The Watcher in the Shadows (Niebla 3)

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 wo