Moonlight slipped through the narrow slits of the windows at each floor Donovan passed, silvery slats of the light guiding him upward to his reckoning. His footsteps were silent

against the stone wedges of the stairs. There was no sound in this curving stairway. Nothing except the wind breathing past the windows and the pulse pounding in his ears. Yet

in his head, he heard a voice, harsh with rage.

Throw the little bastard over the side!

His father's voice.

His father's hatred.

Anxiety slithered in his belly, vipers filled with the poison of old fears. He could feel them, phantom hands slick with Sweat gripping his ankles, thrusting him...