CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
It struck up from the shallows of Lake Geneva. Ancient masonry shimmered obsidian in the rain, the Cross of the Savoy a dark red gash across the stonework. Turrets and battlements glowed as they fed upon the repeated strikes of lightning, l*****g it from the sky to devour without satiation.
Bonfires burned on the landside. Flames popped and sizzled.
Rachel ran up the walkway from Chillon’s pebbled beach and along the rim of the natural moat toward the fortress’s entrance. He was behind her, his breath on her neck, holding himself low to the ground, wary whenever the bonfires cast his shadow up across the building. They stopped under the protection of a magnolia.
“This place is pretty ominous at night,” he whispered.
“Even in the daylight, if you ask me—especially i
