by Anne Cameron
For one exhilarating moment, Angus could almost feel the full force of the storm surge through every molecule of his own body. The flames of the fire dragon intensified; it twisted high above Moray McFangus, tangling itself through wisps and curls of tempest, forcing each of the storms to collide, to fight for space in the skies above; then—
BOOOOM!
Angus dived for cover as a huge explosion extinguished every lightning bolt, blasting every storm to smithereens. The fire dragon had destroyed every storm, leaving nothing behind but a few harmless puffs of gray cloud.
Thrilled by the exciting new development, Angus stared at the powerful creature. If Moray McFangus could use his fire dragon to control the weather then maybe he, Angus, wasn’t quite such a freak after all? Maybe the events in the storm hollow weren’t nearly as dreadful as he’d first feared? And one day, when he’d learned to perfect his own skills, he might even turn out to be a storm prophet hero, just like Moray McFangus? The projectogram faded suddenly. He was standing once again in the peaceful room among the bookshelves and comfy chairs. All signs of the moorland had gone, but fresh, tantalizing images now formed in his mind.
He could suddenly see himself older, taller, surrounded by vicious storms and fog yetis out on the barren Imbur marshes, defeating the weather, guiding Indigo, Dougal, Jeremius, and Gudgeon to safety. He could almost hear the grand tales that would be told of his glorious and heroic achievements for hundreds of years to come. He imagined another nervous lightning cub sitting in the same chair that he had occupied being told of the time that a famous storm prophet, called Angus McFangus, saved Indigo Midnight from some lethal lightning in the Lightnarium.
“But, sir, why didn’t you tell me fire dragons could help predict the weather and control it?” he asked, finally lowering himself into his chair, his heart still beating far too quickly. “I mean, Moray McFangus and his fire dragon totally destroyed those lightning storms!”
“I was a little concerned that the idea would seem too strange and unsettling when you were still struggling to accept your incredible gift,” Rogwood said, watching him closely. “It is a skill that must be treated with great seriousness if it is to be controlled properly. The early storm prophets formed a unique bond, Angus.” Rogwood continued. “They became great friends over time and worked together for the good of the Exploratorium and all of humankind. Not only by predicting when catastrophic weather was about to strike but, as you have just seen, by guiding and controlling the very elemental forces of nature. You belong to a very rare breed of lightning catcher, Angus. You should be extremely proud of your heritage. It is a great gift, and there are many who would kill to have it.”
Angus swallowed hard. It was a chilling thought. Adrik Swarfe had already threatened to drain his blood in order to restore the lightning heart and his own storm prophet powers. He was also positive that Dankhart wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if Angus ever stood in the way of his ambitions.
Before Rogwood could say anymore, however, they were interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Aramanthus.” A lightning catcher stuck her head inside the room. “I have a message from Felix Gudgeon.”
“Ah. Perhaps that is enough for one day,” Rogwood said, rising from his chair with a smile. “I will meet you in the Octagon in a few moments, Angus. Please feel free to watch any of the projectograms again.” Rogwood followed the other lightning catcher through the door and closed it behind him.
Angus quickly played the projectogram of Moray McFangus and the lightning storm over again, still feeling utterly flabbergasted. But a new thought quickly began to nibble at the edge of his euphoria, the glorious feelings he’d been basking in starting to fade. Rogwood hadn’t mentioned anything about storm prophets turning the weather against their fellow lightning cubs. There had been no projectograms showing Moray McFangus sending showers of rancid rain chasing across the storm hollow. What if he, Angus, was one of the lesser, weaker storm prophets, who couldn’t control his powers? What if he was dangerous? Would there be stories one day of the great catastrophes he’d caused, of the lightning cubs he’d injured?
He stood up quickly and slipped the plate out from the back of the box, and the projectogram faded. He turned off the light fissures and opened the door, suddenly eager to leave the Inner Sanctum, but—
He stopped dead in his tracks. Hairs prickled on the back of his neck. His eyes caught a flicker of movement in the dense shadows.
“H-hello?” Angus said quietly, letting his eyes grow used to the dark.
Nobody answered. The trapdoor in the center of the room, the one that led down to the crypt, was standing wide open. Had the keeper of the crypt called Rogwood down for some sort of coffin emergency? He walked quietly over to the opening and peered down the stone steps.
A dim light flickered below. Angus watched it for several seconds and then followed. He held his breath as the first few spooky tombs came into view. A faint glow came from the crypt keeper’s tomb in the distance. There was no sign of any other light unless— He stepped into the darkness and inched his way into the thick shadow, keeping his fingers crossed that the Perilous crypt was free from all ghosts, ghouls, and flesh-eating zombies. He dodged carefully between the tombs, following the long avenue of mausoleums until he saw it. A small light glimmered up ahead. There was a sudden blur of movement. Somebody had stopped beside the storm prophet coffins.
Angus bobbed down into the pitch-black shadows of a shed-size tomb and watched. He was almost certain the person carrying the light wasn’t Catcher Coriolis or Rogwood, and yet there was something oddly familiar about the figure now leaning over the coffins. Angus crept closer, crouching low as he shuffled silently past the simple unmarked tomb that he’d noticed the last time he’d visited the crypt. If he could just get a better look, if he could just see the person’s face . . .
“Hey! You there!” Catcher Coriolis emerged from his tomb. He hurried toward the stranger as fast as his bathrobe and slippers would allow.
The flickering light was extinguished immediately, and Angus was plunged into sudden darkness. Footsteps hurried across the floor, scuffling in the stranger’s haste to escape.
“Ooof!”
Somebody barged past him, knocking his shoulder painfully into hard stone. The hem of a heavy coat brushed his knee; Angus caught a brief glimpse of three triangular buttons on a sleeve in the faint light now coming from Catcher Coriolis’s tomb. He had seen the same coat once before, in the bone merchant’s.
“Caught red-handed!” The keeper of the crypt grabbed Angus by the elbow and dragged him back onto his feet. “What were you doing to my storm prophet coffins?”
“N-nothing, sir!” Angus protested. He glanced over his shoulder, desperately trying to catch one last glimpse of the stranger, but Catcher Coriolis was already dragging him over to the carved wooden fire dragons.
“I saw a light from the top of the stairs.” Angus tried to explain as the lightning catcher lit another lamp and inspected every inch of the tombs for signs of damage. “I only came down to see who it was.”
“A likely story! I warned Delphinia it was a mistake to let lightning cubs into the crypt, and here you are, skulking about the tombs without permission.”
“But there was someone else down here!” Angus protested. “He ran away when he heard you.”
But the keeper of the crypt wasn’t listening. “I’m taking you straight up to Principal Dark-Angel, and we will see if she believes your ridiculous story. And I will be recommending that she expel you immediately!”
11
THE SECOND DEMONSTRATION
“I’m extremely disappointed in your behavior, McFangus.” Principal Dark-Angel glared at him from behind her desk.
The keeper of the crypt had marched him up straight to her office, after he’d returned to his own tomb to get dressed. Rogwood, Gudgeon, and Valentine Vellum had appeared just moments later, and the shouting had begun. For once Dark-Angel was on Angus’s side, refusing
to believe that he had sneaked into the crypt with the intention of damaging any storm prophet tombs. After a short and rather heated conversation, therefore, Catcher Coriolis had stormed out of her office in a huff. But for some strange reason Principal Dark-Angel had continued to yell, and now she was yelling at Angus.
“You have been told repeatedly not to go wandering off by yourself while in the Inner Sanctum,” she said, an angry vein throbbing in her neck. “I have placed you in a position of great trust. You cannot simply poke your nose into every dark corner and investigate things that do not concern you.”
“I’m afraid this is my fault, Delphinia.” Rogwood stepped forward, placing a hand on Angus’s shoulder before he could speak. “I was called away from our lesson. I left Angus alone, and he is not the kind of lightning cub to ignore odd noises and shadowy figures.”
Dark-Angel frowned. “Nevertheless, that is no excuse for such reckless behavior. I must have your solemn promise, Angus, that you will do exactly as you are told in the future, even if you discover a troop of wild fog yetis stampeding through the Inner Sanctum.”
“Yes, Principal,” Angus muttered.
“Now, this person that you claim to have seen in the crypt.” The principal leaned back in her chair, her fingers locked tightly together in a thoughtful pose. “Can you give us a description?”
Angus thought hard, trying to remember any details, but in the darkness of the crypt he had seen nothing new. “All I saw was someone in a long dark coat, miss, with three triangular buttons on his sleeves,” he said. “But the same person was in the bone merchant’s in Little Frog’s Bottom a few weeks ago, talking to Creepy—er, I mean, Mr. Crevice.”
“Was he, indeed?” Dark-Angel said, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “And you are certain it was the same person?”
Angus nodded.
“But you saw nothing of the person’s face? You did not hear them speak?”
Angus shook his head.
“Well, I will be having serious words with Mr. Crevice about the company he keeps and his activities in the crypt.”
Gudgeon nodded. “That weasel’s got his fingers in more rotten pies than anyone else on this island. He’s up to no good, you mark my words.”
“Is it possible that Mr. Crevice has heard the tantalizing rumors that fire dragon scales can boost brainpower, cure dim-wittedness, scurvy, bunions, and pimples?” Rogwood asked.
Gudgeon grunted. “It wouldn’t be the first time he’d tried to flog some ridiculous cure in that flea-bitten shop of his. He once tried to sell me a shark’s tooth amulet that was supposed to give me great wisdom and knowledge.”
“I’m no expert, Felix, but perhaps you should have tried it,” Valentine Vellum said, sneering.
Gudgeon glared at him. Angus glanced at Valentine Vellum as he continued to smirk. He was clutching what looked like a battered old copy of the Weathervane. A large headline on the front cover declared it contained an “Annual Review of 1777!” Angus felt his insides suddenly squirm.
“What we must decide is how to deal with Mr. Crevice,” Dark-Angel said with a sigh. “Unfortunately, there is no one else on this island who can repair our damaged tombs, and if we allow them to deteriorate any further . . .”
“Perhaps if a lightning catcher accompanies Mr. Crevice into the crypt to keep an eye on his work in the future,” Rogwood said as Angus slowly inched his way toward Valentine Vellum, trying to get a better look at the Weathervane. “I will also warn Catcher Coriolis that he may need to tighten security.”
Dark-Angel nodded. “Those storm prophet tombs are extremely valuable. I will not have them damaged by a thieving bone merchant.”
“Sorry to interrupt, Principal.” All heads turned toward the open door, where Mrs. Stobbs stood holding a tray of tea and hot buttered crumpets. “Catcher Sparks asked me to tell you the latest report on the weather vortex has just been delivered from the weather station. And I thought you might like a hot pot of tea.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stobbs.” Dark-Angel smiled weakly as the housekeeper placed the tray on her desk. “That will be all for now, McFangus,” she added, turning to Angus. “Rogwood will inform you when your next lesson will take place. And remember, not a word of this to anyone.”
Angus raced down to the kitchen as soon as he left Dark-Angel’s office to find Dougal and Indigo already halfway through breakfast. He was now ravenously hungry after everything that had happened in the Inner Sanctum, and he wolfed down a bowl of porridge and two blueberry pancakes before describing the surprising events of the morning.
“You’re kidding!” Dougal spluttered.
“And you’re sure the person in the crypt was the same one you saw leaving the bone merchant’s?” Indigo asked, buttering a thick slice of toast.
Angus nodded. “Positive.”
“I bet it’s Valentine Vellum!” Dougal whispered, leaning across the table. “Maybe he and Creepy Crevice have been plotting to break into the crypt together using Vellum’s keys! You’ve already seen him taking Crevice down into the crypt.”
“Yeah, and then Vellum could have hidden under that coat,” Angus said, warming to the idea. “It could have been him in the bone merchant’s that day in Little Frog’s Bottom, too.”
“Either that or Vellum’s got an evil twin.” Dougal grinned. “We already know they run in the Vellum family. Look at Pixie and Percival.”
“Valentine and Valerina Vellum?” Angus suggested, picturing Vellum’s fictitious twin sister, complete with a low, thuggish brow and a beard.
Indigo snorted with giggles, but she was already shaking her head. “It just doesn’t make any sense. Why would Vellum help Crevice steal some fire dragon scales?”
“Obvious, isn’t it?” Dougal said. “He’s planning to give some to Pixie and Percival. I mean, if those scales can actually cure dim-wittedness . . .”
“Maybe that’s the real reason Crevice was trying to persuade Catcher Coriolis to share his tomb with him at the shimmer shark demonstration,” Indigo said thoughtfully. “So he could sneak into the crypt anytime he wanted.”
“There’s something else,” Angustold them quickly. “Vellum was carrying a copy of the Weathervane . . . from 1777.”
Dougal sat bolt upright in his chair. “But didn’t Gudgeon remove all of those from the research department? I mean, if he didn’t, somebody else did.”
“Yeah, well, it looks like Vellum got his hands on them somehow.”
“But why would Vellum want them?” Indigo asked, puzzled.
“I’d bet my scare-me-not puzzle it’s got something to do with that weather vortex over Perilous,” Angus said quietly. “First Gudgeon goes all funny when he hears us mentioning 1777, and now Valentine Vellum’s looking at a Weathervane from the same year. It’s got to be more than coincidence!”
“Angus is right,” Dougal said with a familiar look of determination on his face. “That Perilous vortex must be important. And for some reason Rogwood, Gudgeon, and Dark-Angel don’t want us knowing anything about it.”
“Then there’s only one place we’re going to find any answers,” Angus said, checking over his shoulder for eavesdroppers. “Valentine Vellum’s office.”
Angus now had so many worrying things to think about that his head was in a permanent state of fogginess. At night his dreams were filled with dramatic scenes from the projectograms, with visions of Moray McFangus and his fire dragon. He woke each morning with the uncomfortable feeling that he would never match up to their epic deeds.
The problem of how to sneak into Valentine Vellum’s office without being caught was also far trickier than he’d first thought. For a start, none of them had the faintest idea where the office actually was, and they quickly resorted to following the lightning catcher around Perilous in the hope that he might lead them to it himself.
“McFangus, explain why you and your friends have decided to trail me around this Exploratorium like a pack of lost dogs!” he demanded when Angus accidentally crashed
into him outside the library for the third time in one week.
“Oh, er,” Angus said, trying to convey that the whole thing had somehow been a coincidence.
“If I find you, Dewsnap, and Midnight are planning some elaborate prank, or if I catch any of you skulking within ten feet of me again, I will see to it that Catcher Sparks buries you under a mountain of snot-repelling handkerchiefs!” And he stomped off, checking over his shoulder once.
Angus turned and marched in the opposite direction, wondering how they were going to find Vellum’s office now.
Meanwhile, Germ had finally taken his first exam and was now frantically studying for the next.
“It’s scabs, pus, and sores next, my favorite subject!” he told them, cheerfully dragging several large books out of his bag one lunchtime. “Who wants to test me on oozing and seepage?”
Indigo was still avoiding her brother and his relentless questions about the rash on her hand. Dougal was frantically trying to finish the third phase of his puzzle competition as the closing date for all entries was now only days away. He spent most evenings in the Pigsty hunched in one of the armchairs, shushing anyone who interrupted him.
Excitement about the second winners’ demonstration was steadily building, with an eager buzz now filling the kitchens at every mealtime. Nicholas Grubb and his friends had begun wearing false beards exactly like Catcher Hornbuckle’s, and had somehow got their picture in the Weathervane. Indigo, however, showed remarkably little interest in this hilarious story. She was now spending unhealthy amounts of her free time staring at the picture of her uncle Scabious in The Dankhart Handbook, her sweater sleeve pulled down over the rash on her hand. She had also borrowed half a dozen books on the Dankhart family from the library. Angus, who had been trying to follow Valentine Vellum through the lightning reference section at the time, had by chance seen Indigo hiding them in her bag.