Dean R. Koontz - Dance With The Devil

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Dean Koontz (Deanna Dwyer) – Dance with the Devil
[Version 2.0 by BuddyDk – August 6 2003]
[Completely new scan]
THE HAND OF EVIL
The church was brick colonial, compact and trim. “It's the second oldest building in town,” Michael
explained. “After Owlsden, of course.”
He ushered her into a darkened vestibule: then Katherine moved ahead of him, into the church proper,
peering to see in the dim light that came from the tall, extremely narrow stained-glass windows. The
church was rich with the odor of furniture polish and candle wax and worn leather cushions. She would
never have thought that there could be anything in a church to terrify her . . . until Michael turned on the
lights. The three massive candleform chan-deliers illuminated an altar that was formed around a
twelve-foot metal cross.
Hanging from each of the crossarms was the gutted corpse of a dog . . .
PUT PLEASURE IN YOUR READING
Larger type makes the difference
This EASY EYE Edition is set In large,
clear type—at least 30 percent larger
than usual. It is printed on non-glare
paper for better contrast and less eye-
strain.
DANCE
WITH THE
DEVIL
Deanna
Dwyer
PRESTIGE EASY EYE BOOKS
PRESTIGE BOOKS • NEW YORK
DANCE WITH THE DEVIL
Copyright © 1972 Deanna Dwyer
All rights reserved
Printed in the U.S.A.
PRESTIGE BOOKS INC. • 18 EAST 41ST STREET
NEW YORK, N.Y. 10017
CHAPTER 1
Katherine Sellers was sure that, at any moment, the car would begin to slide along the smooth, icy
pave-ment and she would lose control of it. She had not had that much driving experience; this was her
first time on really bad winter roads.
The sky was a gray metal lid clamped on the pot of the world, so low and flat that it looked as if she
could just reach up and tap a fingernail against it. A fine, heavy snowfall—as if someone were adding salt
to the stew in this pot—shrouded the Adirondack country-side and swept across the hood of the old
Ford, lacing over the windshield. The wipers thumped steadily, a pleasantly reassuring sound, but not
reassuring enough to calm her queasy stomach and her bad case of nerves.
Katherine hunched over the steering wheel and peered ahead, straining to part the white curtain that
seemed always to be advancing towards her, though it actually arrived and passed her by many times. In
the city, cindering crews would have been at work long ago, spreading salt crystals and ashes in the
wake of the big, thundering plows. But here, in the boondocks, the situation was something else again!
She was driving off the slope of a mountain, and the trees were breaking into open land on either
side. Here, the snow seemed even worse, for the wind howled through the bare land as it could not in the
trees, and it whipped the white flakes into thick clouds, and it buffeted the car and cut her vision to less
than thirty feet. The road had more than two inches of snow across it, and her car's tracks were the first
to mar that virgin blanket. Now and again, the Ford slid and shimmied as if it were dancing, though it had
not yet gone far out of control. Each time she felt that sickening lurch of spinning tires, her throat
constricted and her heart thumped maniacally.
It was not only the snow that bothered her, but the desolation, the empty look of the landscape. If
any-thing happened to her here, on this narrow country road in the middle of nowhere, she might not be
found for hours—and perhaps not for days.
It was not a very reassuring prospect, to say the least. It had the effect, though, of making her sit up
just a bit straighter and stare just a little more deeply into the snow.
All things considered, however, Katherine felt posi-tively exhilarated. The few moments of clutching
ter-ror, when the car wanted to be a sleigh, only served to heighten, by contrast, the delight and
excitement with which she looked forward to the days that lay ahead of her at Owlsden house. She was
beginning a new life with a somewhat glamorous job and unlimited possibilities, new friends and new
sights. No snowstorm could thoroughly dampen her soaring spirits.
Gazing upon the world out of such optimistic eyes, she was certain to be more shocked than most by
what she saw in the open doorway of the abandoned, half-ruined old barn at the base of the mountain. It
was so awful, so disgusting, that it drained away her previ-ously unshakeable exhilaration like icy water
flowing from a tap.
In the door of the ancient, long unused barn, which lay back from the road about fifteen or twenty
feet, what looked like a cat dangled at the end of a rope, strangled by the tightly pulled noose.
She drove to the side of the roadway and stopped the car directly across from that hideous
spectacle. She could not bring herself to look that way, to see if what she had glimpsed at first was real
or a trick of her imagination. Heaven only knew, the weather was bad enough to distort things, to make
one think one had seen something different than what was actually there. But even as she tried to
convince herself of that, she knew she had not been mistaken.
The open land hereabouts had been strung across with rail fences in some more optimistic age, but it
had proven economically unsalvageable. It had the stamp of desolation now, unused and unuseable in the
midst of normally abundant country. She had passed many trim, pleasant, prosperous farms on the trip up
from Philadelphia; this pocket of decay looked even more forbidding by comparison. The trees suddenly
seemed craggy, hard and black and leafless, reaching for her with abruptly animated branches. The
snow, now that the wipers were not running, had drifted over the windscreen and appeared to be seeking
a way to get through the glass and cover her up in soft, suffocating cold.
“Oh,” Katherine told the warm air inside the car, “I'm really being silly now!” She grinned and shook
her head. Moving trees, malicious snow! What would she be thinking of next?
The cat.
When she looked at the barn, the snow was falling even more heavily than before, so that she could
not be certain if the dark object dangling in the center of the open doorway was really what she had
thought at first. It could be a trick of shadows.
She preferred to think that it was.
She was especially fond of cats. She had been per-mitted a cat at the orphanage, as a child, and she
had owned a second cat, Mr. Phooey, when she was in col-lege. The first had died a natural death; the
second had been struck and killed by an automobile. Both times, she had found acceptance of the death
hard.
And now this . . . Well, this was clearly none of her business, of course. Even if that were a dead cat
up there, she had no reason to call anyone to account for it. Still, a cat was a cat, and all cats held a
mystic bond with her Spike and Mr. Phooey.
She looked both ways, hoping to see another car ap-proaching. This was the sort of thing a man
should handle.
The road was deserted in both directions.
She got out of the Ford, pulled her coat collar up under her chin. Still, the wind bit her cheeks, turned
her pert nose a bright red, and managed to force a few cold flakes down her neck. She closed the door
and leaned against it, looking at the thing hanging in the doorway. She shuddered and looked away from
it again.
Where the farmhouse had once been, there was now nothing but a burned-out foundation of charred
field-stones and crumbling mortar. Weeds had sprung up in the man-made pit, evidence that the disaster
had taken place a good many years before.
On her side of the road, there was nothing but open land, some crippled length of fence. She had not
passed any homes for several miles, but she thought there might be a few ahead on the road. All of which
was an excuse to keep from going up to that barn and looking at what hung in its doorway. She forced
her-self to stop pretending, to stop looking at the scenery, and to get on with it. The poor thing, if it was a
poor thing, shouldn't have to hang there like that.
She walked away from the car, crossed the slippery road and stepped over another broken rail
fence. The land, beneath the snow, was rocky and all but sent her tumbling several times.
Why don't I stop right here? she asked herself. What can I do, anyway? If it really is a cat, who
could I find to take responsibility for its murder, and who would care to prosecute them? A cat, after all,
is only an animal. That might sound cruel, but it was a fact.
Even an animal, however, deserved a proper burial. Suppose she had let Mr. Phooey out in the cold,
to rot when summer came around? No, she could not turn away. Even an animal deserved privacy in its
death.
When she was ten feet from the doorway, she knew beyond doubt that it was a cat and not some
trick of light or her imagination. Each step closer was painful. When she was directly beneath it, she could
see what had been done to it, and she turned away, staggering into the snow. She bent over and was
very sick.
A while later, she came back, white-faced and trem-bling. Her revulsion at the brutality had now
turned to anger, and anger as hot as a July day, here in the cold of January. She did not think there were
any limits to what she would be capable of if she ever got her hands on the ugly, sick people who had
mutilated the animal.
Gently, gently, she untied the cord knotted at a nail above the doorway. The noose had dug so
deeply into the cat's body that she could not easily have loosened that.
She laid the little creature on the purity of the driven snow by the barn door.
Both of its eyes had been taken out. Its forepaws were bound together by heavy wire, and clasped in
them was a tiny, silver crucifix which had been broken in two. Three hatpins marred its belly. It had, to
be mercifully short, been tortured without conscience be-fore its tormentors had seen fit to let it die of
strangu-lation.
Kids! Katherine thought. Whining little brats who had never been brought up right, selfish children
who had no respect for life or beauty. She had known chil-dren like that both in and out of the
orphanage, spoiled by parents or by the lack of them.
If she ever got hold of them, they wouldn't sit down for a week, and they would be made to know,
deep down, what a terrible, ugly thing they had done.
She went inside the old barn, hoping to find a shovel or the remnants of some tool with which she
could dig a shallow grave. The gloomy structure contained only the light that was emitted through the
ground door and the open loft doors above. She was halfway across the main floor before she realized
the nature of the chalk markings on the hard earth. She had seen their like in books and magazines: a
huge, white chalk cir-cle spotted with pentagrams in some pattern that she could not discern; words
scribbled in Latin, some of which she understood and some of which were alien to her. These were the
marks of devil worshippers, peo-ple who paid homage to Scratch, Satan, the same demon in a thousand
names.
The wind screamed across the roof in an abnor-mally strong gust, rattled the loose shingles.
She found that she was shivering, although the air inside the barn was not all that cold.
She stared at the floor more closely until her eyes had adjusted to the poor light. In a few moments,
she found the place where the cat had been tortured: ex-actly in the center of the huge circle, in the center
of the smaller pentagram, where the earth was stained with blood. To either side of the pentagram,
puddles of pale, hardened wax indicated where burning can-dles had been placed for the ceremony.
This is New York, she thought, stepping slowly back from the traces of evil. This is not some
South-seas Island, some haven of voodooism and the black arts. This isn't some Louisiana bayou country
where the old myths still have power over the minds of men.
But she could not reason the evidence out of exist-ence, for she could see it there in chalk and in
blood, in white and black-red, before her eyes and within her reach. If she wished, she could touch it and
stain her fingers.
A moment earlier, she had been hoping to run across those who had perpetrated this atrocity. She
had not thought of them as adults; indeed, she still found it difficult to believe that grown men and women
would indulge in such debased activities. People were nicer than that, smarter than that, saner too. Yet,
while her optimism and her natural love of people made it difficult for her to accept the truth, her intel-lect
knew that this was so. She prayed, suddenly, that her wish would not be granted, that she would never
ever in a thousand years meet the people who had done this thing.
She left the barn and stood in the snow again, per-mitting Nature's breath, the cool wind, to cleanse
her of the taint of evil which she felt she had taken on from the very air of that room. Her long, yellow hair
streamed behind her like a flag, dazzling in the gloomy world around it.
Away from those odd markings on the barn floor, her back to the dead animal lying in the snow, the
ter-ror should have left her, but it did not. It abated, cer-tainly, but an abiding fear remained where the
terror had been and would remain for a long while yet. She did not particularly believe in such nonsense
as devil worship and the calling forth of unclean spirits. That was all just so much superstition. To
Katherine, all spirits were good, the spirits of angels. But she did be-lieve, now and very reluctantly, in
people so warped that they could conduct such ugly ceremonies, and she wished to have the taint these
people had left behind blown loose of her.
She could not go away without burying the cat, even more than she could not have done so before. If
burying the creature did anything to upset the intent of the Satanic rituals, she was going to be sure to put
it beneath the ground! In five minutes, she was on her way back from the car with a lug wrench which
was used for changing flat tires. Its one end was sharply bladed for prying loose stubborn hubcaps, and it
chipped into the frozen earth quite efficiently. In fifteen minutes, the cat was buried, snow thrown over its
shallow grave to conceal its exact whereabouts. The ever-increasing storm would further cover all signs
of her work.
She hoped that, if cats had souls—as she was sure they must—this cat's soul was now at rest, that
she had saved it from whatever spiritual limbo the Satan-ists had wanted for it.
Returning hurriedly to the car, her coat frosted with snow, her hair now hanging wetly across her
shoulders and no longer dry enough to be blown about by the wind, she put the lug wrench in the trunk
again and got back into the Ford. She sat behind the wheel for a long moment, wondering about the
grisly scene she had just encountered and letting the cold seep out of her like syrup from a tree. If this
were New York State, if this kind of thing was common in these Adi-rondack wildernesses, then she
was crazy for going any further. Sure, this was the chance of a lifetime, but ...
Snap out of it, she told herself. Think of what this job means to you in terms of your future, think of
the interesting people you'll be working with.
Five days before her graduation, just after Christ-mas vacation and during the final burst of studying
for end-of-semester exams, Katherine was called into the office of the Dean of Student Personnel, a
small and cheery man named Syverson who wore a mustache and a chin beard and looked, she thought,
like a lepre-chaun. She did not know what to expect, but she auto-matically expected something good.
That was her way.
As it turned out, her optimism had been well-founded, for Syverson had gotten her the job she was
now traveling to take. Companion and secretary to Lydia Roxburgh Boland, one of the dozen wealthiest
women in the country. Her duties would consist of traveling with the old woman in the spring and fall,
reading to her, discussing books with her and, in general, making her feel less lonely than she otherwise
might. According to Syverson, the woman was sixty-four but quick, lively and a joy to be around.
“But why me?” she asked.
Syverson turned a bright smile on her and said, “Mrs. Boland is an alumnus of our school. She and I
have known each other for a long time, before she met and married Roy Boland, when she was a
graduate student and I was a sophomore.” He sighed at the pas-sage of the years, then continued:
“Later, when I joined the administration, I handled many of Mrs. Boland's endowments to the school, set
up the trusts as she wished them and established a system of auditing to be certain that her wishes were
carried out even after her death. She trusts me and, as she says, respects my judgment. When she called
and asked for a companion from the graduating class this first semester, she left it up to me to choose a
girl who would most suit her temperament. Someone attractive, someone with a pleasant disposition and
an interest in meeting other people, someone intelligent enough to like books and understand them.
Someone, in short, like you.”
The salary was excellent, the fringe benefits fine as well. It was a dream job.
She asked Syverson: “What's the catch? Is there one?”
He smiled again. “Yes, but just a little one. Lydia insists on spending summers and winters in the
family house not far from Long Lake in the Adirondacks. It's a somewhat isolated place to want to live,
especially for a young and pretty girl. She says the summers are mild enough for her with a great deal of
greenery and that she would be lost without living through the nor-mal whiter blizzards she has known
since her child-hood. Unless you would find the atmosphere too rural, too lacking in diversions for—”
But she had assured him it would be just fine. And here she was with a degree in literature, a
broken-down old Ford, four suitcases of clothes and be-longings and a very bright future.
No number of devil worshippers were going to dis-suade her from what she saw as a predestined
future full of nothing but good.
Besides, she asked herself, where else would I go but to the Roxburgh House, to Owlsden?
She had no close relatives, and her parents had died long ago, longer than seemed possible. The only
stable reference point she had was her life in the orphanage, but she knew that would have changed, her
friends gone into the adult world. She had no place to return to, and it was partly out of this personal
isolation that her optimism grew.
She started the car and drove back onto the road-way. The storm was now more furious than ever
and had added an extra inch of powdery snow to the mac-adam. The wipers thumped at their top speed
but were barely able to keep up with the whirling snow. As the light seeped from the sky and visibility
grew even less conducive to travel, she tried to maintain her speed to cover the last miles to the village of
Roxburgh—which had been named for Lydia's father before the turn of the century—before darkness
crept in completely.
Dusk lay on the land like a brown cloak as she topped the ridge and looked down on the small town
of one thousand souls which constituted Roxburgh. The town was nestled in the snow and pines, a tight
lit-tle place even for so few as a thousand. The lights twinkled in the blanket of gauze that draped
everything; smoke rose from the chimneys; here and there, a car moved on the narrow streets.
Roxburgh was such a pretty place, pervaded by such a sense of quietude, that her fears were further
dispelled until the terror the Satanists had left with her was only a black grain of sand in the back of her
mind, niggling at her. She could be happy in a place like this, away from the frantic pace of the modern
world, among simple people with simple dreams.
She looked up from the town and searched the far ridge for Owlsden. For a long moment, she could
not see anything but swirling snow, the skirts of ghosts, cold sheets flapping in the wind and beating
across the rocky hillsides and the bare branches of the dark trees. Then she saw it thrusting up against the
slopes, huge. The house was like a phantom ship, some abandoned Spanish galley which still bore on
through the turbu-lent sea and poked its prow through the fog at night to frighten sailors on passing ships.
The snow obscured it again.
And then it was back, jumping into detail as if it had advanced on her across the gap of the valley. It
dominated the land, held forth like a sovereign on a throne. Its windows, in a few places, glowed from
within, yellow and harsh. They should have seemed warm and welcoming, especially to a natural optimist
like Katherine, but they were more like the eyes of dragons. The house appeared to be three stories high
and as long as a regulation football field. It was half-hidden by elms and pine trees, and its black slate,
peaked roof jutted above anything that Nature had placed near it.
The snow veiled the house once more; it might just as well never have existed at all.
Who would build such a fantastic home here, in the mountains, away from everyone and everything,
away from the high society types who might appreciate its cumbersome, costly majesty? What sort of
man had Lydia Boland's husband been—a madman? A dreamer with no regard for reality, with no love
of common sense?
As she drove down toward the village, her optimism had not been turned off, even though she was
now thinking in terms of dragons and madmen. Instead, her optimism had been dampened slightly, as
curbed as it would ever be. She realized that she was among strangers where the customs and daily
routines might be alien to her. Alien enough, she suddenly thought with a dismayingly morbid turn of mind,
to include blood sacrifices and the worship of the devil?
CHAPTER 2
Descending the ridge into Roxburgh was such a hair-raising feat that Katherine nearly forgot about
the dead cat, the Satanic markings on the floor of the barn and the fact that she was in a strange land.
The tiny grain of fear in the back of her mind became even ti-nier as a new fear rose to take all of her
attention: she was going to kill herself in this descent. She wondered if the same madman who had
designed the rococo Owlsden had also had a hand in the planning of the only road that entered Roxburgh
from the east. Surely, no sane highway engineer would have made the grade as steep as this or would
have carved the two-lane so narrow that it looked more like a lane and a half. On the left, a rock wall
jutted up fifteen feet to the edge of the ridge and then fell away, a constant reminder that she had only
two or three feet of berm to use in case another car approached on its way out of the valley. On the right,
the land dropped away for two thousand feet in the space of a yard, the way strewn with boulders and
trees and tangled brush. No guard rails dotted that far berm to give even the illusion of safety; a slide on
the icy pavement could very well end in a fiery tumble to the bottom of the gorge.
Without the snow, it would have been a simple mat-ter. But the white flakes had mounted on the
mac-adam, as yet undisturbed by a plow or even by another vehicle that had gone this way ahead of her,
and it hissed across the windscreen, obscuring her view even as it lay like greased glass under her
wheels. She did not use the gas at all and tapped the brake carefully, gently, keeping as steady a pressure
on it as she could.
Over the top of the ridge, too, the wind blew harder than it had on the top of the mountain where the
trees and the contour of the land bled its force. It gusted in like blows from a giant, invisible hammer.
When she was a third of the way down the tortuous track, a vio-lent blast struck the car from the
direction of the preci-pice, startling her. Involuntarily, she stamped on the brake pedal, jolting herself
forward as the Ford went into a perilously swift slide toward the right. The smooth gray stone wall,
flecked with growing patches of snow and marred only occasionally by the twisted root of a hearty locust
tree, rolled toward her as if the car were standing still and the wall itself was the moti-vated object.
She almost pulled the wheel to the left, realized that would be the worst thing to do and would only
aggra-vate the slide—perhaps even send the car completely out of her control. Worse than the stone wall
was the precipice on the left.
She let go of the wheel, except to touch it lightly with her fingertips and take advantage of the first
loos-ening she might feel.
The nose of the Ford turned at the very brink of a collison and angled back in the proper direction.
Her right, rear fender scraped the stone so softly that it could have been mistaken for the asthmatic
wheeze of an old man . . .
Another explosion of wind boomed in from the abyss.
This time, she did not over-react, but let the car move gently down the snowy track toward the
bottom of the valley.
Five minutes more, and she was on level land, ready to get out and pray at the nearest church. She
felt she ought to thank someone for helping her down that awful incline.
The roughly made highway fed into a more clearly defined street which she saw, shortly, was called
Cos-terfeld Avenue. It was a somewhat grandiose title for a half mile of curbed macadam, but she would
not have traded it for the poorly maintained state highway she had just left—not for a guarantee of
wealth, health or immortality!
In half a block, the mountain behind her was cut off by the great shafts of enormous pine trees which
thrust up on either side of Costerfeld Avenue like sentinels guarding the approach to the town. Already,
they were laden with soft, white snow like mounds of cotton or the gush of shaving foam from a spray
can. Also, on either side of the street, small, snugly built houses were tucked back at the ends of short
walks, slid in among stands of lesser trees—birch, elm, dwarf pine, dog-wood. Perhaps, without the
snow, it was a dirty place, as scarred and spread over with grime as any other neighborhood. In the
snow, however, it was trans-formed into an almost fairylike scene, a cut of the North Pole straight out of
a child's storybook. Snow hung from porch railings, softened the sharp angle of steps, whitened dark
roofs and made marshmallows out of stubby chimneys. Indeed, it was all so still and lovely that it slowly
ameliorated the fear she had felt in the descent of the mountain, just as the descent had shoved her fear of
the Satanists to the background of her mind.
Katherine Sellers wanted to be happy. It took very little, therefore, to influence her always-ready
streak of optimism.
Apparently, there were four main streets in Rox-burgh, made up of the arms of two major roads
which crossed in the center of the town to form a traditional “town square” with a small park in the center
of it and stores on the outside of the circle. It would be inter-esting to explore the side streets and the
curious little backwoods shops when she got a chance. But not now. Right now, the only thing that
mattered was getting across the small town and finding the road that lead up the other side of the valley
towards Owlsden.
Even as she thought that, the street broke from the pine boughs and began to angle up the other
valley wall, only a few miles from the place where she had come down. Owlsden house waited at the
top, looming over her, looking almost sentient, its dragon eyes glow-ing more fiercely the closer she drew
to its gates.
But, in the end, she did not get very close at all. Though driving up the icy slope was a good deal less
trying than the uncontrolled descent had been, it was not nearly so easy on the Ford which fought the
ascent at every turn. The tires spun in the dry snow and, at times, she found she was losing two feet of
ground for every one that she surged forward. Again and again, she would gain a hundred yards on the
slope, only to lose it in bits and pieces as the car slid inexorably backwards toward the village.
If she had been superstitious, she would have said that this was an omen, a sign that she was not
meant to reach Owlsden house.
At last, wearier than she had realized, she let the Ford drift to the very bottom of the slope and
backed it onto a widening in the berm where a picnic table rested under a huge willow. There was
nothing left but to walk the last leg of the journey. Perhaps someone up at the house could bring her
back, in a heavier car with chains around its tires, to collect her suitcases.
She turned off the lights, shut off the engine, took the key from the ignition, and opened the door.
Cold . . .
The air seemed twice as bitter here as it had on top of the mountain where she had found and buried
the cat. The wind howled down the long, narrow, steep-walled valley just as water gushed through the
natural contour of the land. It whipped the pine boughs around until they seemed like the arms of some
un-earthly dancers going through a frantic routine. Clouds of cold, grainy snowflakes snapped about her,
stinging, seeking open cuffs, a crack at the collar, a gap between the buttons.
She turned toward Owlsden which lay a mile or bet-ter up the road from there and had taken only a
dozen steps when she knew that she could never walk it. The steep grade would have her on her knees
or sprawled full-length as much as she would be permit-ted to stand upright—while the wind, scouring
the valley walls, would lift the hem of her coat like the cloth of an umbrella. She turned around and faced
towards the town again, held her hand over her eyes to keep the snow out of them. It was nearly as far
to the square in town as to Owlsden, but on level land where she would find sure footing. Tucking her
chin down and squinting her eyes, she started to walk.
By the time she reached the square, it was just after six in the evening. The stores were closed,
except for a grocery-newsstand combination and a cafe. She chose the cafe, crossed the tiny,
bench-dotted park, and went inside, brushing the snow from her coatsleeves and shoulders as she did.
The cafe contained three men in lumberjack clothes: heavy plaid hunting jackets, sweaters beneath
those, heavy jeans with legs that laced at the bottom and fitted neatly into heavy-duty, unpolished black
boots. An old, white-haired man in a tattered sweater sat at a corner table, by a large window that gave
a view of the square, sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. The waitress behind the counter and the
man at the short-order grill were both plump, middle-aged, ruddy-complexioned and pleasant-looking.
She sat on a stool at the counter and said, “A cup of coffee, please.”
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DeanKoontz(DeannaDwyer)–DancewiththeDevil[Version2.0byBuddyDk–August62003][Completelynewscan]THEHANDOFEVILThechurchwasbrickcolonial,compactandtrim.“It'sthesecondoldestbuildingintown,”Michaelexplained.“AfterOwlsden,ofcourse.”Heusheredherintoadarkenedvestibule:thenKatherinemovedaheadofhim,intothechurc...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：85 页 大小：516.92KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-24

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