Tears of a Dragon (4 page)

The professor pulled Bonnie to a stop, and his warm breath brushed her ear. “We’ve arrived, Miss Silver. Do you know what Miss Foley looks like?”

She kept her gaze straight ahead. “I saw pictures of her at their house, but I don’t know how old they were. She’s real pretty—shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes, dimples when she smiles. In the family shot, she was the same height as Walter, and she’s kind of thin like he is. But I can see through these glasses. I’ll help you find her.”

“As long as you keep your head still. Otherwise you won’t appear to be blind.”

“Sure, I’ll just—”

“Enough talking,” he said, taking her hand. “Squeeze twice if you see her.”

For the next twenty minutes or so, Bonnie surveyed the crowds of people streaming in from the arriving flights. Quite a few looked sort of like Shelly, and she worried that the dark glasses might skew her vision too much. Several onlookers held signs with people’s names on them, obviously searching for someone they wouldn’t recognize. A “Shelly Foley” sign would make it all so easy, but would it draw too much attention?

Bonnie read some of the signs to herself,
Alf Mortenson, James Ricardo, Juanita Ames,
wondering about the person represented by each one, where they were coming from, where they were going.
Sam Hutchinson, Bill Marks, Shelly Foley.
Bonnie stiffened.
Shelly Foley!
She squeezed the professor’s hand twice.

He leaned down. “Where is she?”

Bonnie whispered hoarsely. “Look at the sign to your right, about twenty feet away. The guy with the curly blond hair.”

A young man held the sign, so stunningly handsome he seemed unearthly. Bonnie distrusted him immediately. “He’s up to no good. I can feel it.”

“And I concur.” The professor placed his arm around her shoulder. “Let’s see what his intentions are.”

They crept toward the man, Bonnie with her cane in front, but just before they came within speaking distance, a young woman broke free from the crowd. “You looking for me?” she asked the man.

The young man’s bright eyes gleamed as he flashed a million-dollar smile. “Shelly Foley?”

She nodded. “That’s me.”

Bonnie looked her over. She certainly resembled Shelly, but Bonnie had never seen a photo of her dressed so . . . casually—an unzipped sweatshirt revealing a tight Harvard top that didn’t quite reach her low-slung jeans.

Bonnie kept her chin tucked close to her chest. With the hood draped over her brow and the shades over her eyes, she doubted that Shelly would guess who she was.

Professor Hamilton strode forward, leaving Bonnie behind. “Excuse me! Miss Foley! I was summoned by your father to pick you up.”

Shelly pulled her head back, staring at the professor suspiciously. “Who are you?”

He dipped his head in a quick bow. “I am Charles Hamilton, your father’s professor and mentor from Oxford and your brother’s homeschool teacher. Surely they have mentioned me to you.”

“Of course he’s talked about the Prof,” she replied, her brow furrowing, “but I’ve never seen a picture, so I don’t—”

“Perhaps I can explain, Mr. Hamilton.” The young man placed a hand behind the professor’s shoulder. “I’m Christopher Hawkins with Freestate Limousine Services. Shelly’s father called and asked us to pick her up. He was concerned that you wouldn’t be able to find her, so he made a reservation for her just in case.” He flashed his smile again. “Sounds like a good father to me.”

“Carl is a devoted father, to be sure.” The professor’s voice grew just a bit more aggressive. “But we have found her, so your services will not be necessary.”

Christopher stepped back. “Of course. As you wish.”

“Wait a minute,” Shelly said, grabbing the placard. “Does my father have to pay for the limo anyway?” Her gaze seemed locked on the company logo at the bottom of the sign, a black stretch limousine with a long-legged woman stepping into the back.

Christopher folded his hands behind him. “Not the full fare for a ride to West Virginia, but there is a cancellation fee.”

Shelly pointed the placard at the professor. “What are you driving?”

Professor Hamilton shifted from one foot to the other. “A, er, a Chevrolet station wagon.”

Shelly nodded toward Bonnie. “With the blind girl?”

The professor stepped back and pulled Bonnie alongside him. “No. I will be with at least three other men, and she wishes to fly with her friends in a Cessna, so you have the option to go with her. Mrs. Bannister is an excellent pilot, and—”

Shelly leaned back, waving her hand. “Oh, no! I’m not flying again in this storm. We bounced around like a pinball, and that was in a jumbo jet.”

Christopher took the sign and folded it slowly, keeping his eyes on his hands. “My limousine has a DVD player, snacks and drinks, and a guaranteed smooth ride.”

Bonnie wrinkled her nose. Smooth was right. Too smooth.

The professor unclipped his cell phone. “I’ll see what your father wants you to do.”

“What
he
wants me to do?” Shelly said, scowling. With her voice rising, several passersby turned their heads. “Look, I can make this decision myself. If Dad wants me to pay him back for the ride, I will, but I’m not flying, and I’ll take a limo over a station wagon crowded with a bunch of men I don’t know, anytime.” She curled her arm. “Lead the way, Christopher.”

Christopher flashed his brilliant smile again, took Shelly’s arm, and led her away.

Bonnie grabbed the professor’s sweater and jerked hard. “Call her dad! Quick!”

“Again, I concur.” He pressed a speed dial button and held the cell phone to his ear, waiting for an answer.

Bonnie chewed on her lip. It was taking too long. She tried to follow the pair with her eyes, but they disappeared into the crowd. The creep was getting away.

The professor’s brow lifted. “Carl. It’s Charles. Did you send a limo service for your daughter? . . . You didn’t? Hold on!” He pressed the phone into Bonnie’s hand. “Talk to him!” The professor dashed down the airport corridor, running faster than she imagined he could, dodging people with amazing agility. Just a few seconds later, he returned, his hands raised in frustration as he stood on tiptoes scanning the heads in the crowd.

Bonnie lifted the phone, her hands trembling. “Uh, Mr. Foley. Bonnie again. I think we have bad news . . .”

Billy threw the book onto the ledge with Hambone and splashed toward Walter. He jerked his friend’s body upright, lifting his face above the water. His head lolled to one side, his cheeks ghostly white. Billy grabbed his forearms and spun him around, screaming. “Walter!” Sparks of fire spat out with his words. “Say something! Anything!”

No response.

Billy shivered so hard, the water around him rippled. He pulled Walter into a bear hug, holding his head near his ear. A gentle stream of air from Walter’s half-open mouth grazed his lobe. “Thank God!” Billy said.

Towing Walter’s inert body on the surface of the rising water, Billy sloshed to Hambone’s ledge and heaved his friend onto the flat protrusion, then rolled him next to the dog. With a quick lunge, he hoisted himself up, ducking to keep his head, and Excalibur’s hilt, from hitting the ceiling of the rocky cleft. He squatted, his eyes darting to take in the scene. With water inching up the walls, the entire cave would be full in no time. The entrance seemed impenetrable, unyielding. Tiny wrinkles of energy undulated across the field as the wall of water pressed against it, but the barrier held fast.

The water rose over Billy’s ledge and streamed around his boots and Walter’s limp body. Billy grabbed up
Fama Regis
and laid it across his thighs. Hambone whined and licked Billy’s face. “Cool it,” he said, pushing the dog away. “I’m trying to think.” As he squatted, Shiloh’s pendant dangled over the book’s gray cover, its pulsing rubellite casting scarlet beacon signals over the ornate black letters.

Billy gazed at the title absent-mindedly and murmured the words. “
Fama Regis
.” He opened the book to the first page, a thick yellowed parchment with two words emblazoned at the top that looked vaguely like “
Fama Regis
,” perhaps archaic English runes that had perished from use before the pages were bound. Underneath the title, a fabulous sketch spread across the page, a warrior holding a sword high over his head while hundreds of enemies swarmed in all directions, swords and bows in full attack positions. Light flashed from the sword, streaming around the warrior’s body and creating a dome all around.

With water now lapping at his ankles, Billy pulled the book close to his eyes and stared at the ancient drawing. Dozens of arrows lay at the base of the dome, some twisted or broken, as if mangled when they struck the sword’s glowing field. He laid his hand on the page. A photo-umbrella!

He slapped the book shut and yanked out Excalibur. After scooting close to Walter and Hambone, he summoned the beam and waved it, as if trying to paint the entrance to their alcove with Excalibur’s radiance. Within seconds the beam appeared to solidify into a luminescent wall, and the rising tide began crawling up the outside of the barrier of light.

Billy blew out a long breath. “Safe. At least for now.” He moved the blade slowly back and forth, biting his lip until it hurt.
Would it hold when the water had nowhere else to go? Was there any other way to use Excalibur to get out of this mess?

Keeping one hand on the sword’s hilt, he laid the book on his lap and flipped it open again to the drawing, his eyes darting across the page. Under the drawing, a smudged caption drew a line of tiny, unintelligible runes that flashed black and red under the glow of Billy’s strobing pendant.

Walter labored through convulsive breaths as he lay next to Hambone. The aging hound whined again, his sad red eyes staring into Billy’s.

Billy groaned. “Give me a break! I’m working on it!” As the water crept toward the ceiling, he turned the page, finding dozens of lines of careful script, most of the letters containing a straight, vertical line with oddly angled appendages. Billy tilted his head upward. “Dad!” he called, his voice drowning in the tumult, “you know how to translate this stuff. Where are you when I need you?”

As the sword’s light cast a ghostly radiance across the parchment, the rubellite’s incessant pulse mixed in a bloody hue, outlining the runes with scarlet shadows. With each red flash, the characters seemed to morph, appearing ancient under one shade of crimson, then reappearing in a translated form during the next brief flash. After that, they alternated between old and new, the translated text becoming more readable with every pulse.

During each flash of intelligible words, Billy read quickly, then waited for the next flash.

“A warrior craves the power of light.”

A drop fell onto the page. Was the dome springing a leak?

“Yet strength alone will not avail.”

The water rose to within inches of the rocks above.

“For keys to mysteries hide from men.”

Billy tightened his grip on Excalibur, willing it to hold back the flood.

“Who think their eyes can pierce the veil.”

The morphed words suddenly remained intact, as if solidifying in their new forms. He read faster.

A dragon’s key unlocks the truth

Of light’s redeeming power to save.

Its eye transforms the red to white;

It finds the lost, makes wise the knave.

For light explores the darkened heart,

Igniting souls with probing flames.

It cuts and burns away the chaff—

The flesh of dragons, knights, and dames.

The way of darkness traps and keeps

Its captives naked, cold, and blind,

But light revealing words of truth

Will open doors that snare and bind.

Billy gripped the pendant. “This must be the key!” He glanced around. His photo-umbrella shrank under the strain of the pressing water. The edge of the dome of light no longer covered Walter’s lower body, leaving his legs out in the water. Hambone, sitting with a forepaw propped on Walter’s chest, sniffed the unconscious boy’s head and licked his ear.

Billy pushed Excalibur into Walter’s hands and intertwined his fingers around the hilt. It held fast, and the photo-umbrella continued to glow, but it shrank more quickly. He grabbed Hambone’s collar and pulled him close. “Listen,” he said, staring earnestly into the old hound’s sad eyes. “Stay with Walter, no matter what.”

He closed the book and tucked it tightly under his coat before taking a deep breath and plunging through the dome of light. Keeping his eyes open, he swam frantically for the entrance, following the dim light that seeped through the force field. He let out some air, allowing his body to sink until his feet touched the cave floor. Struggling to stand in the midst of the flood, he held out the flashing pendant, guiding the jewel’s glow closer and closer to the barrier. Its crimson light flashed a vague, wide circle on the surface of the field, narrowing to a disc and then to a pinpoint as he continued to guide it forward.

His lungs begging for breath, Billy waited, praying for a miracle. Could this little light possibly cut through what Excalibur couldn’t even dent? The red point reminded him of the communication laser that Dr. Conner shot into the candlestone, filling the gem with crimson, like a crystal scarab engorged with blood.

The pinpoint grew. Like tiny capillaries branching out from an artery, red light trickled from the point, making the force field look like a huge bloodshot eye. Billy’s lungs felt like they were about to collapse. He had to breathe! Now!

The red focal point continued to expand. Water spilled outside, a miniscule leak in the massive dike. Billy felt faint, his heart pounding. His chest tried to heave in a breath, but he pinched his nose and squeezed his lips together. Both arms trembled. Could he keep the pendant in place long enough?

With the outlet hole slowly growing, darkness began flooding his mind. His arms and legs went numb, and the burning pain in his lungs vanished. An awareness of floating overtook all other sensations, but it was short-lived. A new pain ripped through his body as he felt himself tumbling across rough ground. He thrust out his arm and grabbed something that felt like a tree root. A river of water rushed by, and heavy rain pelted his face, but he held on.