by M. J. Hearle
Contents
Copyright Page
Paris August, 1878
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Siena March, 1879
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Bologna October, 1879
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Munich December, 1887
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Marseilles February, 1896
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Acknowledgements
M.J. Hearle became addicted to stories at an early age. After failing to kick the habit he eventually turned to dealing them himself. Winter’s Shadow is his first novel, and he’s currently working on the sequel.
First published 2011 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © M.J. Hearle 2011
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Hearle, M. J.
Winter’s shadow / M. J. Hearle.
ISBN: 9780330404471 (pbk.)
A823.4
Typeset in 11.5/16 pt Golden Cockerel by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2011 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Winter’s Shadow
M. J. Hearle
Adobe eReader format
978-1-74262-738-0
EPub format
978-1-74262-740-3
Online format
978-1-74262-737-3
Macmillan Digital Australia
www.macmillandigital.com.au
Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.
For Greta
Paris
August, 1878
Madeleine Bonnaire fled beneath the flickering street lamps of Rue Descartes. Victor was coming. She could no longer hear him but ran on, afraid of what she might see if she turned around – Victor lumbering through the darkness, breath fogging in the cold night air. Her husband was nothing if not persistent. It was how he’d first won her heart, and now Madeleine feared this persistence would drive him on until he caught her, and stopped its beat forever.
Ahead, the passage opened into a small market square. Squashed fruit and other refuse lay scattered across the cobblestones, left by the vendors who had long since closed up shop. A single street lamp glowed dully in the middle of the square. Madeleine stumbled into the weak circle of lamplight and placed one trembling hand against the iron base for support. Gasping for breath, she tugged at her bodice, trying to relieve some of the pressure on her chest.
She spared a panicked glance back the way she’d just come. Mercifully, there was no sign of Victor, no heavy echoing footfalls. Still, she didn’t dare rest for long – especially with sanctuary so close. Madeleine could see the church spires of Saint Étienne looming over the Panthéon in the middle distance. Soon she would be hidden among the rest of the city’s unfortunates, safe from Victor. In the morning she would return home to find him sleeping off his rage. When he awoke there would be no mention of the ordeal he’d put her through tonight. Victor didn’t believe in apologies.
There was a demon inside him, a seething hatred that he barely managed to restrain at the best of times, and it took over completely once enough alcohol passed his lips. He’d kept it hidden from her in the beginning, but not long into their marriage it had started to manifest itself through the unnecessarily cruel words he’d use whenever she displeased him. He’d call her a ‘dull-eyed sow’ if she burnt his dinner or forgot to sweep the hearth, quick to remind her in sneering tones that were it not for him, she’d still be ‘whoring herself out’ on the stage. Bristling at having her theatrical past referred to this way, Madeleine tried to defend herself at first but this had made him angrier still. Seeing the black rage in her husband’s eyes scared her so badly she learned to hold her tongue, instead praying that the demon lurking inside him would find another host.
Her prayers went unanswered and soon Victor’s cruelty bled into his fists. He would turn on her with the slightest provocation, face contorted into an animalistic snarl while he rained the blows down. When his lust for violence was not satisfied with a mere beating he removed his belt, the silver buckle gouging bloody tracks down her back.
She hadn’t let it progress to that stage tonight. Smelling the whisky on his breath and recognising the black look in his eye she’d fled to the street, but not before he’d managed to mark her.
Her hand stole absently to her cheek, still throbbing from Victor’s blow. Were it not for their infant son, Antoine, Victor would find himself waking up to a cold bed indefinitely. The child was her reward for enduring this torment. She returned for him, and him alone.
Madeleine started to move away from the lamp, pausing when something drew her eye to the rooftops opposite the square. A strange shadow or . . .
No, it wasn’t a shadow at all. What she first took to be a trick of the light, Madeleine now saw with astonishment was a man, dressed
in a fine suit and hat. Though this in itself gave her reason to pause, what had drawn her attention wasn’t the man’s silhouette, but his eyes, which glowed a malevolent emerald in the darkness. She’d never seen such a colour before. Surely this unnerving effect was caused by some reflection from the moon, or the city lamps? And what was he doing up there on the rooftop? Crouched like some bizarre stone gargoyle, the man continued to watch her.
Madeleine was so mystified by the dark watcher that she didn’t notice Victor’s shadow lurching across the cobblestones behind her.
‘Madeleine!’
The apparition forgotten in her panic, Madeleine whirled around to see Victor charging towards her. His bloated face was red with the chase, his eyes bloodshot – the violent demon within made flesh.
With a startled cry, Madeleine managed to scramble away before he reached her, and ran through the square towards the mouth of the nearest alley. Her only thought was of putting as much distance as possible between herself and Victor, but in her haste she took a route that led her away from the safety of the church, and into an unfamiliar street. Realising her mistake, she tried to weave towards where she believed Saint Étienne’s to lie, but only succeeded in getting more lost.
Desperate now, she cried out for help to anyone who might listen, but there was no reply. Her frantic gaze searched the terraces on either side for a light or a sign that someone had heard her, but found only dark doorways and shuttered windows. She was completely alone.
Guided by the pale moonlight, Madeleine saw a narrow opening in the street ahead – a passageway that Victor might conceivably miss in his drunken pursuit. Throwing one last frightened glance behind her, she turned into the passageway and ran headlong into a stranger’s startled embrace. The man caught her, laughing with surprise as Madeleine, still panicked, tore her wrists from his grasp.
‘Let go of me!’
He obeyed, allowing her to retreat from him. Once she realised it was not Victor, Madeleine sighed in relief.
‘Sir . . . please, my husband —’ She paused, frowning slightly. There was something about the man’s aspect, backlit by a distant street lamp, that looked familiar.
‘Yes?’ the stranger prompted, smiling slightly as though Madeleine’s confusion amused him. Madeleine took another step backwards as it dawned on her where she’d seen him before.
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.
Chapter 1
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.
