The House on Black Lake by Anastasia Blackwell, Maggie Deslaurier, Adam Marsh, David Wilson Page B

seen him with the same woman more than once,” she says as we head back to Black Lake.
    “He is very charismatic.”
    “I’ve been tempted more than once, especially after one of his concerts. But my husband would kill me if he found out I cheated with his archrival.”
    She takes a gold bullet lipstick from her make-up pouch and applies a burgundy stain.
    “Ramey and Georgie are like dangerously competitive brothers. They’re only children born days apart in the same hospital, and Scorpios, for God’s sake. They went to the same schools and spent summers together on the lake. Both lost their mothers at an early age. Georgie’s mom ran off with the stained glass craftsman hired to inlay the Sandeley family crest above the front door. His dad used a shotgun to shatter the masterpiece after he read the note she left on her pillow.”
    She retrieves the sunglass case from the glovebox and removes a pair of large oval glasses.
    “It’s the witching hour,” I say, and raise my hand to cover the blinding rays of the falling sun that shine through the branches of the trees outlining the road.
    Ruth lets out a snort. “Yep. It’s cocktail hour.”



C HAPTER E IGHTEEN

T HE F EAST AT R OGER S ANDELEY’S

    “D OUGGIE R AYE IS A MYSTIC.” R UTH TURNS ONTO A PRIVATE ROAD lined with narrow trees stationed evenly apart, like stealthy sentinels. “Don’t be alarmed when you see him, because the man is pretty scary looking. He’s blind, but he can see people’s auras. Ramey’s dad met him when he was living in the Amazon jungle. His family is loaded, but he chucked it all to live with the Shaman of the Andes. I’d guess all the peyote and mushrooms he ingested scrambled his brain for good.”
    We pass enormous sculptures of winged knights on horseback flanking an ivy-covered brick bastion and enter the grounds of the estate. “Roger is Ramey’s dad’s brother. He’s obsessive too, but in a different way–he has a fixation with medieval history. He studied all the great castles of Europe before he had his built.” A Tudor mansion, with six turrets and a lowered footbridge spanning a narrow moat, looms ahead.
    “Uncle Roger has collected replicas of some of the most gruesome torture devices in his dungeon. The iron maiden chills my bones. We can take a tour if you like; there’s an awesome wine cellar next door,” she says and parks the car along the border of the circular entrance.
    “Maybe another time.”
    “Careful.” Ruth says. “It’s slippery on the stones, and the bridge has gaps between the planks; you may want to take off your heels. I usually carry mine to the door.
    “Don’t let Seth, the butler, freak you out. He’s a hoot, but strange. He grew up in some hellhole orphanage and has never been touched or kissed. The water in the moat is really low this time of year. At Christmastime you can hear it rushing below,” Ruth tells me, and peeks over the railing of the drawbridge. “For a prank, when they were schoolboys, Ramey and Georgie hired their favorite hooker to give Seth his first lay. The poor guy broke down and confessed he had never felt a woman’s touch.”
    We slip back into our shoes at the castle’s steel-girded front doors, and Ruth turns a silver latch set into the stone wall.
    “You look beautiful, Alexandra. The black velvet suit with the white ruffled blouse is one of Mimi’s signature looks. It’s a classic, and the ruby choker is a stunning accent. Was it purchased at Mimi’s, as well?”
    “I found it in my shopping bag, wrapped with the suit.”
    The heavy doors slowly open and a man nearly seven feet tall appears in front of us. He is impeccably dressed in a dark gray tuxedo with tails, a crisp shirt with gold studs, cufflinks, and white gloves. He holds his spine in perfect alignment, with shoulders back and head held high. His lush silver hair is combed in smooth waves away from a broad expressionless face, highlighted by midnight-blue eyes that possess the