Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
I SIT UP IN BED after running harder than I ever thought I could.
I hug my knees to my chest, trying to catch my breath and hold on to it. But with every blink, I see those moonlit eyes.
Watching me.
My gaze snaps to the door. Whatever that was, he didn’t look human. But is he just in my head?
He will find me again.
The thought comes with the certainty of death. Real or imaginary, that shadow beast didn’t look like something I could outrun.
I’ve already locked the door, but I keep eyeing it. I doubt a wall of wood will be enough to keep such a creature out. I need to reach Nurse Leticia. Maybe I can send her an email from the computer at the clínica. Clearly, I wasn’t ready to leave the center.
Unless there’s a reason I’m here, says the small voice in my mind that compulsively argues with me. It makes me feel like I’m always playing devil’s advocate with myself. Dad called it my instinct to challenge everything. He said it would keep me honest and make me a good investigator.
Raul’s Rule #2: A detective’s best compass is in their gut.
The phrase flies back to me, as if Dad were whispering it in my ear. I go to my duffel and dig to the bottom, until I pull out a picture frame.
Behind the glass isn’t a photograph but a handwritten list titled Raul’s Rules . They’re a dozen things my dad used to say on repeat when he was on a case.
Some of these he said so often, Mom and I would finish the sentence for him. That’s why for his thirty-fifth birthday, I picked out a sheet of pretty blue construction paper and wrote out twelve of his most popular sayings.
Whenever we landed somewhere new, he would prop that frame on a surface to designate his work area. He said he liked to keep the list close while working a case. The sight always made me proud, like I was contributing to his investigation in some small way.
I set the rules on the gold-trimmed desk by the window, and my gaze jumps up to the first one: Don’t think; FEEL.
Whenever he opened a case, Dad’s first instinct was to empathize with everyone involved—even the culprit. He insisted the best investigators were humans first, detectives second. Killers are people, too, he would say, semi-seriously.
But since my parents’ deaths, I haven’t wanted to feel. In fact, feeling is the last thing I want to do.
I keep going down the list, in hopes Dad has left me a clue what to do next.
Raul’s Rule #3: Keep an open mind.
Does that mean I should consider the black fire, the smoke, and the shadow beast could be real? I almost laugh, except there’s nothing funny about my life right now. I have no idea how to distinguish what’s fiction from what’s fact.
I need a librarian for my thoughts.
I read the next line:
Raul’s Rule #4: Keep a written record .
That’s how Dad would get started—by taking notes. He used to fill up every corner of his notepads with his scribbles. When I asked him why he wrote everything down, he said, You have a better chance of solving a puzzle if you’re holding all the pieces.
That could have been an honorary thirteenth rule.
Beatríz left me a notepad and pen on the desk, presumably for my Spanish lessons. I sit down in the hard-backed chair and skip about a quarter into the blank booklet, burying the entry so the ink will be hidden deep within the pad.
I press the pen’s point to paper, jotting today’s date in the corner. Then I fill out my timeline of unexplained occurrences:
12 years ago—survived a black fire in a purple room
7 months ago—survived black smoke and a blaze of silver on the subway; later, dreamed of a shadow beast with silver eyes
Tonight—chased by the shadow beast from my dreams
“I found us a more modern book to read,” says Felipe as soon as I step inside the store, and I follow him to the attic.
“This traces the history of Oscuro,” he says once we’re seated in the same spot as yesterday.
“By the 1700s, la Sombra’s parties were over. This is when they began keeping better records.” There are colorful page markers sticking out from the text; it’s clear Felipe reviewed and annotated the book ahead of time. He’s either a very thorough tutor or exceptionally passionate about the subject.
He opens to the first marker and reads: “ De a poco, se fue formando un pueblo a la sombra del castillo. ” I recognize the words sombra and castillo by now, but not the rest.
“ Slowly, a town began to form in the shadow of the castle, ” he translates. “ Formar means form, so formando means something that is in the process of forming.”
Felipe is in full-on tutor mode. As he leafs through the book, he stops after every sentence to define the main vocabulary and review verb conjugations. After years of begging my parents to teach me Spanish, I should be grateful for the language lesson—but right now I’m more eager for information.
I need to know if there’s any chance the smoke, the black fire, and the shadow beast could be real.
“These are all the real estate records from that time, tracing the town’s growth.” Felipe has flipped to his next place marker, and I stare down at a ledger of properties.
My gaze snags on castillo Brálaga .
In 1712, it belonged to a man named Juan Carlos Fernando Brálaga. In 1733, it was passed on to Rogelio Antonio Brálaga. In 1750, Mauricio Homero Brálaga. I skim along the names of ownership—and a chill races down my spine.
The ominous feeling I got when Beatríz and Felipe welcomed me here makes more sense now. According to historical records, my bloodline binds me to la Sombra. Is this the fate Mom was running from? Is this why Beatríz brought me here now?
Am I the castle’s new heir?
Yet it’s not just the surname Brálaga that unsettles me; it’s the dates of inheritance.
Our life spans seem strikingly short.
Felipe’s finger draws my focus as he taps on another property: Calle Nube 32. Beside it is the date 1705 and the owner’s name— Luis García Sarmiento . The next entry is a proper five decades later: 1758, ángelo Cruz Sarmiento.
1812, Sancho Aurelio Sarmiento.
1860, Romano Héctor Felipe Sarmiento.
This is Felipe’s family, I realize. Their life spans are longer, but the surnames are the same. I skim the other properties’ ledgers—all of them have been handed down through generations of the same family. This whole town is a relic of the past, perfectly preserved, down to the bloodlines.
“Something else,” says Felipe, and while I’m still processing the second page marker, he flips to the third. Before I can see what’s there, he covers the page with his hand.
“Have you noticed what Oscuro is missing?” he asks me.
I used to play this game with Dad. He said it was harder to see what’s not there, so sometimes when we would revisit a place, he’d ask me to identify things that were different from last time.
So what is Oscuro missing? A lot of things. A movie theater, for one. Mom and I used to love going in the middle of the day, while the rest of the world was working or studying. A library, an art gallery, a school—but that’s all typical of small towns. Residents visit the nearest bigger town or small city.
What should be here that isn’t? I’m usually good at this, but my mind is still jittery from last night, like I’m hopped up on caffeine, and I can’t focus on this game. I shrug in hopes Felipe will illuminate me.
He moves his hand away, and at the sight of a cross in a heap of rubble, the answer is obvious.
There’s no church.
“I don’t know how it is in the United States,” he says, “but in Spain, there’s a church at the center of every town, especially one with a castle. It was the first thing people built when they settled somewhere.”
I didn’t grow up with religion, but I remember the small towns we visited in the U.S. having this in common—a place of worship.
“Each of these stickers marks every attempt to build a church in Oscuro.” Felipe thumbs through the pages, no longer translating the Spanish to English, but summarizing. “Every construction attempt ended in tragedy.”
I’m not sure what frightens me more—Felipe’s words or their delivery. The way his amber eyes shine reminds me of how some of the residents at the Rainbow Center would look when they were having an episode.
“La Sombra is by default our most sacred symbol,” he says. “It’s our holy place.”
I narrow my eyes, not loving his choice of words.
“I wasn’t sure before,” he says, almost whispering, “but after what happened to you, I believe.”
I want to leave and not hear his next words, but I’m caught in the beam of his stare.
“I think you’re here because the castle wanted you back .”
I leave my bedroom as soon as I think Beatríz is asleep.
Felipe’s lesson today messed me up. At the clínica, I could barely manage the mindless task of digitizing patient files because I’d seen the last name ángel in the property ledger. It’s hard to fathom that everyone here belongs to a founding family.
Dad’s last name—Amador—isn’t in the clínica’s files, which means he’s an outsider. Does that have anything to do with why we moved away?
I approach the Y-shaped passage. Last night, I found the mirror room in the left wing, and as much as I want to know what lies beyond it, I’d rather not slice my feet open. So I take a right turn instead.
I feel my calves tighten as I walk, the passage descending. The air grows mustier and earthier as the crimson corridor spills into a dusty salon void of furniture or adornment. Yet the scratches and punctures on the walls show the space wasn’t always this empty.
I keep counting steps as I cut across another room that’s been equally hollowed out, and another and another. The barren spaces are echo chambers, doorless and windowless and featuring entryways with pointed arches.
The chilly floor grows thick and warm beneath my feet as I step on an old, prickly rug. The fabric scratches at my socks, even more uncomfortable than the cold stone floor. The crimson rug ends at a wooden door with metal hinges.
When I turn the handle, I see what I can best describe as a windowless cathedral.
The space looks infinite. Rows upon rows of stone pillars blossom into ribbed vaulting. The candle-like fixtures are bracketed high up, leaving the ground in shadow. And as I walk across the floor, the reddish light above me goes out.
I take another step, and the next one shuts off, so I stop walking altogether.
All the lights burn out at once.
I hear my intake of breath as blackness blots the air, and while I wait for my vision to adjust, I feel the shadow beast before I see him—a sign he’s my own creation.
The small hairs on my skin ripple with his presence, and I break into a run. I keep my arms outstretched in front of me so I don’t crash into a column, determined to make it past this room.
My hands flatten against cold stone, and the impact jolts through me. I feel my way along, but it’s a wall. This is a dead end.
A flash of silver blasts across the room, blinding me for several seconds. When the brightness dims to a couple of small orbs, I see his shadowy form taking shape.
A gargoyle come to life.
The reddish lights flicker back on, illuminating him. He could be a teen or in his early twenties; and yet, the starry galaxies of his eyes contain universes.
They glimmer and fade like they’re powered by their own light source.
He’s in a crisp suit that both emphasizes his muscular frame and obscures it, the fabric so inky black that it casts shadows around him. He’s either the world’s wealthiest man or the Devil himself.
Somehow, my face seems to hold his interest as well because he’s studying me back just as intensely. As if he recognizes me, too.
And even though I know he can’t be real, my heart catapults to my throat.
BOOM.
The silver eyes narrow.
BOOM.
The razor-sharp jawline tilts to a 45-degree angle.
BOOM.
His gaze drops to my chest. Like he can hear my heartbeats.
“Me estás viendo.”
Exquisite. I’ve never used the word before, yet it flies into my mind now, as I hear him speak. As if the flawless face, powerful frame, and expensive clothes weren’t enough, his voice is as deep as the earth and as soothing as the ocean’s surf.
He’s too large to exist. Undoubtedly, he’s my greatest creation.
I just wish I knew what he was saying.
“You can see me.” This time he speaks English; I guess my wish is his command.
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. The shadow beast’s eyebrows quirk up. “You can hear me, too?”
I nod again. Something hardens in his expression, and too late I realize I’ve answered wrong.
“It was you .”
An edge sharpens the smoothness of his voice. “I do not know your plan, and I do not care. You have one breath left to end this spell—or I will end you.”
I stare at him, my jaw hinging open.
They warned me at the center that the black smoke could progress to other visions, so I’d need to be vigilant. I focus on the calming mantras they taught me: Don’t engage in my mind’s games. Concentrate on what I know to be real. The shadow beast is an illusion, and illusions can’t touch me—
“One,” he counts off.
I have no idea how to fight—much less defeat—my own mind. I can’t move or think, but my heart is raging.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Calm down, Estela! I inwardly shout at myself. He’s not real, he can’t touch me. I have to slow my pulse, breathe, focus—
The air siphons from my lungs as a steel vise wraps around my neck, caving in my throat. Pain explodes through me as spots darken my view, and I know I won’t inhale again, not ever.
With the last gasp of air in my mouth, I blow out my final breath, and I hear a raw, raspy voice I almost recognize whisper-shout:
“WAIT!”