The Map of Chaos (12 page)

The yawning castle door exhaled the ghostly breath of night. Clayton strode through it, his resolve growing as the cold air cleared his head. He was surprised to find the countess's shoes and jewelry strewn haphazardly over the steps. Apparently she had cast them off as she ran. If this was part of some erotic game, Clayton found it almost unbearable. He took one of the lanterns illuminating the bottom of the steps and plunged into the forest, following the tracks left on the ground by the countess's bare feet.

He walked on for a while, guided by her footsteps. He was shivering with cold, and yet his head was burning, especially in the spot where the countess had aimed her treacherous blow, which was throbbing painfully. From time to time, his vision became blurred and he had to lean against a tree while he tried to focus again. Then he resumed the chase, jaw firmly clenched as he sharpened his senses as best he could, listening for the slightest sound coming from the forest. Like the bow of a violin, the wind drew languid whispers from the branches of the trees. The darkness crowded in on him, as if trying to smother him. Suddenly, on the ground, Clayton made out what looked like a black puddle reflecting the starry sky. Holding the lantern aloft, he discovered the countess's glittering dress lying among the dead leaves. Kneeling, he clasped it in his hand reverentially. The exquisite robe still exuded the countess's warm fragrance, but it was torn in several places as though she had ripped it off clumsily. Clayton rose to his feet and cast a bewildered look around as the cold grip of fear began to settle over him.

He continued walking, trying not to panic. After a while, he noticed the countess's footprints had begun taking on a strange shape and the distances between them were growing longer. At first he thought he had lost the trail, but advancing a few yards he stumbled upon it again, only to lose sight of it once more. In spite of this, he pressed on, guided by instinct more than anything else. Now and then, he would come across a lone footprint in the middle of the path, a footprint that no longer seemed human, or a tree with its branches broken. All this brought fresh doubts to Clayton's mind, but he resisted the temptation to speculate in order to stay sane as long as he could. All of a sudden he recognized the path the countess was taking. He himself had followed it with a few men from the town two nights before . . . It led to the ravine where Tom Hollister had plunged to his death.

He couldn't help seeing himself once more leading that group of townsfolk through the impenetrable darkness of the forest, heady with the excitement of the chase and the fantastical idea that they were pursuing a genuine werewolf. But things had changed. Now he was tramping alone through that accursed forest, feeling terribly naked, surrounded by menacing trees that seemed to conspire against him. With an overwhelming sense of regret he realized that the world he knew had vanished forever. The enormity of his loss almost took his breath away. He carried on along the path like a sleepwalker, knowing it would never lead him to where he wanted to go: to the past, to the reassuring, rational past, precisely to the day when the legendary Captain Sinclair had invited him to join the Special Branch, so that he could turn him down, inform him that he wasn't the slightest bit interested, that he preferred to carry on living in the bland but comforting universe whose workings he understood so well and where supernatural beings never escaped the pages of bestiaries. For there was always a risk you might fall in love with one of them. Now it was too late for that, he reflected forlornly. There was nothing for it but to follow Valerie de Bompard's tracks and perform his role in the insane performance it was his destiny to take part in.

With his free hand, Clayton had unwittingly begun stroking the key that hung round his neck, nervously fingering the two tiny wings of the angel that adorned it. The key opened the Chamber of Marvels in the basement of the Natural History Museum, and since it had been entrusted to him less than a month before, Clayton had come to see it as a sort of lucky charm, a symbol of that supernatural world hidden in one of reality's folds, toward which he seemed to be heading that night. But now he was convinced that the knowledge awaiting him was something for which he considered himself ill prepared, knowledge capable of destroying a man forever.

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.

“No . . . ,” he murmured.

He contemplated the dead animal stretched out beside him as the pain from his left arm spread through his body like molten lava. Despite the fog clouding his brain, he realized the pain was too excruciating to be caused by a simple wound. Mustering the last ounce of his strength, Clayton managed to sit up straight enough to examine his arm. What he saw horrified him: there was no hand at the end of his left arm. Only a bleeding stump, from which hung a snarl of tendons. His hand was a few yards away, lying on the ground like a piece of refuse, like something that bore no relation to his body. Stifling the urge to retch, Clayton gazed from the errant hand to the bloody stump that had supplanted it, trying to convince himself that the fleshy lump belonged to him, that the discarded hand was his own.

When at last he managed to tear his eyes away from the hypnotic vision, he turned once more to the wolf, sprawled beside him in the pool of light cast by the lantern. Clutching the stump with his other hand, he studied the animal at length and saw that its forelegs were flayed and scarred. But after having looked straight into the wolf's eyes, that clue seemed superfluous. The blood trickled from its right temple, and its eyes no longer possessed that mocking glint that the inspector had been unable to fathom. Now they possessed the absolute, incontrovertible aspect of death.

“You succeeded, didn't you, Countess? You got what you wanted . . . ,” he heard himself utter in a plaintive voice, unsure whether he meant to condemn or applaud her actions.

The Countess de Bompard always got what she wanted, he thought resentfully. She had found a way of taking her own life without breaking the promise she had made to her husband, regardless of whether or not from now on Clayton had to live with his own curse. And, despite his anger, he had to admit she had been right when, just before hitting him on the head, she had told him there was no other way. Or did he honestly believe that their loving each other would suffice? What sort of life could they have had? He would not have been prepared to smile at her as if nothing had happened those nights when she returned home with a torn dress and the contented look of one who has sated her most secret appetite, nor would he have been able to stop his hand from trembling at breakfast the following morning as he read in the newspaper about some brutal murder, pretending there was no connection between the wretched victim and the woman he loved. No, he wasn't prepared for that. And perhaps Armand de Bompard hadn't been either. No doubt that was why he had left her, because he had realized that, in spite of all his knowledge, there was only one way to end her awful affliction. But Armand had loved her too much to do what Clayton had done.

He let out a terrible cry of rage, piercing the depths of the night with his suffering. He howled and howled until he had exhausted himself. It helped calm him a little. Almost out of apathy, he, too, thought of taking his own life on the spot. What did it matter in the end? All he had to do was press the gun to his head and pull the trigger. Again. His body would then topple over beside that of Valerie, and they would lie there, man and beast, shrouded in darkness, an unsolvable mystery. But instead, he began tearing at his jacket in order to make a tourniquet to stanch his bleeding stump. It seemed a futile gesture, like everything else he had done that night. He couldn't understand why he didn't simply let himself die, if what remained of his life wasn't worth living, if the succession of days, months, years yearning for Valerie de Bompard would only seem like torture. No, he couldn't understand why, and yet he wound the piece of cloth he had managed to tear off his jacket round his stump as tightly as he could.

As he did so, he remembered telling the countess at some point during the evening that he would give any part of his anatomy to understand who or what she was. Clayton smiled bitterly. Now he finally knew what Valerie de Bompard was.