Winter's Shadow (2 page)

She regarded the stranger warily. ‘Sir, did I just see you on the rooftop?’

His smile widened. ‘I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, I didn’t mean to alarm you.’ Leaning delicately on a silver cane, he took a step closer so that Madeleine was able to appraise him more clearly.

A gasp escaped her lips; her anxiety and fears were momentarily forgotten, replaced with wonderment. During her time as an actress in the Grand Guignol Theatre, Madeleine had worked opposite many handsome men, but not one of them was comparable to the man who stood before her now. He was young, perhaps not much older than she, but his beauty had a subtle maturity to it, a refinement to his smooth cheeks and brow. There was a secret here. A seductive story was
written in the stranger’s exquisite features, a mystery that Madeleine could spend hours or days or months deciphering.

‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ the stranger said, removing his hat and bowing deeply. If he noticed her naked admiration he was too polite to draw attention to it. ‘My name is Ariman.’

Madeleine gathered herself. ‘But how —?’

Ariman shrugged her question away before she could finish asking it, and gazed into her eyes. ‘I’ve been watching you for some time.’

The strange light of his eyes seemed to grow brighter, and Madeleine found herself unable to turn away. The longer she looked into the stranger’s – into Ariman’s – eyes, the less afraid and confused she felt. All her questions – such as how he knew her name and how he’d transported himself so quickly from the roof to the alley – paled in that emerald brilliance.

‘You’ve been watching me?’ Madeleine heard herself respond softly in the detached manner of someone talking in her sleep.

Still smiling, Ariman nodded. ‘I have something to show you. Will you come with me?’ He arched his eyebrows hopefully and offered her his grey-gloved hand.

‘Go with you where?’

Before he could answer, the stillness of the alley was shattered by a cry.

‘
Found you, witch!
’

Feeling as though she’d been slapped awake from a dream, Madeleine jerked around to see Victor charging towards them like a wild beast. His face was contorted into an expression of such ugly rage that Madeleine could believe he had nothing short of murder on his mind.

‘Run from me, will you?’ he snarled in between rasping breaths. ‘I’ll give you something to run from!’

‘Madeleine,’ Ariman said quietly. Her eyes wide with terror, Madeleine turned to face her mysterious suitor and was amazed to see how calm he appeared. There was no fear shadowing his finely wrought features. And the light in his eyes . . .

‘Take my hand,’ he ordered softly.

If Madeleine hesitated, it was only for a second or two, and then she slid her hand into his. Thunder rumbled overhead, the ground fell away and she was falling. Falling through darkness.

It was the church that brought Winter here.

Called Pilgrim’s Lament, it lay somewhere in the woods near the summit of Owl Mountain and was rumoured to be one of the oldest buildings still standing in Hagan’s Bluff. Old enough for her editor, Harry Francis, to think it merited an article and picture in the school newspaper. Unfortunately for Winter, there were no photographs of Pilgrim’s Lament available in the public domain, so it fell to her, as the recently appointed
Trinity Times
photographer, to venture to the top of Owl Mountain to take one. Despite this being her first assignment, Winter was feeling less than enthusiastic about sacrificing her Sunday afternoon for one lousy shot of an old church. Two lousy shots, actually. Harry had specifically instructed her to photograph the exterior
and interior of the church. He wanted options, though Winter suspected he also enjoyed making her life difficult. Harry was that sort of guy.

There was another reason why she didn’t want to be here. Secretly, Winter didn’t like the mountain. It reminded her too much of the one in Disney’s
Fantasia
– the mountain that was really a giant demon with bat-wings and hellish yellow eyes. Whenever she looked up at Owl Mountain looming over her town, she couldn’t help but think of that sleeping demon, biding its time for nightfall.

Today, there was no sign of any demons or evil spirits as Winter followed Mr Denning along the winding trail down from the Heritage Centre’s parking lot. Just bugs. Lots of bugs. As curator of Pilgrim’s Lament and the Hagan’s Bluff Heritage Centre, the old man had plenty to say, however it was difficult to concentrate on his rambling lecture while fending off squadrons of the buzzing, bloodthirsty terrors.

‘’Course, after the fire in seventy-nine we more or less stopped getting tourists up here.’ Mr Denning paused to point out a section of the woods that was less densely populated with trees than the rest of the area. ‘It tore right through here, went straight for old Pilgrim’s Lament, made a real mess of everything. Bunch of idiot kids started it. Having a barbecue. Probably drinking and drugging as well.’

Winter had to suppress a smile as the old man shot a suspicious glance in her direction, as though she might
start drinking and drugging right there on the spot. They continued along the path, Mr Denning resuming his talk with a regretful air. ‘Even before the fire we never got that many visitors. Mainly school groups. The odd tour bus.’ He sighed. ‘Stupid place to build a heritage centre, I suppose. Even stupider place to build a church. It’s hard enough getting people to worship without making them climb up a mountain to do it. No wonder they called it Pilgrim’s Lament. I’d complain too, if I had to do this every Sunday morning.’

‘The church is still standing though, right?’ Winter asked, suddenly nervous that she’d come all the way here to photograph a pile of blackened rubble.

‘Sure, of course it is.’

Winter breathed a sigh of relief.

‘The first settlers might not have picked the best spot, but they knew how to build a church back in the day,’ Mr Denning went on. ‘The fire couldn’t do much to the outside of the church – solid stone walls and all – but the inside didn’t fare as well. I’d keep my expectations in check if I were you, Miss Adams. Lots of charcoal and ash. Maybe a few spiders if you’re lucky. I lobbied the council to pay for the restoration, but you know how . . .’

Winter allowed Mr Denning’s words to drift into the background, lost in the persistent droning of the bugs. As a cold breeze gusted through the trees, making her arms break out in goosebumps, Winter heard her sister’s voice in her head: ‘
The fresh air will do you good.
’ That’s what Lucy had said to her before she left at lunchtime.
Complete nonsense, of course. It wasn’t as if Hagan’s Bluff was some smog-choked city. In fact, she doubted the population of eight thousand or so could generate enough pollution to affect the environment. The only difference between the air down in the town and the air up here was the temperature. It was colder on the mountain. Colder and quieter. So quiet she could barely hear the ocean any more.

No, Winter didn’t like it up here at all, and the longer she spent traipsing along this bug-infested, overgrown trail, the darker her mood was likely to grow. She just wanted to find this stupid church, take the pictures for Harry’s stupid article, and get back home before the rest of the weekend ran away from her. The woods around the path began to thin and she caught a glimpse of grey stone between the tree trunks ahead.

Pilgrim’s Lament. Finally.

The path opened up into the small clearing and Winter got her first clear view of the church. It was smaller than she’d imagined. Hardly a church – more of a chapel, really. Thick moss covered the stone walls; the peaked roof had been stripped of almost all its shingles and appeared sunken in places; the belltower stood on a slightly crooked angle and the windows were empty cavities, offering a glimpse of the darkness within. There was something unsettling about the church. Something unwholesome.

They paused at the edge of the clearing and Winter waited patiently for her guide to compose himself.
Though it couldn’t have been more than a fifteen-minute walk, Mr Denning was huffing and puffing as if the exercise was the most he’d done in some time. Judging by his stomach and the two extra chins he was carrying, Winter guessed it probably was.

‘Well, Miss Adams, there she stands. Pilgrim’s Lament. Oldest church in the Bluff, probably oldest in the state.’ He wiped some sweat off the back of his neck with a handkerchief. ‘I suppose you’d be wanting to take a look inside?’

Winter nodded. ‘If that’s not too much trouble.’

Mr Denning shook his head. ‘No, no trouble at all. There was a time I’d bring school groups and tourists down here, but it’s been a good ten years or so since Pilgrim’s Lament has had any visitors but me.’

Winter followed him towards the stone steps. ‘Why’s that?’

Mr Denning paused, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘After the fire, the local council ruled it an unsafe structure. Truth be told, I shouldn’t even be letting you inside without signing a bunch of insurance forms first . . . but I won’t tell if you won’t.’

Winter smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s our secret.’

‘Good to know,’ Mr Denning hobbled up the steps to the double doors. ‘I’m just happy someone’s writing about the church again. It might help me finally get the funding I need to clean it up.’ A thick chain was looped through the doorhandles and bound by a padlock. He took out a keyring and began trying the keys in the
lock. The first one failed, so he tried another and then another.

‘So, how unsafe is it in there?’ Winter asked, eyeing the church.

‘Well, put it this way: there’s little more than spit and faith keeping that roof up. You’ll be fine so long as you’re careful. Dammit!’ Exhausting his supply of keys, he let the chain and lock drop back against the door. ‘I must have left the key back at the centre.’

Winter walked up the steps. ‘Do you mind if I try?’

A little bemused, Mr Denning handed her the keyring. ‘Suit yourself.’

Winter grasped the padlock and inserted a small brass key. It turned as easily as she expected it would, and the chain clattered to the ground. Startled by the sound, a flock of birds took flight from the bank of trees behind the church. She watched them disperse, ragged black shapes against a blue sky.

‘I must have missed that one,’ Mr Denning said, frowning, as he took the keyring back. Winter shrugged nonchalantly. Locks always opened beneath her touch. It was a trick that bordered on uncanny, though one she’d grown so used to that she was barely aware of it any more.

She took a step back as Mr Denning pushed the front doors inward to reveal the dark interior. A gust of stale air rushed out of the belly of the church, like a breath that had been held for a long time. A slight shiver of fear rippled up the back of Winter’s neck, and she scolded herself for being chicken.

‘Now, I hope that camera of yours has a flash – there’s not much light to see by in there.’

Winter raised the Nikon hanging around her neck. ‘I should be fine.’ Though, if she was perfectly honest with herself, she was beginning to feel anything but fine. Watching Mr Denning open that door into the darkness had unsettled her. She should have brought a torch along.

‘Okay then,’ Mr Denning nodded, twisting off the small brass key she’d used to unlock the chain. Before she could take it from his pudgy fingers, he drew it back, imparting one last warning. ‘Mind what I said about the roof. Be careful in there. I’d stay to keep an eye on you, but I gotta man the phones back at the Centre. Besides, you don’t look like you need a babysitter.’

Winter took hold of the key and slid it into her jeans pocket, thinking he was wrong about that. Mr Denning may not have been the best company, but he was company nonetheless. She didn’t relish the idea of being left alone in the woods, with this ancient dark church.

‘No problem, Mr Denning. Thanks again. I’ll drop the key off when I’m done.’

‘You do that. Be sure to lock up.’ He frowned at her. ‘What publication is this for again?’

‘The
Trinity Times
. It’s our school newspaper. We’re doing a story on heritage buildings in The Bluff, and my editor wanted some photographs to go along with it.’