Broken Dragon (The Chronicles of Mara Lantern, Book 3) Read online

  Ping wrapped an arm over Mara’s shoulder. “What do you mean, he took her?”

  “Prado, the darkling wraith or whatever you want to call it, took Abby, all of her. I think he took her entire consciousness from every realm and merged with her somehow.”

  “That’s impossible. How could that be?”

  “After he possessed Abby’s body, she attacked you. She was literally cooking you on the spot, and she made me open the Chronicle. When she entered the bubble, I saw all the different versions of Abby fly from the nodes and meld with her. All of what she is or could be, that thing took. I think she and Prado are—”

  “You think they are what?”

  “I think they are one and the same now. Suter called it the Aphotis.”

  “I remember asking him about that word. It has some disturbing connotations. Something that is aphotic can live only in darkness. I do not like the sound of that.”

  “In Suter’s realm, there is a belief that, at some point, a person’s soul would go viral and become what they called the darkling wraith, possessing many people’s bodies. That’s what happened with Juaquin Prado. They even described the flowing dark vapor we saw on the videos. Eventually this wraith would gather to one person, consuming their soul and becoming one with it.” Mara’s voice cracked. “I think that’s what happened to Abby.”

  “But why Abby? Why didn’t it take you, when you were possessed by it?”

  “He needed all of me, and that was out of reach. He seemed confused by that, like he didn’t realize we all exist in multiple realities and how he only had access to this one realm. Prado needed to merge or consume the entire consciousness of a soul, all its permutations in existence. That was only attainable by using the Chronicle to reach out to every realm, which he was not aware of when he first possessed me.”

  “But somehow he was able to attain that knowledge?”

  “I think from me, when we were joined. But he figured it out too late. By then I started to shine, as Hannah calls it, and drove him out.”

  “That’s when he entered Abby.”

  Mara nodded. “And demanded that I open the Chronicle. I practically served Abby’s soul to him on a platter.”

  “You could not have known,” Ping said.

  “Prado took that knowledge from me and used it against me. He even mocked me with it, talking about how I had so much knowledge and so little understanding. I helped him turn Abby into a monster.” Mara wiped her eyes, preempting tears before they ran down her cheeks. “Remember when we talked about good versus evil?”

  “You mean, constructive versus destructive forces,” Ping corrected.

  “I mean a metaphysical devil.”

  “There is no such thing, simply opposing forces competing to define the nature of existence in differing ways.”

  “You mean, the battle for existence,” she said.

  “Yes, in a manner of speaking.”

  “Well, I think it’s on.”

  Ping stared at her for a few seconds and then wiped beads from his brow, despite the cold air wafting in from the shattered window. “Surely you’re not taking that literally, are you?”

  Mara pointed to the ceiling. “What happened up on the roof wasn’t a metaphor. That thing took my friend. It took the Chronicle, and, if what I suspect is true, it took enough of me to pose a significant threat to us all.”

  Ping went pale. “What do you mean, it took enough of you?”

  “For a few minutes, it was me. Before it left, it shared my knowledge, awareness and beliefs, so—”

  “So, if that’s true, it may have your abilities to shape reality, the abilities of a progenitor.” Ping’s eye twitched and then his cheek. He walked around the counter, sat on the high stool behind it and leaned forward. He placed his elbows on its surface and cradled his head in his hands. Without looking up, he said, “I always assumed that the battle of existence referred to something that would be played out over time, an accumulation of constructive and destructive events that would shape the nature of reality. It never occurred to me that it might be an actual altercation between those forces, an actual battle. Perhaps the coming of this Aphotis is why the dragon has been so restless. This intuition, this sonar it sends out, is definitely setting off some kind of alarm in the creature.”

  “Considering what happened on the roof when I was possessed, when I lashed out at the dragon, it’s logical that it would be fearful,” Mara said. “You said it could sense danger, even before it arrives.”

  “As best I can determine, that is true.”

  “And this started up a few days ago, before Prado and the shedding, and me coming back with Suter. As all of that happened, what you felt, did it get worse over time?”

  “I would say so.”

  “And now? How do you feel? How does it feel?”

  “Barely contained. As long as the threat exists, I may have trouble controlling it.”

  “Then we have to deal with the threat.”

  “Mara, I cannot ask you to put yourself in danger for me.”

  Mara shook her head. “I would do it for you, but it isn’t just that. I’ve got to get Abby back, if that’s possible, and I’ve got to stop her from whatever it is that she—or this thing she has become—hopes to accomplish.”

  “How could you ever find her? If she has the Chronicle of Creation and your abilities to wield it, she could be anywhere.”

  “I’m not sure, but, if it’s true that I sent Hannah back from the future with that book, the Chronicle of Continuity, they might hold the keys to what’s going on. Don’t you think?”

  “That would seem logical.”

  “Why do you think I would entitle the book the Chronicle of Continuity? Does that have any significance? Why appropriate that name, the Chronicle, when it already refers to a different object, a copper medallion?”

  “Maybe you didn’t appropriate the name.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The title of the book is in your handwriting, so it’s obvious that you named it. What if you also named the Chronicle of Creation? The use of the term chronicle might be some kind of marker, an indicator to draw your attention. For all we know, you might not only be the author of this book but the creator of the Chronicle of Creation as well.”

  “I never saw it before the flight to San Francisco. How is that possible?”

  Ping shrugged. “Maybe you created it in the future, or the past, or in another realm. Who knows?” He perked up a bit, as something occurred to him. “There’s a Chronicle of Creation associated with the element of Consciousness. And the Chronicle of Continuity, clearly associated with the element of Time.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, what can you infer and extrapolate from that information?”

  “All I can extrapolate at the moment is you are obviously exhausted and talking gibberish,” Mara said.

  “You are half correct. I am exhausted, but I think I’m onto something here. What if there’s a Chronicle associated with each element of reality—Consciousness, Time, Space and Consequence?”

  Mara rolled her eyes. “You are making my head hurt. Can’t we just call your contractors and get the windows boarded up? I need to go home, get some sleep, wake up and have Thanksgiving dinner, and then I’ve got to fight a battle for existence against my best friend from high school.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Crunching across the gravel parking lot of Mount Blossoms Nursery, Liz Murray wondered what had gotten her boss all aflutter, not that it was rare for Reuben Stills to get into a tizzy over the most mundane problems. However, it was Thanksgiving morning, and Liz had expected to have the day off. Instead Reuben had summoned her to the small wooded lot south of Portland, home to the office trailer and the sizeable greenhouse that loomed behind it.

  Rueben rushed up to her, breathless. “Elizabeth, thank you for coming! You are not going to believe what has happened in the greenhouse!”

  Liz rolled her eyes. “Rube, I thought we agr
eed that I would focus on my responsibilities in the office, so, unless you have an emergency invoice that needs to go out, I’m going to return to fixing my turkey dinner. I have a houseful of relatives coming over in a few hours.” She stood half turned toward her car.

  “I know. I promised I wouldn’t ask for your help in the greenhouse, but we’ve had a disaster, and I didn’t know where else to turn.” Rueben held his hands together prayerfully, almost bowing in front of her. “You are not going to believe what happened. All the poinsettias are dying! On Thanksgiving! Do you know what that will do to my business? We may both be out of a job.”

  Liz sighed and waved a hand toward the gravel path that led around the trailer to the greenhouse. “I thought you said it wasn’t necessary to keep the poinsettias in the greenhouse, that they could be warehoused for a day or two until we got them to the retailers.”

  “That was the original plan, but, with all the craziness going on with the shedding outbreak, I thought it would be less trouble just to put them here, instead of driving into town and getting caught in the mayhem. Besides, the greenhouse was empty, and I thought an extra day or two in a controlled environment would make them look particularly radiant.”

  “And you could charge more of a premium for the shops that placed late orders.”

  Stopping at the white plastic door of the greenhouse, Reuben turned the metal handle and pulled, releasing a gust of warm air. Holding open the door, he half bowed and waved for Liz to proceed. “I’m not ashamed of turning a profit. It puts food on all our tables,” he said. Following her inside, he flipped a light switch next to the door. “The power went out Tuesday night or early Wednesday, cutting off the heat and the watering system. To make matters worse, the alarm system failed to send a text message because of the congestion on the phone networks. Then, when power was finally restored late last night, the heating system defaulted back to its highest setting. The poor poinsettias were practically frozen to death and then immediately roasted alive. The soil in the pots feels like sand.”

  He held out both arms to the rows of plants, all wilted, draping over the edges of the pallets on which their foil-wrapped pots stood. The ten-thousand-square-foot greenhouse looked like a study in surrealism, a sea of limp lettuce and melted tongues.

  He looked expectantly at Liz. “Is there anything you can do to save them?”

  She surveyed the rows of dying plants, then looked at Reuben, exasperated. “Are you kidding me? Do you know how much it would take to bring all these plants back to health?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” Reuben whined. He paused for dramatic effect and raised a hand, as if taking an oath. “Okay, okay, it’s too much. I should not have asked. We’ll just have to take the loss and figure out what to do.”

  “Don’t play me, Rube.”

  “I’m serious. If you are uncomfortable doing this, I’ll figure something else out.” He placed a hand on his hip and gazed at the dying plants.

  Liz frowned. “It’s not about being uncomfortable. It’s just that I have a turkey to get on the table, and I wasn’t hired to be your personal plant doctor. You’re supposed to be the one with the green thumb, remember?”

  “I’ll never ask again. I promise.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “So? What can I do to help?” he said, rubbing his hands.

  Liz looked up to some aluminum ducts suspended from the ceiling between the light fixtures. “Can you turn down the heat and crank up the fans so that the air circulates in here? I need the air to move around. It doesn’t need to be windy, but something on the order of a draft would be ideal.”

  Reuben nodded, ran to the other side of the door and fiddled with some knobs on a panel mounted on the wall. Soon a whoosh shook through the ducts with a rattle, and Liz felt a few strands of gray hair tickle her forehead. She brushed it back and said, “That’s good, like that.” She tossed a thumb over her shoulder and added, “Now get lost.”

  “You understand that I would not allow any other employee to talk to me that way,” he said, mock sternness in his voice.

  “That’s because you don’t have any other employee who can do what I can do,” Liz said. “Now leave me be for about a half hour.”

  “Would it be possible for me to stay and watch? If I can learn your techniques, perhaps I would not need your help in the future.”

  “You already promised you would never ask me to do this again.”

  “Why would I need to, if you show me how to do it myself?”

  Liz shook her head. “Not gonna happen. This isn’t something I can teach, so vacate the premises, or get on the phone and start making apologies to your poinsettia clients.”

  “Fine, I’ll go. I need to run over to the Christmas tree farm anyway. I’ll be back in a little while to check on you.” He spun on a heel and walked out.

  There was no lock on the door, so Liz looked around for a way to secure it, just in case someone happened by or if Reuben decided to return before it was suitable. She spotted a spool of nylon twine used to secure plants and picked up a small knife nearby. After cutting a length, she tied it into a loop and returned to the door, where she placed one end of the encircled twine over the handle. She pulled a small spade off a wall peg embedded to the left of the door and hung the other end of the loop over the peg. Someone would not be able to enter without a lot of effort.

  Feeling more secure, she turned toward the interior of the greenhouse, sighing as she looked at the rows of wilted poinsettias. She walked several feet into the center row and bent down to a shriveled red bract—the specialized leaves that many mistook for poinsettia flower petals—and rubbed it between two fingers. I need to hurry.

  Straightening, she slipped off her jacket and laid it alongside a pallet. Rolling up her sleeves, she unbuttoned two buttons at the top of her blouse. Bending down again, she rolled up her pants legs to just below the knees and kicked off her shoes. After removing her socks, a shiver ran up her spine when she placed her bare feet on the cool dirt floor.

  Taking a last look at the dying foliage, she inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. The musty sweet smell of fall, of decomposing leaves and fertile soil filled her. She felt a cascade of warmth flow through her as she raised her arms, palms up. A sheen of moisture broke out across her brow, and she exhaled audibly. Her pores opened, creating a rash of raised pink dots on her skin that disgorged a thick oily liquid. It did not bead, like sweat, but flowed over her body, like a spring pushing water from beneath the earth, overflowing, coating her skin and soaking her clothes.

  Liz sighed again, and the oily residue coagulated, then clotted. It became gelatinous. The gelatin grew cloudy, making her body and clothing appear frosted, coated with a crystalline icing. She stiffened, constricted every muscle in her frame, trembling with the effort. A groan slipped from her coated lips.

  And then she blossomed.

  Millions of thin white stems burst from the frosting on her skin and clothing, so dense it looked like fur.

  Liz inhaled and held her breath, her covered cheeks bulging outward.

  The stems exploded.

  Tufts of white fuzz fanned across the greenhouse, like a blizzard of dandelion dander, filling the air above the rows of limp flowers.

  Liz, now dry and unshrouded in goo or stems, let out her breath. She watched the downy fibers dance in the air, kicked around by the ventilation system Rueben had left running. Next to her, a tiny white filament alighted on the bright red bract of a slumped poinsettia and melted into a speck of oily residue. A moment later the speck disappeared, absorbed into the plant. The withered red leaf lengthened and filled, firmed up and stood, followed by its neighbors, jerkily reaching toward the greenhouse roof, like a stop-motion film showing the miracle of nature.

  More filaments landed. The greenhouse filled with a leafy rustling noise, as the resurrected poinsettias stood up, bright and alive.

  Liz smiled, hopped up and down to get her pants legs to fall, and slipped on her s
ocks and shoes. She sauntered down the center row of the greenhouse, looking left and right, watching the flowers come back to life. As she approached the end of the row, she sensed a breeze, different and stronger than the air flowing from the ventilation system. Still watching the recovering plants, she dismissed it, thinking she must be getting closer to a vent. She did not bother looking down the aisle.

  An electrical sizzle and the smell of ozone drew her attention.

  At the end of the aisle, six feet ahead, stood a black gash floating in the air, as if the world were a balloon and someone had ripped a hole in it. A gust of wind pulled at Liz, drawing her toward the void. She instinctively leaned away from it and placed a foot against one of the pallets under the poinsettias. The vacuum ahead grew more insistent, more powerful, and she turned away to run. Behind her, she saw a translucent blue wall that sloped upward. She tracked it across the ceiling, until she once again faced the blackness at the end of the aisle. She was encased in a sphere, a blue bubble of static.

  On the verge of tumbling forward, Liz extended her arm to a thin pillar that ran up to the ceiling, but, as she was about to wrap her hand around it, she realized her hand was gone. A luminous mist trailed away from the end of her arm, where her hand should have been, and flowed into the black hole ahead. Within seconds her arm was gone. She strained and twisted her head to the side, as her shoulder melted into mist. Shaking her head, she looked down. Her torso disintegrated into a cloud of ambient green and seeped away.

  “It’s time to come home,” a baritone voice echoed from the blackness.

  It was the last thing she heard before her head dissolved.

  CHAPTER 4

  The black vapor of Juaquin Prado’s infectious soul swirled above her face. Through it, Mara could see the dragon flying into the low-slung clouds, retreating from the threat, circling above the roof of Mason Fix-It. In the distance, monotone dead voices chanted her name, calling her to join them. Then the black morass above flooded her eyes, blinding her, sending shocks of pain radiating through her head. Mara grabbed her temples and screamed.