Mrs. Claus and the Santaland Slayings. Liz Ireland

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ sighed. On to the Old Keep, then.

      My footsteps slowed as I walked down the echoing corridor that led to the Old Keep’s entrance from the main castle. Evidently, the family had kept using the grand hall of the Old Keep for festive occasions up until the 1970s, when the roof had collapsed under the weight of too much ice. It was a miracle no one was killed.

      The vaulted ceiling still made me nervous, although Nick had sworn to me that it had been stabilized. I crossed the empty hall nearly at a run just so I’d be at risk of being crushed by roof tiles and ice for a slightly shorter duration. The only reason I risked it at all was because I saw a heavy door ajar across the abandoned great hall and could feel a draft coming in from it.

      The door opened on to a large stone spiral staircase. It led down to a cellar—no way was I going down there—and up to the old tower. I looked up, debated with myself, and decided to go. It was exercise; I’d earn myself a piece of cake with my tea. At this point, though, I moved slowly. The only time I’d come here before, with Nick, we’d encountered a strange wooly ice rat on these steps. My heart was still recovering.

      When she’d heard about the rat, Lucia had said she would put poison around—not to spare my worries, but because the wooly rats carried fleas that could transfer to her reindeer. Priorities.

      I moved carefully, squinting at first in the darkness, cursing myself for forgetting to bring a flashlight until I remembered my phone had one. I turned it on and almost immediately heard a squeak, followed by the scritching of tiny feet against stone. So much for Lucia’s efforts.

      As I wound up the staircase, the way became lighter and the temperature dropped. Someone had left the heavy door to the walkway along the castle tower wide open.

      I peered through it and swallowed a gasp. Her straight, narrow back to me, Tiffany was sitting on one of the crenellation’s depressions, dressed in nothing more than a dress and a wool cape, her feet dangling over the side—where there was a hundred-foot drop to the cliff. Cold wind howled around the tower walls. One strong gust could blow her petite body right off into the void.

      I stepped out, moving cautiously. I’d never felt secure on this aerie walkway, and now I also feared startling Tiffany. When I got close, though, she turned her head calmly as if some sixth sense had warned her of my presence. “Oh, it’s just you,” she said.

      As opposed to whom?

      I edged closer, leaning into an icy breeze. “Do you think it’s safe to be sitting there?”

      “Perfectly safe.” She patted the space next to her, inviting me to join her on her lunatic perch.

      I gulped. I didn’t want to be taken for a complete coward, even if I was . . . at least when it came to being blown off a tower and smashing to the rocks below like a watermelon dropped from the Empire State Building.

      I gingerly wedged myself next to her but kept my body facing the castle and my feet on terra firma. Tiffany was staring out at the distant mountains of the Farthest Frozen Reaches. From far away, the peaks looked like a picture postcard—pale winter light reflected off the snow, making the treacherous passes and glaciers resemble peaks of fondant icing. Yet those mountains held danger and tragedy. Chris, Tiffany’s late husband, had fallen into a crevasse on Mount Myrrh, whose summit loomed highest on the distant horizon. I was sure it was that mountain Tiffany had been contemplating.

      “Frightened?” she asked me.

      “N-no.”

      She tossed me a knowing smile. “It made me nervous at first, too. Chris used to bring me up here to talk, sometimes for hours. He loved the view. But Chris wasn’t afraid of anything.”

      And that’s how people die in snow monster hunts. I shook my head at the uncharitable, un-Clausian thought. Her husband had died protecting Santaland and all its elves and people.

      “What did you and Chris talk about?” I asked.

      “About our lives before we knew each other, and the future, and our families. Our likes and dislikes . . . including people.”

      “From what I’ve heard, Chris liked everyone. Or at least everyone liked him.”

      She shook her head. “People say nice things now. I know better.”

      I squinted out at Mount Myrrh. “How often do you come up here?”

      “Why?”

      “Well, maybe it’s not the healthiest thing to dwell so much on”—I gestured with my head to the far mountains—“the accident.”

      She eyed me with scorn. “Do you really think a sportsman like my husband fell through a crevasse?”

      I blinked. The thought of Chris’s death having not been an accident had never occurred to me. The word murder had never crossed anyone’s lips—at least not until yesterday, when Giblet Hollyberry had spat the word at Nick.

      “Now today there have been more deaths,” she said. “Who else will die before it ends?”

      “Giblet’s and Charlie’s deaths had nothing to do with Chris.”

      The look she gave me was tinged with pity. “You’ve become one of them quickly, haven’t you?”

      “One of what?”

      One side of her mouth screwed into a sneer. “A Claus.”

      The malice in her voice and the way she was looking at me made me even more uncomfortable on that ledge.

      “Maybe we should go in,” I suggested. “Pamela’s prepared a special tea.”

      “A special tea for a super special day.” She laughed, which dissolved into a wrenching sound of despair. She twisted and took my arm, clamping her hand around it like a vise. Despite her Tara Lipinski build, she was surprisingly strong, and my heart thumped in my chest. If she jumped now, I’d go down with her. “Don’t you get it?” she said, her eyes crazed. “This isn’t a safe place.”

      No kidding.

      Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

      Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

      Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив СКАЧАТЬ