by Erik Boman
*
The following morning he woke to the sun filtering though his curtains. Peter yawned, stretched, and then gasped.
The book was gone.
Peter leapt from his bed. Impossible. He looked behind his other books. Nothing. He peered under his furniture. No book.
Peter’s older sister opened his door and frowned at him.
“What’s with all the banging? What are you doing on the floor?”
“My book’s gone,” Peter said, digging among his comics.
“The old one?”
“Yes.”
“It’s in my room.”
Peter stared at her. “Give it back. Now.”
“Take it easy. I just borrowed it. It goes with my dried roses.”
Peter dashed into her room, snatched his book from her bedside table, hurried back to his own room and put it back in its box.
The day seemed to last forever.
When he had sat through a tale about two goldfish (which, to be honest, he thought was rather funny), Peter got his book as soon as his mother had left his room.
“Peter.”
“I’m really sorry. It wasn’t me this time. My sister took it.”
“Let me guess,” Vaguar said in a tight voice. “Teenager? Lots of purple clothes, black nail polish? Walls full of scary posters?”
“Er, yes,” Peter said.
“And she left me on top of some of her books.” It was not a question.
“She might have,” Peter admitted.
Vangar sighed. “At least that explains the vampires.”
“There’s a new one?”
“Plural, Peter. There used to be a few in the crypt, now the castle’s packed with them.”
“Oh, no. Are you in trouble?”
Vangar chuckled. “Are you serious? One or two are on the sinister side, but most of them can’t even brood properly. I don’t think anyone’s over twenty. All they do is stand in dark corners and try to look threatening. It’s like a Hollyoaks audition with a gothic twist.”
Peter was not sure what Vangar was talking about. “That sounds strange.”
“I can think of other words. You have no idea how glad I am I’m not a girl. I’d be under a siege of fanged, scowling boys. Now listen. Do not let this happen again. Things can go horribly wrong.”
Vangar had to chase a group of morose vampires out of his bedroom, so Peter put the book back and fell asleep without hearing a story. Next morning, Peter sat up in his bed, rubbed his face and looked over at the bookshelf.
The book was gone.
“Louise,” Peter screamed. He scrambled out of his bed and ran into the black-and-purple chaos that was his sister’s room. She was not there. Peter felt like tearing out his hair. Or Louise’s. It would take him hours to dig through her mess.
Peter’s father walked up behind him. “Was that you shouting?”
“Louise’s stolen my story book again. I told her not to.”
Peter’s father smiled. “That was me. I moved some of your books downstairs to make space for new ones.”
Peter groaned. He ran downstairs and into the library and spotted the book straight away, nestled between some of his mother’s large books.
The day crawled past. Peter suffered through a dull story, waited for his family to go to sleep and then opened the cover to Vangar.
The noise nearly made Peter shut the book in surprise. The book trembled to the sound of sirens, distant screams, the drone of airplanes, sharp blasts and bone-rattling explosions. Peter thought it sounded like fireworks, but louder and the wrong way around, as if the rockets came blasting out of the sky and struck earth. His hands were sweating, yet he felt cold.
“Peter, is that you?” Peter could just make out Vangar frantic voice over the racket. “I can’t hear you well. I’m hiding in the cellar.”
“Why?”
“Because the corridors are full of people trying to kill each other, that’s why.”
“I’m so sorry.” Peter had to stop himself from shouting – if he did, his parents would wonder. “My dad took it.”
“Do you have kleptomaniacs in your family tree?” Vangar shouted. “What was next to me this time?”
“World War One in Pictures.”
“Oh. Right. Okay.” Peter thought Vangar sounded frightened. That was impossible. Vangar was daring, quick and smart, but never afraid. “Are you scared?” Peter asked.
“You have no idea,” Vangar wheezed. “This is – ” There was a loud boom and the sound of tumbling rocks. Vangar made a sound as if he sneezed. “They’re blown up the upper corridor. I have to hide somewhere else.”
“Vangar, I –”
“There’s a war going on in the castle, Peter.” Vangar’s breathing came in hard puffs. Peter heard the sound of boots running on stone floor. “In the whole forest, I think. With real bullets. It’s chaos. Everyone’s shooting at anyone.”
“I really – ”
“And there’s a tank in the courtyard, Peter. It destroyed the gates and the dinner hall in seconds. Everyone has fled, even the tower ghost. I hope the wolves got out okay.”
“I didn’t mean – ”
“Of course you didn’t. But I might not make it this time. There’s only so much you can do with a sword. And it’s me against too many.”
“I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
“What? I can’t hear you over the shooting.”
“What can I do to make things right?”
“Don’t ask me. Hold the book out the window and shake it? No, wait. Your parents won’t like that. Not to mention the rest of your town. And my pages might fall out.”
An explosion shook the castle’s walls and made the book quiver in Peter’s hands. Peter heard the rumble of heavy machines and pained screams. They were coming closer. “There must be something I can do,” Peter said.
Vangar paused. “Perhaps there is. I have an idea. Listen close, then hurry.”
*
Late that evening Peter went to his bookshelf and pulled out the book he had borrowed from his mother. It was light, much thinner than most of his parents’ books, and its pages were crisp and white even though it was old. She was happy Peter showed interest in the classics, she told him.
Inside it, wedged in the centrefold, was The Secrets of Zot.
He put his old favourite book back in its box, returned to his bed with his mother’s book and opened the cover.
“Hey,” Vangar said.
“It worked.” Peter grinned.
“Sure did. Quite a change from the old castle.”
“Do you like it?”
“I do. The city’s nice and gloomy, and there’s plenty of company. People look funny at my sword, but they’ll get used to it. The name’s got a nice ring to it, too. Lon-don. Like the sound of a gong. Shame about the smog, though. I hope they sort it out. And guess what?”
“What?” Peter asked.
“I got a new story.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. It’s about this creepy fellow skulking around this city at night. Everyone’s talking about him, even though few have seen him. I guess that’s why they call him Mister Hyde. Are you ready?”
“I’m listening,” Peter said. “I always will.”
*
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