The Watcher in the Shadows (14 page)

Irene put the box in her cardigan pocket then looked up at Ismael. He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips.

‘Good luck,’ he murmured.

Before she’d had a chance to reply, Ismael had set off towards his end of the corridor. ‘Good luck,’ thought Irene.

As the sound of his footsteps faded behind her, Irene took a deep breath and headed off in the opposite direction. Her part of the corridor split into two at the mansion’s central point, the main staircase. Irene peeped over the edge into the abyss. A beam of fractured light plunged vertically from the turret above the dome, piercing the darkness.

From the main staircase, the corridor branched out towards the south and west. The west wing was the only one with a view over the bay, so Irene set off down the long passage, leaving behind her the comforting brightness that fell from the dome. Suddenly, she noticed a semi-transparent veil stretched across the passage, a gauze curtain beyond which the corridor took on a very different aspect. She couldn’t see the shapes of any more mechanical figures lying in wait in the shadows, but there was a single letter embroidered on the crown-shaped panel from which the curtain hung. An initial: A.

Irene parted the curtain with her fingertips. A cold breath of air caressed her face and, for the first time, she noticed that the walls were covered by a complex series of images carved into the wood. From where she stood she could see only three doors: one on either side of the corridor and a third, the largest of the three, at the end, marked with the same initial she’d seen above the gauze curtain.

Irene advanced slowly towards that door. Around her, the wooden reliefs depicted bizarre creatures, an ocean of hieroglyphics she could not decipher. By the time she reached the door at the end, it seemed obvious that Hannah would not have occupied a room there. Yet the enchantment of the place outweighed its sinister atmosphere. She felt as if some invisible presence were floating in the air . . . something almost palpable.

Irene’s pulse quickened as she placed a trembling hand on the doorknob. Then something stopped her. A premonition. She could still turn back, find Ismael and run away from the house before Lazarus noticed they’d broken in. The knob turned gently beneath her fingers, sliding against her skin. Irene closed her eyes. She didn’t need to go in there. She could retrace her steps. She didn’t have to give in to the dream-like spell that seemed to be telling her to open the door and cross the threshold. Irene opened her eyes.

The corridor offered her a way back through the darkness. Irene sighed and, for a moment, her gaze was lost in the shimmering gauze. Just then, the outline of a figure appeared behind the curtain.

‘Ismael?’ murmured Irene.

The figure stood there for a few moments and then, without a sound, moved back into the shadows.

‘Ismael, is that you?’

The slow poison of panic started to pump through her veins. Without taking her eyes off the curtain, Irene opened the door and stepped inside the room. For a split second she was startled by the sapphire-coloured light filtering through the tall, narrow windows. Then, as her pupils grew used to the strange twilight, her hands shaking, she managed to strike one of the matches Ismael had given her. She found herself standing in a palatial room that seemed to be like something straight out of a fairy tale.

An intricate coffered ceiling was inscribed with a whirlwind of fantastical shapes. At one end stood a luxurious four-poster bed with fine golden curtains, and in the middle of the room a marble table held a large chessboard, its pieces made of glass. At the far end Irene spied the cavernous jaws of a fireplace in which red-hot logs were burning. Above the fireplace hung a portrait: a pale face, with the most delicate features imaginable, and the deep, sad eyes of a woman whose beauty was astounding. The woman in the portrait was dressed in a long white robe, and behind her stood the lighthouse on its island in the bay.

Holding the lighted match up high, Irene walked over to the portrait and stood beneath it until the flame burned her fingers. As she licked her wound, the girl noticed a candlestick on a desk. Although she didn’t really need it, she lit the candle with another match and was surrounded by a hazy glow. On the desk there was also a leather-bound book, which was open.

Irene recognised the handwriting on the parchment-like paper, although a layer of dust made it difficult to read the words. The girl blew lightly and a cloud of silvery particles spread across the table. She picked up the book and turned to the title page. Holding the book closer to the candle, she read the words inscribed there. Slowly, as her mind began to understand what it all meant, she felt an intense shiver run like an icy needle down her neck.

Alexandra Alma Maltisse
Lazarus Joseph Jann
1915

A splinter of wood crackled in the fire, spewing out small sparks that vanished as they hit the floor. Irene closed the book and put it back on the desk. It was then that she noticed someone watching her from behind the gauzy curtains. A slender figure lay on the bed. A woman. Irene took a few steps towards her. The woman raised a hand.

‘Alma?’ whispered Irene, terrified by the sound of her own voice.

She crossed the few metres that separated her from the bed and then paused. Her heart was beating fast and her breathing was ragged. Slowly, she started to lift the curtain aside. At that moment a gust of cold air blew through the room, stirring the gossamer veils. Irene turned towards the door. A shadow fell across the floor, like a large pool of ink seeping beneath the door. Then a ghostly sound, full of hatred, seemed to whisper from the dark.

A second later the door was flung open and sent crashing against the wall, almost torn off its hinges. A claw with long, sharp talons like steel blades emerged from the shadows and Irene began to scream.

Ismael was beginning to think he’d made a mistake in working out where Hannah’s room was. When she had described the house to him, he’d devised his own mental map of Cravenmoore, but once inside he was totally disconcerted by the mansion’s complicated structure. All the rooms in the wing he’d decided to explore were firmly locked and not one had yielded to his cunning. Time was not looking kindly on his lack of success.

The agreed quarter of an hour had evaporated, and the thought of abandoning the search for the night seemed increasingly tempting. A quick glance at his gloomy surroundings gave Ismael one thousand excuses to leave. He’d already decided it was time to go when he heard Irene’s scream echoing through the shadows of Cravenmoore from some remote corner. Ismael felt a shot of adrenaline course through his veins and ran as fast as his legs would carry him towards the other end of the enormous gallery.

Ismael barely noticed the dark shapes sliding past him. He ran through the eerie shaft of light beneath the dome and past the junction of the corridors by the central staircase. The chessboard of floor tiles seemed to stretch as he rushed over it, the passage lengthening before his eyes as if the corridor were galloping towards infinity.

He heard Irene scream again, this time closer. Ismael slipped through the curtain in the hallway and spotted the entrance to the room at the far end of the west wing. Without hesitating, he hurled himself inside, unaware of what awaited him.

The features of a cavernous room unfolded before his eyes in the glow of the crackling fire. He was briefly comforted by the sight of Irene, standing against a large window bathed in blue light, until he read the fear in her eyes. Ismael turned round instinctively and what he saw turned him to stone, paralysing him like the hypnotic dance of a serpent.

From the shadows rose a colossal figure with two large black wings, like the wings of a bat. Or a demon. The angel thrust out its long arms, its dark fingers curled into claws. The steely nails shone like blades before the creature’s face, which was hidden beneath a hood.

As Ismael took a step back towards the fireplace, the angel raised its face, revealing its features. This was no simple machine or automaton. Something evil had taken residence inside it, transforming it into some kind of infernal puppet. Struggling against the desire to close his eyes, Ismael grabbed the end of a burning log. He brandished it in front of the angel.

‘Walk slowly towards the door,’ he whispered to Irene.

But Irene was frozen to the spot and did not react.

‘Do as I say,’ Ismael ordered sternly.

The tone of his voice roused Irene from her numbed state. Trembling, she nodded and started to walk towards the door. She’d only gone a couple of metres when the angel’s face turned towards her, alert, like a predator.

‘Don’t look at it, keep walking,’ commanded Ismael, still waving the log in the angel’s face.

Irene took another step. The creature tilted its head towards her. Taking advantage of the distraction, Ismael struck the angel with the log on the side of its head. The impact unleashed a shower of sparks. Before Ismael could pull the log away, the angel had seized it and crushed it into pieces with its knife-like claws. Ismael could feel the floor shaking beneath his opponent’s weight.

‘You’re just a machine. A stupid pile of metal,’ he murmured, trying to ignore the terrifying sight of two scarlet eyes peering out from beneath the angel’s hood.

The creature’s demonic pupils narrowed into a fine line until they looked like the eyes of a cat. The angel took a step towards him. Ismael glanced at the door. It was over eight metres away. He had no way of escaping, but Irene could.

‘When I tell you, start running towards the door, and don’t stop until you’re outside the house.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Don’t argue,’ insisted Ismael, his eyes still fixed on the angel. ‘Run!’

Ismael was trying to work out if he could get to the window and escape by climbing down the rugged façade when something unexpected happened. Instead of running towards the door, Irene also grabbed a burning log from the fire and turned to face the angel.

‘Look at me, you disgusting creature,’ she shouted, setting fire to the angel’s cloak. The shadow hidden inside it gave an angry howl.

Astounded, Ismael leaped towards Irene and knocked her to the ground just before the five blades of the angel’s claw attempted to slice her into pieces. The cloak was transformed into a whirlwind of fire. Ismael grabbed Irene’s arm and pulled her up. Together they tried to get to the exit, but the angel blocked their way and opened the blazing cloak that enveloped it. A blackened steel structure emerged from the flames.

Without letting go of Irene for a second – to guard against any further attempts at heroism – Ismael dragged her over to the window, then hurled one of the chairs against the pane. A shower of glass burst over their heads and the cold night wind blew in. Behind them, they could hear the angel coming closer.

‘Quick! Jump onto the window ledge!’ he shouted.

‘What?’ Irene cried in disbelief.

Without pausing to argue, Ismael pushed her outside. Beyond the yawning jaws of the broken glass, Irene was confronted with a vertical drop of almost forty metres. Her heart skipped a beat. She was convinced that in a split second she’d be hurtling into the void, but Ismael didn’t loosen his grip. He lifted her up onto a narrow ledge that ran along the façade, then jumped up behind her and urged her on. The wind froze the sweat pouring down his face.

‘Don’t look down!’ he shouted.

They’d only gone about a metre when the angel’s claw appeared through the window behind them, tearing at the rocky wall and leaving four scars in the stone. Irene screamed: her feet were shaking and her whole body seemed to sway towards the abyss.

‘I can’t go on, Ismael. If I take another step, I’ll fall.’

‘You can, and you will. Go on,’ he insisted, grabbing her hand tightly. ‘If you fall, we’ll fall together.’

Suddenly, a couple of metres further on, another window exploded outwards, hurling thousands of pieces of glass into the air. The angel’s talons emerged through the frame and, moments later, the whole body of the creature was clinging to the façade like a spider.

‘My God . . .’ Irene said, her voice low.

Ismael tried to move back, pulling her with him. The angel crept across the stone, its form almost merging with the devilish faces of the gargoyles that lined the upper reaches of Cravenmoore.

Ismael quickly scanned the scene before them. The creature was getting closer with every step.

‘Ismael . . .’

‘I know, I know!’

He calculated the possibility of surviving a leap from that height. Zero, and that was being generous. The alternative – going back into the room – would take too long; by the time they had retraced their steps along the ledge, the angel would be upon them. He knew he had only a few seconds left to make a decision. Irene’s hand gripped his tightly; she was trembling. Ismael glanced at the angel one last time as it crawled towards them, slowly but inexorably. He swallowed hard and looked in the other direction. Just below his feet, a drainpipe ran down the outside of the building towards the ground. One half of his brain was wondering whether the structure would bear the weight of two people, while the other half tried to find a way of clinging on to the thick pipe, his last chance.

‘Hold on to me,’ he murmured.

Irene looked at him; then looked down at the ground.

‘Oh my God!’

Ismael winked at her. ‘Good luck,’ he whispered.

The angel’s claws sank into the stone only centimetres from Irene’s face. She screamed, grabbed hold of Ismael and closed her eyes. They were falling at dizzying speed. When she opened her eyes again, they seemed to be suspended in mid-air; Ismael was sliding down the pipe, barely able to control their fall. Irene’s heart was in her mouth. Above them, the angel was hammering at the pipe, crushing it against the façade. Ismael could feel the skin on his hands and forearms burning. The angel started to climb down towards them but as it grasped the pipe, its weight wrenched the drain off the wall.

The creature’s metallic frame plunged into the void, dragging the pipe with it, the whole thing arcing towards the ground with Ismael and Irene still attached. Ismael struggled not to lose his grip, but the pain and the speed with which they were falling were too much for him.