He backed away, arms outthrust to ward off the thing that walked toward him, mouth still working, but no sound coming out.
Rosie brushed West to one side with a flip of a furry wing and then the wings spread wider and shielded Belden from West's view. The wings clapped shut and from behind them came the muffled scream of the man. Then nothing; silence.
West's hand dropped to the holster and his gun came sliding out. His thumb slammed down the activator and the gun purred like a well-contented cat.
The ermine of Rosie's wings turned black and she crumpled to the floor. A sickening odor filled the room.
"Belden!" cried West. He leaped forward, kicked the charred Rosie to one side. Belden lay on the floor and West turned away retching.
For a moment West stood in indecision, then swiftly he knew what he must do.
Showdown. He had hoped that it could be put off a little longer, until he knew a little more, but the incident of Belden and Rosie had settled it. There was nothing else to do.
He strode through the door and down the winding staircase toward the darkened room below.
The painting, he saw, was lighted ... lighted as if from within itself. As if the source of light lay within the painting, as if some other sun shone upon the landscape that lay upon the canvas. The picture was lighted, but the rest of the room was dark and the light did not come out of the painting, but stayed there, imprisoned in the canvas.
Something scuttled between West's feet and scuttered down the stairs. It squeaked and its claws beat a tattoo on the steps.