Читать книгу Skulduggery Pleasant: Books 10 - 12 - Derek Landy - Страница 45

Idiot.

There was no other word for it, really. Only idiot summed up the magnificent stupidity that Omen was capable of displaying at any moment and in any situation. Only he could have hitched a ride from relative safety to absolute jeopardy without actually needing to, at all, in the slightest. He had been fired, for God’s sake. Skulduggery Pleasant himself had told him to leave all this danger stuff to the professionals. He was no longer involved in whatever the hell was going on.

And yet who had teleported, with a man who had already tried to kill him, moving in the span of an eyeblink from beneath a bed in the dormitories of Corrival Academy to the cold floor of what appeared to be a prison? That would be Omen Darkly, yes, sir, it would. No one else could have managed something like that. The Boy Most Likely to Get Himself Killed.

What had he been thinking? What the hell had possessed him to do something so bloody stupid? He hadn’t had anything even remotely resembling a plan. He was impossibly lucky that Nero had just walked off when they’d arrived. If he’d looked around, he would have seen Omen lying there on the ground with his hand outstretched. He might have accidentally trodden on him, which would have been a ridiculous way to be discovered.

And, as Nero had walked away, did Omen spring to his feet, stealthy as a ninja? Or did he roll sideways into an empty cell, and then crawl under another bed to hide?

The word repeated itself in his head, just for good measure. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

He peeked out. The cell was old-fashioned, the kind he’d seen in movies like The Man in the Iron Mask. Rough-hewn walls. A door of thick metal bars. The only nods to any kind of civilised living were the toilet and the sink. Omen recognised binding sigils carved into the stone. They were dull, which meant inactive. That was good.

He took out his phone. No signal. Omen, like most other sorcerers on the planet, had boosted it to work anywhere. It was a quick and easy procedure – not even he could have messed it up. But it seemed that prisons operated under different rules. Omen reckoned he was in a considerable amount of trouble now. Trapped, alone and with no way of calling for help, the only things he had to rely on were his own magic and ingenuity.

He was, he realised, totally screwed.

Crawling out from beneath the bed, he did his very best not to hyperventilate. He was suddenly freezing. His hands shook and he looked at the open cell door like it was a mouth waiting to spring shut the moment he passed through.

Slowly, slowly, Omen got to his feet and peeked out. The other cell doors were open, too. Empty. They were empty. For the moment – for the fleeting moment he currently existed in – he was safe. Relatively.

He tucked in his shirt, then walked quietly in the direction Nero had gone. The light out here wasn’t good, and he welcomed the cold shadows. All the better to hide in, my dear. He laughed a little, and the laugh died and his eyes widened. His laugh had sounded a lot like panic.

He clamped both hands over his mouth as a high-pitched whine started up from somewhere within him. He shook his head, but the whine kept growing. The more he tried to stop it, the louder it got. He took a deep breath and balled his fists, thumped them against his forehead while he screwed his eyes shut.

He would not panic. He would not panic. Auger wouldn’t panic in a situation like this and neither would Omen.

The whine, amazingly, went away.

Omen opened his eyes and let out his breath in a slow, controlled manner. He heard voices coming from one direction and so he went the other way. This was not a bad plan. If he could keep walking away from whoever was close, he’d stay safe and undetected until he found a way out. Of a prison. Which were notoriously difficult to leave.

He came to metal stairs and went up, careful not to make too much noise. He took the tunnel, plunging from greasy yellow light into pitch-black with every third step. He came to a corner and peeked. Across a divide he saw a curved wall of cells, all occupied by prisoners, men and women, in yellow jumpsuits. Almost every single one of them was either sitting or lying on their bunk. They were so quiet in their solitude it was eerie. Omen actually felt sorry for them.

He hurried on.

He found another tunnel, which led to another corridor, which led to a row of open cells.

Except the two cells at the end. Their doors were closed.

Omen bit his lip. Going back would mean passing by all those prisoners again. It would mean risking being seen. There was no way out behind him – but for all he knew there could be an open door just ahead.

He moved forward quietly. The cell on the left was dark, but there was a light on in the cell on the right.

Step by silent step, Omen crept. He saw the bunk. Saw a pair of legs, clad in yellow. One was outstretched. The other bent. Omen craned his neck, saw thick fingers holding a battered paperback.

Omen swayed back, and took a deep breath. Confidence. All he needed was confidence. He was going to stride onwards. If the convict looked up, Omen would nod tersely to him, like he was meant to be here. Like it was all normal. He’d be in view for maybe two seconds, and then gone. He could do this. This could be done.

Omen squared his shoulders, and took his first big step.

“You!” the convict roared, and Omen screamed and his knees went and he stumbled back as the convict leaped to his feet. “Who the hell are you? You’re a kid! What are you doing here?”

Omen straightened, squeezing one hand in another, and he did his best to smile politely. “Hello,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

The convict pressed his face against the bars. He was big, with a shaved head, and looked mean. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“It’s, um, it’s my uniform,” Omen told him. “I attend Corrival Academy.”

“What’s that?”

“A school,” said Omen. “In Roarhaven.”

The convict blinked. “You on a – what do they call them? Field trip?”

Omen made himself chuckle. “No, no, sir. To be honest, I’m not really supposed to be here. I should probably just go.”

“Come closer.”

Omen’s mouth went even drier than it already was. “I’m sorry?”

The convict beckoned to him with a huge, hairy hand. “C’mere. Get closer.”

“I … I don’t think that’s wise, sir. I think I’ll stay where I am, if you don’t mind.”

“C’mere,” the convict said. His hand was poking out through the bars now, fingers curling. “I want to talk to you, but I don’t wanna raise my voice. I got a sore throat. I think I’m coming down with something.”

“That’s awful,” said Omen. “But I don’t want to catch it.”

“It’s not contagious.”

“Still, though … Best to be safe.”

“Come a little closer,” said the convict. “Just a little. I’m not gonna hurt you, for the gods’ sake. I just wanna talk. Could you at least do me the courtesy of treating me like a regular human being? Or is that too much to ask?”

Omen swallowed thickly, and took a tentative step forward.

“Do not move one more inch,” said a voice from behind.

Omen turned, noticing the figure sitting on his bunk in the darkened cell.

“You stay out of this,” said the convict.

The figure ignored him. “You know it’s a bad idea,” he said to Omen. He was American. “You know he’s going to do you harm. He knows you know. But what do you do? You don’t wish to offend him, so you step closer. How dumb are you, slick?”

Omen stayed quiet. He hoped that was a rhetorical question.

“Don’t listen to him,” said the convict. “I don’t think you’re dumb. What does he know? He was thrown into that cell a few days ago. He has no idea what the hell he’s talking about.”

The man stood up from his bunk and stepped into the light. He was good-looking, unshaven, with dried blood on his shirt.

“You just arrived?” Omen asked.

“Not by choice.”

“Um,” said Omen, “are you Temper Fray, by any chance?”

“I’m not Temper Fray by any kind of chance,” the man replied. “I’m Temper Fray by design. I’m Temper Fray because nobody else could handle the awesome responsibility of being me. But who I am is not the issue right now. The issue is what is a schoolboy doing in this particular prison at this particular time?”

Omen thought about it for a moment. “Well, I … I’m kind of here by accident, but since I am here I could, maybe, rescue you, if you’d like …?”

Temper Fray folded his arms. “I wouldn’t say no.”

“What about me?” the convict asked. “Can you rescue me, too?”

Omen turned to him. “I don’t really know you, sir.”

“My name’s Immolation Joe.”

Omen hoped that Immolation Joe could see the conflict on his face. “I’m not sure releasing you would be a good idea, though. You sound, just by your name, like you might be a threat to, you know, people. And, to be honest, also me.”

Immolation Joe frowned. “What are you saying?”

“I think you might kill me if I let you out, sir.”

“And?”

Omen took a moment, and nodded. “That’s a good point.”

Temper cleared his throat, loudly, and Omen turned to him again. “How about you ignore the multiple murderer you’re talking to and just focus on getting me out of here, how about that?”

“Yes,” Omen said at once. “OK. Sorry. Do you have the key?”

“Slick, if I had the key, I wouldn’t need to be rescued.”

“I mean, do you know where the key is?”

“I do not.”

“Then do you know how I can rescue you without it?”

Temper sagged. “My initial excitement is flagging, just to let you know. How did you get here?”

“I teleported,” said Omen.

“Ah! My man’s a Teleporter!”

“Well, no. I hitched a ride, actually. I know what’s going on, though. Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain brought me in to help.”

“They brought you in? They didn’t find Tanith Low or the Monster Hunters or any spare Dead Men that might be floating around? They brought you in? What age are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“What’s your name?”

“Omen Darkly.”

Temper brightened. “The Chosen One? Well, goddamn, I take it all back.”

“Uh … I’m not actually the Chosen One. I’m the Chosen One’s brother.”

Temper went quiet for a moment. “I didn’t know the Chosen One had a brother.”

“He does,” Omen answered. “And I’m him.” The look on Temper’s face didn’t change, so Omen kept talking. “You don’t have to worry, though. I was there for every step of my brother’s training, and I picked up a lot.” He wasn’t quite sure what he was saying any more. He wished his mouth would stop moving. “You’re in good hands. I can totally rescue you.” Omen gave another smile while his words caught up with him. Holy crap. He was talking gibberish. There was no way Temper was going to believe the stuff he was saying.

“OK, slick,” Temper said. “I believe you. Proceed with the rescuing.”

Omen couldn’t move for a moment. Then he nodded. When that didn’t do anything, he looked around. The solution didn’t jump out at him so he chewed his lip.

“Kid?” Temper said.

“Do you think they have a spare key, maybe, hidden somewhere?” Omen asked. “Behind a loose brick or something?”

“Probably not.”

“OK. That’s unfortunate. I’m not sure how I’m going to rescue you, then.”

Temper scratched his stubble. “Listen to me, you don’t need to. You just have to call Skulduggery and tell him what’s going on.”

“My phone doesn’t work in here. I’ll have to go outside and call him. Do you know where the exit is?”

“You have no idea where we are, do you? We’re on a floating island. Going outside here means dropping into the ocean.”

“Oh.”

Temper worked his jaw back and forth, and Omen could tell he was annoyed. “Slick, you’re going to have to find a way to open this door, OK? I might be the one in the cell, but we’re both trapped here. You get me out, I find a way to get us off this rock. Think you can do that?”

Omen nodded. “No.”

Temper frowned. “No?”

“I can’t do any of that stuff,” Omen blurted. “I can’t rescue you. I don’t know why I said I could. I just wanted to impress you. You seem cool and I want to be cool, too, so I said it, but I’ll make a mess of it. I’m already making a mess of it. My brother does the rescuing, not me. I haven’t had the practice. I don’t have the mindset. My uncle took me aside once and told me I was the worst. He didn’t even specify what I was the worst at. I think he just meant in general.”

“Your uncle sounds like a piece of work, but you’ve got to get past that. Is he here right now? No. You are. You are here and you can do this.”

“I can do this.”

“No, you can’t,” said Immolation Joe.

“Ignore him,” said Temper. “You can do this.”

Omen bit his lip. “What if they see me?”

“They’ll probably kill you. You ever have someone try to kill you before?”

“Yes, actually. This morning.”

“I knew it, just by looking at you. You’ve stared death in the face. That’s good. I have people trying to kill me all the time. Getting captured is actually kind of a luxury. What’s your name again?”

“Omen.”

Temper nodded. “OK, Omen, find a way to get me out of here. I’m counting on you.”

Omen didn’t know whether he should salute or not, so he just gave a small wave and hurried round the corner. The first thing he saw was a control panel on the wall. He stepped backwards.

“There’s a panel here,” he said. “Lots of numbered buttons with little lights, but only two lights are on. You think they open the cells?”

“I knew I could count on you,” said Temper. “Get me out of here, Omen.”

Grinning, Omen jabbed at one of the buttons and the corresponding light went off as he heard a click. He looked back as the cell door swung open, and Immolation Joe stepped out.

“Aw,” said Omen.

Immolation Joe clicked his fingers a few times. Sparks flew. Then his hands burst into flame. “Yesssss …” he said, gazing at the fire like he was in love.

“Slick,” said Temper.

Omen jabbed at the second button and Temper sprang out of his cell, his knee crashing into Immolation Joe’s chest. The convict reeled backwards and Temper slammed the door shut. It clicked and immediately the flames died in Joe’s hands.

“I’ll kill you!” Immolation Joe screamed, grasping for them between the bars. “I’ll kill you both!”

Temper ignored him, his eyes closed, savouring the magic that was flooding back into his system. Then he looked at Omen again and smiled, and held out his hand. “Nice going.”

They shook.

“Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”

Smiling awkwardly at Immolation Joe, Omen followed Temper to a set of metal stairs. They went down. Footsteps approached and they flattened themselves against the wall. A man walked by. Didn’t see them. When he was gone, they continued onwards, passing through a heavy door that stood open. Leaving the cellblocks behind them, they jogged to the gate at the far end of an unmanned security checkpoint. There were about a dozen stairs beyond it, concrete, and they climbed them and found themselves in a large chamber with a desk and huge doors – the way out.

Omen’s joy was somewhat diminished by the sight of Lethe standing there before them.