Neon Blue E Frost (speld decodable readers .TXT) 📖

retraces her steps and takes my arm. “Careful, my dear. Some of the things in here can still bite. Even if they’re behind glass.”

I move a step away from the case and give it a glare. A massive gold chain. Huge coins and seven enameled medallions hang from the chain. I assume the medallions are saints, until I look more closely. They’re portraits, miniature and exquisitely detailed. Each is also upside-down.

“What is it?” I ask Timmi.

“A chain of souls for the Saxon Knights of Brasov.”

“Chain of souls?”

“A soul trap,” Timmi says, wrapping her arm through mine and leading me away. “They made an unfortunate bargain to stave off invasion from the Turks. Now their souls are bound in that chain.”

“Forever?”

“Until someone figures out how to release them.”

“What about breaking the chain?”

“No one has managed it yet.” Timmi shrugs.

We walk through the rest of the galleries in silence, until we reach the library where the huge column of Professor Park’s Diary dominates the far end of the wood-paneled room.

“Timmi,” I ask slowly. “Do you know much about that sort of thing? Soul chains, I mean. Deals with the demonic?”

“Only what every Bevvy girl knows. Steer far clear, my dear.”

Yes, I do know that.

We reach the column and seat ourselves in two of the plush leather chairs that flank it. Timmi gives me a speculative look over her half-moon glasses. “You know, if you want to know more about soul chains, I know a gentleman you can ask. He’s a visiting—” She waves her hand. “Adjunct. His credentials are not impressive, but he does seem to have a fair amount of practical knowledge. Would you like me to arrange an introduction?”

I smile at her old-fashioned phrasing. “Sure.”

“Actually, let me see if I can find him now for you. I think today is one of the days he’s with us.” She pats my hand. “You take a minute with Park’s Diary. Don’t be alarmed by anything you hear. The Diary’s never bitten anyone.”

Well, there’s always a first time, but I nod reassuringly at her and she rises and slips away, silent across a rich red runner that they’ve put down since the last time I was here.

I sit back in the chair and look up at the column rising above me. The intricate carvings are too small to see unless I lean forward and peer at them. Instead, I gaze into the middle distance, let my eyes unfocus and listen.

The scent of ink fills my nose, and in my ear, a man’s deep whisper, “Belteshazzar answered, “My lord, if only the dream applied to your enemies and its meaning to your adversaries! The tree you saw, which grew large and strong, with it’s top touching the sky—”

“You’ve moved on to the Book of Daniel,” I whisper back, remembering the passage from the many times my Dala read the Bible to me, sitting in the tiny main room of her caravan and reading by candlelight, since we didn’t have electricity. I wait to see if the Diary is interactive. It called me by name before, so I’m guessing it is.

“As Nebuchadnezzar was the tree, so are you, Tsara. The tree that touches the sky and reaches deep into the earth.”

“The tree was cut down,” I say, remembering the Book of Daniel. “The stump bound with iron. Nebuchadnezzar went mad. It’s a story about humility.”

“Remember it. When power rises in you like a storm wind and all bend before you, remember that even the mightiest tree can fall.”

“That’s why I’ve never sought power,” I whisper to the air, free to tell it something I’ve never told anyone else. “It just brings madness, destruction and grief.”

“That is why it comes to you. So long as you remain humble, you are fit to wield it.”

“I don’t want it,” I grit. “Look what it’s brought me so far. My parents are dead. My Dala is dead. Rowena is damned. And I’ve been bound by a fucking de—”

“Here we are!” Timmi says brightly.

I sit up abruptly and snap my mouth shut over my confession to a hunk of carved rock.

Timmi and a dark-haired man stop a few paces away, on the far side of the Diary. I stand and shake the hand the man offers me. Dark hair, dark eyes that are a little blood-shot. Long face darkened by five o’clock shadow. Double-chin pinched by the high, buttoned neck of a black suit. He has a strong hand-shake, and as he releases my hand, one of his fingernails catches my palm.

I pull my hand free with a hiss. Turn it over and suck on the drop of blood welling up at the end of a shallow scratch.

“Forgive me! How clumsy,” the man says.

“S’okay,” I mumble around my palm. “Accident.”

“Tsara, I’m dreadfully sorry. Shall I fetch the medical kit?” Timmi asks.

I shake my head. Lick my palm and push a little power into the wound with my tongue. Blood and the gritty iron of Earth mingle in my mouth. Then there’s just skin and the taste of hand-soap.

I let my healed hand drop. Don’t offer it to the man again. He nods at me. “Daniel Leroy, Miss Faa. Again, apologies.”

“No problem.” I study his face for a moment. Long and regular and not exactly attractive. Still, there’s something familiar about it. I try to place it. Fail. This is the problem with meeting so many people through work. Everyone begins to look familiar after a while. “Have we met, Mr. Leroy?”

He smiles, which bares big, white teeth, but also causes long dimples to appear. “Surely I’d remember such a lovely young lady.”

I doubt he’s got more than a year or two on me. The black on black on black makes him look older, more serious, but I think it’s a front.

When I don’t respond, he gestures to the chair where I was sitting. He circles the table and sits down across from me. Timmi resumes her seat beside me. “So, Miss Faa, I understand from the good Curator that