to the ladder, the cult members were almost upon him. He slid down the ladder and threw the last smoke bomb in front of them, then ran like hell, only a few steps ahead of them. If his new lady friend, Melanie Lord, who was parked across the street, hadn't seen him coming and careened her T-Bird around in the best Hollywood rescue style, they would have caught him. Caught them both.
He went home and wrote Bloody Little Secrets in a frenzy and it went to the top of the Times ' Bestseller List and stayed there. The next book, Remains to be Seen, currently on the stands, was also a bestseller--there was already a miniseries deal in the making. It had been inspired by a close brush with a suspected serial killer, one that would have resulted in his becoming a victim if Melanie hadn't alerted a friend of hers on the police force. Her friend got the glory of the arrest and David got invited to be present at the exhumation of bodies buried under the monster's house. He still had nightmares about that.
Quite unexpectedly, the scent of jasmine grew strong enough for him to catch the scent of decay underlying it. Fear trickled coldly down his spine as the odor continued to strengthen. The coldness moved onto his hand and, forcibly, he shook it off. Don't panic! he ordered himself. Don't panic! Just leave! He knew his fear was allowing the manifestation to feed on him. "See you later," he said as calmly as he could, then walked out and pulled the door firmly shut behind him. He thought he heard the laughing woman as he headed for the stairs, but wasn't sure.
He descended, nervous but happy because he knew that Mephisto Palace would be another bestseller. He sensed that Body House had the potential to scare him worse than anything ever had and he knew the fear was the secret of his success. Once his fears overrode his intellect, he could trip on his endorphins, ride a roller coaster of emotions, and love every minute of it. He was, he thought as he reached the main floor, nothing but a perverted thrill seeker. At least, he told himself, no one can say I don't sacrifice for my art.
Chapter Seven
Body House: 8:44 A.M.
"What are you smiling about?" Amber asked her father as he walked into the parlor.
"I have a feeling Mephisto Palace is going to be the best book I've ever written, kiddo."
She laughed. "You always say that at first, then when you finish it, no matter how good it is, you decide it stinks until your editor tells you it doesn't."
"Of course," he said lightly. "That's how it works."
Amber rolled her eyes.
"I smell food, my dear. Let's find it."
Though she didn't want to run into Mrs. Willard again, Amber was too hungry to disagree. As they entered the dining room, the woman bustled in from the kitchen carrying a carafe of orange juice and glasses.
Despite her ratty name, she looked like a fat little forest creature right out of Bambi, a grandmotherly rabbit with glasses. The silvery-white hair with its beauty-shop wave and the pale blue print dress and ruffled white apron screamed cookies and milk. She didn’t match her name at all until she opened her mouth, and that was the horror of the rat lady: she could talk you to death. Amber cringed as Willard cleared her throat.
"Why, hello there, you must be Mr. Masters," she bubbled. "I recognize you from your book jacket photo, oh my, you're so handsome if you don't mind my saying so." She barely paused for a breath. "I've read all your books and I've so been looking forward to meeting you, why, I don't think wild horses could have made me work here in this nasty, nasty house, if Miss Pelinore hadn't told me it was you who were going to be here." She set the juice and glasses down and whisked forward, snaking her arm around Amber's waist before she could get away.
Oh God, Amber prayed, oh God, strike her with terminal laryngitis.
"You have such a lovely little girl, I mean young woman, here Mr. Masters. We had such a nice talk, didn't we,
He went home and wrote Bloody Little Secrets in a frenzy and it went to the top of the Times ' Bestseller List and stayed there. The next book, Remains to be Seen, currently on the stands, was also a bestseller--there was already a miniseries deal in the making. It had been inspired by a close brush with a suspected serial killer, one that would have resulted in his becoming a victim if Melanie hadn't alerted a friend of hers on the police force. Her friend got the glory of the arrest and David got invited to be present at the exhumation of bodies buried under the monster's house. He still had nightmares about that.
Quite unexpectedly, the scent of jasmine grew strong enough for him to catch the scent of decay underlying it. Fear trickled coldly down his spine as the odor continued to strengthen. The coldness moved onto his hand and, forcibly, he shook it off. Don't panic! he ordered himself. Don't panic! Just leave! He knew his fear was allowing the manifestation to feed on him. "See you later," he said as calmly as he could, then walked out and pulled the door firmly shut behind him. He thought he heard the laughing woman as he headed for the stairs, but wasn't sure.
He descended, nervous but happy because he knew that Mephisto Palace would be another bestseller. He sensed that Body House had the potential to scare him worse than anything ever had and he knew the fear was the secret of his success. Once his fears overrode his intellect, he could trip on his endorphins, ride a roller coaster of emotions, and love every minute of it. He was, he thought as he reached the main floor, nothing but a perverted thrill seeker. At least, he told himself, no one can say I don't sacrifice for my art.
Chapter Seven
Body House: 8:44 A.M.
"What are you smiling about?" Amber asked her father as he walked into the parlor.
"I have a feeling Mephisto Palace is going to be the best book I've ever written, kiddo."
She laughed. "You always say that at first, then when you finish it, no matter how good it is, you decide it stinks until your editor tells you it doesn't."
"Of course," he said lightly. "That's how it works."
Amber rolled her eyes.
"I smell food, my dear. Let's find it."
Though she didn't want to run into Mrs. Willard again, Amber was too hungry to disagree. As they entered the dining room, the woman bustled in from the kitchen carrying a carafe of orange juice and glasses.
Despite her ratty name, she looked like a fat little forest creature right out of Bambi, a grandmotherly rabbit with glasses. The silvery-white hair with its beauty-shop wave and the pale blue print dress and ruffled white apron screamed cookies and milk. She didn’t match her name at all until she opened her mouth, and that was the horror of the rat lady: she could talk you to death. Amber cringed as Willard cleared her throat.
"Why, hello there, you must be Mr. Masters," she bubbled. "I recognize you from your book jacket photo, oh my, you're so handsome if you don't mind my saying so." She barely paused for a breath. "I've read all your books and I've so been looking forward to meeting you, why, I don't think wild horses could have made me work here in this nasty, nasty house, if Miss Pelinore hadn't told me it was you who were going to be here." She set the juice and glasses down and whisked forward, snaking her arm around Amber's waist before she could get away.
Oh God, Amber prayed, oh God, strike her with terminal laryngitis.
"You have such a lovely little girl, I mean young woman, here Mr. Masters. We had such a nice talk, didn't we,
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