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 . . .’