Love the Way You Lie (House of Crows) by Lisa Unger (early reader books TXT) 📕

on the floor. Avery set about lighting the hundreds of candles, and the room filled with a flickering glow.

“It was so long ago,” said Claire. “But somehow I feel like I never left this place.”

“We carried something with us,” he said. “Like a toxin we inhaled that’s been working its way through our systems.”

“Yes,” answered Claire with a whisper. “Like a slow-acting poison.”

“Time to purge,” said Avery.

She’d come to stand in the circle. In the candlelight she looked frighteningly severe, eyes hollowed, tall and casting an enormous shadow. What was she going to do?

“I didn’t get my invitation to this party.”

Ian and Claire spun to see Mason on the stairs. He’d aged terribly—thin and sickly pale, hair thinning, eyes rimmed with fatigue. He looked at least ten years older than Ian knew him to be.

“You guys were always trying to get rid of me,” he said, coming the rest of the way down and standing before them.

“Mason,” said Ian. “Long time no see, buddy.”

Mason gave him a nod.

“You didn’t really like me, but you were always nice to me, both of you,” Mason went on. “I really appreciated that. I work with kids now, so I know how mature you have to be to do that—hang around with a broken kid like me.”

Claire reached out her hand and he took it. “How are you, Mason?”

“If I were doing well, I probably wouldn’t be here,” he said with a mirthless chuckle. His gaze moved to Avery, a frown furrowing his brow. “I’m guessing that’s true for all of us.”

Ian found himself nodding.

“What are you doing, Avery?” Mason asked.

“What I’ve wanted to do all along,” she said, her voice thick. “I’m going to ask the Dark Man for what I want. Now that we’re all here in this place, the time, the energy is right. Like a séance.”

Mason smiled wanly and shook his head. “You don’t need to do that. We don’t need a séance. All the answers are right here. They’ve always been here.”

Both Ian and Claire looked at their old friend, then back at each other. What did he mean?

“Dark Man,” Avery said anyway, her voice deep and resonant. It seemed to ring off the stone walls, and Claire released a little gasp. “I want to know what happened to my sister, Amelia.”

They all stood frozen, Claire weaving her fingers through Ian’s and squeezing hard. The silence swelled; Ian could hear Claire’s labored breathing. The moment expanded, swallowing sound and time. But then it passed. Nothing happened.

“There’s no Dark Man,” said Mason, the candlelight playing on his face. “Not the way you think.”

They jumped as a loud crash rang out above them; then a piercing scream filled the air. A stiff, cold wind flew down the stairs, blowing out all the candles, leaving them all in pitch darkness, frozen into petrified silence.

Ian felt the warmth of Claire’s body as she seemed to sag against him, then fell to the floor.

12.

There’s no Dark Man,” said Mason, the candlelight playing on his face. “Not the way you think.”

But Claire barely heard him, enveloped as she was in the swirling fog, the basement around her disappearing.

Then Claire found herself in the comfortable chair in her office. Outside a light snow had started to fall, but inside, it was warm. She kept the place more like a cozy sitting room so that her patients could relax. More than one had commented on how much they liked the space. The lighting was a soft rose; the couch a lush chenille with velvety throw pillows. She never put any scent into the air—no perfume for her or essential oils in an infuser. Scent could be powerfully evocative and distracting. She tried to keep the space as neutrally comforting as possible. She, too, felt very relaxed here, in control, present.

He lay on her couch, one leg over the other, but considerately keeping his shoes dangling off the end. His arms were folded primly on his belly. He was at ease, staring up at the ceiling with a slight smile.

“Doctor, are you ready to begin?” Claire asked.

“Please call me Archie,” he said easily. His voice was sandpaper, rough and raspy.

“Since my accident, I’ve been doing some research. I’ve figured out a few things,” she said, looking at her notes.

“Oh?”

“Winston Grann,” she said. “He was related to the Granns and the Brandts that have served Merle House and at one time owned the land it’s on. Is that right?”

“Very good, Claire,” he said. “You always were such a smart girl.”

“And you are Dr. Archibald Arkmann, born 1890, died by suicide in 1947.”

He pulled his face into an expression of mock sadness. “Too young, don’t you think? I should have had more time.”

She took a breath to center herself. Outside the wind picked up and snow tapped against the glass. “You hurt and murdered more than twenty children at Havenwood. No one is sure how many,” she said. “You were a very bad man.”

He made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Now, Claire, that’s a matter of opinion. It’s not like you to be judgmental. Those children. They were bad seeds, would have gone on to do unimaginable damage. I liberated them from themselves.”

Claire had researched Havenwood extensively. The stories of torture, neglect, horrific treatments, brutal punishments were the stuff of nightmares. When confronted, Arkmann said, “In some, the darkness is too profound. No light can ever shine bright enough to show the way to wellness.”

“Did you possess Winston Grann? Others before him?”

“Possess? That’s a silly idea for a medical professional. Certainly not scientific.”

She chose not to say anything. You couldn’t argue with certain types of disturbed individuals; they just dug in or raged or went blank.

“Yes and no,” he said after a moment. “The ground must be fertile when the seed is planted. Now, Winston Grann—he was a very bad man. Outrageously dark appetites.”

The criminals she’d interviewed all claimed to have a demon within, voices that told them what to do, voices