Storm of Shadows (32 page)

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Authors: Christina Dodd

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal, #General

BOOK: Storm of Shadows
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Rosamund walked more quickly.
Then, coming toward them, she saw Fujimoto Akihiro, flanked by four men who looked tough and fast.
She took a frightened breath.
Fujimoto’s head turned. He stared right at them. Right through them.
She froze.
Aaron pushed her, and in a calm, quiet tone, he instructed, “Don’t say anything. Just walk.”
She stumbled along, watching Fujimoto, expecting at any moment to hear him shout and point, for the men around him to pull out guns and knives and kill Aaron.
But although Fujimoto’s eyes narrowed as if trying to read in low light, he seemed not to see them at all. Finally he turned away, and in a rapid burst of Japanese and with a wide gesture, he sent his men fanning out toward the ballroom.
“Why . . . ? How . . . ?” She didn’t understand. She and Aaron seemed to be invisible.
“It’s hard to discern things in this light.” Aaron’s voice was soothing. “No one will see us. Now—turn here. We’re going to go down those stairs.”
She and Aaron reached the basement level without incident, and as Aaron promised, no one looked at them. No one noticed them at all.
“The servants’ quarters,” he said. “This is where it gets tricky. We have to go through the kitchen to get outside, but we don’t want to call attention to ourselves. So wait for the door to open . . . Now!”
He pushed her in past the butler who rushed out, and then steered her around the caterers and waitstaff. Without warning, one of the cooks turned toward them, a bubbling pot in her hands. She bumped—into Aaron?—bounced away, and screamed. Backed away and screamed again.
Aaron hissed as if in pain.
But when Rosamund tried to turn and look, he whispered, “No. Keep walking. A few more minutes and we’ll be outside.”
The staff raced to the aid of the shrieking cook; they acted as if Aaron and Rosamund weren’t even there.
“His ghost!” the cook screeched. “I saw the master ’s ghost!”
Rosamund didn’t know how or why, but the woman behaved just as Fujimoto had—as if Aaron and Rosamund were invisible.
As they reached the door, Aaron spoke in her ear again. “Open it.”
She did. Fresh night air washed around them. From somewhere in the front of the château, she heard sirens wailing.
Inside the kitchen, the cook’s screaming redoubled, and other voices joined hers.
Aaron paid no attention. “The car is right outside. Just go up the stairs and we’re there.”
The BMW M6 coupe was small and fast, and waiting with the keys on the console. Aaron opened the passenger door for her, then ran around and entered by the driver’s door. “Put on your seat belt,” he said, and started the car. The engine roared to life.
He put the gas pedal to the floor.
The Beemer spit gravel. The tires gripped the road. He whipped down the service drive like a bat out of hell, ending up on a narrow road that took them north and east.
When she knew they had escaped, and the road to the Alps stretched before them, she turned to Aaron and said, “All right. Tell me now. Who’s dead?”
“I’m sorry, Rosamund.” Aaron placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Louis Fournier was found murdered in his private library, his skull smashed with a marble bookend.”
Chapter 32
T
he narrow road wound through alpine passes blistered by winds. Aaron gripped the wheel, held the BMW steady, and wished he could assure Rosamund everything would be all right. But their escape from the château last night had rendered her silent and thoughtful. She was more determined than he had ever seen her, for the murder of Louis Fournier had again raised the barrier of sadness in her eyes.
She would find the Sacred Cave and read the prophetess’s last words. Nothing Aaron said had changed her mind. As far as she was concerned, she owed it to her friend Louis.
They had driven all night on tiny, winding roads, and at last a small sign announced the crest of the pass. He steered around a corner, and saw it—the village of Sacre Barbare. A dozen small, quaint homes and businesses nestled into a valley surrounded by rocky peaks.
Deliberately, he broke the silence. “There it is.”
She looked behind them, then looked ahead. “If we can get on the path right away, we’ll be at the Sacred Cave before the sun sets.”
“We should wait until morning.” Or not go at all.
She looked at him. “I can’t wait. Tomorrow might never come.”
He hated that she was right. If they didn’t get this prophecy, tomorrow
might
never come.
Since they had fled Fournier’s, the wounds that had so miraculously healed now returned to pain Aaron full force. His bruises ached, his finger hurt, his ribs burned, the muscles of his thigh felt like hamburger that had been ground too long. Worse, as he and Rosamund made their escape through Fournier’s kitchen, the silly cook had branded him with her pot of boiling water.
He was not so foolish as to disregard the ill omen, or imagine it was an accident that the burn on his arm smoldered like an ember of hell.
He parked the car on the outskirts of Sacre Barbare, but then neither of them moved. They sat there in silence until she heaved a sigh and put her hand on the door handle.
“Do you remember what my father texted me?” she asked.
Far too well.
“Run.”
“Do you know where he was going when he left me?”
“Into Guatemala, back to the cenote where your mother died.”
“That’s right. Do you know what the village where we stayed was called?” When he shook his head, she said, “
Hogar Sagrado
.”
“Sacred Home,” he translated. He followed her logic with no trouble. “You think the cenote was an entrance to the Sacred Cave?”
“I don’t know.” She stared out the windshield. “But I do think Father knew someone would come after me and once again, someone I loved would die.”
She was taking responsibility for Fournier’s death, and what was worse, it was possible she was right.
They’d seen Fujimoto and his henchmen at the party, but it seemed unlikely
he
would have the motivation to kill Fournier. No, he had been looking for Aaron. He had utilized the chaos surrounding Fournier’s death to search the mansion.
So who
had
killed Fournier?
The Others had tried to capture Rosamund in New York, and been thwarted. They wanted her and the prophecy, or at least they wanted to be sure she didn’t give the prophecy to the Chosen Ones. Somehow, the Others had followed them to Casablanca and tried to kill him, Rosamund’s protector. Then, despite his best efforts at secrecy, they’d tailed them to Paris and killed the man who had helped Rosamund with her quest. How were the bastards finding them? When this was over, he swore he would find out.
“It’s not that I think someone you love will die.” Aaron chose his words carefully. “My fear is that you’re the next victim.”
“I don’t care. It’s not death that frightens me. It’s being forever alone.” She turned and looked at him, eyes shocked as if her own words had surprised her.
“We are all afraid of that.”
“Yes, I suppose. But why does everyone I love die?” It was the cry of a seven-year-old girl who had lost her mother. Reaching across to him, she squeezed his arm. “For the love of God, Aaron, I need you to go with me to the Sacred Cave, and I know that you’re strong and versed in mountain lore, but
be careful
.” Then, avoiding his eyes, she opened the door and stepped out on the road.
Did she mean she loved him?
He stepped out of the car, too.
Or did she refer to their lovemaking last night?
He wanted to ask her, but she stood with her jaw clenched and her head high, and when he joined her she didn’t wait, but headed into the village square.
He followed close on her heels.
Time had left this place behind. The houses were two stories, brightly decorated with gingerbread trim. Signs swung outside the doors of the pub, the
boulangerie
, the souvenir shop. “This looks like the Hollywood set for the filming of
Heidi
,” Aaron said.
“Yes, except—where are the people?” Rosamund wondered.
As if to answer her question, a woman left the tiny shop holding a squat loaf of bread and a bottle of dark red wine, and walked toward them. She nodded to them pleasantly, and said,
“Bonjour. Je suis Dr. Servais. Puis-je vous aider?”
Aaron put on his best smile and his best French, and said, “
Merci,
Dr. Servais
.
Could you tell us how to find the path to the Sacred Cave?”
The female’s geniality vanished as if it had never been. In harshly accented English, she said, “I don’t know how these rumors get started among you tourists. There is no such thing as this Sacred Cave. Go away!” She walked away, offense in every line of her dumpy figure.
“Wow. That didn’t go well. Maybe you should let me try.” Rosamund headed into the tap house.
Aaron followed, and as they entered, the aroma of bacon and garlic wafted past. Aaron had had nothing since the hors d’oeuvres the night before, and his stomach rumbled. “We need to eat.”
“We don’t have time!”
“Trust me.” He took her arm. “An army doesn’t march on an empty stomach. If we’re going to climb to the Sacred Cave, we’re going to have to eat.”
She didn’t argue more. She had to be hungry, too.
A burly man stood behind the tiny bar, serving a bowl of onion soup to one man, a glass of wine to his wife, while listening with obvious boredom to their quarrel. High on the wall in the corner, a television was turned on the news and muted, with a scrawl at the bottom to read the information. The proprietor’s face lit up at the sight of Rosamund and Aaron, and eagerly he gestured toward a table.
They sat, ordered onion soup, bread, and two glasses of red wine, and when the proprietor put the food on the table, Rosamund smiled and in her halting French asked, “Monsieur, can you tell us how to find the Sacred Cave?”
The man’s head jerked back as if Rosamund had slapped him. His lip curled in a sneer such as only a Frenchman can perform. “I can’t understand you. Your French is execrable. Go to the next village. Perhaps they will understand you, you . . . Americans.” Turning on one toe like a robust ballerina, he stormed back to the bar, where he leaned forward and hissed in French at his other customers.
Rosamund turned to Aaron. “Talk to him. Tell him—”
“It’s not your accent.” Aaron dipped his spoon into the soup and took a taste. It was perfect peasant fare—caramelized onions swimming in a beef broth with melted Gruyère cheese on the top. “They’re not going to talk to us.”
“But why? All we want—”
“Honey, all we want is to go to the place that made this village infamous.” Picking up her spoon, he put it into her hand and made eating motions. “They’re not going to tell us where that is. Whenever someone goes up there, they’ve got a disaster on their hands.”
“How do you know that?” She put the first spoonful of soup in her mouth, and paused as if in worship, then got serious about eating.
Thank heavens, because they’d had disasters enough—he didn’t need her to faint. “Because I’ve been in the Sacred Cave, and I’ve seen the death it deals out.”
She stared at him, breathing hard. “That’s ridiculous. It’s not an entity. It’s a cave, a physical formation in the earth with no personality, no feelings, no malice.”
“Then why did Sacmis choose to come here to write her prophecy and die?” He tore the crusty bread apart.
“She was an ignorant savage.” Crumbs flew as Rosamund devoured a piece.
He threw back his head and laughed. “As am I, my dear.”
“I . . . I didn’t mean . . .” She looked abashed and embarrassed.
“I know you didn’t.” Taking her hand, he held it for a moment, cherishing her very normalcy, and wishing she could stay like this forever. “I can lead you to the Sacred Cave.”

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