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“Don’t leave me now, Daniel. Please.”
“I must warn Carax.”
Bea gave me an imploring look, but I went out into the corridor. I tiptoed to the top of the main staircase. There was no sign of Fumero. He had stopped at some point of the darkness and stood there, motionless, patient. I stepped back into the corridor and walked down it, past the row of bedrooms, until I got to the front of the mansion. A large window coated in frost refracted two blue beams of light, cloudy as stagnant water. I moved over to the window and saw a black car stationed in front of the main gate, its lights on. I recognized it as the car of Lieutenant Palacios. The glowing ember of a cigarette in the dark gave away his presence behind the steering wheel. I went slowly back to the staircase and began to descend, step by step, placing my feet with infinite care. Stopping halfway down, I scanned the darkness that had engulfed the ground floor.
Fumero had left the front door open as he came in. The wind had blown out the candles and was spitting whirls of snow and frozen leaves across the hall. I went down four more steps, hugging the wall, and caught a glimpse of the large library windows. There was still no sign of Fumero. I wondered whether he had gone down to the basement or to the crypt. The powdery snow that blew in from outside was fast erasing his footprints. I slipped down to the base of the stairs and peered into the corridor that led to the main door. An icy wind hit me. The claw of the submerged angel was just visible in the dark. I looked in the other direction. The entrance to the library was about ten yards from the foot of the staircase. The anteroom that led to it was sunk in shadows, and I realized that Fumero could be watching me only a few yards from where I was standing. I looked into the darkness, as impenetrable as the waters of a well. Taking a deep breath and almost dragging my feet, I blindly crossed the distance that separated me from the entrance to the library.
The large oval hall was submerged in a dim, vaporous light, speckled with shadows that were cast by the snow falling heavily on the other side of the windows. My eyes skimmed over the empty walls in search of Fumero—could he be standing by the entrance? An object protruded from the wall just a couple of yards on my right. For a moment I thought I saw it move, but it was only the reflection of the moon on the blade. A knife, perhaps a double-bladed penknife, had been sunk into the wood paneling. It pierced a square of paper or cardboard. I stepped closer and recognized the stabbed image. It was an identical copy of the half-burned photograph that a stranger had once left on the bookshop counter. In the picture, Julián and Penélope, still adolescents, smiled in happiness. The knife went through Julián’s chest. I understood then that it hadn’t been Laín Coubert, or Julián Carax, who had left that photograph like an invitation. It had been Fumero. The photograph had been poisoned bait. I raised my hand to snatch it away from the knife, but the icy touch of Fumero’s gun on my neck stopped me.
“An image is worth more than a thousand words, Daniel. If your father hadn’t been a shitty bookseller, he would have taught you that by now.”
I turned slowly and faced the barrel of the pistol. It stank of fresh gunpowder. Fumero’s face was contorted into a dreadful grimace.
“Where’s Carax?” he demanded.
“Far from here. He knew you would come for him. He’s left.”
Fumero observed me without blinking. “I’m going to blow your head into small pieces, kid.”
“That’s not going to help you much. Carax isn’t here.”
“Open your mouth,” ordered Fumero.
“What for?”
“Open your mouth or I’ll open it myself with a bullet.”
I parted my lips. Fumero stuck the revolver in my mouth. I felt nausea rising in my throat. Fumero’s thumb tensed on the hammer.
“Now, you bastard, think about whether you have any reason to go on living. What do you say?”
I nodded slowly.
“Then tell me where Carax is.”
I tried to mumble. Fumero slowly pulled out the gun.
“Where is he?”
“Downstairs. In the crypt.”
“You lead the way. I want you to be present when I tell that son of a bitch how Nuria Monfort moaned when I dug the knife into—”
Glancing over Fumero’s shoulder, I thought I saw the darkness stirring and a figure without a face, his eyes burning, gliding toward us in absolute silence, as if barely touching the floor. Fumero saw the reflection in my tear-filled eyes, and his face slowly became distorted.
When he turned and shot at the mantle of blackness that surrounded him, two deformed leather claws gripped his throat. They were the hands of Julián Carax, grown out of the flames. Carax pushed me aside and crushed Fumero to the wall. The inspector clutched his revolver and tried to place it under Carax’s chin. Before he could pull the trigger, Carax grabbed his wrist and hammered it with great strength against the wall, again and again, but Fumero didn’t drop the gun. A second shot burst in the dark and hit the wall, making a hole in the wood paneling. Tears of burning gunpowder and red-hot splinters spattered over the inspector’s face. A stench of singed flesh filled the room.
With a violent jerk, Fumero tried to get away from the force that was immobilizing his neck and the hand holding the gun. Carax wouldn’t loosen his grip. Fumero roared with anger and tilted his head until he was able to bite Carax’s fist. He was possessed by an animal fury. I heard the snap of his teeth as he tore at the dead skin, and saw Fumero’s lips dripping with blood. Ignoring the pain, or perhaps unable to feel it, Carax grabbed hold of the dagger on the wall. He pulled it out and, under Fumero’s terrified gaze, skewered the inspector’s right wrist to the wall with a brutal blow that buried the blade in the wooden panel almost to the hilt. Fumero let out a terrible cry of pain as his hand opened in a spasm, and the gun fell to his feet. Carax kicked it into the shadows.
The horror of that scene passed before my eyes in just a few seconds. I felt paralyzed, incapable of acting or even thinking. Carax turned to me and fixed his eyes on mine. As I looked at him, I was able to reconstruct his lost features, which I had so often imagined from photographs and old stories.
“Take Beatriz away from here, Daniel. She knows what you must do. Don’t let her out of your sight. Don’t let anyone take her from you. Anyone or anything. Look after her. More than your own life.”
I tried to nod, but my eyes turned to Fumero, who was struggling with the knife that pierced his wrist. He yanked it out and collapsed on his knees, holding the wounded arm that was pouring blood onto his side.
“Leave,” Carax murmured.
Fumero watched us from the floor, blinded by hatred, holding the bloody knife in his left hand. Carax turned to him. I heard hurried footsteps approaching and realized that Palacios was coming to the aid of his boss, alerted by the shots. Before Carax was able to seize the knife from Fumero, Palacios entered the library holding his gun up high.
