Lockwood & Co by Jonathan Stroud Page B

it’s better to be safe than sorry.’
    ‘Well,
I
think we need to go straight to the heart of things and hunt the enemy out,’ Lockwood said. ‘What do you think, Lucy?’
    ‘I’m just wondering whether we should pay a visit to this new library,’ I said. ‘According to Whitaker, the hauntings only began when it was built. Maybe the construction work disturbed something – perhaps
that’s
where we’ll find the ghost.’
    Lockwood nodded slowly. ‘That’s not a bad point, Luce,’ he said. ‘We’ll sneak a look in the library on the way to the classroom. Take some readings there. Speaking of which – what’s the temperature now?’
    George, who’d been grumbling under his breath because we’d ignored his advice, unclipped his belt thermometer and checked the luminous display. ‘Sixteen degrees.’
    ‘OK. Keep an eye on it. Let me know if it starts changing.’
    A sudden, unexpected fall in temperature is one sure sign of upcoming supernatural activity. Sometimes it’s a hint that saves your life. In the case of the Bay House Horror I saw the temp plunge ten degrees when I walked into that attic bathroom. It gave me just enough time to draw my sword before the Wraith stepped through the tiles.
    But sixteen degrees seemed safe enough. Adjusting our bags, keeping our hands close to our belts, we set off up the corridor.
    It was clearly an original part of the school, with oak panelling covering the lower half of the plastered walls. Ranks of notice boards and photographs rose almost to the ceiling. There were sports teams, prize winners and whole-school photos, with massed ranks of pupils and teachers staring at the camera. It was too dark to make out the details. To keep our senses sharp, we mostly kept our torches off – flicking them on occasionally to check the signs outside each door.
    ‘Class 1A, IB . . .’ Lockwood murmured. ‘1C . . . the science lab . . . Where
is
this library, anyway?’
    A sound echoed in the darkness – a deep, harsh creaking, instantly cut off.
    I stopped short. ‘Was that your stomach, George?’
    He looked at me blankly. ‘Was what my stomach? I didn’t hear anything.’
    ‘Nor me,’ Lockwood said. ‘What did you get, Lucy?’
    That’s my Talent, you see. I hear things other people don’t. ‘A horrid wrenching creak. Sort of like a rusted door hinge, or a coffin lid opening.’
    ‘What?’ George said. ‘And you thought that was me?’
    ‘Your belly makes weird sounds when you’re hungry.’
    He paused. ‘Fair enough. I suppose it does.’
    ‘Where was this noise?’ Lockwood asked.
    ‘Somewhere up ahead, maybe. I don’t know.’
    ‘Good. So we’re going in the right direction.’
    We continued steadily, our boots ringing faintly on the wooden flooring, and soon came to the end of the main corridor. Side passages branched out left and right. Ahead of us was a prominent glazed door, somehow more modern than the ones we’d passed. There was an engraved wooden sign on the wall. Lockwood shone his torch on it.
    ‘
Ernest Potts Memorial Library
,’ he read. ‘Here we are, then.’
    As he spoke, a cool breeze flowed over us, a stirring of the air. We swung our torches wildly up and down the passages, but saw nothing.
    ‘Temperature’s down,’ George said. ‘Eleven degrees now.’
    ‘Rapiers at the ready,’ Lockwood said. He opened the door.
    Nothing jumped out at us, which is always nice. The library was large and airy, with pleasant, trendy shelves of light-coloured pine. It smelled new. Rows of neatly ordered books covered the walls. Tall windows looked out over a small, drab playing field. There was a half-moon in the sky over London, lighting the room with a feeble glow.
    Wordlessly George opened his bag, took out a length of iron chain, and began laying out a protective circle in the centre of the floor. Lockwood didn’t protest. He looked and I listened for danger. We didn’t get anything.
    A small plinth hung on the wall between