Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 10 - 12. Derek LandyЧитать онлайн книгу.
“maybe.”
Jenan stood. “What the hell is wrong with you, Grace? You going soft all of a sudden?”
Byron paled. “No.”
“You’re full of the big talk when all we’re doing is planning,” Jenan said, “but the moment it turns real your spine turns to jelly. Is that what’s happening?”
Byron shook his head, but didn’t answer.
“Everyone, listen up,” Jenan said, looking round. “These aren’t games we’ve been playing. This isn’t dress-up. This is real life, baby. The plan has been set in motion. We have all been set in motion. We were told they had big plans for us. Well, this is where it starts. If you’re having doubts now, at this stage … I’m sorry to tell you that you’ve missed your chance to back out. You’re here now, and that means you’re in. No excuses. Does everyone, and I mean everyone, understand that?”
Nods all round. Even Byron.
Jenan retook his seat. “Good.”
The librarian snorted and woke, raising his head. “Quiet down there!”
“Sorry,” said Jenan without even looking at him.
The librarian went back to sleep.
Omen’s gaze fell upon Byron’s open bag, and the golden mask that peeked out.
He wished his brother was here. Auger would not only know what to do, but he’d also be able to do it. And, if it went wrong, he’d be able to get out of it. Omen, though, was the screw-up of the family. Omen’s efforts were doomed to failure. He knew this.
And yet, if what Colleen had said was true, the stakes were high. And high stakes meant chances needed to be taken, no matter how ill-advised they might be. And this chance was incredibly ill-advised.
Omen crouched, held out his hand and touched the air.
He visualised interlocking blocks from his fingertips to the bag. Pushing was easier. He could have pushed the bag over without even trying. But pulling … that was where things got tricky. He’d done it before, though. Not in class, and not in exams. He’d done it at home. Auger had taken him through it. Omen had been calm, then. He tried to be calm now.
So he ignored the rapid beat of his heart, and the jagged spikes of adrenaline that made his hand tremble, and he focused on the imaginary blocks … and the mask moved.
Jenan and the others kept talking. No one noticed the mask lifting itself out of the bag.
Omen laid it gently on the carpet and left it there for a moment while he shook out his hand. He took a deep breath, reached out again, focused on hooking his fingers into the air just right and pulled.
The mask moved slowly across the ground.
Bit by bit, it got closer. For a terrifying few seconds, it was out in the open, and Omen lost his grip. He’d allowed his mind to wander, to imagine what Jenan and the others would do if they caught him. Would they kill him? It seemed ridiculous, that a bunch of his classmates would actually try to kill him, but, if they really were involved with this anti-Sanctuary thing, killing a witness might not be something they would baulk at. Certainly Jenan wouldn’t hesitate to throw Omen off the balcony. That’d be something he’d probably enjoy.
Omen pushed such thoughts from his mind, reached out again and pulled the mask closer. Now it was under a small table, blocked from the view of the others. It was going well. It was actually going well. It was actually going to work. Omen smiled, and his fingers moved with too much enthusiasm and the mask shot off the ground. He snatched it from the air as it sped past his face, falling backwards and lying there, eyes wide, waiting to hear the shouts of alarm.
But Jenan and the others kept talking, and Omen let himself breathe again.
Someone new came in and Omen got up.
“Good, good,” he heard Parthenios Lilt say, “everyone’s here. Let us move to less salubrious surroundings. Ceremonial masks on.”
Omen stayed hidden, clutching the mask with both hands.
“Uh,” he heard Byron say.
“Is there a problem, Mr Grace?” Lilt asked.
“My … my mask isn’t in my bag, sir.”
The library went very quiet.
“Mr Grace …” Lilt said.
“I put it in there, sir,” said Byron. “I know I did. It must have fallen out or …”
“Mr Grace, these masks are a symbol. These masks mean something. They meant something to Rebus Arcanum and they mean something to us.”
“Yes, sir,” said Byron.
Lilt sighed. “I have a spare in my office, on the shelf near the window. Go and fetch it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Byron. “Thank you.”
Omen heard him hurry out.
“We’ll probably have to kill poor Byron before too long,” Lilt said sadly. Then his tone brightened. “OK, everyone, into the back room. We have much to discuss.”
Cadaverous preferred the silence. The others – Lethe and his gang of misfits – hadn’t returned to the prison yet, so he didn’t have to suffer through the banality of their conversation. There was no one there to engage with, anyway, no true discussions to be had. Debate with people so limited was a pointless exercise. He didn’t even hear the convicts, tucked away in their cells, as they begged for freedom. He was not their jailer and he would not be their saviour. He was just an old man listening to the voice in his head.
You are close, Cadaverous. Come to me.
Cadaverous enjoyed this time alone. He wandered the prison corridors and searched the offices, stepping over discarded scythes and fallen automatic weapons while he checked for hidden passages.
Two hours after beginning his search of the prison’s lower area, he found rough-hewn steps leading downwards, and downwards he went, feeling the cold and the damp seep into his bones. His flashlight was new, its bulb powerful, but the darkness ate up the beam, swallowed it, as if there were no walls for it to hit, no features for it to catch.
There was just the dark down here. The dark and the voice.
You will be rewarded.
He licked his dry lips. There was only one reward he was interested in, something he had possessed once, all too briefly, before it had been snatched away from him. He hadn’t known what he’d had. He hadn’t known the value of it until it was gone.
Free me, said the voice, and I will make you young again.
The walls closed in and the beam swept over the cold stones, which were wet to the touch. The walls brought a new sharpness to his footfall. The reflected light illuminated his frozen breath. He slipped on the steps, almost went tumbling, had to jam his hand against the wall to save himself, opening a cut along his palm. He examined it under the light, watching the blood trickle. He wiped it on his shirt. He couldn’t feel the pain.
At the bottom of the steps there was a steel door the colour of storm clouds. He took out the set of keys that he’d found in the control room and looked at each key in turn. He found the one most likely to fit and eased it into the lock. It turned smoothly, with a deep and satisfying clunk, and he pushed the door open.
It was a small room. Circular. No light. No ornamentation. In the middle of the room, there was a metal box on a pedestal.
Cadaverous approached. The hair on his arms, on the back of his neck, stood on end. The ring held