Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

Then he noticed the small block of stone, about thirty centimeters high, set at the base of the chest, aligned with the letter E. It had a shallow curve in the middle, like an executioner’s block.

The ground around it was darker that the rest of the floor. It looked damp, as if it had recently been scrubbed. Will crouched down and rubbed the mark with his fingers. Disinfectant and something else, a sour smell, like rust. There was something caught beneath the corner of the stone. Will scraped it out with his nails.

It was a fragment of cloth, cotton or linen, frayed at the edges as if it had caught on a nail and been ripped. In the corner, there were small brown spots. Like dried blood.

He dropped the material and ran, slamming the door and unhooking the curtain before he knew what he was doing. He charged along the corridor, through both doors and powered his way up the narrow, steep stairs, two at a time, until he was back in the hall.

Will doubled over, hands on his knees, and tried to get his breath back. Then, realizing that whatever else happened, he couldn’t risk anyone coming in and guessing he’d been down there, he reached in and killed the lights. With shaking fingers he bolted the door and pulled the tapestry back into place, until nothing was visible from the outside.

For a moment, he just stood there. The grandmother clock told him that no more than twenty minutes had passed.

Will looked down at his hands, turning them over and back as if they didn’t belong to him. He rubbed the tips of his forefinger and thumb together, then sniffed. It smelled like blood.

Toulouse

Alice woke with a splitting headache. For a moment, she had no idea where she was. She squinted out of the corner of her eye at the empty bottle standing on the bedside table. Serves you right.

She rolled on to her side and grabbled at her watch.

Ten forty-five.

Alice groaned and fell back on the pillow. Her mouth was as stale as a pub ashtray and her tongue was coated with the sour remains of the whisky.

I need aspirin. Water.

Alice staggered to the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked as bad as she felt. Her forehead was a mottled kaleidoscope of green, purple and yellow bruises. She had dark rings under her eyes. There was a faint recollection of dreaming of woods, winter branches brittle with frost. The labyrinth reproduced on a piece of yellow material? She couldn’t remember.

Her journey from Foix last night was something of a blur too. She couldn’t even quite remember what had made her head for Toulouse rather than Carcassonne, which would have been the more obvious choice. Alice groaned. Foix, Carcassonne, Toulouse. There was no way she was going anywhere until she felt better. She lay back on her bed and waited for the painkillers to kick in.

Twenty minutes later, she was still delicate but the thudding behind her eyes had diminished to a dull ache. She stood under the steaming shower until the water ran cold. Her thoughts went back to Shelagh and the rest of the team. She wondered what they were all doing right now. Usually, the team went up to the site at eight o’clock and stayed up there till it got dark. They lived and breathed the excavation. She couldn’t imagine how any of them were going to cope without their routine.

Wrapped in the hotel’s tiny, threadbare towel, Alice checked her phone for messages. Still nothing. Last night, she’d felt depressed about it, now she was pissed off. More than once during their ten-year friendship, Shelagh had withdrawn into resentful silences that had lasted weeks. Each time, it had been down to Alice to sort things out and she realized she resented it.

Let her make the running this time.

Alice riffled through her makeup bag until she found an old tube of concealer, rarely used, with which she covered up the worst of the bruising. Then she added eyeliner and a touch of lipstick. She finger dried her hair. Finally, she chose her most comfortable skirt and new blue halter top, packed everything else, then went down to check out before she headed off to explore Toulouse.

She still felt bad, but it was nothing that fresh air and a serious shot of caffeine wouldn’t fix.

Having put her bags in the car, Alice decided she would simply walk and see where she ended up. The air conditioning in her hire car wasn’t great, so her plan was to wait until the temperature dropped before setting off for Carcassonne.

As she passed beneath the dappled shade of the plane trees and looked at the clothes and perfumes displayed in the shop windows, she started to feel more herself. She was embarrassed by the way she’d behaved last night. Totally paranoid, total overreaction. This morning, the idea that someone was after her seemed absurd. Her fingers went to the telephone number in her pocket. You didn’t imagine him though.

Alice pushed the thought away. She was going to be positive, look forward. Make the most of being in Toulouse.

She meandered through the alleys and passages of the old town, letting her feet guide her. The ornate pink stone and brick facades of the buildings were elegant and discreet. The names on the street signs and fountains and monuments proclaimed Toulouse’s long and glorious history. Military leaders, medieval saints, eighteenth-century poets, twentieth-century freedom fighters, the city’s noble past from Roman times to the present.

Alice went into the cathedral of Saint-Etienne, partly to get out of the sun. She enjoyed the tranquility and peace of cathedrals and churches, a legacy of sightseeing with her parents when she was a child, and she spent a pleasant half-hour wandering around, half reading the signs on the walls and looking at the stained glass.

Realizing she was starting to feel hungry, Alice decided to finish with the cloisters, then go and find somewhere to have lunch. She hadn’t taken more than a few steps when she heard a child crying. She turned to look, but there was no one there. Feeling vaguely uneasy, she carried on walking.

The sobbing seemed to be growing louder. Now she could hear someone whispering. A man’s voice, close by, hissing in her ears.

“ Heretique, heretique …”

Alice spun round. “Hello? Allo? II y a quelqu’un ?”

There was nobody there. Like a malicious whisper, the word repeated itself over and over inside her head. Heretique, heretique.

She clasped her hands over her ears. On the pillars and gray stone walls, faces seemed to be appearing. Tortured mouths, twisted hands reaching out for help, oozing from every hidden corner.

Then Alice caught a glimpse of someone ahead, nearly out of sight. A woman in a long green dress and a red cloak, moving in and out of the shadows. In her hand, she carried a wicker basket. Alice called out to attract her attention just as three men, monks, stepped out from behind the pillar. The woman shouted as they grabbed hold of her. The woman was struggling as the monks started to drag her away.

Alice tried to attract their attention, but no sound came from her mouth. Only the woman herself seemed to hear, for she turned round and looked straight into Alice’s eyes. Now the monks had encircled the woman. They stretched their voluminous arms out wide above her like black wings.

“Leave her alone,” Alice cried, starting to run toward them. But the farther she went, the more distant the figures became, until finally they disappeared altogether. It was as if they had melted into the walls of the cloister itself.

Bewildered, Alice ran her hands over the stone. She turned to the left and right, seeking an explanation, but the space was completely empty. At last, panic took over. She ran toward the exit to the street, expecting to see the black robed men behind her, chasing her, swooping down on her.