with dark bangs that fell over penetrating brown eyes. They were young, in their thirties, sporty and very curious about me.
Finally, the woman said, “I’m Justine. And this is Pierre. He didn’t mean to be rude, but you surprised him. There aren’t people up here. Ever.”
“I’m Bert,” I said, relishing the sound of my name, my simple, familiar name. “Bert Monte.”
“Here,” Pierre said, his English heavily accented as he moved my chair to the fireplace. “You’ll warm up much faster.”
I sat, feeling the warmth of the fire against my skin. The caffeine spiked through my body, dispelling the cloud of disorientation that lingered from the cold. “Thank you. I didn’t expect to be out in the snow for long. I thought I’d find someone who could take me down the mountain.”
“Find someone?” Justine said, and by her tone I knew she thought I was utterly crazy. “Here? The village has been empty for fifty years, at least.”
“But you’re here,” I said, glancing around at the boxes of canned food, tins of coffee, and crates of bottled water. “I saw the smoke from your fire.”
“Only for the week,” she said. “As you see, we like to climb. But I am also a journalist. I’m working on a book.” She looked down at my sopping-wet tennis shoes. “I’m sorry to be blunt, but what in the name of God are you doing here? The nearest town from Nevenero is a hundred kilometers away. The ski resorts are even farther.”
“I’ve been staying at Montebianco Castle, helping a sick relative,” I said. “We scheduled a helicopter to take me to Turin, but it . . . didn’t show, and I need to get home as soon as possible.”
Justine looked at me, wide-eyed. “Montebianco Castle?” She turned to Pierre and spoke in rapid French, gesturing to me and then in the direction of the castle. Pierre regarded me with curiosity, then suspicion, as he asked Justine a few questions. Finally, she turned to me. “We don’t understand how it’s possible for you to be staying at Montebianco Castle. It is empty except for an old lady and her domestic employees. I went there to inquire about an investigative article I was writing. I was told that the owner had died.”
“The Count of Montebianco did die,” I said, considering my words with care. I could not reveal the truth about the Montebianco family to this stranger, or to anyone. “I was visiting his wife, my great-aunt Dolores, who was very ill. Cancer. She passed away last night.”
“You are a member of the Montebianco family?” she said, incredulous. “An American?”
“My grandfather was Giovanni Montebianco. He left after the Second World War.”
Justine stared at me, pale and somber. “My family comes from this village as well,” she said. “This house has belonged to my family for hundreds of years. My grandparents fled Nevenero in 1952 and immigrated to France. They were some of the last to leave. But my grandparents loved this place. My family have been goat herders and mountaineers for generations, which may explain why I have been drawn to ice climbing. These mountains are in our blood. My grandparents never wanted to leave. This house was all they owned. But no one could stay here. It is a dangerous place, the castle.” She fixed me with narrowed eyes. “I understand why you would want to leave.”
“Then do you mind calling me a helicopter? Please? I will pay whatever is necessary.”
“I can call the pilot who is supposed to come for us next week,” Pierre said. “The storm has made it difficult to get through, but I will try.”
Pierre stood, went to the fire and threw in a log. It began to crackle and pop behind the screen.
“Anything you can do would be great,” I said. I glanced at the fireplace. The smoke from the fire was visible in the sky. If I had been able to see it, so would Vita.
“I grew up hearing about your family,” Justine said. “But to be honest, for most of my life, I thought these stories were nothing but a bunch of legends my grandparents told about their old village. A way to cope with nostalgia and a way of keeping these mountains alive for me and my brothers.”
“What kinds of stories?” I asked, turning closer to the fire.
“From the time I was very little, my grandparents would tell us about the monsters in these mountains. They had grown up hearing tales of demons, vampires, dragons, and devils. When