.

  Horrified, David heard himself groan and then, superimposed over Amber, he saw the dark sailor, Peter Castle, and Christabel. Finally, he saw the image of Captain Wilder himself, and experienced a sense of protective watchfulness.

  As the ghost of Ezra Wilder let him go, David's rubbery legs betrayed him. He stumbled and dropped to his knees, trying to catch his breath, as the ghost of Captain Wilder somberly turned and walked down the porch steps. The soft strains of "Gilded Cage" faded away.

  Shakily, David got to his feet. After a moment he ran out onto the porch and down the steps. At first, he couldn't see the long-dead captain, then he spotted the dark silhouette moving slowly toward the lighthouse.

  The wind shifted and as he turned to go inside, he thought he saw another figure standing quietly among the Monterey pines just west of the house, but it was gone in an instant.

  David, who knew he wrote what he wrote because he had always seen shapes in shadows, paid it no more attention, but turned and went inside, locking the doors securely behind him before returning upstairs, vaguely wondering if the entire world had gone crazy. Or if it was just him.

  Wilder had been trying to tell him something, David thought as he climbed into bed. He suspected it was a warning about the sailor, Peter Castle--perhaps the doll had been broken or was in danger of breaking, thus releasing the soul of the man.

  David shivered, pulling the quilt up around his neck. If breaking the doll of the beneficent Ezra Wilder made him powerful enough to break locks, communicate, and physically interact with the living, what might the soul of Christabel’s black-hearted lover be capable of doing?

  Finally, he considered the most disturbing part of Wilder's visit and the reason for his own rubbery legs. The spirit had projected to him the image of Amber and it was obviously a warning about her safety, but, beyond that, he wasn't sure of the implications.

  Confused, David rubbed his temples and decided to dismiss the captain from his mind for the night. Further pondering would be useless--he was beyond exhaustion. In the morning, he'd consider it all again. Maybe you’re just losing your alleged mind, Masters.

  David reached over to turn off the bedside lamp, then changed his mind and left it on. To keep away the ghosts.

  He closed his eyes and fell immediately into a deep, fathomless sleep.

  Chapter Forty-one

  August 16

  New York City: 6:05 P.M.

  Melanie Lord stood in her tiny kitchen waiting impatiently for the microwave to finish zapping her Lean Cuisine. She was still rattled by David Masters' phone message, and still contemplating its meaning. She wanted to call him back, but he hadn't asked her to and, as a result, she'd spent all day today scrubbing down her apartment, which was what she did when she couldn't make up her mind about something. She and Ray had planned to go to the Museum of Modern Art, but she'd canceled on him, knowing she'd be rotten company.

  "Five, four, three, two, one," she counted as the microwave finished cooking her dinner. Ray had whined about the cancellation and she didn't like that. He'd also been whining about his proposal, the one he'd given her to submit to Harry Rosenberg over at Dorner. David, she thought, I wish I'd listened to you about mixing business and pleasure. Boy, were you ever right, you son of a bitch. You sweet son of a bitch.

  In the other room the phone rang, and she paused, straining to hear who was calling. Probably Ray, to ask her if he could come over for a quick fuck and a little pillow talk, which would consist of him telling her how he needed her to get him half a mil from Rosenberg. Hell, she'd be amazed if Harry even nibbled at the proposal: Ray Blaisdell had done it up trite and sloppy.

  "Hi, Mel? It's Amber. I-- "

  "Amber!" Melanie dropped her potholder and raced into the living room, snagging the receiver off the hook so quickly that the phone tipped and fell. She caught it before it reached the ground, crying, "Hang on!" over the static invective of the answering machine.

  "Sorry," she said, switching off the machine. "Amber, is that really you?"

  "It's me." The teen laughed delightedly. "Miss me?"

  "Miss you? How can you even ask me that?" The fact was that the sound of the girl's voice filled Melanie so completely with a mix of emotions--most of them wonderful--that she was fighting back tears. "I miss the shit out of you, girl! How are you?"

  For the next half hour, Amber rattled on about cheer leading, her sort-of boyfriend, how her dad was going to get her a car, and about her costume for a local dance. Finally, she paused and Melanie knew that the real reason she'd called was about to be revealed.

  "Dad misses you, Mel."

  Music to my ears. "What makes you think that, Amber?"

  "He's pining away. He needs you."

  "Well," she admitted, "I miss him too. Sort of." Like hell, sort of! "But--"

  "I overheard him talking to Georgie, Mel. He's really jealous of Blaisdell. I think he wants to kill him."

  "He knows about Ray Blaisdell?" Melanie smiled to herself, mentally retracting all the bitchy things she'd ever thought about Georgie Gordon. Bless you, Georgie, you matchmaking devil!

  "Uh huh. Are you in love with him?"

  "With Ray?"

  "Yeah, I mean, are you engaged or anything?" Amber asked tentatively.

  Melanie laughed. "No, hon, Ray's nice, but he's just a friend." And he looks good escorting me around town, but he’s nothing but a big hunk of petulant meat, just like his nickname.

  "Good," Amber said. "Can you fly out next Saturday?"

  "What?"

  "You've got to come to the party."

  "What party?"

  "You know, the Come As You Were Dance. You have to! I've got a costume ready for you and everything. Dad's dressing as the sea captain who loved Lizzie Baudey. Do you know who she is?"

  David had talked about Lizzie and her house for as long as she'd known him. "Yes, I do, but--"

  "Listen, Mel, you look a lot like her and I've got her dress ready for you. You can make such an entrance, Mel. It'll be, like, symbolic. The reunited lovers. It'll be so cool. He'll just die when he sees you."

  "I don't think it's really such a good idea," Melanie said as she flipped the pages of her calendar to the twenty-second. "I mean, doesn't he have a date or something?"

  "Or something." Amber's tone hit new heights of sarcasm.

  "You've got to save him, Mel, before the Wicked Witch of the West gets him for good."

  Oh, great, Amber wanted her to crash a party and a date. "Amber, I can't just waltz in there and--"

  "I know, I know. You can
go with Rick and me."

  Oh, boy...

  "She's a gold-digging slut, Mel. She'll kill him."

  "Amber--"

  "She's like Lorna."

  Melanie's stomach twisted with delight, or fright, she couldn't tell which. She knew all about Lorna. "You must be exaggerating."

  "Not one bit," Amber replied firmly.

  "Amber, I'd like to come," and I have the time, "but I don't think it's a good idea. Not unless David invites me himself."

  "Listen, I'm going to tell you the rest, but you can't tell Dad, okay?"

  "Okay."

  Melanie's emotions spun between disgust and protective anger as the teenager recounted how the housekeeper had spread the filthy rumor about Amber's and David's relationship and then how this bitch, this Pelinore woman, had handed the girl her dad's underwear in a bag. That was too much, way too much.

  "You swear she did that, Amber? Swear to God?"

  "Any god you want."

  "You're not exaggerating to talk me into coming?"

  "I'm telling you everything, the whole truth and nothing but." Amber sounded a little angry, a lot desperate. "It's humiliating. I couldn't let Dad know. I hate telling you, but if that's the only way I can convince you that he's in danger from that witch, Pelinore, then..." Her words trailed off. Amber was trying not to cry.

  Melanie believed her, all her instincts fluttering up into a weird older sister or maternal thing that Amber had always brought out in her. The teenager was the one being attacked.

  She needs me, she really needs me. The thought filled her with joy. She'd take this Theo Pelinore by the tits and twist them off and when she was done, the bitch would never fuck with Amber Masters again. She'd see to that and she'd make sure David knew what was going on, one way or another. "Okay, Amber," she said. "I think I can get away for a few days."

  The moment Amber hung up, Melanie phoned her travel agent and made reservations because she knew she'd chicken out otherwise. Seeing Amber was one thing, but seeing that bastard David was another.

  She know full well that the adjectives she always stuck in front of his name were empty words that she used to keep herself from missing him, from feeling foolish for blowing their relationship. David had been her friend--her best friend--as well as her lover, and that had made losing him a bigger blow than she thought possible.