Chapter 49 - The Light That Burns in the Fog
The pickup truck skidded to a halt in the courtyard of Ravenscliff, throwing slush against the granite walls.
The wind here blew at seventy miles an hour, whipping spray from the roaring breakers below.
Vance retrieved Davenport’s scoped rifle, chambering a round as he pushed his door open.
"Stay in the truck, Arthur," Vance ordered. "If she has a crew in there, you won't survive the crossfire."
"I have to look her in the eyes, Vance," Arthur said, his voice trembling with quiet, unshakeable rage.
"She stole thirty years of my life. I am not hiding in a truck like a frightened animal."
Vance looked at Arthur’s hollow, determined eyes and slowly nodded.
He handed Arthur a heavy steel tire iron from behind the driver’s seat.
Together, they moved through the arched doorway of the lighthouse tower, entering the damp spiral stairwell.
The air inside smelled of salt spray, diesel fuel, and fresh, coppery blood.
On the rusted spiral steps leading upward, smeared handprints marked the whitewashed stone wall.
Eleanor had dragged herself up the stairs, leaving a bloody trail at every turn.
"She’s bleeding out," Vance whispered, keeping the rifle pointed upward into the curving shadows.
Step by agonizing step, they climbed the iron spiral, the roar of the wind outside vibrating through the granite blocks.
At the seventy-foot landing, they found her discarded white fur coat, soaked in dark lake mud and crimson gore.
She had stripped down to her bare clothes, driven by nothing but feral adrenaline and survival.
They reached the heavy hatch leading into the glass-walled lantern room.
Vance kicked the hatch open, sweeping the rifle across the circular chamber.
May you like
The giant Fresnel lens revolved slowly in the center, humming with the mechanical clatter of ancient gears.
And standing right at the edge of the shattered observation balcony, staring into the abyss, stood Eleanor.
