“Lu?” I move closer, keeping my voice low. “What’s going on? Once we get through the foundation, you’ll be able to see Theo again. Why the stoppage?”
The Bull stares at me for a second then lets out a sound that isn't a growl and isn't a groan. It’s a hollow, desolate huff of air.
He shoulders his way past me and walks down the tunnel. Away from Electus.
What the?
Before he rounds the bend, Ludo looks back at me. Almost like he’s inviting me to join him. Yeah, he definitely wants my company.
I jog to catch him up. He takes me down a section of tunnels I’ve not seen before. Several twists and turns later, we come to a door in the rock wall.
He opens it.
Knock me down with a feather.
This is Bully’s bedroom.
Inside is a mattress and heap of blankets in one corner, a table with a gas hotplate in another. But what really gets my attention are the hundreds of books stacked on shelves made of raw wood.
Ludo leans against the wall and crosses his arms.
I check out his library. History, science, novels, and lots of mythology.
Huh. A bookworm. A very large bookworm.
I see a pad of paper and a pencil on the end of the lowest shelf and swoop them up. Holding the means of communication out to Ludo, I raise an eyebrow. “So, you're going to tell me what’s going on with you?”
He doesn’t move.
I wait.
And wait. Look at me being all patient.
Finally, he lets out another huff, takes the pencil and writes on the paper pad. The bull has surprisingly neat, small handwriting, considering how awkward and huge his hands are.
“No.”
I roll my eyes at his dramatics. “Look, something is obviously wrong. I’m your best friend. Besties share their problems.” I flop down onto his bed, and pat the mattress. “Come on, buddy. Sit.”
Ludo could win a world-championship scowling competition, that’s for sure.
Once again, I practice my little-used art of waiting patiently.
Fucking finally, he sinks down the wall until he’s sitting on the stone floor, still stiff and alert. That’s progress.
I give him an encouraging nod. You can do this, big fella.
He looks warily from me to the paper, then sighing, his body posture changes. His shoulders slump as he lets out a shuddering breath and starts to write.
I lean over so I can immediately read what he’s writing.
“Pink water.”
“The pink lakes Zola talked about?”
“Yes. I remember them also.”
“You’ve been there, when?"
