A stranger has come to Middleburg, Maryland, a visitor from abroad with a mysterious purpose. But this quaint, affluent community has dark secrets of its own. And when the interloper, Peter Stewart, becomes involved with the bewitching, seductive ward of noted local author Kate More, the townfolk fear the chilling past they are hiding will no longer be safe. For Middleburg has a colonial history of malevolent sorceries and obscene sacrifice. And when the terrible pot is stirred, murder may be the least of the evils to emerge from the unholy brew.

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Prince of Darkness

Chapter One

Middleburg, Maryland, possessed a population of 9300 and one of the finest small airports one descending passenger had ever seen. For a placeof its size it had a surprising amount of traffic. There were several daily shuttle flights to Washington and New York, and this plane, the Fridayafternoon flight from Washington, had been nearly full.

The passenger in question, a slight, fair-haired man, was the last one off the plane. He stopped at the foot of the ramp and stared across the field,noting the number of private planes and hangars. The field was miniature, but equipped with all the latest gadgetry; it looked like a rich man's toy. Thesetting was equally perfect. Beyond the strips of concrete and the fences a gently rolling country-side had taken on the rich colors of autumn. Thegrain fields were stubble now, but much of the landwas wooded; the gold of maples and the crimsonof oak and sumac made vivid splashes of brightnessagainst the somber green background of firs.Afaint haze lay over the land, but the day was fine,almost too warm for October. The visitor reflectedthat this must be what the natives called Indiansummer. He shrugged out of his coat, draped itover his arm, and started off across the field towardthe terminal.

It was small, like the airport, and equally perfect;built of fieldstone and timber, it looked more like aprivate hunting lodge than a public building. Theyoung man joined the group waiting at the luggagecounter. Only a handful of the passengers hadwaited; most of them, carrying briefcases, had gonedirectly to waiting cars. Weekenders, evidently;and weekenders who could afford two separatewardrobes and homes.

The people waiting for luggage were of thesame type, and the young man categorized themwith the quick impatience which was one of hismany failings. The Rich. Bureaucrats or businessmenor idlers, they were all alike: people with toomuch money and too much leisure, so that theyspent large quantities of the former trying to occupythe latter.

He himself did not fit in with the crowd, thoughhe had a chameleonlike instinct for protective col-oring. The business he was presently engaged inrequired another type of costume. His suit—one ofhis own, recently retailored to fit his reduced measurements—was old but good. His tie was modestin design, but he wore it with a slightly stifled look,as if he were unused to even that moderate formality.By the standards of the over-forty generation hestill needed a haircut. He had considered hornrimmedglasses, and had abandoned them as beinga bit too much, and also as too obviouslyfraudulent; his vision, like Katherine More's, wastwenty-twenty. But the most important part of thedisguise was attitude. He had thought himself intohis role so thoroughly that when the man standingnext to him spoke he came out of an artistic fogwith a slight jerk.

"Stupid bastards get slower every week." Theman, a stocky individual, had shoulders like abull's and a belligerent, feet-wide-apart stance.His close-cropped gray hair failed to conceal askull as hard and round as a cannonball, or softenfeatures which looked like something an inexperiencedsculptor had roughed out and then givenup as a hopeless job.

"Hmmm? Oh. I haven't been waiting verylong."

"Stranger here?" The older man sized him upwith a long, appraising stare, and extended abrown hand. "Volz is my name. U.S. Army, retired."

"Peter Stewart. I'm a writer." He let the U.S. Army, retired, wring his hand, and produced apained smile. "General, were you, sir?"

"How did you know?"

"The . . . general air," Peter murmured, andgrinned modestly when the general gave a shortbrusque laugh that sounded like a dog barking.

"Very good. The writer's touch, eh? Have I readany of your books?"

"I very much doubt it."

Suitcases began rolling onto the rack and Volz,with an unexpurgated comment, darted forward.Peter followed more slowly. When he had retrievedhis battered case he found the general stillat his side.

"Going into town?"

"Yes. There are taxis, I suppose?"

"Probably taken by now. I'll give you a lift, ifyou like."

"That's very good of you." Peter spoke stiffly;then he reminded himself that he was being toosuspicious. He knew the automatic if superficialfriendliness of Americans. This loudmouthed idiotcouldn't possibly know anything about him orhis past—or his present intentions. He addedmore warmly, "I've booked a room at the Inn, butif that's out of your way—"

"No, no, got to go through town anyway. Myplace is on the other side. This way."

His car was just what Peter had expected: ablack, shiny Lincoln with a uniformed chauffeur,who leaped out as his employer came stamping up. The chauffeur was black, six and a half feettall, with a profile like that of the Apollo on thetemple of Olympia. Even the flat crisp curls lookedGreek.

Belatedly Peter tried to conceal his fascinatedstare with an inane smile and a murmured greeting.The black statue responded with a stiff inclinationof his head and no change of expressionwhatever. Chastened, Peter climbed into the backseat, and the door slammed smartly, just missinghis heel.

On the way into town the general told fourdirty jokes and a long tedious story about someminor skirmish during the Battle of the Bulge. Peterlaughed immoderately at the jokes and madeadmiring noises during the anecdote. By the timethey neared the outskirts of Middleburg, Volz hadalso extracted a major portion of Peter's biography.It was a good biography, and Peter wasproud of it. He had spent two days composing itand another week gathering the documentswhich backed it up . . .

Excerpted from Prince of Darkness by Barbara Michaels
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.