Carlos Zafon - The Midnight Palace

‘Welcome to what remains of my home, Sheere,’ he murmured coldly. ‘That is your name, isn’t it?’

Sheere nodded, paralysed with terror at the presence before her.

‘You don’t have anything to fear from me,’ said Jawahal.

The girl held back the tears that were fighting to escape; she wasn’t going to give up that easily. She closed her eyes tight and breathed deeply.

‘Look at me when I’m talking to you,’ said Jawahal in a tone that froze her blood.

Slowly Sheere opened her eyes and realised with horror that Jawahal’s hand was getting closer to her face. His long fingers, protected by a black glove, stroked her cheek and delicately pushed away a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead. Her captor’s eyes seemed to turn pale for an instant.

‘You look so much like her …’

Abruptly the hand withdrew like a frightened animal, and Jawahal stood up. Sheere noticed that the chains at her back were loosening and suddenly her hands were free.

‘Get up and follow me,’ he ordered.

Sheere obeyed meekly and let Jawahal lead the way. But as soon as the dark figure was a few metres away amid the wreckage, she turned and began to run in the opposite direction as fast as her stiff muscles would carry her. She stumbled through the carriage towards the door that led to a small open-air platform connecting to the next coach, then placed her hand on the blackened steel handle and pushed hard. The metal went as soft as potter’s clay and Sheere watched in astonishment as it transformed itself into five sharp fingers that grabbed her wrist. Slowly the door panel folded in on itself until it took the form of a shining statue on whose smooth surface Jawahal’s features emerged. Sheere’s knees buckled and she keeled over in front of him. As Jawahal lifted her in the air she could see the fury in his eyes.

‘Don’t try to escape from me, Sheere; very soon you and I will be one being. I am not your enemy. I am your future. Come over to my side, otherwise this is what will happen to you.’

Jawahal plucked a broken wineglass from the floor, put his fingers round it and squeezed hard. It melted in his fist, dripping through his fingers in globules of liquid glass that fell onto the carriage floor, creating a blazing mirror among the debris. Jawahal let go of Sheere and she fell only centimetres away from the smoking mirror.

‘Now do as I say.’

Seth knelt down to examine what appeared to be a shiny puddle in the central section of the station and touched it with his fingertips. The liquid was thick and lukewarm, and had a texture similar to spilt oil.

‘Ian, come and see this,’ he called.

Ian walked over and knelt down beside his friend. Seth showed him his fingers, which were covered in a glutinous substance. Ian dampened the tip of his forefinger and rubbed it against his thumb, checking the consistency, then sniffed at it.

‘It’s blood,’ the aspiring doctor concluded.

Seth went pale and wiped his fingers on his trouser leg.

‘Isobel?’ he asked, drawing away from the liquid and trying to stem the nausea rising from the pit of his stomach.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Ian. ‘It’s recent, or at least it appears to be.’

He stood up and looked to each side of the wide dark stain.

‘There aren’t any marks around it. Or footprints,’ he murmured.

Seth stared at him, not grasping the full significance of Ian’s remark.

‘Whoever lost all this blood couldn’t have gone far without leaving a trail,’ Ian explained. ‘Even if the person was being dragged. It makes no sense.’

Seth considered Ian’s theory and walked around the spilt blood, checking that there were no footprints or other tracks within a radius of several metres. The two friends exchanged puzzled looks. All of a sudden Seth noticed a shadow of uncertainty in Ian’s eyes and he instantly understood what his friend was thinking. Slowly they both raised their heads and looked up at the vaulted ceiling that rose high above them in the dark.

As they scanned the shadows of the enormous dome their eyes paused on a large glass chandelier hanging from its centre. From one of its branches, tied to a white rope and wrapped in a glittering shawl, was a body, swaying gently over the void.

‘Is that a dead body?’ Seth asked timidly.

His eyes fixated on the gruesome discovery, Ian shrugged his shoulders.

‘Shouldn’t we let the others know?’

‘As soon as we discover who it is,’ replied Ian. ‘If the blood is coming from the body, and everything seems to indicate that it is, the person might still be alive. Let’s take it down.’

Seth closed his eyes. He’d been expecting something like this ever since they’d crossed the bridge, but knowing that his instinct had been correct only increased the nausea building in his throat. The boy took a deep breath and decided not to wait any longer.

‘Fine,’ he agreed, his tone resigned. ‘How?’

Ian examined the upper reaches of the hall and noticed a metal walkway running around it, about fifteen metres above the ground. From this a narrow gangway connected to the glass chandelier – just a small footbridge, probably intended for the maintenance and cleaning of the structure.

‘We’ll go up there and take the person down,’ Ian explained.

‘One of us should wait here, to attend to their wounds,’ Seth said. ‘I think it should be you.’

Ian studied his friend carefully.

‘Are you sure you want to go up there alone?’

‘I’m dying to do it …’ replied Seth. ‘Wait here. And don’t move.’

Ian watched his friend approach the staircase that led to the upper levels of Jheeter’s Gate. As soon as the shadows had engulfed him and the sound of his footsteps had grown fainter, he scanned the surrounding darkness.

Gusts of wind from the tunnels whistled in his ears and sent fragments of debris tumbling across the ground. Ian looked up again and tried in vain to recognise the figure hanging in the air. He couldn’t bear the thought that it might be Isobel, Siraj or Sheere … Suddenly a fleeting reflection seemed to appear on the surface of the puddle at his feet, but when Ian looked down, there was nothing.

Jawahal dragged Sheere through the corridor of the stationary train until he reached the front car, which preceded the engine. An intense orange light shone through the cracks in the heavy door, and Sheere could hear the furious sound of a boiler raging inside. She felt the temperature rise steeply around her and all her pores opened at the touch of the scorching air.

‘What’s in there?’ she asked in alarm.

Jawahal closed his fingers round her arm and pulled her towards him.

‘The fire machine,’ he replied, opening the door and pushing the girl inside. ‘This is my home and my prison. But very soon all that will change, thanks to you, Sheere. After all these years we have found each other again. Isn’t this what you have always wanted?’

Sheere had to protect her face from the blast of heat as she peered at the engine through her fingers. In front of her a gigantic machine made up of large metal boilers joined together by an endless coil of pipes and valves was roaring as if it were about to explode. From the joints of the monstrous device came clouds of steam and gas. On an iron panel bearing a set of pressure valves and gauges Sheere recognised the carved figure of an eagle rising majestically from the flames. Beneath the bird were a few words carved in an alphabet she didn’t recognise.

‘The Firebird,’ said Jawahal, next to her. ‘My alter ego.’

‘My father built this machine,’ murmured Sheere. ‘You have no right to use it. You’re nothing but a thief and a murderer.’

Jawahal observed her thoughtfully then licked his lips.