David Gilman - Ice Claw

Sophie had pulled off her cap, ruffled her hair and sat down facing the elderly lady. “It’s dangerous,” she repeated helplessly.

“For whom?” No expression. No hint of suspicion or guile. A straightforward question. Would the girl answer truthfully?

“For everyone who knows him,” Sophie said.

The comtesse did not know whether she trusted Sophie or not. Those almond eyes were impenetrable, and she liked to read people through their eyes. A slab of gray cloud pushed between sea and sky, dimming the room. A contour of diffused light surrounded Sophie’s body. Invisible to the naked eye, seen only by those with the gift to see. The old lady watched the agitated flow of color-drenched energy swirl around the girl. She was distressed but hiding it extremely well. There was pain there, grief too, and fear. The fear was not of physical harm but of a young woman’s emotional uncertainty.

Where Max’s aura had been broad, unbroken, symbolizing his strength and health, this girl’s was fractured-enormous energy, screwed down tightly like a lid on a jar. Daggers of red light shot out from this quivering shadow body, like sunspots bursting from the fiery surface. The girl’s conflicting emotions made the comtesse gasp. She could not help herself.

Sophie Fauvre either was in love with Max Gordon or wanted to kill him.

The nondescript entrance to the Chateau d’Antoine d’Abbadie could easily be missed by passing motorists. There were no big signs demanding attention, and the chateau wasn’t visible from the road. Bobby drove the van slowly under the canopy of trees that lined the narrow tarmac drive. A parking area, denoted by coconut-mat fencing, was on the right-hand side after about a hundred meters. There was one other car parked, with German license plates, and Max could see a middle-aged couple, obviously tourists, waiting farther ahead, where he could just make out the edge of the gray stone building. That must be the entrance.

“Wait here. I’m going to check it out and make sure this is the right place,” Max said.

The bare branches of the tree canopy still obscured the building, but now Max could see its shape. A black slate roof capped the stone walls. The chateau wasn’t that big but it had the look of a small medieval castle, some ramparts on the one side, about three stories high, while the nearer side looked like a more typical French chateau. This d’Abbadie bloke must have had a lot of fun, Max thought, because it was all a bit nineteenth-century Disney. But there was also a creepy feeling. Chimeric gargoyles, imaginary creatures from mythology, snarling or laughing, Max couldn’t tell, glared down at him from the corners of the building. Mythical equivalents of scrapyard dogs. No entry! they snarled silently.

He stopped in his tracks. Facing him on the building’s huge stone wall was a massive snake, a giant anaconda, sculpted into the stonework. Its body squirmed, twisting in a big S; its tail curled in a figure eight, head facing upwards. Heart thumping, knowing this chateau was the key to Zabala’s death, Max walked another few meters to the front of the building. The site of the photograph he had found in Zabala’s hut was revealed. Eight front steps, broad at the base, narrowed as they ascended to the double-studded red front door. The Gothic arch, cut off in that photograph, was joined together beneath a statue of a shield and a sword. Another snake twined itself along the blade to the handle. Two palm trees shielded the entrance.

Crocodiles gazed blindly at him, one each side, straddling a low balustrade that ran down the steps. Their chiseled tails curled upwards towards the door, mouths agape, front legs gripping the stone, as if ready to strike.

Max’s jaw clenched so tightly it ached. He’d experienced crocodile attacks before, and these lifelike creatures made him shudder. Max’s dad had taken him to ancient tombs in Egypt. Crocodiles were revered as part of the pantheon of gods. Max remembered that the crocodile deity was called Sobek and was believed to have emerged from the “Dark Water” to create the world. He also guarded the dead. These two crocodiles guarded the portal to a hidden world.

Max stepped between them towards the entrance, half expecting them to come to life, to whip their heads around and strike. But the creatures held within the stone sculpture lay silent as he approached the chateau and its secret.

“You pay extra for a guided tour, which we don’t need, and it’s about half price if you’re under thirteen,” Max told Sayid as he pushed the wheelchair towards the entrance. The van had merged into the coast-road traffic, with a promise from Bobby to return in a few hours when they called him. “So, you’re under thirteen if they ask. I can’t get away with it but you can.”

“I thought I looked older than that,” Sayid moaned.

“No. In fact, you look about ten.”

“Ten!”

Max laughed. “Well, you behave like a ten-year-old. Now shut up and look stupid if they talk to you. That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

The small window at the side of the front door showed an office, where a middle-aged man, who minutes earlier had been thinking only of going home to the fish lunch his wife had prepared, now looked with anguish at the fair-haired boy trying to pull another youngster in a wheelchair up the steps. It was not worth offering to help and risking an injury to his back, the man reasoned; besides, the boy looked strong. But how would the youngster view the chateau in a wheelchair?

“Not exactly geared for disabled access,” Sayid said, wincing, as Max jammed the wheels up another step.

“Yeah, well, I’m hoping it’ll help us fool him later. I have a plan.”

Sayid looked at his friend, who gave him an encouraging smile in return. Max’s plans usually meant trouble. Sayid had told Max he didn’t want to be left out-but he knew he needed a degree of bravado he would find difficult to muster.

Max turned and looked at the German couple, who were already halfway up the steps.

“Bitte?” he called gently towards the stout man, whose face lit up with relief at hearing his own language-someone asking for help. He immediately walked back to Max and took control of pulling Sayid up the steps.

Max’s German was fairly basic-he was better at understanding than speaking the language-but he could pull off a good accent, and his limited vocabulary would be enough to achieve what he needed. The German tourist spoke rapidly. Max only grasped about one word in three, but he quickly assured the tourist that everything was OK. “Alles ist in ordnung.”

By the time they reached the studded door it seemed as though they had known each other for years. Just what Max had hoped for.

Max groaned.

The German turned. “Was? Was ist los?” he asked.

The tourist’s concern for the boy seemed genuine as Max shook his head sadly. The look on his face said everything. He didn’t have enough money. The stout man waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, turned back to the ticket seller and, using sign language, indicated he was paying for everyone.

Sayid looked over his shoulder at Max. What a clever ruse. How did Max get away with things like that? The Frenchman smiled, ushering “the German family” inside.

The ticket seller, by way of appeasing his guilt, as well as protecting the floors and the banisters, and avoiding the risk of walls being scraped, agreed to Max’s leaving the wheelchair in the entrance hall. Sayid got himself onto his crutches as Max tucked it into a darkened corner. The wheelchair would play its part later.

Black walls decorated with an ornate design of bright blue and gold enamel panels made the place seem like a miniature royal palace. Max thanked the German man for his generosity and tried to look appreciative when he explained that the chapel they now gazed at was a private place of contemplation for Antoine d’Abbadie and his wife, Virginie, and that the scientist-astronomer, who died in Paris in 1897, lay buried with his wife in a crypt under the altar.