Eyes of Darkness by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online Page A

of the house. At first Vivienne thought that she was imagining the change in temperature. but the closer she drew to the end of the corridor, the colder it got. By the time she reached the closed door, her skin was goose-pimpled, and her teeth were chattering.
    Step by step, her curiosity gave way to fear. Something was very wrong here. An ominous pressure seemed to compress the air around her.
    Aiii-eee . . . aiii-eee . . .
    The wisest thing she could do would be to turn back, walk away from the door and out of the house. But she wasn’t completely in control of herself; she felt a bit like a sleepwalker. In spite of her anxiety, a power she could sense—but which she could not define—drew her inexorably to Danny’s room.
    Aiii-eee . . . aiii-eee . . . aiii-eee . . .
    Vivienne reached for the doorknob but stopped before touching it, unable to believe what she was seeing. She blinked rapidly, closed her eyes, opened them again, but still the doorknob appeared to be sheathed in a thin, irregular jacket of ice.
    She finally touched it. Ice. Her skin almost stuck to the knob. She pulled her hand away and examined her damp fingers. Moisture had condensed on the metal and then had frozen.
    But how was that possible? How in the name of God could there be ice here, in a well-heated house and on a night when the outside temperature was at least twenty degrees above the freezing point?
    The electronic squeal began to warble faster, but it was no quieter, no less bone-penetrating than it had been.
    Stop , Vivienne told herself. Get away from here. Get out as fast as you can.
    But she ignored her own advice. She pulled her blouse out of her slacks and used the tail to protect her hand from the icy metal doorknob. The knob turned, but the door wouldn’t open. The intense cold had caused the wood to contract and warp. She put her shoulder against it, pushed gently, then harder, and finally the door swung inward.

6
    MAGYCK! WAS THE MOST ENTERTAINING VEGAS show that Elliot Stryker had ever seen.
    The program opened with an electrifying rendition of “That Old Black Magic.” Singers and dancers, brilliantly costumed, performed in a stunning set constructed of mirrored steps and mirrored panels. When the stage lights were periodically dimmed, a score of revolving crystal ballroom chandeliers cast swirling splinters of color that seemed to coalesce into supernatural forms that capered under the proscenium arch. The choreography was complex, and the two lead singers had strong, clear voices.
    The opening number was followed by a first-rate magic act in front of the drawn curtains. Less than ten minutes later, when the curtains opened again, the mirrors had been taken away, and the stage had been transformed into an ice rink; the second production number was done on skates against a winter backdrop so real that it made Elliot shiver.
    Although Magyck! excited the imagination and commanded the eye, Elliot wasn’t able to give his undivided attention to it. He kept looking at Christina Evans, who was as dazzling as the show she had created.
    She watched the performers intently, unaware of his gaze. A flickering, nervous scowl played across her face, alternating with a tentative smile that appeared when the audience laughed, applauded, or gasped in surprise.
    She was singularly beautiful. Her shoulder-length hair — deep brown, almost black, glossy — swept across her brow, feathered back at the sides, and framed her face as though it were a painting by a great master. The bone structure of that face was delicate, clearly defined, quintessentially feminine. Dusky, olive complexion. Full, sensuous mouth. And her eyes . . . She would have been lovely enough if her eyes had been dark, in harmony with the shade of her hair and skin, but they were crystalline blue. The contrast between her Italian good looks and her Nordic eyes was devastating.
    Elliot supposed that other people might find flaws in her face. Perhaps some would say that her