At the end of the red carpet stood a jaunty blue-and-white-striped tent that might have been more at home at a Renaissance fair than on a landing strip. It was furnished with a couch and a ceiling fan. Parked nearby were several gleaming Cessnas, private jets that made the seaplane look like a broken sandbox toy.
As Owen and Clay approached, a young woman in a yellow sundress and an enormous hat emerged from the tent. When she tipped her hat, Clay saw that it was Amber, Brett’s father’s ex-girlfriend and Clay’s brother’s childhood nemesis. Clay had only ever seen her in passing, and he was pretty sure she wouldn’t recognize him; now was the test.
“Hello, friends!” Amber stepped onto the red carpet and spread her arms wide like a cheerleader’s. “Welcome to the Kalahari!”
Owen walked ahead of Clay and stuck his hand out to shake Amber’s. “Max Bergman,” he said in a brusque, confident voice that suggested he was used to giving orders. Clay was reminded momentarily of Brett’s father. “And this is my son, Austin. Thank you for having us.”
“Thank you for coming! And for that generous contribution to our work! I’m Amber, your, oh, let’s say, activity coordinator?”
Amber gave a self-deprecating laugh. Her brilliant white teeth looked straight out of a toothpaste commercial.
Clay exhaled. Evidently, she didn’t recognize him after all.
Before he could really relax, however, a large swarthy man stepped out from behind the tent. He had a big bushy beard and wild curly hair barely contained by a safari hat, and he was covered in dust and sand from head to toe. He looked like some monstrous creature risen out of the desert, the Kalahari cousin of the Abominable Snowman: the Abominable Sandman.*
“Sorry about my inelegant appearance,” he said gruffly, brushing sand off his shoulder. “The Land Rover’s radiator was acting up again.”
Amber smiled a little less enthusiastically. “Allow me to introduce the most important member of our staff: namely, our resident animal handler, and of course”—Amber lowered her voice for effect—“dragon wrangler, Vicente.”
The hairy sandman tipped his hat. He motioned past the row of shiny Cessnas to Owen’s plane, now covered with a layer of dust and sand almost as thick as the layer covering Vicente. “I usually fly hawks or falcons, not airplanes, but isn’t that a seaplane?”
Uh-oh. Clay tried to avoid looking at anyone.
Owen laughed. “You’re not insulting my trusty old Tempest, are you?! Actually”—he winked slyly—“don’t tell my office, but we came straight from Fiji. She may not look like much, but that old girl really knows her way around an island. Besides, my Gulfstream has the carbon footprint of a 747.”
Clay was pretty impressed with Owen’s acting job, but Vicente seemed less so. “Sure,” he said, looking between Owen and Clay with inscrutable dark eyes.
What was it the Occulta Draco said about hawks and falcons? Clay wondered whether Vicente’s experience with birds was the reason he was hired as a dragon wrangler.
Owen coughed. “So, I hate to cut this party short, but I got a really… badly timed phone call just before we landed.”
“Not an emergency, I hope?” said Amber, her eyes wide with concern.
“It appears I am being accused of insider trading.” Owen shook his head dismissively. “These days, everyone thinks you’re a thief if you run a hedge fund.”
“How awful!” Amber clucked sympathetically. “Believe me, we’re not so closed-minded here. Right, Vicente?”
She turned to Vicente for support, but the falconer-turned-dragon-keeper said nothing. He looked like he thought it very probable that Owen belonged in jail.
“Unfortunately, I have to turn right around to give a deposition,” Owen continued. “But Austin here, well, he’s been looking forward to this trip for weeks, and he’s heartbroken at the thought of having to leave. Is there any way… I hate to ask, but since we’re already here…”
“Of course he should stay,” said Amber. “We’ll give him the trip of a lifetime!”
“Now wait a second.” Vicente stepped forward, scowling. “I already have a kid to look out for. Not to mention a dragon or two.”
A dragon or two? Clay thought. Was that just an expression?
“Don’t be silly, Vicente,” Amber said. “He’s not going to be any trouble at all. Anyway, it’s not your decision to make, is it?”
Vicente didn’t say anything more, but his glowering stare only became more intimidating. Clay swallowed nervously. He was going to have to watch out for this guy.
Amber turned back to Owen. “Well, Mr. Bergman, I wish you could stay with us and avoid that yucky deposition, but don’t worry about Austin. We’re gonna have a super time.”
“Yeah, real super,” mocked Brett in Clay’s ear.
“Terrific.” Owen turned to go. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Then he said casually to Clay, over his shoulder, “Be good. And try not to run up too crazy a bill.”
He gave Clay a subtle thumbs-up.
Clay’s very strong instinct was to run after Owen, yelling to his “dad” that he had changed his mind. Nonetheless, he returned the thumbs-up—weakly—and remained rooted to the spot.
Amber sidled up alongside Clay. “Well, we had planned to have a drink in the tent, but with your dad on his way out, why wait? Let’s get to the dragons!”
Clay was barely paying attention, but he forced a smile. “Yeah, sure, okay,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
“That’s the spirit,” said Amber.
“Wait, did she say dragons, plural?!” asked Leira, startling Clay by saying exactly what he’d been thinking.
“So that means they got Ariella to reproduce?” Brett marveled.
In the distance, Clay could already hear the seaplane’s engine revving. He turned and saw the propellers starting to spin. There was no backing out now.
On the other side of the tent, a classic sand-colored Land Rover jeep awaited them. The Keep’s name was stenciled on the door—along with a slick logo that looked like it might be the emblem of a high-tech weapons manufacturer or multinational security firm.
As Clay climbed into the back, Amber hopped into the passenger seat, holding on to her hat. “To the Keep, Vicente,” she shouted (obviously for Clay’s benefit, since there didn’t seem to be any other place to go).
Vicente kicked the Land Rover into life. Clay scrambled to buckle himself in as they left the smooth asphalt of the landing strip and made straight for a dirt road that snaked up the side of the crater.
“So how many dragons are there?” he asked, leaning toward Amber.
She looked over her shoulder. “All together?” Amber counted on her fingers. “Nine.”
“Nine?” repeated Clay, unable to hide his astonishment.
Amber nodded delightedly. “Yep. We’ve had four babies hatch just this week! You’re going to love them.”
“Wow… that’s… awesome,” said Clay.
Nine dragons. Nine Ariellas. It was a thrilling prospect. And a daunting one.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
THE ROAD TO THE KEEP
The narrow, rocky road twisted back on itself time and again, each turn more treacherous than the last, until Clay had to shut his eyes. This was worse than riding in Owen’s seaplane; the only question in Clay’s mind was whether he would throw up before or after the Land Rover went tumbling down to the desert below.
In the front seat, Amber spoke quietly into a walkie-talkie. Then she clicked it off and smiled back at Clay. “Sorry! I know the ride’s a little rugged, but I promise it’s worth it!”
Eventually, they crested the crater’s rim. Behind them was the seemingly endless desert, but within the crater Clay could see what looked like miles of green jungle. A few buildings stuck out of the greenery, and he could see a row of tents. In the center was a long, sparkling lake.
If he squinted, it could almost be Earth Ranch, Clay thought. There was some similarity to the layout.
Although here there was no rainbow, of course. It was as if he were entering a darker, eerier version of his summer camp.
The Land Rover made a steep descent, crossed over a small creek, and then wound its way under a canopy of trees dripping with vines. It looked like a tropical rain forest.
Amber gestured to the foliage around them. “We just planted all of this in the past year, but you wouldn’t know it, would you?”
Clay shook his head. It was true. Had she not said anything, he would have thought that the greenery had been there forever. The Keep was already weirder than any place Clay had ever been—but then how many other desert craters had been turned into jungles?*
“The idea was to create an island in the middle of the desert,” Amber explained.
Clay nodded, wondering if Price Island had inspired the design of the Keep. After all, it was the one dragon habitat they knew.
In any case, Ariella must feel at home here, Clay thought. Who knows, maybe Ariella had sensed Clay’s presence already. He tried reaching out in his mind but felt nothing.
“Getting close now,” said Amber.
Finally, the vines and ferns and bamboo trees cleared, and they drove under an arch-shaped sign decorated with the now-familiar logo. It was considerably larger, and considerably less welcoming, than the sign Clay’s friends had painted for him at camp:
How would any unauthorized visitors get here anyway? Clay wondered. Then again, Cass had been an unauthorized visitor, hadn’t she? For that matter, he was an unauthorized visitor, too; they just didn’t know it. Yet.
A little ways past the sign, the Land Rover pulled into the courtyard of a large U-shaped building with a sheer glass facade, sides of stone, and half-zipper-style crenellations on top.* It looked like a medieval castle that had been split in two to make way for a slick modern hotel.
In the center of the courtyard, two huge dragons rose out of a fountain, frothing at their mouths. They looked ready to kill each other. Clay held his breath—
Then he realized that the dragons were statues—very lifelike statues—and the froth was only water.
Amber giggled. “I know, they fool me every time.”
They parked next to the fountain, and Amber beckoned for Clay to follow her out.
“What about my bag?” he asked.
“What? Oh, don’t worry. Gyorg will get it.”
She gestured behind them: a squat, muscular bulldog of a man—Gyorg, presumably—had already grabbed Clay’s duffel bag and was now carrying it out of sight.
Brett complained in Clay’s ear. “Didn’t I tell you? You never carry your own luggage in a place like that.”
Clay jumped out of the jeep before he realized that the courtyard was still under construction and there were mud puddles everywhere. Several feet ahead, Amber picked her away expertly across the ground. He tried to follow suit, but his shoes sank in the mud, and his pant legs got splattered. Terrific, he thought. He would be tracking dirt everywhere.
“Oops!” said Amber, looking back at him. “Forgot to warn you.”
“No worries—I’m fine,” said Clay, feeling anything but.
And there, waiting in the castle entryway, holding binoculars that were mounted like opera glasses on a long stick, was a woman whom Clay immediately recognized as Ms. Mauvais, though he had never seen her before.
Her perfect blond, blond hair was pulled back from her perfect pale, pale face with its perfect red, red lips, and she was dressed all in white, except for gold stiletto heels that were totally unsuited to the environment but that on her looked exactly right. She was the most beautiful woman Clay had ever seen. Or she would have been were it not for something in her expression—or maybe in her expressionlessness—that caused him to shiver. An inhuman cruelty he could sense even at a distance.
Or was he just imagining it because of everything he’d heard?
She nodded curtly to the new arrivals like a queen acknowledging the return of her soldiers. And then a very unexpected thing happened—she broke into a smile. At least, her lips curled upward in what appeared to be a friendly fashion; the rest of her face didn’t move.
“Austin Bergman, Esquire, I presume?” She looked reprovingly at Amber. “You didn’t tell me our new ward was so handsome, dear. Did you intend to keep him all to yourself?”
Ms. Mauvais turned to Clay. “Don’t worry, darling. Whatever Amber has said, we are delighted to have you, father or no father.”
“That’s just what I—” protested Amber.
Ms. Mauvais waved Amber away. “Go be a good girl and find Satya for me, will you?”
Reddening, Amber scurried off as ordered.
“Please do pardon the construction,” Ms. Mauvais continued graciously. “I hope you agree that you are lucky to be among the first to see the Keep, but it does mean facing an exposed wire or two. Très désolée.”
“That means she’s very sorry,” Brett whispered in Clay’s ear. “Tell her, er, de rien.”
“Day ree-en,” Clay hazarded.
His attempt at French seemed to delight Ms. Mauvais. “You speak French—wonderful! I daresay you’ll fit right in.”
She gestured for him to follow her into the Keep’s gleaming marble foyer. As they entered, Ms. Mauvais snapped gloved fingers over her head, and instantly two sweaty uniformed attendants appeared with glasses of sparkling lemon water on a tray.
“Er, thanks,” said Clay, taking one.
“So, what do you think of our little castle?” she asked as Clay gratefully sipped his water. “Given it’s a work in progress, of course.”
Clay looked around at all the chrome fixtures and sleek black leather furniture. They seemed like an odd juxtaposition with the medieval tapestries that hung on the walls, not to mention the full suit of armor standing guard by the front door, but what did he know? To him, the room didn’t look like a castle, or even a hotel, so much as an art museum. Certainly, it didn’t look very welcoming.
“Tell her it’s nice,” whispered Brett. “But don’t sound overly impressed. Remember, you’ve been better places.”
“Uh, it’s nice. That’s St. George, isn’t it, fighting that dragon?” Clay indicated one of the tapestries.
“Why, yes, I believe it is!” said Ms. Mauvais, a flicker of something like surprise lighting up her motionless face.
“St. George?” said Brett. “Where’d you pull that out of?”
“Don’t be too impressed,” said Leira. “It’s the only dragon-fighting knight he knows.”
Clay squirmed. He really wished they wouldn’t talk so much.
“In fact,” continued Ms. Mauvais, eyeing him curiously, “that sword in there is said to be St. George’s. It’s called DragonSlayer.” She nodded toward a glass case in the center of the room. “Of course, it’s unlikely St. George ever existed, but it makes a nice story.”
Feeling intensely uncomfortable under Ms. Mauvais’s gaze, Clay studied the sword. The blade was long and wide and heavy-looking, and the hilt had blackened over time. In contrast to its gleaming surroundings, the sword appeared grimy and unpolished, and more than a little menacing. Had it really slayed dragons? It looked deadly enough.
“And this,” said Ms. Mauvais, leading the way to an adjoining room, “is the Ryū Room.”
Unlike the austere entry hall, the Ryū Room was opulently decorated with Asian art and artifacts: intricately designed rugs, delicate vases, and silken screens. There were dragons everywhere, but unlike the flying dragons in the tapestries, these dragons were mostly wingless snakelike creatures, as the dragons in Asian art tend to be.
“The ryū, as you no doubt know, is the legendary Japanese dragon,” she said, pointing to a dragon on one of the screens. “But we have objets from Korea, Malaysia, China.… Take this Ming dynasty vase.” She pointed to a large blue-and-white vase that depicted all manner of animals on land, at sea, and in the air. “Now, I wonder, can you tell me which of these animals is the dragon?”
Clay hesitated; he didn
’t see any dragons.
“Never mind—a trick question,” said Ms. Mauvais. “They’re all dragons. In Chinese myths, dragons take the shapes of many animals.”
In the middle of the room stood a shiny red-lacquer bar illustrated with golden dragons, as well as a grand piano that was as long as a limousine. “Now, please, I know you’re exhausted, but I want you to meet your fellow guests. Don’t worry—there are only a few. Our group is very intimate.”
Sitting by the bar were several people wearing clothes that looked more appropriate for a night at the opera than for a day in the Kalahari. Did this mean they wouldn’t be going out to see the dragons? Clay wondered worriedly. Or did these people always dress this way?
Ms. Mauvais waved to one of the guests. “Charles, darling! Where have you been hiding? You must have snuck in while I was getting my morning treatments.”
A smoothly handsome man with smooth dark hair curled just so, Charles stood up from his seat at the bar and walked over to them, as comfortably as if he, not Ms. Mauvais, were the host. He wore a crisp white suit and, in place of a tie, a burgundy silk cravat around his neck. Like Ms. Mauvais, Charles was wearing white gloves, though his were not so long. Clay tried not to stare at them.
“Chère Antoinette,” he said suavely, “do not chide me for being unable to resist your charms.”
“Admit it: You wanted to see with your own eyes my petit jardin de dragons.”
“Oui, c’est une folie douce!” said Charles agreeably. He reached out and took Ms. Mauvais’s gloved hand in his, raising it to his lips.
“She said he wanted to see her little dragon garden,” Brett interpreted. “He called it a sweet madness.”
“Well, he’s got the mad part right,” Leira interjected.
“Shh!” said Clay under his breath.
Ms. Mauvais beckoned Clay closer.
“Charles is a dear old friend,” she said.
How old? Clay couldn’t help wondering. Hundreds of years?
Ms. Mauvais put a stiff hand on Clay’s shoulder. Her touch was strange, at once frail and forceful. Clay tried not to recoil. “And this is Austin. His father was called away on business, so he is ours for the weekend.”