The Watcher in the Shadows (Niebla 3)

‘So what are we going to do?’

‘For the moment, just wait . . .’

Irene realised that she couldn’t keep expecting Ismael to come up with answers. He was probably even more frightened than she was, only too aware of the dangers of the cave. Come to think of it, changing the subject might not be a bad idea.

‘There’s something . . . While we were inside Cravenmoore,’ she began hesitantly. ‘When I went into that room, I saw something there. Something relating to Alma Maltisse . . .’

Ismael gave her a puzzled look.

‘I think . . . I think Alma Maltisse and Alexandra Jann are one and the same person. Alma Maltisse was Alexandra’s maiden name before she married Lazarus,’ Irene explained.

‘That’s impossible. Alma Maltisse drowned years ago,’ Ismael objected.

‘But nobody found her body . . .’

‘It’s impossible,’ Ismael insisted.

‘While I was in the room, I noticed her portrait and . . . there was somebody lying on the bed. A woman.’

Ismael rubbed his eyes, trying to put his thoughts in order.

‘Just a moment. Supposing you’re right. Suppose Alma Maltisse and Alexandra Jann are the same person. Then who is the woman you saw in Cravenmoore? Who is the woman who has been shut up there, all these years, pretending to be Lazarus’s sick wife?’

‘I don’t know . . . The more we find out, the less I understand what’s going on,’ said Irene. ‘And there’s something else that’s worrying me. What was that figure we saw in the toy factory? It looked like my mother. Just thinking about it makes my hair stand on end. Lazarus is building an automaton with my mother’s face . . .’

A surge of freezing water soaked their ankles. The sea level had risen at least twenty centimetres since they’d hauled themselves onto the rock. They exchanged a look of desperation. The sea roared again and a gush of water thundered through the entrance to the cave.

Midnight had left a wreath of fog over the cliffs that rose from the jetty to Seaview. The oil lamp was still swinging in the porch, its flame almost out. Apart from the rumour of the sea and the whisper of leaves in the forest, the silence was almost complete. Dorian was lying on his bed, holding a small glass with a lighted candle inside it. He didn’t want his mother to see that his light was still on, and besides, he didn’t trust the bedside lamp after what had happened before. The flame danced under his breath like some fiery spirit, revealing strange shapes and shadows in every corner. Dorian sighed. He wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink that night, not for all the gold in the world.

Shortly after saying goodbye to Lazarus, Simone had put her head round his bedroom door to make sure Dorian was all right. He had curled up under the sheets, fully dressed, pretending to sleep, and his mother had retired to her room to follow his example. That was hours ago now. In the seemingly endless wait for dawn to arrive, every glimmer of light, every creak, every shadow, threatened to set his heart racing.

Slowly, the flame died down until it was a tiny blue bubble, so faint it made barely any difference to the gloom. A moment later, darkness regained the room, little by little. Dorian could feel the drips of hot candle wax hardening in the glass. Only a few centimetres away, on the bedside table, the small angel Lazarus had given him was watching him in silence.

Dorian threw the bedclothes aside and got up. He decided not to put on any shoes, to avoid the tumult of creaking his feet seemed to make whenever he tried to move about quietly in Seaview. Then, gathering all the courage he could muster, he tiptoed across his bedroom to the door. Turning the doorknob and opening the door without the usual concert of rusty hinges took him ten long seconds, but was worth it. Dorian closed the door behind him and crept to the top of the staircase, past the entrance to Irene’s bedroom.

His sister had gone to bed hours ago, feigning a terrible headache, although Dorian suspected she was probably intending to read or write syrupy love letters to that sailor boyfriend of hers. She seemed to be spending more than twenty-four hours a day with him. Ever since he’d seen her wearing that dress of his mother’s, he’d known there was trouble ahead.

When he reached the ground floor, Dorian noticed that the house was encircled by a ring of fog. Coils of mist seemed to slither over it, searching for a way in. ‘Condensed water vapour,’ he told himself. ‘It’s only condensed vapour moving about. Basic chemistry.’ Having reassured himself with this scientific explanation, he ignored the wisps of fog filtering through the gaps in the windows and went into the kitchen. When he got there, he realised that the romance between Irene and Captain Fantastic had its positive side: since she’d started going out with him, his sister hadn’t touched the box of delicious Swiss chocolates Simone kept on the second shelf of the food cupboard. Dorian remembered his mother once joking that chocolate had all of the chemical benefits of love and none of its noxious side effects.

Licking his lips, Dorian attacked the first chocolate. An exquisite burst of truffle, almonds and cocoa numbed his senses. This was what Greta Garbo’s kisses must taste like. As far as he was concerned, after maps, chocolate was probably the finest invention the human race had come up with. Especially whole boxes of chocolates. ‘Clever people, the Swiss,’ thought Dorian. ‘Clocks and chocolates: the essential things in life.’ A sudden noise startled him away from such comforting thoughts. Dorian heard the noise again: paralysed with fear, he let the second chocolate slip through his fingers. Somebody was knocking on the door.

He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. Two more sharp knocks. Dorian entered the living room, his eyes glued to the front door. Fog was seeping in under the door frame. Two more knocks. Dorian stopped, facing the door, hesitating for a moment.

‘Who is it?’ he asked, his voice faltering.

Two further knocks were his only reply. He went over to the window, but the blanket of fog blocked the view completely. He couldn’t hear any footsteps on the porch. Perhaps the stranger had left. ‘Probably someone who is lost,’ thought Dorian. He was about to return to the kitchen when the two knocks came again, but this time they were on the windowpane, ten centimetres away from his face. His heart missed a beat. Slowly, Dorian walked backwards, moving into the centre of the living room until he bumped into a chair. Instinctively, he grabbed hold of a metal candlestick and brandished it in front him.

‘Go away,’ he whispered.

For a split second, a face seemed to form in the mist on the other side of the glass. Moments later, the window was flung open by a gale-force wind that sent icy shock waves through Dorian’s body. Horrified, he watched as a black stain spread across the floor.

A shadow.

The shape halted in front of him and slowly coalesced, rising from the floor like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. The boy tried to hit the intruder with the candlestick, but the metal passed straight through it. Dorian took another step back as the shadow floated towards him. Two misty black hands gripped his throat; he felt their icy touch on his skin. A face appeared. Dorian shivered from head to toe when he saw his father’s features materialise only centimetres from his face. Armand Sauvelle smiled, but it was a cruel smile, full of hatred.

‘Hello, Dorian,’ the shadow whispered. ‘I’ve come to fetch your mother. Will you take me to her?’

The sound of the voice froze Dorian’s soul. It was not his father’s voice. Those demonic eyes were not his father’s eyes. And those long, pointed teeth were not those of Armand Sauvelle.