The Storm Tower Thief

by Anne Cameron

  “Shhh!” Indigo hissed.

  “Sorry, but don’t you think that if he had been in Angus’s room,” Dougal said, lowering his voice in case anyone in the corridor outside could hear him, “he’d have left something a lot more deadly behind? Like a swift lightning bolt or two, or a ferocious hurricane?”

  Angus couldn’t help grinning. “Dougal’s got a point. I mean, what’s Dankhart planning to do with a couple of snowflakes—tickle me to death? It must have been someone else.”

  Indigo frowned. “But why would anyone else bother setting off two storm globes in your bedroom?”

  “Obvious, isn’t it?” Dougal said. “Idiots like the Vellums don’t need a good reason to do something that brainless. It just comes naturally to them.”

  Vicious icicle storms continued to spread across the globe, now reaching as far as the Australian outback. It was not unusual therefore to find packs of husky dogs yowling in the entrance hall, or collections of storm vacuums blocking the kitchen doors, as preparations were made for new teams of lightning catchers to tackle the brutal weather.

  Long queues began to form outside the kitchens at mealtimes as yet more lightning catchers arrived at Perilous. All across the Exploratorium, trainees were being asked to temporarily vacate their rooms for exhausted weather experts who desperately needed to catch up on lost sleep. And Angus suddenly found himself sharing his slightly soggy room with Dougal and Germ, who were now both sleeping on camp beds. It quickly became impossible to find anything in the overcrowded space, making all three of them rather prickly at times.

  “What?” Angus snapped when somebody knocked on his door a few evenings later. He’d just spent the last ten minutes rifling through a pile of sweaters, attempting to find one that hadn’t already been snagged, singed, poked, or unraveled by the booby traps in the research department. If he didn’t find a decent sweater soon, he’d be last in line for dinner for the third day in a row.

  “That’s no way to greet a visitor, Munchfungus.” Percival Vellum came slouching into his room, a sarcastic grin on his face.

  It was one of the few times Angus had ever seen the moronic twin without Pixie in tow. Percival looked strangely lopsided without her, as if a large, sniggering boil had been removed from the side of his head.

  “What do you want?” Angus asked, quickly getting to his feet. “Catcher Sparks has been making up spare beds in the experimental division, if you need somewhere to sleep. You’re not staying in my room.”

  “I’d rather move into a swamp full of fog phantoms than share any room with you and Dewsnap. I’ve come to deliver a message from Dark-Angel.”

  “What?” Angus stared at the twin, surprised.

  “She wants to see you. You were supposed to be waiting for someone to pick you up in the entrance hall about five minutes ago.”

  “But . . . what for?”

  “How should I know, Munchfungus? I’m not your personal message service. But Dark-Angel’s probably considering chucking you out of Perilous again. With any luck, she’ll send Dewsnap and Midnight packing this time, too. So this could be the last time I ever have to look at your pathetic face.” And with that, he left the room with an exceedingly smug smile, giving Angus the impression, once again, that he knew more than he was saying.

  Angus grabbed a sweater and darted out into the curved hallway and up the spiral staircase, wondering suddenly if Catcher Sparks had spread the word about his soggy room. Was he now in for another round of punishment? He was already certain he was one of Principal Dark-Angel’s least favorite lightning cubs. And she definitely wouldn’t be impressed with reports that his curtains had started to drip for a second time in as many weeks. He was just considering the unhappy possibility that he might soon be spending an extra weekend with the storm drains when—

  THUMP!

  He walked straight into something solid.

  “Watch where you’re going, boy,” said a familiar voice. An arm shot out and grabbed him before he fell over backward. “You almost knocked the stuffing out of me.”

  “Sorry.” Angus stared up at a smiling Gudgeon.

  “I was just about to come looking for you myself,” Gudgeon said. “You were supposed to meet me here ten minutes ago. I sent Vellum with a message.”

  “Yeah, I only just got it.” Angus frowned. “But I thought it was Principal Dark-Angel who wanted to see me?”

  “I’m taking you down to meet her right now.”

  “D-down? You mean we’re going into the tunnels again?”

  Gudgeon nodded. “Here, take this in case we get separated.” He thrust a complicated-looking map at Angus. It showed the bits of the Exploratorium that Angus already knew, including the Lightnarium, the research department, and the Rotundra, but it also revealed a labyrinth of stone veins and arteries running through the tall rock upon which Perilous sat. “In the early days these tunnels were used by the lightning catchers to carry out all sorts of harebrained experiments,” Gudgeon explained as he led the way down the nearest passageway. “After the Lightnarium got built and the experimental division was added, most of them were abandoned. But that doesn’t mean they’re safe.”

  “It doesn’t?” Angus asked, stuffing the map into his pocket.

  “Some of the tunnels were sealed up tight hundreds of years ago, and no one knows what’s lurking inside them now, which is why no one’s allowed down here on his own unless he knows this place like the hairs on the back of his knees.”

  Angus touched the map in his pocket and wondered if he should have taken a good look at it before following Gudgeon. They continued downward at a steep angle for what seemed like hours. And it soon felt as if they’d left Perilous behind and entered another world entirely.

  Finally the tunnel leveled off and opened out into a larger cavern, with closed doors set deep into every wall.

  “These are some of the deepest and oldest tunnels at Perilous,” Gudgeon informed him cheerfully. “They’re the only ones still in use today, as a matter of fact.”

  “But what are they used for?” Angus asked.

  Gudgeon grunted. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He shuffled Angus into a small, dark office. It was filled with shelves, books, and piles of notes and had a well-worn feel about it, as if the same person had occupied it for many years.

  “Ah, Angus.” Principal Dark-Angel stepped forward to greet him, a forced smile fixed upon her stony face. It was the first time Angus had seen her up close since she’d sent him back to the Windmill. She looked even paler than usual, as if she’d spent the last month underground.

  “I trust you are enjoying your work in the research department with Catcher Grimble?” she asked.

  Angus didn’t answer. Dark-Angel wasn’t alone. Two other lightning catchers were standing in the shadows. The first was Aramanthus Rogwood, one of Angus’s favorite people at Perilous. Rogwood was friends with most of the McFangus family, including Uncle Max; he had taken Angus to see his parents’ room at the end of the previous term. He had also been the first person to realize that Angus was a storm prophet. Rogwood smiled kindly through his toffee-colored beard, his tawny eyes twinkling.

  Behind Rogwood stood one of Angus’s least favorite lightning catchers, Valentine Vellum. With his cold, pin-sharp eyes and low, thuggish brow, his resemblance to a gorilla, and to Pixie and Percival, was obvious.

  Angus felt a swift swoop of nerves. The last time he’d been in a room with this exact combination of lightning catchers, Valentine Vellum had been planning to zap his brain with some low-voltage lightning bolts.

  And suddenly he understood. This had nothing to do with flooded bedrooms. Dark-Angel had allowed him to return to Perilous only because of his mysterious storm prophet skills.

  “Angus, I have brought you down here this evening because we have some unfinished business to attend to,” she said, confirming his suspicions. “It came to our attention last term that you possess the skills of a storm prophet.”

  Valentine Vellum cough
ed loudly. Gudgeon glared at him.

  “We decided not to test those skills, however, without the expert knowledge of Doctor Obsidian. I am happy to report that he has now returned from his travels.”

  Another figure emerged from the far end of the room, making Angus jump. The man’s eyes were magnified behind his large glasses. Angus recognized him instantly from the passenger lounge on the dirigible weather station.

  “Doctor Obsidian has given the situation a great deal of thought since his return to Perilous,” Principal Dark-Angel continued, watching Angus carefully. “He has now devised a totally safe method for testing your abilities that does not require the use of lightning.”

  “But I don’t understand.” Angus frowned. “Why do I need to be tested at all?”

  Principal Dark-Angel glanced briefly at Doctor Obsidian and then attempted another unconvincing smile.

  “Angus, it has been centuries since any storm prophets lived among us here at Perilous, and yet they form such an important part of our history. It would be a shame to waste this opportunity to explore your abilities a little further, especially given the recent events in the Rotundra, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Angus stared at the principal. The incident with the snow bomb hadn’t gone unnoticed after all. Dark-Angel had simply been waiting for the right moment to bring it up.

  “The decision is still yours, Angus,” Rogwood said. “Doctor Obsidian is extremely capable. He has given his word that you will come to no harm. If you decide not to participate in these tests, however, no one will force you,” he added, with a meaningful glance at Principal Dark-Angel.

  “Knows his onions, does Orcus Obsidian,” Gudgeon said, catching Angus’s eye. “If he can’t get to the bottom of this dragon business, nobody can.”

  Valentine Vellum said nothing. He continued to glare at Angus.

  Angus gulped and glanced at the odd-looking doctor, wondering if he really wanted to know what any tests would say about him. He’d been deliberately avoiding all thoughts of storm prophets and dragons as much as possible. He also had a strong feeling in the pit of his stomach that knowing more wouldn’t necessarily make him feel any happier. What if Doctor Obsidian discovered something dreadful, or dangerous, about him, something that couldn’t be fixed? Seeing strange fiery creatures when violent weather was about to strike definitely wasn’t normal, even at Perilous.

  On the other hand, wouldn’t it be better to know what being a storm prophet truly meant?

  “Okay, I’ll do the tests,” he decided swiftly, hoping that he hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of his life.

  “Excellent!” Principal Dark-Angel smiled, looking immensely relieved. “The tests will take place over the next few months, but they will not interfere with your duties as a trainee. I must have your solemn promise, Angus, that you will not divulge a single detail of this to anyone, including Mr. Dewsnap and Miss Midnight. We do not want the whole of Perilous asking difficult questions about storm prophets.”

  “I . . . Yeah, I promise.”

  “Good. Doctor Obsidian will escort you back up to the Exploratorium when you are finished. Come along.” She swept Rogwood, Gudgeon, and Vellum hurriedly toward the door before Angus could change his mind.

  Feeling dazed by the rapid turn of events, Angus stood awkwardly as they left the room,

  “If you will follow me,” Doctor Obsidian said, collecting a bunch of keys from the back of the door, “we’ll get started straightaway.”

  He spoke with a soft, whispery voice. And Angus suddenly wished that Rogwood or Gudgeon had stayed behind with him. Being alone with the odd doctor was already making him feel uneasy. He wished that he were being tested by someone less creepy, who didn’t spend most of his time at the bottom of a tunnel.

  Doctor Obsidian led the way back into the cavern and through a door standing almost opposite his office. On the other side of it, a narrow stone corridor stretched ahead of them. A sign overhead indicated that they were now entering the testing tunnels.

  “Er . . . excuse me, sir, what exactly are the testing tunnels?” Angus asked.

  “The experimental division frequently uses these specially fortified rooms for new devices that cannot be allowed to run amok up in the main Exploratorium itself. They can, however, be safely contained down here, as you can see.” The doctor pointed to a door on their left as they passed it.

  Angus swallowed a loud yelp as angry yellow flames burst out from under the door, snapping at his ankles, followed by a ripple of intense heat. He hurried past to the next tunnel, which appeared to be sealed with thick black rubber; a great sloshing noise was coming from behind that door, as if gigantic waves were crashing against the watertight seal.

  Was there a special testing tunnel for lightning cubs with unusual and possibly dangerous skills? Would he also be stuck behind thick doors with rubber seals? Or would Doctor Obsidian simply force him through each of the tunnels in turn, to see if he came out the other end alive?

  They stopped abruptly outside the last steel safety door at the end of the corridor. Angus held his breath as the doctor unlocked it and led the way inside. The tunnel was tall, wide, and immense, stretching far back into the shadows.

  “The talents of the storm prophet have been a source of fascination since they were first discovered among the early lightning catchers,” Doctor Obsidian explained, leading Angus farther into the echoing realms. “Daring experiments were conducted in the lightning vaults and the Lightnarium as we attempted to unravel the mystery of those powers. But this particular testing tunnel was also used by those who wished to practice and develop their skills.”

  “You mean the storm prophets practiced in—in here?” Angus asked, surprised.

  Doctor Obsidian nodded.

  The tunnel looked surprisingly ordinary, with rough stone walls and a soft, warm glow radiating from the light fissures. Angus stared, wondering if he should somehow be able to sense the presence of the other storm prophets or whether that, too, had vanished long ago.

  “Storm globes were used to great effect in this tunnel,” the doctor continued, “and all manner of violent weather could be produced and fought against in relative safety.” He pointed upward. A large storm vacuum was hanging from the ceiling directly above their heads, waiting to suck up any weather that grew too big or violent.

  “A battery of storm bellows can be employed should the storm vacuum fail or become full during a testing session. There are vents on all sides of the room for the immediate release of any overzealous winds, which are then dispersed harmlessly in the air above Perilous. Drainage systems have also been put in place to deal with any flooding.”

  Angus stared down at his feet and realized with a start that he was standing on top of a giant rubber bathtub stopper. He had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming next, and he didn’t like his chances.

  “Storm globes, however, are highly unsuitable for the testing of an eleven-year-old boy,” Doctor Obsidian declared. “I shall be investigating your skills instead with a range of projectograms.”

  “Pro-projectograms?”

  “A storm will be projected around you, Angus. It will feel very real. Your brain will be unable to tell the difference between the projected storm and a real storm, between projected danger and real danger. I have brought you here today merely to demonstrate this process.”

  Angus felt a huge surge of relief. For once, Principal Dark-Angel had been telling him the truth. There were no powerful lightning bolts waiting to electrify his brain cells, no blizzards or icicle storms ready to swoop in and freeze off his earlobes.

  He watched with interest now as Doctor Obsidian walked over to a cupboard set into the wall and took out a box with two cameralike lenses on the front. It was exactly like the one his uncle Jeremius had used, only bigger.

  “This projectogram offers a number of weather options and will demonstrate well,” said the doctor, sliding a plate into the back of the box with a click. And . . .

  N
othing happened.

  Doctor Obsidian picked up the box and gave it a gentle shake.

  “But I thought projectograms were like three-dimensional photographs,” Angus said, thinking back to the ones he’d seen in the kitchen at the Windmill, while the doctor twiddled the lenses on the front of the box.

  “These projectograms are more advanced; they work on many sensory levels. When it rains, you will be convinced that you can feel each drop as it falls upon your skin, that you are soaked right through to your socks, and yet you will remain bone dry. When it snows, you feel all the normal sensations of coldness, yet your body remains a constant temperature. When lightning strikes . . .”

  He bashed the top of box with his fist. There was a momentary fizzing sound, and a blurry image flickered in front of them. It faded before Angus could tell what it was supposed to be.

  “Projectograms are the perfect tool to test your storm prophet skills,” the doctor continued. He opened the top of the box, flicked something inside, and closed the lid again. “Every one of your senses will be tricked into believing the danger before you; you will act instinctively to save yourself and those around you, therefore revealing the depth of your skills and your ability to understand the important elemental forces of any storm.”

  Angus felt an uncomfortable squirming in his stomach. He didn’t really understand anything about the forces of a storm. He’d read some stuff in textbooks about unstable air columns and cumulonimbus clouds, and Dougal had once tried to explain to him about internal turbulence, but as for any natural gifts he might have . . .

  “Any appearance of the fire dragon will be recorded with a special measuring device,” Doctor Obsidian continued, as if reading Angus’s thoughts. “It picks up on the unique electrical activity generated in the brain of every storm prophet when his skills are put to the test, allowing us to assess your natural flare and ability.”

  Angus had a sudden vision of a panel of judges, led by Principal Dark-Angel, giving him marks from one to ten for his performance. What if the tests revealed that he was a substandard storm prophet, not up to scratch, that his skills weren’t worth bothering with? Would that be worse than having the skills in the first place? He glanced over his shoulder at the measuring device sitting quietly in the shadows. It looked like a very spiky space satellite with metal probes and rods sticking out at all angles.