The Dying of the Light. Derek Landy

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ and go home. Are you going to help us with that or aren’t you?”

      The corner of China’s mouth curved slightly upwards. “But of course, my dear. I do apologise for wasting time with small talk. I believe I may be of some assistance, yes.”

      She led them to a large table filled with open books. On a clear space by the edge was a journal, in which was drawn a circle of symbols. Notes were scrawled in different coloured inks, linked by arrows and underlined for effect. Measurements spilled out on to the adjoining page, like an idea that couldn’t be contained.

      “For the last few weeks, I have been spending my precious time designing traps,” said China. “This design you see before you is the culmination of my work. It should take a sorcerer’s power and throw it back at her. Once Darquesse enters this circle, her own strength will loop back and stun her, incapacitating her for between five and ten seconds. Because Stephanie is the only one of us without magic, and so the only one who will not be affected by the trap, I suggest she act as bait. Fletcher Renn will be waiting with the Sensitives in a secure location, and when Darquesse is stunned Stephanie can deactivate the trap, the Sensitives can teleport in, and the day can be saved. Can we be certain that Darquesse won’t recover while they work?”

      “Cassandra seems confident,” said Skulduggery.

      “Splendid. Our entire existence rests on the assurances of a hippy.”

      “She hasn’t let me down yet. My main concern is this trap of yours and whether or not it’ll work on someone of Darquesse’s power.”

      China smiled. “Oh, my dear, you wound me. Have I ever let you down?”

      “Numerous times.”

      “I meant today.”

      “Then, no. You haven’t. That I know of.”

      “So we have our trap,” Stephanie said, cutting across them both, “but we don’t have any way of luring Darquesse into it. Creyfon Signate is still trying to find Mevolent’s alternate reality and until we have that, Ravel can’t be our bait.”

      “We don’t need him to be,” Skulduggery said. “Darquesse is after the Hessian Grimoire. All we have to do is break into the Vault and get to it before she does.”

      “The Vault?” said Stephanie. “Beneath the Dublin Art Gallery? The one with the vampire security guards?”

      “The very same. Security has been tightened since Valkyrie and I broke in six years ago, but it’s nothing we won’t be able to handle.”

      Stephanie frowned. “But why do we have to break in? We’re the Sanctuary now. Why don’t we just set up the trap in the gallery, Darquesse will walk in, and we’ll have her. What’s the problem?”

      “The Sanctuary has no jurisdiction over the Vault,” said China. “They won’t let us set up the trap, and we can’t force anyone to open those doors for us. Also, the man who owns this particular grimoire is unlikely to loan it out.”

      “We’ll just explain that we need it to save the world,” Stephanie said. “Who’s going to say no to that?”

      China smiled. “I’ve been trying to get my hands on that book for centuries as a private collector. He may see this request as simply an attempt to use my newfound position of authority to snatch up all the little trinkets I’ve had my eye on – something I would never, ever admit to. So a little bit of crime is in order.”

      “We break in and steal the grimoire before Darquesse has a chance to,” said Skulduggery. “We set up the trap nearby. When Darquesse arrives, Stephanie takes the grimoire and leads her into the circle. The Sensitives separate Valkyrie from Darquesse and Darquesse is pulled into the Soul Catcher. No one gets hurt, no one gets killed, and Darquesse is locked away forever. Questions?”

      Stephanie raised her hand. “How do I deactivate the trap?”

      “It’s easy,” said China. “NJ will show you.”

      “NJ? Not you?”

      “Unfortunately, I will not be attending,” China said. “But I am sending NJ and another two of my best students and, believe me, they will have detailed instructions on what to do. I would go myself, but I haven’t had a chance to test the trap yet, so I don’t know if it’ll work, and I don’t want to be killed if it doesn’t. Any more questions? No? Wonderful. I have a good feeling about tonight. This is a good plan. Nothing can possibly, possibly go wrong.” She smiled again. “At all.”

      

      inter’s come, and it’s a slow day, and cold, and Danny is in the backroom strumming on his guitar, a battered old six-string he’s had since he was fourteen. Inspired by Stephanie, he’s singing ‘Spancil Hill’ by the Dubliners.

      He’s playing softly enough to listen out for the bell over the door, and when it tinkles he puts down the guitar and walks out to greet his prospective customer. Two of them, actually. There’s a tall old man over by the magazine rack, his back to Danny, and a younger, shorter, fatter man waiting at the counter. He has a black goatee beard that is failing in its attempt to hide twin moles, one on his upper lip, one on his chin. His thinning hair is long, pulled tight into a ponytail. He looks like he’d be more comfortable in a grubby Black Sabbath T-shirt, but here he is, stuffed into his shirt and tie like a sulky schoolboy forced to dress up for church.

      “Do you sell rat poison?” is the first thing he says.

      “Afraid not,” says Danny, “but we do have some rat repellers that work on an ultrasonic frequency if you have a rodent problem.”

      The fat man considers this by chewing his lip. “You sell knives?”

      “Penknives, yes.”

      “Hunting knives?”

      “No.”

      “OK. You sell hammers?”

      “We have a few,” says Danny. “Other side of the shelf behind you.”

      The fat man doesn’t even glance over his shoulder. Usually this kind of time-wasting is done by kids to distract Danny from shoplifting going on elsewhere, but the only other person in the store is the old man, and he stays in plain sight.

      “You sell guns?” the fat man asks.

      “No,” says Danny, the hairs on the back of his neck starting to prickle.

      “Pity,” says the fat man. “I like guns.”

      He doesn’t say it in a threatening manner – in fact, he says it wistfully, almost like a sigh – but a feeling starts to grow in the hinterland of Danny’s mind, and it grows fast and it grows big.

      The fat man has a Boston accent. A long way to travel for a hammer and some СКАЧАТЬ