The Gate of Bones (46 page)

“Kitchen door.” Ting raced Bailey to the side door, reaching it first. She tried to yank it open, and nearly fell, as it refused to yield.

Every window in the kitchen refused to open as if hammered close. She and Bailey rounded the big room, pounding on the frames.

They tried every exit they could think of, one by one. The academy stayed shut. They returned to the others.

“We're locked in.”

“Is it the Gate? What's happened to the others?”

Bailey shook her head. “I don't know.” She shivered. “I don't know!”

Madame Qi drew herself up. “My grandfather fought demons,” she said. She looked at Ting. Ting swallowed. She opened her hand and looked at her palm. The fiery red dragon mark seemed to wink at her.

“This may be our only way out.” She traced the mark.

A hot wind swept the room, filling it. Ting jumped back, startled, her hair streaming behind her. FireAnn fell to the floor weeping in fear, and Eleanora went to her knees to comfort her. As Ting and Bailey stared, a fiery ring opened up, like a great eye.

“Go,” urged Madame Qi. “Hurry!”

Ting gulped. She tugged on Bailey. “After you!”

A
RE YOU SURE this is the darkest time?” Bailey asked, wrinkling her nose. “I mean, it's desperate all right, but somehow things always turn out and I really wonder if one bad Gate a day isn't enough—”

“If you don't move, I'm going to kick you in the rump myself,” Ting said firmly. “Now go!”

“Jeez. When did you get so bossy?”

“Since . . . since I met you! Now move!” Ting waved her arms wildly, startling Bailey into jumping through the fiery aperture, Ting on her heels. The fire ring hung in midair a moment with the roar of flames, then disappeared.

Instantly, the world changed. The silence of Haven disappeared and they could hear the once familiar sounds of auto traffic, the buzz of electricity in the air, the drone of an airplane passing by, although all seemed muffled in silvery fog. From far away, a fog-horn sounded forlornly.

“Where are we?”

“Home, I think.” Ting brushed her hair from one eye, looking about. “Grandmother's home, that is. I think we're in San Francisco.”

“So it really is foggy.” Bailey peered through the soft, billowing ground-hugging clouds, unable to see almost anything except Ting as she flashed an embarrassed smile.

“Only sometimes. I like it, though.” Ting took a deep breath. For a moment, all her troubles seemed to drop away. “The funny thing is, if you're on one of the hills, often only some areas have fog. It's like part of the city is gift-wrapped. I like to sit in Grandmother's courtyard and watch it drape the house.” Ting tilted her face up. She took a few steps forward across short-trimmed grass that was as wet with the fog as heavy rain, her shoes making whispery sounds as she crossed it. “Bailey,” she said softly. “I
am
home. Look.” And she pointed at the house beginning to emerge, walkway by corner by roof eave from the silvery fog, and the proud enamel red Chinese dragon gracing its roof tiles.

Bailey looked up. “So you think your great grandfather really enchanted that.”

“It seems logical. It could be our only help now. I have to bring it back!”

Bailey stared at her friend. “Nothing about Magick is logical. It's all wondrously improbable but possible. So. How do we get this dragon down? Climb a rain gutter?”

“I was thinking garden ladder.”

“What if someone sees us?”

“That,” Ting said solemnly, “is an excellent question, and I have no idea. Family still lives here, but I'm not sure I want to wake anyone up. I think it's early morning.”

“Very early.” Bailey stumbled. “Streetlights are still on, if anyone can see them. Note to self: try not to walk into one, they are tall and solid and hurt.” She rubbed her kneecap ruefully. “Where is that ladder?”

“This way.” Ting slipped through a side courtyard, opening the gate latch as quietly as she could, and guiding Bailey past a koi pond where brightly colored fish slithered lazily through the water, themselves looking as if they were only half awake.

“No alarms?”

“We've never needed any.” Ting looked guilty. “They might now, if we take the house dragon. I should leave them a note.”

Bailey put a hand on the back of her wrist. “I think someone stealing it is probably enough of a hint.”

“Oh. True.”

Fog had barely filtered into the back courtyard, although its dampness dappled the flagstone and left rainlike drops on the many flowers and plants. Ting found the ladder and she and Bailey managed to somewhat quietly carry it to the mostly likely corner and place it. By silent agreement, Bailey held the foot of the ladder while Ting climbed up. It was, after all, her dragon.

The fog seemed to follow her up as she climbed. It curled about the ladder rung by rung until when she emerged, she could see the roof but not the street or anywhere else around. She stepped cautiously upon the red-clay tiles curving like ocean waves under her feet. The Chrysanthemum Dragon stayed motionless on its weather vane, facing her, metalwork even more beautiful and fantastical than she'd always seen from the ground.

The long and sinuous body of a Chinese dragon was accented by the large head with wire whiskers, and a curling tail. It ran on three feet, the fourth one curled with a reaching step, as though the artisan had caught the dragon in a gallop or perhaps frisking through midair. The vane was made to turn in the wind, but she had never seen it do more than circle gracefully no matter how forceful the breeze, as though it was beyond a dragon's dignity to whirl crazily about. Up close, she could tell it was half as long as she was tall, or maybe even slightly bigger than that. She hoped it wasn't too heavy for her to carry, at least as far as the ladder and Bailey's aid.

She reached it in three more cautious steps. It slowly swung about to face her, although she couldn't feel a breeze. The fog did not stir at all.

She put her hand on it. “We need you,” she explained, “at Haven. I need you, and Grandmother Qi, and Eleanora and Freyah and FireAnn. I know it's been your job to guard here, but I'm hoping you'll come with me, at least for a little while.”

The enameled metal felt warm to her touch, surprising her, for the San Francisco morning seemed very cold yet. She bent over, examining the structure. It appeared all she had to do was lift the dragon from its post, the one sleeve slipped into the other. The rest of the dragon would rotate and swing freely about the post. If she could lift it, that is. She reached down.

The dragon swung away.

Ting frowned. She moved into a better position and reached again to grasp and lift it. It spun in the other direction, coming about so quickly it knocked her off her feet. Ting ducked and dug her hands into the tiles suddenly afraid of slipping, as the dragon swung about.

“What are you doing up there?”

She could hear but not see Bailey. “I'm trying,” she said, “to get it loose.”

“I think somebody is awake down here. I hear a teakettle whistling.”

That was the last thing she wanted to hear. Ting carefully stood up, balancing on the curved tiles. Did she remember a story her mother used to tell, about a workman come to paint the dragon once? A high wind spun it around and around, eluding every stroke of the paintbrush until he finally came down off the roof, ranting in rapid Chinese about demons and tricks and refused to do the work. Grandmother Qi finally hired an art student to enamel the vane, and he had sat patiently, day after day, doing a true craftsman's job and never once did the dragon move.

“Please,” pleaded Ting. “I need your help!” She grasped the dragon along its spine with both hands and pulled up.

It snapped its head around with a hiss. “Ssssstaying!” As it exhaled, fire and smoke spewed out, swirling away into a huge ring, just like the one that had brought them there. Its free paw uncurled to swipe at her hand, and as it spun about, it knocked Ting clean off the roof toward the fiery portal. Her ears roared with the lick of flames, and as she flew past Bailey toward it, she reached out and caught her friend by the sleeve. Together they went tumbling through air and fire.

She landed on her back, Bailey across her legs. The impact hurt, as if she had fallen from the roof and she didn't move for a while. She wiggled a foot first. Then an arm. Nothing seemed to be broken, just squished.

“I can't believe it.”

Bailey groaned and crawled off Ting's other leg, sitting up. “It didn't work.”

“It wouldn't come. What did I do wrong?” Ting put her hand to her face in dismay and something fell out. She stared at the ground. A great opalescent pink pearl rolled to a stop near her knee, a delicate gold chain trailing behind it.

“Wow,” breathed Bailey. “Where did that come from?”

“I don't know!” But she did. Ting sat up. The house dragon had had that front paw curled up tightly for decades since being cast. Had the pearl been in its clutch all that time? It must have been. She picked it up reverently. “This is great grandfather's pearl. It has to be!”

“The one you told me about? The one he wore?”

“I had the wrong dragon. This must be the one.” Ting cupped the huge pearl, its colors swirled from creamy white to blushing pink. “He summoned it with this. Or this became it.”

“Either way. What are you waiting for?” Bailey gave her a hand up.

“I don't know what I'm doing, that's what.”

“That's never stopped me!” declared Bailey.

Ting laughed at her, wrinkling her nose a little, then looked down at the pearl in concentration. “I should ask Grandmother.”

“But she'd never seen the pearl either, right?”

“No, just heard stories of it.” Ting cradled the object. “If I focus on it, I should be able to tell if it has any Magick at all. Then we can figure out what to do.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

Ting felt the pearl warm in her hands, the gold chain dangling from it. It was not made as a show-piece of jewelry, although the object could be worth a king's ransom. It had been worn as a pendant, perhaps, or a talisman. She let her eyes and attention be drawn into its richness of color, the play of the opalescent sheen over it, the essence of the pearl itself, a seed of possibility held within an oyster once upon a time before being worn about the neck of her ancestor—

POOF!

Pink smoke exploded everywhere. “Holy moly!” Bailey jumped and let out a shriek. Magick slammed through her, knocking her off her feet and onto her duff. It had been that kind of day, she decided, and just sat where she was rather than get up again. When the smoke cleared, she began to laugh and looked around for Ting.

“Ting! Ting? Here's your dragon. Well, I think it's a dragon. I don't know if we can use it for a guardian, though. It . . . it's kinda small.” Bailey got on her knees and looked at the beast, Chinese in every aspect, like the weather vane creature, but this one was a blushing pink from tiny whiskers to sinuous tail. “It's not really a dragon, I think. About the size of your average cat. Smallish.”

“I know,” said Ting, very muffled.

“Where are you? Come see this. It seems a little . . . frightened.” Bailey looked about, bewildered, then held a finger out to the dragon. It hissed. “Heh. It's spunky, though. Okay, I can't call anything this small a dragon. I mean, it's like . . . garden-sized. It would get lost in a hedge. That's it. There's hedge wizards. This is a hedgedragon.”

Ting sighed. The hedgedragon let out a long, corresponding steamy
ssssssss
.

Bailey peered at it. It stared back at her, whiskers drooping.

“Oh, no.” She leaned down. “Ting?”

The hedgedragon sniffled.

“Oh. My.”

I
'M NOT RESPONSIBLE for this mess.” Hedgedragon and Magicker stared at each other. The beast wiggled its nose, fine kitteny whiskers waving as it sniffled again. A big golden tear formed on a lower eyelid and ran down the delicately scaled face. “Okay, okay.” Bailey reached out and gathered the hedgedragon into a hug. “We'll do something. I don't know what, but something.” The pearl bumped against her chin. The hedgedragon now wore the object around its neck. Her neck. The dragon was Ting. “You'll change back.”

“But when?” Ting's voice sounded very, very far away, and wrapped in tissue paper. “We have to do something
now.
”

Bailey looked around, having been far too busy and bewildered to note where they had returned. They sat in the academy courtyard. “At least we're outside,” she pointed out.

“I don't think I can face any demons like this!” And the hedgedragon wailed pitifully. Not only was it a pitiful sound, but a pretty poor attempt at wailing, Bailey thought. It was more like a squeaky yodel. She reached down and scratched the hedgedragon's floppy ear to comfort her.

“Oooh,” murmured Ting. “That feels
good.
No wonder cats like it.” Her eyes closed to slits.

Bailey looked up. And up. She stopped scratching, saying in a distracted voice, “That's good. I'll do more later. After.”

“After what?”

“After we find out what that is.” Bailey stretched an arm out, pointing at the huge apparition that stood over the academy, vaguely man-shaped, draped in body armor, with a helmet on, reminding Bailey of an ancient warrior knight or maybe a shogun. She thought of standing, and decided it wouldn't make her tall enough to make any difference, nor would getting to her feet help running away any. She touched her crystal, but it remained cold and mute. “We're face-to-face . . . um . . . snout . . . with the demon.”