A Christmas Odyssey by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online Page A

them all start and then move closer together, as if in the face of some unseen threat.
    A man appeared in the doorway, leaning on a stick to support himself. He was Squeaky’s height, but skeletally thin. His face was pale, as if it were painted with white lead, and his eyes were odd colors, one lighter than the other, and both ringed with black. He was dressed in old-fashioned breeches to the knee and a velvet frock coat, all in a faded lavender. He could have stepped out of a previous century. He surveyed them.
    “Nothing for you here,” he said, pronouncing his words with pedantic care. “Trying to get lost, are you?” He addressed the question to Henry Rathbone.
    “We are looking for a friend,” Henry replied, matching courtesy for courtesy. “We think he may have come this way, and perhaps you have seen him?”
    “I see everyone, my dear.” The man took a step closer, and Squeaky was aware of a draft of coldair in the room. “Sooner or later,” the man added with a twitch of his lips that was not quite a smile. “What does your friend look like?”
    “In his early thirties, dark-haired, slender, unusually handsome.” Henry struggled to think of something unique about Lucien. “His eyes are actually dark hazel, not brown, and he speaks with a slightly husky voice.” Was he making a fool of himself, by being so detailed? What would this odd-looking man notice about anyone else’s appearance?
    “Oh, yes,” the man said with a sigh as if some deep emotion filled him. “He came this way, with Sadie, of course, with dear, fickle, dangerous Sadie. Such fun, on her good days. Or perhaps one should say ‘nights.’ Cruel sometimes, but then aren’t we all?” He looked directly at Bessie, who shivered and stepped backward, closer to Squeaky.
    Without thinking, Squeaky put his arm around her, and then wondered what on earth he was doing. He was going soft! His emotions were rotting along with his wits.
    “Where can we find them?” Henry asked, still facing the man in his absurd lavender velvet. Squeaky marveled at his persistence. If he wasafraid, there was nothing of it in his face, his calm blue eyes. Only looking at his hands did he see that they were stiff, as though he had to concentrate to keep them hanging at his sides, apparently casually. What a strange man he was, completely incomprehensible. Squeaky wanted to despise him—and yet he found that he could not.
    This whole adventure was a very bad idea. He should have had more sense, and sent Henry Rathbone and his dreams on his way. That would have been best for everyone—even this spoiled, self-indulgent young man in his descent to hell. Let him go, if that was what he wanted. He wasn’t coming back; anyone but a fool knew that.
    The lavender-coated man turned slowly on his heel, keeping his balance with difficulty, and pointed to a small door to his left. “That way,” he whispered. “And down, always down.”
    “Thank you, Mr. …” Henry said.
    “Ash,” the man replied with a bow. “Lionel Ash.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Ash.”
    Crow went first. They had opened the door, and were through it before Mr. Ash called after them. “Be careful of the blood! Don’t slip on it.”
    Crow froze.
    Henry turned back. “What blood?” he said grimly, a flicker of annoyance in his face.
    “At the bottom of the stairs,” Mr. Ash answered. “On the floor. Terrible mess.”
    “Whose blood?” Squeaky lunged toward Ash and gripped him by the throat, his strong fingers pressing into the scrawny, completely unresisting flesh.
    “My, haven’t we got a nasty temper!” Ash said, seeming quite unaffected by having his neck squeezed till Squeaky could feel the sinews and the bones of his spine. Squeaky tried to yank Ash off his feet, and found him unaccountably heavy.
    “Whose blood?” he hissed.
    “Why, the ones who were killed there, stupid!” Ash answered. “Heartless, it was.” He gave a violent shudder, as if he were seized with some kind of