Part 8 (1/2)

A sudden spatter of sleet drummed on the window. Merrin looked up pathetically. ”Beetle. It . . . it's cold outside. It's wet and it's nearly dark. I've nowhere to go. Please don't tell.”

Beetle hurried on with his plan. ”Look, Merrin, Sarah Heap is really nice. She won't throw you out, not in the state you're in.” Beetle reckoned he was telling the truth here. ”She'll take care of you until you're better.”

”Will she?”

”Of course she will. Sarah Heap will take care of anything. Even you.”

Merrin had run out of dry sheet. He blew his nose on his blanket.

Beetle pressed on. ”So why don't you come downstairs with me to where it's nice and warm?”

”All right then,” said Merrin. He coughed and fell back against his stained pillow. ”Oh . . . I think I'm too weak to get up.”

”Don't be ridiculous. You've only got a cold,” said Beetle scathingly.

”I've got . . . flu. Probably pneu . . . pneumonia in fact.”

Beetle wondered if Merrin might, for once, be telling the truth. He did actually look ill. His eyes were bright and feverish and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.

”I'll come with you . . . I'll give myself up, I will,” wheezed Merrin. ”But you'll have to help me. Please.”

Reluctantly Beetle went over to the bed. It smelled of dirty, damp clothes, sweat and sickness.

”Thank you, Beetle,” Merrin murmured, gazing oddly over his shoulder into the distance. The hairs on the back of Beetle's neck began to p.r.i.c.kle uncomfortably and the temperature in the chilly little room dropped a few degrees lower. Merrin held out his snotty hand and as Beetle leaned forward, steeling himself to take it, Merrin sat bolt upright and grabbed hold of Beetle's arm. Tight as a vice Merrin's bony fingers encircled his forearm. The ring on Merrin's thumb pressed into his flesh and began to burn into it. Beetle gasped.

”Never, ever call me stupid,” Merrin hissed, looking intently over Beetle's shoulder. ”I am not stupid-you are.”

Beetle felt chilled. He knew that something very nasty was standing behind him and he dared not turn around. Beetle did not reply. His throat had suddenly gone dry.

Behind Beetle was a ma.s.s of Things, which had sensed Merrin losing his grip on the Darke Domaine. Merrin had acquired them in the Badlands some eighteen months previously, when he had taken possession of the Two-Faced Ring. Once the ring reached its full power, Merrin had Summoned the Things to the Palace because he had what he called ”plans.”

Merrin's confidence had returned. ”You are in my Darke Domaine and you know it,” he crowed. ”And I know you know it.”

Beetle swayed. Merrin's ring was sending stabs of pain shooting up his arm and into his head. He felt sick and very, very dizzy. He tried to pull away but Merrin held him fast. With his free hand Merrin pulled a small, dog-eared book from under the bedcovers and waved it triumphantly at Beetle. ”See this? I've read all of this and I can do stuff you can't even dream of,” he hissed into Beetle's ear. ”You wait, office boy. I am going to show them all in this smelly little Castle and that stuck-up Ma.n.u.scriptorium that they should have been nice to me. They're going to regret it big time. This is my Palace now, not the stupid Princess's. Soon the Castle will be mine and I am going to have everything I want. Everything!” Merrin was spitting with excitement. Beetle longed to wipe the spittle off his cheek but he could not move. Merrin had a grip like a vice. ”And that stupid Septimus Heap, he'll be sorry he stole my name. I'll get him, you'll see. I'm going to be the only Septimus Heap around here. It will be my Wizard Tower, my Ma.n.u.scriptorium and I'll have a ten-times better dragon than that moth-eaten Spit Fyre he prances around on. You'll see!”

”In your dreams,” Beetle retorted, sounding more confident than he felt. Merrin's rant spooked him. There was such a crazy kind of power behind it that Beetle almost believed him.

Merrin did not bother to reply. With one hand keeping an iron grasp on Beetle and the other clutching his open book, Merrin began to chant the words on the page in a low, monotonous voice. A Darke mist began to envelope Beetle. As Merrin came toward the end of the chant, the terrible words reached down to Beetle as if he were at the bottom of a deep, dark pit. His heart raced and he could hardly breathe from the fear that came over him. His vision closed in so that all he could see was a tunnel with Merrin at the end of it, waving his book and opening his huge red mouth to say . . .

But Beetle never heard what Merrin said. With his last conscious effort he reached out and s.n.a.t.c.hed the book from Merrin's grasp.

”BeGone!” yelled Merrin. And then, ”Oi! Give it back!”

But Beetle didn't give it back. Beetle was gone.

Chapter 12.

Boomerang

Beetle was somewhere dark and uncomfortable-very uncomfortable. He was crushed into a tiny s.p.a.ce, his knees folded up to his chest and his arms twisted up around his head. He tried to move, but he was wedged so tightly that he felt as though he were in a vice. He fought down panic. What had Merrin done to him?

Beetle's discomfort was quickly turning into something much more nasty. Pins and needles were running down his legs and already he couldn't feel his feet. His hands buzzed and tingled. His left hand was closed tightly around the book he had s.n.a.t.c.hed from Merrin and was wedged in the same corner that his head was stuck in. His elbows and knees were jammed up against something hard and they hurt-really hurt. But the worst thing was the overwhelming feeling, growing stronger every pa.s.sing moment, that if he didn't stretch out right now he would go crazy.

Beetle took a few deep breaths and tried to quell his panic. He opened his eyes wide and stared into the dark, but although some light did seem to be filtering through from somewhere, he could not make sense of anything. The small amount of light helped Beetle get some control over his panic and he discovered that he could wiggle-just a little-the fingers of his right hand. Painfully he stretched them out and tapped, then scratched, the confining walls, trying to discover what they were made of. A splinter under his fingernail gave him the answer-wood. A great stab of fear shot through him-he was in his own coffin. Beetle heard a wild, despairing cry like that of an animal caught in a trap and a chill ran down his spine. It took him a few seconds to realize that the cry came from him.

Beneath the sound of his heart thudding in his ears, Beetle was becoming aware of noises filtering through from somewhere outside the coffin. It was an indistinct, m.u.f.fled murmuring. In his dark prison, Beetle's imagination flipped into overdrive. He'd read that Things murmured. Particularly when they were hungry-or was it angry? Beetle tried to remember. Did Things get hungry? Did they even eat? If they did, would they eat him? Maybe they were just angry. But angry wasn't good either. In fact, it was probably worse. But what did it matter? Right now he'd give anything to get out of the coffin, to be able to stretch out his arms and legs and to uncurl his spine. In fact, he'd happily face a thousand Things in exchange for just being able to stretch out to his full height once more.

Beetle groaned out loud. The murmuring grew louder and drowned out the thumping of his heart, and then one of the sides of the coffin began to shake. Beetle closed his eyes. He knew that, any minute now, a Thing would wrench off the side of his coffin and that would be it. If he was lucky he'd get a few seconds to uncurl himself, to straighten his twisted arms and legs-but only if he was lucky. And after that? After that it would be the end of O. Beetle Beetle. Beetle thought of his mother and suppressed a sob. Mum, oh Mum. She would never know what had happened to him. But maybe . . . maybe that was for the best . . . With the sound of murmuring growing more agitated, Beetle braced himself for the worst.

Suddenly the side of the coffin was ripped away. Light flooded in. Beetle fell out of the Ma.n.u.scriptorium Pending Cupboard. He landed with a painful thud on the floor. Someone screamed.

”Crumbs, it's you,” gasped Foxy.

Beetle lay on his back, dazed. He felt like a piece of Jell-O that had been tipped out of its mold before it was properly set. Tentatively he opened his eyes and found himself looking straight up Foxy's nose-which was not Foxy's best aspect.

”Wargh?” he croaked feebly in reply.

A crowd of scribes had gathered around Beetle.

”Hey, Beetle, you all right?” asked a girl with short brown hair and a concerned expression. She kneeled down and helped him sit up.

Beetle nodded slowly. ”Yeah. Thanks, Romilly. I'm fine. Now. But I thought I was about to be . . . um, not fine.” He shook his head, trying to get rid of all the terrifying thoughts that had crowded in on him during the last few minutes.

Suddenly a horribly familiar voice rang out. ”What-atchoo-is going on here, Mr. Fox?”

Foxy leaped to his feet. ”Nothing, Miss Djinn,” he gasped. ”Just a small, um, accident with something in the Pending Cupboard. A boomerang Charm. It . . . came back. Unexpectedly.”

The short, rotund figure of the Chief Hermetic Scribe, swathed in her navy blue silk robes, stood at the entrance to the Hermetic Chamber on the other side of the Ma.n.u.scriptorium. Luckily, due to her cost-cutting measures, the lights were very dim and she could not clearly see what was happening in the shadows beside the cupboard.

Jillie Djinn sneezed again. ”It seems you cannot keep control of even a simple Charm, Mr. Fox,” she snapped. ”If there is another incident-atchoo atchoo-like this-atchoooo-I shall be forced to reconsider your recent appointment.”

”I . . . I . . .” Foxy stammered.

Jillie Djinn blew her nose loudly and with great attention to detail. It was not a pretty sight. ”Why, pray, was the Charm not given to me for stocktaking?” she demanded.

Romilly could see that Foxy was struggling with an answer. ”It's only just come back, Miss Djinn,” she said.

”Miss Badger, I asked the Charm Scribe, not you,” said Jillie Djinn. ”And it is from the Charm Scribe that I require an answer.”

”It's only just come back, Miss Djinn,” Foxy repeated.

Jillie Djinn was not pleased. ”Atchoo! Well, now that it is back, I require it for stocktaking. Immediately, Mr. Fox.”

In a panic, Foxy hissed at Beetle. ”Give it here, Beet. Quick. Before she comes over to get it.”