Bad News

by Pseudonymous Bosch

“Isn’t it time to push that button of yours?” asked Charles.

  “Or maybe just fly away,” said Clay.

  Vicente laughed. “Don’t worry. He can’t reach us before getting zapped.”

  “Maybe not,” Clay argued. “But his breath can! Look at him—in a second he’s gonna turn this chopper to toast!”

  Shaking his head, Vicente turned around to look at Clay. “Like Dr. Paru said, dragons don’t really breathe fire.…”

  Suddenly, Bluebeard jumped into the air. Then the dragon reared its head back in a way that was all too familiar to Clay. Clay braced himself, waiting to get lit up like a torch.

  But when the dragon opened its mouth, exposing rows of sharp, gleaming teeth, no fire came out—not even a spark. Only a very loud and very frightening

  ROARRRRRRRRR!

  At the same time, Vicente pressed down on his remote. Bluebeard made a sound of strangled fury, then dropped back to the rock below.

  “What did I tell you?” Vicente grinned as if to say, See, I’m the alpha.

  Clay nodded, his heart racing. This was the second dragon that hadn’t breathed fire when he thought it was going to. Maybe Ariella was an exception? Or maybe there really had been an open flame nearby every time he saw fire come out of Ariella’s mouth.

  Maybe he just didn’t know as much about dragons as he thought he did.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  THE TERRORS OF DINNER

  When he reached his tent, Clay made three complete turns, checking that nobody was nearby. (And perhaps it’s just as well nobody was; he looked pretty silly spinning around like that.) Satisfied, he pushed open the flap door and ducked inside.

  “Guys, are you there?” Clay tapped the side of his ski hat. “I’ve kind of got a situation here.”

  “Yeah, we’re here,” said Leira. It was unnerving to hear her voice in his ear even when he expected it. “You’ve got a situation? You shoulda heard Mr. B chew me out when I told him you were staying. It was like we were leaving you alone with dragons or something.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Seriously. He was raging. In his mind, it’s all my fault. You know, the whole shoot-the-messenger thing? Of course, I blamed it on you and Owen.…”

  “Can we worry about Mr. B later?”

  All in a rush, he told her that Ariella wasn’t at the Keep and that he was hoping Owen would be able to come back soon.

  “Yeesh…” said Leira, aghast. “Owen isn’t even back here yet; it’s a long flight, remember? Plus, the lava is still headed right for us. Everyone’s counting on Owen to get us out. Or else we’re all going to be inflating life rafts.”

  “So basically I’m on my own.…”

  “What about the other dragons? Can’t you fly out on one of them?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” said Clay. Or maybe not. “Did you get the Occulta Draco back from Flint?”

  “No. Sorry. He swears he doesn’t have it.”

  “You searched all his stuff?”

  “Of course I did!” said Leira, offended. “Am I not the best cabin raider at Earth Ranch?”

  “Okay, well, thanks for trying,” said Clay, forcing himself to keep going and not collapse in despair. “Ms. Mauvais told me not to be late for dinner. She says they’re very Old World here. Whatever that means.”

  “Dinner? What about looking for Cass?”

  “I know. But if I don’t show up, they’ll start looking for me.…”

  It was the sort of room that would have been intimidating even if it weren’t inhabited by ancient bloodthirsty alchemists.

  As Clay entered, he faced a glass wall with a view of the jungle outside and the lake in the distance. The other walls, as well as the floor and ceiling, were covered in mirrored tile, so they reflected each other in an infinite regression, giving Clay the vertiginous sense that he was falling through space.

  But it was the long, elaborately carved dining table that was most striking. It looked much like a table you might see in an old movie, with a king and queen sitting at opposite ends—with one exception. Instead of wood, the table was made entirely of glass, legs and all. Likewise, the tall dining chairs had an ornate baronial aspect, but they too were all glass. Glittering crystal candelabras and giant glass goblets completed the effect. It was as though some fairy-tale snow queen had waved her wand and turned the dining room to ice. Even the expressions on the faces of the guests appeared frozen.

  Clay had a feeling the whole room might shatter at any moment, diners included.

  “Austin, darling, how… you you are,” said Ms. Mauvais, glancing at the ski hat still on his head. She was wearing a shimmering silver evening gown, in which Clay could see tiny pieces of himself reflected. “Come, sit right next to me.”

  A waiter pulled out his chair for him, but Clay didn’t notice and he almost fell as he sat down. “Oh, sorry!” he said.

  Mortified, he tried to take stock of the situation. He had planned to eat quickly, then excuse himself and go hunt for Cass, but in this intimate environment, peeling himself away was going to be tough. Maybe impossible.

  Ms. Mauvais pinged her goblet with a spoon to get everyone’s attention.

  “You are about to have a medieval feast,” she informed her guests. “Every dish served is exactly like a dish you might have found on a castle table in the Middle Ages. But we have modified the presentation, and the size of the portions, to suit modern tastes.”

  “Of course, we must make everything modern these days,” complained Mrs. Wandsworth.

  Charles smiled thinly. “Even dragons.”

  “We call our cuisine nouveau moyen-âge,” said Ms. Mauvais, studiously ignoring them.

  Brett, who evidently had been listening, translated in Clay’s ear. “That means new Middle Ages, which is a paradox, or maybe an oxymoron.”

  Clay stared at his place setting. Lined up on either side of his plate were approximately fifty forks. Well, at least ten.

  Pretending he was scratching his temple, he discreetly pressed the side of his ski hat.

  “What?” Brett asked. “You want to know the difference between a paradox and an oxymoron?”

  Not for the first time, Brett reminded Clay strongly of Max-Ernest. He pressed the side of his hat again.

  “Wait, you’re at dinner, right? Is it… is it the forks?”

  Clay coughed meaningfully.

  “Well, this will teach you to pay attention next time, won’t it?” Brett chastised, before reminding Clay to start from the outside in.

  “A toast,” said Charles, standing. “To the dragons and their queen.” He raised his glass toward Ms. Mauvais. She acknowledged him with a slight nod.

  Mr. Wandsworth shouted, “Hear! Hear!” and they all clinked goblets.

  “What is this, anyway?” asked Clay, looking at the amber liquid in his goblet. He liked it.

  “Mead,” said Mr. Wandsworth. “Beer made from honey.”

  “I wouldn’t drink too much of it,” said his wife. “We’ve got that bridge game.”

  “Don’t be silly. Clay’s is nonalcoholic,” said Amber. “Drink as much as you want, sweetie.”

  Clay took a big gulp, then laughed, mead dribbling down his chin to his lap. “Oops.”

  Ms. Mauvais gave him a chilly look, and Clay immediately sobered up. This was not the time to relax.

  The meal was possibly the best, definitely the fanciest, and by far the most frustrating Clay had ever eaten. It was true about the portion sizes; the bits and pieces on his plate were nothing like the giant mutton legs and huge apple-biting roast pigs one imagined at a medieval feast. It was as if they were being served sniffs and glimpses rather than actual food. Not that anybody else seemed to mind. Maybe after a certain age—a hundred years, say—one no longer needed to eat.

  Clay did his best to fill up on honey cakes, the one thing in generous supply.

  “You seem to have built up quite an appetite,” said Charles, catching Clay’s eye. “Must be all the excitemen
t from seeing a dragon… for the first time.”

  Clay nodded slowly. Something about the way Charles said for the first time seemed a little odd. Had he overheard Clay’s conversation with Satya?

  “Uh, well, yeah… this food is basically the best I’ve ever had,” he stammered.

  “Stop that!” Brett hissed in his ear. “Blasé, remember?”

  “Well, maybe not the best,” Clay corrected hastily. “The food was better in Gistopp.”

  “No…! ” Brett groaned.

  “Gistopp?” Charles repeated, confused. “Oh! You mean Gstaad.” He smiled. “So then, you’re fond of fondue, I take it?”

  Clay paused, listening to Brett in his ear. “Actually, uh, I prefer raclette.”

  Charles nodded judiciously. “Bien sûr. Moi aussi.”

  Avoiding the eyes of his fellow guests, Clay looked through the big window across from him. Above the lake, two of the dragons—Bluebeard and Rover, Clay thought, though he couldn’t be sure—could now be seen silhouetted in the twilit sky. From here they looked no bigger than dragonflies, and yet there was something about the way they circled that made their fury and frustration obvious. How would he ever be able to approach them?

  Clay turned to see Gyorg entering the room. Unceremoniously, Ms. Mauvais’s muscle-bound henchman marched up to his mistress and whispered in her ear. Clay strained to listen as he sipped his mead.

  Gyorg had a thick Slavic accent, and Clay could make out only two words, escape and tower, but they were enough to make him sit up straight. Gyorg must be talking about Cass! And maybe about the tower he’d seen from the helicopter! Had she escaped from the tower, or merely tried to?

  Clay watched Ms. Mauvais’s face for clues, but she was as unreadable as ever.

  “Very well, Gyorg,” replied Ms. Mauvais icily. “But next time, a little more discretion, please. We are in the middle of dinner.”

  Gyorg nodded curtly and marched out.

  Ms. Mauvais stood, leaving her napkin carefully folded next to her untouched food. “I am terribly sorry, but I must cut our meal short.”

  Immediately, the attendants began removing plates and clearing the table. While Mr. Wandsworth helped his wife out of her seat, Clay grabbed a honey cake off the table and then started inching out of the room, hoping to get away without drawing attention to himself.

  Before he was fully out the door, Mr. Wandsworth called to him: “We’ll see you in the Ryū Room in five minutes for our game.”

  Clay clutched his stomach dramatically. “Actually, I’m… all that food… I think I’m going to be sick.…”

  Without waiting for a response, he hurried down the stairs and out of the castle.

  Clay didn’t stop until he was most of the way down the open-air hallway, near the path to his tent. He took a bite of his honey cake, thinking about the guard tower. Where was it in relation to the castle? Could he get there on foot? What would he say if he were caught on the way?

  He needed to talk it over with his friends. “Leira?” he whispered, crumbs falling from his mouth. “Brett? Whose shift is it?”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  Clay whirled around and clamped his mouth shut. Satya was leaning against a column, Hero sitting patiently on her shoulder.

  “Oh…” Clay fought the blush creeping up his neck. “Uh, just myself. It’s this weird habit I have.”

  “Like wearing ski hats in the desert?”

  Clay silently cursed Brett again

  “Sorry, that was mean,” said Satya.

  She pushed herself off the column and walked toward him. Hero’s head was cocked like she was listening closely to their conversation.

  “You’re not like the rest of them, are you?” Satya asked. “You’re not wearing gloves, and you eat.”

  “How do you know I eat?”

  She pointed to the half-eaten cake in his hand.

  “Oh, right. Duh.” Clay laughed, embarrassed.

  “And…” She pointed to the stains on his shirt.

  This was getting worse and worse. If only he could tell her the truth, at least he would be able to explain the ski hat. Could he trust her?

  “Oh, um, well…”

  Clay was saved from having to form a full sentence by a figure emerging from the darkness. The moonlight revealed Vicente, still wearing safari fatigues. He looked from his daughter to Clay, and his scowl—already quite impressive—grew somehow even more menacing.

  “Satya,” Vicente said, his eyes not leaving Clay’s face, “don’t you have chores to do?”

  Satya scowled right back at her father, and suddenly Clay could very clearly see the resemblance.

  “If you say so,” she muttered after a moment. She looked like she had a hundred more questions she wanted to ask Clay, but she turned and walked away nonetheless.

  That left just Clay and Vicente.

  “Well,” Clay said. “I guess I’ll be off.…”

  He backed up and headed away in the direction of his tent. He would have to get out of Vicente’s line of vision before he went anywhere else.

  “Austin,” Vicente called after him.

  Clay paused and turned around. Was Vicente going to warn him off his daughter? All he’d done was have a conversation with her. Talk about overprotective.

  “Be careful out there,” Vicente said.

  “I thought you said we were safe from the dragons?”

  Vicente shook his head. “I’m not talking about the dragons.”

  With that, the man melted back into the shadows just as quickly as he’d appeared.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  THE ENCOUNTER BELOW THE TOWER

  Now that Clay was no longer playing tourist and was officially sneaking around, Leira and Brett were eager to help with “tactical ops,” as they called it.

  First goal: the guard tower. If Cass was still imprisoned there, he would free her. If she’d already escaped, Leira and Brett said they would help him “pick up the scent of her trail.” Clay was skeptical—if Cass was hiding from the Midnight Sun, how was he supposed to find her?—but he didn’t say so aloud.

  Clay told his friends that the tower was out past the lab building, at least a half mile deeper into the crater.

  “Why don’t you just steal one of the Land Rovers,” Leira suggested. “I can talk you through hot-wiring it.…”

  “Terrible idea!” said Brett. “There’s a big difference between him being caught snooping around on foot and him being caught stealing a car.”

  “I thought he was supposed to be a rebel,” Leira protested.

  “A rebel, yeah. Not a thief!”

  “Anyway, there’s no point,” said Clay. “I don’t know how to drive.”

  “You don’t?” Leira sounded shocked.

  “I’m not even fourteen for another week!”

  “So? I learned when I was nine.”

  Brett snorted. “Yeah, and look where that got you.”

  As Brett and Leira squabbled in his ear, Clay began jogging down the road to the laboratory—or at least what he thought was the road to the laboratory. Luckily, the moon was bright, and he had little trouble seeing, even if he wasn’t exactly certain where he was going.

  After about five minutes, he reached the bridge that he remembered crossing; now he was definitely going the right way. As he mentally congratulated himself, he heard a strange whirring noise.

  “What was that?” asked Leira.

  “I don’t know—shh!” Clay whispered.

  Then he spotted a figure buzzing toward him from around the bend. It was one of the park security guards on some sort of motorized three-wheeled standing scooter.

  With no time to second-guess himself, Clay dove into a nearby shrub, scratching himself badly. He hoped the scratch wouldn’t raise questions later.

  The guard wheeled down the road slowly, giving everything around Clay a long, hard look. He must have heard something when Clay launched himself into the landscaping. Admittedly, it
hadn’t been the smoothest hideaway strategy.

  But after looking closely at the shrubs, the guard sniffed and leaned forward, spinning on.

  Clay waited until all he could hear was the buzzing of insects before stepping back onto the road.

  “Well? What was it?” asked Leira.

  Whispering, Clay told his friends what had happened.

  “Nice work,” said Leira approvingly. “It isn’t a proper operation until you’ve hidden in the bushes and gotten scratched ’til you bleed.”

  “Sure, but you’d better hope the Midnight Sun didn’t plant any poison ivy,” said Brett.

  Not bothering to respond, Clay headed across the bridge.

  Eventually, he reached the guard tower. At the top, sitting on its tall, rickety scaffolding, was a square structure that looked like a little house, with windows on all sides. Light flickered in the windows, as if there were a television playing behind them. Below, attached to the scaffolding, was the kind of huge round spotlight you might expect to see in a prison yard; it was dark now, but when it was lit, it must have been bright enough to be seen for miles.

  A narrow and very perilous-looking ladder led from the ground to the top of the tower. Clay looked around, wondering how likely it was that he would be seen climbing up. On the one hand, the tower was visible from all directions; on the other hand, it was fairly dark out, and the ladder was partly obscured by the scaffolding. Most of the time, he would be in shadow. He decided to chance it.

  The ladder clanged and vibrated as he climbed, causing him to keep looking over his shoulder to make sure that no alarms had been sounded. He didn’t see anyone, but the surrounding jungle seemed to move and shift in the darkness.

  At the top of the ladder was a hatch door. There was no lock that he could see, but he hesitated before opening it.

  He pressed the side of his ski hat. “What if there’s someone inside—I mean, besides Cass?” he whispered. “What’s my alibi? Why am I here?”

  “Curiosity,” said Brett. “Simple as that. Remember, you’re used to owning the world. Why shouldn’t you check out the tower? You’re a paying guest.”