Charlie Bone and the Shadow of Badlock (Children of the Red King, Book 7) (13 page)

"I know, sir." Charlie swallowed the unwelcome lump that had arrived in his throat. "But the talents master sent me."

"For Pete's sake, why?"

Charlie ran his sleeve beneath his nose and sniffed.

"Don't do that!" bellowed Dr. Bloor.

"Sorry, sir. I'm here because I knocked Joshua Tilpin over, and somehow, he banged into a portrait and... and... and ..." Charlie was finding it difficult to describe the hole in Donatella's forehead.

"AND?" shouted Dr. Bloor.

"And Donatella Da Vinci now has a hole." Charlie placed a finger above his right eyebrow and added, "Just here."

For what seemed like a very long time, Dr. Bloor could not speak. He just stared at Charlie, his gray lips working away beneath his neat mustache. At last, in a low, menacing voice, he said, "You stupid, insufferable, loathsome, detestable child. I knew it would come to this."

Charlie was going to ask what Dr. Bloor meant by "this," but just then Weedon emerged from a door farther down the corridor.

"Your lunch is served, Headmaster," the janitor announced, in a tone that suggested a feast had been prepared.

Dr. Bloor grunted, "In a moment. Weedon. Take this boy to the Gray Room."

Charlie would never know where he got the courage to say what he did next. With Weedon thumping toward him, he knew he didn't have much time, so he just came out with it, all in a rush.

"Dr. Bloor, Billy Raven didn't come back here on Saturday, did he? I know he didn't, so why did you tell the police he did? I mean if he IS here, then where ..."

Charlie watched Dr. Bloor's face go through an amazing transformation. At first he looked astonished, as though he couldn't believe that Charlie had the temerity to ask such a question, and then his features hardened into a cold, forbidding mask. "Get him away from me," he shouted at Weedon.

Weedon had already grabbed Charlie's collar, and now he heaved him, half-choking, down the hallway.

"I know he's not here," Charlie spluttered doggedly. "I know ... I know ..."

Weedon suddenly opened a door and thrust Charlie inside. There was a loud click. Charlie didn't have to try the door to know that it was locked. He found himself in a cold, gray room. There was nothing in it. Not one thing. The floorboards were rough and unpolished, the walls plain gray stone. There was no heating of any kind. At one end of the room a small, round window showed four quarters of a sky the color of lead. Charlie had no way of reaching the window. It was far too high, and there was nothing to stand on. But Charlie wasn't easily disheartened. He pulled his hood over his head, wrapped his cape tightly around himself, sat in a corner with his knees up, and prepared himself for what was obviously going to be a long wait.

In such a position, the slightest movement in any part of the room would have alerted Charlie, so when the caterpillar appeared on the floor beside him, he was immediately interested. He watched the tiny creature make its way across the floor and then begin to climb the stone wall. When it was a few inches above the level of Charlie's head, it began to twist and turn, releasing a thread of glistening silk. Around it went, up and down, the silk covering its body in a shining cocoon.

While the caterpillar was occupied in this way, Charlie suddenly remembered the note Fidelio had given him. Charlie pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket and unfolded it. The note read:

You d have your moth by tonight, Charlie. I'm meeting Dag Bert in the sculpture room before supper. Tancred.

"You're a star, Tanc!" Charlie quickly pushed the note back into his pocket. And then, for no reason that he could think of, he had a pang of misgiving.

What was wrong with him? He stared at the silk cocoon, its radiance increasing every minute, until the gray walls were bathed in a comforting glow. With a sudden explosion of light, the cocoon burst apart, and a white moth flew out in a shower of stars.

"Claerwen!" breathed Charlie.

The moth settled onto his knee and spread her damp wings. But even as those white wings began to dry and shine with a greater brilliance than ever, Charlie was thinking of his friend.

If Claerwen was here, then what was in store for Tancred when he descended into the sculpture room, where Dagbert-the-drowner was waiting?

CHAPTER 12

A DROWNING

“Hide!" Charlie whispered.

The white moth allowed her wings to fade until they were the same color as the dull stones in the wall, and then she crawled into the pocket of Charlie's cape.

When the moth was safely hidden, Charlie began to bang on the door. "Hey!" he called. "When are you going to let me out? I'm sorry, OK? I didn't mean to damage the portrait."

He was answered by the half-hour chimes of five grandfather clocks. Charlie looked at his watch. Only half past three. Perhaps they would release him at teatime.

But no one came at four o'clock. Or five. At half past five, hungry and thirsty, Charlie began to bang on the door again. He had to see Tancred before he returned the golden sea urchin. Who knew what

Dagbert could do, once he had all the sea-gold charms again.

At twenty minutes to six, hoarse from shouting and overcome by a terrible weariness, Charlie slumped to the floor and fell asleep. He had no way of knowing that a battle was about to begin.

In winter, the hours between the end of lessons and dinner were considered free time for the students of Bloor's Academy. Some were busy with rehearsals, of course, but Tancred and Dagbert were not gifted in music or drama, so half past five seemed a good time to meet.

Only Fidelio and Lysander were aware of Tancred's plan, but Fidelio had to rehearse with the school orchestra and Lysander was playing Ping-Pong in the gym.

The sculpture room could only be reached by opening a trapdoor in the art room and going down a steep spiral staircase. At the end of the school day, the trapdoor was always closed.

Emma was surprised to see Dagbert Endless lifting the trapdoor at half past five. She had never seen him in the art room before. There was such a forest of easels in the room that Dagbert didn't notice Emma, working behind her canvas in a far corner. Tancred didn't see her either. Emma watched him descend into the sculpture room, only moments after Dagbert.

Everything Tancred did mattered to Emma, and when she saw him following Dagbert down to a room where an old tap dripped constantly into a stone trough as big as a bath, she was instantly alarmed.

For a few minutes Emma continued to add color to the group of birds in her painting, but she found it difficult to concentrate. She decided she must know what was happening in the room below. But if Tancred saw her looking in, he would regard her as an interfering girl, a busybody or, even worse, a spy.

There was another way. Emma could use her endowment. It was something she did very seldom. While some used their unusual talents almost every day, Emma preferred to keep hers for emergencies. Was this an emergency?
Decidedly yes,
she thought, remembering the dripping tap and the tomblike trough.

Putting down her paintbrush, Emma stepped away from her easel, took off her cape, and closed her eyes. She thought of a bird, very small, like a wren; a tiny, brown, speckled bird that would never be noticed perched, in shadow, at the back of a wrought-iron step.

While Emma imagined her bird, she began to dwindle; smaller, smaller, and smaller until she was the size of a fledgling wren. Her arms became brown speckled wings; her legs, black and needle-thin beneath the downy feathers that covered her body; and then came the head with its bright black eyes and sharp yellow beak.

The brown bird hopped across to the open trapdoor and dropped onto the top step.

White sheets covered the undefined shapes standing around the sculpture room like ghosts.

Tancred had his back to a wood carving: a seven-foot-tall griffin. Dagbert sat on the edge of the stone trough. Behind him, the old tap dripped. The trough appeared to be half full.

"I like the carving," Dagbert said. "Is it yours?"

"Lysander's," Tancred replied. "It's a griffin. Have you brought the moth?"

"Have you got my sea-gold creature?"

"Of course. Where's the moth?"

Dagbert smiled. "Here." He drew a small glass jar from his pocket. At the bottom lay something white. Tancred couldn't see what it was. He had to step closer.

"The sea urchin!" Dagbert demanded.

Tancred peered into the jar. It certainly looked like Charlie's moth, lying at the bottom. How could he know that Dorcas Loom had made an excellent replica? She had even painted the wing tips a luminous, glowing silver.

Tancred put his hand inside his cape and withdrew the sea urchin. As Dagbert made to grab it, Tancred snatched the jar. Now that both boys had what they wanted, their meeting should have ended there, but Tancred stared uncertainly at the motionless object lying at the bottom of the jar.

In an instant Tancred pulled back, dropping the jar. The false moth slid out and lay motionless on the floor.

"You've tricked me!" cried Tancred, filling the room with a wind that blew the covers off every sculpture and carving. White sheets flapped in the turbulent air; tools, brushes, pots, and tins rolled about the floor; Emma huddled down on her step as the wind swept through her feathers.

The full force of the wind struck Dagbert in the face. He closed his eyes and with one hand clutched his seaweedy hair as though it might be torn from his head. "I'm stronger than you, Tancred Torsson!" he screamed.

The dripping tap spun off the wall and water gushed out in a torrent. In a second, the stone trough had overflowed, and a bubbling stream rushed across the floor. Staggering against the current, Tancred slipped and crashed against the stone trough.

Emma heard a thump as Tancred's head hit the side of the trough. He lay unconscious, facedown in the water. The wind died, and hopping forward, Emma saw Dagbert standing over Tancred.

"You'll never get my sea-gold charm again," cried Dagbert. "Never, never, never."

Emma held back the shriek that she wanted to utter. If she were to help Tancred, she must stay alive, stay hidden.

Clutching his golden sea urchin, Dagbert leaped up the stairs. He never noticed the tiny bird sitting like a dried leaf in the corner of the top step.

With a juddering bang, the trapdoor closed, and Emma heard Dagbert's footsteps thundering above. There was no time to wonder if the trapdoor had been locked. Emma flew down to Tancred.

Perching on his head, she began to peck frantically at the blond hair, but the storm boy didn't move. She would have to roll him over, Emma realized, so that his nose and mouth were not beneath the water. For a tiny bird this was impossible. She would have to change.

"Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!" Emma urged herself as the feathers melted and her body grew. A girl, at last, she rolled Tancred on his back, put her hands under his arms, and dragged him out of the trough.

Tancred gave an enormous spluttering cough and sat up. "Aw, my head," he groaned. "Em, what happened? What are you doing here?"

"Dagbert," was all she said, before whirling up the steps.

It was as she had feared, the trapdoor was locked. It would be useless to scream; no one would hear them. The whole school would be in the dining hall by now. Emma tore back down the staircase and ran to the trough. Plunging her hand into the water she found the tap and tried to jam it into the wall, where water still gushed from an open pipe.

It was impossible. Time and again the tap dropped out. The trough was overflowing, and there were now at least six inches of water in the room. Soon it would be a foot, two feet, three. This was no ordinary flow. It was a torrent brought on by Dagbert and his set of golden charms, complete now that he had the sea urchin. Water was seeping under the door into the next room, where first years took their drawing lessons.

There were no windows in these basement rooms. Strips of halogen lighting ran across the ceiling, and two small vents let in the air. Emma dragged a chair to the wall, jumped up on it, and tugged at the grill covering one of the vents. It fell into the water with a loud splash, and Emma looked into a dark cavity, where fresh air swirled from an opening high above.
I must go in there,
thought Emma,
there is no other way.

Tancred had closed his eyes. Emma ran to him and shook his shoulder. He slipped sideways and fell into the water. Pulling him upright, Emma cried, "Tancred, you must sit up. You MUST. I have to get help, but if you fall into the water and I'm not here..."

Tancred opened his eyes. "Yes, Em," he mumbled. "My... legs... are... under... water."

"Yes. But you must keep your head above. Can you walk?"

"Think so." His voice was little more than a croak.

Emma helped him stumble across to the chair beneath the vent. The water splashed against their shins in a vicious tide. Tancred dropped onto the chair and clung to the sides, but it was obvious that he found it hard to stay upright. Emma looked around the room. The griffin would be too heavy to move, she decided, but there were two plaster tigers that might serve her purpose.

Emma pushed the tigers to either side of Tancred. Their heads came just above his elbows. "Who made these?" she asked as she hastily began to change shape again.

"I did." Tancred smiled sleepily. "My tigers." Resting his arms on their wide, painted heads, he looked down at the small bird skimming the water close to his knees. "They'll keep me safe, Em."

Will
they? Suppose they can't,
Emma thought as she flew into the vent. Above her was complete darkness. It wasn't easy, even for a tiny bird, to fly blind, up and up, through a narrow pipe. Time and again her wing tips brushed against the sides, tilting her backward and making her head spin. But at last she reached a bend in the pipe, and found that she could stand. Ahead of her a tiny patch of light showed the way out. She hopped to the end of the pipe. Now she had to make a quick decision.

The whole school would be in the underground dining hall. No one would hear her if she knocked on the great oak doors. And if she rang the bell, who would open the door? Weedon, the janitor, who had not an ounce of sympathy for an endowed child.

There was only one place she could go; only one man strong enough to demand entry to Bloor's Academy and rescue Tancred. Emma flew toward the Heights, a distant hill crowned by a thick forest of pines.

The Thunder House stood in a forest glade; visitors to the place were few, for the surrounding air was always turbulent. Thunder growled above the trees and an incessant north wind carried hailstones, even in the summer.

Small birds became as helpless as toys when they drew near the Torssons' home. Tossed between clouds and deafened by thunderclaps, they could do little more than close their eyes and hope to keep airborne.

But hope was not good enough for Emma. In the world, no bird was as fiercely determined. She would reach Tancred's father, and he would save Tancred.

As Emma approached the mysterious house with its three pointed roofs, the wind increased its grip. She could hardly breathe as the current's iron fist tightened about her. With a soundless cry of fear she gave in to the wind and allowed it to hurl her at the Thunder House.

When the wind released her, the bruised little bird ruffled her feathers and stretched her needle-thin legs. "Help! Help!" she cried; before she was fully changed, she began to rap on the Thunder House door with a fist that still had not lost all its feathers.

When the door was opened, it would be difficult to say who was the most startled: the half-bird, half-girl on the step or the seven-foot-tall man with his moon-yellow hair and electrified beard.

They had met once before and Emma knew Mr. Torsson was a kind man beneath his stormy exterior. "It's Emma," she said. "I'm sorry I'm still not quite me." Then, reaching her full, featherless height, "Ah, here I am."

"Emma Tolly?" boomed Mr. Torsson.

"Yes," Emma shrieked through a thunderclap, and without pausing for another breath, she cried out her news. Every word she uttered increased the tempest that erupted from the thunder man, and before she had finished, her hand was seized in long, icy fingers.

"We'll ride the storm," roared Mr. Torsson, whirling Emma off her feet.

Afterward, Emma could never find the words to describe her journey through the air. She was flying, and yet she was not a bird. The storm lifted her, cradled her, swung her feet into its arms, and rushed her through the sky. The storm had moon-yellow hair and bolts of lightning grew from his beard. Beneath him the hooves of an invisible horse thundered over the clouds.

It was over in less than two minutes. They landed in the courtyard of Bloor's Academy, and before Emma could gather her thoughts, Mr. Torsson had mounted the worn stone steps. One blow from his icy fist sent the great doors crashing apart, their long iron bolts scudding over the flagstones.

"Where's my son?" roared the thunder man, striding into the hall.

"This way," cried Emma, running to the staircase.

The ancient wood groaned in distress as Mr. Torsson mounted the stairs. The railings rattled and the carpets sighed as hailstones bruised their thick pile.

"Hurry, please! Hurry," called Emma, running down the hallway that led to the art room.

Voices could now be heard in the hall. "Who's there? What's going on?"

Easels clattered to the floor as Mr. Torsson marched through the art room. He reached the trapdoor and Emma pointed to the bolt that held it shut. She could hear the water gurgling beneath them. How high would it be now?

In almost one movement, the thunder man had pulled open the trapdoor and whirled down the spiraling steps. Emma, following, saw to her horror that the water was now level with the tigers' eyes. Tancred had gone.

"Don't touch the water!" Mr. Torsson commanded as he waded through the flood.

Shafts of electricity lit the water and the room was bathed in the reflected blue-white glow. The thunder man bent down and, with a dreadful sucking splash, lifted his son out of the water. Tancred's face was a deathly gray.

"NO!" With tears streaming down her face, Emma scurried back up to the art room. Thundering footsteps and the steady stream pouring from Tancred's clothes followed her up the steps and through the tangle of fallen easels.