A Crown of Dragons

by Chris D'Lacey

  “How long?” asked Josie, knocking her fists together in excitement.

  “Five minutes, tops,” Reynard said.

  Josie dashed into the house, shouting, “Camera!”

  “I’ll bring them through when they arrive,” Adam said. He followed Josie inside.

  Ark? went Freya. What now?

  Wait, I said. Watch.

  “My ribbon’s come undone,” Melody whined, dangling the band in front of Chantelle.

  “Oh, here, let me see,” Chantelle said kindly. She lifted Melody onto her lap and gathered her soft brown hair into a bunch. As she tied the ribbon, Reynard said, “When are you back at school?”

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “Looking forward to it?”

  “Oui.” The word followed the slightest of shrugs.

  Reynard ran a finger round the rim of his glass. “Do I detect a slight ‘mais’?”

  She nodded. “I would rather be going with Adam.”

  “To the Arctic? Seriously?”

  “Oui. Why not?”

  “What’s ar-tick?” asked Melody, kicking her feet.

  “A very, very cold place,” Chantelle said, tying the ribbon off in a bow.

  “Colder than the fridge?”

  “MUCH colder than the fridge. Brrr!” she went, and rubbed Melody’s arms.

  “Why does Uncle Adam want to go there?”

  “To see bears,” said Chantelle. She crossed her arms around Melody’s waist and rocked her gently from side to side. “He is going to make films of them and show them on the TV. You like bears, don’t you?”

  Melody nodded as if her head were on springs. “Shall I lend Uncle Adam my reindeer hat?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Reynard said. “I’d pay good money to see him in antlers.”

  Chantelle kissed the top of Melody’s head. “Go and tell Uncle Adam I love him very much and that he has to wrap up warm for those bears.”

  “All right,” said Melody. She scooted inside.

  “Sweet,” said Reynard.

  “A treasure,” Chantelle agreed. “So what about you, also off on a lengthy journey? Indonesia this time. Are you going to tell me why?”

  He smiled and took a mouthful of lemonade. “Let’s just say it’s warmer than the Arctic.”

  She kicked his shin gently. “I hate you, Will Reynard. Always so evasive. What kind of horrible foster brother will not speak to his sister about his work?” She put on a pair of designer glasses. They were the color of dark chocolate and the size of small plates. “What are you, I wonder? Secret agent? Traveling magician? Evil genius? Alien visitor?”

  He stirred his lemonade with his straw. “I’ve told you before what I do.”

  “Unicorn hunter is not an answer.”

  “It will be — the day I find one,” he said. He graced her with a smile.

  Chantelle slid forward in her plastic chair, stretching her beautiful, painted toes. “Indonesia,” she mused, flexing her foot. “What do I know about Indonesia?”

  “They harbor dragons — Komodo variety.”

  Freya shook her feathers and shuffled a claw’s width closer to me.

  “You have seen them, the lizards?”

  “Walked among them — on holiday. Tip: Never get too close to a Komodo. Some of those bad boys are ten feet long and can take you out with a single bite, though you might not know it for a couple of weeks. You should go. Adam would be up for that. Being in Komodo National Park is like stepping right back into the Jurassic.”

  She drew her left foot closer to examine her nails. “So now I ask myself, is that what you are: a crazy scientist, cloning dinosaurs?”

  He laughed and sipped some air through his teeth. “Darn it, you got me.”

  She flicked at his shin again, then leaned around to study his face more closely. “Oh my God, you are not entirely lying.”

  “I am,” he said, looking straight at her.

  “Non. This trip is not a holiday, is it?”

  “Drink your lemonade, sis. You’re disturbing the crows.”

  But Chantelle was animated now. “Tell me something. Anything at all. I promise on my life I will not reveal it.”

  Sunlight swept across the garden. Reynard dipped into his jacket and also put on a pair of dark glasses. They made him look like what Mom would call casually handsome. “Anything?”

  “Oui.”

  He pointed to a planter. “The daffodils have lasted well this year.”

  For that, she punched him. A jab to the shoulder, nothing hard.

  “Hey … ?”

  “Serves you right for being mean.”

  “I’m not being mean. I’m being …”

  “What, Will? What are you being?”

  “Protective,” he said, drawing in his lips.

  Chantelle picked up a cushion and hugged it. “Are you trying to frighten me now?”

  “If I was, it would be for your own good, trust me.”

  “Then go,” she said with a petulant sniff. “Leave by the rear gate. Sneak away. Do what you do best, William: Fall from the sky, then melt like a snowflake. Be gone. Leave us. Who will miss you?”

  “Now you’re being silly.”

  “And you are still being mean.”

  He slid his glass back and forth along the table, shaking his head on the final push. “If I did tell you something, how would you know I was telling the truth?”

  “I would know,” she said.

  Inside the house, a dog began to bark. Will glanced at his watch, and then at the kitchen. “All right. One time. For your ears only. This is what I do: I travel the world investigating paranormal mysteries. There’s a man in Indonesia, crazy scientist type, who claims to have discovered a new species of marine mollusk — a small octopoidal creature, mauve in color, that lives parasitically under the fins of large cetaceans. He believes these things are alien to our oceans and that they’re recent visitors here. He thinks they can communicate telepathically with humans. He hopes they might be used to cure dementia.”

  The barking grew louder, more enthusiastic. Voices began to drift into the garden.

  “Telepathic mollusks?”

  He put his newspaper on the table. “Is it any weirder than a bulldog setting off to swim the English channel?” He pointed to an article he’d been reading. “It drowned,” he added.

  Chantelle stood up and moved toward the kitchen. “I do not believe you.”

  “I didn’t expect you to,” he said.

  “But I think I know what you truly are.”

  He opened his hands, inviting an answer.

  “An inventor of worlds, a word thief,” she whispered.

  “Word thief?”

  Writer, she mouthed.

  He raised his glass of lemonade. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “Trace, come on, girl,” Mulrooney said, ushering a husky out into the garden.

  Theirs? asked Freya.

  Ark! A gift.

  Trace twirled on the lawn like a gray-and-white firework. She ran to Dennis the moment he set foot in the garden. “Hey, girl,” he said, offering his hand. He put his free arm around Chantelle and kissed her cheek. She responded with an air kiss, but was immediately consumed with the next person out.

  “Oh, he is so beautiful!” she gushed.

  Out came Mom, with a baby in her arms.

  She looked tired, but radiant, and so very proud. Her hair was down and a little wild. She was wearing a loose gray sweater that somehow seemed to work as a wrap for the baby.

  “May I hold him for a moment?” Chantelle begged.

  “Be my guest.” Mom handed the baby over.

  “Oh, look at his little hat,” Chantelle purred, turning him out of the sun’s bright glare.

  Dennis stepped onto the patio and clamped hands with Reynard. “Good to see you, Will. Glad you could make it.”

  “Congratulations,” Will said. “A boy. You must be thrilled.”

  “Not too thrilled,” said Josie, buzzing
around, snapping pictures on her tablet. “Girls rule in this house. Chantelle, smile.”

  Dennis laughed and hoisted Melody onto his hip. “How about you, princess? What do you think of your new baby brother? Do you like him?”

  Melody nodded. “Daddy, the birdies are watching.” She aimed a finger at the garage roof.

  “So they are,” he said, looking up. He’d shaved his beard and looked younger for it.

  “They’ve been there for a while,” Reynard said. “Like wise men in feathers, following a star.” Smiling, he added, “I didn’t invite them.”

  Dennis touched a finger to Melody’s nose. “Are they scaring you, sweetheart?”

  She shook her head, tight-lipped.

  “Are you sure? Do you want me to shoo them off?”

  “No,” she said, and leaned her head on his shoulder.

  “Darcy, come and sit down,” said Adam. He guided Mom over to one of the chairs. “Drink?” He lifted the lemonade jug.

  “I’m fine,” she said, touching his arm.

  “He has such incredible eyes,” said Chantelle, rocking the baby in the cradle of her arms. “Is it me or is the left one lighter than the other?”

  “They’re officially blue,” said Mom, “but the left has a definite hint of violet. Dennis, what’s wrong with Trace?”

  The dog was sitting motionless on the lawn, pricking its ears toward me and Freya. It tilted its head and whined quietly.

  “I think those crows are upsetting her,” he said. He put Melody on a chair and clapped his hands at us. A single beat that made Trace shuffle.

  Freya lifted a wing.

  Not yet, I said. It isn’t time.

  Chantelle gave the baby back to Mom. “What have you called him?”

  “We’re still deciding,” said Mom. “They had me listening to Mozart during the birth, so Dennis thinks we ought to call him Wolfgang.”

  “Cool, but costly on a soccer shirt,” said Adam.

  “Amadeus would be cheaper,” Reynard suggested, still running with the Mozart theme.

  Freya tightened her claws.

  “No, it will be plain and simple,” said Mom. “I have a name in mind. It’s only just come to me.”

  Before she could reveal it, Chantelle piped up. “My mother used to say you should name a child by what you hope it will grow up to be.”

  “Pelé, then?” Adam said.

  The idea made Dennis laugh.

  “Who’s Pelé?” Josie asked.

  “Famous Brazilian soccer star,” said Adam.

  Josie huffed. “My brother’s not going to play boring soccer. I’m going to take a picture of those crows.” She moved across the garden to stand by Trace.

  “I have some suggestions,” Chantelle said. And she reeled off the list she’d thrown at Will: secret agent, traveling magician, evil genius (that received boos). At the last moment, she swapped alien visitor in favor of … “unicorn hunter.”

  A chill breeze blew across the garden, rippling the underside of the patio umbrella.

  Adam reached out and steadied the pole.

  On the lawn, Trace mewled and got to her feet.

  “What is the matter with that dog?” Mom said. “Where’s Michael, by the way?” She looked at Will.

  “Riding his bike — with a ‘friend,’” he said.

  Mom twitched an inquisitive eyebrow.

  “Hey, I’m just the messenger,” he said, raising his hands in surrender.

  Now, I said to Freya. Ready?

  She tipped her beak. Ark!

  On the lawn, Josie stamped her foot. “Dad, there’s something wrong with my camera. I took a picture of the crows, but it’s just … roof.”

  They all looked up as the back gate opened.

  Trace turned a circle.

  Josie blinked.

  “This is Freya,” I said. We were side by side, holding our bikes at our hips. “I’ve brought her around to see the baby.” I plucked a small crow feather off her sweater.

  Mom moved a hair off the baby’s brow. She looked at Freya as if she might have met her in a previous life. “Hello, Freya. Would you like some lemonade?”

  Freya shook her head. She looked pale, a little frightened. She nodded at the baby. “What’s his name?”

  Dennis moved up behind Mom and ran a hand over her shoulder, caressing it. “You said just now you had a name, love.”

  “Yes, I like Thomas,” Mom said quietly. “What do you think, Michael?”

  I nodded. “It’s cool.”

  Freya shuddered. A glassy tear ran down her cheek.

  “Thomas,” said Reynard, raising his drink.

  “Thomas,” we agreed, saluting Mom.

  Trace wagged her tail.

  Mulrooney nodded.

  “Well, it’s better than Pelé,” Josie said with a sniff.

  Mom smiled and held the youngster up to the sky. “Thomas, the unicorn hunter,” she said. “Why not? Stranger things have happened …”

  This has been quite a journey. A journey into the unknown. I’ve made no secret of the fact that the UNICORNE Files was inspired by the TV series The X-Files. I like to think that Fox Mulder, the hero of those programs, would have been in his element if asked to investigate cases of cellular memory, telekinesis, and in this story, the mysteries of dragons. Dragons have fascinated me for the past fifteen years, ever since I picked up a clay model one day and introduced it into a book that eventually became known as The Fire Within. Since that time, I’ve been asking myself one important question about dragons — a question that has had some interesting ramifications. The question is simple enough — well, simple enough to ask: Are dragons real? My head, of course, says, “How can they be real?” For I was a scientist once (of sorts) and still harbor a little of the mind-set that demands to see irrefutable proof before it can accept a belief in the unknown. Apply that mind-set to the question above and it rolls out another straightforward query: If dragons had been indigenous to the earth, if they had lived and died here as dinosaurs did, then where’s the paleontological evidence for them? That’s a pretty good stumbling block — for scientists. But I’m not a scientist now, I’m a writer. And for writers, such questions are merely the basis of a challenge. We would point to the emergence of dragon symbology in different cultures as far apart as China, Wales, and the Andes and ask, How did that come about? For us, “hard” evidence doesn’t matter. What we find fascinating is the awe-inspiring wonder these beasts seem to generate in apparently levelheaded people in every corner of the world. It’s a writer’s job to examine the reality question and look for reasons around the lack of bones. On our cerebral (and sometimes spiritual) digs, we come up with theories. The one I favor most is this: that dragons were never indigenous to our earth but are instead “off-worlders.” Aliens. Extraterrestrials. Visitors. That last word raises another huge question, one I set out to answer in this book, one that Thomas Malone did ask of me but I decided to leave between the lines of his tragic story. The question again is pretty simple. If dragons were here, and created such an overwhelming impact among us, why did they ever leave?

  Reader, you decide.

  This has been the UNICORNE Files.

  Enjoy.

  Chris d’Lacey

  Devon, England 2015

  Lisa Sandell has been the star I’ve steered by throughout this series of books. I could not have wished for a better, more convivial editor. I still don’t understand how a telephone call from America can be clearer than one from four houses along my road, but when it happens, it feels like she’s right there at my shoulder, being quietly supportive in every way. What a pleasure it is to work with someone so determined to fulfill my vision of a book.

  I never seem to thank the sales and PR people whose efforts have bought me a house by the sea and allowed me to indulge my passion for cars. And books would never look so beautiful or read so well if it wasn’t for the designers and the copy editors and all the work they do in the background. Thank you, guys. I do appreci
ate it.

  Must add a quick word, too, for Natasha Farrant and her knowledge of French GPS systems. Merci, madame. At last I have proof that sales conference dinners are worthwhile.

  Finally, as always, I’m ever grateful to my wife, Jay, my greatest critic, my biggest ally. Quite simply, where would I be without you? Lost in the literary multiverse, I guess.

  CHRIS D’LACEY is the author of several highly acclaimed books, including the first two books in the UNICORNE Files, A Dark Inheritance and Alexander’s Army, as well as the New York Times bestselling Last Dragon Chronicles: The Fire Within, Icefire, Fire Star, The Fire Eternal, Dark Fire, Fire World, and The Fire Ascending. Additionally, he is the author of the middle-grade series The Dragons of Wayward Crescent, and the co-author of Rain & Fire. He lives in Devon, England, with his wife, where he is at work on his next book.

  Learn more about Chris and the Unicorne Files at www.scholastic.com/unicornefiles.

  ALSO BY

  CHRIS D’LACEY

  UNICORNE FILES

  A DARK INHERITANCE

  ALEXANDER’S ARMY

  THE LAST DRAGON CHRONICLES

  THE FIRE WITHIN

  ICEFIRE

  FIRE STAR

  THE FIRE ETERNAL

  DARK FIRE

  FIRE WORLD

  THE FIRE ASCENDING

  RAIN & FIRE

  THE DRAGONS OF WAYWARD CRESCENT

  GRUFFEN

  GAUGE

  Copyright © 2016 by Chris d’Lacey and Jay d’Lacey

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data