Descendant (Secrets of the Makai)

by Kerr, Toni

  The first drop from the vial made a circle of thready yellow smoke when it hit the paste. The vapors hovered a few inches before settling. The second added a thin slick of orange silt, breaking down the steamed leaves with sizzling hisses.

  "How does it work?" the man asked, drying the nape of his neck with one of Gram's favorite towels.

  Dorian opened her mouth to give the standard rundown, then promptly shut it when she remembered what the man had done to her spring. Deliberately. She took off the gloves. "Did you poison yourself when you poisoned the stream?"

  The man said nothing.

  The plants still couldn't confirm whether this man was the one or not.

  Dorian drizzled a spoonful of the cooling water into the bowl and retrieved a jar from under the workspace, matching it with a waxed cork to keep it sealed. "Mix it half and half with water until—" Until his skin festered in blisters? This was supposed to be an antidote.

  "Is he to drink it? How long before it works?"

  Only the first layer of skin would go, maybe the second, but she couldn't go through with it if it wasn't for him personally. She scooped the contents of the bowl with the spoon and flung it to the floor, then doused the inky black vapor with the last of the water.

  The man yanked her wrist and the glass pot fell, shattering when it hit the floor. He pinned her against the wall with his arm at her throat before she could get her other hand up to protect herself. So much for all the self-defense training.

  "I swear to you, Dorian. I'll incinerate every living thing above and below ground within a hundred miles if you don't give me that antidote."

  "How do you know my name?" What else did he know? Did he know about the cave, the stolen dragon fang, and the island's weakened defenses?

  "You have a solid, trustworthy reputation," he said.

  "And you?" She tried to knee him in the groin, but the man pressed his hip against her so she couldn't move.

  "My reputation is irrelevant."

  "I meant your name." She eyed her knife on the table, willing it harder than ever to fly at the man's back. Or maybe a nice sharp chunk of glass from the floor. If only she could break the spell on Gram.

  The man loosened his hold. "All I want is the antidote."

  Tears came to her eyes and she fought harder to get free. "I can't forgive you for murdering plants I cared about. And now Gram and I are contaminated—"

  "You'll both survive, but an innocent boy about your age will die if you refuse."

  More horror sank in. "You used that poison on a person?"

  "Not I, but yes." Glass crunched under his feet as he released her from the wall.

  "Tell me why you poisoned my plants. They're irreplaceable."

  "I've given you all the time I can afford."

  Dorian rubbed her aching neck. "I don't have it figured out."

  "How much longer?"

  Dorian kept her mouth shut and glanced at the hiding spot for the sand.

  "I'm sure Gram would prefer you to live. And you her?"

  She gulped. "Nothing I have will regenerate damaged cells without…. What's the poison made of?"

  "I don't know. But you have an idea, I see it in your face." He walked to the shelves just above the hiding spot and searched.

  If only she hadn't stolen the sand in the first place. Dorian eyed Gram. What would she do under these circumstances?

  The man motioned her toward the spot with a sweep of his hand and took a step back. He'd pounce if she made any sudden moves. She carefully skirted the broken glass and knelt at the cabinet, then pulled out several jars before revealing the one that could save their lives.

  What if the sand didn't work? She had no reason to think it could.... The shimmers blurred faster, as if trying to hide from the sudden dose of daylight, though the sand itself didn't move.

  Before she could open it, the man clamped a hand on her wrist. She almost lost hold of the jar. "What is it?" he demanded.

  She didn't fully believe Gram's story about the dragons and bone dust. She shrugged. "I've never tried it for anything."

  "Why not?"

  Dorian opened the jar and put a pinch of the sparkling grains in the nearest test bowl. Needle-like leaves uncurled, buds that had never had a chance to flower opened to bright golden stars, lifting the bulk of the vine to the water's surface.

  The man picked up the jar of sand and spun the lid shut. "How much for a person and where can I find more?"

  "Gram first."

  "She'll wake when I leave. You have my word."

  "Your word means nothing without your name."

  One thing was certain, if this man didn't know where to find the sand, he wasn't the cave's thief. She could send him there for more, which would give Oliver the chance to stop him, but she'd risk the cave's existence becoming even more public. And Oliver would probably get killed.

  Besides that, no one knew she had the jar. How bad could it be if she let a tiny amount go? She had to give the man something. "The sand seems stronger in water. I don't know what it'll do to a person. Like I said, I've never used it before."

  Tears surfaced again as she thought of the mass slaughter. "Those plants were my friends."

  "Nothing was rare or endangered, or irreplaceable. A small price for a working test case."

  "Personal friendships can't be replaced. You could've brought the poison as a sample."

  "It was not containable. I won't push you for a location, but I will come back if I need more. Anything else I should know?"

  "The person might be better off dead, if damaged cells regenerate into…something mutated."

  "That vine doesn't look mutated."

  Looks could be deceiving. Dorian tuned out the unintelligible gibberish emanating from the bowl. "I hope you rot in Hell." She vowed to put the man there herself if he ever came back.

  "Tell your grandmother security is severely lacking."

  "Tell her yourself."

  The man had the nerve to smile and nodded his 'thanks' before vanishing. With the jar. At least Dorian wouldn't have to figure out how to sneak the bone dust back to the cave.

  "Soon," she added, anger making her voice shake. "I hope you rot soon."

  Dorian glanced at the test case as Gram blinked her eyes open. The flowers had withered to yellow dust, floating at the surface. The vine was a cloud of transparent mush at the bottom. One more botanical friend lost forever.

  She bowed her head and covered her tears, wishing she'd made an effort to understand what the plant's last words were. She'd have to tell Gram everything. Because if the bone dust had the same effect on a living person, the murderous maniac would be back with a vengeance.

  4

  - LION'S DEN -

  "TRISTAN SHOULDN'T STAY much longer."

  The man's distant voice was slow, tired, raspy with age. But hearing his name forced a sharper reality and Tristan caught every word.

  "They would've arrested him on the spot," said a younger, more energetic voice. "He'd be convicted of murder and sent to prison if we hadn't stepped in."

  "Having you in jail on his behalf does buy us time, but it won't last," the old man said. "I'm sorry."

  "It's fine, really," replied the younger person. Tristan vaguely recognized the voice, but couldn't put a face to it. "Innocent-bystander-accused-of-murder-slash-wrench-in-the-system, at your service. But they'll be checking my cell in about an hour, so I can't stay long."

  No one was in the room with him—Tristan squinted toward an open archway, confusion bogging down his thought process. Every part of his body stung and the sunlight stabbing into the room from a tall window nearly blinded him. He struggled to untangle his feet from under blankets and shielded his eyes with a sleeve that was several inches too long.

  "There's always the possibility that Tristan was meant to be imprisoned for this crime."

  A heavy pause filled Tristan with dread. He tried to sit up.

  "We're to learn from history," the old man continued. "Med
dling proves time and again to be dangerous and risky, and all because we become emotionally involved and cannot resist."

  "We had no choice," another familiar voice said, reminding Tristan of a student from school. Not a friend, but one he shared quite a few classes with. "He would have died before getting to prison, before trial even."

  "Perhaps he is destined to die. There is still time." Tristan recognized that voice too, but couldn't place it.

  He pushed himself up again and clutched his aching head, straining his ears to hear more. The conversation took on a lecturing tone, too muffled and low to follow.

  The walls and floor were made of dark gray rock and seemed to suck all the moisture from the air. A beam of sunlight fell across the room, pulling his attention to a towering window. He gathered a handful of excess fabric around his waist to keep the pants from slipping when he stood, grimacing at the vibration of the floor surging through his legs when his feet landed.

  "He actually thinks it's normal," said one of the younger voices. Tristan could almost picture the pair from his school, Landon and Victor, usually together whenever he noticed them. They'd never given him any hassle, but had never really spoken to him either. Though they did step in with Milo. What were they doing at the woman's house?

  "How much harm could we cause by keeping him?"

  At least they seemed to be on his side.

  "He's not a pet," the old man said.

  A painfully slow walk got Tristan to the window on the far side of the room. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass and peered out. Rugged mountain peaks glared white in the full sun, making a jagged fence line around a crater of rounded treetops.

  "We might have to keep him contained, or kill him. Or wipe his memory and send him on his way. But first, we should be certain about the dragon blood."

  Tristan winced at the matter-of-fact tone of the forth man's voice. He couldn't begin to guess where he was, or what direction to go if he did manage to escape. Tristan gripped the rock around the window to support his weakening legs. He knew the voice of the fourth man. It was the same one he'd heard in his head, the one who'd taken the folded page from his back pocket when he couldn't move to defend it.

  "Wouldn't his DNA be different if he really had dragon blood?" asked Landon.

  "I wouldn't know. We've never examined anyone claiming to be a dragon."

  Since when was he claiming to be a dragon? The whole idea was so ridiculous, he couldn't begin to consider it. Tristan lowered himself into an oversized armchair near the window. The room had a single bed, an unlit fireplace, and an extra long, half-full aquarium with nothing but cloudy water. The vibration from the ground, like an electrical current, stopped when his feet left the floor.

  "What about the paper he had?"

  Tristan wanted to hear every word about the map and dreaded the effort it would take to cross the room again. Should he fight to get it back, or get back in bed and wait? His arms grew numb and his ears rang louder. He tested the floor with his big toe, pulling it back when tingling jitters shot up his leg.

  "I have my suspicions," said the map thief.

  A sudden urge to get the blank page back flooded his thoughts, even though he had no idea what to do with it.

  "I don't believe this is an authentic map," said the oldest man. "For one, Gwenna never saw the original before it was destroyed, so she couldn't have duplicated any part of it. I'm guessing this must be what she could recall from a verbal description, with hopes that it would survive with Tristan, already knowing she would not."

  "And that's why she called him the Balance?" asked Landon.

  Tristan held his breath, doing his best to tune out the high-pitched ringing.

  "We must have misunderstood. A person can affect the balance by his or her actions. But by himself, just by existing…well, we have free will to behave as we wish. Balance is what comes of it."

  "So, she brought him to her house...." Victor continued. "Why didn't she give him the emerald and send him to safety? Did she expect him to do something with the map first?"

  "I suppose we'll never know." A long silence followed the old man's words. Tristan got to his feet, wincing at the almost-intolerable sensation pulsing through the floor, and began the journey across the room in earnest.

  "Maybe we should have intervened without permission regarding the suicide attempt," Landon said. "And maybe we shouldn't have waited for backup at the house, but, you're not taking us off the case, are you?"

  It occurred to him then that he wasn't hearing anyone's thoughts. Odd, though definitely an improvement.

  "This is no longer an observation case. Sabbatini will hound Tristan the minute he's put back, and he'll find out about the map, authentic or not, as easily as we did. Besides, Gwenna went out of her way to involve this kid, there has to be a reason. So, assuming he survives these treatments, we must let him go and keep a close eye over what happens."

  "You intend to put him back, knowing Sabbatini will be after him?" Landon sounded as shocked by the idea as Tristan felt. How was he supposed to know who to trust? He tightened his stomach and decided to keep his aim for the arched doorway.

  "I used to think we could, but it's not our responsibility to help every living creature that—"

  "He's not every living creature," Landon shouted. "He's one little kid!"

  Tristan peeked into the hall. It tunneled into darkness to the right. To the left, in the direction the voices were coming from, the hallway was lit through open archways. His eyelids became heavier the longer he stalled. He had to keep moving.

  "We've already disrupted the natural order of things by bringing him here," Landon added. "Is throwing him to the wolves supposed to make up for saving him in the first place?"

  "We haven't saved him yet," said the map thief. "And like I said, we might have to kill him ourselves for the sake of mercy."

  Tristan shuddered, leaning against a wall halfway between the room he'd awakened in and the next arched doorway. The rock's vibration pounded through his shoulder, amplifying the ringing pain in his head.

  "The antidote was not designed for people. So says its maker."

  Someone sighed.

  "No, we're not going to throw him to the wolves, should he survive to be thrown. We'll keep him protected, within reason. I'd be more suspicious if we didn't already know the boy so well. But, as it is, we know that no one has taken responsibility for him or his actions."

  "I disagree," said the map thief. "Even if she was tracking him on her own, the dragon blood comment is reason enough to hold him for ransom. I'd like to know where her orders were coming from before we start trusting her definition of balance."

  "Donovan—"

  "That's the thing about secret societies," the map thief, Donovan, added. "Motives are secret. Missions are secret. Values are self-serving. The same holds true for us. Both Tristan's and Gwenna's actions suggest this is more than a piece of paper, and I'd bet my life that someone will move to help him with whatever Gwenna intended. But let us be clear: the questions we should be asking are what does he really know and whose side is he on? For that matter, how many sides are there? Lastly, what are the ramifications of having a dragon lineage?"

  Tristan shut his eyes, using the silent pause in conversation to consider whether secret societies were good or bad. His legs shook more fiercely and every joint throbbed with shards of pain. What had that woman gotten him into?

  "We want to stay on the case," Landon said, breaking the silence.

  "I won't ask you to step down. I will, however, ask you to trust and obey every order. When we say we've done enough, that's it. Even if it means Tristan must die."

  Tristan inched toward the first opening, determined to get out of the hallway, relieved to see an empty, stainless steel kitchen. He hurried across the opening and into the room, then pressed himself against a wall that echoed the pulsing from the floor. Sweat dripped from his forehead.

  There must have been a non-verbal agreemen
t to the terms, because the old man continued. "We've searched her house and the emerald isn't there. If Sabbatini acquired it, he has yet to break the seal. We'd have all heard about it by now if he had."

  "I wouldn't count on that," Donovan said. "No one can be certain what powers the emerald holds, and no one who's had possession has lived long enough to prove it offers immortality. It certainly didn't keep Gwenna alive."

  "To my knowledge, she never attempted possession. When Nicodemus was killed, she said they were taking the emerald to safety. She didn't know where they were headed exactly, so she took the emerald home and considered herself the new guardian."

  "Was Nicodemus a dragon?" asked Landon.

  "He might have carried the blood if he knew where to take the emerald. Then again, maybe he was just trying to get rid of it. Whatever the case may be, it didn't offer him immortality either."

  "At least we know Tristan doesn't have it."

  "Regardless, the boy is suddenly very interesting to everyone. If you two are going to stay on this case, you'll need to be willing to kill him if he turns on you. He could be just as dangerous as Sabbatini or any of his men."

  "Tristan was nine when I...discovered him," Donovan said. "He called for my assistance, by name, and then denied knowing me and thought calling referred to the use of a telephone. While he did have a legitimate knee injury, which he'd apparently received while exiting a moving vehicle, he had no intention of telling me about it. But then again, most people know I'm not a healer. So why call upon me?"

  Some sort of dam broke in Tristan's head, releasing a flood of memories he'd long forgotten about. He and his mother were leaving the state for some unknown reason, driving through miles of rolling farmland. A blue tarp had been beating against their belongings for half a day and finally broke free. The wind caught his only prized possession—a clipper ship he'd made from stolen toothpicks and joint compound. It sailed over the road in a strangely slow arc, breaking only slightly when it finally hit the road.