High Energy by Joy, Dara (ink book reader .TXT) 📗

visibly relaxed, breaking into a huge

grin. "The Stockboro daily gazette?"

"You don't have to say it like that!"

"Like what?" He suddenly reached out, curling an arm around her neck to draw her

close.

"Like you're—what are you doing?"

"Doing?" Despite his innocent gaze, he had a definite look of mischief about

him. "Why, I'm answering your question. I'm relieved, Ms. Masterson. For a

moment there, I thought you were a real reporter."

Her violet eyes went glacial. "I am a real reporter."

"Well, I'll try not to think of you as one."

"Thank you very much!"

He leaned forward, surprising her by kissing the tip of her nose. "You know what

I mean."

She pushed against his chest in a vain attempt to break his hold.

"No, I don't. And you are being presumptuous."

"Yes, you do," he countered. "And perhaps I am."

"You—" She wrinkled her nose, having lost the thread of the conversation.

He chuckled at her expression. "Forget it. Listen, I'm having an end-of-class,

Indian summer pool party at my house on Saturday. Here's the address." He tore

off a scrap of the paper Stan had given him, scribbling quickly on it. "You're

invited to come—two o'clock. But no interview." He tapped her nose to emphasize

the point. "Should I expect you?"

She looked down at the scrap of paper in her hand. She had heard vague stories

about his house, something about it being very weird and very private. He was

giving her the opportunity to view it. Perhaps she could change his mind about

the interview, and if not, she could always write about his house. And who knew

who else might be there at the party suitable for an interview?

Besides, she wanted to see him again. He was too fascinating not to want to see

again. Of course she would come.

"I'll be there. Thank you Tyber; I look forward to it, but I'm not promising

that I won't try to change your mind."

"Why would you want to change a perfectly good set of beliefs, Zanita?" His dry

tone mocked her.

"On the interview only," she clarified.

"Whatever you think. Goodnight, Curls; see you Saturday."

Zanita never suspected that she had just been masterfully lured into playing the

shell game.

Chapter Three

« ^ »

The sign on the high stone wall read, "My Father's Mansion."

Zanita stopped her car before the heavy wooden gate. Looks like something out of

the Middle Ages, she thought. The high wall and copious trees and bushes beyond

obscured whatever form My Father's Mansion took.

So how did one gain entrance through these imposing walls?

Spotting a grilled intercom at a level with the driver's side window, she

reached over, pressing the red button.

It was obvious by the security measures she had already witnessed that no one

could enter Tyber's lair unless he wanted them to. Since he conducted all of his

research behind these stone walls, she supposed it was a wise precaution,

although she suspected that he was the type of man who guarded his privacy as

carefully as his work.

The sudden loud squawk of the intercom made her jump in her seat.

"Blast and damnation!" a strange raspy voice boomed. "Who be ye? Friend or foe?"

Zanita stared dumbfounded at the box. Who on earth was that?

"Speak up, I say, or I'll blast ye where ye stand!"

Good God! Was there a weapon trained on her? Zanita tensed and peered warily at

the stone structure in search of a gun port.

"Well?" the impatient voice demanded.

"It—it's Zanita—Zanita Masterson. Dr. Evans invited me to the party. I'm from

the class?" This last part ended in a tone which conveyed her doubt not only of

being let in, but also of her sanity in wanting such a thing.

"Come aboard then, lass."

The solid wooden doors swung slowly open.

Zanita sat in her car, hands clutching the steering wheel as she cautiously

surveyed the scene opening up in front of her.

A cobblestone drive surrounded by heavy foliage lay directly before her. She had

a momentary sense of déjà vu.

For an instant, she knew, just knew, that once she went down that road, her life

would be forever altered. It was an eerie sensation.

Do I really want to do this?

She shook herself, dispelling the strange feeling. What was she thinking? Of

course she wanted to do this. She needed this interview.

The car rolled forward to follow the road. As soon as she cleared the gate, the

heavy doors swung shut behind her with a dull, final thud.

Zanita looked up into the face of a dragon.

The giant topiary beast stood guard by the right side of the road. It seemed to

watch her in silent scrutiny as her car inched forward. All ye who enter here

abandon reality, she mused. This definitely promised to be an interesting

experience.

The cobblestone drive twisted and turned through the woods. All she could think

of was "follow the grayish brick road, follow the grayish brick road," while

keeping a wary eye out for techno-munchkins sleeping under fallen leaves.

The woods opened up onto a glade followed by a labyrinth of mythological topiary

creatures: gnomes, winged cats, dragons of all shapes and sizes, what appeared

to be the Loch Ness monster, a three-headed beastie, and a giant wizard

arrogantly presiding over all.

"This is incredible," she mumbled to herself.

Beyond the mazes were breathtaking gardens. From the distance of the road, she

could see that each garden was separate in theme and mood. Many of the smaller

gardens had beautiful fountains or little ponds.

Since it was fall, there weren't many plants still in bloom. She tried to

imagine what the gardens would look like in full flower, knowing it must be a

breathtaking vista. Perhaps sometime today, she would have the opportunity to

walk through the hidden gardens, the little nooks and crannies that were so

appealing.

She passed a large white gazebo with silken paisley curtains fluttering in the

breeze.

When she rounded another bend in the road, a massive Victorian mansion came into

view. Seven turrets jutted into the air.

In true Victorian opulence, the house was painted in multiple shades and colors.

Gingerbread trim hung from every available edge. Several different styles of

wood trimming and carvings adorned the intricate woodwork. Hand-carved flowers,

ropes, and bows decorated doorways. Window boxes were filled with fresh pastel

flowers. The wrap-around porch was designed with intricate fretwork banisters.

Several stained-glass windows reflected the afternoon sun.

Zanita didn't know whether to label it