Free Children of the Storm by Dean Koontz Page A

noise they make is raucous, bothersome,” he said.
        She looked at him, saw that he was serious. His jaw was set tight, almost as if he were gritting his teeth.
        “But-”
        He interrupted her: “I'd exterminate them if I owned the island myself.”
        “They're so pretty,” she insisted.
        “But they don't belong,” he said. “They're not a natural lifeform to Distingue. Doughtery imported them for his own amusement.”
        “So?”
        “They simply don't belong,” he repeated, giving each word the same, harsh force.
        “By that reasoning,” Sonya said, “you could argue for the extermination of the people on Disingue. We aren't indigenous to the island either.
        We don't belong, naturally speaking. Why not exterminate us too?”
        “Maybe you have something there,” he said. He grinned at her, but she could not be certain if the grin were genuine.
        “Here we are,” he said, taking her arm again. “Watch your step.”
        He lead her onto the front porch of Hawk House, opened the door, and lead her into a gloomy entrance hall that smelled of furniture polish and old lace curtains.

----

    SEVEN
        
        Kenneth Blenwell escorted Sonya along the dimly lighted main hall to a set of sliding doors, pulled these open in one smooth movement and ushered her into a drawing room where the only light was that which somehow managed to break through the drawn halves of the heavy, blue velvet drapes-and that eerie blue light which a black-and-white television set puts forth. The only signs of life in that room, at first, were those glimpsed from the non-life on the television screen: the movement of the actors, camera changes, the tinny voices and the melodramatic background music that rose and fell like the sea.
        “Grandmother, Grandfather, I've brought company.”
        The volume on the television went down, though not off altogether, as someone with a remote control device reacted to Kenneth's statement.
        “This is Sonya Carter,” Kenneth said.
        “A lovely name.” The voice had been that of a woman, but thin and weak, almost a whisper.
        “Thank you,” Sonya replied.
        By now, she had located the old couple. They sat in two ridiculously overstuffed chairs, about ten feet from the television set, their feet propped up on ottomans, utility tables beside them, cocktails set out on the tables. Grotesquely, it seemed as if they were rooted to the spot, that they had not moved in years. They would remain there, even as corpses, until they had rotted and turned to dust.
        “Bring her closer!” Walter Blenwell snapped. The old man's voice was as brittle as his wife's was soft. “Let's see what manner of young lady you've got here!” Though it seemed bo be meant kindly, each thing he said sounded like an imperious command made by a humorless potentate.
        “Hello, Mr. Blenwell,” Sonya said, stepping into the light thrown by the television set.
        “Well, a pretty lady,” Walter said.
        “Thank you.”
        Both the old man and the old woman were in their seventies, somewhat emaciated, their faces lined so heavily that they reminded her of pieces of tablet paper crumpled in the fist and then clumsily straightened out again. The blue light from the television did nothing at all to make them look younger; the unnatural color gave them the appearance of frozen bodies, touched by a coat of frost, eyes glittering icily.
        Kenneth had brought two chairs, one of which Sonya took, gratefully. With the television light framing her, almost silhouetting her, she felt as if she were on display.
        “Tell Winnie that we'd like new refreshments,” Lydia Blenwell said.
        “Will do,” Kenneth said.
        He departed, leaving Sonya alone with the old people.
        “Refreshments will be simple,” Lydia said. “Neither of us is up to real entertaining any more.”
        “Speak for