David Gilman - Ice Claw

Max and Aladfar ran across a stone causeway, a small bridge that separated different animal pens. A nightmare figure ran screaming at them from the darkness-a shrouded warrior hurling himself forward, a curved sword in one hand, a flaming torch in the other.

Abdullah heard the man’s battle cry, turned in alarm and saw the determined attack on Max. His bellowed warning was swallowed by the siren. He had seen another warrior drop down from the wall and cut in from Max’s flank, running silently, sword held above his head, ready to slash down and kill.

Max heard a heart-stopping roar. Aladfar attacked, leaping meters towards the first charging warrior. The force of the tiger’s lunge pulled Max off balance just as the second man came at him from his blind side.

Thrown onto the ground, Max was twisted around by the tiger’s power as he gripped the chain. The sword, a shimmering blur, swung with enough force to sever an arm or leg, smashed into the stony ground. A moment of slow motion saw Aladfar trying to smother and rip the first attacker, but the man had miraculously rolled clear, his clothes shredded, blood running from Aladfar’s claws. With a fearful scream he threw himself across the nearest parapet to escape the final killing bite. Max knew the attacker had been lucky more than once. He’d escaped Aladfar and dropped down into the safety of the monkey pit. These images flashed through Max’s mind just as the chain went slack. Aladfar had turned.

Another roar.

Fear struck the attacker’s eyes. He had time to slash backwards and kill the boy-it was a practiced skill-but instead he felt the veil drop from his face, knew that his belief could kill him, because evil would strike into his heart through his exposed mouth and nose. That roar had come from this boy, from this changeling shadow that loomed up before him like a massive creature. Was it the raging fire that distorted everything?

Aladfar scuffed and jigged, wanting to strike for the kill, but the man was being beaten by this other creature that held the chain that bound him. Finally, it was no punch but a sweep of Max’s arm that felled the man and threw him to the mercy of Aladfar.

The tiger sprang.

Max made a noise, a sound he didn’t understand. He had sucked in the night’s inferno and turned it into something that resonated with authority and command.

The sixth sense Aladfar had experienced earlier with this boy returned. He backed off, felt the chain tighten-another bond that held him to this creature of the wild.

Max’s mouth was as dry as sand. He looked up, taking in the scene around him. He was on his knees, pressing into the unconscious warrior’s back, while his hands bound the attacker with the cord that held the man’s clothing.

The siren slowed, reluctantly giving way to silence. Max saw Abdullah in the distance, the big man lumbering towards him, dirt and blood streaking his once-spotless djellaba.

Fauvre called out to him as he emerged from the smoke and Abdullah pushed the battery-driven wheelchair towards Max.

“Her room is locked from the outside. She’s not here,” Fauvre said.

Max lifted his head and stared into the amber eyes of the massive cat, which sat less than two meters away-watching. Slowly, deliberately, it blinked its eyes. A cat’s expression of contentment-that all is well.

It was over.

Max, Fauvre and Abdullah, and the other men, felt the aftermath of the fight. Muscles cramped and ached, cuts and scratches irritated. Hot, sweet tea helped ease them into the new day as dawn lit the night sky, the moon giving way to her brother the sun. Minor wounds were treated and the animals calmed, fed and watered, as their routine demanded. Max had washed quickly in a water trough; he needed to talk to Fauvre and look at Sophie’s room for any clue as to how involved she might have been in this attack. But first he needed other information-once Fauvre got off the phone.

The police could not reach the town until later that day. The dust storm had blown between it and the city, they were undermanned, and it was not the first time the crazy Frenchman had had intruders into his animal sanctuary. They would get there when they could. In the meantime, Fauvre would keep the prisoners under lock and key.

None would speak of why they attacked, but it was obvious to Abdullah, after those others’ efforts in Marrakech, that they had been paid to find Max.

And now Sophie was missing.

Not kidnapped, but gone off into the night. Gates for a loading ramp at the far end of the town, once used for bringing in trucks carrying the animals, had been opened-and closed again-and that was where Sophie had driven Abdullah’s Land Cruiser. Fauvre had cursed, furious at his daughter’s behavior. The mood swing from being desperately concerned about her during the attack to this condemnation made Max realize just how fickle grown-ups could be. What he didn’t tell Fauvre was that she had taken Zabala’s pendant. He needed more information first. Fauvre phoned half a dozen people. Contacts at the airports, the banks, anyone who might know where she had run to. He canceled the credit cards he’d given her and closed her bank account. She would soon turn for home.

Max needed to interrupt Fauvre’s anger. “I’ve brought this trouble on you, Laurent. I’m sorry for that, but this is connected to Zabala and now to Sophie. What did he send you?”

Fauvre took him down a ramp into what were once the town’s dungeons. Fetid air caged the memory of lost souls, and dull lightbulbs gave a murky glow to what was little more than a tunnel dug from the soft sandstone.

“I always knew that if Zabala was not a crazy man, then what he had sent might be of importance. No one would come down here to search for it,” Fauvre said as he unlocked and pulled open a walk-in safe’s door.

The bulky documents, mostly handwritten, were almost illegible to Max’s eye. But when they returned to the brighter light of Fauvre’s office and spread the sheets out, it was obvious that the documents were in precise, chronological order-from his earliest investigations, suspicions and theories. They still made little sense, but the photograph and drawings did. And so did Fauvre’s explanation.

“I have known Zabala and this man”-he pointed to the photograph that Max had seen before, the gaunt man who stood with Zabala in front of the Chateau d’Antoine d’Abbadie-“for nearly thirty years. The man with Zabala was one of his few friends. He betrayed Zabala, who was going to go public with his information. He was determined the world would listen to him this time, but this so-called friend tried to steal the information from him. I don’t know what happened to him. He just disappeared.”

Fauvre turned more pages. “Zabala knew his friend had betrayed him to someone powerful, but did not know who.”

He opened a folded letter and passed it to Max. The scratchy writing was almost frantic in its untidiness. “He was convinced they would send someone far more lethal after his secret. And before he could get the information to me, the killer struck.”

He shuffled through the documents and laid out the same drawings that Max had found at d’Abbadie’s chateau. The circle, the angles drawn within and the numbers.

“That’s a birth chart,” Max said.

“Yes, correct. Do you see this French name on the chart, right here?” Fauvre said.

Max squinted at Zabala’s tiny writing. “Beetle something … beetlejuice?”

Fauvre smiled. “Betelgeuse. It is an enormous red star. Massive. Five hundred times bigger than our sun. History suggests it represents a catalyst for a terrifying event.”

He saw the look of uncertainty-or was it disbelief? — on Max’s face.

“It’s true, Max. Astronomers believe that in the next thousand years this supergiant will explode and destroy everything, but astrologers have recorded its influence over the centuries. It was there on 9/11, the tsunami in Indonesia, even as far back as the Great Fire of London. If Betelgeuse is in a certain position in the heavens, it always indicates catastrophe.”