Loe raamatut: «Vampire Lover»

CHAPTER ONE

CLARE met Denzil Black the day he first arrived in town. It was autumn, the leaves turning brown, crimson and russet on the trees, the skies a deep purply blue as a storm blew up out of the west.

The wind rattled the agency window, and the lights flickered. Clare frowned, her blue eyes anxious, hoping they were not going to have a power cut; they often did during stormy weather, when power lines blew down. Well, it was closing time, anyway; she might as well go home. She got up from her desk and began putting on her coat, brushing her blonde hair out of the way.

The door from the street opened and the wind blew into the office. Clare looked round, beginning to apologise politely.

‘I’m sorry, we’re just closing. Could you come back tomorrow?’

She had already turned off the main lights; the room was rather dim. She couldn’t see much of the man standing just inside the door, except that he was very tall, with black hair, and wore a long, dark coat which was flapping around him in the wind.

‘I saw your board outside a house at the top of Hunter’s Hill,’ a deep voice said. ‘A large Victorian house, set back from the road—is it still for sale?’

‘Dark Tarn,’ Clare said slowly, trying to make out his features in the shadows. All she could see was the glitter of his eyes staring back at her. ‘Yes, it’s still for sale,’ she said, suppressing an odd shudder that ran down her back. It must be the wind that made her suddenly so cold.

Nobody wanted to buy the old house on the edge of the town. It was far too big for the average family. It could be turned into a small hotel or a nursing home but was in bad repair and would need a great deal of renovation before anyone could move into it. It had been on the house agency’s books for two years now; her father would be thrilled if she could sell or even rent it.

‘Well, can you show me round the place?’ the stranger asked.

‘Yes, certainly, would tomorrow morning suit you? At, say...eleven?’ Clare casually picked up her desk diary and a pen, hiding her eagerness to make this sale. That was easy for her; she was an ice blonde, pale-skinned, even her eyes a light blue, very cool.

‘I’m going to be busy all day tomorrow,’ the dark man said. ‘How about now?’

A warning bell rang in Clare’s brain. Coldly polite, she said, ‘I’m sorry, that isn’t possible.’

Her father had impressed it on her years ago that it was not safe for her to accompany a strange man to view an empty house. They always made careful arrangements so that she had someone else with her on these occasions; usually her brother, Robin, these days, now that her father was semi-retired. Robin was just nineteen, a student at the local technical college, taking a course in business management, but he was large and muscular, he played rugby for the college and was a keen gymnast. Clare always felt very safe with Robin around.

‘What do you mean, isn’t possible?’

The curt question made her stiffen. ‘We operate from nine until five-thirty, Mr...?’

‘Black,’ he said in that deep yet smoky voice. ‘Denzil Black. Is the manager here?’

‘I am the manager!’ She felt his disbelief and added coldly, ‘This is my agency.’

‘The sign over the door says the agency is run by a George Summer!’

‘That’s my father, but he has retired, and I run the agency now!’

‘I see.’ She felt him staring at her, his eyes glittering in the semi-darkness. ‘Well, Miss Summer...or are you married?’

She hesitated, feeling an odd, inexplicable, almost atavistic reluctance to tell him her name. Something about him had begun to bother her; she suddenly wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible. ‘I’m Clare Summer,’ she said shortly.

‘Not married, then?’

‘No,’ she almost snapped. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Mr Black, but I really can’t spare the time to show you the house tonight.’

His tone was incisive. ‘Miss Summer, either you want to sell Dark Tarn or you don’t. I am going abroad for several months, tomorrow. Tonight is the only time I could view the house. Either show it to me now or we’ll forget it.’

She hesitated, biting at her lower lip. Neither her father nor her brother would be at home yet. They had both gone to watch a rugby game in the next town and wouldn’t be back for a couple of hours. She could ask her sister, Lucy, to drive to Dark Tarn to meet them, of course. Lucy would be home from work by now; she taught at the local primary school and was always home by five o’clock.

‘Make up your mind,’ Denzil Black said impatiently. ‘I have my lawyer in the car; Helen Sherrard, I expect you know her—I wanted her to see the house too, but I don’t want to keep her waiting out there much longer.’

Clare gave a faint sigh of relief. ‘Oh, Helen! Yes, of course I know her. Very well, Mr Black, I’ll take you over to Dark Tarn now, but I have another appointment at seven, and I can’t be late for that. We’ll have to make this a rapid viewing.’ She turned to the filing cabinet, quickly flicked through the files until she found the one on Dark Tarn, took a set of keys from a locked box on the wall and locked up both the cabinet and the key safe again. Before she left she glanced at herself in a mirror hanging on the wall while she buttoned her dark red winter coat, which had a shawl collar and fell to mid-calf.

‘Your coat is almost Victorian,’ drawled Denzil Black, watching her. ‘It suits you.’

It was a backhanded compliment; she gave him a dry look. ‘Thank you.’ So, he thought she was old-fashioned, did he? No doubt he thought he was insulting her, but he was wrong. Clare didn’t object to the description at all, especially from a man like him.

Oh, he was attractive: her body had felt the magnetic pull of his attraction as soon as he’d walked in here. But Clare had learnt long ago not to trust men, especially attractive men. Life had always spoilt them; you were a fool if you got involved, you were asking to get hurt. You had to keep them at a distance, freeze them off. Clare was an expert at that by now.

She checked that her desk drawers were all locked, collected her bag and an umbrella, and walked towards Denzil Black. His face still in shadow, he opened the door into the street for her.

‘I have to set the burglar alarm and lock up,’ Clare said.

‘I’ll wait by my car.’

Clare took in the sleek grace and power of the black machine. She wasn’t a car fanatic, so she couldn’t guess the make of it but she didn’t have to know much about cars to realise that this was an expensive luxury item. If Denzil Black could afford this car, he could afford to buy Dark Tarn, which answered one of her secret doubts about him.

When she had finished setting the alarm and locking the shop, she walked over to join him. He watched her, his stare flicking from her short, smooth blonde hair to her long, slender legs and elegant feet. Clare dressed timelessly, in simple, classy clothes which wouldn’t go out of fashion in a few months. She didn’t dress for men, she dressed to look cool, calm and capable, but that was not how she felt under his amused, mocking stare.

Having Denzil Black watch her like that, especially as she slid her long legs into his car, made the back of her neck prickle. She had the feeling that this man was real trouble.

Helen turned from the front passenger seat and gave her a polite smile. ‘Hello, Clare.’

Clare would have liked to ask her some questions about her client, but Denzil Black walked round the car too fast. Before Clare got a word out he was getting into the driver’s seat, so she smiled in a friendly way and said, ‘Hello, Helen. How are you?’

‘Fine,’ Helen said, but Clare thought she looked rather pale. She was a woman in her early thirties with a warm, full figure, rich auburn hair and vivid green eyes. Her skin was usually creamy and flushed, but tonight she had very little colour and her eyes had a languid, almost drowsy look, as if...well, as if she had been making love, Clare thought, startled by her own guesswork.

She quickly looked away, wondering: Was Helen having an affair with her client?

Helen had acquired a reputation for being a flirt lately, ever since her divorce from Paul Sherrard, a well-known local hotelier. As soon as she had been on her own, men queued up to get her attention. You only had to date more than one man a year in this little backwater of a town to get yourself talked about, and ever since she and Paul had split up Helen had been seen around with a succession of other men. None of her relationships had lasted or seemed serious. Maybe she believed that there was safety in numbers. Or maybe she was simply in a wild, reckless mood after her divorce. She and her husband had been mad about each other once, but gossip had it that Paul had had some sort of passing fling with a guest in their hotel, and Helen could never forgive him.

The car started smoothly and shot away from the kerb. Denzil Black clearly knew the way, so Clare didn’t have to give him directions. She sat back, watching his hands on the wheel. There was a faint scattering of black hairs across the back of them; they were long-fingered, deft and powerful. On one wrist she saw a gold watch glint, and he wore a heavy gold signet ring, stamped with what looked like a coat of arms.

She still hadn’t seen his face, but she saw his thick, glossy black hair shine in the light every time they passed a street-lamp. His black coat had an expensive look; cashmere, she suspected, very smoothly tailored. Yes, he definitely had money.

Helen was murmuring to him in a low voice; Clare couldn’t hear most of what she said, but then Helen asked in a husky, almost angry tone, ‘How long are you going to be in the States?’

Denzil Black shrugged. ‘A month, maybe two.’

‘That long?’ Helen sounded desolate. Clare frowned, sorry for her. Clare remembered a time when one man could make her feel like that; it wasn’t an experience she ever intended to repeat. She had not found pain habit-forming.

Denzil Black pulled up at traffic-lights a second later, shot a backwards glance at Clare. ‘If I do buy this property, Helen will act for me while I’m away.’

‘I see,’ Clare said. ‘Do you live in Greenhowe at the moment, Mr Black?’

‘No, but I’ve been staying just outside town, with Helen’s brother and his wife, at their lovely home.’

‘That’s how we met,’ explained Helen huskily.

Clare didn’t know her all that well—they often met on business, to discuss the affairs of clients, but they didn’t meet socially. Clare wasn’t part of the social set, the way Helen undoubtedly was! Her family had always had money and, even more importantly, land. Jimmy Storr had inherited an old Queen Anne farmhouse with several hundred acres of good arable land a mile outside Greenhowe; he farmed while his wife ran a country-house hotel whose small restaurant had a county-wide reputation for excellent cuisine. Laura Storr was a wonderful cook, using fresh ingredients mostly produced on their own farm. They both worked hard, but they played hard, too, led a busy social life, and were very popular.

Clare’s family were not in the same social sphere, which didn’t bother her at all. She didn’t enjoy noisy parties, or belonging to the country club; she didn’t play team sports or give dinner parties. She walked and swam, read a good deal, went to the theatre, or the cinema, saw a lot of her family, and a few close friends. She and Helen Sherrard were miles apart in every way, but Clare had always liked the other woman, just as she liked Helen’s brother and sister-in-law.

She had been sorry for Helen lately, too. After her divorce Helen had been so unhappy, and unable to hide it. I hope she hasn’t been stupid enough to fall in love with someone she hardly knows! thought Clare, and then, in the mirror above his head, suddenly caught the glitter of Denzil Black’s grey eyes. They had very large jet-black pupils which made his eyes seem dark, and heavy lids which were thick-lashed.

Even as Clare looked into the strange eyes, the lids drooped, hiding their expression from her, and he turned his head away, his reflection vanishing abruptly from the mirror.

Clare gave a start, wishing she had had more of a chance to examine his features. She couldn’t help being curious about him. How did he really feel about Helen? Was he taking her to see Dark Tarn as his lawyer, or because of a more personal relationship? Was he hoping that the house might one day be their future home? Clare couldn’t begin to guess at any answers to all those questions.

By now, they were out of town, in the green countryside, rapidly going up Hunter’s Hill, the ancient boundary of Greenhowe. On one side of them lay the grey, wintry sea, far down below steep cliffs, and barely visible in a twilight which was fast becoming night. On the other ran pastures, grazed by sheep, the low-lying land dissected by dry-stone walls, in the distance the dark swell of the moors and hills like a crouching animal stretched out on the horizon.

Dark Tarn could be seen from a distance in almost any direction—a Victorian Gothic building with a medieval flavour, its turrets and battlements dominated the skyline for miles around.

‘My God, it’s creepy!’ Helen muttered.

Denzil Black laughed. ‘Don’t you like it?’ He didn’t sound as if it mattered to him whether she did or not. Clare frowned. Not that it was any of her business, but she was curious about their relationship.

A moment later they came to a halt in front of elaborate ironwork gates. Clare got out and went to unlock them with a key from the set she had in her pocket. The lock was a little rusty; she struggled with the key. Denzil Black got out of the car and came to help.

‘I’ll do it.’ His hand reached for the key, touching hers. A jab of electricity went through her; Clare jumped back.

He shot her a veiled sideways look. She felt herself go red and was furious. Why on earth had she reacted like that? He’d think she was some schoolgirl, blushing because a man came too close to her!

A second later, the lock turned with a grating sound, and he pushed the gates open.

‘This lock needs oiling.’

‘Yes, I’ll see that’s done tomorrow.’ Flustered and irritated, Clare retrieved the key and went back to the car with Denzil Black walking just behind her. The wind was howling through the trees ahead of them, in the wild gardens of Dark Tarn; out of the corner of her eye she saw the man’s long black coat blowing around his legs, as if he had wings and might take off at any minute and flap away into the night.

They drove slowly up the winding gravel drive, which was rutted and overgrown with moss and grass. Wild rabbits ran for cover, their white scuts showing as they shot away.

It was hard to see much of the garden, but Clare knew it was wildly overgrown with enormous rhododendrons and laurels in towering banks on either side of the drive.

The empty house loomed above them suddenly, the windows shuttered, no sign of life. Around the high turret a dark shape fluttered; a bat, registered Clare. There was a colony of pipistrelle bats living in the roof; she wondered if Denzil Black had noticed and whether or not the presence of bats might put him off. Some people hated bats, were terrified of them. She couldn’t think why, as pipistrelle were quite tiny creatures only interested in devouring insects and no threat whatever to people. Clare would have loved to have some in her own cottage. She decided not to mention them to Denzil Black.

‘There’s no caretaker?’ he asked at that moment, and Clare shook her head.

‘The owner didn’t want to pay for one. He’s living in Australia, and has no intention of ever coming back here; he just wants to sell the house. It is still furnished, but, if you’re seriously interested, we can deal with that. The furniture will all go up for auction, and you’ll have vacant possession.’

‘We’ll see,’ he said vaguely, staring up at the sky.

Helen looked up too, gave a high-pitched scream. ‘Ughh...what’s that?’

‘A pipistrelle,’ Denzil Black said softly. ‘They’re delightful little brown bats...hardly bigger than a large moth. I wonder if there’s a colony in the roof? There must be a lot of space under the rafters. It’s exactly the habitat they love.’

He knew a lot about bats; well, it was a point in his favour. Clare smiled and in the mirror saw a brief reflection of his dark, glowing eyes.

‘Do you like bats, Miss Summer?’

‘Love them—I’d like some in my own place.’

‘You have your own house?’

‘I’m renovating an old farm labourer’s cottage not far from here; I work on it every weekend,’ she admitted. ‘But for the moment I live with my family, during the week, in town.’

‘I’m interested in interior decoration,’ Helen said with her first sign of enthusiasm. ‘Are you doing all the décor yourself, Clare?’

‘Well, at the moment I’m mending the roof,’ Clare said drily. ‘And then I have to replaster the ceilings and walls. It’ll be a long time before I get around to any décor.’

Helen looked horrified. ‘It sounds as if the place is a total wreck!’

Clare laughed. ‘It is.’

‘What on earth made you buy it?’

‘It was very cheap, and it was a challenge,’ Clare told her as they pulled up outside the house.

‘You’re braver than I am, then!’ Helen said, making a face.

Clare felt Denzil Black’s dark gaze in the driving mirror, but didn’t meet it. She sorted out the large front-door key, slid out of the car, and climbed the steps to the door. This lock turned easily enough, the door swung open with a prolonged creak, and Clare fumbled for the light switch just inside on the panelled walls of the hall.

Light blazed from a chandelier hung high above their heads. Ahead of them stretched the arched vault of the roof, and the panelled walls, hung with an extraordinary mixture of objects—paintings, sketches, prints, armour, photographs in silver frames, weapons, the heads of dead animals mounted on wooden plaques.

The wind blew through the long hallway; a door crashed shut somewhere up above; stained-glass windows further down the hall rattled.

‘It’s monstrous!’ Helen wailed, huddling into her coat, her pale face only just visible above the collar. ‘You can’t be serious about being interested in this place, Denzil! It’s a tomb, not a house.’

It was cold, Clare had to admit, and not simply because it was empty and this was autumn. The house had a deep coldness which was in the very bricks and stones of the building. She had a feeling it would never be warm, even if you lit a fire in every room.

‘Central heating will soon warm it up,’ Denzil Black said, opening the first door leading off the hall. ‘That shouldn’t be difficult to install.’

Clare could see his face now, clearly, for the first time; an austere bone-structure, a wide, passionate mouth, strong nose, those pale eyes with the glittering centres, his black hair growing from a widow’s peak on his high temples. Each feature contradicted all the others; it was not an easy face to read or assess.

‘I like big rooms,’ he said, looking around the main reception room.

‘This is certainly big,’ agreed Clare.

‘Big! It’s enormous!’ groaned Helen.

On two sides of the room windows ran from ceiling to floor, those in the turret bay having deep, cushioned window-seats. All the rooms in the house had high ceilings; from this one another chandelier hung, giving the room a party glitter. There was a wooden fireplace like the prow of a ship, the hearth dressed with Victorian Minton tiles which bore black-line medieval style pictures on their ochre background.

The furniture was old and shabby, the stuffing leaking out of Victorian chairs, the curtains threadbare, the carpets showing signs of wear and tear.

On every possible surface stood silver-framed photographs and ornaments; the walls in here were as lined with paintings and drawings as the hall had been. There were so many objects, in fact, that the effect was mind-numbing; you looked and looked until you could take in no more.

‘Wonderful,’ Denzil Black said.

‘It’s only fit for the garbage truck!’ Helen complained.

Denzil Black asked, ‘Are the entire contents for sale, did you say? If I buy, I’d want first pick of everything in the place.’

‘I’m sure that could be arranged.’ Clare would be relieved if they managed to sell a tenth of the stuff. There were a few antiques of value, but most of the furnishings were in bad repair and would sell for peanuts at auction. Clare often acted as auctioneer at sales; her father mostly did them, but when they were dealing with a large number of objects it took hours, and Dad found it tiring after a while, so Clare usually took over to finish the auction. She had learnt to price objects at sight, and had a very good idea how much money would be raised by the sale of the contents of Dark Tarn.

‘Oh, Denzil, surely you can’t be serious?’ Helen moaned, following him as he strode on down the hall to the next room, a few curled brown leaves blowing along with him from the open front door.

Clare paused to close it, before following the other two. She found them in the gloomy servants’ hall; a long, narrow room with tiny windows, a lot of dull brown paint, and walls which had once been cream-coloured, on one of which hung a row of bells labelled with the names of other rooms. From the ceiling hung ancient hooks, from which hams and herbs had once hung, and a broken laundry pulley, which had been used to suspend washing high above the heads of the servants as they sat around the long, well-scrubbed deal table.

‘It’s so dreary!’ Helen said, staring around the room with unhidden distaste.

‘All it needs is a coat of varnish, a pretty wallpaper, some white paint—it will look wonderful! This dresser must be the same age as the house,’ Denzil said, running a finger along the dust piled up on the shelves which held rows of plates and bowls and jugs.

‘It is,’ agreed Clare. ‘Some of the china is quite good, too. A lot of it’s Victorian, and it will fetch excellent prices at auction.’

‘I may well want to keep it all,’ he said.

‘Oh, my God!’ Helen groaned. ‘It would be like living in a museum!’

Eerily, on the flat top of the dresser, stood a bowl of long-dead flowers, their skeletal shape dusty and dry, wreathed in cobwebs, among which was the mummified body of a spider.

Helen stared at it, dramatically shuddered, wrapped her coat around herself, and gave Denzil Black a reproachful stare. ‘It’s like the Mary Celeste in here! I keep expecting the owners to come back from the dead. I can’t take any more—I’m going back to the car. Hurry up before I freeze to death!’

She stamped out, her high heels clattering along the tiled floor of the hall. The front door creaked open, slammed shut with a booming, echoing sound.

‘I’m afraid she doesn’t like the house,’ murmured Clare.

‘Well, she won’t be living in it,’ Denzil Black drawled, and Clare’s blue eyes flickered thoughtfully.

Oh, wouldn’t she? Well, bang went one theory. Obviously he had not brought Helen here to see her future home! Did she realise that?

Clare didn’t think she did. Helen had been showing an almost proprietorial attitude towards him; Clare was convinced their relationship was not purely professional.

She met Denzil Black’s glossy-pupilled eyes and saw sardonic amusement in them. He had been watching her, reading her thoughts. A faint pink crept under her skin.

‘I wanted her to advise me on the property value,’ he said.

At once, Clare told him, ‘I think the house is a bargain, considering its size and the very large amount of land that goes with it.’

He gave her a dry look. ‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? I was hoping Helen would give me a neutral point of view. Shall we go upstairs and see the rest of the place?’

The house seemed even bigger upstairs, and emptier, too. Every movement they made echoed, their footsteps on floorboards creaked. It was freezingly cold, too.

Clare would have liked to follow Helen out of here, but she kept reminding herself of the percentage the firm would get from this sale, so she followed Denzil Black around from one bedroom to another, forcing herself to make bright, encouraging comments.

He must be mad even to consider buying it, she thought, staring at the four-poster bed hung with ancient, tattered dark red curtains, which dominated the main bedroom. The oak shutters were closed across the high windows, there was only one faint lamp beside the bed, and the light reflected in a narrow Gothic-arched oak-framed mirror hanging on the opposite wall. That would probably sell well at auction. It was small enough for modern houses, and perfectly in tune with the current taste for art nouveau.

As she stared at it, Denzil Black looked round and followed her gaze.

‘That’s charming,’ he said at once. ‘I’ll certainly want to keep that.’

He had very good taste. Curiously, she asked him, ‘What do you actually do, Mr Black? What’s your job?’

‘At the moment I don’t have one.’ He shook a curtain, watched the dust fly up from it. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll be paying cash for Dark Tarn, if I buy it. There’ll be no problem about money.’

That was not what she was thinking about. Her curiosity about him still unsatisfied, she asked, ‘Where do you live at present? I mean, apart from staying at Jimmy Storr’s hotel?’

He gave her a dry, sardonic look. ‘Los Angeles.’

Her eyes widened. She hadn’t expected that. ‘Really? But you’re not American, are you?’ He had a faint accent of some kind, admittedly, but she hadn’t pinned it down as American.

‘No. I was born in Scotland, not that I remember anything about it. I left there when I was two years old. I lived in Manchester until I was twenty-one, but I spent a succession of very good holidays in Greenhowe in my late teens.’

‘Oh, that’s why you’ve come back?’

He looked amused. ‘That’s what you wanted to know, was it? Why I wanted to move to Greenhowe? Well, in answer to your next question, I’ve lived in California for years now, mostly around Los Angeles and Beverley Hills.’

‘Beverley Hills?’ She stared at him, couldn’t keep back the question, ‘You aren’t in the film business?’ She laughed as she asked, expecting him to shake his head.

‘Yes,’ he said, though, calmly.

‘Oh.’ Clare was incredulous. ‘Doing what? You’re not an actor?’ But he could be, she thought; he had the looks for it, and, even more, the charisma; she could imagine how dynamic he would look on film.

‘I did some acting, many years ago—I was an extra once. But I wanted to be on the other side of the camera. I’ve worked at a number of jobs in the industry—stills photographer, cameraman, set designer. My ambition was to be a director, and I finally got there, but I’m out of a job at the moment, and wanted to get away, which is why I’m back in Britain.’

‘And you picked Greenhowe because you remembered it better than Scotland?’ she worked out, and he nodded.

‘I had very happy memories of Greenhowe; summers on the beach, walks across the moors. A travel agent booked me into Jimmy Storr’s hotel, so here I am.’ He dusted his hands with a handkerchief, grimacing. ‘This whole house is filthy.’ He leaned against the wall, those dark eyes cool and steady. ‘Well, let’s talk business, Miss Summer. The price is ridiculous, considering the state of the house, as I’m sure you realise. I shall have to spend a fortune renovating it before I can move in. I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to pay, and you can talk to the owner and let Helen know his decision. I won’t bargain. I’m making one offer and that’s it. If he turns it down, I won’t want to discuss the matter any further.’

Clare watched him calmly, nodding.

He named the price he was prepared to pay. It was far less than she had hoped and her blue eyes hardened.

‘Well, of course I’ll put your offer to my client,’ she said flatly. ‘But I doubt if he will be ready to agree to such a low amount.’

‘How long has the house been on the market? Some years, isn’t it? Empty houses deteriorate quickly; this one is falling to bits. In another two years the roof will go, kids will smash the windows, the garden will be completely wild, and then it won’t take long to become a total ruin.’

He was right, but Clare wasn’t admitting it. ‘I’ll talk to my client,’ she said in a cold, remote voice, and turned to walk back down the stairs and out of the house, with Denzil Black behind her.

The storm was deepening outside, the wind howling around the house like a wolf. There was a crash of thunder and a white zigzag of lightning split the sky, then the chandelier lights flickered and went out, plunging the whole house into darkness. Clare was halfway down the wide, elaborately carved staircase, and she stopped dead, blind in the unexpected blackness.

Denzil Black was right behind her. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped about ten feet into the air. ‘Have you got a torch?’

‘In the car,’ she told him, her voice a mere thread of sound.

He sighed. ‘Never mind, I can see in the dark. Give me your hand.’ His fingers slid down her shoulder to her arm, down her arm to entwine around her hand; Clare would have liked to pull away—he had the strangest effect on her—but she didn’t like being here alone with him in the dark, she urgently needed to get out of this house, so she let him lead her down the stairs.