Read Chapter 26: In the Dark

The cold came back with the dark, a creeping fingers-under-the-collar cold that made Luc’s breath plume in ghostly bursts. He’d found the fuse box in the back hallway, fumbled with the breaker, and when the lights flickered back on—humming, yellow, weak—the first sound he heard was not relief.

It was Camille, screaming from the kitchen.

Luc got there ahead of the others. Pierre was on the floor, back against the island, one hand pressed to his ribs. Blood seeped through his fingers, black against the wool of his sweater. His face was the color of old snow.

“He did it,” Pierre said, voice cracked and shaking. His eyes found Luc. “He’s the one.”

The room filled behind Luc—Ana’s sharp gasp, Viktor’s low curse, Klaus pushing past Marcel to get a look. Henri stood in the doorway, face pale, mouth working silently.

Luc didn’t move. “Who did what, Pierre?”

“You.” Pierre’s hand trembled over the wound. “You came in here for water. I didn’t see the knife until it was in me.”

The accusation landed with the weight of a falling tree. For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Viktor stepped forward, eyes narrow. “Where were you when the lights went out, Moreau?”

“Getting to the breaker,” Luc said. “Ask Camille—she saw me headed that way.”

Camille was beside Pierre now, shrugging off her jacket to press against the wound. She didn’t look up. “I saw him go toward the hallway. But that was after the door opened. I was trying to get to the front.”

“So maybe he doubled back,” Klaus said. His voice was flat, accusatory. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a solid wall of suspicion. “Maybe he stabbed Pierre, then went to flip the switch to make himself look useful.”

Luc felt the room shift around him, eyes turning from questions to judgments. He’d known this would happen eventually—the herd turning on the shepherd—but he hadn’t expected it to bite this fast.

“My hands are clean,” Luc said. “Literally. If Pierre’s been stabbed, there’s blood on whoever did it. Check me.”

Viktor stepped closer, eyeing Luc’s hands. They were bare. Clean. Nail beds pale from the cold.

“Coulda wiped them,” Klaus muttered.

“Check the sink,” Luc said. “Warm water’s still on. I didn’t use it.”

No one moved to check. The air hung thick with mistrust, and Luc realized in that moment that evidence wouldn’t matter to these people. They were scared, cold, trapped, and they needed someone to blame. A former guide with a past they didn’t know was the easiest target they had.

“Where’s the knife?” Luc asked Pierre.

Pierre’s eyes were glassy. “I don’t know. I fell. I didn’t see where it went.”

Luc scanned the floor, the counters. No knife in sight. That was wrong. If Pierre had been stabbed upright, the knife would be nearby—dropped, fallen, something. Unless the attacker took it.

Or unless Pierre was lying.

“How deep is it?” Luc asked Camille.

She pressed harder, her hands slick with blood. “Deep enough. It’s not arterial, but he needs a real kit. We’ve got basic supplies in the utility room.”

“Get them,” Henri said, and his voice had an edge of authority that surprised Luc. “Camille, go. We’ll keep pressure.”

Camille hesitated, then nodded and slipped out.

The group stood in an uneasy circle around Pierre. Viktor shifted, glancing at the windows. Klaus stared at Luc with undisguised hostility. Ana hugged herself, shivering. Marcel hung back by the door, face unreadable.

Luc looked at Pierre’s wound again. High on the left side, just under the ribs. A defensive knife wound would be lower, driven upward into the belly or chest. A slash across the forearms would show a struggle. This placement spoke of someone coming at Pierre from the side, or of Pierre twisting away at the last second.

Or of a man who’d stabbed himself in an awkward attempt to look convincing.

“How did it happen?” Luc asked. “You were in here alone?”

“I came in for tea,” Pierre said. “Heard something in the pantry. Thought it was one of you. When I opened the door, he was already there.” His voice broke. “Why, Luc? What did I ever do to you?”

“I wasn’t there,” Luc said quietly.

“Then where were you?”

The question echoed. Luc had an answer—the breaker, the hallway—but his certainty wobbled. He’d been in the dark, disoriented, and when the power failed he’d moved by memory. He’d found the breaker, flipped it, come back. Fifty seconds, maybe less. But in a blackout, fifty seconds was an eternity. He couldn’t prove to them he’d been where he said.

“I was doing what I told you,” Luc said. “Going for the power.”

“Convenient,” Klaus said.

“Is it?” Luc turned to face him. “You want to talk about convenience, Klaus? You’ve been pointing fingers since we found the sabotage. At Marcel, at me, now again at me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to keep the attention off yourself.”

Klaus’s jaw tightened. “You watch your mouth.”

“Or what? You’ll stab me next?”

The room went silent. Pierre’s breathing had grown shallow, raspy. Viktor knelt beside him, checking the pressure bandage Camille had left before she went for the kit.

Luc looked around the room, at the faces, the fear, the blame. And he realized what he had to do. The truth wasn’t going to surface through interviews or accusations. It was going to surface through a crack big enough for the saboteur to slip through.

“Everyone,” Luc said, raising his voice just enough to cut through the mutterings, “into the main room. Now.”

No one moved at first. Then Marcel pushed off the wall and walked past them without a word. Viktor followed, gently guiding Pierre. Klaus hesitated, then went. Ana and Henri trailed after.

Luc waited until they were gathered around the fire—weak, sputtering, but still burning—then stood before them, hands open at his sides.

“This stops now,” he said. “The sabotage, the suspicion, the stabbing. We are freezing to death in the dark, and one of you is playing games with our survival. So here’s what’s going to happen.”

He took a breath. Kept his voice flat, level, like he was reading a weather report.

“I’m going to tell the group who I believe is responsible for the sabotage—for Gaspard’s death, for the compass, for the door that opened in the dark. I’m going to say the name out loud. And then we’re going to see what happens.”

Silence. The fire crackled. Someone shifted in their seat.

Luc let the pause stretch. He watched their faces—Viktor’s guarded blankness, Klaus’s simmering anger, Ana’s nervous glances, Henri’s calculating stillness, Marcel’s unreadable depth. Camille came back with the medical kit, froze at the edge of the room, took in the scene in a heartbeat.

“Go on,” Klaus said. “Name your man.”

Luc didn’t look at him. He looked at each of them in turn, slow, deliberate, then stopped on Viktor.

“It’s him,” Luc said.

Viktor blinked. Then a small, cold smile crept across his face. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” Luc didn’t break eye contact. “That passport was found on you. The burn mark on your arm matches the pattern of a fuse tampering. And you’ve been oddly calm through all of this—too calm for a man who should be scared for his life.”

Viktor’s smile faded. “Anyone could have planted that passport. And the burn mark is from cooking, not sabotage.”

“Let’s see it,” Klaus said.

Viktor’s jaw tightened. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t get to demand anything of me,” Viktor said, his voice rising. “None of you know who I am or what I’m capable of, and if you’re smart, you’ll keep it that way.”

The words hung in the air. Luc let them.

Then he said, quietly, “That’s enough for me.”

The room waited. But Luc didn’t reach for the accusation. Instead, he turned to face the fire, letting the warmth hit his face, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable.

“Viktor,” he said, “I don’t think it’s you. Not really. But I needed to see who would defend you, and who would turn on you, and who would do what.”

Viktor stared at him, off-balance.

Luc turned back to the group. “The person who’s been sabotaging us is someone who wants us suspicious of each other. So let’s stop. Let’s take away their power.”

He looked at Pierre, who was pale and quiet, wrapped in a blanket now, Camille working on his wound. Luc met Pierre’s eyes.

“You still think I stabbed you?”

Pierre didn’t answer for a long moment. Then he shook his head slowly. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

The fire spat a log into the grate, and Camille moved to correct it. Luc stepped aside for her.

“We find out together,” he said. “When the storm breaks, we find out together. Until then, nobody goes anywhere alone. Not to the kitchen, not to the utility room, not anywhere.”

He looked at each of them. Forced them to meet his eye, one after another, until each had given him a nod, however reluctant.

“Good,” Luc said.

He didn’t feel good. He felt hollow and cold and more uncertain than he’d ever been in his life. But he knew one thing now, something Gaspard’s dying word had whispered to him in the ravine, something that had taken shape in the dark of the lodge.

It wasn’t Belmont they were looking for.

It was someone who knew exactly what Belmont was supposed to be.