acquired a “distinction in miniature cameraship.” There were awards for Advanced Concealment of Weapons and Intermediate Poisoncraft.
“Nice bunch of awards,” Dixie said with a sniff as the passage grew darker, lit now only by flickering candles at great distances from each other. Finally they came to adoor covered in quilted green leather. Above the door was a brass nameplate reading MARCUS BRUNHOLM, BRACS, TENS . Danny raised his hand to knock but the door swung open before he touched it.
“Very impressive,” Dixie said. “It even creaked. I imagine we’re supposed to be spooked out.”
But Brunholm’s parlor was spooky enough without ghostly creaking doors, Danny knew. He had sneaked into it with Les once before, and he recognized with a shiver the little jail cell where the siren Vicky had been held as part of one of Brunholm’s schemes. The blowpipe and poison darts she had used were still on the wall, though now in a locked glass case.
“Kind of feels like Brunholm in here,” Dixie said.
“I know what you mean,” Danny agreed. The furnishings were dark and ornate with lots of velvets and leather. There were paintings of sickly-looking flowers and a smell of strong cologne.
“It’s the kind of a room that if it was a person you wouldn’t trust it, if you know what I’m saying,” Dixie commented. Danny often couldn’t follow Dixie’s thought processes, but this time he nodded.
“ ’Scuse me,” Dixie said, patting her stomach. “That’s what comes of bolting breakfast.”
Danny hadn’t heard the first sound, but it came again, a low moan.
“That wasn’t me this time.” Dixie looked around. “Where is Brunholm, anyway?”
Danny led the way to the corridor of teachers’ bedrooms. Each shabby brown door had a nameplate.
“They all sleep here?” Dixie said.
“So they can keep an eye on each other, I expect,” Danny said. “Here it is.…” They heard the moan from behind a door with M R . M. B RUNHOLM written on it. Danny knocked tentatively, then harder. The moaning got louder.
“We’d better go in,” Danny said.
“Be careful …,” Dixie warned as Danny opened the door and put his head inside.
“Master Brun—” he began. In a tenth of a second his mind took in the scene. The floral wallpaper, the pink spread and the fluffy pillows plumped up on the bed. The cushioned headboard with a terrified Brunholm spread-eagled against it, frozen to the spot, his eyes fixed on something on the dressing table, the moaning coming from a mouth that he seemed unable or unwilling to open. Danny’s gaze rested on the dressing table and the device that sat there, a silver machine about the size of a man’s head with a horizontal bow on top, two silvery antennae springing from it. Instantly the antennae twitched and the whole apparatus swung toward him. He pulled his head back and slammed the door just as something struck it with terrible power.
Danny gasped, his heart racing. “What is that?”
Dixie was absently fingering what looked like the point of an arrow that had pierced the door from the other side. “By the look of this,” she said, “it’s a Crossbow of Exquisite Sensitivity.”
Danny stared at her. “It’s a what?”
“An automatic crossbow with a hair trigger. You set itup and activate it. Once it detects the slightest movement from a target it fires a bolt at the source.”
“That’s why Brunholm was moaning,” Danny said. “He didn’t even dare open his mouth to call out.”
“He’s a dead man,” Dixie said with an air of finality—and not much in the way of regret.
“We can’t let him be killed by that thing,” Danny said. “We need him for the mission.”
“Is that all you need him for, Danny?” Dixie said, giving him a level look. Danny didn’t meet her eyes. Brunholm was completely without scruples, sly and selfish. All the attributes you needed to be a truly successful spy. Part of Danny, the part he didn’t like to
“Nice bunch of awards,” Dixie said with a sniff as the passage grew darker, lit now only by flickering candles at great distances from each other. Finally they came to adoor covered in quilted green leather. Above the door was a brass nameplate reading MARCUS BRUNHOLM, BRACS, TENS . Danny raised his hand to knock but the door swung open before he touched it.
“Very impressive,” Dixie said. “It even creaked. I imagine we’re supposed to be spooked out.”
But Brunholm’s parlor was spooky enough without ghostly creaking doors, Danny knew. He had sneaked into it with Les once before, and he recognized with a shiver the little jail cell where the siren Vicky had been held as part of one of Brunholm’s schemes. The blowpipe and poison darts she had used were still on the wall, though now in a locked glass case.
“Kind of feels like Brunholm in here,” Dixie said.
“I know what you mean,” Danny agreed. The furnishings were dark and ornate with lots of velvets and leather. There were paintings of sickly-looking flowers and a smell of strong cologne.
“It’s the kind of a room that if it was a person you wouldn’t trust it, if you know what I’m saying,” Dixie commented. Danny often couldn’t follow Dixie’s thought processes, but this time he nodded.
“ ’Scuse me,” Dixie said, patting her stomach. “That’s what comes of bolting breakfast.”
Danny hadn’t heard the first sound, but it came again, a low moan.
“That wasn’t me this time.” Dixie looked around. “Where is Brunholm, anyway?”
Danny led the way to the corridor of teachers’ bedrooms. Each shabby brown door had a nameplate.
“They all sleep here?” Dixie said.
“So they can keep an eye on each other, I expect,” Danny said. “Here it is.…” They heard the moan from behind a door with M R . M. B RUNHOLM written on it. Danny knocked tentatively, then harder. The moaning got louder.
“We’d better go in,” Danny said.
“Be careful …,” Dixie warned as Danny opened the door and put his head inside.
“Master Brun—” he began. In a tenth of a second his mind took in the scene. The floral wallpaper, the pink spread and the fluffy pillows plumped up on the bed. The cushioned headboard with a terrified Brunholm spread-eagled against it, frozen to the spot, his eyes fixed on something on the dressing table, the moaning coming from a mouth that he seemed unable or unwilling to open. Danny’s gaze rested on the dressing table and the device that sat there, a silver machine about the size of a man’s head with a horizontal bow on top, two silvery antennae springing from it. Instantly the antennae twitched and the whole apparatus swung toward him. He pulled his head back and slammed the door just as something struck it with terrible power.
Danny gasped, his heart racing. “What is that?”
Dixie was absently fingering what looked like the point of an arrow that had pierced the door from the other side. “By the look of this,” she said, “it’s a Crossbow of Exquisite Sensitivity.”
Danny stared at her. “It’s a what?”
“An automatic crossbow with a hair trigger. You set itup and activate it. Once it detects the slightest movement from a target it fires a bolt at the source.”
“That’s why Brunholm was moaning,” Danny said. “He didn’t even dare open his mouth to call out.”
“He’s a dead man,” Dixie said with an air of finality—and not much in the way of regret.
“We can’t let him be killed by that thing,” Danny said. “We need him for the mission.”
“Is that all you need him for, Danny?” Dixie said, giving him a level look. Danny didn’t meet her eyes. Brunholm was completely without scruples, sly and selfish. All the attributes you needed to be a truly successful spy. Part of Danny, the part he didn’t like to
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