Free Dan and the Caverns of Bone by Thomas Taylor

Si sniffs. ‘Watching a hotel porter count his onions?’
    â€˜Only one of us is invisible, remember? And it’s not me. Now hurry up – I’ve got to check something too.’
    Si drifts down the corridor on a wisp of offended ectoplasm, while I slip back upstairs. I’m on my way to Reception, to see if the newspaper the fat sudoku-loving receptionist reads is the same as the one I found in the catacombs. Oh, yes – I take this detective lark seriously.
    Only, when I reach the lobby, something else stops me in my tracks.
    Brian is sitting at a small corner table. He’s scribbling furiously.
    â€˜Hi, Bri,’ I say, hoping for a cheery response.
    â€˜Leave me alone.’
    Okay.
    Well, not
okay
, but understandable, I suppose.
    â€˜What’s all that?’ I ask, strolling over and eyeing the papers.
    â€˜Baz’s homework. There’s at least three months’ worth.’ Then he adds, bitterly, ‘He was kind enough to bring it all with him.’
    â€˜But that’s your fancy origami paper,’ I point out. ‘For your planes.’
    â€˜I won’t be making any of those again, will I?’
    He shoots me an accusing look. ‘Not after what happened in the catacombs. Frenchy made that quite clear.’
    I’m pretty narked off at this, and I’m about to tell Brian he shouldn’t be such a doormat, but I stop myself. Baz is about twice his size, and Phelps is a tyrannical toad. There’s really nothing Brian can do, is there?
    I’ve let him down.
    But at least I won’t make it worse by giving him a lecture.
    I walk over to the reception desk to collect my clue, but the fat woman isn’t there. I glance around for a newspaper. There isn’t one. There is, however, a cheap gossip magazine, open at the crossword. A
crossword
?
    Of sudoku, there is no sign.
    Crapsticks.
    I wander into the dining room, feeling deflated.
    â€˜Ah,
bonjour
, Monsieur Dyer,’ says Frenchy, his mouth full of cake. ‘Finally crawled out of bed, then. Here.’ And he gives me a doorstopper book of French comprehension and grammar exercises. ‘Something for you to do while we’re all eating ice-cream at the Eiffel Tower. Chapters 1 to 38, please. And I’ll betesting you on it on the train home, so I suggest you get cracking.’
    I slump down at a table, the book crashing onto the empty plate before me. I open the basket where the rock-like bread rolls are kept. There’s only one left.
    â€˜Hur hur hur,’ goes Baz from the table next to mine, as he tucks into an enormous plate of food. ‘And when I’ve finished all this, I’ll go and work off the calories by giving that little twerp Brian a good slapping, hur hur.’
    The kids around him laugh along.
    Then the girl called Tanya says something that catches my attention.
    â€˜Ooh, look, sir, it’s the catacombs on the telly.’
    We all look up at the blocky prehistoric television that teeters above us on a bracket. There is brown packing tape holding its speaker in.
    â€˜Well, this is interesting, class.’ Frenchy squints up at the screen as he concentrates on translation. ‘Apparently the catacombs have just been closed after a serious incident yesterday.’
    Laughter, and lots of pointing at me.
    â€˜No, something even more serious than that,’ Frenchy goes on. ‘A French celebrity was exploringthe catacombs last night – unofficially – when he came face to face with, was
attacked
by… hold on, I’m not sure I understood that…’
    â€˜What?
What?
’ Everyone is goggling at Phelps now. He’s not used to being the centre of genuine attention, and seems to be enjoying it.
    â€˜Well, they’re saying he was attacked by Death. As in, the Grim Reaper. And according to what they’re saying now, this isn’t the first time someone has reported this in recent months, and… Good Lord,