“Any other suspects?”
“Well . . . I don’t have any evidence, but I have a suspicion,” grunted Mab. “I think it was the perp . . . er, I mean, Mr. Ulysses. I think he took it the time he was here stealing the guardian Warden and that other stuff. It has his M.O. all over it. He has the shady know-how to break into the chapel and open the safe, but lacks the brains to decipher the puzzle lock.”
“Ulysses again, eh?” I frowned. Was no one loyal to the family any more? But then, Ulysses never really had been loyal. “What would he want with a vial of Water of Life? He knows I’ll give him some if he needs it.”
“Begging your pardon, Ma’am, but that’s only if he needs it. What if he wanted it for someone else? A honey or a business partner?”
I frowned and shook my head. “Father forbade me to share the Water with anyone outside our immediate family.”
“Maybe that’s it, then? He wanted the Water for some selfish use, so he stole it.”
“Maybe,” I replied, unconvinced.
“Let’s take a different tack. If we’re going to locate the teleporter, it’s not going to be by tracking his movements. We’re gonna have to figure out how he thinks, and where he’s likely to hole up. I don’t know a whole lot about Mr. Ulysses. What can you tell me about him, down to what he likes to eat on Sunday evenings, and the color of his socks? Start with how his staff works.” Mab whipped out his notebook.
“Okay, the Staff of Transportation can bring him any place it has been before. So, while he can teleport, he has to travel overland any time he wants to set up a new arrival point.”
“How does he like to travel, when going overland?”
“Ulysses’s mother was a Victorian lady. Trains were a new invention when he was young, and Ulysses loved them. He used to have the most awesome toy train set. As far as I know, he still travels by train when he goes by land.”
“Ulysses: train nut,” Mab noted. “What else?”
“He takes pride in always being well-dressed, to the point that he’s usually more concerned with the cut of his coat than with any matter of substance. Had he been born thirty years earlier, he would have made a great Corinthian. Yet, despite his frivolity, he was closer to the grim and solemn Gregor than to anyone else in the family—though they had a falling out a couple of years before Gregor’s death.”
“Let me guess: you have no idea what the argument was about?”
I nodded, smiling sheepishly. Mab snorted in disgust.
“Humans,” he scoffed. “No curiosity.”
“I’ve always held it was a virtue not to get involved in family quarrels.”
“Maybe Harebrain would know. He claims he’s kept track of your zany family.”
“If we see him again, we can ask him.” I frowned. Mephisto’s exit still troubled me, but he had returned unscathed from stranger expeditions than this. So I remained hopeful. “I know you couldn’t tell me where Mephisto went, but if he’s on Earth, can’t something be done to find him? I would at least like to confirm that he is safe.”
“I’ll have some of my men look into it. He’s got some credit cards we used to track him to Chicago. They’re maxed out, but there’s a Swiss bank account that makes an automatic payment on them around the middle of the month, so he might try to use them again. What else?”
“I remember the three of us, Ulysses, Gregor, and I, decided to go vampire hunting one All Saint’s Eve. Gregor was an old hand at such things—he and Theo had hunted them in Hungary during the vampire infestations of the seventeenth century—but Ulysses and I were untutored in this business and had no idea what we were about. Nearly staked an old man through the heart before we discovered he was an albino. You should have seen us skulking about the countryside with our stakes and torches.” I laughed, recalling.
“Did you catch any vampires?”
“Only two.”
“Good for you!”
“Other than that? Ulysses is a thief. He loves jewels. He once stole the Hope Diamond and wore it to a dinner with the family. He put it back again before anyone knew it was missing, or at least the media never mentioned it,” I said. “That’s about all I can think of.”
“Your own brother, and that’s all you know?” Mab asked skeptically.
“He’s hasn’t been around nearly as long as the rest of us—didn’t come along until just before we all started going our own ways. He never knew Sane Mephisto, and I never had occasion to spend much time with him. Oh, excuse me. In answer to your first questions? He eats caviar on Sunday nights, and his socks are gray. Everything he wears is gray, even his domino mask.”
“Yeah, I noticed that on his statue in the Great Hall. What’s with the little mask around his eyes?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, but he almost always wears one. It’s his signature garment, I guess, a gray tux and a domino mask, sort of like my tea gown and Mephisto’s surcoat.”
“So. Ulysses. Perp. Likes trains. Domino mask. Falling out with Gregor. Got it.” Mab made a note. “Now, back to the Water of Life: perhaps he’s selling the stuff. There are many eccentric humans who would pay a fortune for extended youth. Maybe that’s how he gets the money to enjoy his fancy lifestyle, caviar and all.”
“Maybe . . . I wish we knew when the theft took place.” I frowned. “Did we ever follow up on that photo in the Smithsonian?”
“Yeah, I had one of my people check it out,” Mab said. “He was able to confirm that a Ulysses Prospero worked for NASA in 1975.”
“Maybe he was in need of money,” I said. “Odd, though, it’s unlike Ulysses to work rather than just steal something. Oh!” I pressed my hand to my mouth, as the possibilities occurred to me.
Mab pushed back the brim of his hat. “Could he do that? Mark the Voyager with his staff and journey to another planet?”
“He could, though not Voyager. He would have to pick a landing vehicle, like Sojourner—otherwise, he’d find himself drifting in outer space. But he could do it. He once sent a carpet he had touched with his staff to a man who had stolen something from us. As soon as the man placed the carpet in his house, Ulysses teleported to it and retrieved our belongings. In principle, that’s no different from touching a NASA probe and then going to another planet. Wasn’t the Viking Lander launched in the mid-’seventies?”
“Hmm. Clever bloke,” muttered Mab. “Maybe he’s selling the Water of Life to get the equipment he needs to live on Venus or the Moon or something.”
“Could be. But, we won’t know for sure unless we find him, and lately that’s been seeming less and less likely. Let’s put this aside for now, and return to the more important matter of warning my other siblings. With the Three Shadowed Ones out there, it’s important that we reach them as soon as possible.”
“So, who’s left?”
“Other than Ulysses? We’ve spoken to Mephisto, Theo, and Logistilla.” I sighed. None of those conversations had concluded satisfactorily. “We have an address for Erasmus, and we’re going to his New Year’s Eve party. I wrote a letter to Cornelius, but chances are he’ll be at the party too. Most likely Ulysses will be there as well. That just leaves Titus, who seems to have vanished.”
“Do we have any leads?” asked Mab.
“Only that, according to Mephisto, he has a house somewhere with children in it, but we have no idea where, though at least with Titus, we can still be pretty certain it’s on planet Earth. I did check with the caretaker of his old place—the place from which he used to mail my birthday cards—but he hadn’t seen my brother in over two years.”
“Harebrain said something about the Okefenokee Swamp.” Mab flipped open his notebook. “I had one of my people check on that, too. He could not find any piece of property in that vicinity listed to ‘Titus Prospero.’ Of course, your brother could be using an assumed name.”
“It’s a shame we don’t know the names of his children,” I said. “Even the best search engine in the world won’t produce information without input. There’
s no list we can check to locate ‘Titus’s children.’ ”
“We don’t keep such a list,” Mab smirked, “but we know someone who does.”
I started to laugh but one look at his craggy face told me he was serious.
“You think we should fly to the North Pole in the middle of December and ask Father Christmas if we can look at his list?” I cried.
“Have any better ideas?”
“Um . . .” I thought about my giant taciturn brother, and the birthday cards he had sent me so dutifully. I recalled the many companionable walks we had taken together through the windblown Highlands, my brother striding beside me in his funny tartan hat with the pom-pom on top. I thought of the prediction of doom upon the Family Prospero. Could the cards have stopped coming because he was in trouble? If so, with Twelfth Night getting closer, time might be running out to save him!
“Let’s go.”
WE left by Lear jet early on the morning of the twenty-first and crossed the Canadian border in good time. Snow blew through the air, and wind speeds were rising. Mab wore his earplugs, and I kept up a string of jolly Christmas carols on my flute. We had no trouble with turbulence.
Our trajectory took us over northern Canada and the icy flats of the Arctic Sea. I sat in the copilot seat, enjoying the endless fields of snow as they passed beneath us, or, when they were eclipsed, the flurries of dancing snowflakes. What a joy to fly in interesting weather!
As we came out of a particularly thick cloudbank, something crimson flashed amidst the swirling white. Unable to make it out, I played a quick trill. Obediently, a gust of wind blew away the flakes obscuring our view.
“By Setebos!” Mab cried. “It’s Osae the Dragon.”
A giant red dragon with steely gray eyes was bearing down on our little plane. Fire flickered beneath his curving fangs. The motions of his leathery wings created little flurries of snow to either side of him as he flew.
Mab pulled out an earplug and demanded, “How did they find us?”
I shook my head. “Seems awfully foolish of them to attack us in the air during a snowstorm, doesn’t it? Considering air is our element.” I twirled my flute. “I wonder what they hope to achieve.”
Mab snorted. “Oh, it’s stupid, all right. For one thing, how do they plan to catch us? Look at the wings on that sucker. We’re in an airplane. Those kind of wings don’t outfly airplanes. Do they expect us to wait for them like the proverbial sitting duck?”
“What course do you recommend?”
“I’d recommend an old-fashioned Red Baron-style dogfight,” Mab said with glee. “Sadly, that’s out of the question, since our side does not have any guns. My second choice is: outrun ’em.”
“Sounds good,” I replied. “You pilot. I’ll play.”
Mab put his earplug back in, and I cleared us a path through the falling snow. The sky before us opened, wide and white, and the sinuous crimson serpent soon fell astern. Mab and I smiled smugly and settled in to enjoy the long flight north.
ABOUT twenty minutes later, we caught another glimpse of scarlet among the clouds ahead of us.
“It can’t be,” muttered Mab.
The crimson dragon snaked out of a cloudbank ahead of us. Snow dusted his back and wide red leathery wings.
“There’s no way he could catch up!” Mab sputtered. “Think there might be two of ’em?”
He turned the plane and sped away again, jetting off to the right before returning to our course. The winged serpent fell away behind us again.
THE third time the dragon appeared before us, Mab pulled out his earplugs, swearing.
“This time he’s practically on top of us! How the heck is he doing that?” Mab demanded. “Guess those wimpy wings are better than I thought.”
A shiver traveled up my spine. “If he’s ahead of us without having passed us . . .” I began. Mab’s cry cut me off.
“There! On the wing!”
Standing, I crossed to the cabin and peered through one of the small, round windows. A dark inky shape crouched upon our wing. His black opera cape billowed wildly. As I watched helplessly, he threw a large object into the air intake.
The left engine stalled.
“Darn!” muttered Mab. “We gotta land. Even with the help of the accursed flute, we’re not going to make it to the North Pole on one engine. Oh-oh. Incoming!”
Billowing flames shot toward us, rolling against the glass. If the flame was that close, the dragon could not be far behind. I dived back into the copilot’s seat and braced myself. Not a moment too soon, either, for the plane began to groan and shake.
“Sounds like it’s wrapping itself around us,” Mab said nervously. “Do you think it could be strong enough to damage the plane?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t like the sound of it. Do we have parachutes?”
“Yeah, but we’re too low for them to work reliably, and I wouldn’t want to risk it in this weather. Besides, if we’re not safe in the plane, how are we going to protect ourselves from the dragon once we get outside?”
“Good point. “What else can we do?”
“Nothing, unless you want to get out there and fight him hand-to-hand. Can you hit him with lightning?”
I shook my head. “Not only is it difficult to get a good lightning bolt during a snowstorm, but also we could electrocute ourselves. We don’t know what condition our . . .”
The plane lurched to the right, accompanied by a terrible grinding tearing noise. I managed to keep my seat, but Mab, who had been half standing, in an attempt to watch the dragon, was thrown to the floor. He slid against my legs, pinning them against the instrument panel. A sharp pain shot through my ankle, causing me to cry out. Meanwhile, Mab’s head made an unpleasant crunching noise where it struck the base of my seat.
Ahead of us, through the front window, a long slender titanium wedge could be seen sailing off into the snowy nothingness below.
“Ah, Mab . . . was that our left wing?”
“ ’Fraid so,” Mab muttered, his voice edged with pain. “Ma’am . . . things aren’t looking too good.”
“At least the body of the plane hasn’t been breached. Though, I’m not sure it could survive another one of those . . . oh no!”
Smoke began curling about several spots on the ceiling where the vinyl covering was melting. In two places, tiny flickers of flame were visible.
“He’s doing that from the outside? With just the fire from his mouth?” whispered Mab. “That’s impossible!”
“Tell that to the flames.”
I made a dash for the fire extinguisher, nearly falling when my injured ankle did not support me. Grabbing the extinguisher, I aimed it at the hot spots and fired. Liquid splashed across the ceiling, covering it with a white puffy cream. Foolishly, I remained standing, stooping to examine my ankle. The plane lurched again. The fire extinguisher and I went flying.
WHEN I came to, I was lying in the back, under a suitcase, with something sticky running into my eyes. Mab appeared over me and moved the luggage. As he did so, a jarring pain shot through my temples.
Mab did not look so good. Rivulets of blood ran over his face and down his neck.
“Are you all right, Ma’am?” he asked hoarsely.
“Guess so,” I whispered. “How about you?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“Who’s flying the plane?”
“The dragon . . . so to speak.”
“Great.” My throbbing head fell back to rest against the carpet. “Do we have any kind of plan?”
“ ’Fraid not, Ma’am. We’re pretty well cooked.”
“Any suggestions?”
Mab sat back on his haunches, bracing himself against a seat in case the plane should lurch again. “That depends on whether or not you feel well enough to play your piccolo. Otherwise, the only thing I can think of is that I might be able to abandon this body and go for help.”
The situation seemed surreal. I had become so accustomed to having a soluti
on to every predicament.
“Sometimes I forget that I, too, am mortal.” My voice rang oddly in my ears.
“Ma’am, you’re scaring me!”
“We must protect the flute,” I continued, ignoring him. “We can’t let it fall into the hands of the servants of Hell.” Darkness danced at the edge of my vision. My eyes slipped closed. “Holy Lady, please protect my people.”
Abruptly, the plane rose up, shook, then began to drop. The gentle weightlessness of free-fall caressed us. Mab slapped my face to wake me and shoved the flute into my hands. He was floating above me, scowling horribly.
“By Setebos and Boreas, Ma’am . . . play! The dragon just dropped us.”
SOMEHOW I found the breath, though I cannot recall what I played. Mab hurriedly stuck in his earplugs. The plane continued to fall, the air whistling around us. Then, the whistle became a roar as gale-strength winds lifted us up, missing wing and all.
Mab, his face pressed against a window, whistled softly himself. “Well, would ya look at that!”
Outside, flying away from us, was a giant brown-speckled bird, bigger than an eighteen-wheeler, with a head like a hawk’s, each wing the span of a football field. In its immense claws, it carried Osae the Dragon. The crimson serpent squirmed and writhed, trying to free himself, but the roc had pierced the dragon’s body with a talon, so the shapechanger could not alter himself without tearing his body in two. As the two supernatural creatures sped away, I gave a feeble cheer.
“Sake’s alive! The magnificent roc! Did your Lady send it?”
I laughed weakly and pointed to the left. “No. That roc works for a much less spiritual master.”
Through the swirling snow came a white stallion flying on feathered wings. He sped across the sky as easily as an ordinary horse might gallop across a meadow. The winds carrying our plane troubled him not at all. Atop his back, laughing and waving his staff, rode my brother Mephisto.
“I can’t believe it,” Mab muttered, chagrined. “We’ve been saved by the Harebrain! I wonder if he’s been following us all this time?”
Prospero Lost: Prospero's Daughter, Book I Page 35
