destroy them, but who could he turn to? The new Russian Beast, fresh from Chechnya? An Arab Sand Dragon? The two strongest in Asia, the Japanese Dragon and theBombay Serpent, would have nothing to do with him. Would they? Now there’s an interesting thought. Lots of potential there. But he’d need to move fast.
Suddenly, he heard the waitress laugh, and he spun around to see her standing there, reading his book.
My book.
“What’s the big deal, I just wanted to look,” said the woman, noticing his eyes. “I don’t have anything to do around here. What’s wrong with you?”
“Wrong with me?” said Visser, his lips trembling.
“This is not scary,” said the woman. “It’s just random notes and…and poetry. Poetry about snakes. Is that what you write?” She was bewildered.
“Not snakes,” said Visser through clenched yellowish teeth. “Serpents. Dragons.”
Nothing seemed funny to the woman anymore.
The other two customers looked over, alarmed.
Visser rose. Now he towered over the woman, seven feet tall, his skin rippling as heat waves passed through him, and her jaw dropped as she realized she was staring at a black-and-white Beast with eyes like yellow marbles.
“True poetry is not written in ink,” said the Ice Dragon, “but in fire.”
And he set the woman ablaze in the colors of good and evil, a black-and-white fire that matched his ownskin, and the fire leapt into the air and carried her up to the ceiling, dropped her ashes in a split-second, and then spread to the photographers, one burned away in white fire, the other burned away in black.
“Burn a little hope, today, snuff out a little light.
Ebony doesn’t burn, my friend, it only turns to white.
Die, die, and learn to like it, child….
It only stings a little while, it’s really very mild.”
His Serpentine mind was humming.
But he found himself abruptly disappointed, for the fire he had made was turning to ice. It behaved like fire, flickering and moving about, but it was ice, no doubt about it. He had no control. The ice-fire stopped its quivering, the sharp spires of ice stilled, and the moving mass of crystalline flames ceased their crunching, breaking passage. The Serpent was left alone with frost-filled walls and ceiling.
His fire had gone cold.
Gloomily, he watched the rest of his TV show in the frigid ruins.
Then he left the little café in the mountains and he headed for the sea to set his plans in motion.
Chapter 9
T HE L ONELINESS OF A G REAT S HIP
S IMON S T . G EORGE AND his father had found their way to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean where the globe had shown Alaythia, but there had been no sign of her. Simon began to have serious doubts they would find her even with the tracer device, because they could never quite catch up.
“If she took a plane, she would be in China by now,” commented Simon.
“Yes, but if she took a boat,” said Aldric, “she would be closer to the ocean, and she’d have a better chance of sensing the Black Dragon. He may very well be on the sea, on the move.”
Simon frowned, considering the predicament.
They were at the table in the galley, and the stovebegan belching black smoke. Aldric cursed and tried to save his stew. Nearly everything they cooked went bad now; it was as if the ship were punishing them for losing Alaythia.
The ship itself seemed lonely without her. At night it made howling noises with the wind in its sails, and the rigging clanged rhythmically, as if calling out to her.
Simon and Aldric knew exactly how the old ship felt.
To stave off the emptiness—Aldric could spend entire days not talking at all—Simon had begun writing letters to Emily back in Ebony Hollow, though he knew he’d never send them; and if he did, she’d never read them. There were too many details in them about Dragonsigns, about Dragonhunting; they would have sounded insane to her, but he kept trying to find a way to make the dark world he knew seem reasonable .
The ship felt
Suddenly, he heard the waitress laugh, and he spun around to see her standing there, reading his book.
My book.
“What’s the big deal, I just wanted to look,” said the woman, noticing his eyes. “I don’t have anything to do around here. What’s wrong with you?”
“Wrong with me?” said Visser, his lips trembling.
“This is not scary,” said the woman. “It’s just random notes and…and poetry. Poetry about snakes. Is that what you write?” She was bewildered.
“Not snakes,” said Visser through clenched yellowish teeth. “Serpents. Dragons.”
Nothing seemed funny to the woman anymore.
The other two customers looked over, alarmed.
Visser rose. Now he towered over the woman, seven feet tall, his skin rippling as heat waves passed through him, and her jaw dropped as she realized she was staring at a black-and-white Beast with eyes like yellow marbles.
“True poetry is not written in ink,” said the Ice Dragon, “but in fire.”
And he set the woman ablaze in the colors of good and evil, a black-and-white fire that matched his ownskin, and the fire leapt into the air and carried her up to the ceiling, dropped her ashes in a split-second, and then spread to the photographers, one burned away in white fire, the other burned away in black.
“Burn a little hope, today, snuff out a little light.
Ebony doesn’t burn, my friend, it only turns to white.
Die, die, and learn to like it, child….
It only stings a little while, it’s really very mild.”
His Serpentine mind was humming.
But he found himself abruptly disappointed, for the fire he had made was turning to ice. It behaved like fire, flickering and moving about, but it was ice, no doubt about it. He had no control. The ice-fire stopped its quivering, the sharp spires of ice stilled, and the moving mass of crystalline flames ceased their crunching, breaking passage. The Serpent was left alone with frost-filled walls and ceiling.
His fire had gone cold.
Gloomily, he watched the rest of his TV show in the frigid ruins.
Then he left the little café in the mountains and he headed for the sea to set his plans in motion.
Chapter 9
T HE L ONELINESS OF A G REAT S HIP
S IMON S T . G EORGE AND his father had found their way to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean where the globe had shown Alaythia, but there had been no sign of her. Simon began to have serious doubts they would find her even with the tracer device, because they could never quite catch up.
“If she took a plane, she would be in China by now,” commented Simon.
“Yes, but if she took a boat,” said Aldric, “she would be closer to the ocean, and she’d have a better chance of sensing the Black Dragon. He may very well be on the sea, on the move.”
Simon frowned, considering the predicament.
They were at the table in the galley, and the stovebegan belching black smoke. Aldric cursed and tried to save his stew. Nearly everything they cooked went bad now; it was as if the ship were punishing them for losing Alaythia.
The ship itself seemed lonely without her. At night it made howling noises with the wind in its sails, and the rigging clanged rhythmically, as if calling out to her.
Simon and Aldric knew exactly how the old ship felt.
To stave off the emptiness—Aldric could spend entire days not talking at all—Simon had begun writing letters to Emily back in Ebony Hollow, though he knew he’d never send them; and if he did, she’d never read them. There were too many details in them about Dragonsigns, about Dragonhunting; they would have sounded insane to her, but he kept trying to find a way to make the dark world he knew seem reasonable .
The ship felt
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