Adam of Albion by Kim McMahon, Neil McMahon Read Free Book Online Page A

anyway, let alone with
wine involved.
    “Signed,
sealed, and delivered, as Cromwell was so fond of saying,” Orpheus said,
obviously impatient and not about to argue.
    “All
right,” she said, jumping up off the bed. Adam got up, too.
    “We’d
better hide him, just in case somebody else is up,” Adam said. “Orpheus, I’m
afraid you’ll have to go back in the pack.”
    Orpheus
glared at him sourly. “Come on—if this place can afford a wine cellar, there’s
got to be a classier ride around here.”
    “How
about my tote?” Artemis said. “I can cushion you and make you comfortable.” She
hurried to the secret passageway and brought back a black leather bag that
seemed half as big as she was, then quickly arranged some things and gently set
Orpheus down inside.
    “Lovely,”
he said, with a contented grunt. Then, glancing snidely at Adam over the rim,
he added, “ Smells a lot better in here, too.” There was no arguing
that—the fragrance of perfume came wafting out like a mini-mushroom cloud.
    They
left Adam’s room cautiously and tiptoed along the long hallway, then down the
back stairways until they came to a final roughhewn flight that led deep into
the musty—and very dark—stone basement.
    “Watch
your step carefully,” Artemis whispered. “I don’t want to turn on any lights.”
    “I
can take care of that,” Orpheus said, his voice muffled inside the purse. “Lift
me out and hold me in front of you.”
    Artemis
opened the purse and Adam cupped Orpheus in his hands. Suddenly, his entire
head took on a beautiful glow with tones of gold and blue, and his face shot a
more intense beam of it ahead like a powerful flashlight. Both kids gasped, too
startled to move.
    “We could just stand here all night,” Orpheus pointed out coolly after a few seconds.
“Then again, we could pick up our feet and put them down again—those of us who have feet, that is—and move on to our destination, which, my refined olfactory
sensibilities inform me, lies just ahead. There, to be precise.” The
light beam pulsed in rapid bursts, illuminating a heavy arched wooden door with
a huge brass knob.
    “Yes,
of course,” Artemis said quickly. Adam noted with satisfaction that she was
flustered. She might be able to one-up him, but Orpheus was cutting right
through her snooty veneer.
    The
door opened quietly on well-oiled hinges. He’d never been in a wine cellar
before—they weren’t the kind of thing you usually found back home in ranch
country. It seemed to go on for quite a ways, with floor-to-ceiling racks of
bottles lying on their sides and several wooden barrels with spigots along one
wall. The old stones were damp with condensation, and the air had a sharp
sweet-sour smell that hinted of grapes.
    It
also looked like somebody liked to hang out here. There was an old overstuffed
armchair, a tattered rug on the rough floor, and a table with different kinds
of glasses lined up and several corkscrews that looked like instruments of
torture.
    “Is
that stuff your Dad’s?” he asked Artemis.
    She’d
recovered enough to flash him her by now familiar scathing look. “Heavens,
no—Daddy’s far too cultured. It’s Reg, the gardener. Totally unacceptable, of
course, but the P’s turn a blind eye because he does a good job otherwise.”
    The
thought of Reg made Adam swallow nervously, remembering that he was the owner
of the moped Barry had stolen. No—that Barry and Adam had stolen. He’d
been in on it too, just like Barry said
    “Set
me down,” Orpheus commanded. “The table will do fine.”
    Adam
obeyed, although Orpheus was getting on his nerves, too. He was awfully pushy
for a pint-sized head, and along with his insults, it was wearing thin.
    The
light beam shot out from Orpheus and darted across the bottles, examining the
labels.
    “Let’s
see,” he murmured, verbally rubbing his hands in anticipation. The beam stopped
on a dusty dark red bottle. “Domaine Canet Vallette, ‘47—Adam, bring