Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [89]
The Dragon House was a dark and smelly place. It was also noisy. Dragons as a rule do not sleep quietly and Spit Fyre was no exception. He snuffled, he grunted, he snorted, he sniffed. His fire stomach rumbled and his ordinary stomach gurgled. Every now and then an enormous snore would shake the roof of the Dragon House and send Billy Pot’s rack of dragon-poo shovels rattling.
Deep inside the Dragon House, Septimus was leaning against the warmth of Spit Fyre’s fire stomach. He had made a decision—it was time to go back to the Wizard Tower. Time to face Marcia and explain why he had missed the most important Magyk in the Castle in many years. Slowly he got to his feet and—what was that? A rustle in the straw like a rat . . . but bigger than a rat . . . much bigger . . . moving stealthily . . . purposefully . . . with a subtle taint of Darke about it. It was coming toward him. Muscles tensed, Septimus did not move. Spit Fyre, he noticed, continued sleeping, which was odd. He peered into the dark, straining his eyes to see. The rustling was getting nearer.
There was a sudden stumble in the straw, but still Spit Fyre slept on. Why, thought Septimus, didn’t Spit Fyre wake up? The dragon was very touchy about who came into his house. He hated strangers—only a few months ago Spit Fyre had very nearly eaten a sightseer who had run in for a dare.
It was then that Septimus saw the intruder move out of the shadows and he realized why Spit Fyre did not wake up. It was a witch; she must have put some kind of sleep spell on him. It was a Darke witch too; the front-buttoned cloak with the embroidered symbols all over it was just like the ones worn by the Port Witch Coven. Septimus crouched down and watched the fumbling figure approaching, feeling its way along the spines. From his pocket he took out his neat coil of Darke thread. He waited until the witch was so close that her next step would tread on him—then he pounced. He threw the thread, which had a surprising weight to it, around the witch’s ankles and pulled. She toppled onto him with a piercing scream.
“Arrrgh! Ouch ouch ouch!”
“Jen?” gasped Septimus.
“Sep? My ankles. Oh, Sep, there’s a snake. Get it off me—getitoffme! Oh, it hurts. It’s burning me!”
“Oh, Jen. I’m sorry, oh, I’m sorry! I’ll get it off you. Keep still. Keep still!”
Jenna stayed as still as she could bear and Septimus unwound the Darke thread as fast as he could. As soon as it was gone Jenna began rubbing her ankles furiously.
“Ouch ouch ouch . . . aargh!”
Septimus leaped to his feet. “Back in a mo, Jen. Don’t move.”
“Fat chance,” muttered Jenna. “I think my feet are going to fall off.”
Septimus squeezed past Spit Fyre’s leathery folded wings and disappeared behind the dragon’s spiny head. He emerged a few moments later and quickly made his way back to Jenna.
“Ouch ouch ouch . . .” Jenna was muttering fiercely to herself. “Ouch.” Bright red welts had sprung up wherever the Darke thread had touched her skin and she felt as though a red-hot wire were cutting into her.
Septimus kneeled down and rubbed a damp and somewhat sticky cloth carefully over the angry red lines. Immediately the vicious sting left them and Jenna gave a sigh of relief.
“Oh, Sep, that’s amazing. It’s stopped. Oh, it’s stopped. What is it?”
“It’s my handkerchief.”
“I know that, silly. But what’s the sticky stuff on it?”
Septimus avoided answering. “You need to leave it on for twenty-four hours. Okay?”
“Okay.” Jenna nodded and poked tentatively at her ankles; she now felt no more than a warm buzz along the fading red lines. “It’s brilliant stuff. What is it?”
“Well. Um . . .”
Jenna looked at Septimus suspiciously. “Sep, tell me. What is it?”
“Dragon dribble.”
“Oh, yuck!”
“It’s powerful stuff, Jen.”
“I’ve got to have dried dragon dribble on me for twenty-four hours?”
Septimus shrugged. “If you don’t want the Darke stuff back.”
“Darke stuff?” Jenna looked