Winter's Shadow (4 page)

There was a loud creaking above her in the rafters as the vibrations of her collision ran up the column and found their way to the crossbeams. A shower of dust sprinkled down on her. She brushed it from her hair and got painfully to her feet. The man had vanished from the graveyard. Perhaps he was making his way around to the doorway to confront her.

This prospect didn’t trouble Winter as much as it should have, because something else was distracting her – something she couldn’t quite grasp but seemed terribly important. Overhead, the creaking increased in volume, deepening to a low groan as the church voiced its complaint.

The fine hairs on her arms stood on end as though the air around her was infused with static electricity. Slowly,
too slowly, the thought formed, rising above the din, becoming clearer.

The roof was going to come down!

As if to confirm this, more dust showered around her and the ominous reverberations amplified. Winter didn’t need any more convincing. She scrambled over the debris cluttering the floor. The dust fell like a thick, grey rain. Coughing and spluttering, she shielded her mouth with her hand. Panic threatened to bloom, but she held it at bay. She just needed to walk quickly and be careful not to trip on any of the —

A huge beam crashed to the ground, barely missing her. Winter cried out as splinters of wood flew through the air, bouncing off her arms and legs. Stunned, she stood rooted to the spot, staring at the fallen beam and the broken furniture it had pulverised beneath it.

That could have been her!

Winter jolted herself into a zigzagging run, one hand clutching the Nikon protectively to her chest. Above her the church’s roof continued to groan and shake, dislodging timber struts and hurling down fragments of wood like some enraged god. Her eyes stinging, Winter managed to duck and weave through the avalanche, keeping her watery gaze locked on the exit. She was close now – the green woods were framed by the church doorway, the light and colour beckoning her with a promise of safety. Only steps away . . .

Winter spared one last look upwards, just in time to see the blunt wooden face of a beam rushing towards her.

Darkness rippling with emerald light.

Bells tolling somewhere in the distance.

She was flying, or falling, while someone held her hand tightly.

A warm wind buffeted her face, filling her nose and lungs with the sweetest perfume.

Where was she?

Where . . .?

Winter opened her eyes to the harsh sunlight of the clearing. A face loomed out of the golden light above her: the graveyard stranger. He was looking down at her, his brow furrowed. It seemed a sin that such beautiful features were troubled by this worried expression. Winter blinked, curious to see if he’d disappear or if this was actually happening. It felt like a dream.

‘Are you okay?’ His voice was soft; his breath smelled vaguely of that strange darkness she’d fallen into: aromatic, sweet. As he stared at her, the light in his eyes seemed to brighten, intensify, draw her in. Lost in his gaze, she was vaguely aware of her heartbeat thudding in her ears. That peculiar sense of being
seen
by him returned, stronger than ever. He was looking at her more deeply than anyone ever had before, his vision penetrating her mind, as though searching for something hidden.

‘Are you okay?’ he repeated.

‘What?’ she replied breathlessly.

Another face joined the stranger’s, this one much less handsome and a good deal older – Mr Denning.

‘You feeling okay, Miss Adams? Any bones broken?’

His abrupt arrival broke the unsettling trance she’d slipped into. Feeling dizzy and a little breathless, Winter managed to reply, ‘I don’t think so.’

She glanced once more at the stranger, almost too wary to make eye contact again, and suddenly realised she was lying cradled in his arms. The embarrassment at this forced intimacy caused her to sit up much too quickly. Purple fireworks exploded in her vision, threatening to send her back to the darkness. What had happened? Her mind worked sluggishly, trying to connect the dots that had led her to this point.

She could remember squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the awful impact of the beam, but that was where her
memory stopped. How did she come to be lying here in the clearing? Had she been hit on the head and suffered some kind of brain damage? Winter raised a hand to her head. Surely she must have split open her skull or at least bruised it. But there was no pain when she tentatively pressed the skin and, better yet, no blood when she inspected her fingers.

‘Easy there, you’ve had a fall,’ Mr Denning said, his grey bushy eyebrows twitching with concern.

‘Let me help you,’ the stranger said, and Winter couldn’t help but sneak another glimpse of his magical eyes. They were so green to be almost luminous; no wonder she’d been entranced by them. Winter had never seen anyone with eyes like that. He gently hooked a hand beneath her elbow and helped her to her feet. Dead leaves crunched beneath her as she shifted her weight.

‘Thanks.’ Winter smiled shyly at him, willing her cheeks not to blush.

Both men were now watching her closely, as if worried she might collapse at any moment.

Oh God, the church!

Winter looked past Mr Denning at Pilgrim’s Lament, which looked even more misshapen than it had before. A large section of the roof was missing, and the entrance was clogged with broken timber. The panicked flight from the church came rushing back to her with startling clarity.

‘You sure you’re okay? Don’t need no ambulance or nothing?’ Mr Denning asked her.

Winter shook her head slowly. ‘I’m fine.’ She should have been lying beneath that pile of rubble!

He jerked a thumb towards the church. ‘What happened in there?’

‘I don’t know, Mr Denning. One minute I was taking pictures; the next . . . the roof was coming down.’ She felt guilty for lying, but lacked the courage to own up to the truth.
It was her fault!
If Winter hadn’t been so clumsy, none of this would have happened.

As he surveyed the damage, Mr Denning absently rubbed the back of his neck with his handkerchief. ‘Just took some pictures, huh? Didn’t drive a bulldozer in through the front door or nothing?’

At the mention of her pictures, Winter began to search the ground around her for the Nikon.

‘Where’s my camera?’

‘I have it,’ the stranger answered quietly. Her heart sank as he held up what was left of the camera by its torn strap. A shard of glass fell from the lens to the ground. The body had been crushed, the back gaped open like a wound. She would rather have broken a bone or two if it meant saving the Nikon. Bones healed, cameras didn’t. It had been a gift from her father. She gingerly took it from the stranger’s grasp and turned it over in her hands.

‘I’m sorry,’ the stranger said compassionately, as though he had some sense of how much the camera meant to her.

Mr Denning inspected the ruined camera over her shoulder. ‘Could be worse. Least you got out in one piece. Old Pilgrim’s Lament might’ve taken a chunk outta you if this young fella hadn’t been here.’ He frowned at the stranger. ‘What’s your name again, son?’

‘Blake. Blake Duchamp.’

‘Well, Blake, seems Miss Adams here owes you a big thankyou.’

Winter smiled at Blake apologetically. ‘Absolutely. Thank you. I’m Winter.’

She felt her face redden as it always did when she introduced herself. However, this time it was less to do with her self-consciousness about having such an unconventional name, and more to do with the touch of Blake’s hand as he shook hers.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Winter.’

Mr Denning tilted his head towards Blake. ‘What were you doing down here anyway, Blake? I didn’t see you up at the Heritage Centre.’

Winter watched Blake, curious about this point. His face remained unreadable as he calmly answered, ‘Hiking.’

One of Mr Denning’s eyebrows jumped up. ‘Hiking?’

Blake nodded, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to be wandering around these mountain woods in a grey suit and dress shoes. Mr Denning looked as if he might say something else, but shrugged instead and turned back to face the church.

He sighed deeply. ‘What a mess. Gonna be a devil to clean up.’ After a moment’s thought, he turned back to Winter and asked hopefully, ‘Miss Adams, don’t suppose I could get you to sign those insurance forms now, could I?’

By the time Winter left the Heritage Centre, the afternoon light had taken on a much darker quality. While she’d been inside filling out all the liability forms Mr Denning could find, the storm clouds had stolen across the sky, turning it the colour of slate. A low rumble of thunder sounded as she crossed the parking lot to Jessie, her scooter. If she didn’t get home soon she was going to get wet.

Just before she reached Jessie, a voice startled her.

‘Can I give you a lift?’

Winter turned to see Blake standing beside a rusty pick-up truck on the other side of the parking lot. A little surprised that he was still here, she smiled bashfully and shook her head.

‘It’s fine. I have my scooter.’

He nodded towards the truck. ‘I could put it on the back. Looks like it’s going to rain.’

Winter hesitated a moment before shaking her head again. ‘Thanks anyway.’

The reason for this refusal was twofold. One: she was deeply embarrassed about taking Blake’s picture like some demented paparazzi, and two: he frightened her. No, that wasn’t quite true. Blake didn’t frighten her in the sense that he was dangerous, but the rush of feelings she’d experienced looking into his eyes did make her uncomfortable. Something about this stranger had wrested away any emotional control Winter possessed, and for a few brief seconds she’d felt outside herself. Distant. Lost.

What scared her most about that feeling was how part of her actually enjoyed losing control. As she stood looking at Blake across the parking lot, Winter felt a ghost of that dizzying sensation. Good sense told her that anything that provoked such a strong reaction was probably bad for her and should be avoided. Even if the stirrings in her heart argued the contrary.