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of breathing.
    And suddenly he knew what was around the bend.
    She would be waiting, the white shadow with the large round begging eyes, the thing with arms spread wide, one hand holding that dead bouquet of flowers. She looked even more afraid than George. Just before the shed collapsed, he'd seen the long see-through tail wrig-gling under the lace hem of her gown, a tail as scaly as a—
    "The snakes crawl at night, Georgie."
    "No, they don't," George said, voice hoarse and weak. "I know, because I looked it up." He was weeping because he realized he couldn't re-member his mama's name. But sorrow didn't matter now, neither did the pain, nor the nails in his flesh, nor the missing hand, nor the dust filing his lungs, nor the creeping night. Even Old Leatherneck was nothing, just a distant jungle ghost, a cobweb, an echo.
    Al that mattered were the miners' rails and that turn in the bend, and the tunnel opening into a deeper, air-less blackness. A black beyond the colors of pain.
    She was waiting. With company.
    Johnny Cash was right, and the encyclopedia was wrong.
    The snakes did crawl at night.
CHAPTER 4
    Mason was tired from his walk along the wagon trails. He'd spent the afternoon trying to clear his head, relishing the solitude and quiet of the mountain forest that surrounded the estate. Out there, under the ancient hardwood trees, nobody had any expectations of him. He didn't have to be a hot new artist, he wasn't the repository for his mother's hopes and dreams, he had no obligation to prove his worth to the world's most un-forgiving father. On the grounds of Korban Manor, he was just another loser with a bag of tricks.
    The foyer was nearly empty when Mason returned to the manor just before sunset. He nodded at an el-derly couple who wore matching jackets, their shirt-sleeves laced, drinks poised. Roth and a dark-skinned woman were talking, Roth miming as if he were snap-ping a photograph. The gaunt maid stood at the foot of the stairs, hands clasped behind her back, staring at the portrait of Korban. Mason waved to Roth and crossed the room, careful to avoid looking into the fireplace. He was afraid he'd see something that probably wasn't there. He touched the maid on the shoulder. She spun as if electrocuted, and Mason stepped back and held his hands apart.
    "Sorry to startle you. Are you the one showing us our rooms?"
    She forced a smile and nodded. Mason squinted to read the brass nameplate fixed to her chest. Lilith.
    "Name, please?" Her voice was barely above a whis-per. Roth's laughter boomed from the other end of the room, no doubt fueled by one of his own jokes.
    "Jackson," Mason said.
    "Mr. Jackson, you're late." She tried a smile again, but it flitted across her pale face and settled into the shadows of her mouth. "Second floor, end of the south wing."
    "I hope we've got bathrooms," he said, trying for bumpkin humor. "I know we're supposed to go back in time, but I didn't see an outhouse anywhere."
    "Shared baths for adjoining rooms only," she said, already heading up the stairs. "You have a private bath. Follow me, please."
    Mason took a last look back at the fireplace, then at Korban's giant face. Even with dead eyes and confined to two dimensions, the man had charisma. But then, so had David Koresh, Charles Manson, and Adolf Hitler. And Mason's father. The gallery of assholes. Mason shook his head and started up the stairs. Lilith hadn't offered to carry his satchel. Maybe she'd noticed how possessively he clung to it, or maybe the chivalry and manners of the nineteenth century stil held sway here.
    Lilith glided over the oak treads with a swish of her long dress. If she was going for big-city Goth, she cer-tainly had the sickly complexion for it. She moved with a grace that belied her brittle features. Judging from her bony hands and the angles of her skul, Mason ex-pected her to clatter when she walked.
    The second floor was as grand as the first, with the same high ceiling and wainscoting. A pair of