Plight of the Dragon (15 page)

“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 when 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.
 

Chelsea? The papers slipped from his fingers, fluttered to the floor, and he spun around to study the girl once more. He’d known something felt off about her. Clearly, it had been a mistake to ignore it, put it off to be dealt with later. He took a deep breath, and with it, a step toward her. Allowing her to accompany him here, to this place, exposed the truth of his suspicion.
 

Curled on the floor, wrapped tight in her fluffy white robe, was the dying human girl he knew as Chelsea. The same girl he’d given a reprieve from Death at her reaping several months back. Only, now…now, faintly visible was another soul hitching a ride, possibly even hijacking her body, thoughts, and actions.
 

Sebastian approached and kneeled before her, wiping her sweat-soaked hair from her face. “Who are you?”
 

Her eyes widened, and a startled expression flashed across her features. “What did that box do to you? You know who I am, Sebastian.”

“I do, Chelsea.” He took her hand in his, held it gently. “I’m talking to the other, squatting inside you where they don’t belong.” He studied her face, watched it change, and believed she had a vague awareness of what was happening. If not completely, at least on some level. “Have you experienced any loss of time?” he asked.

Chelsea glanced away and bit her lip in silence, before answering a few moments later. “Sometimes. But mostly, I listen to the voice inside my head and do as she says.”

Nudging the crook of his finger beneath her chin, he turned her head to face him once again. “This voice, is it yours?”

“No.” She shook with tears. “But I wanted to do everything she told me to do. All of it. It brought me closer to you, and there’s no place I’d rather be.” Chelsea took a deep breath.
 

He smiled gently. “How long has she been with you?”

“Since that first day I saw you.” Chelsea sniffled. “Sometimes I’m aware when she’s with me, other times, my mind is blank. When she leaves me alone, I haven’t a clue how to find the carnival or you. I’m back home in a hospital bed.”

Sebastian’s brows pinched together. “And what kind of things has she told you to do?”
 

Chelsea cleared her throat. “Easy stuff, mostly. Get to know you. Get close to you. She said she needed my help to fix things, to fix her, and somehow, knowing you was going to make everything all better. But then her plan got so messy, and I didn’t know what to do. Coming between you and Kyra proved to be an impossible task. At least, I thought so until I saw you today.” She lowered her gaze to her lap, and tears streamed down her checks. “I messed up and I’m so weak. Too weak to make a difference.”
 

He clutched both her hands and lowered his head to see her better. “She’s hurting you, Chelsea, can’t you see that? She sped up your cancer, killing you all the more quickly.” He held her face in the palm of his hands and wished…oh, by all Hell’s might, he wished his sincerity would be enough to cure her. “If she’s broken, in need of fixing, she can never achieve any kind of mend by breaking another. Especially someone like yourself.” Using his thumb, he wiped a dribble of blood from her nose.
 

Chelsea lowered her eyes. “You honor me, and I don’t deserve it.” She raised her hand and coughed, sprinkling blood into her palm. She stared, fixated on the splotches of red.
 

“She’s murdering you, Chelsea.”

“No.” She met his gaze. “I did this. I am the creator of my own calamity.”

The fortuneteller against the wall clinked and burped, spit out another card, then Chelsea disappeared in a swirl of turquois smoke. In the last second before she was gone, after substance vanished from his hold but hints remained within the fog, he could have sworn it was the face of another he saw. A hungry, eager, and angry face, clawing to stay. Worse yet, he thought he recognized her. If only he could remember from where.
 

Sebastian was on his feet and spinning in a circle, searching the room, before the smoke dissipated. He was alone. His thoughts exploded like a coaster on the downhill fall, picking up speed by the second, tossing into a spin and sharp turn. Who was manipulating Chelsea? What was the big mess she’d referred to? Was the mess the reason his dad, Mr. Johnson, and all the other Grims were here?
 

So many Grims in the carnival. What did that mean for Mystic’s? The cards could probably tell him. Like the carnival dog seeks his bone for comfort, Sebastian started thumbing through the tarot card deck in his pocket. He dealt a card—Death. His chest grew heavy. He dealt another, and Death again. The weight swelled throughout his body, the dormant dragon inside him coiled. Another card dealt, another Death. An unfortunate Grim situation. Flipping the deck over, he found the entire deck was nothing but more of the same. With that many Death cards, it was unlikely the deck foretold his or Chelsea’s fate. The fortune was for something weightier than one or two of Mystic’s members. He had to get out of the bibelot tent, had to change the predictions. Sebastian didn’t subscribe to the idea of a tarot future set in stone. The one the cards predicted, he was going to reap that one to Hell.
 

Clinkity-clankity-clunk
. The patterns on the floor began to turn. Sebastian sidestepped away from the crimson circles, finding safety along the outer edge by the animated fortuneteller. The latest note lay on the floor, mocking him. He picked it up.

 
The Great Valko finds L. M. unworthy. Adieu.

It was a clue to Chelsea’s hitchhiker. But who the Grim was L.M.?
 

The floor’s intricate design twisted and turned like the inner workings of a clock, then, with a thundering
pop,
exploded into a tent filled with museum case after museum case brimming with rare and unique finds—the bibelots. Likewise, all around the walls, curtains pulled back to reveal displays. Everything had been here all along, only now they were finally showing themselves.
 

Sebastian’s concerns temporarily forgotten, or at least put on hold, he jogged the perimeter of the tent in search of the necessary item. When it wasn’t found framed in a curtained display, he took to a systematic search of the cases gridding the floor. His search ended at the fifth box of glass. Housed within was an ancient item of gold easily mistaken for a weapon. When studied closely, Sebastian could see it was a funnel, only built with a firm handle resembling that of a dagger. He took a deep breath and considered its use. Dragons decorated the handle engravings and danced around the surface of the funnel. And it was a dragon this piece was going to help. The dragon soul-shifter would do what it was meant to do: shift a soul. In this case, it would return Kalrapura to her rightful owner.

“Okay, Great Valko. Help me out here.” Sebastian circled the museum case, unsure how to extract what he needed.
 

The Great Valko chugged and burped, spit out another card, and the glass protecting the dragon soul-shifter evaporated. Sebastian felt instantly lighter, and without first checking the Great Valko’s latest card he grabbed the artifact, tucking it safely into his coat’s inner pocket.
 

The tent shuddered and lights flickered. All the curtains around the perimeter dropped to a close. Museum cases slid back into the floor. Everything went pitch-black. All sound ceased. And the tent fell.

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