Mega-Awesome Adventures by Rick Riordan

Author:Rick Riordan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction - Young Adult
Publisher: Disney Book Group

When you go out hunting wicked spirits, it’s the simple things that matter most. The silvered point of your rapier flashing in the dark; the iron filings scattered on the floor; the sealed canisters of best Greek Fire, ready as a last resort…But tea bags, brown and fresh and plentiful, and made (for preference) by Pitkin Brothers of Bond Street, are perhaps the simplest and best of all.

Okay, they may not save your life like a sword tip or an iron circle can, and they haven’t the protective power of a sudden wall of fire. But they do provide something just as vital. They help to keep you sane.

It’s never pleasant, sitting in a haunted house, waiting in the dark. The night presses in around you and the silence beats against your ears; and soon, if you’re not careful, you start to see or hear things that are the products of your mind. In short, you need distractions. Each of us at Lockwood’s has our preference. I do a bit of drawing, George has his comics, Lockwood reads the gossip magazines. But all of us like our tea and cookies, and that night in the Hopes’ house was no exception.

We found the kitchen at the far end of the hall, just beyond the stairway. It was a nice enough room, neat and white and modern, and noticeably warmer than the hall. It had no supernatural traces of any kind. All was quiet. The knocking sound I’d heard was inaudible here, and there was no repetition of the nasty bumping on the stairs.

I got the kettle going, while Lockwood lit an oil lamp and set it on the table. By its light we took off our rapiers and work belts and laid them out before us. Our belts have seven separate clips and pouches; we went through these in silence, systematically checking the contents while the kettle wheezed and huffed away. We’d already checked everything back in the office, but we were more than happy to do it again. A girl at Rotwell’s had died the previous week after forgetting to restock her magnesium flares.

Outside the window, the sun was gone. Faint clouds choked the blue-black sky, and mists had risen to engulf the garden. Beyond black hedges, lights shone in other houses. They were near, but also distant, cut off from us like ships passing across deep water.

We put the belts back on, and checked the Velcro fasteners around the rapiers. I fixed the tea and brought it to the table. Lockwood found the cookies. We sat together while the oil lamp flickered and shadows danced in the corners of the room.

At last Lockwood pulled the collar of his overcoat high around his neck. “Let’s see what Mrs. Hope has to say for herself,” he said. He stretched out a long, thin hand for the folder lying on the table. Lamplight glimmered darkly in his flop of hair.

As he read, I checked the thermometer clipped to my belt: 59°. Not warm, but roughly what you’d expect from an unheated house this time of year.

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