Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones(43)

‘He looks all right,’ Kaz said. ‘He isn’t going to be waxing eloquent anytime soon, though.’

‘As if he ever does,’ Bastille said, struggling.

Enough of this, I thought in annoyance, releasing my Talent into the goop. Nothing happened. There are, unfortunately, plenty of things that are resistant to Smedry Talents.

Several Curators glided across the floor to us, looking quite pleased with themselves. ‘We can provide a book for you that will explain how to get out,’ one said.

‘You will find it very interesting,’ said another.

‘Shatter yourselves,’ Bastille snapped, grunting again as she tried to get free. Nothing moved but her chin.

‘What kind of offer is that?’ Kaz demanded. ‘We wouldn’t be able to read the book like this!’

‘We’d be happy to read it to you,’ one of the others said. ‘So that you would understand how to escape in the moments before your soul was taken.’

‘Plus,’ another whispered, ‘you would have all of eternity to study. Surely that must appeal to you, a scholar. An eternity with the knowledge of the Library. All at your fingertips.’

‘Never able to leave,’ Kaz said. ‘Trapped forever in this pit, forced to entice others into the trap.’

‘Your brother thought the trade worthwhile,’ one of them whispered.

What! I thought. Father!

‘You lie,’ Kaz said. ‘Attica would never fall for one of your tricks!’

‘We didn’t have to trick him,’ another whispered, floating close to me. ‘He came quite willingly. All for a book. A single, special book.’

‘What book?’ Bastille asked.

The Curators fell silent, skull heads smiling. ‘Will you trade your soul for that knowledge?’

Bastille began to swear, struggling harder. The Curators moved around her, speaking in a language that my Lenses told me was classical Greek.

If I could just get to my Windstormer’s Lenses, I thought. Perhaps I could blow some of this goop away.

I couldn’t even wiggle my fingers, though, let alone reach into my jacket.

If only my Talent would work! I focused, drawing forth all of the power I could, and released it into the goop. Yet, it refused to break or yield.

Something occurred to me. The goop was resistant, but what about the floor beneath me? I gathered my Talent again, then released it downward.

I strained, feeling the pulsings of energy run through my body and out my feet. I felt my shoes unravel, the rubber slipping free, the canvas falling apart. I felt the rock beneath my heels crumble. But, that was ultimately useless, since my body was still held tightly by the goop. The ground fell away beneath me, but I didn’t fall with it.

The Curator closest to me turned. ‘Are you certain you don’t want that book on Talents, young Oculator? Perhaps it would help you free yourself.’

Focus, I thought as the rest of the Curators continued to torment BastiIle. They said that there’s a book on how to escape this goop. Well, that means there’s a way out.

I continued struggling, but that was obviously useless. If it was possible to break free with just muscles, then Bastille would manage to long before I did.

So, instead, I focused on the goop itself. What could I determine about it? The stuff in my mouth seemed slightly softer than the stuff around the outside of my body. Was there a reason for that? Spit, perhaps? Maybe the goop didn’t harden when it was wet.

I began to drool out some saliva, trying to get it on the goop. Spit began to seep out of the top of my mouth, and down the front of the glob of goop on my face.

‘Uh . . . Alcatraz?’ Bastille asked. ‘You all right?’

I tried to grunt in a reassuring way. But, then, I’ve found that it’s very hard to grunt eloquently when you’re spitting.

After several minutes, I came to the unpleasant conclusion that the goop didn’t dissolve in saliva. Unfortunately, now I was not only being held tightly by a sheet of hardened black tar, I’d also drooled all over the front of my shirt.