Graelfire

Stephen Chamberlain

Description

Lena Dubois has a problem, but death is the last thing on her mind until the enigmatic Count Angelo walks into her life, warning her condition is fatal. Her only hope, he says, is a cryptic riddle that will lead her to the Holy Grail. Lena teams up with Raphael Proctor, the Count's inscrutable assistant. As their quest advances along Lake Geneva's shores, sinister forces stalk them. Lena fears the worst, but Raphael knows what lurks in the shadows is worse than she can imagine. Step back to the year 1245 in Languedoc. Gideon Drude is on the trail of the fabled lost treasure of the Cathars. Pursued by the Inquisition, his mission carries him across pilgrim routes to Cathar bastions in Lombardia, where his journey ends in star-crossed love, tragedy and betrayal. When the past collides with the present, Lena's quest throws her into a cosmic vendetta where malevolent forces eight hundred years in the making propel her to a deadly showdown.Gralfireis a gripping new twist on Grail mythology. Based on the medieval legend of the Grail as a stone that fell from Heaven, the adventure is set in present-day Switzerland and medieval Occitania within a fictional cosmos where universes emerge from the cosmic soup of Gralfire-the source of all Creation.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 juin 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781788030571
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright © 2017 Stephen Chamberlain
The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 9781788030571

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The ancients believed there are thin places in the twilight world that stand on the boundaries between time and space. Doorways open at these thresholds. Pass through and you might not come back.
Contents
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Acknowledgements
1
Bex, Switzerland
Lena Dubois waited. Shielded behind sunglasses, she stared at the Dent de Morcles. Its fang-like summit scraped radiant skies under a beating sun; her composure faltered beneath the glare.
Please, God… help me get through this. Just fifteen minutes, that’s all I ask.
Having no tears left, she bowed her head over the oblong pit – a fresh planting hole in a garden of polished slabs. Ceramic memorial portraits on nearby tombstones made her skin crawl. It wasn’t superstition that chilled her but the attention of the dead.
All those faces.
All those eyes.
The cemetery was alive with them.
She shivered in the sunshine and fastened her gaze on the brass plate screwed to the pinewood box. Its blunt inscription rocked her heart:

Dr Hélène Dubois
Aged 75 years

Just a name and a number! Gran’s life had been airbrushed. There was no mention of her personality, academic honours, or that in the ten years since her parents’ deaths, Gran had been like a mother to her.
She blinked back memories and steeled herself as four black-clad undertakers advanced to stand on each side of the coffin. Mannequin-stiff, they waited to gather the straps. At a nod from the priest, they bent their backs and manoeuvred the box over the void.
Sunlight glinted off polished handles.
Lena fumbled for the hand of her best friend, Marta, the only other mourner. When she looked up, the men in black were feeding Gran into the stony ground.
The clergyman’s prayer broke the hush. Oblivious to his words, Lena stared at the coffin lid. Dear Lord, she doesn’t belong at the bottom of a hole.
Blood drained from her head; her vision swam. Ground swirled beneath her feet.
Swaying, she leaned against Marta.
Oh, please. Not again! Not here, not now.
She closed her eyes to will the dizziness away. When she opened them again, the grave was a seething vortex.
She glanced up. Everything around her moved in slow motion, and the priest’s voice slurred in the drawn-out drawl of a low-speed playback.
Feeling the drag of an invisible force, she clamped her fingers on Marta’s arm. But the force pulled harder, sucking her down. Terrified she would pull Marta into the vortex, she let go and fell.
Darkness swallowed her, thick and dimensionless. Aware of her thoughts but not her body, she struggled to breathe without lungs. Panic burst out of confusion. Her mind had drained through a hole in the ground. Water down a plughole.
Without form, unsure of boundaries, she heard the priest’s voice and locked on to it. Her thoughts sprinted as it grew faint and petered out.
No! Don’t lose contact… don’t leak away!
Frantic, she fought to anchor herself to the world. Any deeper and the vortex might consume her.
Out of the nothingness a low bell tolled, the hollow clang of the church clock, counting the hours. Lena’s hope flared, but the bell’s warped dissonance obscured its direction and distance.
Where was it?
Above or below? Behind or in front?
Which way? Which way?
She zeroed in on the strike of the clapper.
Don’t let it go …
On the seventh chime, she felt a tug stronger than the pull of the vortex. It drew her back like smoke up a flue.
Marta ’s face swam into focus as the clock struck noon. “ Dios mío , Lena, are you all right? You passed out for a moment.”
Lena raised a hand to her brow. Back in her skin, the world moved around her at normal speed and the pit was a grave once more.
“I… I’m okay.”
She gulped a breath and willed her head to clear.
The priest was so absorbed in the liturgy he seemed unaware of her distress. He scooped up a fistful of soil from the heap of earth and trickled it into the pit. “Ashes to ashes; dust to dust.”
Stones scattered with a clatter across the coffin’s shiny lid.
As the last of the dirt slipped through his fingers, movement in the old part of the graveyard hooked Lena’s attention.
She turned to look. Where nothing had been a moment ago, a silver-haired stranger stood, statue-still, among the tombstones. Wrapped in a trench coat, he watched her from below a broad-brimmed hat. She gazed back, transfixed by lacquer-black eyes vivid against the paleness of his face. Her heart thumped again. His skin had the alabaster pallor of a waxwork figure. Who was he? Why did he stare at her so?
A shift in the air filled her nose with lavender.
“Miss Dubois?”
Lena heard her name.
“Miss Dubois?”
She turned her head.
The priest’s face wavered, a mask of concern. “We’re finished here.”
Lena swallowed past a lump in her throat.
“The undertakers will take you back to the manor in one of their cars,” he said.
“Thank you, Father, I….” Unable to disguise the catch in her voice, Lena glanced at the grave. “We’ll walk. I’d like a moment with Gran, alone.”
The priest hovered. He looked uncertain but dipped his chin. “As you wish. My condolences on your loss.”
He shook her hand and led the undertakers away.
Lena stooped. She plucked a single lily from the wreath she’d bought and dropped it into the grave. The sight of the waxy flower on the coffin lid raised another lump to her throat. First her parents and now her gran… it wasn’t fair. She was twenty-four years old and alone in the world. Why did everyone close to her die?
Marta’s hand touched her shoulder. “Come on, it’s time to leave her.”
Lena took a deep breath and crossed herself, a habit she’d picked up from the mission schools. Turning, she stole a glance at the pale stranger. His unblinking gaze sparked another shiver.
Her vision blurred again. As it cleared, Marta took hold of her elbow and Lena heard her voice, in mid-sentence, saying, “… low blood sugar. I warned you to eat breakfast. No wonder you fainted.”
“I’m fine. Nothing a hot cup of tea won’t fix.”
“You need more than that inside you. Can you walk to the village?”
Lena nodded. She turned towards the footpath, but a glance over her shoulder stopped her. Goosebumps erupted on her arms.
“He’s gone!”
“Who? ”
She pointed. Where the stranger should have been, air shimmered in a heat warp. “There was a man over there. Very pale… black eyes.”
Marta turned to look. “Most likely a gravedigger.” She put up her hands and wriggled her fingers. “Or maybe you saw a ghost. These grave portraits are enough to give anyone the spooks.”
Lena pursed her lips. “He wasn’t a ghost.” He was there… flesh and blood. How had he slipped away? The only way out was through the gates where the gravediggers lingered. T o leave, he would have had to cross her path.
She scanned the perimeter, narrowing her eyes at the back of the cemetery where tall shrubs formed a screen. Was he concealed behind them? She craned her neck to get a better view before Marta tugged her back. Arm hooked through the crook of Lena’s elbow, she made a beeline for the gates.


Twenty minutes later, they passed the Hôtel de Ville and entered the Place du Marché. At the heart of village life, Bex’s market square was surrounded by a hotchpotch of tall, stuccoed buildings with steep-pitched roofs to shed winter snow. Lena liked their faded fa Ç ades and weathered woodwork. They gave the place a timeworn charm which she’d drawn comfort from in the past. Today they reminded her that all things changed, even if slowly.
Aware she needed nourishment, she steered Marta towards the corner building with peeling shutters and flaking paint. Marta turned the heads of passers by as they walked. Lena understood why. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothing – Marta was a study in black from her lace-trimmed chemise and mid-thigh skirt to her ankle boots. The only colours she’d allowed were plum lipstick and violet nails. It was a look Lena could never pull off. The daughter of a French doctor and Spanish nurse, she’d been brought up in a string of African medical missions. Trendy boutiques and designer shops had belonged to a different world back then, and though she liked to wear nice clothes, she’d never mastered the knack of dressing chic. She glanced self-consciously at her simple charcoal dress. With her hair scraped