The Dragon Guard (17 page)

“You did this? You worked with those who've sworn to see us dead to the last one of us?”

“What of it? I saw a chink in their armor. What can any of us do against the Dark Hand? Open warfare? Send us all through horrible agony like the last time? No, I used my wit and talent to infiltrate them.” She glared back at Gavan.

“A Leucator is a hunter, not a spy. And all this time, we've had no way to strike back at them because we did not know where they hid, but you did. You do business with them.”

“They contact me through one of my investment addresses. I still have no inkling where Antoine calls home, nor is he likely to tell me. As for betraying you—”

All of them looked at her. She made an impatient movement of her hands. “Of course I made them for him, he paid quite well.”

“Who paid?”

“Both of them, father and son. Brennard and Jon. I had no idea what they wanted Leucators of Jonnard for, but I figured if they would risk such foolishness, why not profit by it?”

“How can money be so important to you?”

Isabella shot a look at Khalil. “What? Do you think it's easy maintaining the estates I have about the world? Do you think time stands still while Magickers sleep? Time erodes all things, all havens, all monuments, all flesh. Who do you think hid most of us after the disaster, who paid for bribes and families to act as caretakers?”

“Your contribution is unquestioned, Isabella.”

She glared back at Gavan. “And unappreciated, as well. No matter. I profited by it, and I enjoy the fruits of that profit.” She beckoned with one hand, her fingers flashing with rays of color from a number of very expensive gemstone rings. “As far as the Leucators go, Brennard ordered one of Jonnard, for Jonnard's use. I didn't ask him how it was to be used, nor did they tell me. It expired. They ordered two more. It seemed harmless to me, and why not drain money away from them? Less mischief for someone else later.”

“The Dark Hand never does anything harmless.” The wolfhead gleamed in Gavan's hold. “The Leucator we killed was of Jason.”

Isabella sat back in amazement. “No. That cannot be. I would not make a Leucator of one of us and give it to the Dark Hand.”

“Someone did.” Jason fought a shiver. “It tried to kill me.”

“That's what they do,” said Khalil quietly. “If allowed to get hold of you. Otherwise, they're rather like a hound running quarry to ground. They will hunt endlessly and tirelessly, till they find their other half, and are most commonly used this way and only out of desperation. This is serious, Isabella, and I have to say I am disappointed you dealt with Brennard in any way, for any reason.”

Isabella made a noise that could only be described as French scorn, and settled down to tapping her polished nails on the conference table's gleaming wooden top. Her perfume had settled over the room like a cloud and it tickled at Jason's nose. He rubbed it to keep from sneezing, trying not to draw any notice as he did so. His calves ached from soccer practice and the fight, and he could smell himself under the fancy aroma of the scented cloud. He had no idea what time it was at home, but his stomach knew he'd definitely missed a major meal and who knows how much time at home, or how much trouble that would cause. He'd almost forgotten that and now it gnawed at him.

“Where is the Leucator now? Does Jason need to worry about facing it again?”

Gavan shook his head at Khalil. “Dead, as far as I could tell.”

Khalil stood, his desert robes rippling about him. “Good. I'd like a look at it.”

Gavan cleared his throat. “It's gone.”

“Hmmm. Too bad. A body might have been most useful.”

“For what?” Jason felt the fine hairs standing up in goose bumps along his arms at the thought of it. He had no desire at all to see what he'd look like dead!

“To find out where it came from and who made it,” Khalil told him. “If Isabella here admits to making them of Jonnard, why not of you? So it came from elsewhere, and that might be extremely important to know.”

“Next one I face,” Jason answered dryly, “I'll save for you.”

A grin blazed across the Magicker's face, rather like the desert sun from the lands he lived in, and he raised a hand in salute as he stepped into his crystal and left.

Gavan frowned. “I wasn't done.”

“It seems you are, for now.” Isabella stood, the fabric of her gown rustling. “I won't take a dressing-down from you, Gavan, so don't even think of trying.”

“And don't be so foolish as to think I'm not furious.”

She put her chin up. “You need my support.”

“Your support is one thing, your out-and-out betrayal is another!”

“Don't try my patience, Gavan.” She rubbed a fingertip across her crystal in preparation for leaving.

“Isabella.”

“Yes?” She paused in the act of using her crystal, to look back at Rainwater.

“You will let us know if you make any more, won't you?”

“Of course. As Khalil said, it will be important to know if another of us is making them. It might be even more important to know if any of the Dark Hand is capable of turning one Leucator into another.” With that, she disappeared as well, in a swish of satins, leaving only her perfume behind her.

Gavan closed his mouth firmly.

“What did she mean?”

Gavan sat down, his face creased in thought. “I think, Jason, that she meant the thing can be twisted from one into another. I've never heard of such a thing before. If she's right . . .” He shook his head. “She can't be. The very existence of a Leucator is a mirror image of the soul. A truly evil twin. It can't be shaped into the twin of another. That flies against all Magick I know.” He tapped his cane on the floor.

“I need to get home. I've a game tomorrow and parents worrying.”

He took out his own crystal.

“Jason.”

He looked at Gavan Rainwater, who seemed measurably older than he had that first day when they'd met only a year and a few days ago.

“Most of what you said was true. We've been neglectful, and I will try to . . . when things get sorted out . . . make it all up. And you are part of a family, here. A strange family, but a family nonetheless.” Gavan smiled ruefully. He stood, and straightened his cloak. “It won't make everything perfect, but things will be better once we get the academy built. There's much to learn, but it's difficult to teach Magick since it comes from within, and it's as individual as each and every one of us is different. Do you understand what I mean?”

“A little. I suppose you mean that Magick can't really be taught, but has to be guided.”

“Guided,” Gavan repeated. He nodded. “You've got a good mind. That's probably an almost perfect way to describe it.”

“About the school.” Jason shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I don't know if we can ever go back. The dragon said we couldn't.”

“It's your Gate. That gives you a power the beast doesn't have, whether it likes it or not. He may guard the Gate with all he has, but it's yours to open and close.”

“You're sure of that?”

“Well.” Gavan fidgeted a little. “Pretty sure.” He put his hand on Jason's shoulder. “Watch out for Bailey if you can. My hands are full here with Eleanora. Be careful. Isabella hasn't betrayed us—yet— but that any of us would deal with the Dark Hand at all . . . I just don't understand it. There are pacts here, my lad, we know nothing of. The rest of us will help whenever we can, but we're stretched thin, and Tomaz has picked a bad time to be gone.”

A pang of guilt arced through Jason, and he wanted to tell Gavan, but didn't. Instead he cupped his crystal tightly and went home.

N
O ONE missed him. For once, all the fuss over Alicia's budding film career didn't bother him, for it seemed she had received some important mail, setting off a frenzy of activity in the McIntire household. The Dozer was at work on-site, but Joanna and Alicia had taken off for parts unknown, and his only clue was a torn-apart priority mail envelope, large-sized, that lay on the kitchen counter and had once been addressed to Alicia; kitchen dishes still out from lunch; a plate of covered sandwiches in the refrigerator for him; and no sign whatsoever of the two females of the house. Looking at the envelope, he noted that it came from some organization that called itself Young Filmmakers of America. Curiosity sated but not hunger, he poured a large glass of milk and sat down at the nook and devoured three sandwiches, the first so quickly he wasn't even sure what kind of sandwich it had been.

The other two were turkey, avocado, and Monterey Jack cheese and very good.

He cleaned up after everyone except for the remnants of the envelope, in case the address needed to be saved. Upstairs, he took a shower, wincing at the black-and-blue marks emerging on his body. He'd taken a beating from Jon and the Leucator, that was certain. The only good thing about playing soccer the way he did, was that no one would notice the bruises. Then he dressed in some old worn jeans and a shirt and sat down, barefooted, at the computer to talk to Trent. His usually unruffled friend sounded aghast at all that had gone on after Bailey spirited him away.

Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer
, Trent wrote.
Sounds like really good advice about now. And what about Tomaz?

I don't know
, Jason responded.
His family was one of the Hidden Ones. I don't even know how he found Gavan and the others, but I'd trust everything I have with him
.

Me, too
, agreed Trent.
It's scary though. First Anita goes wrong, and now Isabella, maybe. Everyone seems to have their own agenda. We have our own pact, the handful of us, like the Musketeers. You, me, Bailey, Ting, Henry . . . one for all, and all for one.

 

Jason and Trent batted some ideas back and forth and came to no conclusion. Trent fretted about his dad and then signed off, saying they were working on résumés and he couldn't stay on the computer much longer. Jason sat back in his chair. He wondered if his dad were still alive, what they might be doing. He couldn't really remember what kind of work his father did. He'd worked in a large company, but doing what, Jason had never really taken the time to understand. It wouldn't be any help at all to say to Trent, “At least you've got a dad to worry about,” because it wasn't the same, and he knew it. Just like he couldn't say to Bailey, “Don't make your mom worry about you so much!” He knew how lucky, and unlucky, they both were.

He rocked away from the computer and went through his closet, to make sure he had his gear all set for the game tomorrow. The late afternoon sun slanted heavily across the house, steeping part of his attic room in shadows. His meal sat in his stomach in a warm, comforting lump, and he fought being sleepy. One step at a time, one thing at a time. Time . . . if only he had enough Time. If Fizziwig had had the Time to teach him, to tell him what secrets he knew about the Gates.

He fell asleep thinking about Ting and her grandmother who was running out of time, and whose house dragon had hissed his name.

He woke to a quiet house and a dark room, his body all stiff and cramped in his chair. Yawning, Jason scrubbed a hand over his face. He stood and made his way to his bed. Moonlight caught the edge of a white object shoved through the crack of his trapdoor, and he leaned over to pull it loose. He had to squint in the dim light to read the words: Dinner is in the refrigerator. We decided to let you sleep. A flowery “J” signed it.

Wow. He'd slept through everyone coming home, all the excitement, whatever it was, and dinner. And, from the sound of it, it was late enough that everyone had gone to bed. He eased his door open and down, taking the creaking stairs with quiet caution. A funny thought hit him as he did so. As he grew, and growing he was . . . would this door still fit him? When he went away to college, would this still be his room? It was an odd thought to have, and he shook it off. Dinner seemed more important than philosophical ramblings at this hour, because after he'd eaten, he had something he needed to do . . . and he needed the strength and alertness to do it.

The microwave told him it was nearly eleven, not awfully late on a Saturday but McIntire worked hard on construction sites, and so it made sense that they were all asleep by now. He ate his dinner cold rather than send the microwave into peeping fits as it reheated it for him. It wasn't bad, cold meat loaf was nearly as good as warm, and he liked the smoky sweet tomato sauce Joanna always made it with. The potatoes and green beans he ignored, but he scarfed down the chunky applesauce. For good measure, he cut himself another slice of meat loaf and made a thick sandwich out of it, wrapped it in a baggie, and carted it back upstairs.

Upstairs, he dressed warmly, pulling a thick sweatshirt over everything, and shoved a small flashlight into his pants pocket just in case he couldn't use the Lantern spell with his crystals. Jason patted himself down. What had he forgotten? Ah.

He sat down at his computer which still hummed quietly on his desk, and sent a quick message to Trent, informing him of his intentions . . . just in case. Then he turned the machine off entirely. He thought for another few long moments about what he was going to do, and if he should, and came to the same decision he had earlier, and pulled out the lavender crystal.

He'd found this crystal on a world where wolfjackals roamed freely. With it, he'd seen Tomaz, at least once. Now, he was determined to find Tomaz. Jason held the quartz tightly and opened his mind in search.