The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(27)

Trying desperately to make his mind go back to thinking with its reassuring logic, Clayton wondered why Valerie de Bompard was guiding him to that place. For he was sure of one thing: the countess was leading him exactly where she wanted, as she always had, as she always did with everyone. And he had no choice but to answer her call.

Suddenly the night was shattered by a long, mournful howl coming from the ravine. Clayton, his face twisted with fear, grabbed the gun from his pocket and ran toward the sound, holding the lantern up in front of him and drawing back the veil of darkness as he went. Gasping for breath, he came to a small clearing in front of the gully. Once again, he made out a pair of strange-looking tracks. They appeared to approach the edge, then vanish. Clayton put down the lantern, swallowed, and drew closer to the ravine. He steeled himself to look down, unable to fend off the image of Valerie de Bompard’s beautiful body lying smashed to pieces on the rocks, unsure if that was the worst thing he could discover. But the foot of the ravine was plunged in thick darkness, and he could see nothing. Even so, he lingered at the edge for a few seconds, peering stubbornly into the blackness, his clothes whipped by the icy wind arising from those depths like a noiseless cry of despair. Finally, mystified, he retreated a few yards. And it was then that he heard a low-sounding growl behind him, so faint that for a moment he thought he had imagined it. Very slowly, he swiveled round, pistol half raised, as though still not wishing to admit his danger. Atop a small, rocky outcrop, a she-wolf as imposing as an ancient sphinx was observing him. The animal’s soft golden pelt shone in the moonlight as if it were sculpted in bronze.

“Valerie . . . ?” he whispered half unconsciously.

The wolf tilted its head to one side and gave another low growl, as though laughing at Clayton. Suddenly, the inspector felt the weight of the gun in his hand. He was almost surprised to discover he was armed, that the cold, metallic object he was holding was a weapon: a device man had created in order to take the lives of his enemies and preserve his own. Still, Clayton made no attempt to aim at the she-wolf. He was content to wait, and for an infinite moment man and beast stared at each other in silence the way Clayton and the countess had in the dining hall at the castle, separated by the length of an oak table. Then the she-wolf bared her fangs and leapt at him.

The animal’s heft knocked him to the ground, winding him. The gun slipped from his hand as if of its own volition. Before he had time to react, he felt the wolf’s jaws close around his throat, pinning him to the ground, its sharp fangs pressing into his flesh, like a deadly snare about to snap shut around his neck. Clayton didn’t move. He awaited the she-wolf’s decision, quaking under its weight. The animal remained in that position for a few moments, with Clayton at its mercy, as if to make it clear his fate depended on a mere movement of its jaws. And then, as swiftly and gracefully as when it had knocked him over, the wolf withdrew. Clayton breathed out, amazed that he was still alive. How was it possible? Unsure whether the wetness he could feel down his neck was blood or sweat, and hardly caring, he tried to sit up. The animal was watching him from a few yards away, body tensed, ready to pounce again at any moment. Clayton observed the wolf in silence, ashamed because he could not stop trembling. Was this creature that growled like a wolf, smelled like a wolf, and moved like a wolf really the woman he loved? Part of him refused to accept such an outrageous idea, perhaps because to do so would be to hurl himself into an even deeper abyss—that of insanity. But the other part of him that was skilled at piecing things together had no doubt. Out of the corner of his eye, Clayton could see the gun within easy reach, and he automatically started calculating. If he rolled over fast enough, he might be able to grab it before the wolf pounced again. Was that what she wanted? No sooner had he formulated the question than the wolf suddenly gave a snarl and hurled itself at Clayton like a bolt of coppery lightning. The inspector reacted without thinking, stretching his right arm out toward the gun while raising the other to repel the creature’s attack. He wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the gun butt just as the wolf buried its fangs deep into his left forearm. Seized by an intense burning pain, Clayton pressed the gun barrel to the wolf’s enormous head but did not shoot. He remained motionless, his finger on the trigger. Man and beast looked deep into each other’s eyes, frozen in that position, which seemed to hold back the flow of time. Clayton was so close that he could see fine rings of gold, like solar eclipses, encircling the wolf’s irises. And he had the impression the animal was imploring him. But this time he had no intention of bowing to its desires. Not this time. The gun still pressed to the animal’s head, the inspector watched the blood begin to trickle from his trapped limb, spreading out in a dark stain on the sleeve of his jacket. He felt a stabbing pain in his arm, but in the end it was a bearable pain. The wolf also seemed to perceive this and sank its fangs even deeper into Clayton’s flesh, until he could feel them tearing through the muscles in his forearm. He clenched his jaw to stifle a scream but couldn’t help an inhuman cry escaping from between his gritted teeth. There was a brief pause, and then the wolf’s fangs bit into his flesh with renewed ferocity. Clayton’s face twisted into an agonized grimace. As the pain intensified, so did his resolve not to pull the trigger. For if he did, it meant that she would have won. Then he heard a crunch of bones. A searing pain swept him like a flood to the brink of unconsciousness. In spite of everything, Clayton still did not shoot.

It was his survival instinct that finally fired the bullet. Astonished, he heard the sharp crack of an explosion, and the body that had been crushing him toppled gently to one side, like a lover after the moment of pleasure.