The Lightning Catcher: The Secrets of the Storm Vortex (14 page)

“Does my dad know about Moray McFangus?” he asked.

Rogwood nodded. “Although I believe he has never visited the actual tomb.”

“The entrance to the crypt is usually locked at all times,” Catcher Coriolis said, looking determined to keep it that way. “Visits to the tombs are strictly forbidden without express permission from Principal Dark-Angel.” He glanced at his watch pointedly.

“Ah, yes, that is quite enough for one morning,” Rogwood said, checking his own watch. “Angus, we must return to the kitchens before you are missed by your
fellow lightning cubs and leave Catcher Coriolis to his duties. Thank you for your time and expert knowledge, Rufus.”

The lightning catcher returned to his own tomb hurriedly and closed the door. Seconds later, Angus could hear sounds of a kettle's being boiled inside. Rogwood led the way back through the grand mausoleums. Angus tried to read some of the names and inscriptions as they swept past. But the most unusual tomb of all was set well apart from the others. With no marbled lightning bolts, dates, or names it was strikingly simple and mysterious.

It was only when Angus turned his attention back to the stairs they were now climbing that he saw a figure descending toward them. He recognized the man immediately and felt his stomach lurch. It was his least favorite lightning catcher in the whole of Perilous—Valentine Vellum, Pixie and Percival's dad. Over the course of the previous term, Angus, Dougal, and Indigo had developed a growing suspicion that Vellum was in cahoots with Scabious Dankhart, that he had helped Swarfe execute his plan to revive the dormant lightning heart and kidnap Angus. As they had no proof that Vellum was a devious
traitor, however, they hadn't shared their inklings with anyone else . . . yet.

“Aramanthus, I see you have drawn the short straw,” Vellum said, looking down his nose at Angus as they stopped beside each other on the stairs. “Delphinia informs me that the McFangus boy is to learn more about the storm prophets. Personally, I'm not convinced it's worth the effort. He has shown remarkably little promise so far. I think you may be in for a very disappointing time.”

“On the contrary, Valentine, I believe Angus has a vast deal of potential as a lightning cub and a storm prophet.”

A muscle twitched in Vellum's forehead as he shot a scornful glance at Angus. “Then I'm afraid we shall have to agree to differ on the subject.”

“As we have done so many times before, Valentine,” Rogwood said, smiling.

“If you will excuse me,” Vellum said, briskly. “Catcher Coriolis is expecting us.”

He stepped to one side, and Angus froze. Lurking on the stairs behind Vellum was Creepy Crevice, the bone merchant. Crevice nodded briefly at Rogwood as they passed
each other. He glared at Angus, a faint sneer curling the corners of his lips. It was clear that he had not forgotten the incident in his shop in Little Frog's Bottom.

“What's Mr. Crevice doing down in the Perilous crypt, sir?” Angus asked as soon as he and Rogwood emerged into the empty room at the top of the stairs.

“As you have just seen for yourself, Angus, some of the older tombs containing mummified remains are beginning to crumble and need some attention before they deteriorate any further. Mr. Crevice is an expert in that area. I understand from Catcher Coriolis that there is nobody else on the island qualified to perform such work. Am I correct in assuming that you and Mr. Crevice may have crossed paths before?”

“Er, me and Dougal sort of wandered into his shop by accident,” Angus said, trying to make it sound like an honest mistake.

“Indeed?” A hint of a smile crossed Rogwood's lips. “Do not trouble yourself about Mr. Crevice. He is here for the tombs only. His presence will not interfere with our work.”

But the sudden appearance of the bone merchant made
Angus feel instantly uneasy. Had Creepy Crevice been sworn to secrecy before entering the Inner Sanctum? Would he guess why Angus had been visiting the crypt? Would he soon discover that Angus had a secret he did not want the rest of Perilous to discover? Or would Valentine Vellum simply tell him everything?

  
8
  
“COMING SOON!”

T
hat evening in the Pigsty, Angus told Dougal and Indigo everything he could remember about his first memorable trip into the Inner Sanctum. Dougal hid behind a cushion as Angus described the teeth marks in Catcher Donall's leather jerkin.

“M-maybe they've got some sort of extra-vicious fog phantom in there,” he suggested, gulping. “But what's it doing in the Inner Sanctum? I mean, if the hinges on that door really are rusty and it somehow escaped into the Exploratorium . . .”

Pencils, papers, and library books lay abandoned at Dougal's feet. He'd been planning to work on his Tri-Hard
competition entry that evening but had dropped everything as soon as Angus started talking.

Indigo chewed her lip, looking extremely worried, as he told them what Catcher Roxbee had said about the most recent storm sample from Castle Dankhart and the strange particles it contained.

“And she actually said the deadly seven could be mixing with the other types of weather?” Indigo asked.

“Yeah, Rogwood sounded pretty concerned about it, too. We could end up with something really weird, like scarlet ice-diamond storms.”

“Or icicle lightning,” Indigo said.

“Not to mention frozen thunderbolts,” Dougal said, shuddering at the thought.

When Angus described what he'd found down in the Perilous crypt, however, both his friends listened in stunned silence.

“And then Rogwood showed me the tomb of Moray McFangus,” he said, finally finishing his tale. “Rogwood thinks that's who I get the storm prophet stuff from.”

“Wow!” Dougal gasped, sounding seriously impressed. “I wish some of my ancestors were that cool. All we've
got in our family are boring historians and peasants.”

“At least none of them have ever been notorious weather villains,” Indigo pointed out.

“Oh, yeah, sorry, I forgot,” Dougal said sheepishly. “But those dragon tombs sound amazing!”

Angus grinned, grateful that neither Dougal nor Indigo had been put off by the startling news that one day his fire dragon would cover his entire body in golden scales, like a suit of extra-tough armor.

“W-what does
your
fire dragon look like, Angus?” Indigo asked shyly.

It was the first time either one of them had dared to ask. Angus tried to describe the fiery creature that appeared before him in his moments of most desperate need, feeling his face grow hotter the more he revealed.

“I still can't believe they've got an actual crypt in the Inner Sanctum,” Dougal said, shaking his head in wonder once Angus had told them everything he could.

“Do you think Rogwood will show you what's behind the rest of the doors?” Indigo asked.

“Yeah, when's your next lesson?”

Angus shrugged. “Rogwood didn't say. There's something
else,” he added, suddenly remembering about the bone merchant. “I met Creepy Crevice in the Inner Sanctum. Vellum was taking him down into the crypt as we were leaving.”

“You're kidding!” Dougal almost choked.

“Rogwood says he's here to repair some of the older tombs.”

“I don't care,” Dougal said. “I wouldn't trust that old goat near anything important. What's Dark-Angel doing letting him roam around Perilous?”

“Did he recognize you?” Indigo asked.

Angus nodded. “What if he knows everything about me now? Vellum said something about my having storm prophet lessons right in front of him.”

Dougal and Indigo exchanged worried glances, but as none of them had any answers to such a tricky question, they eventually dropped the subject and returned to Angus's other startling revelations.

Angus spent the next few days wandering around Perilous in the same sort of daze he'd experienced after his visit to the Starling Museum of Storm Science in London. Images of the storm prophet tombs and golden fire dragon scales burned through his dreams. The uncomfortable
feeling of indigestion now grew ten times worse, as if he'd tried to swallow a whole cow. Had all storm prophets experienced such strange sensations? Or had he accidentally gulped down some crypt fungus spores that were now making him feel extremely peculiar?

He was very glad when Dougal gave him something else to think about.

“I've been looking through the rest of those weather reports and mechanical pigeon messengers from Castle Dankhart,” he told Angus and Indigo the next Saturday morning as they caught up with their homework in the library.

Dougal reached into his bag and dragged out one of the dusty tomes and a scrawny-looking bird.

“There's some really interesting stuff in here about unusual cloud formations and sudden temperature spikes, but I can't find anything that explains the explosions, or the weather vortex, or what Dark-Angel isn't telling us about it all.”

Angus picked up the mechanical pigeon, feeling his spirits sink, and extracted a message from under the wing. It was short and extremely unhelpful. “No change
in weather vortex. Catcher Azolla Plymstock.”

“But we've got to find out somehow,” he said, frustration suddenly spilling over. “My mum and dad are trapped inside that castle, and if there's another explosion, or Dankhart's planning something even more dangerous . . . Dark-Angel's never going to give us any real answers. There's got to be somewhere else we can look!”

Dougal nodded. “There is. I reckon I might find something useful in the research department. Dark-Angel, Rogwood, and Gudgeon are obviously getting their information from somewhere. Plus there could be something old or obscure in there about storm science and weather vortices that everyone else has forgotten about. It might help explain what Dankhart's really up to.”

“Can't me and Indigo help you look?” Angus asked, desperate to do something useful.

But Dougal shook his head. “It's easier if I do the sneaking about on my own. That's one advantage of being a known bookworm,” he added, suddenly looking embarrassed. “Nobody ever questions why I'm surrounded by books.”

Angus and Dougal went up to the kitchens on Monday
morning still discussing the mysteries of the weather vortex. They were met in the entrance hall by a large group of lightning cubs who were gathered excitedly around a notice pinned to the wall.

“What's going on?” Angus asked Violet Quinn as they joined the others a moment later.

“Catcher Sparks put up a new poster, and now Theodore Twill won't let anyone look at it unless they pay him two silver starlings!”

Angus bobbed up and down on his toes, trying to see over the head of Edmund Croxley, who was standing directly in front of him.

“I said get out of the way, Twill, or I'll report you to Principal Dark-Angel for obstructing important lightning catcher information!” Edmund said angrily.

“The price just went up to three silver starlings, Croxley. Come on, hand it over,” Theodore Twill said, holding out his hand.

“I'll do no such thing!”

Angus and Dougal edged their way around the side of the crowd for a better look as the two lightning cubs continued to argue.

“I can see it! Oh,” Dougal added, sounding disappointed, “it's just another ‘Coming Soon!' poster.”

“Hang on a minute; there's something different about this one.” Angus grabbed Dougal by the sleeve before he could disappear, and they sneaked in behind Theodore Twill. Underneath the usual “Coming Soon!” pronouncement were several fresh lines of information that Twill had tried to cover up clumsily with some sticky tape and paper. Angus ripped it off quietly, so Twill, who was still arguing with Croxley, wouldn't hear what he was doing. “It says, ‘Lightning Catcher of the Year award: the winners' tour,'” he said in hushed tones.

“You're joking!” Dougal's glasses steamed up instantly with excitement. “They're coming to Perilous to demonstrate their winning entries?”

The Lightning Catcher of the Year award was an extremely popular annual event that every Exploratorium on the planet could enter. Rogwood had won it more than once. Adrik Swarfe had been awarded the top prize for his work with extra-strong lightning before he'd betrayed the lightning catchers and fled to join the monsoon mongrels. Even Angus's own mum and dad had won the
large lightning-shaped trophy, and a lifetime's supply of luxury, all-weather, lightning-proof leather jerkins, for writing the
McFangus Fog Guide
. Dougal had shown him a picture last term.

“Does it say when they're coming here?” Dougal asked.

Angus shook his head. “But it looks like their first stop is the London office; then they're traveling on to Paris, Washington, D.C., Wellington, in New Zealand, and somewhere in Finland I can't even pronounce before they come anywhere near Perilous,” he said, tracing the printed line of destinations with his finger. “So it could be ages yet.”

Angus carefully replaced Twill's slip of paper so the older lightning cub wouldn't track him down and demand payment for sneaking a look at the poster. They entered the kitchens a few moments later, grabbed some toast, and headed for their usual table under one of the fake palm trees.

“Who were last year's winners, anyway?” Angus asked as they sat down. Indigo was already waiting for them. A steaming bowl of porridge lay forgotten in front of her; her head was buried in the pages of a magazine.

“I can't remember exactly,” Dougal said. “But there was definitely someone called Herbert Hoffenmier, or it could have been Herman Buckleswamp. Hey, why are you reading the
Weathervane
again?” Dougal frowned across the table at Indigo.

“It came out first thing this morning,” Indigo said, showing them the cover of the latest issue. “So I ran straight up to the research department to grab one. There's a six-page special about the winners' tour. Here.”

She turned the magazine around and slid it across the table so they could both see it. Staring up at them was the headline “Winners' Tour Comes to Perilous!” with a photo of a small, slightly nervous-looking lightning catcher with mousy-colored hair. Her fingernails were bitten down to the quick, Angus noticed.

“That's Edna Smithwyck,” Dougal said excitedly. “I remember now; she came third in last year's competition.”

“It says here she trained for seven years at the Canadian Exploratorium before continuing her work in Iceland. I wonder if she knows Jeremius,” Angus said, wishing his uncle were here to tell them more.

He read the next paragraph quickly. According to the
Weathervane,
Catcher Smithwyck was an expert in cold-weather climates. She had taken part in a daring escapade through the very same Canadian ice maze that Dougal's dad had spun them a story about at Feaver Street. And she had carried out many solo research projects into frost quakes.

“Why would anybody want to do more research into frost quakes?” Dougal said, reaching the end of the same paragraph and instantly turning pale.

“Does it say what she won third prize for?” Angus asked thickly, through a mouthful of toast.