Plight of the Dragon

by Debra Kristi

A flutter and pull attacked Kyra’s gut. She was about to find out how well her disguise worked. Only problem was, she had no idea how to act like a complete stranger.

  “Lost her trail in that tent,” Drakhögg pointed to the Magician’s tent, “right before the lights went out. What’s going on with this place?”

  Unadulterated concern illuminated Queen Shui’s irises. Bolsvck, on the other hand, not the type to wear worry anywhere visible, grunted. “I don’t like the way things are looking around here,” he said, coming to a halt a few feet away. Turning his head to the side, he sniffed the air.

  “I really don’t like it,” Queen Shui said. “We must find her. Leave this dreadful place at once.”

  “Couldn’t find her, huh?” Ryhuu chimed in, a snarky expression on his face.

  “As if you had any better luck, slime-licker.” Drakhögg stepped forward, as if to challenge.

  “Enough,” Bolsvck’s voice boomed. “There’s no time for your dragonling games. Remember what you are. Warriors, not dragonets. We must find Kyra and leave this place. I have a bad feeling.”

  Drakhögg and Ryhuu lowered their heads.

  Bolsvck’s eyes trained on Kyra and Talia. “Friends of yours, Drakhögg?”

  Kyra opened her mouth to say something.

  “Just met them. In the tent, sir.” Drakhögg stood tall and pointed toward the tent.

  “We were just leaving.” Talia linked arms with Kyra, tugged back and away from the aggravated dragon clan. Kyra allowed it, knowing she didn’t belong there, not disguised as she was.

  “Lord Bolsvck!” A man dressed to blend with the night—dark khakis, ribbed sweater—and loaded with weapons ran toward them.

  With a grumble, Bolsvck crossed his arms and turned to face the approaching man. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

  The man dropped into a jog, then came to a full stop.

  Holy spitting fire! It was the man who had assaulted Kyra and Sebastian in the park right after they had escaped Marcus and his dragon consumption ritual. Her chest constricted, and she fought the desire to walk up and punch him straight in the face. Instead, she allowed Talia to guide her several steps away, then Kyra pulled them to a stop and whispered, “I want to hear what’s about to happen.”

  “Okay.” Talia scanned the area. “Over here.” Together, Kyra and Talia moved to the shadows at the front of the next tent and then stood facing each other so that Kyra could watch whatever transpired, yet look like she was talking to Talia. Silently, she watched the man who had attacked her interact with her father. Kyra had to strain to hear, but being arrogant dragons, they didn’t attempt to conceal their discussion, and their voices carried.

  “Not that part, Jon.” Bolsvck huffed and swung his head, as if to say the man was an idiot.

  Jon leaned on his knees, hungrily inhaling the air. Drakhögg slapped him on the back. “Come on, Davies, you should be stronger than that. You used to be a dragon, once. Where did all your fight go?”

  Jon Davies gave Drakhögg a sideways glance, practically snarled at the man. Kyra waited, holding her breath, for the men to clash. They didn’t.

  Davies shuddered, stood, and heeded Bolsvck. “Balidhug is here, and he hasn’t come alone.” He paused, waited for Bolsvck to say something. When Bolsvck did nothing more than stare at him with a stone-hard glare, Davies continued. “My sources tell me that while Balidhug was in his human form, going by the alias Marcus Blackall, he succeeded in the convergence. He may be impo—”

  Bolsvck grunted, then interrupted. “You realize, you have only yourself to blame for the way things stand today?”

  “I was acting for the better good of the clan.” Davies’s voice hitched. “Had Balidhug been allowed to take the throne…” Davies’s raked his fingers through his hair. “I had to broker the deal. Had to secure him someplace he could never do harm.”

  “You are a fool,” Bolsvck said. “You likely created the very future you were attempting to prevent.” Both he and Queen Shui glowered at Davies, discontent clear on their faces.

  A howl sliced through the night; pitiful, painful, and powerful. Both Talia and Kyra threw their hands over their ears. Kyra searched for the source and came up empty. She wanted to know, wanted to see. As horrible as the sound was, it stirred more memories from her past, from the night her trailer burnt down. A woman had screamed in a similar manner that night, and she had screamed for Higgins.

  The sound died away, returning the carnival to the awkward absence of music, joyous laughter, static hum, life. And this time, with a new ominous cloud pressing upon it.

  “What was that?” Kyra whispered to Talia, studying her hands to see if her ears had actually bled. They hadn’t.

  “That,” Talia began with a solid breath, “was the cry of a banshee. Nothing good ever comes from their cries.”

  “I’ve heard that sound before.”

  “Right before Higgins died.” Talia peered at Kyra, fixatedly. “This cry was louder and longer.”

  Kyra’s eyes widened. “What does that mean?”

  A tiny v pinched in the center of Talia’s forehead. “Nothing good. Nothing good at all.”

  “What is happening here, Talia? The carnival going dark. A banshee crying. A broken and battered tent in the middle of the midway. Three things, none of them good. Are Hell and dragon fire about to clash?” Kyra clutched at her dress, desperate to tear the fabric away to something fight-worthy.

  Talia squeezed her hand, and her voice came out small and wavering. “I have no idea.”

  Clinkity-clankity-clunk. The ground shook. “What the…” Kyra grabbed Talia’s arm and dug her heels into the ground, solidifying her footing.

  The busted tent in the midway shimmered, then melted into the ground. It left behind a collection of boxes, half crimson wood and half glass. Then they, too, twisted and jerked like wind-up toys, and popped into the ground. Gone.

  All that was left, one big clear box, and inside…a man.

  Kyra leaped forward. Sebastian!

  16

  GLASS

  Sebastian

  “Shiiiit!” The ground fell out from under Sebastian and, for seconds that could have been an eternity, he was falling, the tent was falling, everything was falling. His jaw muscles twitched and an ache at the back of his throat flourished. Dizzy and disoriented, he tried to grab at the museum cases for purchase. They were too slick, had no lines, no edges to grab.

  What if he died here, now, not having used the dragon soul-shifter? Would Kalrapura return to Kyra? Or die with him? His throat and chest tightened, and the dragon inside him twisted in his gut. He reached inside his coat’s inner pocket.

  The tent spun, the curtains flashing crimson and gold, crimson and gold. He was reminded of the carousel—on caffeine. The museum cases sped away from him, out of arm’s reach, and before he realized what was happening, Sebastian slammed into the chandelier at the top of the tent, the artifact fumbling in his hand. Metal and glass jabbed at his body, scratched at his skin. He tensed, wincing against the shock.

  Light exploded all around him. Blinding. Sebastian squeezed his eyes tight against the sight and threw his hands up as a shield. He felt, then heard, the funnel clatter away. No! A tremendous crash oscillated everywhere: above, below, to every side. He bounced, then slid, jammed uncomfortably with his knee shoved in his chin. Muscles he didn’t even know he had ached.

  He opened his eyes. Temporarily saw double, before everything shifted into place.

  What in all Grimly Hell? He was encased, as if he were a bibelot in a giant museum case. He’d slipped off his feet and now sat wedged at a precarious angle. He appeared lucky. The tent and its interior were in shambles. Walls crooked, curtains missing, flung across into nowhere. Museum boxes tilted or broken. Strings of lights hung, drooped, and lay all over the place. The Great Valko was frowning. Frowning! He had fallen on his side. His crystal ball rolled around somewhere near his turban.

  Pushing against the wall
s, Sebastian managed to lift and right himself. His gaze focused on the dark, normal skin of his hands. The truth-seeking spell of the tent had been broken and he no longer looked like a monster. His mission, the dragon soul-shifter was wedged in the bottom corner by his right foot. He sighed, bent to pick it up, slammed his head against the glass. Ouch! Rubbing his forehead with one hand and running his fingers along the box with the other, he searched for a seam in the glass.

  Peculiar thing, this mysterious bubble. He peered up, saw the chandelier was gone. A survey of the area identified no fallen crystal, only a barren, iron-branched frame. If he had the frame with him now, maybe he could break himself out, but the only hard item he had was at his feet, where he couldn’t reach it. He moaned, dropped his head back against the glass, and replayed the events in the tent over and over in his head, trying to figure out what had gone wrong, what he’d done wrong, and how he could possibly fix the situation.

  A banshee’s fierce shriek ripped through the tent and straight through his soul. Sebastian thought surely the cry would shatter the glass. It did not. The dome vibrated, her message strengthened by the profound resonance singing up through the glass. It acted as her unseen chorus of midnight messengers, and he was the recipient.

  The news from Zeke, the tarot cards, now the banshee. Could the memo be any more obvious? Somebody, probably a lot of somebodies, would die tonight.

  “Hello, Dad. I’m paying attention.” Sebastian kicked the glass. “Stupid Mr. Johnson.” Not that any of this was his fault. Sebastian preferred to blame him, anyway. Heat pulsed through his veins, wiggled down to his fingertips, and creeped up along his neck. Pressure pushed at his back and his eyes burned. “Not now,” he chanted over and over and closed his eyes, concentrated. He was dressed in his favorite gentleman’s jacket. He was a gentleman, and gentlemen know how to defeat their monsters within. With a deep, down-to-the-core breath, the push of the beast subsided.

  Clinkity-clankity-clunk. The ground shook.

  What’s happening? Sebastian turned in his tight bubble case, tried to see what was taking place. The Great Valko had righted himself, and he smiled at Sebastian. Sebastian’s mind raced, he swallowed hard. The crystal ball began to swirl with turquoise smoke, then the curtain slammed shut on the fortuneteller. Sebastian noticed all the curtains along the outer wall were now closed.

  Crank-crank-crank. The tent’s mechanical workings drummed up again. The top sprung open, exposing the darkest of nights. The space grew and grew until the top was completely gone, and then it kept going, disintegrating the walls to the ground. A crowd of people, a mix of patrons and carnies—mostly carnies—surrounded the tent. He was on the ground. He dropped his head against the glass. “Thank you,” he whispered to the universe. Someone would surely help him.

  He heard his name from the crowd. But when he searched, he saw no one he would expect to call out to him.

  “Sebastian!” Chelsea threw herself against the glass. She was a wreck. Tear tracks ran the length of her cheeks, and her tired eyes were now smudged and even darker, more sunken. She clawed at the glass with dirt-packed nails.

  Sebastian jerked, then grinned and placed his palm against the glass. She responded in like, gazing at him wantonly.

  “How’d you get in there, boy?” The Magician took short, even paces around Sebastian’s glass prison.

  Sebastian half watched the Magician, half watched Chelsea, wondered who the L.M. was that the Great Valko had ejected from the tent. “It happened so fast I can’t really say. One minute I was standing in the tent, then I was falling, then I was in this.” He gestured to the bubble. The Magician raised a brow, smoothed and twisted his mustache.

  “You!” The crowd parted, allowing Jon Davies to rush at Sebastian. Sebastian pressed his back against the glass, away from Davies, and his will against the inner beast. “You don’t deserve—”

  “Easy, Jon.” Bolsvck’s arm swooped across the man’s chest, stopping him short. “I need this one alive.” Bolsvck spared Sebastian a glance. “For now. What’s your drak with him, anyway?”

  Jon Davies’s eyes burned with a hatred Sebastian had never seen directed at himself. If he were a lesser being, his skin might singe. Instead, Sebastian stared right back. “Don’t upset me, military man. You don’t want to find out what I’m capable of.” A forced laugh burst from Sebastian’s lips. It might have been false bravado, but at this low point, he didn’t have a lot of cards in the deck to deal. “Hell, I don’t want to find out what I’m capable of.”

  Davies roared, and in the motion, the pain, Sebastian could see the beast he used to be but was no more. “That thing,” Jon Davies pointed at Sebastian, “killed my men.” He paused, became solemn, yet the stir in his eyes betrayed his posture. “And he killed my daughter.”

  Sebastian lurched to the front of the glass. “I didn’t kill any of your people. Especially not Alice!” Her name withered through his mind, caused him to doubt. “She was helping me,” he said more quietly and pressed back against the glass again, feeling inside his pocket, remembering the locket. It was there, as he knew it would be.

  Maybe she is dead because of me. If I hadn’t been there, my father wouldn’t have come. And if my father hadn’t come, she wouldn’t be dead. He pressed the locket firmly in his palm, held it safely hidden. He watched the faces staring at him through the glass, like he was a prisoner on his execution day. The mix of accusations and support. His gaze locked on Chelsea. He smiled, flattened his palm on the glass before her. She was possessed, broken, and dying, but he wouldn’t abandon her. Especially since a fair amount of her suffering was because of him.

  That’s when he saw them. Three of them. No, more than three. Hidden in recesses and shadows, there were others, their faces obscured. Mr. Johnson was among them, as was Mortifier. Far be it for Dad to miss out on this. Sebastian no longer believed they were here to retrieve him. Their agenda was far grimmer. His gaze locked with his father’s, and he pulled the locket from his pocket, stared down at the battered gold necklace. “Your fault,” he said, and glared at Mortifier.

  Jon Davies bellowed. Sebastian realized, too late, what he had done—openly exposed the locket. He shoved it back in his pocket and turned just in time to see Davies’s fist slam into the glass.

  “No!” Chelsea threw herself at Davies. He tossed her aside like a dirty rag. She toppled into another person and fell to the ground, bleeding.

  Sebastian roared, anger bursting from him in waves of wings and talons. The museum case shattered into a zillion little chandelier crystals, flying into the crowd like glass missiles.

  17

  CURIOUS

  Marcus

  “Aren’t you Kyra’s boyfriend?” Vortex Girl leaned in the doorway and crossed one leg over the other. When Marcus remained silent, she continued. “Yeah, you’re the one who helped me out of that little mess a while back.” She held her hands comfortably in front of herself, except when she used them to accentuate her words, which was often. “Was that guy your friend?” She pointed over her shoulder.

  There was another pause, presumably to allow Marcus to speak, but again, he said nothing. What he did do was study her with mild curiosity. His head tilted slightly to the side, a smile slowly spreading across his face with each nervous word she continued to spout. At least, he assumed it was nerves that had her rambling on. Could be she was nothing more than a babbling imbecile. Nevertheless, he found himself leaning toward her, into her drivel.

  She coughed. It sounded faked. “Cause if he was…your friend, I mean…then I’m sorry about the whole zapola thing. Just can’t help it sometimes. Just happens. But you know,” she paused for what appeared to be effect, “he was acting kinda douchey.” She stood away from the door now and took a step into the trailer. She appeared agitated and downright pissy. “Do you talk? Or are you some kind of mute?”

  She was a feisty one. Dangerous and feisty. Marcus cocked a brow and didn’t move. “Where did you send him?”

 
She relaxed, and a mild case of guilt washed across her face. “So he was your friend?” Her hands began to knit some unseen sweater, and her shoulders swayed back and forth. Marcus wasn’t sure if this was a sign of nerves or a desire to dance. “Well, he shouldn’t be hurt or anything. Just relocated.”

  Now Marcus took one step, and one step only, closer. “Yes, but to where?” His voice was low and gravelly.

  The girl jumped as if finding tiny bugs on her feet, then she moved back to the safety of the doorway. “Could be anywhere, really.” She shrugged. “Los Angeles, New York, 1890s London, Jupiter.” She bit her lip.

  “Fantastic,” Marcus grumbled and pushed past her out the door.

  Mystic’s Magical Market was peculiarly quiet, which suited Marcus just fine. He envisioned the bottleneck of patrons at the entrance, a frenzied fear running rampant among them. He felt…nothing. Curious.

  “I told you I was sorry!” she called after him. He heard her descending the few steps behind him.

  “I heard. Lot of good it does me. Now get lost.” He didn’t glance back. He didn’t have the time or desire to deal with her any longer. Fire was raging through his body, and his muscles felt like they were going to snap.

  “You didn’t explain why you were going through Sebastian’s stuff.” Her tiny footsteps rushed to keep up with his wide stride.

  “Why are you still here?” he asked, nostrils flared and teeth bared.

  “Were you… Are you looking for Kyra?”

  Marcus’s brisk, stretched stride came to a complete halt. Finally, something interesting from the girl. He turned on Vortex Girl and regarded her through a narrowed slit of a glare. “Do you know where Kyra is?”

  “Sure!” Her entire body lit up, and she beamed confidence, then dimmed. “Well, not really.”

  Marcus growled under his breath.

  “But I saw her and Talia take off that way.” She pointed toward the iron works that only minutes ago had been a dazzle of lights and moving wonders. The Fun Zone, now dark and dormant.