Indeed, as I walked, I swore that I could see the stacks of scrolls changing around us. It wasn’t that they transformed or anything – yet, if I glanced at a stack, then turned away, then glanced back, I couldn’t tell if it was actually the same one or not. Kaz’s Talent was carrying us through the corridors without our being able to feel the change.
Something occurred to me. ‘Kaz?’
The short man looked back, raising an eyebrow.
‘So . . . your Talent has lost us, right?’
‘Yup,’ he said.
‘As we walk, we’re moving through the Library hopping to different points, even though we feel like we’re just walking down a corridor.’
‘You’ve got it, kid. I’ve got to tell you – you’re smarter than you look.’
I frowned. ‘So, what exactly was the purpose of having Bastille scout ahead? Didn’t we leave that corridor behind the moment you turned on your Talent?’
Kaz froze.
At that moment, I heard something click beneath me. I looked down with shock to see that I’d stepped directly onto a trip wire.
‘Ah, wing nuts,’ Kaz swore.
11
I must apologize for the beginning of that last chapter. My goal is to write a completely frivolous book, for if I actually say anything important, I run the risk of making people worship or respect me even more. Therefore, I should ask that you will do me a favor. Get out some scissors, and cut out the next few paragraphs in this chapter. Paste them over the beginning of the last chapter, hiding it away so that you never have to read its pretentious editorializing again.
Ready? Go.
Once there was a bunny. This bunny had a birthday party. It was the bestest birthday party ever. Because that was the day the bunny got a bazooka.
The bunny loved his bazooka. He blew up all sorts of things on the farm. He blew up the stable of Henrietta the Horse. He blew up the pen of Pugsly the Pig. He blew up the coop of Chuck the Chicken.
‘I have the bestest bazooka ever,’ the bunny said. Then the farm friends proceeded to beat him senseless and steal his bazooka. It was the happiest day of his life.
The end.
Epilogue: Pugsly the pig, now without a pen, was quite annoyed. When none of the others were looking, he stole the bazooka. He tied a bandana on his head and swore vengeance for what had been done to him.
‘From this day on,’ he whispered, raising the bazooka, ‘I shall be known as Hambo.’
There. I feel much better. Now we can return to the story, refreshed and confident that you’re reading the right kind of book.
I cringed, tense, looking down at my foot on the trip wire. ‘So,’ I said, glancing at Bastille, ‘is it going to do any—
‘Gak!’
At that moment, panels on the ceiling fell away dumping what seemed like a thousand buckets full of dark, sticky sludge on us. I tried to move out of the way, but I was far too slow. Even Bastille, with her enhanced Crystin speed, couldn’t dodge fast enough.
It hit, covering us in a tarlike substance. I tried to yell, but the sound came out in a gurgle as the thick, black material got into my mouth. It had a rather unpleasant flavor. Kind of like a cross between bananas and tar, heavy on the tar.
I struggled and was frustrated to feel the goop suddenly harden. I was frozen in place, one eye open, the other closed, my mouth filled with hard tar, my nose – fortunately – unplugged.
‘Great,’ Bastille said. I could just barely see her, covered in hardened sludge a short distance away, stuck in a running posture. She’d had the sense to shade her face, so her eyes and mouth were uncovered – but her arm was glued to her forehead. ‘Kaz, you stuck too?’
‘Yeah,’ said a muffled voice. ‘I tried to lose myself, but it didn’t work. We were already lost.’
‘Alcatraz?’ Bastille asked.
I made a grumbling noise through my nose.