Instead of the pale-blue ice face with its wide-set eyes and high cheekbones, I saw a face made of flesh and blood.

Itensed myself for the now familiar sharp drop in temperature, and stepped outside. Despite the shower and thick snowsuit, the warmth leached out of my body and I started to shiver violently. The side door to the Icehotel was feet away. Liz pulled the antler handles and I followed her in.

She took a couple of steps, then stopped short, drawing her breath in sharply.

Along the walls of the long corridor, tiny yellow candles like miniature runway lights had been fixed on to the snow.

The amber glow faded into the distance, narrowing to a single point, yet still bright enough to light our passage.

We moved along the corridor, our feet swishing in the dry snow. The candles flared as we passed, throwing giant shadows on to the snow-pressed walls.

They moved in silent congregation, growing then dying in the flickering light, spirits of the Icehotel creeping after us.

We’d gone a little way when Liz pointed to a side corridor. “My room’s down here, Mags. Sleep well. I’ll see you at brekkie.”

I waited until she’d disappeared before following the signs to number 16. By now, Harry would be asleep in number 15, Pan grinning lecherously down at him.

Identical

Wilson was on my other side in number 17, and Marcellus in number 18. But the Bibbys would still be having their nightcap; I pictured Wilson sitting in the bar, drinking sullenly, ignoring everyone.

I drew back the velvet curtain, seeing my room for the first time. It was plain, and identical to Harry’s in size and layout.

Candles were scattered across the floor, the light dancing in the draught from the corridor. Facing the double bed was the alcove. In it was an ice statue, lit from behind.

It was a Knight Templar. He was holding his helmet under his right arm. His gauntleted left hand rested on the handle of his great sword, which was still in its sheath.

The crosses on his chest and shield had been roughened like the clown’s face or they wouldn’t have been visible in this light.

He stood erect, legs planted in the snow, head thrown back, nobly scanning the distance for some unseen enemy. I ran my hand over the pepperpot helmet, fingering the detail and wondering how the Templars could see through such narrow slits.

I brought my face close to his. The hair was swept back from the aristocratic forehead, and curled thickly at the nape of the neck.

The eyes were clear and unflinching as they gazed towards a limitless horizon.

And the mouth was set in grim determination as a knight’s should be. My honour would be safe tonight.

I touched his face. As my skin brushed the ice, I felt a light pricking as though static had discharged through my hand.

Slowly, I ran my fingers across his cheek.

The Knight’s features dissolved. Instead of the paleblue ice face with its wide-set eyes and high cheekbones, I saw a face made of flesh and blood.

From the condition of the skin, he’d been dead for some time. The sunken eyes were closed and the lips were parted, the tips of the teeth just visible.

His features were familiar, that thin mouth and prominent nose, but I couldn’t place them.

My fingers were still touching his face, making indentations in his cheek, the flesh cold and sticky. Suddenly, the eyelids fluttered and snapped open.

The eyes rolled back until only the whites were showing. A foul stench filled the room.

Vanished

I sprang back and fell against the bed, crashing to the ground and jarring my back so badly I cried out.

I stared at the statue, half dreading, half wanting to see the face again. But it had vanished.

The Knight’s ice features gazed out steadily. I tried to recall the image, but the memory was fading and a moment later I could no longer remember what I’d seen.

I struggled to my feet and touched the Knight’s cheek again. He continued to stare loftily into the distance.

I sat on the bed, waiting for the feeling of anxiety to subside.

I was sweating heavily, uncomfortably aware of the chafing dampness in my armpits and between my legs. It was that bloody drink.

I’d had only a few sips but something in Purple Kiss had disagreed with me. I scooped up a handful of snow and rubbed it over my face.

But I was fooling myself. It wasn’t the oversweet Purple Kiss.

I’d drunk nothing before my visit to the chapel except half a glass of champagne and I’d still seen that thing in there.

There was an explanation behind these ghastly images. An explanation hidden to me.

I stared into the Templar’s sightless eyes, remembering other sightless eyes, those of my neighbour’s son, whose wrecked body I’d seen two days before he died.

I walked round the room, running my hand over the snow-pressed walls as though I would find the explanation there. But the Icehotel was telling me nothing.

There were voices in the corridor. Something brushed past the curtain, stirring it, causing the candles to gutter. I wondered whether I should blow them out.

But the room had no ceiling window and I’d need light if I wakened in the night.

Cocooned

I spread the sleeping bag on the reindeer skins and undressed quickly, dropping my outdoor clothes on the snow as there was nowhere to put them.

After zipping myself up, I drew the hood over my head and tied the toggles.

I lay quietly, cocooned in a long brown tunnel that ended in a tiny circle of light.

I turned over. The movement drew cold air into the sleeping bag, throwing me into a mild panic.

But I grew warm again and drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

Yet each time I turned, icy air on my face woke me. Eventually, I pulled the toggles loose and, shaking off the hood, peered round the room.

The candles were low but not out. They cast an eerie, shimmering light on the Templar, illuminating his sword and shield but keeping his face in shadow. I peered at my watch – it was 1am.

I’d forgotten the aurora. It would be in full flow. And definitely worth getting up for. I threw back the sleeping bag, dressed hurriedly, and followed the signs to the back exit.

The Icehotel was silent: I met no one as I crept along the dark corridors.

More tomorrow. Icehotel, available on Amazon Kindle, is Hania Allen’s debut novel. Her second book, The Polish Detective (Constable, £8.99), is the first in her new series featuring DS Dania Gorska and is set in Dundee.