A narrow and very perilous-looking ladder led from the ground to the top of the tower. Clay looked around, wondering how likely it was that he would be seen climbing up. On the one hand, the tower was visible from all directions; on the other hand, it was fairly dark out, and the ladder was partly obscured by the scaffolding. Most of the time, he would be in shadow. He decided to chance it.

The ladder clanged and vibrated as he climbed, causing him to keep looking over his shoulder to make sure that no alarms had been sounded. He didn’t see anyone, but the surrounding jungle seemed to move and shift in the darkness.

At the top of the ladder was a hatch door. There was no lock that he could see, but he hesitated before opening it.

He pressed the side of his ski hat. “What if there’s someone inside—I mean, besides Cass?” he whispered. “What’s my alibi? Why am I here?”

“Curiosity,” said Brett. “Simple as that. Remember, you’re used to owning the world. Why shouldn’t you check out the tower? You’re a paying guest.”

Cautiously, Clay pushed open the door—

Then pulled himself up into the tower room. Nobody was there. Cass must have escaped.

No, actually, she’d never been there. And I’m an idiot, he thought, shoulders slumped.

It had been silly to think Cass might be inside; he had obviously misunderstood the message that Gyorg whispered to Ms. Mauvais. Far from having the walls of a prison cell, the room had a 360-degree view of the crater around it. The interior was filled with computer screens and surveillance monitors and various other blinking and beeping machines.

“Well…? ” asked Leira, startling him.

“It’s some sort of control tower.” Clay sighed. “Definitely not a place where you’d keep a hostage.”

The largest screen showed what appeared to be a digital relief map of the crater. A thin red circle in the center pulsed with light. Within the circle, three flashing orange lights were moving erratically.

Clay squinted to look more closely. “I think this is where they monitor the dragons and the dome—that’s the electric force field that keeps them from flying away and terrorizing the world.”

As he examined the confusing array of technology around him, Clay was suddenly aware of a terrible sound:

ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAWRRRRRRRRRR!

His heart racing, Clay dropped to his knees so he wouldn’t be seen. Then he peeked out a window.

About twenty yards away from the tower, Snowflake was crouched on the ground. The dragon’s big yellow eyes were staring straight ahead, its bristly tail swinging back and forth, like a cat stalking a bird.

Still trying to stay out of sight, Clay cracked open a window so he could better hear what was happening.

“Mr. Schrödinger, no!”

A safe distance away, right behind the perimeter marked by the blinking dome posts, Ms. Mauvais was beckoning to a scraggly old man who was standing directly in front of the dragon. He wore a straw cowboy hat and had a big, drooping handlebar mustache.

“Be reasonable and back away from the dragon right now,” said Ms. Mauvais, her voice calm but strained.

Gyorg stood beside her, shaking his head solemnly. “Mr. Schrödinger, you listen to the lady!”

Ignoring them, the man they called Schrödinger stepped closer to Snowflake. In one hand he was holding an apple; in the other, a riding crop. He looked ready to break a pony.

“Here you go, Snowflake. There’s a good girl,” said Schrödinger. His voice was warbly and uneven, and he had a raspy Old West sort of twang. “Old Schrödy’s got an apple for you! We’re going to go on a little trippy-wippy.”

He tossed the apple at the dragon, which was something like tossing a raisin at a horse. Uninterested, Snowflake let the apple fall on the ground. The dragon’s tail continued to twitch back and forth.

Clay watched in horror. Any moment now, Snowflake was surely going to pounce, and the old man was going to be chewed up or ripped to shreds.

“I know you can’t wait to get on that dragon again, Mr. Schrödinger,” said Ms. Mauvais. “You want to go back—we understand that—but the conditions aren’t right at the moment. We are conducting controlled experiments.”

Clay scrunched his face in confusion. It sounded as if this guy had ridden the dragon before. Where did he want to go back to?

“But don’t you see? I never left,” Schrödinger shouted back nonsensically. “I’m still there—I’m not here at all!”

“Have patience, dear. Soon you’ll be yourself again, I promise. And when we get you back there, you’ll be better than that. You’ll be a young man.”

Young man? What did that mean? He looked plenty old to Clay.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” yelled Schrödinger. “And you can’t stop me!”

Gyorg leaned into Ms. Mauvais. “Madame, let me go inside and grab him—”

“No, let him be,” she said wearily. “No sense in your dying, too. If he wants to feed himself to a dragon, that’s his affair. We can always find another test subject.”

She took a last look at Schrödinger and turned as if about to leave.

Then a Land Rover screeched to a stop in front of Ms. Mauvais, and Vicente sprang out.

Spurred to action, Schrödinger yelled, “Yeeeeehawwww!” and started running toward the dragon, clearly intending to leap right onto its back, although there was little chance he could actually jump that high. Clay held his breath, ready for the worst.

But just before Schrödinger could reach Snowflake, Vicente sprinted toward him and grabbed him around the waist.

“All right, ya rodeo clown,” Vicente said, dragging the old man outside the dome perimeter. “That’s enough action for you for tonight.” He gave Ms. Mauvais a sharp look. “I told you it was too soon to put anybody on a dragon’s back. Those were just supposed to be speed trials. Not a round-trip ticket to… wherever the heck it is you’re trying to get to.”

“Thank you for your help, Vicente, but please keep your opinions to yourself,” said Ms. Mauvais. “You may drive me back to the castle now. Gyorg will make sure that Mr. Schrödinger is settled in his quarters—and that he stays there.”

Vicente nodded and released Schrödinger.

The old man lunged toward the dragon, but Gyorg grasped him firmly by the shoulders and lifted him off the ground as if he weighed no more than a child.

“How dare you!” shouted Schrödinger. “Unhand me, sir!”

Clay descended ten minutes later, the scene he had witnessed still replaying in his mind.

“This old dude, Show-ringer—you think he really flew on that dragon’s back?” Clay whispered.

“How should we know?” said Leira. “But come to think of it, wouldn’t this be a good time to try to make friends with the dragon—what’s his name, Snowball?”

“Snowflake. And you don’t make friends; you make an alliance. But, yeah, I guess I could try.”

As terrifying as the idea was.

By the time he got to the bottom of the tower, however, Snowflake was no longer in the clearing. Clay stepped up to the dome line and peered into the darkness, wondering whether he should look behind the trees for the dragon, but he decided against it. Running into Snowflake was one thing; running into Bluebeard was another.

Feeling as though he was disappointing Brett and Leira, he headed back down the road. I’d like to see you guys walk into that jungle, he thought. Funny how even when his friends weren’t providing running commentary, he still felt like they were inside his head.

What next? Cass could be anywhere, he thought glumly. He’d been so excited when he thought he overheard Gyorg saying she was in the tower. Now he had no idea what to do or where to go.

When he got near the tents, he heard more outraged shouting.

“Inside-outside-you-side-me-side! Don’t tell me to stay inside! There are no sides here!”

Schrödinger. The man’s raving made even less sense now. He sounded insane.

As Clay listened, somebody coughed. He wheeled around and saw Gyorg walking up the path from the castle.

“Why you are still outside?” said Gyorg sharply.

“Sorry, just, uh, getting some air.” Then, remembering he was supposed to be cocky, not defensive, he added, “Is that a crime?”

Gyorg said nothing.

“Hey, what’s with that guy shouting back there? Who is he?” Clay figured it was a normal question to ask under the circumstances.

Gyorg looked at him as if debating whether to answer. “He is first guest at Keep,” Gyorg said finally.

He stared, unmoving, until Clay said an awkward “good night” and headed for his tent. Further investigation would have to wait.