The Dragon of the Dolomites Read online

  Emily.

  He ran to the window. Up high it was starting to clear, blue below the fog was like a soup. Through the haze he saw the top of the Ferris wheel. Three demon creatures hovered around it, bobbing up and down as they flapped their wings. Vapors of fog twisted snake-like around their shimmering bodies. The demon thing in the center plucked one of the riders from the top chair, clutching her in huge hands, the girl screaming. Even in the fog, Jason saw the cowboy hat.

  "Emily!" he shouted.

  All three creatures looked at him with their searing white eyes. Then, as if something frightened them, they shot upwards, the one in the middle still clutching his sister. Her hat flew off, her blond pony tail flapping in the wind. They soared up and out of the fog, and just for a second, before they ducked behind the trees not far away, he realized that what he was seeing at that moment was something he had seen before.

  It was exactly like his drawing.

  Chapter 2

  A light mist wet Jason's face, and a cold wind shook the skeletal oaks lining the neighborhood street. His black t-shirt provided little protection from the chill, and he shivered. He realized he had left his windbreaker in his locker, but he wasn't going back for it. It could sit there for a million years for all he cared.

  It was his first day back at Edson High in a month, and the whole experience had been even worse than he imagined: students making lame attempts to console him, teachers patting him on the back, the principal calling him into his office and telling him a long stupid story that was supposed to cheer him up but made no sense at all. It was all he could do to stop himself from throwing up.

  If he had his way, he'd never go back to school.

  Never.

  Instead of heading through the neighborhoods for home—or actually Aunt Carina's, which now counted for home in his crazy life—he dropped down a steep hill until he reached Highway 101. He waited for a few cars to zoom past, then crossed the glistening asphalt. A few blocks later he heard the sounds of the surf, and soon he was descending the slick wooden stairs to the beach. Gray, rippled waters merged in a haze on the horizon with the gray clouds.

  Last month had been the worst month of his life. After the black fog dissipated at Emily's party, everything became crazy, with people running around, lots of screaming and crying. Medics arrived in a helicopter, but they couldn't do anything for Mom. And Emily was nowhere to be found. He told them what he had seen, of course, but the two girls with Emily had only seen her disappear in the fog, and no one else had seen the demon things. Jason could tell by the look on people's faces that they didn't know what to make of his story.

  The police searched everywhere—in the house, in the forest around the house, and in every possible hiding place in the carnival—but they couldn't find her. Dad organized a search party, and hundreds of people went over every square inch of their island. There were a few caves in the forest, but she wasn't in those either.

  Jason knew they were wasting their time. The demon-things took her, even if nobody believed him.

  Today the beach was deserted except for an older couple a long ways off down by the creek. A cliff face about ten feet high, made of dirt and rock, extended all along the back of the beach; a short ways from the steps, Jason crawled into a shallow cave and sat on the dry rocks near the back. Lately, it had been one of his favorite places.

  Shivering in the cold, wet air, he stared at the ocean. If he sat absolutely still, and if he tried not to think of anything at all, sometimes his mind went blank. Blank wasn't happy, but it was a heck of a lot better than he felt most of the time—like a bunch of maggots were eating him from the inside out. It never worked for long. Eventually the horrible despair swept over him, and he found himself thinking back on that awful day.

  His mother dead.

  His sister missing.

  And somehow it was all his fault.

  He didn't know exactly how it was his fault, but he knew it had something to do with that horrible drawing.

  One thing about letting his mind go blank was that he lost track of time, and the next thing he knew a hint of crimson had appeared in the swell of clouds. Aunt Carina was going to be pissed. He called her Aunt Carina, but that was only because she had been a friend of his Mom's for so long; Mom had met her when the two of them were both volunteering at the library. After Mom's funeral, Dad asked Jason to stay with Aunt Carina for a few days, until his father could "sort out a few things." But three weeks later, Jason was still living there. Dad called now and then, but mostly they just sat there listening to each other breathe.

  When he crawled out of the cave, he heard voices, and a moment later he saw that the voices belonged to Brad Grumball and his three moronic friends, all of them coming down the wooden steps. Brad, high school senior and star football player, was the main reason Jason went hungry at lunch half the time, got squeezed into over a dozen different lockers, and knew what the toilet water in the girl's bathroom tasted like. A really nice guy, that Brad.

  His chunky football buddies were a kind of slightly smaller version of Brad: broad-shouldered, round-faced, with just enough brains among the three of them to figure out that Pi was not just something you ate for dessert. Maybe. Brad had a doughy face, his skin as pale as flour, and his thick lips never seemed to quite cover his upper teeth. He cradled a paper sack under his arm, his blue, unzipped windbreaker flapping in the wind.

  It was too late to duck into the cave, so Jason hoped they would pass without seeing him. But before they even reached the bottom of the stairs, Brad pointed at him.

  "Hey, it's Pimple Head!"

  Jason grimaced. Brad and his bosom buddies formed a line in front of him. Jason set his backpack on the ground. He knew it was going to get ugly.

  "Missed you at school, sweetie," Brad said. He smacked his lips in a kiss.

  Jason knew he should have been scared, but he wasn't. He was tired of dealing with these donut heads. "Well, in case you hadn't heard," he said, "my Mom's dead and my little sister disappeared. I guess you can say I've been a bit busy."

  Jason expected Brad to come back with a witty putdown—well, witty for Brad, anyway—but instead Brad looked confused. For a second, Jason thought he saw regret on the guy's face. Couldn't be. That would mean Brad was actually human.

  "Yeah," Brad said, kicking at the sand. "Yeah, guess I heard about that stuff." He looked at his friends. "Well, he's got this place, guys. Let's find someplace else."

  His friends looked even more confused. Jason knew the scenario wasn't playing out according to the script. Brad was supposed to insult him. Jason was supposed to plead for his life. Brad was supposed to beat him up. Jason was supposed to whimper. The amigos would get a few kicks in at the last minute, and then Jason would whimper some more. But they weren't supposed to just walk away.

  They trudged into the wind. They had only gone a few steps when Jason called after them.

  "Hope you guys grow a brain someday," he said.

  When they turned, Jason saw they wore shocked expressions. He knew he should have felt incredibly lucky to get out of this without at least a black eye, but all he felt was pissed—and the feeling wasn't going away.

  "What'd you say?" Brad said.

  Jason knew this was his last chance. If he pretended to have said something else, Brad might let him go.

  "I said I hope you grow a brain," Jason said. "At least then you wouldn't be ugly and stupid."

  Brad's face turned a shade of red similar to the color of his hair.

  "What's wrong?" Jason said. "Don't you understand me? Or do I need to speak slower? How's this? You . . . are . . . stuuuuuuuupid."

  Brad shook his head. "Oh, man, you're so going to pay for that."

  "You and what football team?"

  "Okay, that's it. I don't care what happened to you, nobody talks to me like that."

  "Sorry, but I don't fight girls. Especially ugly ones."

  "Aaargh!"

  Even when Brad shoved his paper sack
at one of his friends and marched toward him, Jason still wasn't afraid. It was as if his rage had been a sputtering fire, and the sight of Brad fanned the flames into an inferno. A muscle in his jaw twitched. His clenched his fists even tighter, readying to swing them at Brad's meaty head.

  When Brad was within a few feet, Jason screamed and swung his right fist. He hadn't expected Brad to be so quick; he easily dodged Jason's blow. Jason's momentum carried him forward, and he fell onto the beach. His came up spitting sand out of his mouth. Everyone but Jason was laughing.

  "Get this kid," Brad said.

  Jason started to rise, but Brad kicked him in the gut. He lay writhing on the ground, gasping for breath.

  "Who's a girl now, huh?" Brad said.

  The shadows of Brad's friends fell across Jason. He tried to rise, and again Brad kicked him in the side. Purple stars flashed in front of his eyes, and he tasted a bit of blood in his mouth.

  "Pick him up," Brad said.

  The goons hoisted Jason to his feet, one clamping on to each arm. Still in agony, Jason looked into Brad's smiling face. He smelled the beer on Brad's breath.

  "Hey, you wanna know something?" Brad said. "Somebody made a mistake when you were born and sewed your butt on your face."

  Jason coughed. There was nobody on the beach to help him. He had no idea what he had been thinking. "Just get it over with," he said.

  "Aw," Brad said, "what fun would that be? I'm thinking Jason here might like to do a little skinny dipping. What d'ya think, guys?"

  They bobbed their heads.

  "Course," Brad said, "you know that the only way to skinny dip is naked. Gotta take off your clothes, girlie."

  Jason didn't move.

  "Do it," Brad warned.

  Reluctantly, Jason reached for the button his pants, thinking it was best just to get it over with; they'd have their laugh and then he could go home. But then Brad said something that changed everything.

  "Maybe you'll find your little sister in there," he said.

  Jason froze. The world around him vanished. He wasn't aware of the crashing of the waves, the breeze, or the fading light. He wasn't even aware of the three idiots surrounding him. It was just him and Brad.

  "What?" Jason said.

  "Awww . . . Did I hurt your wittle feelings? Your sister probably just went for a little skinny dip herself and got all drowned. If you see her—"

  With a roar, Jason ripped free of the hands holding him as if their fingers had been made of tissue paper. His arms swung like a whirling cyclone, and Brad raised his arms just as the first blows made contact. The first two punches bounced off Brad's arms, but the third slapped him across the nose. He fell on his backside.

  Jason spun around, his fists still flying. He clipped one of the goons in the ear, the other one the shoulder, and still he kept pummeling them. They jumped back, just out of Jason's reach. Finally Jason stopped, gasping for breath.

  "Don't ever," he said, breathing hard, "talk about . . . my sister."

  "My noooose," Brad moaned. "He broge my noooose."

  Jason turned and saw Brad holding his noise, bright red blood leaking out between his fingers.

  "Doh jusss staa dere!" he shouted at his friends. "Geee 'im!"

  They exchanged glances.

  "Dooo iii!" Brad cried.

  They moved forward, although a little more cautiously, spreading out, forming a ring. Jason wasn't sure he could take them this time. He had no idea how to do what he'd just done again.

  "Stay back!" he warned.

  This got them to pause, but then they were moving forward again. He was about to become dog meat.

  Then one of the goons yelped.

  Jason saw the guy grab his ear. Another guy yelped, and Jason turned in time to see a small stone fall on the sand by the guy's feet. He looked at the third guy just as a stone bounced off the guy's head, making him cry out. By the direction the stone had flown, Jason knew it was coming from just above him on the cliff face, beyond where he could see.

  Somebody up there was helping him.

  Jason wasn't about to wait around to find out who it was. While Brad and the others were distracted, Jason grabbed his backpack and broke for the stairs. He heard a couple more yelps before he had cleared the steps.

  * * * * *

  Night had come to the coast, the sky dissolving to black. It wasn't long before Jason passed the apartment complex and reached the little two-bedroom cottage, the last house before a dark and foreboding forest. The tiny house, with its red brick chimney, shake roof, and white picket fence, looked like a cottage out of a fairy tale. As he opened the gate and hurried up the sidewalk to the front door, it occurred to him that Brad wasn't the kind of guy to just forget about a broken nose. How long would it be before Brad or his goons showed up? He was so worried that he completely forgot about coming home so late—until he stepped into the living room and saw Aunt Carina in her rocker.

  "About time," she snapped.

  A fire crackled inside the wood stove; he was already warm from the run, and the stuffy room made him break out in a sweat. The living room, kitchen, and dining area were practically one room, and the placed seemed even smaller because of all the junk—sea shells, gems, and lots of other knick-knacks. Where there weren't knick-knacks, there were books, thousands of them—hardbacks, paperbacks, some new, some yellowed and torn.

  Aunt Carina had once made a living as a fortune teller before becoming Edson Library's head librarian, and she still dressed like one. She was the blackest woman he had ever seen, and exotic looking, wearing a red silk dress, the black shiny material on her arms mostly transparent. The silk scarf wrapped on her head was a swirl of dozens of different colors. Her horn-rimmed glasses balanced on the end of her nose, and when she was mad, she tilted her head down to look at him over the top of the frames. She was doing this now.

  "Sorry," Jason said.

  Aunt Carina frowned. "Boy, what kind of trouble are you in? You look like you ran here all the way from Portland."

  "Just felt like running," Jason said. He headed for his room. His mind still buzzed with the possibility of Brad showing up at any moment.

  "Hold on a minute now," Aunt Carina said. "I wasn't finished with you just yet."

  Sighing, Jason turned to face her. "What?"

  "Don't you 'what' me. You know what. You forgot something important."

  "I did?"

  "You know exactly what I'm talking about. Four o'clock?"

  Jason bowed his head. His appointment with Dr. Edders. He had been to the psychologist twice, once each of the last two weeks, and it had completely slipped his mind. After school, he was supposed to meet Aunt Carina and then she'd drive him to Eugene. "Oh well," he said. "The guy's a nutcase anyway."

  "Well, he's a nutcase your Daddy's paying a bunch of money for you to see. The least you could do is show up."

  Jason snorted. "Like Dad really cares what happens to me."

  "Honey, that's not fair. You know your Daddy loves you."

  "Sure has a funny way of showing it."

  "He's just a little mixed up right now."

  "Yeah, well, life's tough, you know. Maybe if he'd been around a little bit more my sister would still be here."

  She sighed. "Now you're just being mean."

  "Whatever."

  "You know, you could call him. He—"

  "Maybe you could just leave me alone! You're not my mother, so stop acting like it!"

  She winced. For a long time, neither of them said a word, the only sound the crackling fire. He had never seen Aunt Carina cry, but he thought that she was going to right then.

  "All right," she said quietly. "There's . . . there's some casserole left, if you want it. You can heat it up. In the microwave."

  Jason had never said anything so mean to her before, but he just couldn't bring himself to apologize. He went to his room. Closing the door, he saw that his hand was shaking. What was wrong with him?

  Everything about the room was h
ers, and he hated it: the lavender walls, the packed and dusty bookshelves, the framed pressed flowers. He slipped out of his backpack and let it fall on the floor. A roll-out bed was pushed up against the bookcases, and he launched himself on it, screaming into his pillow. When he stopped screaming, an idea came to him.

  He could run away.

  He lifted his head, looking around the room as if the idea had come from somewhere else. Of course. He had almost three hundred dollars in a tin can under his bed. Feeling electrified, he jumped up and grabbed his blue backpack. There was no sense in waiting. Brad could show up at any moment. He unzipped his bag and emptied the books and binders onto the bed. He stuffed in a pair of black pants, a couple more black shirts, three pairs of socks, a gray sweatshirt, and some underwear. In the front pocket he stuck his Swiss army knife, his pen-sized flashlight, a palm-sized spiral notebook and a black pen, some packs of bubble gum, an apple, and a half-eaten bag of trail mix.

  The last thing was the money. He got down on his knees and looked under his bed. He saw the old square lunch box in shadows, and as he reached for it, he also saw something else.

  His drawing pad.

  It was one his standard ones, with a green cover, the kind of pad he used to fill by the dozens. But this one he hadn't touched since the day he arrived at Aunt Carina's. In the first few days after the terrible things had happened, he tried to draw, but whenever his pencil touched the page he felt like he was going to throw up. He brought a blank one to Aunt Carina's because he thought he would eventually get back to it, but whenever he even thought about drawing, his heart began to pound, and his hand shook.

  After taking the wad of bills out of the lunch box, he debated about whether to take the pad. He felt queasy considering it, but he didn't want to regret leaving it. He had the little notebook and the black pen, but they weren't really for drawing. He reached under the bed and, straining, snatched it out. He meant to stick it quickly into his bag, but the cover fell open slightly and he happened to see the edges of a few pages. And they weren't white.