Read Online Endymion Spring by Matthew Skelton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Matthew Skelton
Ads: Link
Surely, it couldn't have disappeared already!
Desperate, he trailed his fingers along the spines, just as he had done before, and whispered the words " Endymion Spring" to himself, over and over again in a sort of mantra, willing the book to reappear... but nothing happened. It wasn't on the floor and it wasn't on the shelf. There was no sign of the blank book anywhere.
The library guarded its secret.
A
At that moment a book thwacked the floor near the front entrance and a sound skittered across the hall. Blake froze. Someone was in the library.
Instinctively, he switched off his torch and shrank back against the wall, creeping into the arms of a massive bookcase. The darkness crushed against him, pressing into his eyes, digging into his ribs. He could barely breathe.
Heart in mouth, he listened.
At any moment a footstep might betray itself, a whisper of breath make itself known... but there was nothing. Only terrible, oppressive silence. The seconds weighed upon him.
Finally, when he could stand the suspense no longer, he switched on his torch and covered it instantly with his hand, so that the light flooded between his fingers like blood. Using its meager light, he looked around him. Gloom stretched into the distance.
He edged out of his hiding place. Books lined the walls, perfectly still.
Taking tiny, shaky steps, he inched towards the entrance. A draft crept down the corridor towards him, sending a shiver up and down his spine.
At last he reached the front hall. With large, fearful eyes he peered into the shadows. The circulation desk was there, and the clock, and the tall card catalog beside it, plus a trolley for returned books.
He stopped. Just below the bottom run of the trolley was a book. It must have slipped off its shelf.
He moved towards it, then fell back, disappointed. It was just a dumb, boring textbook. Not Endymion Spring .
He bent down to put it back on the trolley — and nearly died from fright. Two metallic green spheres glinted at him from behind the corner of the cart. He jumped back.
Then, with a rush of relief, he realized what it was.
Mephistopheles!
"Oh no, not you," he cried. "You're not supposed to be in here! How did you" — he turned round — "get in here?" he mumbled, finishing the thought.
The door was closed. No one was there.
Making comforting kissing noises, he approached the cat and tried to lure it out of hiding, still uncertain how the shadowy feline had managed to elude him; but Mephistopheles simply retreated from his fingers and then, with a hiss that split the air like ripped fabric, bolted upstairs.
"Great," exclaimed Blake, knowing Paula Richards would be furious if he let the cat stay in the library overnight.
Muttering to himself, he gave chase, sprinting up the wide marble stairs.
The gallery was divided into a series of deep, dark alcoves by rows of freestanding bookcases that were centuries old. They looked like a procession of monks in the dimness — hunched and round-shouldered.
Blake walked up the central aisle, creaking along the floorboards, hunting for Mephistopheles. He swept the beam of his torch across the shelves, illuminating hundreds of pale, spectral volumes that were bound to their desks with thick iron chains. Others were propped open — like moths — on foam pillows. Weighted necklace-like strings kept their pages from flickering.
He poked his light into corners and peered under benches, discovering a jumble of legs in the shadows.
"Come on, you stupid cat," whispered Blake impatiently. "I haven't got all night!" He could feel the seconds slipping away. Any moment now, his mother might notice his disappearance and then he'd be in trouble.
There he was!
Mephistopheles crouched behind a heavy wooden chest in the far corner of the room, under a gigantic portrait of a bearded man with a recriminating stare. Horatio Middleton
Desperate, he trailed his fingers along the spines, just as he had done before, and whispered the words " Endymion Spring" to himself, over and over again in a sort of mantra, willing the book to reappear... but nothing happened. It wasn't on the floor and it wasn't on the shelf. There was no sign of the blank book anywhere.
The library guarded its secret.
A
At that moment a book thwacked the floor near the front entrance and a sound skittered across the hall. Blake froze. Someone was in the library.
Instinctively, he switched off his torch and shrank back against the wall, creeping into the arms of a massive bookcase. The darkness crushed against him, pressing into his eyes, digging into his ribs. He could barely breathe.
Heart in mouth, he listened.
At any moment a footstep might betray itself, a whisper of breath make itself known... but there was nothing. Only terrible, oppressive silence. The seconds weighed upon him.
Finally, when he could stand the suspense no longer, he switched on his torch and covered it instantly with his hand, so that the light flooded between his fingers like blood. Using its meager light, he looked around him. Gloom stretched into the distance.
He edged out of his hiding place. Books lined the walls, perfectly still.
Taking tiny, shaky steps, he inched towards the entrance. A draft crept down the corridor towards him, sending a shiver up and down his spine.
At last he reached the front hall. With large, fearful eyes he peered into the shadows. The circulation desk was there, and the clock, and the tall card catalog beside it, plus a trolley for returned books.
He stopped. Just below the bottom run of the trolley was a book. It must have slipped off its shelf.
He moved towards it, then fell back, disappointed. It was just a dumb, boring textbook. Not Endymion Spring .
He bent down to put it back on the trolley — and nearly died from fright. Two metallic green spheres glinted at him from behind the corner of the cart. He jumped back.
Then, with a rush of relief, he realized what it was.
Mephistopheles!
"Oh no, not you," he cried. "You're not supposed to be in here! How did you" — he turned round — "get in here?" he mumbled, finishing the thought.
The door was closed. No one was there.
Making comforting kissing noises, he approached the cat and tried to lure it out of hiding, still uncertain how the shadowy feline had managed to elude him; but Mephistopheles simply retreated from his fingers and then, with a hiss that split the air like ripped fabric, bolted upstairs.
"Great," exclaimed Blake, knowing Paula Richards would be furious if he let the cat stay in the library overnight.
Muttering to himself, he gave chase, sprinting up the wide marble stairs.
The gallery was divided into a series of deep, dark alcoves by rows of freestanding bookcases that were centuries old. They looked like a procession of monks in the dimness — hunched and round-shouldered.
Blake walked up the central aisle, creaking along the floorboards, hunting for Mephistopheles. He swept the beam of his torch across the shelves, illuminating hundreds of pale, spectral volumes that were bound to their desks with thick iron chains. Others were propped open — like moths — on foam pillows. Weighted necklace-like strings kept their pages from flickering.
He poked his light into corners and peered under benches, discovering a jumble of legs in the shadows.
"Come on, you stupid cat," whispered Blake impatiently. "I haven't got all night!" He could feel the seconds slipping away. Any moment now, his mother might notice his disappearance and then he'd be in trouble.
There he was!
Mephistopheles crouched behind a heavy wooden chest in the far corner of the room, under a gigantic portrait of a bearded man with a recriminating stare. Horatio Middleton
Similar Books
Visions of the Future
Joe Haldeman, David Brin, Greg Bear, Kevin J. Anderson, Ben Bova, Hugh Howey, Robert Sawyer, Ray Kurzweil, Martin Rees
