Children of the Storm by Dean Koontz Page A

eyes, he said. Take them right out of their heads. Wasn't that it, Kenneth?”
        “Yes, I think so,” he agreed.
        Sonya stood so abruptly that she caught the serving cart with her hip and jarred all the utensils on it, almost knocking over the cut glass brandy decanter which the youngest Blenwell barely managed to catch before it tipped to the floor.
        “I'm sorry,” she said, somewhat breathlessly. She wished that she could control the tone of her voice, for she knew that it contained a note of obvious panic. “But I really must go now. I've things to do back at Seawatch and-”
        “I'm sorry if we've frightened you,” Kenneth said.
        “No, no, you haven't-”
        She turned, aware that she was being rude, but really not caring much after having endured the past half hour with them, and she made for the open door and the hallway where there was at least a bit more light.
        When she opened the front door of Hawk House, Kenneth was right behind her.
        He said, “You're being silly, you know.”
        She turned, looked up at him, squinting in the strong sunlight. “Oh? How so?”
        “Even if someone does intend to kill the Dougherty kids, you're safe. No one has threatened you yet.”
        She nodded and went down the steps.
        “I'll walk you back,” he said.
        “That's not necessary.”
        “No trouble.”
        She summoned up all of her wits, thinking fast, and she said, in as level and forceful a voice as she could manage just then, “No, Mr. Blenwell, really now. Please don't bother. I would much prefer to walk home alone. I set out, alone, to explore Distingue. I want to see it at my own speed, in my own fashion, in order to get some emotional feel about the place. I'm sure you'll agree that that sort of thing is best done by oneself.”
        He grinned.
        Again, looking up at him, caught by his dark eyes, she could not be certain whether that grin was produced by high spirits, or whether he was mocking her.
        “Suit yourself,” he said.
        “Thank you for the coffee and brandy,” she said.
        “It was nothing.”
        “I'm sorry if I upset Hattie's schedule.”
        He continued to grin. “Not at all.”
        She turned away from him and felt relieved when she could no longer see his grin or his eyes.
        She set off toward the beach, went down the stone steps in the bank at the end of the lawn, took off her sandals and let the sand creep between her toes. When she reached the edge of the lapping sea, she turned toward Seawatch and walked away from Hawk House at a quick but not abnormal pace.
        “Come again!” he called.
        She pretended not to hear.
        Thinking of the grisly details which the Blenwells had insisted on painting for her, she rounded the point and, as soon as she knew she was out of Kenneth Blenwell's sight, she began to run. Her breath came into her lungs in curious, short sobs.

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    EIGHT
        
        The remainder of that week passed without significant event, as Sonya continued to instruct Alex and Tina, played games with them, and, on her off hours, enjoyed the sea, sand and sun, slowly forgetting about all the portents of danger: the shark, the man standing beneath the palms that night, the conversation with the Blenwells…
        Her friendship with Bill Peterson continued to flower and seemed, at times, to border on more than mere friendship. Though she was clearly attracted to him, and he to her, Sonya vowed to let the relationship develop slowly, cautiously, so that neither could be hurt by any eventual rejection. She admired him, liked him, studied him from a distance when he was unaware of her-but she was not yet sure if she was in love with him. She rather thought she wasn't. But that might very well come, given time, given leisure to know him better.
        She had also begun to grow close to Bess Dalton, Henry's wife. That woman was