Plight of the Dragon

by Debra Kristi

  Drakhögg barged through the curtain and stopped short at the sight of Talia and Kyra. “Sorry, ladies. I’m looking for someone. I didn’t mean to bound in here all smoke and noise.”

  Talia giggled, then the lights flickered twice and went black. Even the carnival hum went silent.

  Kyra gasped.

  13

  BIBELOT

  Sebastian

  If Sebastian moved at a pace matching his mood, he’d have sulked through the midway, scuffing dust beneath his feet. As things stood, he moved with a purpose, an all-out need to restore Kyra to her fully intended nature, restore her dragon Kalrapura.

  The key, according to the ancient, wise Zeke, could be found in the tent of Magical Bibelots. The tricky part was finding that particular tent. It didn’t always want to be found. Didn’t matter, Sebastian was determined. Whether it wanted to be found today or not, that was where Sebastian headed. There was no time to waste.

  After leaving Kyra with Talia, he’d taken a few minutes to stop by his own trailer and change out of his dragon-burned and battle-thrashed attire. He now darted through the carnival in his tailored tarot card reader costume. Cleaned up, he drew less attention, and he hoped, though it might be in vain, that the simple act of dressing for his business side would help him control any dragon outburst from within. Feeling excessively hot, he loosened his scarf, then shoved his hands in the pockets of his gentleman’s jacket and rubbed his hands along his tarot deck. It was a simple act, but the cards often brought a sense of tranquility and purpose to his flustered being.

  Sebastian’s thoughts consumed him, leaving the surrounding carnival to blend into a blur at the back of his mind. All he could think about was Kyra. And occasionally, the item he would find at the end of his search. Will it be difficult to use? Will it hurt?

  “Where are you going?”

  Startled, Sebastian glanced to his side and discovered Chelsea had fallen into step beside him. It was with a heavy heart that his gaze traced the beast eating away at her body. His Reaper senses not only smelled the cancer ravaging her from within, but could locate it everywhere inside her tiny frame, or what was left of her once healthy figure. Her formerly bright eyes were now dull and carried dark baggage. Her cheeks were sunken and her hair lay limp, having lost is usual bounce.

  His footing faltered momentarily before resuming pace. He pointed to his nose. Averting her face, Chelsea slipped a hankie from the pocket of her robe and wiped. The white fabric came away red with blood. “It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing. That’s what you call your cancer?”

  “I don’t see any point on dwelling on sickness and letting it control me.” Chelsea pulled at the front of her nightgown and robe, lifting them so that she could better keep pace with Sebastian. “Hey.” She stopped abruptly.

  He halted and studied her. “What is it?”

  “I never told you I had cancer. Not since we met at the carnival.” Thoughtfulness passed over her features. “It’s because of what you are, isn’t it?”

  He jerked, recoiled slightly. “What do you mean?”

  She lowered her head, tried to hide a meek smile, but it was no good, Sebastian saw. “I remember the night you came to me in the hospital.” She peeked up, and her face was serious now. Sebastian’s eyes widened. “When I was dying.”

  “No,” he shook his finger, “if you were that sick, then you were probably hallucinating.”

  “You came to take my soul, but you didn’t.”

  “It wasn’t me, Chelsea.”

  “You gave me more time.” She clutched his hand in her own. Instinct told him to pull away, keep up the denial. Instead, he squeezed her hand. “Thank you,” she said.

  He heaved a heavy sigh. “I may not have done you a favor that night. You’re not looking so great.”

  “I’m fine. You gave me time I wouldn’t have had otherwise.”

  Sebastian said nothing. Instead, he studied her decaying appearance, took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more.”

  “It’s fine. It’s not like you’re God with access to get-out-of-death-free cards.”

  Sebastian grimaced at the visual. “Listen Chelsea, I’m kinda busy right now, but you can walk with me if you want.” He took up his stride again, in search of the tent of baubles and trinkets. “Was there something you needed?” He spared her a sideways glance.

  Her shoulders slumped. “I’m worried about you. All this stuff going on with Kyra.” She rubbed her neck, extending her head forward. “I think it’s having a negative effect on you. Kyra has a negative effect on you.”

  “Negative effect?” He gave her a curt glance, pausing in his stride.

  “I don’t think she’s healthy for you.”

  He kept his eyes on the path ahead, alert for any changes from the carnival, and this time didn’t allow his gaze to wander to Chelsea. Chelsea was a nice enough girl, but she had a bad habit of often showing up when Kyra wasn’t around, and then trying to subtly win his affection. This straightforward attack on Kyra was a new low for her. “It’s none of your business. You should be less concerned about me and worry more about your own health.” He turned a sharp glare upon her face. She recoiled.

  “There you are.”

  Sebastian rolled his eyes and paused in his step. Was he ever going to get where he needed to go? It was as if everyone was coming out of the tents to delay him. He turned an irritated gaze upon Mr. Johnson, his father’s pain-in-the-Purgatory-ass minion. Chelsea shifted to the side and a foot behind Sebastian.

  “We’ve been searching for you everywhere.” Mr. Johnson stepped forward, his face tightening. A bubble of pleasure rose in Sebastian’s chest, pleased that he’d irked this annoying excuse of a man, but Sebastian didn’t have time to squabble with him right now. No time at all. Mr. Johnson’s gaze moved momentarily to Chelsea then returned to Sebastian.

  “Sorry, Johnson, I’ve got no room for you today. Catch me on the reap later.” He winked and shot between the game booths on his left. Before disappearing from view, Sebastian caught sight of another minion a few steps behind Johnson. It appeared to be Mr. Vargas. Why did his dad need so many Grims just to find him? Something nasty, ugly, and reaped with acid churned in his gut.

  Never stopping to reflect, Sebastian moved through the many game booths and lit rides, heading for the area with the most tents, the Extraordinary Show tents. It was the most logical place for a bibelot tent to hide. And then a thought drifted to him out of the haze of happy screams and musical banter. He stopped and pulled back his sleeve, stared down at the marking on his arm. Talia had put the compass there to help him find the entrance to Mobürn, home of the Fire Dragons. The magical white compass on his skin had worked that day, and he wondered if it could help him find the tent of bibelots now.

  Keeping a steady eye on the spinning hand within the compass, Sebastian whispered, “Take me to the tent I desire.” The needle began to spin erratically. It spun and spun and spun and finally came to rest, leading the way. A victory smile inched across Sebastian’s lips, but it was a dark victory. There was death in the victory, but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

  Letting his arm lead the way, Sebastian began his trek once again.

  “I thought I’d lost you.” Chelsea appeared at his side, heaving.

  Sebastian threw his head back. “I’d rather be alone right now, Chelsea.” He spared her a glance. “Why are you following me?” He stared at his arm again and walked faster.

  “I just…” Chelsea fell behind, her sick and feeble body unable to keep the pace. He knew he was being a bastard, it was only…

  He groaned and slowed down. “Come on.” He waved for her to follow.

  He was a mess, he knew that, and he was taking it out on everyone around him. Except that wasn’t the only thing at work here. There was something off about Chelsea, had been for a long time now. Her aura had changed, darkened, and her soul felt fractured. She was not the same girl
he met a year ago, and he hadn’t wanted to say anything. But now, his time was running out. Should I push? Or let it go?

  They walked in silence for most of the way, Sebastian not wanting to strike up conversation, and Chelsea needing her breath to keep up with him.

  It was Chelsea who finally broke the quiet. “What is that thing?” She pointed to the needle gyrating on his arm.

  “It’s a compass that’s going to help get me where I need to be.”

  “And where’s that?” Chelsea leaned against Sebastian, putting her weight on his arm. He could tell it was a need more than a desire. She was weak, so he helped her.

  “If you insist on staying at my side, you are going to find out shortly.” He could feel her smile radiate through her, a mild warmth tingling in her blood, and there was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  The compass lead them out of the exuberant Fun Zone and deep into the landscape of show tents. There were big tents and small tents, tents sized somewhere in between. Some reached forever high, while others were an average circus-tent height. Black and white and purple stripes surrounded them like prison cell bars. Red pennants flapped wildly attempting to escape. Acrobats housed a notable space on his left, tumblers and the Magician’s moderate accommodations on the right.

  The compass led them past these shows into an unassuming alleyway. It was desolate, untraveled. The only sound was the cheers heard from other tents. The white compass on Sebastian’s arm pointed straight ahead, and then the needle vanished. “I think we’re here,” he said.

  “I don’t see anything.” Chelsea held Sebastian’s arm tight and turned her head from side to side, her eyes wide.

  “It’s here. It’s simply hiding.” Sebastian took two steps forward and stopped. He wasn’t exactly sure how the tent worked or what he should do, but figured he would follow his gut and see where that got him. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, or something like that. “Show yourself,” he demanded.

  The passageway before them remained unchanged. It was disappointing, but not devastating. Sebastian remained unfurled. He squinted hard, studying the air for any signs of distortion or displacement. He detected none, and yet, the compass suggested he had reached his destination. If entrance were terribly difficult, he thought Zeke would have warned him. Having received no warning or guidance, he guessed it was a matter of knowing the right thing to say, or possibly do.

  His lips twisted in deep speculation. The tent hid rare objects. Kept them safe from those wanting to use them inappropriately. He did not fall into that category. The tent was here to be enjoyed by those of pure heart and intention. Wasn’t that him? He considered his motives pure. His actions were, after all, to help Kyra, not better his own status. With a clear conscience, he tried again, this time with a slightly different approach. “Reveal.”

  Above the tents before them, hovering in the sky like a cloud on a summer’s day, a shimmering tent appeared. Chelsea caught her breath. Sebastian held his. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but this exceeded it by miles and decades. Swaying in the air as a boat would on the sea, the tent was unlike anything Sebastian had seen at the carnival before. He wondered how secure he would feel inside something so untethered. If he could even get up there. He didn’t see a way up. Then, as if answering his thoughts, a set of long spiral steps descended. Not at the front of the tent, but in the center. They would be coming up from the bottom, in the middle of the bibelots collection.

  “Ready?” Sebastian turned and inspected Chelsea’s physical condition, unsure if a mountain of steps was within her current ability.

  “Whenever you are,” she replied with a nervous smile.

  “You don’t have to go. You can wait here. I’ll be back, you know. I really don’t think that trek,” he pointed to the long winding steps, “is good for you in your present state.”

  Her face hardened, and her lips drew taut. She studied the stairs, then glowered at Sebastian. “I want to go. You can’t stop me.”

  “Have it your way.” He wasn’t in the mood to argue. He turned and headed for the steps, Chelsea shuffling behind. Ascending the steps was slow going, Sebastian waiting for Chelsea, making sure she didn’t run out of breath or collapse. The steps sloshed beneath their shoes, the rail chilled under their touch. When they finally reached the top, a door in the base of the tent opened like a curtain on a Broadway show, only this one defied gravity.

  Chelsea was five steps behind Sebastian. He hesitated, wanting to go inside the tent, while at the same time feeling his body flood with guilt at the idea of leaving her unattended. What if she fell? He’d already been foolish enough to allow her to drop so many lengths behind. He took a step back, meeting her midway, stretched out his arm, and gripped her hand in his own. Her hold was clammy and frail. Together, they took the last few steps with sure and steady footing, Chelsea’s breath coming in a labored wheeze. Sebastian hoped they would find a comfortable chair in which she could rest once they were inside. They did not. No plush, oversized chair awaited them. No seating of any kind stood in the large tent arena.

  What did await them was a glistening floor in brilliant red, black, and white designs. Strings of lights streamed from the ceiling’s center, cascading to the tent’s outer rim, as if the lights were the canvas top, but of course, they weren’t. Beyond the lighted display, the striped Big Top stretched high and wide, peaking and pointing to the sky above. In the center of the space hung a chandelier dripping in resplendent crystals of the utmost clarity, cutting the light into a dazzling display of sparkle. The walls, lush, glistening curtains in red. Everything about where they now stood was extraordinary, even in its lacking. No furniture and no curio collection. Where are the displays housing the rare collectibles?

  Chelsea coughed, splattering blood down the front of her robe and gown. The Reaper side of Sebastian beckoned, and with his free hand he absentmindedly fumbled with the deck of cards in his pocket. No, not now. He yanked his hand free. First, he would accomplish what he came here to do. When they made their way back down to the midway, then he would deal with Chelsea’s condition.

  “You should rest,” he said without a glance in her direction. He tapped her hand, placed firmly on the bend of his arm. “Take a seat on the floor, if you must. Catch your breath.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, wiping her hands on her robe. But a sudden storm of coughs snared her. She threw her hands up to cover and more splatters of blood spewed onto her palms. “Okay,” she croaked. “Maybe for a bit.” She lowered herself to the ground and leaned against a pole.

  Sebastian studied her, then slipped away and walked toward the perimeter, confident there was more to the tent than it allowed them to see, confident he would discover its secrets. The siding resembled curtains more than the canvas of a tent, so that was where he would start. Wrapping the thick fabric in his fist, he pulled. The fabric didn’t move, didn’t budge, and it certainly didn’t reveal any guarded secrets. And yet it was loose, wavy, clearly not the taut edge of the tent.

  Left palm flat, he pressed against the curtain, pushing back an inch or two, then hit something hard and flat—he knocked on it with his right hand—and pretty big. He laid both palms against the fabric, feeling for any edges of what was hidden on the other side. An electric shock jerked his body, raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and made his knees weak. Reflexively, he stumbled back a step and started to hunch. The curtains in front of him drew back to reveal a coin-operated fortuneteller. Clicking to life, the mechanical head raised, his turban bobbing with the motion. A creepy smile appeared beneath a mustached lip, and the crystal ball between his hands swirled with turquoise smoke.

  Crank, clang, clap, the mechanism rang, and a fortune spit from the big crimson box. The ribbon of paper snaked from the slot, far longer than any arcade fortune Sebastian had ever seen. He reached for the note, and then paused, stared at his hand. Ghostly white skin stretched across his bones, now visible as lines of grey and oat. Since w
hen had he become a walking corpse? Running circuits of indigo and garnet pulsed, however slight, beneath the dermis.

  Did the electric shock from the box actually kill me? Sebastian shook his head. That’s ridiculous. Whatever was happening to him, it had to do with this place, its protections. Sebastian flipped his hand front and back, wiggling his fingers. A bitter taste slithered down his throat and his stomach constricted, all while his chest fluttered with delight. Before he could change his mind, he snatched the fortune and read the message.

  For all who enter the bibelot vault, pretense and disguise shall be vanquished, and truth shall be thy smock. Upon genuine-self thou will be judged, and upon genuine-self thy honor determined.

  Sebastian’s breath stuck, lodged in his chest, and he gawked at the paper, not sure what to make of the judgment decree. Although, it did explain his curious opaque skin. Stripped of his natural camouflage, he guessed this was what he looked like, what he was—a Reaper-Mara hybrid, thereby Death in the flesh.

  Another note ejected from the fortuneteller with a burp. Sebastian wrinkled his nose and snapped it from where it clung, held it up to read. One silent laugh heaved through his chest. This note was considerably shorter. Six words scrolling across the thin page: The Great Valko finds you worthy. A quick glance at the nameplate in front of the automated carnie confirmed his identity as the one and only Great Valko.

  “What now?” Sebastian asked the novelty. “Where are all the bibelots?” With a click and a clack, the box burped again, spitting out yet another note. He snatched it without a moment’s hesitation, then stared in disbelief.

  The Great Valko finds the female unworthy.