Nightbringer Read Online Free Page A

upon each of you, and please leave something of your happiness when you depart."
    With formality Trevanian bowed. "Father Stephen, I am Mr. Trevanian, the tour guide. We were forced to curtail the museums of Antigone to beat the storm to your door. I hope you expected us."
    "Certainly we expected you!" Father Stephen laughed. "Each of your accommodations is prepared and a meal awaits!" Then, sobering somewhat, he focused on Josh and Rachel. "And just which of these grown-ups do you own?"
    Gina placed an arm around each of them. "They're with me, Father. I'm Gina Cr osswell. This is Rachel, and this is Josh."
    "My pleasure, madam."
    "Mine as well." Gina nodded and couldn't help but smile. "They won't be any trouble—I promise."
    "Oh, worry for nothing, Ms. Cro sswell—"
    "Gina, please."
    "Of course—Gina. Worry for nothing, Gina. The abbey is quite childproof." He leaned into Josh's open stare. "There are no breakables within reach!"
    Everyone laughed as Father Stephen looked over the rest of the party, and his eyes widened as he beheld a priest formally dressed in a soutane. Father Stephen focused instantly on the surplice—the tiny red threads of a cassock that marked a monsignor.
    Openly shocked, the father abbot knelt and extended his hands.
    "Arise, my friend," said the monsignor.
    Father Stephen stood. "I did not know, Monsignor."
    "Monsignor DeMarco, Father." The monsignor's tone was warm and comforting. "And it is I who should apologize. I am on a personal pilgrimage, so you could not have known of my coming."
    "Yes, Monsignor—a pilgrimage, of course. Are there any special needs that we should—"
    "No—nothing, Father. For this visit I am only another guest and wish to be treated as such."
    Stephen bowed. "As you wish, Monsignor."
    Slightly over six feet, in his late forties, the monsignor's elegant posture and manner indicated a natural possession of refined dignity and culture. His hands were broad and powerful, his face smooth-shaven, well-tanned, and without scars. His forehead was broad and high, and he possessed eyes clear and intelligent and aquiline. There was a thin trace of Italian origin in his words.
    Father Stephen turned and nodded to the rest of the tour group—an old man; a woman who seemed to be around Gina's age; a well-built, middle-aged man; and a large, bearded man who effortlessly held a huge duffel bag in a single hand. The man was utterly bald—his head apparently shaved—and he smiled with his every response or comment. His thick legs and arms were like marble pillars straining against his unassuming brown shirt and trousers. His sheepskin vest was his only fortification against the howling cold. He called himself Molke, saying one name is enough for any man.
    He was good-natured and friendly and had found himself crossing Gina's path more than once on her trip through Europe. During a journey they had taken together from Lucerna he'd frequently reminded Gina of the men in the world's strongest man contests.
    He was by no means Olympian in build—his large gut, low center of gravity and thick neck would have instantly disqualified him from any bodybuilding contests—but he had an obvious aura of gigantic strength. A gentle giant, Molke had playfully demonstrated prodigious feats of strength for the children, once lifting an Audi onto two wheels. At one of the castles they had visited at the same time, he hoisted a 1,000-pound cannon, inspiring the children to erupt with applause. Then he had laughed and replaced the weapon with as much ease as he lifted it. Gina felt comfortable in his presence and had come even to trust him, to a degree, to watch the children.
    The abbot extended a hand to the huge double doors at least twenty feet high. They were built of thick wooden beams – possibly oak or hickory – that looked much like railroad ties. They were also paneled in iron plates recently painted glossy black.
    "Please," the abbot smiled, "enter our home and consider it your home ,