Charlie Bone and the Shadow of Badlock (Children of the Red King, Book 7) Read Online Free PDF Page A

back of her neck. "Whatever am I going to tell his parents?"
    "I don't expect you'll have to tell them anything," said Benjamin. "Perhaps my mom and dad can help, being detectives."
    Benjamin instantly regretted saying this. His parents were working on a very important case. They had just left the house; Mrs. Brown disguised as a man, and Mr. Brown disguised as a woman. Benjamin didn't much like it when his parents dressed like this; they hadn't even explained the circumstances that demanded the fake mustache (for Mrs. Brown) and the blond wig (for Mr. Brown), they had just told Benjamin to go over to Charlie's house, where Maisie would give him lunch.
    "Actually, I'm sorry, I don't think my parents can help," Benjamin apologized.
    "I'm pretty sure they can't." Maisie turned away and led Benjamin down a dim hallway. "This is one of those disappearances that normal people couldn't hope to solve."
    "But I'm normal," Benjamin reminded her.
    Maisie sighed. "Well, I know. But you're a friend, and you could get one of the others. The endowed ones - or whatever they call themselves."
    "Children of the Red King," Benjamin said quietly.
    They had reached the cellar door, which stood wide open. Maisie beckoned to Benjamin and pointed into the cellar. Benjamin looked down into the murky underground room. Maisie nodded encouragingly. Benjamin didn't like cellars, nor did Runner Bean. The big dog began to whine.
    "Do I have to?" Benjamin asked.
    "It's down there," said Maisie in a hushed voice.
    "What is?"
    "The painting, dear."
    Benjamin uttered a very slow "Ohhh" as he realized that Charlie must be traveling. "He hasn't really disappeared, then."
    "This time he has," said Maisie solemnly.
    Benjamin stared into the cellar. He descended three or four steps until he could see the whole room. A dim light hanging from the ceiling showed him a unused cabinet, broken chairs, curtain rods, piles of newspapers and magazines, and large black plastic bags filled with bulging objects. And then he saw the painting. It was standing against one of the walls, beside an old rolled-up mattress.
    A small shadow flickered over it, and Benjamin saw that a white moth was hovering around the lightbulb. All at once the moth swung away and vanished. Benjamin went to the bottom of the steps and walked over to the painting. Runner Bean scrabbled down after him. He was panting very heavily and occasionally emitted a nervous whine.
    The painting gave Benjamin the shivers. He was, as Maisie had admitted, a normal boy, so he experienced none of the insistent tugs that Charlie had felt, nor did he feel or hear the moaning Badlock winds. He did, however, get the impression that the almost photographic reality of the painting showed a place that had not been imagined but copied faithfully. It existed. Or did, once. With its dark towers, sunless sky, and looming mountains, it was certainly a hostile, sinister country.
    There was a green scrawl in the bottom right-hand corner of the painting, badlock. If Badlock really was a place, it was not somewhere that Benjamin would have wanted to visit. So why did Charlie go in? It was deserted, and as far as Benjamin could remember, Charlie had always needed first to hear a voice, and then to focus on a face, before he entered a picture. And in all the time Benjamin had known about his friend's endowment, Charlie had never actually disappeared. His physical presence had always remained in the present, while his mind roamed the world behind the pictures.
    "What d'you think's going on, Ben?" asked Maisie, from the top of the steps.
    Benjamin shook his head. "Don't know, Mrs. Jones. Where's Charlie's uncle?"
    "Paton? At the bookstore," said Maisie. "Where else?"
    "Think I'll go over there. Mr. Yewbeam will know what to do." Benjamin turned toward the steps.
    Runner Bean didn't follow his master but stood before the painting in an odd stance, his head to one side, as though he were listening to something. He gave a low, mournful howl.