Lockwood & Co. might be the smallest (some might say shambolic) Psychic Detection Agency in London. But its three agents - Lockwood, Lucy and George - are. Read "Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy" by Jonathan Stroud available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first download. Book Three: The Hollow Boy - Ebook written by Jonathan Stroud. Read this book using Google Play Books app on your PC, android, iOS devices. Download for.
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Editorial Reviews. From School Library Journal. Gr 5–8—As in the previous volumes, The Kindle Store; ›; Kindle eBooks; ›; Children's eBooks. Book Three The Hollow Boy by Jonathan. Stroud. Ebook Lockwood & Co. Book Three The Hollow Boy currently available for review only, if you need complete. Compre o livro Lockwood & Co: The Hollow Boy na nipalraroter.gq: confira as ofertas Book 3) e mais milhares de eBooks estão disponíveis na Loja Kindle.
The wind blew in dirty gusts between the houses. Iron spirit-wards swung on ropes high above us, clicking and clattering The Hollow Boy like witches teeth. The white shape flitted stealthily toward us down the street. I zipped up my parka, and edged closer to the wall.
Yep, its a Phantasm approaching, the voice from my backpack said, in whispers only I could hear. Its seen you, and its hungry. Personally, I reckon its got its eye on George. Lockwood, I began. We really have to move. But Lockwood was already stepping back from the door.
No need, he said. What did I tell you? Here they are. Shadows rose behind the glass. Chains rattled, the door swung wide. A man and a woman stood there. They were probably murderers, but we didnt want to startle them. We put on our best smiles. The Lavender Lodge guesthouse had come to our attention two weeks earlier. The local police in Whitechapel had been investigating the cases of several peoplesome salesmen, but mostly laborers working on the nearby London dockswhod gone missing in the area.
It had been noticed a number of these men had been staying at an obscure boardinghouseLavender Lodge, on Cannon Lane, Whitechapelshortly before they disappeared. The police had visited; theyd spoken to the proprietors, a Mr. Evans, and even searched the premises. Theyd found nothing. But they were adults. They couldnt see into the past. They couldnt detect the psychic residue of crimes that might have been committed there.
For that, they needed an agency to help out. We agreed to pay Mr. Evans a little call. And here we were. Given the suspicions about them, Id half expected the owners of Lavender Lodge to look pretty sinister, but that wasnt the case at all.
If they resembled anything, it was a pair of elderly owls roosting on a branch. They were short, roundish, and gray-haired, with soft, blank, sleepy faces blinking at us behind large spectacles. Their clothes were heavy and somehow old-fashioned. They pressed close to each other, filling the doorway. Beyond them I could see a grimy, tasseled ceiling light, and dingy wallpaper.
The rest was hidden. Lockwood gave a slight bow. Anthony Lockwood, of Lockwood and Co.
I rang you earlier. These are my associates, Lucy Carlyle and George Cubbins. They gazed at us. For a moment, as if we were conscious that the fate of five people had reached a tipping point, no one spoke.
Whats it regarding, please? I dont know how old the man waswhen I see someone older than thirty, time sort of concertinas for mebut he was definitely closer to coffin than crib.
He had wisps of hair oiled back across his scalp, and nets of wrinkles stapled around his eyes. He blinked at us, all absentminded and benign. As I said on the phone, we wanted to talk with you about one of your past residents, a Mr. Benton, Lockwood said. Part of an official Missing Persons inquiry. Perhaps we could come in?
Itll be dark soon, the woman said. Oh, it wont take long. Lockwood used his best smile. I The Hollow Boy contributed a reassuring grin. George was too busy staring at the white shape drifting up the street to do anything other than look nervous. Evans nodded; he stepped slowly back and to the side. Yes, of course, but best to do it quickly, he said.
Its late. Not long before theyll be coming out. He was far too old to see the Phantasm, now crossing the road toward us. We didnt like to mention it either.
We just smiled and nodded, and as swiftly as we decently could without pushing followed Mrs. Evans into the house. Evans let us go past, then shut the door softly, blocking out the night, the ghost, and the rain. They took us down a long hallway into the public lounge, where a fire flickered in a tiled grate.
The decor was the usual: cream woodchip wallpaper, worn brown carpet, ranks of decorated plates, and prints in ugly golden frames. A few armchairs were scattered about, angular and comfortless, and there was a radio, a liquor cabinet, and a small TV.
A big wooden hutch on the back wall carried cups, glasses, sauce bottles, and other breakfast things; and two sets of folding chairs and plastic-topped tables confirmed that this single room was where guests ate as well as socialized.
Right now we were the only ones there. We put our bags down. George wiped the rain off his glasses again; Lockwood ran a hand through damp hair. Evans stood facing us in the center of the room. Close up, their owl-like qualities had intensified. They were stoop-necked, roundshouldered, he in a shapeless cardigan, she in a dark woolen dress.
They remained standing close together: elderly, but not, I thought, under all their heavy clothes, particularly frail. They did not offer us seats; clearly they hoped for a short conversation. Benson, you said his name was?
Evans asked. He stayed here recently, I said. Three weeks ago. You confirmed that on the phone. Hes one of several missing people who Yes, yes. Weve talked to the police about him. But I can show you the guest book, if you like. Humming gently, the old man went to the hutch. His wife remained motionless, watching us. He returned with the book, opened it, and handed it to Lockwood. You can see his name there. Thank you.
While Lockwood made a show of studying the pages, I did the real work. I listened to the house. It was quiet, psychically speaking. I detected nothing. Okay, there was a muffled voice coming from my backpack on the floor, but that didnt count.
Nows your chance! Kill them both, and its job done!
I gave the pack a subtle kick with the heel of my boot, and the voice fell silent. Can you remember much about Mr. In the firelight, Georges doughy face and sandy hair gleamed palely; the swell of his stomach pressed tight against his sweater. He hitched up his belt, subtly checking the gauge on his thermometer. Or any of your missing residents, for that matter?
Chat with them much at all? Not really, the old man said. What about you, Nora? Evans had nicotine-yellow hairthin up top, and fixed in 10 position like a helmet. Like her husbands, her skin was wrinkled, though her lines radiated from the corners of her mouth, as if you might draw her lips tight like the top of a string bag. No, she said. But its not surprising. Few of our guests stay long.
We cater to the trade, Mr. Evans added. Salesmen, you know. Always moving on. There was a silence. The room was heavy with the scent of lavender, which keeps unwanted Visitors away. Fresh bunches sat in silver tankards on the mantelpiece and windows. There were other defenses, too: ornamental house-guards, made of twisted iron and shaped like flowers, animals, and birds. It was a safe room, almost ostentatiously so. Anyone staying here now? I asked. Not at present. How many guest rooms do you have?
Four on the second floor, two at the top. And which of them do you sleep in? What a lot of questions, Mr. Evans said, from such a very young lady. I am of the generation that remembers when children were children. Not psychic investigation agents with swords and an over-inquisitive manner.
We sleep on the ground floor, in a room behind the kitchen. NowI think we have told the police all this. I am not entirely sure why you are here. Well be going soon, Lockwood said. If we could just have a look at the room Mr. Benton stayed in, well be on our way. How still they were suddenly, like gravestones rising in the center of the lounge. Over by the hutch, George ran his finger down the side of the ketchup bottle.
It had a thin layer of dust upon it. Evans said. The room is made up for new guests. We dont want it disturbed. All trace of Mr. Bentonand the other residentswill be long gone. I must ask you to leave. He moved toward Lockwood. Despite the carpet slippers, the cardigan on the rounded shoulders, there was decisiveness in the action, an impression of suddenly flexing strength.
Lockwood had many pockets in his coat. Some contained weapons and lock-picking wires; one, to my certain knowledge, had an emergency store of tea bags. From another he took a small plastic card.
This is a warrant, he said. It empowers Lockwood and Co. If you wish to check, call Scotland Yard. Inspector Montagu Barnes would be happy to talk to you. The old man shrank back, biting his lip. Lockwoods smile was wolf-like. As I said, we just wish to take a look upstairs.
Theres nothing supernatural here, Mrs. Evans said, scowling. Look around. See the defenses. Her husband patted her arm. Its all right, Nora. Theyre agents.
Its our duty to help them. Benton, if I recall, stayed in Room Two, on the top floor. Straight up the stairs, two flights and youre there. You wont miss it.
Lockwood picked up his duffel bag. Why not leave your things? Evans suggested. The stairs are narrow, and its a long way up. George and I shrugged our bags onto our backs. Well, take your time up there, Mr. There was no light on upstairs. From the semidarkness of the stairwell, filing after the others, I looked back through the door at the little couple. Evans stood in the middle of the lounge, pressed side by side, ruby-red and flickering in the firelight.
They were watching us as we climbed, their heads tilted at identical angles, their spectacles four circles of reflected flame.
What do you think? George whispered from above. Lockwood had paused and was inspecting a heavy fire door halfway up the flight. It was bolted open, flush against the wall. I dont know how, but theyre guilty. Guilty as sin. George nodded. Did you see the ketchup? No ones had breakfast here in a long time. They must know its all over for them, I said as we went on. If something bad happened to their guests up here, were going to sense it.
They know what Talents we have. What do they expect us to do when we find out? Lockwoods reply was interrupted by a stealthy tread on the stair behind. Looking back, we caught a glimpse of Mr. Evanss gleaming face, his hair disarranged, eyes wild and staring. He reached for the fire door, began swinging it shut In a flash Lockwoods rapier was in his hand. He sprang back down, coat flying The fire door slammed, slicing off the light from downstairs. The rapier cracked against wood. But when a devious hot-shot wizard named Simon Lovelace ruthlessly humiliates Nathaniel in front of his elders, Nathaniel decides to kick up his education a few notches and show Lovelace who's boss.
With revenge on his mind, he summons the powerful djinni, Bartimaeus. But summoning Bartimaeus and controlling him are two different things entirely, and when Nathaniel sends the djinni out to steal Lovelace's greatest treasure, the Amulet of Samarkand, he finds himself caught up in a whirlwind of magical espionage, murder, and rebellion.
Includes a preview chapter from The Golem's Eye, the second book in the series! The Ring of Solomon: Book 4. Bartimaeus, everyone's favorite wise-cracking djinni, is back in book four of this best-selling series, now available in paperback. As alluded to in the footnotes throughout the series, Bartimaeus has served hundreds of magicians during his 5, year career. Only in this adventure, it seems the great Bartimaeus has finally met his match.
He'll have to contend with an unpleasant master and his sinister servant, and he runs into just a "spot" of trouble with King Solomon's magic ring Reviews Review Policy. Published on. Flowing text. Best For. Web, Tablet, Phone, eReader. Content Protection. Read Aloud. Learn More. Flag as inappropriate. It syncs automatically with your account and allows you to read online or offline wherever you are. Please follow the detailed Help center instructions to transfer the files to supported eReaders.
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Time is running out; if Jim doesn't figure out the clues, innocent people will die. The Specter From the Magician's Museum. John Bellairs. Based on John Bellairs' mystery-adventure series, this thrilling story will keep you on the edge of your seat! John Bellairs, the name in Gothic mysteries for middle graders, wrote terrifying tales full of adventure, attitude, and alarm.
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And what better way to be normal than to go on a date with a popular football star like Harris Abbott? After all, it's not as if Noah is anything more than a friend…. But my new life takes a disturbing turn when Harris brings me to a party and we play a game called One Hundred Candles. It seems like harmless, ghostly fun. Until spirits unleashed by the game start showing up at school.
Now my friends and family are in very real danger, and the door that I've opened into another realm may yield deadly consequences. The Green Man. Michael Bedard. Teenaged O — never call her Ophelia — is about to spend the summer with her aunt Emily. Emily is a poet and the owner of an antiquarian book store, The Green Man. O will be a help to her.
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But it's not going to be easy. Bennett's parents kick him out when they realize he is still using drugs to enhance his powers. Emma is convinced her aunt has come back from the dead to warn her of a new threat. And worst of all, Neos is using wraiths to possess the students at Thatcher Academy. If the ghosts manage to take over the entire school, even Emma won't be strong enough to stop them.