Play dead

ONE HUNDRED FIVE
6:00 AM

He turns to climb the final flight of stairs, just as a pair of oil paintings melt and slide from the walls. On the landing, a burlwood collector's cabinet catches fire, its glass front cracking, its contents-a rare nineteenth century edition of The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin- vaporizing in a burst ofsearing ash, coating his face and arms.

He glances down the main corridor as doors are flung open. Through the dense smoke he sees each room. He recalls the lovely faces of Monica Renzi and Caitlin O'Riordan, of Katja Dovic and Elise Beausoleil, Patricia Sato and Claire Finneran.

He sees Lilly. His Odette.

As he drags himselfup the staircase to the attic, the flesh from his hands is left behind on the white-hot iron railings.

At the top he finds Molly Proffitt, her delicate watery eyes now open in the Sea Horse tank, the gash in her head rent to expose her brain. Molly holds the door for him, the door leading to the attic and its massive roof beam.

Moments later Joseph Swann stands on a chair, the rope hanging loosely around his shoulders. He is framed by the large circular window that overlooks the front yard. At his feet, the old reel of film, The Magic Bricks, bubbles and melts.

He tightens the noose around his neck, the hemp rope pulling off the remaining flesh ofhis palms.

It is in this position that the flames find him, drawing him into their fiery embrace, into Hell, into the diseased heart ofFaerwood.