Broken Dragon (The Chronicles of Mara Lantern, Book 3) (7 page)

Diana came out of the living room and stood at the foot of the stairs. “He took Hannah to the park for an hour or two, while the weather is still clear. It’s going to get rainy and cloudy later.”

From her phone, the man yelled, “Mara! I’m here in the park with Hannah! You’ve got to help me!”

Mara heard a childish giggle come from the phone’s speaker, then another voice. “Let me feel, Daddy, see if it scratches.” Mara looked down and saw a little hand reach into view of the cell phone screen and rub the man’s cheek.

“Hannah?” Mara said into the phone.

Hannah pushed her head into view and waved. “Hi, Mar-ree! Look at Daddy. Isn’t he pretty?”

Mara’s thumb slipped off the camera on her own phone. “Hannah? Where is your father?”

“He’s right here!” She turned and kissed the man on the cheek.

Diana walked up the stairs and stood beside Mara. “What’s going on?”

Mara gaped at her mother and turned the phone toward her. “Hi, Nana!” Hannah said.

Diana took the phone. “Hey, baby. Where’s your dad?”

“He’s right here.” She pointed at the man, then poked him playfully in the nose. He looked miserable.

Diana stared at the screen for a second, then her eyes widened. “Sam? Oh, my God! What happened?”

“I was talking to Hannah about what her life was like and what kind of father I will be, and, the next thing you know, she puts her hands on my face and says ‘Imagine.’ She told me to pretend being older. Like an idiot, I thought it was some kind of game, so I closed my eyes and played along. When I opened my eyes, I looked like this.”

Diana turned the screen toward Mara. “He turns out pretty good, doesn’t he?”

Mara rolled her eyes. “Very handsome.”

Diana handed the phone back to Mara, then pantomimed taking a picture, clicking a finger in front of her face, and pointed to the phone.

Mara nodded and said, “Can you center yourself and Hannah in the frame? I’m having trouble seeing you on this end.”

A look of frustration passed over Sam’s face, but he complied. Mara tapped her phone, and it made a barely audible shutter-clicking sound.

“Are you taking pictures?” Sam asked, turning red. “This is not some kind of joke here. I’ve lost like twenty years of my life!”

“Did you tell her to put you back the way you were?” Mara asked.

“No, I was just so freaked-out, it didn’t occur to me.”

“Well, you’re her father. Tell her to prompt you to be younger again.”

Hannah rubbed his face again. “I like him better this way. He looks more like a daddy now.”

“Yes, but now I don’t have a little brother, and I really need to have a little brother. Besides, if you don’t, I’m eating all your trick-or-treat candy before you get home,” Mara said. “Fix your dad, and no more prompting.” She tapped the End button.

She noticed she had a text message from Ping. She opened it, and it said simply, “I’m okay.” She shook her head and rubbed a temple, feeling sort of slingshot from one problem to the next.

Her mother noticed her frown and said, “What is it?”

“Text from Ping. Apparently he’s all right now,” Mara said.

“I was about to come up and tell you that his car is gone. He must have stopped by sometime late last night and picked it up. I wonder who gave him a ride out here?”

Mara shook her head. “Mom, the last time I saw him, he was airborne. I think getting down to Oregon City was probably not a big deal.”

A look of concern swept over Diana’s face. “I was under the impression that, when the dragon took over, he wasn’t actually Ping, that it is actually a different consciousness exerting control over his actions.”

“I suppose that’s true. Why?”

“Then how do you explain the dragon being able to come to our house, if it wasn’t Ping doing the flying?”

“I’m not sure. They share some of each other’s awareness. Why are you being so paranoid about it?”

Her mother shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess, since all those other lizards and creatures had a tendency to follow me home from the bridge, I was concerned the dragon might be homing in on me as well.”

That had not occurred to Mara.

“There has been no hint of that. For all we know, Ping caught a ride with a friend or even grabbed a taxi here. I’ll give him a call later to check on how he’s doing and see what he thinks, but I’m certain we don’t have to worry about the dragon zeroing on you.”

“Good to know. By the way, Ned Pastor called Thursday and wanted to talk to you. I was so wrapped up with Thanksgiving dinner, and you were in that strange trance writing in the little book Hannah brought back, that I forgot to mention it,” Diana said.

Mara yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Ned, the jewelry-metallurgist guy who fixed the Chronicle? Why would he want to talk to me?”

“Apparently he fashioned a replica of the Chronicle and felt bad that he had not gotten your permission first.”

Mara’s brows furrowed. “Why would he make a copy of the Chronicle?”

Diana shrugged. “If you remember, when he returned the original to you, he said he could sense that it had some kind of power. I think it intrigued him, and he wanted to explore the experience further. We metaphysical people do stuff like that, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Tell Ned to knock himself out. For all I care, he can mass produce Chronicles and sell them on eBay.”

“So you want me to call him back and say you’re okay with it?”

“Sure. Why not? I didn’t design the thing. I don’t own the rights to it.” Mara lay back down on the bed and put the pillow over her face.

“What are your plans for today, since you don’t have to go into work?”

“I’m not waking up until it’s Monday.”

Cameron Lee stood in front of a large canvas, featuring a bright orange sunset on the Serengeti, one of his latest works on display at Obscure, an aptly named art gallery just off Hawthorne in southeast Portland, far from the tonier showrooms of the Pearl District or the established culture of the Alberta Arts District in the northeast section of the city. He nodded and smiled, occasionally shook hands as patrons made their way to the door. The show was winding down, and Mr. Dorian, the gallery owner, subtly herded people out. He had his daughter’s twelfth birthday party to attend. An older lady with big blue-tinged hair slipped away from him and walked over to Cam.

“Young man, you absolutely made the correct decision switching your focus to African landscapes. The palette is breathtaking and the composition divine. You can almost feel the sun on your skin and the wind sweeping through your hair,” the lady said. “Whatever inspired such a radical shift in your work? I mean, going from that dizzying abstract work to this marvelous, peaceful elegance is absolutely incredible.”

Cam half bowed and said, “You’re very kind, Mrs. Klein. I just felt it was time to try something new.”

“Mr. Dorian tells me that you were on that dreadful flight that crashed into the river a couple months ago. Surviving traumatic events like that can certainly motivate us to take a fresh look at our lives. Don’t you agree?”

“It certainly gives you a whole new perspective on things,” he said.

The front door closed with a rattle and a click, as Mr. Dorian turned the dead bolt. He flicked a switch on the wall nearby, and most of the lights went out, hanging over the large window facing the street. He walked over and stood with Cam and Mrs. Klein in front of the orange landscape. “Excellent show, Cam. Twelve pieces sold. That should help out with next semester’s tuition. Don’t you think?”

Cam held out his hand. “Absolutely. I can’t thank you enough for doing this. You have got to be the only gallery owner in the world who would put on a show just to help an employee pay for school.”

Mrs. Dorian nodded. “That is very kind of you.”

“Nonsense. There would not have been a show if there was no talent to display, I can assure you of that. However, if you are looking for a way to thank me, you can close up the place, so I can get out of here before my wife and daughter kill me.” He nodded to Mrs. Klein and added, “If you’ll forgive me, I’m going to sneak out the back.”

“I understand completely,” she said. “I’ll just have this handsome young artist walk me out.” She held out her arm to Cam.

While the gallery owner walked toward the back of the building, Cam escorted their customer to the front door.

“So, I’m really curious. Why the sudden and dramatic switch in your work?” Mrs. Klein asked. “The old stuff was good, but this new work of yours is in a whole different league.”

Cam looked down, a little sheepish. “I don’t want to sound like an angst-filled artist—or a stereotype of any kind for that matter.” He unlocked the door and opened it.

“Oh, just go ahead and say what you feel. That’s the whole point of art, isn’t it?” She patted his arm and crossed the threshold.

“The surrealism just seemed impersonal to me, not a part of me. I wanted to explore my African-ness, I guess. This show was focused on landscapes, but I’m working on some portraits, some other pieces that reflect African design and culture, even some African-inspired abstracts.”

“That’s wonderful. If the other work is anything like these brilliant landscapes, you are doing the right thing,” she said. She smiled and slipped on a pair of gloves. “You have a good evening and make sure you take a moment to enjoy your success.”

He thanked her again and closed the door, waving through the window as she turned away. Once she got in the awaiting cab, he pulled down the blind and leaned his back against the door. Gazing into the gallery full of his art, he sighed, sounding content and tired. He debated whether to run a dust mop over the floors but decided against it. The employees would be setting up the next exhibit the following morning, tracking in and out, so the place would get a thorough cleaning after that. Besides, it was still relatively early on a Saturday night, and he had earned at least a nightcap.

As he pushed off from the door, on his way to kill the lights, he noticed something moving out of the corner of his eye. A swirl of darkness in the center of the Serengeti landscape. Cam gasped. At first it looked like something burning through the canvas, but that wasn’t right. It was actually in front of the painting, in the air before it, a growing black tear, as if someone had run a knife through space. A breeze pulled at Cam, causing his lapel to flap. He ran his hand over it, pressing it down. When he looked up again, the dark opening had grown wider, the wind more insistent. Something clattered to his right. Smaller canvases across the room swung on their wires, strained to jump off the wall. A flock of brochures fluttered off the table next to the front door, danced in the air for a moment, then flew into the blackness.

Cam staggered back toward the door, resisting the pull of the wind. After two steps, he felt static run up the back of his head. After another two steps, he felt it on his arms. When his backside bumped into the door, he could make out a light blue sheen in the air just inches from his nose.
Some kind of electrical field
. He looked side to side, then upward.
It’s a sphere
. He reached up to touch it with a finger.

But his finger was gone, or rather, his fingertip was. It was dissolving into a fine luminous mist. And it streamed toward the black hole than now covered the Serengeti painting.

From out of its depths, a deep baritone said, “It’s time to come home.”

Cam’s mind went blank.

* * *

Rory, the cab driver, grunted, as he leaned over his belly to hang up his radio. He took a right onto Hawthorne Boulevard, heading east to pick up a fare going to the airport. The road ahead looked clear of jaywalking pedestrians, which were not uncommon around here, thanks to all the restaurants and bars, so he pressed the accelerator a bit. A quick pickup might lead to a good tip. Just as he passed the speed limit by about five miles, a man in a suit and tie ran out of the shadows of a darkened storefront, directly into the path of his yellow Crown Victoria.

Rory slammed on the brakes, sending the car shimmying side to side, but still careening forward with a loud squeal that ended with a sickening thump. The suited man’s body flew more than twenty feet down Hawthorne, where it landed facedown on the center line between the lanes.

Before the cab driver could heave himself from the taxi, several pedestrians from both sides of the street ran into the middle. When Rory approached, he said to the group, “Any of you guys a doctor or nurse? If not, you folks need to back up and give the guy some air. I’ve got the cops and an ambulance on the way.”

A tall college kid in an orange hoodie squatted down, turned over the body and said, “This guy isn’t going to need an ambulance.”

Rory sucked in his breath, bracing himself for the worst, and pulled the college kid out of the way. Lying on the pavement, face up, was the man in the suit. On his lapel was one of those stick-on label name tags with Cameron handwritten on it. Except it wasn’t a man. Where his face should have been was a mass of metal filaments, circuitry and what looked like flickering optical fiber. His legs and hips looked more warped than broken, and there was no blood, although something wet and milky leaked out of his ears.

A loud piercing scream made Rory jump.

A few feet beyond the crowd, which had parted to see what the commotion was about, stood a woman pointing a trembling finger at some debris on the roadway. “It’s his face!”

Mara shook her head while slipping her laptop into its carrying case, which she had on the end of her bed. Rumbles ran through the walls and giggles floated up from downstairs as Sam chased his daughter from the kitchen into the living room. Mornings certainly seemed much noisier with a brother from an alternate realm and a niece from the future in the house. Mara zipped up the case, pulled the strap over her shoulder and turned to walk from her bedroom.

The leather book, the Chronicle of Continuity, sitting on the corner of her desk, caught her eye. She had not given it much thought over the weekend.