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 wo
uld 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.
The pipe slipped out of his arms and the two found themselves falling towards the large pond that ran along the edge of the west wing of Cravenmoore. They hit the ice-cold surface of the water hard and sank towards the slimy bottom of the lake. Irene felt the water fill her nostrils and her burning throat. A wave of panic engulfed her. She opened her eyes but all she could see under the water was darkness. A shape appeared next to her: Ismael. The boy grabbed hold of her. Together, they rose to the surface and emerged, spluttering, into the night air.
‘Hurry,’ Ismael urged her.
Irene noticed wounds on his hands and arms.
‘It’s nothing,’ he lied, jumping out of the pond.
She followed him. The cold breeze glued her sodden clothes to her body, like a painful layer of frost touching her skin. Ismael scanned the shadows around them.
‘Where is it?’ asked Irene.
‘Perhaps when it fell . . .’
Something moved in the bushes. Immediately they recognised two scarlet eyes. The angel was still there and it was not going to let them get away alive.
‘Run!’
They dashed towards the entrance to the forest, their wet clothes slowing their progress and chilling them to the bone. They could hear the sound of the angel moving through the undergrowth. Clutching Irene’s hand, Ismael headed for the deepest part of the wood, which was shrouded in fog.
‘Where are we going?’ Irene asked, aware that they were entering an unfamiliar part of the forest.
Ismael didn’t bother to reply; he just kept pulling her forward, desperately. Irene could feel the bushes scraping the skin round her ankles and she was weak with exhaustion. She couldn’t keep up this pace much longer. Soon the creature would catch up with them and tear them to pieces with its claws.
‘I can’t go on . . .’
‘Yes you can!’
Ismael’s head was spinning and he could hear the branches breaking only a few metres behind them. For a moment he thought he was going to faint, but a sharp stab of pain in his leg revived him: one of the angel’s claws had emerged from the bushes and slashed at his thigh. Irene screamed and tried to close her eyes, but she couldn’t look away from the nightmarish face of their predator.
At that very moment they stumbled on the entrance to a cave, half concealed by the vegetation. Ismael threw himself inside, pulling Irene with him. So this was where he was taking her. A cave. Didn’t Ismael think the angel would follow them inside? The only reply Irene heard was the sound of claws scratching against the rocky walls. Ismael dragged her along the narrow tunnel until they reached a hole in the ground, a vertical drop into a bottomless pit. A cold, salty breeze rose from the void and from somewhere down below came a powerful rumbling sound. The sea.
‘Jump!’ Ismael ordered.
Irene stared at the black hole. A direct entrance into hell would have seemed more inviting.
‘What’s down there?’
Ismael sighed. The angel could be heard close behind them. Very close.
‘It’s an entrance to the Cave of Bats.’
‘The second entrance? You said it was dangerous!’
‘We have no choice . . .’
Their eyes met in the gloom. Two metres away, the dark angel appeared, flexing its claws. Ismael gave a nod. Irene took his hand and they jumped into the void. Hurling itself after them, the angel tumbled through the hole into the Cave of Bats.
To Ismael and Irene, the fall through the dark seemed endless, and when their bodies finally plunged into the sea, they felt the cold water biting into every pore. As they floated up to the surface, the tide propelled them towards the sharp rocky walls.
‘Where is it?’ asked Irene, struggling to control her shivering.
For a few seconds, they embraced without saying a word, expecting the hellish apparition to emerge from the sea at any moment and end their lives in the darkness of the cave. But that moment never came. Ismael was the first to notice.
The angel’s scarlet eyes shone up from the depths; the creature’s enormous weight prevented it from floating to the surface. A roar of anger reached them through the water. Whatever was manipulating the angel was twisting about furiously, conscious that its puppet had fallen into a trap that rendered it useless. The huge mass of metal would never reach the surface and was condemned to remain at the bottom of the cave until the sea turned it into a pile of rusty scrap.
The two friends remained there, watching the glow of those eyes fade then disappear beneath the water for ever. Ismael let out a sigh of relief. Irene quietly wept.
‘It’s over,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘It’s over.’
‘No,’ replied Ismael. ‘That was only a machine: it had no life or will of its own. Something was making it move and that something tried to kill us . . .’
‘But what is it?’
‘I don’t know . . .’
As they spoke, there was a sudden explosion at the bottom of the cave. A cloud of black bubbles rose to the surface, then morphed into a dark spectre that scaled the rock towards the roof of the cave. The shadow stopped and observed them from its perch.
‘Is it leaving?’ whispered Irene, terror-stricken.
Cruel laughter filled the grotto. Ismael shook his head.
‘It’s leaving us here . . .’ said the boy. ‘The tide will do the rest . . .’
The shadow vanished through the entrance hole in the roof.
Ismael led Irene to a small rock that jutted out above the water’s surface. There was just enough space for the two of them. He put his arms around her. They were wounded and shivering with cold, but for a few moments they just lay on the rock and took deep breaths, without saying a word. At some point, Ismael noticed that the sea seemed to be touching his feet again and realised that the tide was rising. It wasn’t the creature pursuing them that had fallen into a trap, but themselves.
The shadow had abandoned them to the mercy of a slow and terrible death.
10
TRAPPED
The sea roared as it crashed against the mouth of the cave. The entrance hole above them was far away and unattainable, like the eye of a dome. In just a few minutes the sea level had already risen several centimetres. It wasn’t long before Irene noticed that the area of the rock they were sitting on, like castaways, was getting smaller.
‘The tide is rising,’ she said in a hushed voice.
All Ismael could do was nod dejectedly.
‘What will happen t
o us?’ She had already guessed the answer, but was hoping that Ismael, who seemed to possess an endless supply of surprises, might have something else up his sleeve.
He turned his eyes towards her gloomily. Irene’s hopes vanished in an instant.
‘As the tide rises, it blocks the main entrance to the cave,’ Ismael explained. ‘Then there’s no other exit except through that hole in the ceiling.’
He paused and buried his head in his hands.
The thought of waiting until they slowly drowned like rats in the rising tide made Irene’s blood run cold.
‘There has to be some other way of getting out of here,’ she said.
‘There isn’t.’
‘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 . . .’