Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [36]
“In your dreams,” Beetle retorted, sounding more confident than he felt. Merrin’s rant spooked him. There was such a crazy kind of power behind it that Beetle almost believed him.
Merrin did not bother to reply. With one hand keeping an iron grasp on Beetle and the other clutching his open book, Merrin began to chant the words on the page in a low, monotonous voice. A Darke mist began to envelope Beetle. As Merrin came toward the end of the chant, the terrible words reached down to Beetle as if he were at the bottom of a deep, dark pit. His heart raced and he could hardly breathe from the fear that came over him. His vision closed in so that all he could see was a tunnel with Merrin at the end of it, waving his book and opening his huge red mouth to say . . .
But Beetle never heard what Merrin said. With his last conscious effort he reached out and snatched the book from Merrin’s grasp.
“BeGone!” yelled Merrin. And then, “Oi! Give it back!”
But Beetle didn’t give it back. Beetle was gone.
Chapter 12
Boomerang
Beetle was somewhere dark and uncomfortable—very uncomfortable. He was crushed into a tiny space, his knees folded up to his chest and his arms twisted up around his head. He tried to move, but he was wedged so tightly that he felt as though he were in a vice. He fought down panic. What had Merrin done to him?
Beetle’s discomfort was quickly turning into something much more nasty. Pins and needles were running down his legs and already he couldn’t feel his feet. His hands buzzed and tingled. His left hand was closed tightly around the book he had snatched from Merrin and was wedged in the same corner that his head was stuck in. His elbows and knees were jammed up against something hard and they hurt—really hurt. But the worst thing was the overwhelming feeling, growing stronger every passing moment, that if he didn’t stretch out right now he would go crazy.
Beetle took a few deep breaths and tried to quell his panic. He opened his eyes wide and stared into the dark, but although some light did seem to be filtering through from somewhere, he could not make sense of anything. The small amount of light helped Beetle get some control over his panic and he discovered that he could wiggle—just a little—the fingers of his right hand. Painfully he stretched them out and tapped, then scratched, the confining walls, trying to discover what they were made of. A splinter under his fingernail gave him the answer—wood. A great stab of fear shot through him—he was in his own coffin. Beetle heard a wild, despairing cry like that of an animal caught in a trap and a chill ran down his spine. It took him a few seconds to realize that the cry came from him.
Beneath the sound of his heart thudding in his ears, Beetle was becoming aware of noises filtering through from somewhere outside the coffin. It was an indistinct, muffled murmuring. In his dark prison, Beetle’s imagination flipped into overdrive. He’d read that Things murmured. Particularly when they were hungry—or was it angry? Beetle tried to remember. Did Things get hungry? Did they even eat? If they did, would they eat him? Maybe they were just angry. But angry wasn’t good either. In fact, it was probably worse. But what did it matter? Right now he’d give anything to get out of the coffin, to be able to stretch out his arms and legs and to uncurl his spine. In fact, he’d happily face a thousand Things in exchange for just being able to stretch out to his full height once more.
Beetle groaned out loud. The murmuring grew louder and drowned out the thumping of his heart, and then one of the sides of the coffin began