The Lightning Catcher: The Secrets of the Storm Vortex (13 page)

“These machines and inventions have been placed in the Inner Sanctum to protect everyone from their potential dangers,” Rogwood explained as they ducked under swags of dangling chains and ropes. “Some are hundreds of years old and were discovered in the stone tunnels and passageways beneath Perilous.” He pointed to what looked like a mountain of rust-covered scrap metal. “We still have no idea what many of them were used for, and it's far too dangerous to investigate.”

Angus dived to the left suddenly as a large copper machine, which appeared to be covered in mechanical ears, coughed, belching out a long stream of black smoke.

“Although a few of the less dangerous specimens have been kept in working order,” Rogwood said, brushing soot off his leather jerkin.

As they rounded a corner, they found a small group of lightning catchers, armed with wrenches and pots of grease, gathered around another machine.

“Ah, Catcher Roxbee.” Rogwood shook her oily hand. “I come with a request from Catcher Donall. He is in urgent need of an extra pair of hands, a sturdy rope, and some pink marshmallows.”

Catcher Roxbee nodded. She turned quietly to another member of her team, who grabbed a pair of thick protective gloves and darted off, looking mildly anxious.

“I hear the weather vortex is keeping you rather busy here in the Inner Sanctum,” Rogwood said.

Catcher Roxbee nodded, scratching her nose and smearing it with dirt. “The weather station has collected some fresh samples just this morning.”

Angus listened carefully to their conversation. Any
information he could gather about the weather vortex might be vital to his own search for answers with Dougal and Indigo.

“There are signs that the deadly seven are beginning to mix with fragments from some of the other storms in the swirling cloud,” Catcher Roxbee said, “which could see them mutate into entirely new weather forms, so we must be prepared for anything.”

“Indeed.” Rogwood's face was suddenly serious. “That may have been Dankhart's real intention from the start.”

“That is precisely why Delphinia wants us to resurrect this old experimental cloudpuller. If there is another explosion at Castle Dankhart, it will help us deal with any magnetic storm particles that drift over Perilous.”

Angus stared at the machine properly for the first time. It resembled a giant octopus with eight long tentacle like attachments, each with a magnet fixed to the end.

“Unfortunately, it hasn't been activated since the great iron raindrop showers of 1919, and it's taking quite a bit of coaxing.”

At that moment, however, the machine finally spluttered into life, causing several lightning catchers to dive for
cover. Angus scuttled backward as the machine suddenly lurched.

“The cloudpuller must be reacting to something nearby!” Catcher Roxbee called above the scraping noise it was now making. “Everyone, search the area for magnetic materials!”

But Angus had a sudden horrible thought. He thrust his hands into his pockets and retrieved his bag of magnetic marbles.

“Er, e-excuse me, Catcher Roxbee!” he said, holding them out at arm's length.

The cloudpuller turned, adjusting its position, and headed straight for him, tentacles waving wildly.

“Quickly, boy, throw the marbles away from you!” Catcher Roxbee ordered as the machine began to close the gap between them with alarming speed.

Angus lobbed the bag and ducked as a wrench flew over his head. Small oil cans, screwdrivers, and rusty nails were being drawn toward the octopus arms like silver lightning moths to a flame.

Rogwood yanked him aside as the machine hurtled past them hungrily, in search of the marbles. It was now on a
direct collision course with what looked like a giant snow shovel on a spinning wheel.

SMASH!

The collision rocked the Inner Sanctum with the force of a small earthquake. Angus threw his arms over his head for protection as coils, springs, magnets, and tentacles flew in every direction. A heavy shower of iron filings pooled at his feet, forming a glimmering metallic puddle.

“And that, Angus, is why I have sworn never to keep a Cradget's product about my person,” Rogwood declared, brushing iron filings out of his beard. “I believe the time has come for us to leave Catcher Roxbee and her team to it.”

Angus followed the lightning catcher in a daze, his ears ringing. They retraced their steps through the artifact room and back to the rough stone chamber, where Angus stood a few minutes later, facing the eight closed doors once again. Catcher Donall had now disappeared. All was quiet behind the door with the rusty hinges.

“If you are feeling up to it, Angus, we will begin our first lesson properly,” Rogwood said.

Angus nodded, hoping his legs weren't about to give way beneath him. The incident with the cloudpuller had
left him feeling distinctly shaken. Rogwood led him through a different door this time, decorated with swooping fire dragons. The room inside was completely dragon free. It was also empty. Puzzled, Angus twisted around in every direction, staring into the dark corners. There were no pictures, bookshelves, display cabinets, or rusty weather machines. As he followed Rogwood across the room, however, his eyes were drawn to a small round trapdoor in the floor.

“Oh!” Angus stopped in his tracks as he felt a sudden stirring in his chest. It was the same unsettling sensation that he'd experienced after his trip to the Storm Science Museum.

“Er, sir?”

Something beneath the trapdoor was connected to the storm prophets. He was sure of it.

“Ah.” Rogwood smiled behind his beard. “I see your extraordinary senses have drawn you straight to one of the most significant parts of the Inner Sanctum. I was planning to take you through that particular door on a different occasion, but as your curiosity has clearly been piqued . . .”

Rogwood lifted the trapdoor, revealing a long set of stone steps heading downward. The air grew steadily colder as they descended. When they finally reached the bottom—

Angus gasped. Stretching far into the distance was what looked like a large underground graveyard, packed tightly with an assortment of creepy tombs and stone coffins. There were Egyptian-style obelisks, sunken stairs leading down to mysteriously inscribed doors, and great mausoleums protected by marble lions and tigers. The air inside the crypt was bitingly cold and filled with the dank smell of decay. The only light came from a few flickering lamps that hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting grotesque shadows in every direction.

“Welcome, Angus, to the Perilous crypt.”

“C-crypt?” Angus had a sudden vision of wailing ghosts and vampires and shivered. What did any of this have to do with the storm prophets? He followed Rogwood through a whole avenue of lofty stone mausoleums. The lightning catcher appeared to be heading for one of the larger tombs with pillars and fancy engravings on the front. As they drew closer, Angus was surprised to see a half-open door
leading inside the tomb, where he could clearly make out an unmade bed and a small kitchenette.

Rogwood knocked on the door, and a few seconds later another lightning catcher appeared in tartan pajamas, with a matching bathrobe and slippers.

“My apologies for intruding upon you at such an early hour, Rufus,” Rogwood said. “Please allow me to introduce Angus McFangus. Angus, this is Catcher Coriolis.”

Angus did his best to smile, but his face was already frozen with cold.

“I am showing Angus some of his storm prophet history, and I thought we might take a quick look in the crypt if you have no objections.”

“I'm afraid you'll have to keep it short,” Catcher Coriolis said, glancing at his watch. “Some of the older tombs are riddled with crypt fungus and are beginning to crumble in the damp conditions, and I have someone coming shortly to inspect the damage.”

“Then we will waste no more of your time.”

Without another word Rogwood turned on his heel and led Angus into the very depths of the crypt, only stopping when they reached a long row of impressive tombs. Each
one was the size of a small shed and had been decorated with intricate carvings of Perilous, thunderstorms, hailstones, and lightning towers.

“It was decided long ago by the earliest lightning catchers that Perilous should provide a final resting place for those who wished to remain within the walls of this magnificent Exploratorium,” Rogwood explained. “Many had themselves mummified in the early years, of course, as was the fashion of the time.”

“Mummified?” Angus said, startled. He thought back to the bone merchant's in Little Frog's Bottom, and the long hook that Creepy Crevice had drawn from his pocket, and shivered.

“This area of the crypt has been reserved for the most senior and important lightning catchers, such as Eliza Tippins or Hortence Heliotrope, the famous lightning catcher who first discovered the existence of double-ended lightning bolts, and, of course, for Philip Starling and Edgar Perilous.”

Rogwood pointed to a matching pair of massive stone confections. Two marble lightning bolts guarded each entrance. Angus edged closer, feeling equally fascinated
and revolted by the thought of what lay inside.

“And now we must go in search of the storm prophets,” Rogwood said, turning briskly and disappearing into the gloom again.

“The storm prophets were buried here, in the crypt?” Angus asked.

Rogwood smiled kindly at the shocked look on his face. “Principal Dark-Angel thought you should see the coffins for yourself, Angus. She wants you to understand as much about your own history as possible, and this is an important part.”

He led them straight over to a spectacular collection of coffins. Angus stared, his jaw dropping in wonder. The tombs were nothing like the cold stone monuments that the other lightning catchers were buried in. Made from smooth, ancient-looking wood, they were shaped like fire dragons, with powerful wings extended, talons clawing at the sky, bodies rippling with long streaks of fearsome flame. Each scale had been decorated with iridescent blues, greens, reds, and gleaming gold. Each dragon was different from the next in size, shape, color, and expression. It was the presence of these tombs, he
realized, that had drawn him toward the trapdoor.

“According to written accounts from the age of the early lightning catchers, the only time a fire dragon can ever be seen by another living soul is when a storm prophet dies,” Rogwood announced, leaving Angus so startled he almost tripped over a stone griffin. “It has been reported that the fiery creature blazes in the air above the storm prophet at the precise moment of his or her death, shedding its scales as golden droplets of light, which then fall onto the body and harden around it like armor or a toughened shroud.” In the spooky gloom of the crypt, it was easy to imagine the dazzling display.

“As you can see, each of the storm prophet tombs was then carved in the likeness of his or her own unique fire dragon, and the shrouded body placed inside. A fitting final resting place for such magnificence, I think you will agree.”

“But, sir,” Angus said, “when you first told me about the storm prophets, you said the fire dragon was just a warning of dangerous weather.”

Rogwood nodded. “I did indeed.”

“So how can it suddenly be visible to everyone else
when a storm prophet dies? I mean, how can a fire dragon's scales turn into armor if they're not even real?”

“I'm afraid there are many things about the storm prophets that we are yet to understand,” Rogwood said. “One possible theory, however, is that at the end of a storm prophet's life, his or her fire dragon somehow transcends its own ethereal boundaries and joins with the body of its storm prophet in the physical world.”

Angus stared at the lightning catcher, feeling utterly overwhelmed. The strange knot in his chest tightened.

“Naturally, such powerful stories about dragon scales have given rise to many myths and legends,” a different voice said.

Angus spun around. Catcher Coriolis had joined them. He was now fully dressed.

“Dragon scale pendants and amulets have made regularly appearances in the markets of Little Frog's Bottom,” he continued with obvious disdain, “allegedly stolen from the body of a storm prophet before it was entombed, supposedly able to boost brainpower, cure dim-wittedness, scurvy, bunions, and pimples. These are nothing more than common lizard scales, however,
dipped in a golden tincture and with no greater power than a painted fingernail.”

Angus blinked at the lightning catcher.

“One tomb you may find particularly interesting, Angus, is that of the great Moray McFangus.” Rogwood pointed to one of the largest dragons of all. “As you already know, Moray McFangus fled from the Great Fire in 1666 and came to Imbur with Starling and Perilous,” he said, watching Angus closely. “It is from him that you appear to have inherited your own storm prophet skills.”

Angus rocked back on his heels. He'd somehow forgotten that the tomb of his own ancestor would be among those of the other storm prophets. It was also the first time anyone had said his full name out loud in Angus's hearing.

The fire dragon tomb was impressively fierce with shimmering gold and red flames, which glowed like hot embers even in the gloom of the crypt. Angus hesitated for a second, then reached out and traced the line of its wing with his fingers, almost expecting to feel a scorching heat.

“But, sir, this looks exactly like my fire dragon, only bigger,” he said.

Rogwood exchanged surprised glances with Catcher Coriolis.

“There is another theory, Angus, that the features and appearance of a fire dragon can be passed down from one generation to the next, much the way the color of your hair and the shape of your ears have been inherited from your own parents.”

Angus, awestruck, stared at the tomb again. He couldn't wait to tell Dougal and Indigo about everything he'd seen in the Inner Sanctum, although he wasn't sure they'd believe a word of it.