A GODDESS IN MY GRAVEYARD

Dr. Amazing and Sarah Crisman

Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark nights seem endless
Please remember me.
– Loreena McKennitt, ‘Dante’s Prayer’
 

* * * * *
This is a work of fiction. Tomb Raider and Lara Croft are both trademark (™) and copyright (©) of EIDOS Interactive and Core design. All other characters are copyright of the authors.
We would welcome your comments, (complimentary or critical), which can be addressed to: dramazin@alphalink.com.au

And: scrisman@juno.com


My God…she’s beautiful…
The girl’s tan slacks and light silk blouse wrapped themselves around her slim frame easily, helping to reinforce the air of aloofness that hung around her. This air directly contradicted any guess at her age, for she bore a flawless, olive-skinned complexion of youth as one who has never known age does. Her hair was neatly combed, parted down the center, and just barely touched her shoulders. The dark brown tresses reinforced the colour of her eyes, which stared out at the room from under long, silken eyelashes. And Lara Croft knew in her heart that the girl was looking for her.
She sat back in her seat, and instantly the waiter was at the table, taking away her old glass and pouring her another Glenfiddich. The beverage wasn’t completely legal in this part of the world, but Lara knew from past experience that the people of the Busnaina Hotel were willing to break a few local laws if tipped heavily enough. Her eyes were drawn to the girl, watching as she maneuvered her way through the maze of tables, chairs, and servers.
Just as Lara had predicted, the young girl moved towards her table. Without hesitating, she looked up and locked eyes with the woman she had seen come through the door, and she couldn’t help but think it again. She’s beautiful…
For reasons she couldn’t put her finger on, Lara wasn’t surprised to see her there, though she was positive she had never met the girl before. She gave another cursory glance about the room, ignoring the stares of the businessmen who had ogled her when she walked in, then returned her gaze to the young woman in front of her.
The girl gave a polite smile without revealing her teeth. She’s been schooled, Lara thought, herself a product of a Swiss finishing school. Another fan? Someone I saw in a lecture hall before? There was something else, though, something that unsettled Lara. A feeling like she really should know who this person was. A feeling of guilt for not remembering…
“Miss Croft?”
That voice… Stirring, yet sweet. Passionate, yet resolved. Delivered from a perfect pair of full lips set between high cheekbones. She suppressed a shiver. “Yes,” Lara replied hesitantly. “But I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, Miss…?”
A smile of relief crossed the girl’s face, and this time she did show her teeth. An honest smile that glimmered in her eyes as well as her mouth.
“Please forgive me, Miss Croft.” The girl bowed to Lara, then continued. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ana Gauchomme, and I have been instructed by your friend, Eric Falshingham, to seek you out here. I hope this is not an inconvenient time for you.”
Lara had left her hotel room earlier, tired of the solitude. She had brought her notes along, intending to use them as a way of fending off unwanted attention as opposed to actually studying them. It was nice that the British Museum funded these lecture tours, and she was happy for the attention it brought to both herself and the field of archaeology, but she couldn’t say she was sad that the tour was almost over. Things being what they were, however, this was decidedly more interesting. Inconvenient? Technically. Uninteresting? Hardly.
“Falshingham, you say? And how do you come to know him?”
“We share many common interests,” the girl replied.
Lara raised an eyebrow. Since Falshingham’s interests involved the ancient, the arcane and the occult, Gauchomme’s statement was intriguing. “And why did Falshingham send you to me?”
“He knew you would be coming to Israel. And he thought that you were uniquely suited the solve my problem.”
“Your problem?”
“Perhaps this will explain better,” the girl said, extending her right hand, which held a white envelope. “He wrote you a letter.”
Lara saw the tanned skin of the girl’s fingers, which were just as flawless as the rest of her looks, as she took the envelope. She could indeed smell Falshingham all over this meeting, which meant she would be fascinated by it. It also meant she would probably regret it later.
“Please, have a seat,” Lara said, indicating the chair opposite her with her free hand. The young woman sat while she opened the envelope and silently read the letter inside:

Dear Lara,

Since you are reading this, I’ll assume you’ve met Ana. Quite lovely isn’t she? And also quite extraordinary, as I’m sure you’ll soon discover.
If I know you Lara, and I believe I do, you’re not sure at this point whether to be cursing me for interrupting your lecture tour or thanking me instead. I’m willing to wager that it’s starting to bore you. And I would also place money on the belief that you will be intrigued by Ana’s story. I have been able to verify most of what she says, and I believe it to be true. I have tried to help her—I am always vulnerable to a pretty face—but what she seeks requires more than research alone. I have sent her to you, my dear, since you are uniquely equipped to help her. I will provide whatever assistance I can—you have my email address.
Good luck and good hunting,
Regards,
Eric Falshingham

“Good hunting?” Lara frowned and looked up at Ana. “You have something for me to find?”
Ana’s face was stern and her eyes were troubled. “I would prefer to discuss my... problem in more privacy.”
Lara glanced around the bar. There were few patrons there in the late afternoon, but the group of businessmen was glancing in the direction of their table and getting restless. She guessed it was only a matter of time before one of them worked up the nerve to come over and talk to them.
“We can talk in my hotel suite, if you prefer,” said Lara, deciding that company would make the room bearable. Especially company as lovely as Ana’s. That’s funny…what made me think of that?
“Your room will be fine, if you do not mind my intrusion,” Ana said.
“You would be most welcome,” replied Lara, gathering her notes and downing the last of her Glenfiddich. She stood and led her companion out of the bar. The businessmen watched them go with sad, frustrated stares. It took Lara a few moments to realise that the stares were directed not at herself, but rather at her companion.
Lara was no stranger to men’s stares. Often it annoyed her, sometimes it pleased her, but rarely did she have to work to receive them. With similar ambivalence, she was unsure whether or not to be irritated that Ana was stealing her thunder.
At least they stare at her face and not her chest, she observed, with a small measure of envy.
They moved to the hotel foyer and the lifts where Lara pressed the ‘up’ button, then turned to study her companion.
Ana stared at the panel above the elevator doors, watching the floor indicator lights count down. “Which floor are you on?”
“Tenth,” replied Lara. “Why do you ask? Afraid of heights?”
“No, Miss Croft. I stopped being afraid some time ago.”
Lara was taken aback by the quiet assertion. The lift doors opened and Ana entered, carefully stepping over the crack between the elevator and the actual floor. Lara followed her, confused by her companion’s reply.
Ana took up a position in front of the button panel, and stared off into space. Lara reached past her to press the number 10, irritated that Ana had not done so first. “Not afraid of anything? Afraid of doing things for yourself perhaps?”
Ana shook her head as if to clear it. “I’m sorry, Miss Croft, my mind was elsewhere. I am trying to work out the best way to explain my... situation to you.”
“You must have explained it well enough to Falshingham.”
The doors slid closed with a silent bump, and Lara felt the lift begin to move underfoot.
Ana looked uncomfortable. “Yes, well…he is rather different than yourself.”
“Yes, dear,” Lara nodded. “He’s a man.”
Ana smiled and both women laughed at the connotations of what she’d said. The girl’s laugh was warm and vibrant. Lara found herself liking Ana a little bit more.
The lift arrived at the tenth floor, and the doors slid open with a cheerful ding. “I’m glad you noticed that I’m not, Miss Croft,” Ana said.
“I’m not blind Ms. Gauchomme. And I’m sure that Falshingham noticed as well.”
“Eric noticed many things about me,” said Ana, trailing Lara down the hall.
What’s that supposed to mean…? “He’s always been a real gentleman as far as I know...”
“No, Miss Croft, nothing like that. I was not meaning to accuse him of anything. He is observant and insightful, that is my meaning.”
Lara opened the door to her room and ushered Ana inside.
“English is not your first language, is it?” asked Lara, eager to be insightful and observant.
Ana busied herself by wandering around the room, inspecting the furnishings. She selected a chair that pleased her, and sat down upon it. “No, Arabic is my mother tongue.” Her eyes took in every aspect of the room, from the wallpaper and trim to the pictures hung above the queen-sized bed. “Hebrew after that. English, for me, came third.” She had the look of a child released in a candy store. “Your room is well-kept, Miss Croft.”
“Please, call me Lara.” Lara sat down on the bed nearest to Ana’s chair, stretched backwards, then crossed her legs and sat upright.
Another glowing smile from Ana greeted her words. “Lara, then. Yes…it is a beautiful name.”
“Thank you.” Lara wondered why Ana’s approval pleased her so much. “Can I get anything for you? Tea? Coffee?” She smirked, with a glint in her eye. “Scotch?” “No thank you,” Ana replied. “I don’t drink. A glass of water would suffice.”
“Certainly.” Lara rose from the bed and toddled off to the mini refrigerator in the corner of the room. She opened it, removed a bottle of water from inside, then poured two glasses full, dropped in some ice from the bucket on the sink, and returned. Ana’s hand closed around the glass as Lara set it on the table next to her. “Thank you.”
“So,” Lara began, sitting back down on the bed, “Perhaps you'll be kind enough to tell me what task you and Falshingham have in mind for me?”

Ana frowned, her brows drawing together over her dark eyes. “Let me first ask you a question. Are you religious?”
Lara was surprised by the question but assumed it must be relevant to what Ana was going to tell her. “I am not overly religious, no. I was raised Church of England—Uniting Church now—but aside from funerals, the only churches I’ve been in recently have been ancient ones, mostly out of vogue now, I’m afraid..”
Lara paused but Ana was waiting for her to say more. “Hmm. This is harder than I thought. My perspective on religion is, well, rather skewed by the life I’ve led. I’ve seen some amazing things Ana, things you would not believe if I told you.”
The ends of Ana’s cheeks turned upwards for a fraction of a second.
“You smile, but I have seen some incredible things. I’ve encountered creatures that named themselves gods, and not without reason, so I’m bound to have a different viewpoint about religion. All my beliefs have been changed by what I’ve lived through. Ten years ago I would have regarded Falshingham as, at best, eccentric; at worst, stark raving mad. Now I tend to believe whatever he tells me, however weird it might sound.
“I now believe in the supernatural. But do I believe in an all-powerful, all-knowing God? I do. I’m not sure what form he takes, or what his essential nature is, but I do believe in him. Or her. I rather doubt God has a sex.
“I don’t really subscribe to any particular church. I might put Uniting Church on my visa applications but that is to avoid leaving that line blank. There are so many different churches, so many different religious beliefs---I don’t know which one, if any, is most valid. I regard churches and organised religion as man’s attempts to reach God, so they are flawed, as humans are flawed. But not believing in a specific religion doesn’t mean I don’t believe in God.
“I have some odd reasons for my belief, if you wish to hear them.”
Ana nodded.
“Falshingham once said that whenever a powerful artifact surfaced, something--call it God or call it fate--something contrived to get me involved in its retrieval.” Lara gave a self-conscious smile. “That makes me sound conceited, but I’ve had more success really than I deserve to have had.”
“You believe you are an agent of God? An angel?”
“Don’t mock me. I don’t mean that at all. I just... Let me put it this way. The fact that I am still alive, after all the tight spots I’ve been in, proves to me that I have someone, or something, more substantial than luck on my side.”
Lara grimaced. “And I imagine that sounds just as conceited as what I said before…”
“Not at all.” Ana replied warmly, looking directly into Lara’s eyes. “I believe your existence, especially your continued existence, is proof that God also exists.”
Lara feel her cheeks growing hot in response to Ana’s admiring gaze. “Well I hope I’ve answered your question, because it’s past time you started answering some questions yourself.”
Ana’s smile faded so quickly that Lara regretted her words. “I will tell you my story Lara, but I would prefer to tell it in my own way, rather than by answering your questions.”
“That’s fine Ana. We can save question time until the end.”
Ana was puzzled by that comment for a few moments, then she sighed, stood up and moved to the hotel window. She was silent for a long time, looking out at the streets of Jerusalem. Lara waited without comment.
“This country…this region, has seen countless wars over countless years,” began Ana. Lara was tempted to remind her that she was familiar with the local history, but maintained her silence.
“My family has been involved in many of those battles. To understand my situation, you need first to understand my family’s history. Have you heard of my family?”
“Possibly. Did you have an ancestor who fought in the Crusades?”
“Many of my family fought in those wars, though the one that history remembers, Robert Gauchomme, was recruited by Count Raymond of Toulouse into the First Crusade.”
Lara nodded. “Go on.”
“He went on the Crusade to receive forgiveness for sins he had committed, sins that Pope Urban said would be expunged by his holy mission. I do not know what these crimes were, but I suspect they were plaguing my ancestor’s conscience, since he had previously been a critic of Urban and the Catholic church in general.
“He endured much, as all the Crusaders did: famine, disease and the rigours of warfare. Through all this, though, he was one of that Crusade’s greatest warriors. He was known as the Hero of Antioch, did you know that? Besieged in that city by the Turkish army, weakened by dysentery, he led a successful rout of the besiegers. They speak now of the Holy Lance of Antioch inspiring the Crusaders to make such a bold move. They spoke then of the Gauchomme Shield, the invincible symbol of my ancestor. It bore the red cross of the Crusaders, with my family’s coat of arms filling its four quadrants.”
“Then this shield is what you wish me to find?” asked Lara.
“You have heard of it then? The Gauchomme Shield?” Ana’s eyes brightened with excitement.
“Sorry, no. The Holy Lance, of course, is well known. But this is the first I’ve heard of a Gauchomme Shield.”
Ana frowned then turned her face away. “No one now knows the truth,” she muttered in a despairing voice. “The victors write the histories and write only what they know, and only that which they wish to be known. The Gauchomme Shield has been forgotten... No, not forgotten. Expunged from the written histories. It offends them still.”
“Offends them? Offends who?”
When she turned back to Lara her eyes glistened with tears. “Be patient, please. There is much still to tell.”
Lara could feel her anguish, even though she did not understand it. She felt the urge to reach out to Ana, to try to comfort her, but the young woman had moved back to the window. Ana took some deep breaths, then turned back to Lara.
“The Gauchomme Shield was the reason for victory after victory for the Crusaders. Either that or the man who bore it, believe what you will. Tripoli, Beirut, Tyre, Acre…all opened their gates to the Crusading armies, to Robert Gauchomme.”
Lara, the consummate historian, kept her skepticism well hidden.
“But when the Crusaders took this city, Jerusalem, the massacre that followed was nothing short of brutal. Men, women, children, Muslim, Jew, anybody that breathed was an enemy to the conquerors. There was a bloodlust that drove the Crusaders mad, right here in their holiest of cities. And Robert Gauchomme bore witness to all those horrors.
“It changed him forever. Others sought absolution for their crimes at the Holy Sepulchre, but not Robert. He could see only hypocrisy in seeking forgiveness from the church that had sent them there to commit such crimes. He kept his silence, but inside he raged at the cruelty he had witnessed. He fought no more for the Crusaders.
“He was nevertheless rewarded for his heroism. He was granted lands east of Acre, where he proceeded to build a castle. His Christian comrades applauded this, thinking he sought to add another defense to the perimeter of their lands. When it was completed however, he converted to the Islamic faith.”
Ana paused, expecting Lara to say something. “This may not seem so strange today, but in medieval times this sent shock waves throughout Christendom. For many years, Robert’s European relatives refused to believe the conversion was unforced. When they at last realised what he had done, they regarded him as the greatest traitor since Judas Iscariot.
“To make matters worse, he took the Gauchomme Shield and removed the cross from it, replacing it with a crescent moon. The symbol of Christian victory was converted to an Islamic religious icon. Robert was determined to enrage the Christian church that he had fought for, and not just with the Shield, I’m afraid.
“He took a Muslim wife and my family, the Eastern Gauchommes, was born. Ours was a family that the European Gauchommes were determined to destroy. Robert, his family, and the Infidel’s Shield, as they now called it, were anathema to them. They hated us with a passion and hate us still.”
Ana’s voice quavered slightly with her last statement. After a few moments she continued in a more measured tone.
“The Gauchommes sent a small army in the Second Crusade. Most died at sea.
Robert’s son fought for the Muslim army and was in Damascus when the Crusaders lay siege to the city. The siege was fruitless, the Crusade was a disaster. And the Infidel Shield was said to have saved Damascus.”
This was not quite the history that Lara was familiar with but she maintained her silence.
“When Saladin conquered the Christian cities, members of my family fought alongside him. While Saladin was respected by the Christians, my family were deemed the lowest of the low, the seed of treachery. The European Gauchommes had, and still have, priests and cardinals in their number. When the armies of the Third Crusade were mustered, they had the ear of Pope Gregory. It was not through chance that Acre was the site where Phillip landed his army. The destruction of my family and the taking of the Infidel Shield were important goals of the French army, especially of the Gauchommes within that force.
“The men of my family were in Acre while it was besieged, and most of them were captured when it fell. They were among the thousands executed by King Richard before he made his way south towards Jerusalem.
“Our family castle was taken by a small French force led by Yves Gauchomme. Someone, one of our family servants perhaps, must have revealed information about the castle’s escape tunnel, enabling the Christian forces to gain entry to the castle. They did not face much opposition. The occupants of the castle were, with few exceptions, the women of my family. And they were put to the sword.”
Ana’s face was grim, her eyes dark with anger.
“Two of the women, two young cousins, were kept alive. The murderous soldiers found them beautiful and took their pleasure with them, raping them repeatedly. Then, when it became apparent that the Infidel Shield was hidden somewhere in the castle, they were tortured to find its location. They died in terrible pain, knowing that everything they held dear had been destroyed. And the shield they had died to protect sailed back to France with Philip’s army. With its retrieval, the king had no further interest in the Crusade and recalled the remainder of his forces.”
Ana looked at Lara to gauge the effect her story was having on her. Lara sat calmly in her chair, waiting for Ana to continue.
“The Shield was stolen from my family, Lara, stolen through treachery and cruelty. I need you to help me bring it home.”
Lara waited for a few moments, measuring her response, before she replied. “Ana, what happened, what you’ve described, was centuries ago. I don’t know the facts about this Shield—your family may also be guilty of misrepresenting the history of the time—but whoever now holds the Shield will think of it as theirs, not yours, since they’ve held it for all this time....”
“It was stolen Lara, stolen from its rightful owners!”
Ana’s lip curled in derision. “How foolish of me to expect you to care about that. You, who have stolen more relics than a dozen Crusading armies-”
Lara felt a wave of nausea steal over her. She hated being the object of Ana’s scorn, and she felt a sudden profound guilt over all the trophies she had taken in her travels. Ana was not unjustified in her anger.
“Ana, I know how you feel-”
“You have no idea how I feel! You have no idea about anything! Falshingham should never have recommended you!” Ana was crying and her voice was ragged.
“Ana, I never said I wouldn’t help you, I just.... It’s not as straightforward as you suggest. We would have to steal the Shield again—steal it from its current owners.”
“People who have no right to it. Descendants of the men who raped, murdered, and tortured its rightful owners.”
“That was centuries ago...”
“Not really. Not to me, not to my family.”
Ana took a few deep breaths. “There’s another reason why we must succeed in this Lara, a reason that makes the pain of my ancient family an ongoing curse.”
She looked Lara in the eye and asked, “Do you believe in ghosts?”


Chapter 2.

They ate breakfast in Mikas, the village at the western end of the Prakesh Pass. Ana had said that it would take several hours to climb to the ruins of the Gauchomme castle.
The hotel where they had spent the night also provided a small cafe/restaurant, which was clean, hospitable and was, most importantly, the only cafe in the village.
Ana seemed nervous and pre-occupied. She ate her breakfast, consisting of rice wrapped in vine leaves and wafer thin slices of kebab meat, in dainty bites. It’s no wonder she’s so slim, Lara thought.
Ana’s eyes kept roaming over the cafe, warily watching the staff and other customers at their tables. “Don’t use my name here.”
Lara had already eaten her breakfast and was sipping at a Turkish coffee, and the order caught her completely off guard. “Why?” she asked, somewhat irritated by Ana’s continuing mysterious behaviour.
“Some of them have seen me here before, but they do not know my name. I would prefer they did not know of my link to the ruins. There would be too much curiosity.”
Lara finished her coffee, frowning at the bitter dregs. She swilled the remains for a moment, then signaled the waiter for another. At the rate Ana was eating, they would not be leaving for some time yet.
The girl was starting to frustrate her. She had asked, several times, why Ana insisted on their coming to the ruin of her ancestral home and her companion’s reply was always a variation on a theme. “I cannot tell you, with words alone, the importance of the Gauchomme Shield to my family. I can only show you.”
Lara watched Ana closely while the waiter provided a fresh cup of coffee. She did not deny Ana’s right to keep her secrets—she had many secrets of her own she would probably take to her grave—but she knew instinctively that Ana was not telling her all that she needed to know. Most of her questions were fended away by saying that all would be explained after they visited the castle.
Lara tried another tack. “Why was the castle never rebuilt?”
“The Prakesh Pass was never threatened by Crusaders again. And even then, centuries ago, the castle was haunted.”
Lara was tempted to smile but Ana’s expression forbade it. This was not the first time she had referred to ghosts, and Lara knew it was pointless to contradict her.
Much of Ana’s secretiveness probably stemmed from the fact that, judging by what she had said, many would consider her mad. Lara was more open-minded than most; she had seen too much to remain a cynic. Certainly a cynic would not have cancelled her last few lectures to be here, preparing to hike up a cliff face to find ghosts.
Ana’s eyes watched her closely. She felt as though the girl expected a reply from her, but she had nothing to say. Only that she better not be wasting my time…
She examined her reasons for being here and they seemed remarkably flimsy. Was she here because Falshingham had asked her to help? Was she intrigued by Ana’s story? Was she intrigued by Ana herself?
All of the above, she decided, the last option making her a little uncomfortable. Why did she feel such a need to help Ana, a woman whose existence had been unknown to her a few days ago? Why did the sadness in Ana’s eyes make her feel so protective of her?
“We’d better make a start,” she said impatiently, finishing her second coffee.
Ana did not object to leaving her breakfast unfinished. The waiter came rushing to their table when they stood up. Lara asked for some simple provisions for the afternoon, then queried Ana about what she would like.
“Nothing for me,” Ana replied quietly.
“You’ve barely eaten breakfast. You’ll be hungry later,” Lara warned, feeling like a mother hen.
“Nothing for me,” insisted Ana. She smiled at the waiter, who moved away to fill Lara’s order.
When they were alone, Ana added: “I will have no appetite when we reach the castle. I doubt you will feel much like food either.”

The last part of the mountain path was intact and they made their best progress of the day. Much of the morning had been spent climbing around the areas where the path had collapsed down the cliff-face. It was painfully obvious that the path was rarely used.
The Prakesh pass lay to the south below them. A stream was visible in its centre with a paved road winding beside it. Ana had told her that an occasional tourist bus traversed the pass, usually stopping to allow the driver to point out the haunted castle to his passengers.
The trail they followed cut back and forth along the southern face of Mount Prakesh. The peak of the mountain was swathed in snow, and the face they climbed was craggy, grey and cold.
Lara was finding the climb tiring and wondered if her fitness had dropped off during the lecture tour, during which her usual workouts had been infrequent. She carried her backpack and, although it was a familiar weight on her back, it nevertheless annoyed her that Ana had chosen to carry only a small parcel of brown paper. If she decides she wants some of my lunch she’s going to be disappointed, she grumbled to herself.
Ana moved with a grace and economy of effort which Lara attributed to familiarity with the trail. Footholds and handholds seemed to simply be wherever the girl reached, and she showed none of the usual concentration of someone climbing a vertical surface. She wondered how often her companion had climbed this forlorn path.
Then the rains came.
There was a drop in temperature and a sudden gusting wind that blew down from the mountains above them. The rain came hurtling from the heavens, as if trying to repel them from their course.
“Shit!” exclaimed Lara. She started to pull off her backpack but decided against it. By the time she’d donned her parka, she would be soaked to the skin anyway.
“We’re nearly there,” Ana called. Rather than letting the drenching rain perturb her, she seemed resigned to it.
A few minutes later the path curved into a plateau and the ruins of Gauchomme Castle became visible through the rain.
The scene was bleak. Formerly-tall stone walls had crumbled to rubble. Once-magnificent iron gates had rusted and fallen into twisted versions of their past selves. Everything looked utterly weather-beaten, time-lashed, and eroded. If there had ever been a splendour to the castle, Lara thought, there was certainly no evidence of it now. She had seen ancient temples, older than this structure, which still gleamed as when they were new. For Ana, the castle clearly still held some sentimental value and meaning. To anyone else, it was simply an eyesore from another time that no one had the heart to clean up and throw away though it was long since broken.

The path led through the open gateway into a wide-open yard, where clusters of stones and wood indicated the past presence of simple huts. Brownish grass sprang from the earth, mainly in and around the old houses. Wildflowers spread over the whole area like a blanket, lending an austere beauty to the place despite its desolation.
The castle itself stood in the background, nestled against the mountain. Despite the decay, it was still an imposing edifice. Most of its walls had collapsed and a murder of crows nested in its sole surviving turret. The archway still held a pair of rusted, twisted iron gates attached to it, but their grotesque shape prevented them from ever providing a defense again. Beyond the gate was darkness.
Lara looked at the ruined castle and murmured, “At least we’re not in Transylvania.”
Ana ignored her comment and moved through the first gateway and past the crumpled houses. Lara followed her, annoyed by her own flippant comment. This place was obviously very special to Ana, and being rude was uncalled for.
Ana stopped at a cleared area near the castle gate. Two unmarked stones stood from the earth, standing straighter than anything else among the ruins. Ana pulled her paper parcel from her belt and opened it. She withdrew two roses from the parcel and placed one on each grave, covering the stems with loose earth.
“Who is buried here?” asked Lara.
“Two young women who deserved better than the deaths that claimed them,” Ana replied grimly.
Ana’s face was dark and brooding. Lara could not tell if her cheeks were moist from the rain or tears. The feeling that she should be doing something other than just standing around while the girl paid her tribute gripped her, and she moved through the rain to gather a few wildflowers for the graves. It seemed a pathetic gesture, but Ana rewarded her with a weak smile.
“Let’s go inside,” she said quietly, her words almost inaudible through the pouring rain.
Lara nodded. They moved towards the huge stone gateway, climbed over the tangled iron gates, moved through the darkness of the stone archway, and emerged into a courtyard.
Lara got the distinct impression that she was being watched. Her instincts were usually correct and she was tempted to draw her pistols, but something about Ana’s walk made her steady her hand. “Has Falshingham ever come here?” she asked, not wanting to admit to her anxiety but wanting to know who else might be inside the ruined walls.
Ana shook her head, but didn’t turn around. “You are the first person I have brought here.”
Lara was not sure whether to be pleased or perturbed by that. She turned in a slow circle, taking in the crumbling walls to the east and the surprisingly well preserved keep to the west. The keep stood about forty metres high, a circular tower with one entrance at ground level. Slit windows were its only adornment. Lara stared up at the windows, peering through the persistent rain.
Something moved in the uppermost window.
Lara couldn’t be sure what it was, but she was positive it was human. She’d got the impression of a figure looking down at them, but had caught only a glimpse of it before it had moved away from the window.
“I don’t mean to alarm you,” she whispered, “but we’re not alone.” Again, her hand was drawn to one of the guns at her hips.
“No, Lara. We are not,” was Ana’s calm reply.
Lara replayed what she had seen in her mind. The brief glimpse of whatever it was left the impression of a pale face and dark clothing. Had the figure worn a dark coat with a high collar, or had long black hair? And why did the sight of it make her feel so edgy?
“What’s going on here, Ana?” This was getting ridiculous. Stumbling through haunted ruins with a girl who knew more than she was willing to tell…this wasn’t the reprieve from her lectures she had hoped for.
“That’s what you’re soon to learn,” replied Ana, looking her in the eye. The intense expression on Ana’s face was challenging and full of sorrow. Lara realized where she had seen that expression before: on Winston’s face whenever he talked about his comrades who died in the Great War.
“This is where the men of the household made their last stand,” continued Ana, her arms sweeping wide to indicate the entire courtyard. “When the gates fell, they knew it was a doomed effort. They were mere servants against soldiers. The warriors of my family had gone to fight at Acre, assuming that the fighting would never reach this place. Every man who stood in the defense of this castle was slain here, on the stones we now stand upon.”
Lara looked at their surroundings again, the hairs on the back of her neck starting to stand on end. There was an air of doom that still clung to the place. Her imagination teased her with the screams of the massacred. The rain continued to slash down at them and she could feel it running in rivulets over her stomach and down her spine. For a minute, it was red, colouring the rocky ground crimson. The screams subsided as Lara closed her eyes and shook her head from side to side in an attempt to clear it. When she reopened her eyes, there was no trace of the blood. The screams she had heard so clearly in her mind had been replaced by the dull moan of the wind passing through the ruined structure.
“Let’s move inside,” suggested Ana.
She led Lara to the door of the keep and produced an ornate key from the pocket of her jacket. The key dropped to stones soon after she revealed it, her fingers fumbling after it. Lara could sense her nervousness.
Lara knelt and picked up the key. It was an iron key, almost as big as her hand, made to fit an ancient lock.
Lara stood and looked at Ana, who gave her a small nod. Lara moved to the thick timbers of the keep door and inserted the key. She pushed at the ancient timbers and the door opened with a groan.
“I thought they smashed the door in?” Lara asked.
“We had it rebuilt from the original wood,” explained Ana. “We wanted the keep to be secure.” She hesitated for a moment. “You’re the first person, outside of my family, to be inside it.”
Ana and Lara stepped into the keep. Lara shuddered, surprised that it was not warmer out of the rain. Her second surprise was the orderliness of the interior. They stood in a large circular room, with a curved stone stairway winding up the wall to their left. There was a long wooden table in the centre of the room, still attended by chairs. Simple shelves on the walls bore ancient books, without a trace of cobwebs. Entering the keep was like stepping back in time.
“The women of the castle were taken here,” said Ana, continuing her grim recital. “Their sex did not save them. The soldiers were under orders to exterminate the entire household, orders they followed with enthusiasm.”
Lara cocked her head to one side, certain she had heard something echoing around the walls of the room. A cry of pain? The sound repeated itself, louder than before. A woman’s wail, a cry of grief and suffering. It had come from the foot of the staircase, though she could see nothing there except darkness. She realised that the stairs led down as well as up.
“Two of the women were spared the initial slaughter. Natalie and Sophie Gauchomme, cousins in my family, were beautiful, innocent young women. They had never taken up arms against the Crusaders, had never even seen Crusaders, until their attackers came crashing through the door we just passed through.”
There was a crashing, rending sound and Lara turned back to the door, drawing her pistols. There was nothing to fire upon, the door rested calmly on its hinges, even though the sound of its breaking still reverberated around the encircling walls.
“What…?” Lara’s uneasiness was growing into fear.
A scream tore through the room, a cry of abject terror. Lara turned quickly to the direction it had come from and saw, for only a moment, a veiled, dark-eyed woman clutching her stomach, where a bloodstain was spreading. A moment later the woman was gone and the room was empty, excepting Lara and Ana.
Lara looked at Ana, stunned by what she’d seen, her heart hammering in her chest. Ana’s face was strained and sorrowful but there was no fear, not even surprise, in her expression.
Lara began to voice a question but her throat went dry; the visitations had only just begun. Another scream erupted from her left, near the stone steps. She turned to see another woman, swathed in pale silk, kneeling as if in prayer. This time Lara also saw her attacker, dressed in mail and bearing a Crusader’s shield on his left arm. His right arm hefted a broadsword above his head, which he mercilessly swung down at the woman’s head. The vision vanished before Lara saw the sword connect with its target.
Lara understood what was happening--she’d discussed such things with Falshingham—but comprehension did not lessen her fear. Dozens of people had died in this room; defenseless women had been savagely murdered. Their distress, their terror, still resonated in the confines of the keep, echoing through the centuries. The scene of their slaughter was a nexus of their anguish and terror, emotions that had not died over time.
More screams percolated to the surface of this ancient cauldron. Several figures now moved across the floor stones. Crusaders swung their swords viciously, as if they moved across a battlefield. Women wailed and died and their distressed cries became a deafening cacophony.
One woman ran at Lara, her veil pulled from her terrified face. Lara tried to move aside but the pale figure ran through her left shoulder. Lara turned to watch the apparition and saw that an armoured figure stood in the doorway, sword drawn, ready to slay anyone who sought to escape. The other crusaders Lara had seen wore coarse beards, while this man grew a trim moustache, perhaps a sign of vanity.
The ghostly woman ran to one side of the knight but he moved swiftly to block her egress, chopping his sword down at her. She raised her arms to defend herself and the blade swung through her left arm, severing it at the wrist. She screamed, joining the awful chorus of suffering, while blood spurted from her stump. She collapsed to her knees, staring in horror at her ruined limb. The moustachioed knight smiled then swung his sword again, stoving in her skull.
Lara knew that she witnessed events from centuries ago, knew also that she was, herself, in no physical danger. Nevertheless she was terrified. She could feel the horror of the helpless women who had died here, hacked to death by merciless soldiers; she could feel it as if she were one of them.
The screams stopped and Lara could hear her own heartbeat in the sudden silence. But it was not total silence. She could hear a quiet sobbing, a sad, eerie sound after the mayhem she’d witnessed. She looked at Ana, thinking initially that the sound came from her. Her companion looked frightened but was not tearful.
The sobbing came again, a muffled sound that chilled her, knowing that it did not come from a living source.
She saw two huddled figures on the stairway, two crouching girls wrapped in each other’s arms. Their veils had been torn from their faces. A knight stood over them, sword ready, but he hesitated before using his weapon.
One of the girls turned her head away, burying her face in her friend’s shoulder. The other girl glared up at the soldier, defiant despite her helplessness and the tears in her eyes.
Such a lovely face! Despite the haziness of the image and the centuries that passed between these events and today’s, Lara could see a resemblance between Ana and her doomed ancestor. The girl was younger, her jawline stronger and her eyes darker, but there was no doubt that Ana and she sprang from the same family.
Lara admired the girl’s quiet courage. This, and her obvious beauty, had made her attacker falter in carrying out his orders. Since Lara already knew the cruelty in store for this young innocent, she almost wished for the soldier to use his bloodied sword.
Another figure appeared beside the soldier, placing a restraining hand on his sword arm.
“Non,” said the moustachioed knight. “Jouets.”
Lara felt a sudden rage at what she had heard. She wished she could strike out at this cruel Frenchman, clearly the leader of this vicous campaign. “Playthings,” he had said.
Then the ghostly figures were gone and Lara found herself standing on the stairs, only barely aware that she had moved there. She was breathing heavily and her heart was racing. She was both frightened and amazed by what she’d seen. And she was furious.
Ana approached her, her steps echoing from the stone walls in the sudden silence. She could see Lara’s agitation, just as Lara could see the sorrow in her deep brown eyes.
Lara tried to calm her breathing, tried to voice her outrage. All she managed to say was, “Who?”
“Yves Gauchomme,” replied Ana, instinctively understanding Lara’s question.
Lara wanted to say more but did not trust herself to speak. Obscenities were all that came to mind.
“I am sorry Lara,” said Ana. “There is more.”
Lara tensed, readying herself for more scenes of carnage. The circular room maintained a brooding silence.
She could hear a faint, distant sound. She turned her head up, straining to hear it. From upstairs came a vague, creaking sound.
She looked at Ana, who gave a barely perceptible nod. They moved slowly up the stairway. The sound became clearer as they approached its source. It was a creaking of wood, a slow, rhythmic sound, all the more eerie for its persistence.
The stairway led to a landing, then to a circular corridor, which surrounded a central room, with several doorways on the outer wall of the corridor. Only one stout wooden door had survived the ruin of the castle and it was from behind this door that the sound was coming.
Cree-uch. Cree-uch.
Lara waited at the door for Ana, who climbed the stairs and joined her slowly, perhaps reluctantly. Lara reminded herself that Ana had travelled this road before, had already witnessed all that she had seen, or would see. Ana made no move to open the door.
Cree-uch. Cree-uch.
The persistence of the creaking was maddening. A short time ago Lara would have assumed it was due to a loose shutter or a broken cupboard, even though she had seen neither shutters nor cupboards. After the grotesque tableau of the circular room, she now knew the source of the sound was nothing mundane.
Cree-uch. Cree-uch.
There was another sound present in this ominous rhythm, a muffled sound that she could not distinguish through the door’s timbers. It came with each creaking groan, like a murmur in a monstrous diseased heart.
Cree-uch. Cree-uch.
There was no alternative to going forward. Lara placed one hand on the door and pushed. The rusty protest of ancient hinges masked the other sound for a moment, then she was in the room. The source of the creaking was revealed.
A wooden bed, still dressed in ancient bed-linen, rocked back and forth in front of her eyes. It moved despite the absence of anyone, or anything, near it.
Another bed stood, still and silent, behind the first. The room’s outer wall had a slit-window, allowing a glimpse of grey sky and rain. Lara’s eyes flicked briefly in that direction, then back to the creaking bed.
Comprehension was slow to come, not arriving until she recognized the other sounds she’d heard. They were the low, muffled groans of a woman in pain. With each forward movement of the bed the groan came, a despairing breath from one who had forgotten how else to breathe.
There was a sharp cry of pain that came from the second bed, then it began its own sinister oscillation.
Cree-uch. Cree-uch.
The sounds from the second bed were not like the muffled groans from the first. These were anguished cries, soft but impassioned. “Non, non, non,” the voice wailed, a younger voice than the first, or one that had cracked from overuse. “Clement! Epargnez-moi, s’il vous plait!”
The creaking of the second bed ceased. Moments later there was a snapping sound, the sound of something impacting on soft flesh. The protests were silenced and did not return when the bed began creaking again.
Ana moved beside Lara and they exchanged brief, strained glances. Ana looked as though she might weep at any moment, while Lara was ready to commit murder.
Ana’s hand found its way into Lara’s and they stood side by side, facing this pantomime of suffering.
Cree-uch, cree-uch, cree-uch.
The first bed moved more violently now and its noise disguised any further groans. There was a shuddering of the old wood, then a brief silence. A low sigh rustled from the bed and Lara felt a cold chill pass through her. Moments later the creaking began again.
Cree-uch. Cree-uch.
The sound began to insinuate itself into Lara’s mind. She could feel it in her bones, she ached with every movement of the bed. It set her teeth on edge. She hated it; she abhorred what it represented.
A few minutes later it all stopped. The creaking and the groans were gone and the beds stood still and abandoned.
Only now did Lara wonder at how the beds could have remained intact over eight centuries. There were not even cobwebs in the dark corners of the roof.
“Does...?” Lara had to moisten her lips before voicing her question. “Does your family still maintain this keep?”
“Yes. But not in the way you mean.”
Lara suspected she knew, this time, what Ana meant. She moved cautiously past the beds, as if wary of waking something that slumbered within them. She approached the window and looked down at the courtyard where they had entered, wondering if she was looking from the window where she’d seen the dark figure standing. She believed she now knew who the figure was.
There was a piercing scream from somewhere below them. This was not a cry of fear, but the cry of a person in torment. It lasted for only a few seconds but seemed to echo throughout the keep.
Lara looked at Ana, who was frowning. She turned and moved out of the bedroom towards the stairs, with Lara following.
They descended the stairs, finding the circular entry room still empty. Another agonised scream informed them that the source was further below them.
The stairs continued below the floor of the entry, twisting down the wall of a subterranean room. Lara was reminded of Falshingham’s dungeon as she slowly eased her way down the stone steps. When torches in wall sconces flamed into life she saw that the comparison was a valid one; the room was a torture chamber.
She hesitated with the realisation. This was not the foible of an eccentric Englishman, this was a place where people had been deliberately subjected to extreme pain. Falshingham’s dungeon had always amused her, but there was nothing amusing in this grim place. There was silence now, ominous silence, but the screams she had already heard convinced her that this room had actually been used for its intended purpose.
Ana paused on the steps behind her, sharing her reluctance to descend further. When Lara turned to her, the shadows on her face were deep, making her beautiful face appear ghoulish.
“We must go down,” Ana said, as though she were trying more to convince herself than Lara.
Lara nodded then descended to the stone floor of the chamber.
Two wooden frames stood at a set incline of about 30 degrees, facing each other across the room. A small workbench stood between them. Leather straps were still present on each frame, no doubt acting as manacles for wrists and ankles. Their survival was further evidence that something was keeping this scene alive, that someone had not forgotten what had happened here.
Lara believed she understood the positioning of the frames. Two people had been tortured here, each within view of the other, so they could share the other’s agonies.
The cruelty of this made Lara’s flesh creep but she forced herself to move across the room to the workbench. With great relief she observed that the bench was empty.
Then her vision swum before her eyes and suddenly the bench was filled by a dozen gruesome instruments; clamps of various sizes, piercing needles, tongs, brands, knives and other devices she had neither comprehension of nor any wish to comprehend. What she could see made her wince, then they vanished scant seconds later.
Another scream tore from the frame to her left, the wailing cry of a person in mortal agony, like an animal wounded beyond repair.
It left Lara shuddering.
She reminded herself that this room had been unoccupied for centuries; she scolded herself for feeling so wretched when nothing actually threatened her. Her terror persisted.
“Ou est le bouclier?” asked a disembodied voice.
There came another scream, tearing itself from a suffering soul. This one was accompanied by the nauseating sound of bone grinding. The wooden frame shuddered and shook; its tethers straining.
“Ou est le bouclier?” The voice was detached, unaffected by the misery.
There was no reply, only an awful sobbing.
Footsteps could be heard, boots on stone, moving from the frame to the table in the centre of the room. The steps stopped and there was a rattling sound, as the spectral torturer selected his instrument.
Lara knew who this man was, without the need to see him again. She knew that French accent, knew him from his repetitive question, “Where is the shield?”
It was Yves Gauchomme who had tortured these girls, tormenting his own cousins.
Footsteps moved back to the left frame and the sobbing turned into a plaintive whimpering. There was a clanking sound, the sound of an instrument snapping shut.
“Ou est le bouclier?” The voice had not changed in tone or inflection, it did not urge or cajole, it merely persisted.
There was a moment’s silence then the screaming began again. This time it was not brief. Lara could hear nothing else over the poor girl’s wailing; she did not know what was being done to her—rather what had been done to her. Her stomach lurched at the possibilities.
“Ou est le bouclier?”
The screams continued, reverberating from the walls, deafening and terrifying. Lara could barely breathe for the tension in her own body. What was he doing to her?
“Arret! Assez!” These weak cries came from the right frame. The voice sounded exhausted.
The screams did not stop, they only increased in intensity. Whatever was being done to her, it was now even worse.
“Ou est le bouclier?”
The screaming stopped, there were a couple of ragged breaths, then silence.
The silence was more awful than the screams.
From the right frame came wails of grief. The footsteps moved back to the table and some dire instrument was thrown down onto it.
The girl on the right frame began praying to Allah. Her voice was desperate.
The footsteps moved to one of the wall torches near the right frame. “Allah est Dieu faux. Ou est le bouclier?”
The torch light flickered and Lara thought she could see something thrust into the flames. The girl continued her prayers to Allah. The torturer waited for his instrument to become red-hot.
Lara had seen enough. She turned toward the stairs but was prevented by something that clutched fiercely at her arm.
Her heart almost halted in her chest but when she turned her head she saw that it was Ana that held her. It was clear that this place was taking its toll on her also. In the torchlight her face was dark and shadowed; she looked ten years older than when they had arrived.
“Ou est le bouclier?”
That abominable, passionless voice persisted, coming now from beside the right frame. Nothing but an answer would placate it.
Then there was a searing, scorching sound and cries of agony rent through the air again.
For a moment she could see them. Yves Gauchomme stood beside the frame, where the older of the girls was strapped, spread-eagled, her clothes in tatters upon her, her slim young body ruined by cuts and burns. He held a pointed brand in his hand, its tip glowing red, its tip...
Its tip was in her right eye.
Lara staggered back to the wall, stunned by the brief, flickering image she’d seen.
Then there came a scuffling sound from the stairs above them. Someone was entering the dungeon in haste. The sounds reached the floor but no visible person appeared.
“Yves! Nous avons le bouclier! Nous l’avons!”
The burning sound ceased. The screaming stopped. The abject, despairing tears that replaced it were no better. It tore at Lara like a physical assault.
To have lost all her family, to have seen her household slaughtered and her cousin tortured to death--to have endured so much, for naught. The Crusaders had found the Shield.
There was the sound of a blade unsheathed, then moments later the weeping ceased.
Lara felt physically ill. She momentarily hated Ana for dragging her through this horror chamber but she understood why it had been necessary. It wasn’t enough that she knew what had been done, she had to see it, to experience it, in order to understand.
There was movement at the frame and Lara swallowed nervously, fearing what else she would be forced to witness. Mists swirled around the frame, slowly coalescing into a visible figure. Lara recognised her, despite the damage done to her and the pallor of her apparition. She could see Sophie Gauchomme, standing by the frame where she’d died, looking at the two living intruders.
“Can she... see us?” asked Lara.
Ana nodded. Her eyes did not leave the face of her ancestor.
It was no longer a beautiful face. Dried blood caked the long dark hair and streaked her face as grotesque make-up. Her right eye socket was blackened and empty. Blood oozed from a gruesome wound in her throat.
Her ruined, harrowing gaze turned to Lara.
Lara felt a chill run through her, feeling both fear and, for reasons she did not understand, profound shame.
“<She is a friend Sophie,>” said Ana in Arabic. “<She will help me... help us.>”
Ana shot a desperate searching look at Lara. Lara understood what was being asked. “<I will seek out the Shield with Ana.>”
Ana nodded, then took a few steps forward, toward the apparition. “We will regain the Shield.”
That ravaged face seemed to ponder this, doubt etched in the blistered skin. Sophie Gauchomme almost smiled and she reached out a hand towards Ana. Her hand was mangled; three of her fingers had been crushed and one was missing below the first joint. Nevertheless the gesture was graceful and strangely gentle.
Ana trembled as the hand touched her cheek but she managed a smile on her face.
Then Sophie Gauchomme was gone.


Chapter 3.

Victor Heche did not enjoy reporting bad news to his employer. Henri Gauchomme was a demanding taskmaster, but that alone did not trouble him; Victor had faced down plenty of hard bastards in his life. The main uneasiness extended from his doubts about Henri’s sanity.
Victor stood in Henri’s den, facing the man across the ancient oak table that served as his desk. The elegant pillars of Castille Gauchomme supported the room’s stone walls, from which portraits of past Gauchommes looked down at them.
“She’s recruited someone else?” roared Henri, his fists clenched on his desk. “Dear God in Heaven, you’d think she’d have learned her lesson from the last time!”
Victor kept his gaze fixed on the crucifix Henri wore around his neck, avoiding the wildness in his employer’s eyes. He would have liked to know what previous episode Henri referred to, but decided to wait and see if he was told more about it, rather than risk Henri’s rage by asking.
“Who is it she’s taken on now? Do you know even that much?”
Victor did not react to the criticism. He had worked for the Gauchomme family for almost three years and had learned to avoid aggravating the head of the family. “We have a photo,” was his measured reply.
“Then, Monsieur Heche, why am I not looking at it?” He added the word “fool…” under his breath in a whisper, but Victor caught it by reading the man’s lips.
Victor smiled wryly inside; he was a long way from being a fool. He knew that his news would enrage Gauchomme and he had brought the photo to make sure that Henri did not accuse him of fabricating the liaison he’d uncovered.
He put his briefcase on Henri’s desk and produced a white envelope from inside. He pushed the envelope across the desk; it was simply too far to reach over without bending, and if there was one thing Victor Heche never wanted to do, it was bow before Henri Gauchomme.
While Henri scanned the photographs within the envelope, Victor intently averted his eyes. He studied the paintings that hung on the walls of Gauchomme’s den. He’d seen them before, of course, but looking at the faces of the Gauchomme ancestors was preferable to seeing the mad rage brewing on their modern day equivalent.
“Damn it, Heche! This is Lara Croft!”
Victor nodded sternly, glad that Gauchomme had recognised her. If he’d presented her name to Henri, the suggestion would probably have been played off as wild speculation at the least, and grievous error at the worst. The photos, however, did not allow him to deny the truth.
“Where were these taken? When?”
“They were seen together in Paris last night. They have booked a train for Carcassone tomorrow.”
“May she rot in Hades, where she belongs…” Victor didn’t know whether he meant the girl, or Ms. Croft, but he wasn’t about to ask. “You know that my brother, the Bishop of Toulouse, arrives here tomorrow?”
Victor was tempted to tell Henri how many times he’d heard about “my brother, the Bishop of Toulouse” and his upcoming visit. He instead limited himself to a curt nod.
“They must not be allowed to come here. Deal with them. Tonight!”
“The Croft woman has a formidable reputation, as I am sure you already know. Do you want her eliminated as well?”
Henri looked down at the uppermost photo. Lara and Ana were sitting in an outdoor cafe, smiling at some unheard jest, oblivious to the telephoto lens aimed at them.
Henri placed his fingers on Lara’s face and sighed. “Quelle domage… The Croft woman has placed her faith in the wrong quarter. So pretty, isn’t she?”
Victor did not allow himself to be distracted, nor did he allow any room for misinterpretation. “If we find the Arab girl alone—if Croft does not become a problem for us—do you still want the Englishwoman taken care of?”
Gauchomme scowled. Any genuine regret he’d felt had apparently evaporated. “Of course I want you to kill her! You know she defiled the resting place of the Ark of the Covenant? And she’s preached that the Egyptian Gods Set and Horus still exist? Destroy her, Heche! Let her share the flames of Gehenna with my damned cousin.”

Lara was careful not to rush into this venture. She was as determined as Ana to restore the Gauchomme Shield to Acre, but she was more cognizant of the fact that the modern day Gauchommes were not the ones who had so violently stolen it.
They stayed in Paris for a few days after arriving in France. Lara wanted some time to get some perspective on what they were attempting, time to gather some information on their objective.
The Gauchommes could be found throughout France and numbered both politicians and priests among them. The more she learned about them, the more surprised she was that she’d not been aware of the family before now. If they’d been English aristocracy, rather than French, she’d probably have been related to them.
The head of the family, Count Henri Gauchomme, lived in the family’s medieval home in Carcassone. It seemed likely that the shield and the titled member of the family would reside together, so Lara concentrated her research on him.
Ana did not complain about Lara’s delay in action; she was less morose than she had been in Israel and exuded, instead, a coltish enthusiasm. She was excellent company. With her, Lara was able to indulge in a pleasure she rarely enjoyed: they went shopping.
“We need the gowns, Ana,” explained Lara. “Henri Gauchomme is staging a lavish reception for his brother Pierre, the Bishop of Toulouse. It will be our best chance to enter the estate, hopefully using smiles rather than pistols. There’s also the chance that the Shield will be on display. Pierre has not been home for five years and he may want to see it again.”
They were standing in one of the more prestigious fashion boutiques in Paris. Lara was holding a strapless gown up to Ana’s chest, examining the dress and its intended wearer with a critical eye.
“The dress is lovely Lara and it would be a wonderful gift, but I would not be comfortable wearing it.”
“I admit, I wouldn’t be able to carry it off myself,” replied Lara. “I’d be falling out of it. But the colour is perfect for you.”
“I see. So it’s perfectly fine then if I fall out of it?” joked Ana.
“You can wear a strapless bra underneath it,” Lara snorted. “The...mechanics are a little more difficult for me.”
Ana lowered her gaze to Lara’s chest and smiled. “Maybe they have a gown for you with a built-in crane.”
“That’s quite enough cheek from you, young lady. Now get into the change room and try it on.”
One of the boutique staff led Ana toward the changing area while another two hovered around Lara. Judging from the prices, she reflected, the cost of having so many attendants in the salon must have been built in.
“Would mademoiselle care to see our Versace selections?”
Lara nodded. She was trying to convince herself that she did not enjoy this pretension and she was failing. She had almost decided to purchase a slinky black gown when Ana emerged from the changing area.
A sudden silence had fallen over the boutique. Staff and other customers all turned their eyes to see Ana emerge, her slim figure draped in a sea-green gown. The exposed skin of her shoulders was pale and flawless, her dark-eyed beauty had managed to enchant the whole place. She moved with the aloof grace that had impressed Lara on their first meeting, but Lara could now tell that there was a sense of insecurity behind this facade of confidence. It was shyness rather than pride that caused Ana to avoid the eyes that stared at her.
“Magnifique,” muttered one of the men who had been assisting Lara. He was demonstrably gay, and he must see beautiful, elegant women every day, but his face was alight with awe and delight as he watched Ana.
The girl blushed at the attention. “I’m not used to showing so much skin.”
“You look stunning,” said Lara, feeling unaccountably proud of her companion.
Ana smiled a radiant smile though she scoffed at the compliment. “I’ll need to stun a few people if we proceed with your plan to march into the lion’s den.”
Lara turned her head to the man attending Ana, spreading the folds of her gown. “Un moment, s’il vous plait.”
The man bowed, threw a knowing wink at Lara, then withdrew to a discrete distance.
“He winked at me,” muttered Lara when her companion got within whispering distance.
“I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve been winked at,” replied Ana.
“No...but he’s as camp as a row of tents. Why wink at me? It was as though he was acknowledging some secret between us.”
“I’d rather discuss our possible murder by the Gauchommes instead of the wink of a gay Frenchman, if you don’t mind.”
“Ana, even if the Gauchommes learned who we are, they’re hardly going to kill us because of it, especially in front of all the dignitaries there. You’re being paranoid.”
“Paranoia helps keep me safe.”
“I believe it’s time you explained yourself, Ana. There are things you haven’t told me and I’m tired of waiting to hear them.”
Ana frowned, her brown eyes darkening, the lines of her face tightening. Lara felt a surge of regret for having questioned her, but she was determined to learn Ana’s secrets.
“It would be best if we spoke at the hotel...”
“No, Ana. Now. You’re saying it’s dangerous to attend this reception. I want…no, I need to know why.”
“Because they want to destroy me,” Ana replied in a tone implying she couldn’t believe she had been asked such a question. “They want to exterminate my family! You believe that such a feud between our families is ancient history, but I assure you, it is not!”
Lara was surprised by Ana’s outburst. She said nothing, waiting for Ana to explain herself.
“Just as we have not forgotten the stolen shield, the thieves have not forgotten us. And murder is still in their nature.”
Though nothing in her research of the Gauchommes corroborated Ana’s accusations, Lara found herself believing her.
“We’ll buy the gowns anyway Ana, then consider whether or not the reception is the right way to gain entry to the estate.”
“But they are so expensive! If we are not going to wear them...”
“I’m not exactly penniless Ana. I’d be happy for you to have the gown for future use anyway.”
“But it is not right! I have asked you to aid me in this quest, you should not have to pay me—rather the reverse.”
“As I’ve said to others, I play for sport, not for money. I’m with you until you have the shield.”
Ana’s grateful smile erased her anger and Lara was pleased to see it.
“Now, we’ve got you decked out. Let’s choose something for me.”

The hotel foyer was breathtaking in its opulence. The floor was a mosaic of tiled fleur-de-lis, the columns that stretched to the roof were black marble, the stairway was sweeping and grand.
The concierge was obsequious.
His oily hair was swept back from his broad face, his thin lips smiling at the sight of them. He raced from behind the marble reception counter when they entered from the street, not waiting for them to approach him. He bowed and kissed their hands with Gallic panache, his lips spending more time on Ana’s fingers than Lara’s.
Even after travelling with Ana for a week, Lara was still amazed by how people treated her quiet companion. Lara was no stranger to male attention, was famous in her own right, yet Ana, through the sheer perfection of her face, was treated like royalty wherever she went.
Lara had female friends and none of them could rival Ana’s exotic beauty. She was not envious of the attention given to the girl, of course. She was rather glad to have that attention diverted away from herself, but she was surprised by the way men treated her. She had known since her teenage years that men gave special treatment to beautiful women but she was now learning that different beauties were treated differently. Were she alone, this suave Frenchman would doubtless still be kissing her hand but would do so while stealing glances at her body. For Ana, he was a paragon of gallant charm, with eyes only for Ana’s face. His compliments for Ana were polite and straightforward; for her, they would have contained sexual innuendoes.
If Ana was often treated as a princess, Lara felt frequently treated like a porn queen.
She might be at least partly to blame. The face she showed the world was of a lively, uninhibited, adventurous spirit, someone who would appreciate rough humour and tough men. She was certainly no longer the English rose she’d been at Ana’s age. She no longer expected to be treated as an innocent, or even as a “lady”, nor did she want to be. The events of recent years had done nothing to contradict the world’s view of her. There were countless internet sites dedicated to her, most of them more interested in her appearance than her accomplishments. And she should have vetoed the photo they used on the sleeve of her last book…the pose and dress made her look like a slut. And then there was the Sports Incorporated cover...
‘Perhaps I should hire a PR agent to work on my image,’ she thought, then grinned to herself at her own suggestion. Maybe she was more put out by the attention Ana received than she was willing to admit.
The concierge had led them to the elevators and had pressed the call button for them before returning, reluctantly, to his counter. Ana was watching Lara’s face with interest. “What is amusing you?”
“Men,” replied Lara. “They fall over themselves whenever you’re around.”
Ana nodded. “They do so for you too, Lara. You are a beautiful woman, from head to toe.”
Lara was relieved when the elevator arrived. She stepped into the car to avoid replying to Ana’s compliment.
Ana followed her, saying, “I am not comfortable with their eyes upon me. I would prefer to wear the veil, but I do not wish to make myself too obvious for my enemies.”
Lara laughed. “Certainly, not wearing one is a wonderful disguise. Nobody has noticed you, except perhaps the concierge, the two men in the cafe, the entire staff at the boutique...”
“All right, Lara,” Ana interrupted, her lips curling in the corner. “I am not skilled at blending in. This is your world, not mine.”
The elevator doors opened at their floor and they stepped out. They walked over a Persian carpet that ran lengthways along the hallway, past small landscape paintings that adorned the walls between the numbered doors. Some maintenance men in coveralls were working with gas tanks at a heating outlet at the far end of the hallway. They looked up from their work, their eyes lighting up at the sight of Ana.
Lara stifled a groan. Even here, near their hotel room, men could not resist the sight of her companion.
Ana was more dismayed by the attention than Lara. She stopped walking and her eyes widened. “Lara...!” The word was barely a squeak.
The workmen were lifting the gas tanks and the apparatus that housed them, swinging them onto their backs…
Understanding came to Lara in slow flashes, like stills from a photo album. Time slowed to a crawl. Lara first recognised that the workmen were donning flame-throwers, something completely out of place in this plush hotel corridor. Second, she saw them for the assassins that they were. Third, she realised she had no weapon to combat them with and that she and Ana were in serious danger.
Ana was already turning to flee up the hallway. Lara hesitated, wondering if she could cross the distance between them to attack their enemies before they could activate their weapons. It took only a few precious seconds to realise that such a move would be suicidal. She might be able to dispose of one man in the available time, but not both.
She turned and fled, several paces behind Ana. She could hear the roar of flame erupting to life behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder while she ran. Both men had flames flickering at the nozzles of their weapons. They were ready to use them.
Lara had encountered flame-throwers before. She knew their range. She knew that they could bathe the entire corridor in burning petrol if they chose to.
Ana was running swiftly ahead of her. Lara’s mind paused to admire how fluently she moved. It occurred to her that this view of Ana, her brown hair swept behind her, her slim legs pounding across the carpet, this might be the last thing she lived to see.
She glanced up at the elevator display and saw that the car had left their floor. There was no time to call another, there was no time for anything. Looking forward again she saw that Ana had almost reached the corner, but she was seconds behind her. Too far.
She could hear the roar of flames behind her as her enemies intensified the flames they wielded.
She prepared herself, as much as she could, for the onset of terrible pain.
She heard a door open behind her and a voice speaking in indignation. “Please, no running in...”
Time slowed even further. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw an elderly gentleman stepping out of his room into the corridor. Seconds later, he was engulfed in a fierce burst of flames. His dressing gown became a robe of fire, his hair scorched and withered under the heat. His skin began to melt from his body. The corridor was filled by the stench of roasting flesh and the doomed man’s awful screams.
Lara had no help to offer and no time to offer it. The elderly man’s intervention had cost him his life, but had spared hers. The corridor around her became an inferno. Flames roared along the corridor to her right, but were blocked by the man’s body behind her. The right hand walls were scorched by flame, the paintings began blazing, but she was still unscathed.
She raced around the corner to her left, where Ana had run moments before. There was an abrupt drop in temperature as she entered the adjoining hallway. She could hear harsh French obscenities uttered behind her. She did not hear any regret in the voice, only anger and frustration.
There was a wooden staircase a few paces away and Ana was a few steps down the descending stairs, looking back to check if Lara was following.
“Keep going and don’t stop for anything!” Lara yelled, running to the stairway. Ana turned and dashed swiftly down the stairs. When Lara reached the steps she took the ascending stairs, hoping to lead their enemies away from Ana.
When she reached the next floor up she could hear them below her. There were a few muffled words then footsteps raced up the stairwell. Lara ran along another hotel corridor, her eyes roaming the place, searching for some weapon to use against her pursuers.
Why, in God’s name, were they using Flame-throwers? They had already painfully demonstrated their dangerous inaccuracy. And she was having little difficulty keeping ahead of them, carrying the bulky tanks. Why not use guns, knives, or something saner? Something cleaner? Less obvious?
She reached the corner of the corridor and turned back to see one of the men had followed her to this floor, not both. An awful sick feeling worsened the fear she already felt. The other killer was hunting Ana and she could do nothing to help her.
The advantage the killers had was the range of the flame-throwers. In the confines of the hotel corridors she was a target of their weapons whenever she was within sight of them. She considered doubling back to their hotel room to get her pistols, but Ana would probably be dead before she could manage it.
She did not want to involve anyone else in the hotel; one death was enough. Though she ran past many numbered doors she did not knock upon any of them. She needed to deal with her pursuer herself, and quickly.
Her feet pounded the carpet beneath them. She had to round the next corner before her enemy reached the corner behind her. She glanced back. She could hear him running in her direction but he had not yet entered the hall. She cursed under her breath and quickened her pace.
She moved around another corner and almost came face to face with a fire extinguisher. With a harsh grunt, she placed one foot against the wall, both hands on the red cylinder, and tore it from its holding brackets. She turned it upside down, yanked out the pin, loosened the tap nozzle, and steadied it for use. She listened to the approach of her pursuer along the adjoining hallway, then stepped around the corner.
The Frenchman chasing her almost overbalanced trying to stop when she appeared in front of him. The wicked smile on her face was enough to unnerve him. He reached for the control of his weapon, but as he turned the flame jet up, he was soaked in a burst of chemical foam.
Lara smiled at the ridiculous sight of her floundering, foam-covered foe. Her smile vanished when his flame-thrower burst to life again. An arc of fire exploded towards her face.
She crouched and leapt back around the corner. As she threw herself away from her foe, a searing pain blasted up her right calf. She looked down to see that the lower right leg of her jeans was scorched by flame.
Her enemy raced after her, knowing she would not have time to flee far enough down the corridor to escape his weapon.
He turned the corner and she brained him with the fire extinguisher, swinging it fiercely into his face.
He dropped like a stone to the floor and she quickly removed the flame nozzle from his hands. She turned off the jet then checked his still form for a pulse. There was none. Her only weapon had proved more effective as a club than as an extinguisher. His nose and left cheek were stoved in, the awful assymetry of his face extending to his brow.
She wasted no time on him. Ana was still in danger.
There was still no one in the corridor when she ran back to the stairs. She could hear nothing as she rapidly descended the stairs. No alarms rang, no shouts were heard. The hotel seemed to be simply ignoring the drama being played out inside it.
She stopped at the floor below the room she and Ana shared. Had Ana gotten off here, or had she descended to a lower floor? All the way to the foyer?
She considered yelling to Ana, but if she were hiding, she would not be able to answer, and Lara did not want to reveal her own presence to the man threatening her.
There was a harsh scream from somewhere on the floor where she stood and she ran in the direction it came from. She feared for Ana and for a moment her mind was filled by the image of the girl being scorched by a flamethrower. She increased her speed.
Then the scream came again, moments after the first, and this time she realized it was not the scream of a woman. It echoed down the hollow spaces of the hotel, the cry of a creature in agony. At the same time as she was relieved that it was not Ana, she was also appalled by the suffering she heard.
The scream came from the far end of another corridor and by the time Lara had turned the corner, the scream had died. As had the screamer.
In a short service corridor, Ana was crouched over the body of the second assassin. The carpet was hunched up beneath the body. The hose of the flame-thrower was in its right hand, with the nozzle aimed at its face. The flames were extinguished now, but the melted remains of his face was the testimony of the damage dealt. She wasn’t even going to attempt to check a pulse.
Lara’s face was grim. “How did you...?”
Ana was equally stern. “I pulled the carpet beneath his feet, then grabbed the hose before he could regain his balance.”
Lara exhaled slowly. “That was a very risky way to tackle him...”
“But a successful one. When my family appointed me the task of recovering the shield, they had good reason to choose me. I am not unskilled in combat.”
“So I see.”
“Your foe is also dead?”
Lara nodded.
“Did anyone see you?”
Lara frowned. “See me? See me kill him, you mean?”
“That, yes, but did anyone see you pursued through the corridors?”
Lara considered the question for a moment, then realized that the only person who had stepped out of his room was the man who had died first. Surely the hotel’s residents had heard the conflict raging?
“No one saw me.”
“Then let us keep it that way.”
Ana stood and beckoned Lara to a fire escape door. There were sounds in the corridor behind them of people emerging nervously from their rooms. The opportunity to leave this scene undetected would soon be gone.
Lara followed Ana through the fire escape door and up the stairs to their own floor. As they walked toward their own room, past the scorched walls, Lara began to limp.
“You’re wounded,” said Ana, looking down at Lara’s scorched trouser leg.
“Yes,” said Lara with a wicked smile, “but you should see the other guy.”
“I’d better take a look at it.”
They stepped into their room and closed the door behind them. Lara was astonished that no one had seen them fighting their attackers. Through the windows, she could hear a police siren somewhere in the distance. She knew the police would want to interview her, but she had the option of telling them nothing, an option that was attractive.
After the violence outside, the quiet comfort of the room was like another world they’d stepped into. And with the danger gone, Lara began to feel the pain in her right calf.
“Take off your jeans and lie on the bed,” instructed Ana. “I’ll get the medical kit.”
Lara did as she was intructed, lying on her stomach, her face turned towards the draped window. Her heart was beating fast from her recent exertions and the bed felt unbelievably comfortable.
Ana returned a few moments later and sat on the bed beside Lara’s right leg. She gently applied a soft cream, rubbing it gently into the raw, tender area on Lara’s calf.
“Hmm,” sighed Lara. “That feels better.”
Ana smiled. “There is an anaesthetic in the cream, as well as an antiseptic. I don’t believe it will leave a scar.”
“If it does, it’ll just be another for my collection,” muttered Lara into the pillow.
“So I see.”
Ana touched the back of her right thigh, tracing the line of a small scar. Her touch was casual and gentle. “They’re easier to find by touch than by sight—your legs are so tanned they’re almost invisible. How many scars do you have?”
“I’ve never counted them.”
“Perhaps someone should,” offered Ana, finding another scar on the back of her left thigh.
“It could take a while,” murmured Lara, amused by Ana’s quiet attention.
“You have lovely legs,” observed Ana, running her palm over the swell of Lara’s thighs. “Slim, but strong.”
“I use the pool at home every day, when I’m there,” said Lara, her skin tingling under Ana’s gentle caresses.
“I’d imagine you could swim all day,” said Ana, her hands running freely over Lara’s thighs, her fingers trailing over Lara’s skin. “I’d imagine you would have stamina for anything you choose to do.”
Lara began to feel uneasy from Ana’s caresses. She could feel her body responding to the attention.
“Ana...” she began, wanting to gently discourage her companion.
“You wear shorts more often than you wear swimsuits,” deduced Ana, her fingers tracing the line where Lara’s tan faded to a paler brown.
“You’re quite the Sherlock aren’t you?”
“How did you come by this one?” asked Ana, interrupting her.
Ana was touching the top of her left thigh, at the edge of her panties. Her touch was casual but the area was intimate. Lara’s thighs and buttocks tensed at the gentle intrusion.
“I was bitten there,” replied Lara.
“Hmm. You’ve had some rough lovers?”
“No. Not a lover.” Ana’s persistent touch was confusing her. “Not a happy memory actually.”
“So much…pain.” Ana’s change in tone brought Lara’s head up.
“What did you say?”
“Pain,” Ana repeated. “You’re holding it inside. Every scar is a memory requesting release.”
Lara rolled over and fixed Ana with a stern look. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Let them go, Lara.” Ana bent forward and pressed her lips against Lara’s.



Chapter 4.

Victor Heche dreaded telling Henri Gauchomme his news.
Henri was in the Great Hall, attending to the preparations for his brother’s reception. Decorators hung tapestries and banners between the columns, caterers laid the tables and asked last-minute questions about the menu, and the musicians, carrying their instruments in their cases, asked where they should set up for the night’s performance.
When Henri saw Heche his face lit up with enthusiasm for a moment, then darkened when he read the expression on his employee’s face.
Henri gestured towards his office and Heche moved there obediently. He had a few minutes to rehearse what he would say before Henri joined him. A statue in the corner of the room intrigued him with its form: a white-marble maiden, barefoot, wearing a rippling dress that gathered around her ankles, clutching a flower outstretched in one hand, and a sword in the other. The detail was exquisite, from the flow and contour of her clothes to the delicate petals of the rose. Looking closer, Heche could even make out small thorns on the stem, one of which pierced the girl’s thumb. He looked at the face, expecting to see a typical, picture-perfect visage that so often marked statues of this kind. But this one appeared vandalized… Heche frowned. Where the right eye should have been, there was a gaping hole, as though someone had struck it harshly with a hammer and spike, breaking that piece off, leaving only an empty socket. Why on earth would anyone have such a brutalized piece in his collection?
He looked over at the door, where he thought he heard someone coming through, but when no one entered, he looked back at the statue with its deformed face.
Formerly deformed face, Heche corrected himself. Both eyes were fully intact this time, staring off at some unknown person just beyond the edge of the room. Heche blinked. What the hell…?
Gauchomme interrupted his train of thought by entering the room and slamming the door shut behind him. Wasting no time with small talk, his face contorting in anger, Henri Gauchomme stormed over to his underling. “What went wrong?”
“They are…formidable women,” replied Heche. “My men underestimated them.”
“And those men, where are they now?”
“Dead, M. Gauchomme.”
“Good.” There was a vicious smile on Henri’s face. “A suitable fate for those who fail me.”
The threat was not lost upon Heche. “There will be other opportunities, of course. They will be followed upon their arrival here this afternoon.”
“And why do you suppose another opportunity will be more successful than the first one?”
“Because I will personally seize that opportunity, M.Gauchomme. I will make sure of the attempt.”
Henri’s anger seemed somewhat appeased by Heche’s promise. “That would be appropriate Heche. Not to mention poetic. Either succeed, or die like your underlings.”
Heche toyed with the idea of asking Henri about the previous attempt to take the Shield that he’d mentioned in their last meeting. That mysterious episode must have taken place before he’d begun his work as Henri’s Chief of Security, so it had been at least three years ago. Yet the Arab woman involved could be no older than twenty now, so it could not have been much more than three years ago. Logic suggested that the end of his predecessor’s tenure and that attempted theft were the same event.
It made him wonder how his own tenure might end.
He could see that Henri was in no mood for questions, so he stifled his curiosity. Perhaps when Croft and the Arab bitch were dead he would risk an enquiry.
“What have they said to the gendarmes?” asked Henri.
“Our paid gendarme was able to listen in on their interviews. Both denied being involved in the deaths of my men. The gendarmerie are not stupid, however. They know that it is unlikely to be a coincidence that Lara Croft would check into a hotel only days before two violent deaths. Her fame makes her a natural suspect.”
“But with no victims to question, the gendarmes have no reason to detain her.”
“No, so they will arrive on this afternoon’s train.”
Henri chewed at his lip, his dark eyes glaring at Heche. “I will make a suggestion. For the next attempt, make sure they are in a confined space, somewhere they cannot flee from the flames. A cafe, such as the one they were photographed in, perhaps.”
“There would be much collateral damage...”
“Do you think I care about that? I want them torched, Heche! I want them dead, the sooner the better! Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly, M. Gauchomme.”
Heche gave a curt, almost military bow, then left the room.


Their limousine pulled up in the paved courtyard of the Chateau Gauchomme. Several other luxury cars were assembled there and elegantly dressed men and women moved along the cloistered walkway toward the host’s home. It looked like a church, with its stained-glass windows and high Gothic spires.
“Eighteenth century,” murmured Lara as she stepped from their car. “Very impressive.” She wore a strapped gown that displayed her generous decolletage. She wore her hair loose, sweeping down over her shoulders. A split down one side of the gown revealed her long, athletic legs.
“More impressive than our intelligence in coming here openly,” muttered Ana, stepping out beside her. She wore the Versace gown she’d purchased the day before, her dark hair coiled up on her head. A small silver tiara completed the image of the beautiful princess.
Lara turned to study her companion’s worried face. She made a small adjustment to the tiara and smiled proudly. “I hardly think Henri Gauchomme is likely to murder us in front of all his guests. And he will hardly expect us to gate-crash his brother’s reception. I’m looking forward to seeing the expression on his face.”
Ana’s uncertainty was still visible in her tense posture. “We’ve been over this Ana,” continued Lara. “I can get us into the house in the dead of night, but the chateau is too old for me to access any information on the interior layout. That’s what we learn tonight and, if possible, we find out where the Shield is being kept.”
“You think Henri is just going to tell us?”
“He might, to taunt us. But I have higher hopes of getting information from the Bishop.”
“And I think your hopes are too high. Appearing here tonight announces to Henri that we’re after the Shield.”
“He already knows that. He would not have sent his assassins to the hotel otherwise.”
Ana frowned but did not argue further. “Besides Ana, where else could we wear these gowns?”
That produced a smile from Ana, a smile that took Lara’s breath away. Her own doubts resurfaced; she did not want to put Ana at risk.
She quashed her uncertainty and bent forward to address the driver of their limousine. The portly, balding man behind the wheel was an old friend. Jean-Yves spoke before Lara had a chance to.
“I don’t much like this either, Lara. If Henri causes trouble I won’t be of much help to you.”
“The French Police were interested by my suggestion that Henri Gauchomme was involved in the hotel scorching. That suggests to me that he’s run afoul of the law before. They know about this reception and they know I’m coming here. I don’t intend to rely on them, Jean-Yves, but if we don’t return by midnight you are to call them, rather than attempt anything yourself.”
“Doing nothing is what I am best at,” replied Jean-Yves with a nervous smile.
Lara stood up and looked at Ana, measuring her companion’s readiness. Ana’s nervousness was hidden now, beneath that regal, breathtaking face.
“Into the lion’s den, my dear,” said Lara. Ana did not smile as she followed Lara to the entrance of the Chateau.
Broad-chested security guards in tight-fitting suits stood on either side of the oaken doors. A slow stream of elegant people moved along the arbour toward the door, where they showed their invitations to the guards to gain entry. Lara moved ahead of Ana when they reached the doorway and spoke to one of the guards.
“We’ve lost our invitation,” she said, “but Henri is expecting us.”
The muscular guard’s eyes narrowed in suspicion then widened in recognition. “You’re Lara Croft!” he exclaimed.
“Guilty as charged.”
“I’m sure Henri will be thrilled to have such a celebrity at his brother’s reception. Please, go right in.”
Lara smiled at the man, wondering if his action would gain him a dismissal or a commendation from his employer. That probably depends on whether or not we leave here intact, she thought.
They moved into an entry hallway where the other guests had deposited their coats on carved coatstands. Lara paused to examine one; it was almost old enough to be worth collecting.
“Lara,” hissed Ana, her anxiety briefly revealed. “Come on!”
Lara moved to Ana’s side then said, “Remember, we stay close together.”
“Agreed.”
“Then let’s join the party.”
There was a wide curtained doorway a few paces along the hallway. A loud hubbub of polite French conversation was coming from between the curtains. Ana and Lara moved towards the noise to gain their first glimpse of the reception room.
The curtains opened on marble stairs that led down to a room that was so spacious it must have been a ballroom at one time. Now its tiled floor was traversed by the elite of French society, in their suits and gowns. Large windows to the left looked out over the gardens at the front of the chateau while the windows on the right opened onto a small courtyard, where a fountain bubbled merrily.
At the bottom of the stairs a gentleman in a dinner suit was greeting the new arrivals. This role alone might have been enough to tell Lara his identity, but the shocked expression on his face when he and Ana approached him was confirmation. This was Henri Gauchomme, the man who had ordered their deaths.
After recognition came rage. Henri’s face flushed and his eyes gleamed with anger. No, more than anger. Madness.
The room was full of people but she could see him considering the option of having them killed then and there. She began to understand why he was known to the police. The man was a psychopath.
“Henri! Wonderful to see you!” enthused Lara.
“What are you doing here?” he fumed.
“You were so kind to visit us at our Paris hotel, we felt it only proper that we return the favour.”
His smile was a grimace, formed more from malice than humour. “Do you expect me to allow you to leave here unharmed?” he muttered, his voice too low to be overheard by anyone nearby.
“Why yes, Henri. You’d hardly want to ruin your standing among these fine people, the cream of your social circle, would you? And I’m sure your brother, the Bishop, would not approve of such rude behaviour.”
She watched him digest this, amused by the grinding of his teeth. His eyes flashed from Lara to Ana. While he glared at Lara with hatred, his expression when seeing Ana was one of disgust.
He decided, reluctantly, to bide his time. “Enjoy your little game then, Mademoiselle Croft. I will spit on your grave soon enough.”
Henri moved up the stairs and spoke to one of his security guards. Lara wondered if he intended to have them thrown out, but the orders must have been only to observe. No one made a move towards them.
“Charming fellow,” murmured Lara.
“You’ve only succeeded in enraging him, Lara.” Ana’s face was taut with concern.
“Well, we knew he wouldn’t be happy to see us, didn’t we? Now let’s find his brother.”
Lara was keenly aware of the eyes upon them as they moved across the crowded ballroom. There were two security guards at either end of the room, as well as one stationed at either side. They did not move from their positions but their heads turned to follow Lara and Ana as they searched for the Bishop of Toulouse.
He was not difficult to find. He wore a simple dark suit with a white dog collar. Only a purple satin vest indicated his standing. He was older than Henri, his hair greying at the temples and his face lined around his mouth. Despite his age he was a handsomer man than his brother, his firm Gallic features suggesting an inner strength. His eyes were bright with intelligence and his mouth twitched with levity.
He was surrounded by a dozen people who were eager to hear him speak. He held a glass of wine in one hand while his other hand emphasised his words with graceful gestures.
Lara did not hesitate to approach him, pushing past a woman that stood at his left shoulder. Ana moved to stand beside her. They listened to what the Bishop was saying, concerning the restoration of his church in Toulouse, then his eyes fell onto Lara.
“Mon Dieu! Lara Croft. I didn’t know my brother knew such a celebrity!”
Lara smiled a beguiling smile. “I’m sure Henri would choose not confess his secrets to you, Your Grace.”
“You are correct in that, Mademoiselle Croft. Perhaps you will choose to, however. How do you come to know my brother?”
The question was polite but she could tell he wanted a direct answer. She decided on something resembling the truth. “I am interested in a relic in his possession.”
The Bishop smiled a charming smile. “You must mean the Gauchomme Shield. What makes you so interested in that old thing?”
“Old things are what usually interest me,” replied Lara.
“So there’s hope for me yet,” said the Bishop with a wink. It took Lara a moment to realize that he was flirting with her.
“There’s always the power of prayer to rely on,” she retorted.
The Bishop laughed a warm laugh and she was surprised again by how different he was to his brother.
“Do you know the whereabouts of the Gauchomme Shield?” asked Lara, keeping her voice casual.
“Well, I know where it used to be kept. Haven’t you asked Henri?”
“He is reticent about the Shield I’m afraid. Won’t tell me anything.”
“Non? Well, he always did take the Shield very seriously. I am surprised that anyone else does.”
“My companion is the one who kindled my interest. Let me introduce Ana Gauchomme, a distant cousin of yours I believe.”
The Bishop’s eyebrows rose in surprise when Ana stepped forward. “Dear God in Heaven! I’d thought there were no more of our Eastern family left, after that medieval unpleasantness.”
Ana winced at the use of the word ‘unpleasantness’. It was too mild a term by far.
“Many suffered greatly over the loss of the Shield,” said Ana quietly. “I am curious to see the cause of such conflict.”
His cheeks reddened in embarrassment and his eyes avoided Ana’s for a moment. He looked ashamed.
“You said you knew where it was once kept,” Ana persisted. “Where was that?”
He swallowed nervously then answered. “There is a trophy room downstairs, in the original Gauchomme castle. This chateau was built on the original stonework, you know, after the castle was largely destroyed during the Revolution. Noble families like ours were very much the target of the revolutionaries....”
“And the Shield might still be there?” interrupted Ana, her eyes bright and eager.
“I have not been here for over five years, so I am not sure. Henri has not said anything about moving the Shield, something that was only done, to my knowledge, during the Revolution. It is probably still downstairs.”
Ana hesitated, not sure how to ask for what she had pledged herself to. Lara spoke on her behalf. “Do you think it would be possible to see the Shield? Ana has come all the way from her home to do so and Henri is being very unco-operative.”
“So you’re asking me to smuggle you downstairs, against the wishes of my own brother?”
He was leaning back a little, looking down at them with a haughty expression.
“More or less, yes,” responded Lara, hoping she had judged the man correctly.
His handsome face creased into a wide smile. “Quelle jolie! I haven’t played any tricks on my brother since I was a child and it’s a habit I miss.”
They returned his smile with enthusiastic grins. “There is one problem,” he continued. “I notice the security guards are watching you with great interest. I don’t know how we can elude them.”
“I’ll take responsiblity for that,” said Lara. “It might be best if we leave seperately. We’ll wait until you’ve made an exit then meet you at a suitable nearby point.”
“A rendezvous then?” He laughed. “Again, it’s many a year since I enjoyed such a thing. I’ll meet you around the corner of the southern passageway.” He gave a curt nod in the designated direction. “It’s the most direct way to the stairs down. Give me at least half an hour. There are still people here I need to greet.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Lara.
“Nonsense. Thank you for making this evening far less dull than I’d expected it to be.”
They moved away and an elderly couple took their place alongside him. He smiled at them and began another conversation. Lara and Ana glanced at each other, barely able to believe their good fortune.
“The Shield is here! I can feel it!” Ana’s face was flushed with excitement, her usual poise abandoned. Lara admired her spirit, then worried about what her excitement might cause. “Remember that we’re only establishing where it’s kept and the security surrounding it. We’re not going to attempt to get it tonight.”
Ana took a few steadying breaths. “Don’t get over-excited, that is what you wish to tell me.”
“Exactly. Though I’m as pleased as you are that the Bishop is being so helpful.”
“And you have brought a distraction with you. I’m impressed by your forethought.”
“We’ll use it when the Bishop makes his exit. Until then, we may as well enjoy the party.”
They mingled amongst the gathered people, making conversation with the other guests. Lara had learned French as a child and spoke it fluently. The reception reminded her of the many functions she had been required to attend when she’d been her father’s dutiful daughter. There were many flirtatious remarks offered to both her and Ana and she was amused by the subtle lechery of the male guests. Amid such banter they learned how well respected the Bishop was among his peers. By contrast, Henri Gauchomme was barely tolerated.
Pierre Gauchomme was constantly surrounded by his admirers, while Henri remained at the periphery of the gathering, patrolling the outskirts of the party along with his security personnel. Although he was the host of the party he clearly preferred to allow his brother to bask in the limelight.
About an hour after they had talked to him Pierre made his excuses and left the ballroom, leaving through the doorway opposite where Lara and Ana had entered. Taking her cue from this, they moved to one of the curtained windows overlooking the courtyard. Lara asked Ana to stand in front of her, to shield her actions from view. She reached through the split in her gown, withdrawing a small mobile emitter from a garter on her thigh. She did not need to look at the emitter as she had prepared it before arriving, so she was able to press a button on it without raising her hand from thigh level. She then dropped the emitter onto her shoe, from which it softly thudded onto the floor, an inaudible sound over the background conversations. She flicked the emitter under the curtain with a tap of her toe then she and Ana walked casually away, toward the door that the Bishop had exitted through.
Exactly one minute later a deafening siren began to wail, reverberating from the ballroom walls, making its point of origin difficult to determine. Shortly after it began it was accompanied by a strident commanding voice.
“Ne paniquez pas! Restez calme!”
“Of course, when people are instructed not panic, they invariably do,” said Lara, having to speak directly into Ana’s ear to make herself heard.
The guests started to mill about in confusion, their cries of fear almost as loud as the siren. They flocked toward either end of the room in an irresistible mass, pushing past the security guards there.
It took several minutes for the source of the alarm to be found and silenced. The security personnel then began the difficult task of reassuring the remaining guests. They also took the time to perform a quick head count. It was soon apparent that Lara, Ana and the Bishop were absent.

Lara and Ana reached the appointed meeting place with the Bishop while the siren was still screeching behind them. All the other refugees from the ballroom had moved in the opposite direction, towards the outside of the chateau. Their collaborative friend was waiting where he’d said he’d be, wearing a wide smile on his face, clearly enjoying the mayhem that Lara had wreaked.
“Ah, ma cherie! It is like being a child again, playing this game with you.”
“Why on earth did you enter the priesthood, Your Grace?” asked Lara. “You’re a born troublemaker.”
“Which is exactly why I joined the priesthood, to curb such a birthright,” he answered with a grin. “Come, let us make haste.”
He led them to a stone stairway, centuries older than the chateau they had seen so far. They descended into the remains of the ancient Gauchomme castle, finding its subterranean hallways as solid as the rock they were hewn from. Lara felt like she was leaving behind her old life, the world of official functions and glamourous gowns, and returning to her new life among the ruins of ancient civilizations. Her pulse quickened as they moved through the stone passages.
They walked along silently for a few minutes then he called a halt and advised them to wait. He moved around a corner and moments later they could hear him talking to some other men. Lara risked a peek around the corner and saw that the Bishop was talking to two guards standing outside a sealed chamber. Another room opened further down the corridor, a door that the guards moved to after talking with the Bishop for a minute or two.
A major design flaw, thought Lara, having the guard room on the far side of the trophy room. She assumed that the Gauchommes were stuck with the original layout of the medieval castle they now moved through.
The Bishop turned to Lara and Ana and beckoned. They moved around the corner quickly and approached their host. He led them into the first room.
Lara looked around her with keen interest. There were several pedestals spaced around the long subterranean room. On each pedestal was an artifact of some sort; a crossbow to her left, a dented helmet to her right. She would have loved to study each item carefully, though there were no plaques to explain the nature or importance of any of the displays.
Ana ignored any such distractions. Her eyes were drawn immediately to the room’s main prize. The Gauchomme Shield adorned the far wall of the room.
Ana moved forward slowly, passing between the pedestals, her eyes never leaving the shield. It was a battered piece of metal, its paint had faded and its straps were broken. Nevertheless Ana moved in a trance, as if viewing the face of Allah.
Lara moved closer to the Bishop. “Thank you, Your Grace. As you can see, the Shield means a great deal to my companion.”
“Yes thank you, Your Grace. Your efforts are much appreciated.”
It was not Ana’s voice Lara heard. It was a man’s voice and it came from the entrance to the room. She turned to see Henri Gauchomme enter with half a dozen guards.
Lara weighed up the chances of combating them. They were powerfully built men and she recognised, in the way they moved, that were trained fighters. She was unarmed; her form-hugging gown had not allowed her to carry a pistol. She did not fancy her chances.
Then the guards drew pistols from shoulder holsters. Her chances dropped from slim to zero.
She turned toward Ana and saw the same miserable conclusion written on her lovely face. She stood an arm’s length from the goal of her quest with defeat hunching her shoulders.
Lara grasped the Bishop’s arm. “We would like to leave now, Your Grace. If you would be kind enough to escort us outside we’ll take up no more of your time.”
The arm she grasped was stiff and unwelcoming. The Bishop turned a sad gaze toward her. “I’m sorry Mademoiselle Croft.”
The implications of those four words were frightening. “Make no mistake, Your Grace. Your brother intends to kill us.”
“I know, my dear. But I was a Gauchomme before I was a priest. And your choice of companion has really determined your fate.”
Two of the guards moved forward to take her by the arms. She resisted the urge to combat them; the other guards had aimed their pistols and had no mercy in their expressions.
“My choice of companion....? Ana?”
The guards pulled her away from the Bishop, one of them pushing a gun painfully into her spine.
“The Holy Roman church will not regret her elimination, though I will regret yours.” He sighed, then looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry Mademoiselle Croft.”
Two guards secured Ana in a similar fashion and the two women were marched deeper into the chateau’s depths.

Chapter 5.

The room they were led to was little more than a small cave, walled in stone. Two antique padded wooden chairs that faced the entrance were the only furnishings. The shadows in the corners of the room were deep and dark, with only a single overhead light bulb for illumination.
The chairs suggested that Henri had plans for them other than immediate execution. She was not sure what information he hoped to extract from them, or what he hoped to achieve, but she reasoned that his plans would be preferable to a bullet in the back of her head.
In this, she was incorrect.
The pistol remained pressed against Lara’s skin, first in the small of her back and then against her neck, until she was securely tied to one of the chairs. Her arms were tied to its carved wooden arms, her ankles to its sturdy legs. Another rope was passed across her upper stomach and cinched in tightly to secure her to the back of the chair. “There,” said the guard who’d tied her, “now you can die in comfort.”
She cast a disdainful glance at him, hiding her fear as well as she could. He was a tall man, as strongly built as his companions, with eyes that were bright with a malicious intelligence. She guessed that he was Henri’s Chief of Security.
Ana was brought next into the room, bearing an air of dignified sorrow. Lara hoped that she was concealing her fear as well as her companion.
Ana was tied to the neighbouring chair in the same fashion as Lara. When the ropes were knotted the Security Chief stood back to study them.
“Merci, Heche,” said Henri from the doorway. He was taking delight in their helplessness, something that did not bode well for them. “Now the blindfold.”
“Blindfold?” Lara did not like the sound of that at all. “Why blindfold us?”
Henri smiled his insane smile, looking directly into her eyes. “The blindfold is not for you, Mademoiselle Croft, unless you have learned witchery from your demon friend.”
Heche moved behind Ana, twisting a silk scarf into a blindfold. Ana struggled with her bonds, fighting harder now than when they’d first been captured, but she could not free herself. Heche, holding either end of the silk, flipped it over her head and lowered it across her eyes, tying it tightly behind her head. Lara did not need to see Ana’s eyes to read her expression; she was terrified.
While Ana struggled in her seat, Lara struggled with what Henri had said. “Demon friend? What are you talking about?”
Henri chuckled. “What am I talking about Croft? Do you expect me to believe you don’t know what it is you’ve allied yourself with?”
“I can’t understand your religious bigotry Gauchomme, but you should understand this. Your treacherous brother is not the only person we spoke to upstairs. There are many people who know we’re here. The gendarmes know. If anything happens to us...”
Henri was laughing. “Are you telling me, Mademoiselle Croft, that I’ll never get away with it?”
This was rich humour for Henri and Lara was frustrated by the rare occasion where she had no effective riposte to his comment.
“Unfortunately for you, your own cleverness will be your undoing,” said Henri, when his laughter had abated. “All of the guests fled from the reception hall when your alarm sounded and, of course, we lost track of where you went then. We, your hosts, assumed that you had left the Chateau when you did not reappear.”
“You can plead innocence but it won’t suit you. They’ll come looking for us.”
“And they will find nothing. Heche, s’il vous plait.”
Heche moved forward from the shadows at the back of the cave. He was behind Lara and she could not see him well when she turned her head. She could see that he carried something in his hands but could not make out what it was.
She turned her head back to Henri. The gleeful smile on his face did nothing to reassure her.
Behind her, Heche fiddled with the object he carried. It was unnerving to be unable to see what he was doing. She could hear a soft rattling sound, like the opening of a bottle cap. Then she could smell something in the close air of the cave, something that took only a few moments to recognize. Gasoline.
She struggled against her bonds while Heche moved the nozzle of a gasoline can over her right shoulder. He began to pour the sticky fluid over her skin, running the stream along the line of her shoulder to her neck, making sure a liberal amount ran down into her cleavage, soaking her gown. “Plenty of fuel there,” chuckled Heche.
Gasoline. Fire. Images of the victim of the flame-throwing assassin swarmed into Lara’s mind: she could see his burning clothes, his scorched, smouldering skin, the eyes that seemed to melt in his face. It was a horrible, agonising way to die. She bit down her fear, her mind grappling with the situation. There must be some reason for this method of execution. When she spoke she invested her voice with scorn.
“What is this fascination you have with fire Henri? Did your parents never let you play with matches as a child?”
“It’s simply a practical choice Lara. I could kill you any number of ways but disposing of your friend has proven more difficult.”
Lara could not understand what was going on. Henri’s brother had also disparaged Ana, saying the church would be happy to see her eliminated. Surely this hatred was not solely due to her religion? What was Henri trying to say?
“You seem puzzled, Mademoiselle Croft, but will not be for much longer. If it is true that you really do not know your companion’s nature, then you soon will. Let me demonstrate something to you.”
Heche was pouring gasoline over Ana’s shoulder now, also soaking her dress. Ana sat as still as a statue, her mouth set in a tight line, her eyes still hidden by her blindfold. Lara wished that Ana would speak, that she would respond in some way to what Gauchomme was saying. She maintained her grim silence, though it seemed to Lara that it was a grimness of determination rather than fear.
Henri drew a small knife from his coat pocket. He waved it in front of Lara’s face and she jerked involuntarily away from it.
“Oui, we fear the blade don’t we Lara?”
What now? Bound and helpless, prepared for a bonfire, and now Gauchomme wanted to play with knives? Lara looked into Henri’s mad eyes, hoping to daunt him. His expression never varied from one of exultation.
“You know what I could do with this blade, don’t you Mademoiselle Croft? You are correct to fear it.”
He moved it in slow circles in front of her eyes. She ignored the knife and kept her gaze focused on his face.
“You fear the blade, but your companion does not.”
The statement made no sense to Lara and Gauchomme’s next action shocked her. He turned and buried the knife, down to its hilt, in Ana’s chest.
Ana cried out in pain and slumped forward in the confines of her binding ropes.
“You bastard!” yelled Lara, horrified. “Won’t burning us be enough to satisfy your madness?”
“Look at the wound, Lara.”
Lara was blinking away tears, angry at this sign of weakness, enraged by the man’s sadism.
“Look at the wound,” he ordered again.
She turned her head and looked at the knife, jutting from Ana’s chest. There was no blood seeping from the wound. Ana’s chest still rose and fell, her pulse still beat in her neck. Ana raised her head again, her tight silence restored. The knife seemed inconsequential in her imperious calm.
“It is not the first time she has come here you know. This attempt on the shield will be... what?” He turned to Ana. “Your sixth? But we have, over that time, learned much about you.”
He tugged his knife from her chest. There was no blood, neither on the blade, nor on the curiously pale wound. Before Lara’s amazed eyes the wound slowly began to close, its smooth sides drawing together, leaving only a pale scar.
Gauchomme spoke to Lara again, the exultant expression on his face matched by a smugness in his voice.
“Always her attempts have failed, and always the people she has enlisted to help her are killed, but this time we have her as well.”
Henri’s face was flushed with triumph. Ana said nothing, her face pale, her eyes hidden.
“What is he talking about Ana?” asked Lara. “What other attempts?”
Ana remained silent.
“She would hardly have told you of them, since her past companions all died such painful deaths. Perhaps with your skills, she hoped for success at last. Instead, this will be her last attempt to retake the infidel shield.”
Heche had poured a line of gasoline from the chairs to the small doorway of the room. He now stood beside Gauchomme and Lara could tell, from the curious expression on his face, that he was also learning this information for the first time.
“She has never had any difficulty recruiting help. In her last visit here she came with an army of French revolutionaries, all inspired by hatred of the nobility. Inspired by her own hatred. Her sorcery is in her eyes, did you know that? She can make you feel anything she feels: guilt, regret, anger, rage, desire, all are hers to manipulate. But not when those eyes are covered.”
Ana still said no word of denial and an awful sick feeling grew in Lara’s stomach. She could remember times when she’d felt emotions she could not explain, many times, and Gauchomme’s words were starting to ring true in her ears.
“She needs your help. Do you know why? She is physically weak, our old enemy, even though her mind can weave magic. She is incapable of carrying the shield herself, so she must employ someone, a beast of burden, if you will, to carry it for her.”
Memories of the past week flashed into Lara’s mind: she recalled Ana’s reluctance to press the elevator button; her decision to carry nothing on their ascent to castle; her fumbling with the small but heavy key.
Lara felt physically ill. The gasoline had trickled over her stomach and had pooled in her crotch. Her thighs rested in a sticky patch on the padded surface of her seat. She was frightened and uncomfortable, but none of this pained her as much as her growing sense of betrayal.
“Is this true Ana?” she asked, expecting and receiving silence. “Who are you?”
Gauchomme laughed. “Haven’t you guessed yet, Mademoiselle Croft? Don’t you realise which devil you have sold your soul to?
“Allow me to introduce you to my long lost cousin, Anatalia Gauchomme. I believe you may have already met her ghostly cousin in the ruins of their infidel castle.”
Lara’s mind reeled at the name, at the same time acknowledging it. She could remember, during the haunting scenes in Israel, seeing glimpses of Anatalia’s face, nestled in the embracing arms of her cousin Sophie. Glimpses then had not been enough for recognition, but now they were.
She remembered also Ana’s cold hands on her body, her icy kiss on her mouth. Despite the threat of immolation, she shuddered.
“So you need fire to kill her, to destroy her?” she asked, surprised by how hard her voice sounded.
“Exactly. Another invaluable lesson we have learned over time. There is no surer way to eliminate her.”
“But why kill me?” Lara asked. Her mind was still grappling with the revelations of the past few minutes, but she had to find some way to survive the situation. She was not above bargaining, even pleading, if it would save her from the awful death Gauchomme intended for her. “Now that I know the facts, believe me, I have no further interest in the Shield.”
Henri smiled a beneficent smile. “Too late, my dear, too late. Sadly, you must be destroyed along with your companion. But don’t believe that I have no regrets over such an act. I deplore the destruction of such beauty.”
He stepped towards her and she braced herself for what she knew would come. Other villains, in the past, had taken the opportunity for a quick groping while she was helpless; she expected nothing else from this bastard. She hoped instead that it would allow her time to find some way out of this diabolical situation.
Gauchomme moved his hand toward her cheek but did not actually touch her. His hand rested instead on the carved wooden back of her chair. “Eighteenth century, these chairs. Worth millions of francs. A small price, however, for victory.”
Lara realised there would be no reasoning with Gauchomme. No bargaining and no mercy.
Gauchomme and Heche retreated to the entrance of the room, where they stood over the pool of gasoline that Heche had poured. Lara could see the trail of gasoline leading back to the chairs, the ominous line that glistened in the light of the overhead bulb. She was acutely aware of the sticky mass of oil that she was sitting in, knowing that any area touched by gasoline would soon be aflame.
“Ana,” she whispered, her voice soft and uncertain. Ana did not reply.
She was terrified, though she still strived to conceal it from her smirking enemies. She did not want to die this way.
Time slowed to a crawl. Her perception was heightened by the imminence of death, as close as a whisper in her ear.
Gauchomme produced a pack of matches from his coat pocket and his smile became an evil leer. She did not want his face to be the last thing she saw.
Despite awareness of the fire that would soon consume her Lara felt a sudden chill run through her.
Gauchomme felt it also, giving an involuntary shudder. “Time we warmed this place up a little,” he quipped.
He took a match from the packet, looked again at Lara’s grim, defiant face, then struck the match against the side of the box. It flared to life on the first strike.
He held the match at arm’s length, directly over the pool of gasoline, his hand lingering in the air, stretching the moment as long as he could.
“Farewell Anatalia. Farewell Lara. Enjoy your time in hell.”
A small gust of wind snatched life away from the match in the moment before he dropped it.
Lara exhaled a startled grunt, realizing that she’d been holding her breath. Gauchomme smiled again and said, “Well, well. A reprieve. You manage to live a few seconds longer.”
He took another match from the box. This time it took a few strikes to light it and when it sputtered to life he sighed in satisfaction.
“Bon nuit,” he said.
The match was extinguished again by a stronger gust of wind. This breeze moved through the stone corridor with the sound of a prolonged sigh.
The light bulb above began to flicker, then dimmed until it was no brighter than a candle. The temperature dropped, and Lara felt gooseflesh rise on the back of her neck and along her forearms. It was ridiculous, but she shuddered with cold. The stone cell was suddenly freezing.
Gauchomme fumbled with the box of matches, reaching into it for another attempt. The smile was absent from his face. Heche, almost invisible in the shadows of the darkening corridor, stared down the hallway, looking grim and frightened.
Another breeze blew down the corridor, sighing and moaning. There was a word in the sound but Lara could not discern it.
She looked over at Ana, who sat still as a statue in her chair. Her lips were blue with the cold of the chamber and her expression was determined.
“It’s the witch!” blurted Heche. “Burn her and be done with it!”
The breeze died and the corridor was plunged into darkness as the light faded further. Lara could hear Gauchomme’s fumbling with the box of matches, with the background noise of the two men’s rushed breathing.
The wind rushed through the corridor again, its melancholy howl now recognizable. “Yoooouu.”
When the breeze faded a match sputtered into life, bathing the terrified faces of Heche and Gauchomme in its eerie light. Perspiration moistened Gauchomme’s upper lip and Heche’s eyes blinked nervously. It took the pair a few moments to realise there was a third face between them.
It was a pale, ghastly face. Blood seeped from its ears and its throat and its right eye socket was blackened and empty. Despite this it glared at Gauchomme with a daunting hatred.
“Jesus Christ!” Heche knew where he had seen that face before…the statue in his employer’s office. He’d had a forewarning of this awful creature.
“Sophie,” breathed Lara, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Yooouu,” said Sophie, raising a thin, pale arm towards Gauchomme as her moan extinguished the light again. The image of the haggard, ethereal figure lingered on the back of Lara’s eyes.
The corridor was plunged into darkness again. There was a rabid scrambling noise from the corridor and cries of fear from the two men.
“Light the match!” yelled Heche.
“I can’t find the box!” replied Gauchomme, his voice coming from low down in the corridor, indicating that he was crouching.
Then Lara felt an icy touch on her left forearm and her heart stumbled in her chest.
She looked down and saw that Ana had shuffled her chair closer to her own and was touching her arm, feeling for her wrist and the ropes there. Lara did not hold much hope of her succeeding in untying the tight knots using only one restrained hand.
“We need light!” yelled Heche. “That thing can...” There was a ragged sob of fear. “We need to get a torch!”
“Oui!” agreed Gauchomme, a volume of relief in his single word.
There was more scrambling then moments later rapid footsteps retreated away from the dark cell.
Ana’s hand now rested over the ropes at Lara’s wrist and she felt them start to loosen. She understood how this was possible; Ana could influence things she could see or things she could feel with her fingers. She could not move mountains, like the prophet she followed, but she could move smaller objects. The death of the assassin by his own flame-thrower was probably achieved thus.
Lara glanced over at Ana’s face, surprised by its impassive lines. She could see Ana’s chest rise and fall, could see her breath misting in the cold cell air. She was more reassured by that sight than she was by the loosening of her bindings. Whatever she was, Ana required breath. A pulse beat in her pale neck. Her companion was not human, but neither was she dead.
It took only a few minutes for Lara’s left wrist to be untied. During that time she listened for any sound from the dark corridor ahead of her and heard nothing. When her left arm was free she, began to untie the knots on her right. With one unfettered hand, it took her as long to release her wrist as Ana had done with her mind. When both hands were free, she attacked the ropes at her ankles and her waist with more efficiency and was soon standing on her feet again.
She looked at Ana, sitting quietly within her bindings, her eyes still blinded by Heche’s scarf. Her skin was so pale that her complexion had turned doll-like, her presence s