CHAPTER
FOUR

THE DRAGON IN THE YURT

Brett! You’re the surprise?”

Brett grinned as Clay stepped out of the teepee. “About time! I’ve been waiting here forever.”

“I thought you were still on that ship,” said Clay. “With what’s her name—Captain Abad.”

“I am. I mean, not right this second, obviously, but most of the time, yeah. Can you believe she has me mopping decks and washing dishes? Moi? Brett Perry?” Brett shook his head, seemingly aghast and delighted at the same time. “It’s like I joined the navy. Except I don’t even get to wear a sailor suit.”

Clay laughed. “She’s toughening you up.”

The previous summer, when Clay had found him washed up on the beach, Brett was half-drowned, dehydrated, and scared for his life, so maybe it wasn’t the best basis for comparison, but he certainly looked a lot better now. He still wore a bow tie—his “signature accessory,” he called it—but the tie was no longer black; it was purple.

“So you never made up with your dad?” Clay asked.

“You kidding?”

It was Brett’s father who had pushed Brett overboard. It was also Brett’s father who had led the Midnight Sun’s expedition to capture Ariella the first time around. Needless to say, Brett didn’t like him much. Neither did Clay.

“So your dad’s still hanging with those Midnight Sun types?”

Brett shook his head. “No. They ditched him when he wasn’t useful anymore. Serves him right. I think he’s in Mexico now.…” Brett trailed off as Mr. Bailey and Owen exited the teepee. “Anyway, these guys said you needed help. And it was a good excuse to take a break.”

“You’re not here to take a break,” Mr. Bailey corrected.

“Brett is here to coach you,” said Owen to Clay.

“He is?” Clay couldn’t hide his surprise.

“What? You don’t think I’m the coach type?” Brett laughed. “You haven’t heard what the plan is.”

The plan, it turned out, was deceptively simple: Clay and Owen would enter the Keep as guests, rescue Cass and Ariella, and then escape on Ariella’s back and in Owen’s plane, respectively.

Clay’s role: a rich kid eager to be the first guy he knew to see a real live dragon.

Owen would play the billionaire father taking Clay on the trip of a lifetime. To secure their place at the Keep, he had made a sizable financial contribution toward “dragon research and conservation efforts.”

Brett, who’d grown up as the real son of a real billionaire, had the rest of the day to prepare Clay for his part; at six p.m., Owen’s plane would be leaving for Namibia.

“… So I think you should say you go to boarding school,” Brett said later, over breakfast by the lake. “St. Matthew’s, maybe. That’s kind of like Andover or Choate, but a little less well known, so it’ll sound more realistic.”

“Uh, okay…” said Clay, not completely following.

Brett gestured toward the nuts and berries in front of him. “I can’t believe they call this breakfast—you eat like rodents here. Luckily, I brought provisions.” Grinning, he pulled a fistful of candy bars out of his pocket.

Clay laughed; this was the Brett he knew.

“Remember, it’s not just knowing names and places,” said Brett, munching chocolate. “It’s knowing what to think about them. Like, Saint Bart’s is okay, but you’d rather go to Tulum. For skiing, your family has a house in Aspen, but it’s such a scene, and anyway you prefer Gstaad.…”

“Gistot?”

“Gstaad. G-S-T-A-A-D. It’s in Switzerland.… The most important thing is that you be blasé about everything.”

“Blasé, got it,” said Clay. “Wait, what does blasé mean again?”

Brett gave him a look. “Blasé means blasé. It’s like bored, but with an attitude.”

“So basically I should be a jerk?”

“Basically.”

“But you’re not like that,” said Clay. “Well, you’re a snob, for sure, but not a jerk exactly.”

“Maybe not, but I’m different. I’m, well…”

Clay grinned. “A dork?”

“I prefer nerd,” said Brett, raising himself up. “But, yes, if you insist. The point is, I’m thinking of how you would be if you were rich.”

“And I’d be a jerk?”

“Let’s just say you’d think you were pretty cool. Or at least that everyone else was really uncool.”

“Everybody is uncool.”

“See what I mean?”

Before Clay could respond, Leira came up to them and whispered something in Brett’s ear. He nodded, smiling, and she ran off.

“What was that about?” asked Clay suspiciously.

“A surprise,” said Brett.

“Another one?”

“I’m supposed to take you to Big Hurt, I think she said?”

“Big Yurt. That’s what we call the big… yurt.”

“Original,” said Brett drily.

There were three yurts that formed a triangle in the middle of Earth Ranch: Art Yurt, the arts and crafts studio; Little Yurt, the infirmary, more often known as Puke Yurt; and Big Yurt, the camp’s multipurpose space and dining hall.

Above the entry to Big Yurt, a handwritten cardboard sign read:

WELCOME TO THE KEEP

Here be dragons!

When they reached it, Clay heard somebody shout, “He’s here!” and suddenly a strange mechanical creature made from wood and tin cans jumped out, clawing at the air and waving its tire-rubber tail. It let out a gear-rattling roar, and flames—mostly just sparks—came out of its mouth. It was a robot dragon. Clay immediately recognized it as the work of his friend Pablo.

“SURPRISE!” Clay’s campmates yelled from inside.

“Is this somebody’s idea of a going-away party?” Clay asked skeptically as he tried to edge past the dragon without getting pawed or singed.

“No, it’s your training room, you dope,” said Leira, who was waiting inside.

A girl who looked remarkably like Leira, but with long hair and a dress, stepped up to them. “Hello, monsieur, welcome to ze Keep,” said Leira’s twin sister, Mira, in a chilly French accent. “May I have somebody to take your luggage?”

“Uh, I’m good, thanks, Mira,” said Clay, not quite ready to play along.

“Who eez zis Mira? I am Ms. Mauvais, leader of ze Midnight Sun,” said Mira imperiously, and indeed, as she spoke, she seemed to be inhabited by the spirit of the ancient French villainess. (In reality, Ms. Mauvais’s accent was not nearly so strong, but let’s not quibble.)

Clay looked around. Pablo had just brought in the dragon and was moving it onto a high shelf, from which it would be able to pounce at will.

More hand-painted signs were hung around the inside of the yurt, arbitrarily identifying parts of the room as RESTAURANT, HOTEL ROOM, and DRAGON ZOO.

“Sorry, but isn’t this kinda, um… ridiculous?” said Clay.

“Mr. B told us to train you, and that’s what we’re going to do,” said Leira stiffly.

“Please, ’ave a seat,” said Mira in her Mauvais voice. “You must be very ’ungry after your journey.”

She motioned him to a table in the “restaurant” that looked as though it had been set for a fancy dinner—or a very makeshift, summer-camp version of a fancy dinner. Another one of Clay’s cabinmates, Kwan, grinned up at him from behind the table. Reluctantly, Clay sat down opposite Kwan, propping up his backpack in the corner.

“So, you gotta know which fork to pick up first, right?” said Kwan, gesturing to the array of mismatched cutlery on the table.

“Okay,” said Clay, resigned. “Which fork do I pick up?”

“Like I know?” Kwan laughed. “I can show you how to pocket a knife, though, if you want.”

“You go from the outside in,” interrupted Brett, who was watching from behind Clay’s shoulder. He pointed to the fork a person should use first.

“Does it really matter?” Clay complained.

“Yes!” Brett insisted. “The Midnight Sun members are very formal. And it would seem weird if you didn’t know this stuff, being who you are—even if you’re playing the rebel and you think manners are lame.”

“Rebel? I thought I was blasé,” said Clay.

“Blasé rebel.”

“A blasé rebel. Got it.” Clay folded his arms, trying to look like a blasé rebel.

“Well, blasé this, my friend—” Kwan started tossing pieces of cutlery into the air. They spun in flashing circles and then, one by one, vanished up his sleeves, behind his ear, or seemingly into thin air.

“And last but not least…” A single knife was left on the table. With a flick of a finger, Kwan sent it spinning into the air. It landed between his teeth. “Always handy to have a weapon on you, right?” he said, teeth clenched.

Clay laughed. “I’m not sure a butter knife is going to be much help against the Midnight Sun.”

Leira glared at Kwan. “He’s supposed to learn how to act rich, not how to entertain kids on street corners.”

She gripped Clay’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “Let’s say you’ve gotten through dinner. Now you find where they’re keeping Cass.” Leira pointed to an old door that was leaning against the wall of the yurt. A sign on it read:

HOLDING CELL—KASS INSIDE

Clay shook his head. “Why don’t I think they’ll have a sign like that?… And by the way, it’s Cass with a C.”

Leira scowled. “That’s just for concept. Now, here is my most prized possession,” she said, opening her hand.

“A paper clip?”

She gave him an I’m-not-joking look. “With this, you can pick almost any lock in the world.”

“Isn’t that Owen’s job? I’m the dragon guy.”

“It’s going to be all hands on deck.”

She pointed to the keyhole in the door. Clay tried inserting the clip in various ways while Leira gave him suggestions about angles and wrist movements and how much pressure to exert. Nothing seemed to work.

“Hmm, maybe you’d be better off stealing the actual key,” said Leira fretfully. “Let’s work on your pickpocketing skills. It all comes down to the three Ds: divert, detach, disappear.”

After Leira made him pick her pocket five or six times, never very successfully, Pablo took over the training session. He reached inside his mouth and pulled out a wad of chewing gum. “Here—”

Clay made a face. (Pablo’s green hair and pimples made the gum even less appetizing.) “No, thanks, man. I’m good.”

“Better take it. It’s exploding chewing gum. If it stays unchewed for longer than thirty seconds, it ignites.”

“Really?” Disgusted, Clay took the gum and put it in his mouth.

Pablo smiled. “Actually, that piece is just a stand-in. But I’ll have the real thing ready before you go, I promise.”

Clay hastily spit the gum from his mouth. “What do you think this is—a James Bond movie? I’m not going to have to explode anything.”

“You never know,” said Pablo earnestly. “For one thing, explosions work a lot faster than paper clips.” He looked with disdain at Leira’s prized clip.

“Did somebody say something about an explosion? I like explosions.”

An older teenage boy entered the yurt, an unpleasant smirk on his face. It was Flint, Clay’s least favorite person at camp—possibly his least favorite person anywhere.

He took Pablo’s dragon robot off the shelf and started playing with it. “Is this thing the dragon I heard about? Not very impressive, is it? Now, if you guys want to see some real fire-breathing…”

As the younger campers watched anxiously, he put his finger to his mouth and blew on it; a flame suddenly burned from his fingertip like a candle.

He held the flame up to the dragon, and for a second the dragon breathed fire again. Then it exploded into pieces.

Flint grinned. “Oops.”

“You little…” Swearing, Pablo clenched his fists and—

Clay’s friend Jonah, who’d been watching from the side of the yurt, grabbed Pablo. “Let it go. He’s a counselor now, remember?”

“That’s right, don’t forget it!” Laughing, Flint walked over to Clay. “You make about as convincing a rich kid as you do a Dragon Tamer.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t,” Flint sneered. “You think all this is going to prepare you for the Midnight Sun? They’re going to eat you alive.”

“You would know,” said Clay angrily. “You were the Midnight Sun’s spy. Or did you think we all forgot?”

Clay stared hard at Flint. He still couldn’t believe that Mr. Bailey hadn’t kicked Flint out of camp after learning about his betrayal. (“If I expelled everyone with a criminal record, there’d be nobody left,” Mr. B had explained, only half joking. “This camp is all about second chances.”)

Flint stared back at Clay. For a moment it looked as though he might slug Clay. Or shoot a fireball at him. But he appeared to think better of it.

Flint eyed Clay’s open backpack. “Secrets of the Occulta Draco, huh? You steal that from the library again?”

Clay shrugged. “So? You should talk.” Flint had stolen the very same volume from the library the year before.

“Yeah, I should, shouldn’t I?” Flint walked out, chuckling.

“Bye,” said Kwan to his departing back. “Tool.”

Brett looked at Clay clinically. “Why would you admit that? Your problem is you’re too honest.”

“It’s one of his worst qualities,” Mira agreed. “He’s a terrible actor.”

Leira nodded somberly. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“He can’t handle this mission alone,” said Brett. “If only we could go with him.”

“Thanks for the votes of confidence, guys,” said Clay, not sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry.

Pablo looked from Clay to the others. A smile spread across his face. “I think I have an idea.…”

After his long training session, Clay barely had time to pack—in a trendy duffel bag borrowed from Brett—before it was time to go.

As his friends gathered by the ocean to see him off, he watched Owen transfer boxes to his dingy old seaplane via a small rowboat. Clay remembered the first time he saw Owen’s plane, more than a year before; he’d wondered then whether such a rusty piece of machinery could actually fly. If anything, the plane looked more beat up now. And this flight was going to be a lot longer than the flight to camp!

“Not a very swanky ride, is it?” said Kwan, standing beside him. “I mean, considering you’re supposed to be billionaires.”

Clay smiled thinly. His sense of humor had started to fade hours ago—just around the time he learned he was going to visit the Midnight Sun.

Pablo walked up to them, hiding something behind his back. “I’ve got one more thing for you to take.”

Clay eyed him warily. “What does a guy need besides exploding chewing gum?”

“This!” said Pablo, revealing what he was hiding: a black ski cap. Pablo tugged it over Clay’s head, messing up his hair and covering his eyes.

“Hey!” Clay protested. “Did you forget I’m going to the desert? It’s going to be, like, a thousand degrees.”

“It’s for your character,” said Brett, before Clay could remove the hat. “You know, the hipster rich kid trying to look street. Don’t ever take it off.”

“Great,” Clay grumbled. The hat was already making his scalp itch.

“Well, it’s better than that helmet your brother gave you, anyway,” came a voice in his ear.

“What the—?” Clay reeled around.

The voice in his ear laughed. It was Leira, but Clay didn’t see her anywhere.

“Look behind you.”

He glanced around and saw her heading up the beach toward them. She waved, revealing a large conch shell in her hand.

“Pablo made this rad long-range two-way radio with some hanger wire and this old shell,” she continued, talking into the conch. “So we can keep helping you when you’re out there playing dragon whisperer.”

“You mean, so you can keep making fun of me,” Clay said, imagining the long hours ahead, with Brett and Leira laughing at him in his ear.

“That too.”

He shook his itchy head. “Thanks. You guys think of everything.”

“Seriously, this way I can talk you through your first act of grand theft,” said Leira when she reached him. Her voice echoed in his ears. “When you want us, all you have to do is talk. If you don’t hear us right away, it means we put down the shell for a minute. Tap the side of your ski hat, and we’ll know to get on the line.”

“Okay, got it,” said Clay. “But can you stop talking into that shell? You’re giving me a headache.”

“Fine,” said Leira, reluctantly lowering the conch shell. “What else are you taking with you? What about the book?”

“The Occulta Draco? Yeah. I got it.”

Leira nodded slowly. “So you’re not worried about it getting into the wrong hands? Not that it would. I mean, unless…”

“Unless they catch me,” Clay completed her sentence.

“Right. But that’s not going to happen,” added Leira, a beat too late.

Clay hesitated, thinking about all the secrets revealed in the Occulta Draco. Besides, he’d read the book so many times, he practically knew it word for word.

“No, no, you’re right,” he said finally. “That would be bad. You’d better put it back in the library for me.” Clay reached into his backpack and felt around. “Wait, where is it…?” He gave Leira a look.

She shook her head. “I swear I didn’t take it this time.”

Clay stared at her. She looked so serious he almost believed her.

“Who, then?” Clay demanded, panic churning his stomach. He didn’t want to think about what losing the book might mean.

“I dunno. You sure you didn’t drop it somewhere?”

Clay thought back, trying to remember the last time he saw the Occulta Draco.

“Flint,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Flint took it. I’m sure he did. When he was in Big Yurt, my bag was open.” Clay looked up and down the beach. Flint was nowhere to be seen.

“C’mon, get in, Clay!” Owen shouted from the rowboat that would take them to the plane.

“Okay—just a sec!” Clay replied.

“Get it back from him,” he said quietly to Leira. “Please.”

She nodded. “I’ll try. And, hey, give me a shout when you need me.” She pointed to the ski hat on his head. “Any problem—I’ll be there.”

“Thanks,” said Clay, meaning it. “But don’t get all nice on me all of a sudden. You’re scaring me.”

Glancing around one last time, Clay started walking toward the water. With or without the Occulta Draco, it was time to go.