Buried Fire by Jonathan Stroud

Author:Jonathan Stroud [Stroud, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Juvenile Fiction, Animals, Supernatural, Dragons, Fantasy & Magic, Mythical, Brothers and sisters
ISBN: 9780786851942
Publisher: Paw Prints
Published: 2004-10-01T00:00:00+00:00

24

Stephen bided his time once Sarah had gone. He loitered inside the house, showering and getting dressed, and all the time keeping an eye out of various windows to make sure his prey made no run for it. But Michael seemed content to sit in the garden, drinking the remains of the cold coffee and gazing out into the hills.

"That's fine," thought Stephen. "Just stay right where you are."

By and by, Michael seemed to gain a slight lease of life. He stretched, yawned and walked back into the kitchen, where he opened various cupboards in an aimless fashion. But if he was hungry, nothing took his fancy. He stood undecided for a moment, a vacuous expression on his face. Then at last he made for the hall. As he passed a darkened recess, a silent figure stepped out behind him. An iron arm looped round his neck and began to throttle him, while another hand pulled his arm up behind his back in a policeman's grip. Michael struggled wildly, but the figure had no mercy and marched him up the stairs. When he hesitated, he was encouraged by kicks and twists of the arm; when he stumbled, he was wrenched onwards by the loop round his neck. In this manner, gasping and dishevelled, he soon arrived in the bathroom, where the shower waited.

"Right," said Stephen. "Time for a little chat."

Michael squirmed sullenly. "There's nothing to talk about. I'm tired. I want to sleep."

"Nothing to talk about? Oh dear, we are in a bad way." Stephen gripped still harder. "Firstly—" (Here he took Michael firmly by the neck and forced his head down into the basin.) "—we're going to talk about last night. Then—" (Here he turned the dial to freezing and took the shower head off the holder.) "—we're going to talk about what's going on in that stupid head of yours. Any questions, before we start?"

"Get off, you fool," came a voice, echoing up from the basin.

"Fine." Stephen turned on the water and stuck the shower head down the back of Michael's shirt. The water jetted down, briefly ballooning the shirt outwards before it erupted out at his waistline in an icy waterfall. His trousers were soon saturated, and a pleasing pool spread out on the tiles of the floor. Michael struggled manfully, but Stephen's years told.

"How's it going?" he asked pleasantly, after three minutes.

"You'll regret this, you bloody idiot," was the only reply, and for several minutes more the water gushed, until the back of Michael's clothes hung so heavy that his trousers fell down.

"Still not talking?" Stephen seemed regretful and surprised. The answer was forcible, and in the negative.

Stephen was thus pushed into more extreme measures, which were justified by the almost immediate response.

"All right, you bastard," said Michael. "You can stop. I'll talk with you, but it won't do you any good."

Stephen allowed his victim to return to his bedroom, dry himself and recline at leisure on the bed. He stood by the door, leaning against

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