Winter's Shadow

by M. J. Hearle

  Madeleine stood on the balcony of the villa watching the moonlight spill over the black Tuscan hills. A faint perfume of citrus drifted from the orange groves in the darkness below. She could see the silhouette of San Gimignano in the distance, its turrets and walls sharp against the night sky. Lovely as the view was, it offered no respite from the fears that shadowed her heart. She might as well have been staring at a blank wall.

  There was a subtle shift in the air around her, a thickening of the atmosphere, as though it was about to storm. A flash of light, and Ariman stepped out of the shadows haloed in flickering green fire. The vivid witch-light lasted mere seconds before fading into the ether. Madeleine was not astonished by his arrival. She had been expecting him, though she was distraught to see him return alone.

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked, her voice betraying her emotion.

  ‘Your husband has taken measures to protect him.’ Seeing her distress, he added somewhat awkwardly, ‘I tried.’

  Madeleine felt tears pricking at the back of her eyes. The thought of Antoine, crying in the night for his mother, was a pain she could barely endure.

  ‘You must try again.’

  ‘Your son is lost.’ His mouth tightened slightly. ‘I’m sorry, Madeleine.’

  Madeleine went to Ariman, imploring him, ‘Please, my love, you have such power —’

  Ariman shook his head. ‘My power has limits. Your husband has surrounded himself with men who are not fools. Men who know the methods that can keep me out.’

  ‘The Bane.’ Madeleine scoffed at the name Victor had given the men he’d enlisted in his sick crusade.

  Ariman nodded. ‘They grow stronger, more organised by the day. The depth of your husband’s obsession is . . . remarkable,’ he finished, the faint note of admiration in his voice infuriating Madeleine.

  ‘There is nothing remarkable about it. Victor’s a madman. I can’t leave Antoine alone with —’

  ‘You must. He’ll kill you before he lets you have your son.’

  ‘He’ll kill me anyway.’

  It was the truth. They both knew it.

  Despondent, Madeleine fell against Ariman, resting her cheek on his chest. The moon blurred in the night sky as she began to weep. She waited for Ariman to stroke her hair, for him to offer some small comfort in this bleak hour, but he remained rigid. Cold.

  ‘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.

  Chapter 11

  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 f
olded 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 . . .’

  Chapter 12

  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?’

  If Sam noticed the view Jasmine was offering, he was too polite to stare. He glanced down at his timetable. ‘Biology. Do you know where the labs are?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Jasmine replied enthusiastically. ‘I’ll be happy to show you.’

  Winter smirked to herself. Jasmine sure didn’t waste any time. The three of them began walking towards the door when Mrs Lathkey called out, ‘Jasmine, can I see you for a minute?’

  Jasmine faced her teacher reluctantly. ‘I was just about to show Sam how to get to the science labs.’

  Mrs Lathkey arched an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure Winter can do that. We need to discuss your essay – or lack thereof.’

  Jasmine left Sam’s side in a frustrated huff. Winter smiled sympathetically at her as she passed.

  Sam turned to Winter and gestured towards the door. ‘After you.’

  They left Jasmine with Mrs Lathkey and joined the throng of students making their way to the next class.

  ‘Jasmine seems very . . . friendly,’ Sam said.

  Winter wasn’t sure whether Sam was being sarcastic or had genuinely mistaken Jasmine’s flirting for polite friendliness. He’d have to be pretty oblivious to miss the signals she’d been sending out.

  ‘Yeah, she is. Friendliest girl I know.’ Winter saw Sam watching her out of the corner of her eye, and tried to hide her grin. ‘So you just moved here?’

  ‘Yeah, from Wauchope.’

  Winter frowned at the unfamiliar name. ‘Wauchope? Where’s that?’

  ‘It’s a small town in the mountains. Near Dale.’

  ‘Smaller than Hagan’s Bluff?’

  ‘Much.’

  ‘How do you find it here so far?’

  ‘Not too bad. It’s nice being near the water. I’m thinking I might learn to surf.’

  ‘It’s not as easy as it looks.’

  ‘You’ve tried it?’

  ‘Tried and failed.’ When they were fourteen, Jasmine had fallen deeply in love with Rory Cochrane, a local surfing instructor, and dragged Winter down to the surf club to sign up for lessons with him. After nearly drowning on the first day, Winter had spent the rest of the summer sitting on the beach slathered in sunblock, reading Stephen King’s IT while Jasmine tried unsuccessfully to get Rory’s attention.

  Sam shrugged. ‘I probably won’t get the chance. We usually don’t stay in any one place too long.’

  Winter caught a trace of regret in his voice.

  ‘What do your parents do?’

  ‘My dad works for a bank, and they shift him to different branches every couple of months.’

  ‘That sounds pretty sucky.’ Winter wasn’t just being polite. She’d found it difficult enough to find her place here at Trinity over the past five years; the idea of having to start at a new school full of unfamiliar faces every few months was daunting.

  Sam shrugged again. ‘I’m used to it.’

  ‘Winter!’ A familiar voice set her teeth on edge. She turned to see Harry Francis running to catch up. Ever since the principal had assigned Winter to the school newspaper, Harry seemed to enjoy asserting his authority over her. She supposed the newspaper room was the only place in Trinity where an unpopular creep like Harry Francis had any kind of power.

  ‘Hi, Harry,’ Winter said, forcing a smile.

  ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.
’

  ‘I was hiding.’ It was the truth disguised as a joke. Winter had been avoiding Harry, because she still didn’t know if the pictures she’d taken at Pilgrim’s Lament were salvageable. She’d dropped her camera off at Fletch’s Photographics before school, but the way the service guy’s eyes had bugged out in shock as he took the Nikon from her did not fill her with confidence. She gestured towards Sam, hoping to distract Harry from the topic of the photos.

  ‘Harry, this is Sam. He’s new here.’

  Harry glanced at Sam and Winter saw a flicker of disdain in his eyes. She supposed when Harry looked at Sam, he saw just another muscular jock readying to bully or tease him.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Sam said, holding out his hand.

  ‘Yeah.’ Harry ignored Sam’s hand and turned his attention back to Winter. ‘So, did you get those pictures for me on the weekend?’

  ‘Of course. There was an accident, though, and . . .’

  ‘Awesome. When can I have them?’ He didn’t seem interested in any other details.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Winter answered hesitantly.

  Harry frowned at her. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Winter tried to sound confident but, judging by the suspicious look on Harry’s face, failed utterly.

  ‘You know that we go to print tomorrow night, don’t you? If I don’t have those pictures the article will be worthless, which means I’ll have to run the paper a few pages short, which causes headaches for the printers. Sorensen wouldn’t like that.’

  Winter’s stomach flipped at the prospect of being called into the principal’s office and having to explain herself to the cold-eyed Sorensen. Though ‘nearly being killed’ was a pretty reasonable excuse for not meeting a deadline, it was still a conversation she’d rather not have, especially after the big deal the principal had made about how working for the paper was Winter’s chance to prove herself. Behind her discomfort with Sorensen was another factor compelling her to have the pictures ready on time. It had nothing to do with any notion of responsibility to Sorensen, Harry, or even the Times itself, but came from a surprisingly strong sense of professional pride. She’d taken some good pictures on the mountain, and wanted the opportunity to be recognised for her work.