Read Online The Secret Hour by Scott Westerfeld - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Scott Westerfeld
Tags: Fantasy:Juvenile
Ads: Link
cry of a stomped-on rat.
Answers sounded. There were more of them up there, a full flock of twelve. They were headed in the same direction as Dess and her friends.
Dess swallowed. It was probably a coincidence. Or maybe the little guys were just coming along for the ride. There were always some around, curious about the little tribe of humans who visited the blue time. They didn’t usually make trouble.
She looked up. Another flock had swept in to join the first group. She counted the dark, translucent shapes at a glance: twenty-four of them now.
Dess started counting aloud to calm her nerves.
“Uno, dos, tres
…” She knew how to count in twenty-six languages and was working on a few more. The rhythmic sounds of number-words soothed her, and she always found the different ways of dealing with the tricky teens amusing.
She switched nervously to Old English.
“Ane, twa, thri, feower, fif
…”
September the fifth. Nothing big was happening tonight, she was positive. Nine plus five was fourteen. And it was the 248th day of the year, and two plus four plus eight also made fourteen. Not as good as thirteen, but no bad karma there.
There were still more shapes in the sky. Their calls came mockingly from every direction.
“Un, deux, trois, quatre.”
She switched to French, counting louder to drown out the slithers. Dess decided to go all the way to eighty, which was “four twenties” in French.
“Cinq, six, sept
…
”
“Sept!”
she said aloud, skidding her bike to a halt.
Sept
meant seven in French and in a bunch of other languages too. (A septagon has seven sides, her brain uselessly informed her.)
Sept
as in September. She remembered now—way back in the old days, a thousand years ago, September had been the seventh month, not the ninth.
September fifth had once been the fifth day of the seventh month.
And seven plus five was twelve.
“Oh, crap,” Dess said.
She lifted from her bicycle seat, thrusting her right foot down hard against its pedal as she pulled up on the handles, straining to get the bike moving again. Melissa and Rex had gotten way too far ahead. On a night this serious, she and her weapons should be leading the pack.
A long, piercing cry sounded above her, and another thirteen-letter word came unbidden into Dess’s head.
“Bloodcurdling,” she whispered, and kept on pedaling.
9
12:00 A.M.
RUMBLE
The black panther roared again.
The sound felt loud enough to knock Jessica backward, but her feet were frozen in place. She wanted to turn away, to run, but some ancient terror had taken hold of her muscles, leaving them paralyzed. It was fear of the huge cat’s fangs, of its hungry roar, of the thin, cruel line of pink tongue that flickered out from its maw.
“Dreaming or not,” Jessica said softly, “getting eaten would suck.”
The beast’s eyes flashed bright purple in the moonlight. Its mouth began to twist and change shape, the two longest fangs stretching out until they were as long as knives. It crouched, gathering itself into a bundle of muscle, head lowered and tail raised high like a sprinter setting up to start a race. Its muscles quivered, the huge paws kneading the ground. The grating sound of claws scraping asphalt reached Jessica’s ears, sending shivers up her spine. When the cat sprang toward her, it became suddenly as long and swift as an arrow.
The moment it moved, Jessica was released from its spell. She turned and ran back toward the snakes.
Her bare feet slapped painfully against the asphalt, and the arc of snakes was arrayed across the street directly in front of her, so she veered off to one side, onto the softer strip of lawn. The snakes moved to cut her off, slithering into the high, uncut grass in front of a ramshackle old house. Jessica gritted her teeth as she ran, imagining sharp fangs piercing the soles of her feet with every step. When she reached the spot where she guessed the snakes were, Jessica launched herself into a long jump. The air
Answers sounded. There were more of them up there, a full flock of twelve. They were headed in the same direction as Dess and her friends.
Dess swallowed. It was probably a coincidence. Or maybe the little guys were just coming along for the ride. There were always some around, curious about the little tribe of humans who visited the blue time. They didn’t usually make trouble.
She looked up. Another flock had swept in to join the first group. She counted the dark, translucent shapes at a glance: twenty-four of them now.
Dess started counting aloud to calm her nerves.
“Uno, dos, tres
…” She knew how to count in twenty-six languages and was working on a few more. The rhythmic sounds of number-words soothed her, and she always found the different ways of dealing with the tricky teens amusing.
She switched nervously to Old English.
“Ane, twa, thri, feower, fif
…”
September the fifth. Nothing big was happening tonight, she was positive. Nine plus five was fourteen. And it was the 248th day of the year, and two plus four plus eight also made fourteen. Not as good as thirteen, but no bad karma there.
There were still more shapes in the sky. Their calls came mockingly from every direction.
“Un, deux, trois, quatre.”
She switched to French, counting louder to drown out the slithers. Dess decided to go all the way to eighty, which was “four twenties” in French.
“Cinq, six, sept
…
”
“Sept!”
she said aloud, skidding her bike to a halt.
Sept
meant seven in French and in a bunch of other languages too. (A septagon has seven sides, her brain uselessly informed her.)
Sept
as in September. She remembered now—way back in the old days, a thousand years ago, September had been the seventh month, not the ninth.
September fifth had once been the fifth day of the seventh month.
And seven plus five was twelve.
“Oh, crap,” Dess said.
She lifted from her bicycle seat, thrusting her right foot down hard against its pedal as she pulled up on the handles, straining to get the bike moving again. Melissa and Rex had gotten way too far ahead. On a night this serious, she and her weapons should be leading the pack.
A long, piercing cry sounded above her, and another thirteen-letter word came unbidden into Dess’s head.
“Bloodcurdling,” she whispered, and kept on pedaling.
9
12:00 A.M.
RUMBLE
The black panther roared again.
The sound felt loud enough to knock Jessica backward, but her feet were frozen in place. She wanted to turn away, to run, but some ancient terror had taken hold of her muscles, leaving them paralyzed. It was fear of the huge cat’s fangs, of its hungry roar, of the thin, cruel line of pink tongue that flickered out from its maw.
“Dreaming or not,” Jessica said softly, “getting eaten would suck.”
The beast’s eyes flashed bright purple in the moonlight. Its mouth began to twist and change shape, the two longest fangs stretching out until they were as long as knives. It crouched, gathering itself into a bundle of muscle, head lowered and tail raised high like a sprinter setting up to start a race. Its muscles quivered, the huge paws kneading the ground. The grating sound of claws scraping asphalt reached Jessica’s ears, sending shivers up her spine. When the cat sprang toward her, it became suddenly as long and swift as an arrow.
The moment it moved, Jessica was released from its spell. She turned and ran back toward the snakes.
Her bare feet slapped painfully against the asphalt, and the arc of snakes was arrayed across the street directly in front of her, so she veered off to one side, onto the softer strip of lawn. The snakes moved to cut her off, slithering into the high, uncut grass in front of a ramshackle old house. Jessica gritted her teeth as she ran, imagining sharp fangs piercing the soles of her feet with every step. When she reached the spot where she guessed the snakes were, Jessica launched herself into a long jump. The air
Similar Books
