MalloS

The darkness pressed in on all sides, suffocating. He could feel the water lapping at his lower torso, hear the steady drip of liquid escaping the ceiling above. Time and water had rusted the chains which bound his ankles and wrists. Whenever he fought against them, they sliced into his skin like barbed wire, and blood added to the never-ending drip, drip, drip.

It was endless. Nobody would ever find him down here. Dreams were his only form of entertainment; they blurred with reality, bringing every memory into question.

“Señor!”

The scream cut through the darkness, jerking Mallos rudely back into reality. The water vanished, replaced by an oppressive dry heat. He was sat on the leather driver’s seat of his black-and-chrome e-type jaguar, leaning forward against the thin wooden steering wheel. His hand was still resting on the keys in the ignition. Through the small, tilted windscreen, he could see the e-type’s black bonnet raised towards the ceiling of his basement-garage.

A dream. All a dream.

Shaking his head briefly, Mallos tugged at the door handle and pushed the door open, stepping out and up. Elegantly rising from a low, classic sportscar such as this was a skill in itself, but Mallos managed to make it look effortless. He leant sideways on the top of the door and frowned up at Anabel, who was hovering a little nervously half-way down the grey stone staircase. Most people knew not to come down here. Anabel tucked a strand of cola-brown hair behind her ear and waved at him unnecessarily, as though he couldn’t see her.

“Señor!” She repeated, voice heightened with anxiety. “Master Edward!”

Mallos’ mouth twisted into a grim line. He slammed the car door shut, carefully dropped the bonnet back down and negotiated his way back over to the staircase, skirting different vehicles in various states of disrepair. He’d gotten the e-type ‘cheap’ as part of a restoration project and had been sneaking down to work on it whenever Chairmanship of the Council of Originals became too much. Today he’d only had the opportunity to pop the bonnet and had gotten in to start the engine before he’d dozed off in the seat. So much for his ten-minute break.

His pace quickened as he followed Anabel up the stairs, taking them two at a time nearer the top. She led him at a speedy scuttle through the house and out onto the patio, where Clara, Ned’s niñera, was comforting the young lad with a hug. Mallos reached down and picked Ned up, subtly checking for signs of injury as he wrapped his arms around him. Clara immediately began reeling off what had happened in high-speed Spanish, gesturing to the bird of prey resting in the olive tree across the lawn. He studied it, meeting the bird’s golden eyes with his own. Typical.

“It’s alright, Ned,” he told him gently in English, pulling the boy round to his side so that he had a view of the bird from across the lawn. “This is your familiar. Like Sperantia is for me. He’s come to make friends.”