Bad News Page 3

  You’ve been swimming with dolphins in Mexico and sharks in the Bahamas.

  Now it’s time for the ultimate thrill.…

  Frowning, Clay opened the brochure. Inside was a photograph of rippling sand dunes. In the center: the unmistakable shadow of a dragon flying above.

  “So they’re saying you get to… fly on a dragon?” asked Clay slowly.

  Owen nodded. “It’s some sort of wild animal park–style resort. Hasn’t officially opened yet. Still supersecret. The brochure is supposed to attract investors. We had to bribe a very exclusive travel agent to get it.”

  “Is it for real?” said Clay, confused. “I mean, there aren’t any dragons left, are there? I thought Ariella was the only one in the world.”

  “As far as we know, Ariella is the only one…” said Mr. Bailey. “But, yes, it’s for real.”

  Clay looked at Mr. Bailey in alarm. “Wait, you don’t mean they’ve got Ariella?”

  “We can only assume so,” said Mr. Bailey gently. Everyone at camp knew how attached Clay was to the dragon. “I’m sorry. I know this is bad news.”

  His mind reeling, Clay looked down at the brochure again. “The Keep—this is the place the Midnight Sun said they were building, isn’t it? The dragon sanctuary or whatever?”

  “That would be the one,” said Owen.

  Clay clenched his teeth. After all he and his friends had gone through to rescue Ariella, the Midnight Sun had captured the dragon again! It was too terrible to contemplate. And yet at the same time, squirming inside him, barely acknowledged, there was another feeling: relief. Maybe Ariella hadn’t abandoned him after all; maybe the dragon had simply been unable to come back.

  “At first none of us believed the Keep was real,” said Owen. “Except for Cass. She was convinced that the Midnight Sun was using Ariella to breed more dragons, and she wanted to know why.”

  “I can think of a few reasons.” Clay thought of a line from the Occulta Draco: He who has power over dragons has power over us all.

  “I’m sure you can,” said Owen. “Anyhow, she went to the Kalahari Desert to investigate.”

  “So what did she find out?”

  “We don’t know,” said Mr. Bailey. “She disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Clay repeated.

  Mr. Bailey nodded gravely. “We think she’s been taken hostage, and we want you to help Owen bring her back.”

  Clay blinked. Cass, a hostage? It seemed impossible. She was the most kick-butt person he knew.

  Cass had been a constant presence in his life. When Clay was little, the young survivalist was always with Clay’s brother, and she always took the time to give Clay a key tip or two: like how to make a compass with duct tape and a cork, or how to use cayenne pepper to stop himself from bleeding.* Later, after Max-Ernest went away, she’d been the one to let Clay know that his brother was okay.

  Now he was supposed to rescue her.

  “Why me?”

  Owen smiled. “Know anybody else who can talk to a dragon?”

  “So you want to get Ariella out at the same time?” In the back of Clay’s mind, he’d already begun planning to do exactly that.

  “I was going to go by myself,” said Owen. “Then we thought, we can’t rescue Cass and not rescue the dragon as well. Too dangerous—leaving it in the hands of the Midnight Sun. And who knows? A dragon might just come in handy when we’re all trying to get the heck out of there.”

  “And my brother’s really okay with this? He doesn’t even like me to ride my skateboard.”

  “I told him you’re the only person in the world that Ariella trusts,” said Mr. Bailey. “You’re the only man for the job.”

  “Why isn’t he going? Wait—don’t tell me: He’s allergic to dragons,” Clay scoffed.

  Owen laughed. “That would be his reaction, wouldn’t it? No, it’s because we’re going undercover, and Ms. Mauvais is there, and she would recognize Max-Ernest in a second. That a good enough reason for you?”

  Clay shrugged, but he had to acknowledge it was a good reason. Ms. Mauvais was the notoriously cruel, and famously ageless, leader of the Midnight Sun. Clay didn’t know much about her, but he knew that his brother had had more than one unpleasant encounter with her over the years.

  The camp director poured a cup of tea and handed it to Clay. “Here, have a sip of courage. Nurse Cora made this tea specially.”

  Clay sipped cautiously. Knowing Nurse Cora, sip of courage was not just an expression. Sure enough, the drink filled Clay with a pleasant tingling feeling that couldn’t be attributed simply to the tea’s temperature. He suddenly felt he was ready for anything.

  “Well, what do you say?” asked Mr. Bailey. “Of course, we would never make you do something like this if you didn’t want to. It is an incredibly dangerous mission for someone your age to undertake. The Midnight Sun members are practically vampires, and for a day or two you will be entirely in their hands.”

  “It’s okay,” said Clay firmly. “I’ll do it.”

  But not for Max-Ernest, he said to himself. For Ariella. And Cass.

  “Great,” said Owen. “I knew we could count on you.” He reached behind his back. “Your brother asked me to give you this.”

  “Er, thanks,” said Clay, taking the gift.

  It was a Day-Glo green skateboard helmet, decorated with graffiti-style words in various other Day-Glo colors: exclamations like mixed with skateboard terms like and and Did his brother really think Clay would like this helmet? Just because he liked graffiti?

  “There’s another surprise waiting for you outside,” said Mr. Bailey.

  Oh great, thought Clay. Kneepads. Or would it be wrist guards? Bracing himself, he opened the teepee’s flap door.

  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.”