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   Chapter 6 Hurtling Toward Bane House

The Silverskin By Rian Torr Characters: 7134

Updated: 2018-03-07 15:18


They rolled along under the downtown lights and signs for a time―and then out into the white and black countryside toward French's Forest and Bane House on Manor Hill—Moon Full.

Idle chat continued to linger on a spell, before eventually dissolving into contemplation and countless country stars. Caresses killed all care in the world.

There were times in life like now that suddenly stood still, as the world whizzed by, when one was able to remember again how it felt to be silent.

Seven cast back to when he was just four years old, when the family still lived out by Black Heron Lake. Youth renewed.

He was an explorer then, in the land by the water—endlessly entrenched in rolling dunes―and sylvan stomping grounds—always lost on some new hunt.

In those days, every hour was an eternity―and every last little life was a boundless wonder of joy for pursuit.

He was genuinely happy then―down by the water's edge. But the family ended up moving further inland to French's Forest―where life dimmed deep beneath the leafy canopies—and his adventures took on ever more dangerous curves.

Eventually the highway carved itself off into the eerie depths of enchanted woodland. Finally they were free of town.

The ominous moon sat bright and fat upon a tree-line crown—as it did every day in French's Forest—for it never waned in those parts. It remained forever full.

The cab hugged the inner curve of the road for many long moments―and only when it seemed as if the snaking lane would never straighten―it ultimately did.

The trees fell back, revealing foreboding Bane House—all aglitter in countless slithering Christmas lights.

It stood tall upon Manor Hill―five stories rising high above the tallest tree-tops—a sublime sight to the naked eye.

Gargoyles and spires inspired the architecture from foot to tip—and there were statues of three-headed dragons carefully set out everywhere in the yard.

The iron gates were open wide—and so they pulled right in on up the lane-line.

Gravel popped under their tires as they rolled down the trail, up the hill, toward the great gothic front entrance.

the couch by the wall. The room was big.

Seven sat beside her to guard her.

"Marietta! Seven and Eva have arrived!" Godwin bellowed in his baritone, sending echoes about the four walls—and up the stairwell to the next floor above.

He retired behind the bar—where he hung out with the bottles and shadows―conveniently out of reach of casual conversation—just like he liked it.

Footsteps shuffled overhead―and moments later―Seven's mother Marietta glided into the room, terracotta nightgown billowing behind her—cradling a saucer and cup of hot tea before her bosom.

She was slender, with black hair up in a bun—and big glossy lips, over which fangs poked out. She seemed off a touch.

The essence of a stunning younger beauty lingered there in her ivory features and finer terrains. Kind were Age's Lines.

Eva immediately noticed that Marietta's ears were pointed like Godwin's—and she found herself wondering if all albinos had fangs like did these Banes.

Meanwhile, Godwin whistled at his wife from the bar—winking at her while grinning behind the bottles, pouring one.

Godwin had never lost his primal urge for his wife—and sometimes he could hardly hold himself back. He often even felt as if he would kill for her—just for her.

Marietta looked over at him batting her lashes—and the two of them enjoyed an amourous exchange before breaking off. It was a rare but regular little event.

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