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.”

“Lucky us!” Charles looked Clay over with a smile.

Ms. Mauvais next steered Clay to a table where an old man and woman were seated; that is, unlike the smooth-faced Ms. Mauvais or Charles, the wrinkles and spots on their faces showed them to be old—even older than the others, presumably. Two uniformed attendants sat across from them, cards spread out on the table between them. Judging from their unhappy expressions, the workers had been conscripted to play cards against their will.

“And here we have Mr. and Mrs. Wandsworth,” said Ms. Mauvais. “They are renowned world travelers and, as you see, passionate bridge players.”

Mrs. Wandsworth turned and regarded Clay over the thin gold rims of her bifocals. With her attention elsewhere, her husband frantically tried to show one of his cards to his bridge partner.

“Please don’t do that, Reginald,” Mrs. Wandsworth said to her husband, without turning back around. “Cheating sets a poor example for the underclasses.”

Grimacing, Mr. Wandsworth re-hid his card.

Clay noticed that Mr. Wandsworth, too, was wearing white gloves, as was his wife. They were all members of the Midnight Sun.

Clay’s leg started to jiggle nervously. There was no telling what these people were capable of. If he was going to succeed in rescuing Cass and Ariella, or just get out alive himself, he had to keep up his guard at all times.

“Do you play bridge, young man?” asked Mrs. Wandsworth.

“Um, sorry, not really,” said Clay.

“All the better,” said Mrs. Wandsworth with a not-altogether-reassuring smile. “We’ll teach you.”

“She means she’ll fleece you for all you’re worth.” Charles met Clay’s eyes and winked.

Uncertain how to react, Clay looked away.

“Charles, how dare you!” Nose in the air, Mrs. Wandsworth turned back to Clay. “Despite his deep distrust of the players, Charles has consented to join us for a game after dinner, but we need a fourth. I am counting on you.”

Clay opened his mouth to protest, then decided to let himself be roped in. He would just have to find a way to get out of the bridge game later. His plan was to search for Cass after dinner if he hadn’t already found her.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “I’ll give it a try.”

Ms. Mauvais coughed to get everyone’s attention. “S’il vous plaît, mes amis,” she said, clapping her glove-covered hands. “Now that we’re all acquainted, it’s time for the proverbial good news and bad news.”

Clay tensed. Bad news? Had she discovered the spy in their midst?

“As you know, we hope one day very soon to fly on the backs of dragons,” Ms. Mauvais continued. “Someday, we may even be able to outfit you in shining armor and let you duel with a dragon like St. George himself. No killing dragons, though—they’re far too expensive!”

The Wandsworths laughed mirthlessly. Charles merely smiled. Clay had trouble simply breathing.

“Alas, our dragons aren’t quite tame yet. And the largest ones are best seen from afar.”

So that was the bad news. Clay swallowed, relieved that his identity had not been revealed, but worried about Ariella. What were they doing to try to tame the dragons? Nothing pleasant, he was sure.

“The good news is that we can get up close and personal with the younger dragons, and of course with our brand-new hatchlings.” Ms. Mauvais looked inquiringly at her guests. “So why don’t we all freshen up and meet back here in twenty minutes? The first stop on our tour will be the nursery.”

She glanced at the doorway, where a young girl had appeared with a large gray bird on her wrist. “Satya, there you are!”

Hesitantly, Satya came over. She was about Clay’s age, with olive skin, freckles, and big hazel eyes; and she was wearing old jeans, a straw hat, and a long leather glove, the purpose of which was clearly to prevent the bird from digging its claws into her skin. Clay was happy to see that her other hand was bare; at least she was not a member of the Midnight Sun.

“What did I tell you about keeping that bird outside?” said Ms. Mauvais sternly.

Satya didn’t say anything.

“Satya?”

“You said that if I didn’t, you’d feed her to the dragons,” Satya replied, expressionless.

Ms. Mauvais nodded curtly. “If you thought I wasn’t being serious, then you misjudged. One more time and I will prove it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, please, would you and your bird show our new guest to his quarters? He’s in the Beowulf Tent.”

Satya led Clay outside, stroking her bird. “It’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you,” he heard her say in a low tone.

The bird squawked. Satya continued to whisper in her ear.

Clay experienced a little spark of recognition; something about the way she spoke to her bird reminded him of the way he spoke to animals.

They walked down a pathway bordered by a thicket of ferns and many brightly colored lilies. Insects buzzed around the flowers, but Satya’s bird seemed to take no notice of her surroundings; the bird’s piercing gaze was fixed firmly on Clay. Meanwhile, Satya herself didn’t so much as glance his way.

Clay, struggling to keep up with her, tried to think of something to say. It might be useful to make a friend, he told himself.

“What’s its name?” he asked, indicating the bird.

“It’s a her. And her name’s Hero.”

“Hi, Hero!”

Clay looked the bird in the eye, trying to communicate that he was a nice guy. The bird blinked, nonplussed.

“Ms. Mauvais wouldn’t really feed Hero to the dragons, would she?”

“Oh, yes, she would, but I’m not going to let her,” said Satya fiercely. “I’ll kill her first.”

“I guess you don’t like her very much, then?”

She gave him a withering look.

“Okay. Dumb question.”

“They think they own us, but they don’t. Nobody owns my dad.”

“Your dad?”

“Vicente. The dragon wrangler?”

Well, that figures, Clay thought.

His face must have betrayed something, because she said, “What? You think your dad’s better ’cause he’s a billionaire?”

“No!” Clay said, indignant. “I would never think that. I’m not really even—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Brett and Leira started shouting in his ear.

“Stop! Don’t say it!”

“She’s supposed to think you’re a spoiled brat, remember!”

Satya raised her eyebrows. “Not really even what?”

Clay shook his head in frustration. “Never mind.”

They came upon a row of tents, each a different color and each with a different pennant on top, as if they had been erected for knights entering a tournament.

Satya stopped in front of a bright red tent; its flag bore an illustration of a monstrous dragon and the name BEOWULF.*

“Well, here you go.…”

As Satya spoke, Hero lifted off from Satya’s arm. The bird landed on top of the flag, as if she were the owner of the tent.

“So this is where I sleep…?” said Clay, trying to prolong the moment.

Satya looked at him.

“I know. Another dumb question.”

She nodded, and a fleeting smile crossed her lips. “Got any more?”

Yeah, do you happen to know where they’re keeping a woman named Cass prisoner?

“Is Hero a hawk?”

“Falcon.”

“Cool. Fastest bird there is, right?” said Clay, hoping to impress the girl, if not the bird.

“Right.”

Clay thought he saw a flicker of interest in her face, but she turned away too quickly for him to be sure.

Satya waved to the bird. “Come on down, Hero. We have stuff to do.”

Hero squawked a warning at Clay, then flew back to Satya and resumed her perch on the girl’s wrist.

“By the way, a word to the wise: You might get hot in that hat. I promise it’s not going to snow.”

Smirking, Satya disappeared down the path.

Annoyed, Clay watched her and Hero go. Brett and Leira were laughing in his ski hat.

“Hey, look on the bright side,” Brett said. “At least your disguise is working.”

“Thanks,” muttered Clay, shoving the tent’s flap open.

Why did he care so much about Satya liking him? With any luck, he would be gone before morning.