Winter's Shadow (8 page)

‘Madeleine . . . forgive me, but I must go now,’ he said, after a minute of tense silence.

She stepped away from him, confused, afraid. ‘What —’

‘You’re in danger.’

‘I’m not afraid of Victor. Or his Bane,’ she sneered.

‘You’re in danger from me.’ Ariman watched for her reaction, his emerald eyes glowing unnaturally in the moonlight.

Madeleine was momentarily stunned, unable to respond. How could he say such a thing? She loved the man standing in front of her, even if in her heart she knew Ariman was no man.

‘Don’t leave me,’ was all she could say, trying to hold his gaze, which darted away from her.

‘I have stayed with you much longer than I planned,’ Ariman stated awkwardly. ‘It is not the custom of my kind to act in this manner. We are not husbands. Not fathers.’ Ariman’s eyes flitted to her waist.
He knows!
Madeleine’s hand instinctively stole to the spot above her womb.

Ariman sighed in frustration. ‘Madeleine, you have no idea how hard it has been for me.’

‘How hard?’ Madeleine felt anger temper her fear and misery. ‘I gave up everything for you. My son!’

‘It will be better for you when I’m gone.’ Ariman stepped away from her, but she heard hesitancy in his voice. She clung desperately to the chance that there was still time to change his mind.

‘Please, my love. Stay.’ She reached for his hand. ‘I’m not afraid of you.’

‘You should be,’ he countered, drawing away from her as though she was dangerous. ‘I’m sorry.’

Ariman’s once inscrutable face was now open to her. She saw the pain and confusion etched across his features as clearly as if they were written in words. And then the darkness was drifting across his face, obscuring him like smoke and she could see nothing but his eyes. They shone brighter than the stars or the moon above. The light intensified, spreading across his body in waves of rippling emerald light. There was no word of goodbye, no farewell – Madeleine heard the sound of thunder and then her love was gone.

She was alone.

Mrs Lathkey finished copying the passage from
Jane Eyre
onto the blackboard and underscored it. She turned to face the class holding a piece of chalk aloft, like a conductor before an orchestra.

‘Of course, while Charlotte Brontë certainly wasn’t the first, many credit her with establishing what we now know as the Romantic Hero. Mr Rochester is brooding, surly and capable of bouts of extreme anger, however, he is also compassionate and tender. And it is these contrasting qualities, coupled with his mysterious past, that draw Jane Eyre to him . . .’

Winter was distracted from Mrs Lathkey’s lecture by Jasmine poking her in the arm. She glanced over at her friend, trying not to stare at Jasmine’s hot-pink fringe. Jasmine had dyed it over the weekend in her latest
attempt to be
different
. Last week it had been a nose-ring (clip-on, of course) and the week before that, black lipstick with red eyeshadow. The fact that Jasmine already stood out at Trinity Senior College due to her Vietnamese heritage didn’t seem to be enough. Winter wasn’t sure what lengths her friend was prepared to go to, but wouldn’t be surprised if she was sporting a tattoo by the end of the year.

Jasmine was looking at Winter with an exaggerated expression of reproach. She hissed, ‘I can’t believe you didn’t call me right away!’

Winter shrugged innocently, as though the event at Pilgrim’s Lament wasn’t the most thrilling thing that had ever happened to her. It certainly was refreshing having a story to tell her friend that didn’t begin with, ‘
I watched this great movie last night
. . .’ but she wasn’t going to let on how much she was enjoying Jasmine’s wide-eyed reaction.

‘I just didn’t think it was that big a deal,’ Winter replied, downplaying her excitement admirably.

‘Win – this is huge! I mean, when was the last time you met a guy? Or even talked to one?’

It wasn’t surprising that Jasmine seemed more interested in Blake than the fact that Winter had nearly been crushed to death. Nevertheless, Winter felt a little insulted by Jasmine’s insinuation. Winter might not be the most popular girl in school, but it didn’t mean she was some sad, dateless loser! She counted the number of dates she’d been on this year and was disappointed by
the result. As much as she’d like to blame the death of her parents for her miserable social life, it wouldn’t be honest. The phone hadn’t exactly been ringing off the hook before.

‘I talk to boys every day.’ It was true. Winter occasionally had to borrow a pen from Damien McNamarra who sat next to her in biology, and sometimes Hugo Rhymes asked Winter to explain a maths problem.

Jasmine rolled her eyes. ‘You know what I mean!’

‘I don’t see what you’re getting so excited about.’

Jasmine smirked, finally catching on to Winter’s nonchalant act.

‘Winter Adams, you are quite the dark horse, aren’t you?’

Winter felt her cheeks redden. She fought against the blush that would give away her true feelings. Fought and lost.

‘I suppose it was pretty cool,’ she admitted finally. ‘Blake is . . .’ She struggled to find words that would do him justice. ‘He’s —’

‘
Winter and Jasmine!
’

The two girls jumped. The classroom fell completely silent as Mrs Lathkey regarded them sternly.

‘As neither of you seems particularly interested in what I have to say, perhaps you’d both like to offer your own thoughts about Brontë’s use of Gothic imagery?’

Winter gulped and shot a sideways look at Jasmine, who appeared similarly mortified at being put on the spot. Mrs Lathkey folded her arms and waited expectantly
for one of the girls to speak. Unlike Jasmine, Winter had actually read
Jane Eyre
, and rather enjoyed it, but understanding a story and being able to analyse it were two completely separate things.

Winter took a breath, hoping that her tongue would somehow be able to operate independently of her brain and spin gold from her dry saliva. ‘Well, I suppose —’

There was a knock at the classroom door.

Mrs Lathkey smiled cruelly at Winter. ‘Don’t think you’re getting off that easily.’ As she went to open the door, Winter let the breath she’d been holding rush out and racked her brains for something intelligent to say about the novel.

‘Oh. My. God.’

Winter looked up and saw a slow smile spread across Jasmine’s face. She followed her friend’s lustful gaze to the front of the room, where Mrs Lathkey was standing next to a boy Winter had never seen before.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, and with his blond buzz-cut and heavily muscled arms, looked like the sort of guy who spent all his spare time in the gym. However, there didn’t seem to be any of that annoying arrogance that some of the football jocks wore like a badge of honour. Instead, the new boy seemed a little awkward in his skin, as if he’d just woken up this morning in this new adult body and wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. He wasn’t Winter’s type – not with those bulging muscles – but she could appreciate why Jasmine had reacted so strongly. The new boy was something.

‘Everybody, this is Sam Bennet.’ Mrs Lathkey began her introduction. ‘Sam will be joining us for the rest of the semester. Why don’t you take a seat, Sam?’ Mrs Lathkey squinted as she scanned the classroom for a place for Sam. Finally her eyes alighted on the empty desk next to Winter. ‘Up the back, next to Jasmine. Winter, move over one, please.’

Winter reluctantly shifted across, creating a space for Sam to sit. Being split from Jasmine was an endurable punishment if it meant she’d escape speaking in front of the class.

Sam squeezed his huge frame down the aisle and took his seat between the girls. Grinning amicably, he held out his hand to Winter.

‘Hi, I’m Sam.’

Winter shook his hand. ‘Win.’

Jasmine tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Jasmine Hu.’ Jasmine slipped her hand palm-down in his, as though she expected him to kiss it. Sam looked at her hand and shook it a little awkwardly.

‘Nice to meet you, Jasmine.’

‘Charmed.’ Jasmine replied, batting her eyelashes. ‘If you have any questions about school or anything at all, I’d be happy to answer them.’

Winter rolled her eyes, and had to fight the grin that was surfacing at Sam’s uncomfortable reaction to Jasmine’s flirting.

Mrs Lathkey continued, ‘I’m sure you’ll be interested to know, Sam, that Winter was just about to take over the class discussion.’

Winter stared helplessly at Mrs Lathkey, silently imploring to be let off the hook. Her teacher leaned against her desk at the front of the classroom, watching Winter with a sardonic expression.

‘Winter, when you’re ready . . .’

The school bell sounded just as Winter’s attempt to talk about Brontë was devolving into utter gibberish, and she sighed with relief. She’d started out convincingly enough, drawing parallels between Thornfield and
Wuthering Heights
, before her mind went blank and she lost track of any point she was trying to make.

‘Well, thank you, Winter, for that incredibly . . . creative explanation.’ Mrs Lathkey seemed a little disappointed she wasn’t able to torture Winter longer. She turned her attention to the rest of the class, who were busy packing away their books. ‘Speaking of creative, don’t forget your writing assignment for tomorrow. I expect five hundred words from each of you written in the Gothic style. There will be no extensions and no excuses.’ She squinted over her glasses at one of Winter’s
classmates, Billy Gleeson, who was notorious for coming up with outlandish reasons why he couldn’t accomplish his homework.

Winter grimaced at the prospect of spending a night in front of her computer. Creative writing was something she had absolutely no flair for. Images were fine – Winter could take a good photograph and even draw a little – but words were beyond her. By themselves they were okay; it was when she was asked to put them in any kind of order that she ran into trouble.

Winter stood up with her bag and was about to ask Sam whether he needed help finding his next class when she saw she wasn’t the only one with that idea.

Jasmine was leaning over his desk at an angle that allowed her shirt to reveal a little more of her. ‘So, Sam, what class do you have next?’