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.”
She drew back. “You’ve never been here before.”
“I can hear it calling me.”
He could tell by the expression on her face she didn’t believe him. But what she believed didn’t matter. All his life, no matter where he was in the world, the siren call of the cave sang in his head, and here in the village of Sacre Barbare, the melody was louder, sweeter, more seductive.
It called him to his death.
“I suppose because of your years in the mountains, you know how to find your way. . . .” Her voice faded. She stared over his shoulder. Something had distracted her, and he turned to look where she looked.
Video was playing on the muted television, and there was Pinhead Number Two—the name listed was Joscelin Deschanel—staring at the camera, his small eyes deadly. As his lips moved, the text across the bottom read, I saw this person hit Fournier with a bookend. He fell, his skull crushed. . . .
A photo of Rosamund taken at the party flashed on-screen.
She dropped her spoon. It clattered on the table, bringing the attention of the customers and proprietor to them.
Thank heavens, because Aaron didn’t need them looking at the television. With a smile, he called, “This soup is wonderful, but we have to get on our way.” He put an exorbitant amount in euros on the table, rose, and took Rosamund’s arm. “Come on. Let’s get our coats and the caving gear.”
They left the tap house and headed for the car.
In shock and horror, Rosamund said, “He said I did it. He said I smashed Louis’s skull. Why would he say that?”
“Because he did it.” Aaron put her in the car, got in the driver’s seat, and headed out of the village. “Someone very powerful wanted Fournier dead, and he hired the right man to take care of the matter.” He was sick at the thought. He and Rosamund had made love in a closet in Fournier’s house while men hunted and killed. They had been as helpless as it was possible for two people to be, and if they’d been found . . . “If we had stayed, we’d be dead, too.”
“I don’t want to be accused of murder. How did all this happen?” She truly didn’t understand.
“Because fate marches on, demanding we find our destinies.” He parked the car at the base of a cliff and turned to her. “Me, I’m done resisting.” He cupped her cheek and smiled. “Come on. I’ll carry the coil of rope.”
He had, of course, located the head of the path.
As they strapped on their gear, a flock of sheep came around the mountain and surrounded them. Blue dabs of paint colored their wool, identifying their owner, and a shepherd followed them, whistling sharply. When he caught sight of Aaron and Rosamund, he stopped and stared. “You can’t park there,” he said in perfect English.
Aaron looked around for a sign. “Why not? We’re not in anyone’s way.”
“The path—it’s unsafe. We don’t let tourists go that direction.” The shepherd was young, muscled, and he watched them with the kind of hostility usually reserved for muggers in Central Park.
“This is the way to the Sacred Cave, and we have business there,” Rosamund said.
His antagonism grew. “We guard the Sacred Cave from half-wits.”
“So this is the way.” She nodded, pleased to have trapped him into a betrayal.
“Didn’t you believe me?” Aaron wanted to laugh at the chagrin on the shepherd’s face, and at Rosamund’s satisfaction.
“I don’t understand how you know,” she said.
Aaron looked at the shepherd. “I know.”
The shepherd ran toward one of his sheep as it teetered on the crest of a rocky incline. Waving his stick, he drove it back into the herd. Facing Aaron, he said, “Sheep are foolish. They dash toward a fall on the rocks and I drive them back. But sometimes they won’t be stopped, and if they must die to be taught their lesson, then they die.”
“Sometimes there’s no choice but to take the fall,” Aaron told him.
“There’s always a choice,” the shepherd answered.
“Sometimes the choice is between dying with honor, or living with shame.” Aaron tightened his grip on the coil of rope he had slung over his shoulder.
Rosamund had been looking between them. Now she said, “You’re not a sheep, and you are not going to die. I won’t let you.” She spoke intensely, staring into his eyes, like a kindergarten teacher with a recalcitrant boy.
“Believe me. It’s not my intention,” he assured her.
“Good. Now come on. We haven’t got much time.” She headed for the trail and began the climb.
Aaron saluted the shepherd.
The shepherd spit on the ground to indicate his disgust.
Aaron followed Rosamund.
At first, the path was wide and smooth, cut into the bones of the mountain. They walked through meadows of flowers and groves of trees that dappled the ground with shadow. The sun shone warm, a breeze blew softly, and here they didn’t need their heavy down coats, their caps, or their gloves.
Rosamund looked down at the village of Sacre Barbare. “It’s pretty here. Peaceful.”
The wound on Aaron’s thigh was hot and infected. The burn on his arm throbbed more insistently. He slowed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I need to rest for a moment.” He leaned against a rock. “These mountains are like the Sawtooth Mountains where I live
d when I was young. Yet they’re not. The flowers are different. The rocks are different. The air is different. But I could live here. . . .” Except that the call of the cave was growing harsher, more insistent.
That was why he had finally run from the bleak life to which he had sentenced himself and into a life of luxury and elegance. If he had stayed, he would have eventually gone mad, and gone into the Sacred Cave. And he would never have come out.
“Come on. I’ll help you.” She put her hand under his arm.
He looked at her.
“Look. We haven’t any time. You know we haven’t. The French police are after me. Fujimoto would love to eliminate you. Irving Shea needs this prophecy ASAP—”
“I know. I know.” He pushed himself up. “And you want to avenge Fournier’s death.”
“Yes,” she said simply.
Rounding the corner, they stepped into the shadow of the mountain. Warmth faded. Their view of the village vanished. The path fell away under their feet, dropping into an abyss a thousand feet deep.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “This is the way.” As they inched their way up the mountain, the wind began to blow, softly at first, then harder, raking their exposed faces with cold so harsh Aaron’s cheeks felt stiff and his lips cracked. They put on their coats, their hats, their gloves. Aaron helped Rosamund across the narrow places, gripping her wrist with both hands, knowing full well the mountain would toss her into the valley out of sheer spite and indifference.
The path spiraled down, then up, into a notch in the mountain.
By some freak of location, here the sun shone, warming the stones, and the angle of the mountain blocked the wind. The path was broad, with low boulders that rested against the side of the mountain, inviting the pilgrims to sit, to rest, to rethink . . . to turn back.
For around the corner, there it was—the entrance to the cave.
The small dark hole was exactly the same shape, the same size as the Sacred Cave in the mountains of his birth. He approached cautiously, listening to the whisper of the cave that had haunted his soul since the day he was born.
You are mine. You were born here, and you will die here.
He turned to Rosamund. “We need to go back.”
“But we made it. We’re here.” She looked at the sky. “If we go in and find the prophecy right away, we can go back to Sacre Barbare and drive away before it gets dark.”
“It’s not that easy.” Taking her hand, he dragged her away, around the corner to the single spot of sunshine. Here the wind whistled harmlessly past, but couldn’t touch them, and he could hardly hear the summons of the cave.
Lifting her, he placed her on a sun-warmed boulder, then clambered after her. They sat, shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the Alps that climbed, one after the other, toward the sky, until on the farthest horizon they faded to blue and vanished like a dream.
“What is it?” she asked.
“The cave is dangerous.” Vicious. Deadly. Cruel. He’d seen what the cave could do. He’d witnessed its vengeance, and now he feared . . . he feared for himself. He feared for her. Most of all, he feared what would happen if they didn’t succeed, and that torment tore at him.
She, of course, settled into a lecture that told him everything she knew about caves. “Caves are dangerous, mostly because they’re unregulated by any kind of international agency, which is surprising considering the number of caves scattered throughout the world and the injuries possible when exploring caves. The predominant rock that forms this area appears to be basalt, and very stable, so unless a tremor should disturb the earth, I think this will be a safe caving experience.”
“No.” He put his arm around her. “The Sacred Cave is dangerous because it chooses whom it wishes to enter and whom it wishes to keep out. It demands sacrifices and extracts payments. It is ancient. It is malevolent. It is—”
“Are you claustrophobic? Is that what this is about?” Her wide violet eyes were concerned for him.
Shaking his head, he tried to explain, knowing that she was anxious to go forward, to continue her adventure. She obviously believed if she did the right thing, her life would return to normal.
He knew nothing could ever be normal again. “You translated the journal of the prophetess how?”
“With Bala’s Gl—Stone.”
“And how does Bala’s Stone work?” He answered for her. “It’s an ancient magic. Just because you don’t believe in it doesn’t mean it’s not true. You’re a librarian who looks at the facts. So look at them now. Bala’s Stone is real, and the Sacred Cave is sacred for a reason.”
“My father would have told you that was nonsense.” She lifted her hand when he would argue. “But even if it’s not, even if the Sacred Cave is waiting to chomp us into bits, we need to try, because we need that prophecy.”
She was right, and yet . . . the old fear cramped his stomach and turned his mouth dry. “Come back with me, down the mountain to the village, and we’ll drink wine and have dinner, and later we’ll make love.”
“What if the police recognize us?”
He ignored her. “In the morning when the sun is high and reigning over the sky, we’ll come back and do what has to be done.”
“What if it rains?”
He had no answer.
“What if it snows? It feels cold enough to snow, even in August. What if we can’t get up here again for days, and the time we lose enables the police to find me and take me away? What if Fujimoto finds you and kills us both?” She was relentless. “Right now, this is our chance, maybe our only chance, to read the final prophecy and do some good in the world. Aaron, let’s not run away!”
Once again, she confounded him with her bravery and her good sense. Worse, she was right. They had to go on.
Besides, the cave wanted him. Only him. She would be safe.
“Kiss me once for luck,” he said.
Sliding her arms around his shoulders, she kissed him so sweetly, so generously, he realized the truth.
He loved her. He had never loved before, but he did love her.
Perhaps, together, they could triumph.
Chapter 33
Rosamund blocked the entrance of the Sacred Cave, faced Aaron, and planted her feet. “I’m going in by myself.”
“That’s not possible.” Here the wind blasted them, urging them toward the cave.
Lifting her fingers, she counted down the reasons why. “First—I’m not claustrophobic.”
“Neither am I.”
“I assumed—”
He grinned and crossed his arms. “After what we did in the closet, you assumed I was claustrophobic?”
Her face softened. “But there’s a difference between a nice, safe closet and a spooky, bat-ridden cave.”
“Trust me. There are no bats—bats aren’t crazy enough to live in the Sacred Cave—and I’m not claustrophobic.”
“All right. I believe you.” She counted down another reason. “Second—my parents were all over the Petén in Mexico and Guatemala, in cenotes and caves, and I grew up having cave safety drilled into me. I know what I’m doing.”
“That is good to know.”
“And if I’m reading you right, you avoid caves like the plague.”
He shrugged and nodded.
“So you don’t need a man-chomping cave. You could get hurt out of sheer ignorance of proper caving procedure.”
“The cave is safe when it wants to be.”
“You’ve never been here before and . . . oh, never mind.” She lifted another finger. “Third—I don’t believe the Sacred Cave can hurt me.”
Capturing her hand, he folded it into a fist. “Perhaps the Sacred Cave doesn’t care what you believe.”
“Perhaps not, but for some reason you believe it has a vendetta against you. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it wants to kill you. But it doesn’t want to kill me. Consider this—if the Sacred Cave wants to murder you, and I’m with you, I’m going to be hurt in the fallout.”
As her
words hit home, he jerked and turned away.
She followed, knowing she had him. “So I’ll go in alone, you can sit right here outside the entrance, and if I need you, I’ll call. I promise.”
A compromise. He could compromise. “I’ll come with you into the cave, sit by the entrance, and if you need me, I can respond immediately.” She started to argue, but he put his hand over her mouth. “Take it or leave it. I wait for you inside, or I go with you to find the prophecy.”
Storm of Shadows Page 24