“Yes. Quite.” Mr. Hamilton gestured with his hand. “Come over here. Since you’re Carl Foley’s son, I’m sure you will be very interested in seeing a fascinating book.”
Walter stepped cautiously through the principal’s office. He wanted to ask his teacher a bunch of questions, about how he knew his dad and about the “Crazy Carl Foley” nickname, but creeping through the dark, eerie room brought a tight lump to his throat. He decided to wait.
Since he had never been in much trouble himself, Walter rarely visited the principal’s office. The last time he was here, he was delivering papers for a teacher, but he had just zipped right in and out, not wanting to stick around and meet the man behind the strange rumors, the eccentric Dr. Whittier. Now, with the office dark, save for Mr. Hamilton’s flashlight, the eerie paintings and gothic displays seemed to stare down at him, looming much larger than reality.
Walter tiptoed forward. Mr. Hamilton had explained on the way to the school about all the books he had looked through in Dr. Whittier’s office. He also asked a lot of questions about Billy. But why? Why was his teacher so curious about Billy’s family, his grandparents and aunts and uncles, and what did all of this have to do with the plane crash? And why did the principal keep a personal library in a supply closet?
When Walter entered the closet he saw that Mr. Hamilton had already laid open a huge volume on a low table. The teacher’s finger ran down the page, and the light focused on the strange type. His voice trembled with excitement. “See this? It’s a genealogy. I mentored your father for his research project on family histories, so perhaps you’ve seen them before.”
“I’ve seen them,” Walter admitted, “but I don’t really understand them.”
“Look here.” Mr. Hamilton tapped the page. “Bannister is the family name of Reginald, a man whom Arthur adopted.”
“So? I’m sure there are lots of Bannisters.”
“Right you are, Walter. But I was searching to find any reason for Whittier’s actions. You see, I discovered that our principal is not Whittier. His name is Devin. His Whittier character is just a disguise for him.”
“A disguise? How did you find that out?”
“From his own books.” Mr. Hamilton turned around and pulled out another volume and laid it on top of the cabinet, throwing it open to a marked page.
“You would have to understand how genealogies work, but he has placed the name ‘Devin’ where his own name should go. Notice the handwriting and compare it to that of the original Sir Devin.”
“They’re the same!”
“Yes, it’s as if Whittier copied the script. I think he fancies himself a true knight, and he is very proud of his name. I knew beforehand that Sir Devin’s first son was also named Devin. So it’s no surprise that any descendant would have the same name, even after so long.”
“What’s so special about Devin?”
Mr. Hamilton looked away from the book and stared toward the dark ceiling. “Sir Devin was a knight, very close to King Arthur, but the two had a bit of a falling out.” He looked back at Walter. “Nobody knows why they argued. I think it’s because Devin was never allowed into the king’s inner circle; he never had a seat at the Round Table. But the legends say the strife was over Devin’s rabid interest in killing dragons. Supposedly, Arthur thought him mad and sent him away, but in either case, ever since that time Devin’s family has had a cruel interest in making life miserable for any of Arthur’s descendants. They made the Christian name into a surname as a threat to Arthur’s family.”
“So Billy’s descended from King Arthur, and Dr. Whittier—I mean, Devin, has it in for him and his father.”
“Precisely! And not only that, legend tells us that Arthur will return some day to rule once again. My own theory is that his return will be in spirit, in the form of one of his descendants, and not necessarily to rule. But rule or no, it is a return that Devin and his ilk would surely oppose. Perhaps William—”
A doorknob rattled, making both boy and teacher jump. Mr. Hamilton slapped the book closed, flicked off his flashlight, and pulled Walter deeper into the closet, sliding to the side of a bookshelf near the back. The office light flashed on and then the closet’s fluorescent bulbs flickered to life. A relatively short man entered, stocky but not obese. Walter decided to label him, “Rocky,” because his build reminded him of a boxer.
Walter watched while Rocky pulled books out one by one with small, nimble hands, reading each title, then pushing each book back in place. Finally, he pulled out an old metal box that had been placed vertically on the shelf as though it were another book. He then fished in his pocket and drew out a key. With quick, surgically precise hands, Rocky unlocked the box and opened its creaky lid. Then, moving his hands much more slowly, he withdrew a book from the box and smiled. It wasn’t an evil smile, but somehow it seemed less than happy, more relieved, maybe, than joyful.
The book was old and worn, smaller than the huge journals that weighed down the bookshelves. With its ornate cover it gave the impression of royal significance, and Rocky’s reverent handling proved its worth. He put it carefully back in the box before placing the whole package in his trench coat pocket. Then Rocky did something that struck Walter as really weird. He pulled out a pocketknife and used the blade to pry at the side of the bookshelf. The panel came off rather easily, exposing a narrow chamber inside, maybe four inches deep. Walter couldn’t see what was in the chamber until Rocky turned to the side and held a long metal object out in the open to admire.
It’s a sword, or at least a sword holder. What’s it called? Oh, yeah, a scabbard.
Walter thought he heard a stifled gasp from Mr. Hamilton, but Rocky apparently didn’t hear it. He delicately grasped the end of the scabbard and slowly pulled out a shiny, silver blade. This time his smile revealed true joy. How could he help but admire this beautiful shimmering weapon, etched with all those strange markings? After a few seconds, he returned the sword to its scabbard and put it under his coat, hurriedly fastening the buttons in front to secure his load. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He punched two numbers—a speed dial, Walter guessed.
Rocky waited and then patted his coat with his hand, looking very pleased with himself. “I have the sword. The host will soon triumph.”
The slayer moved on, and the sound of his feet scattering the leaves disappeared in the distance. Bonnie was pretty sure he hadn’t seen her. His departure didn’t appear to be a ruse to bring her out of hiding. She decided that going in the same direction the slayer went might be dangerous, but since he was heading for the road, she had to follow anyway. What other hope did she have?
Now all she had to do was get down. In theory, going down should be easier than getting up, but she knew it wouldn’t be. Fear had spurred her upward leap, and besides that, she had probably used her last ounce of energy. Climbing down would be impossible. One limb hung directly beneath the one she was on, but nothing else between her and the rest of the twenty-foot drop gave her any hope of descending in steps. Maybe she could just spread her wings and try to float down and hope for the best.
She tried, but the results proved painful. She hit the ground, chest first, with a hard thump, and if not for the leaves, she might have broken a rib. As it was, she lost her breath, banged her knee again, and took another mouthful of leaves. She coughed and gasped, fighting to catch her breath, pushing the ground with her arms to make room to breathe. She tried to gulp precious air, but her muscles clenched again before enough came in. She coughed the shallow breath out and tried again, another gasp accompanied by the grinding sound of her throat locking closed. She felt light-headed and woozy. Would she faint? Finally, after her third try, the air flowed more freely, and a rush of blood charged into her head.
She pushed back to a sitting position and breathed gratefully. But instead of sighing in relief she simply cried, and cried hard. She sniffed and tried to hold it back, but it was no use. She erupted into a pitiful sob. A powerful slayer was
chasing her, she was seriously wounded, her friends were surely dead, and worst of all, she was alone, alone and far from a home that didn’t even care.
Chapter 13
SHELTER
Bonnie tried to stifle her sobs. Any sound might bring the slayer back. She sat motionless in a relatively open spot under the tree canopy. With the sun setting, only a few beams of light penetrated the woody skeleton above. Bonnie sniffed one last time and scanned the darkening trees around her. With various sized trunks sprouting at different elevations on the slope, they looked like huge soldiers struggling to scale the mountain. All she could see were their hardened legs, skinny hairy ones, smooth muscular ones, all stretching skyward toward the invisible bodies they carried. Were they soldiers announcing freedom to the land, or were they cruel conquerors threatening an invasion? They were dropping multicolored leaflets, floating, misshapen papers that spun and weaved their way to the ground, wasted and tromped upon by the advancing army. The leaflets whispered their message as they blew into one another and against the marching legs, making a musical rustle in the breeze.
With the slayer nowhere in sight, Bonnie closed her eyes and listened to the theme, caught in a moment of bliss. For an instant she didn’t care where she was, oblivious to the pain, awash in a daydream about flying above it all, above every care in the world. The blowing leaves sang a hypnotic hymn with mournful arias and tinkling bells. But did she hear something else? Yes! A loud snap out in the brush! She shook herself out of her trance, struggled to her feet, and limped toward a dense group of trees. Her knee buckled, but she stayed up. Her weak wings flapped just enough to hold her weight, but her stumbling, sliding feet managed only a few paces in the slippery leaves. Between her own gasping breaths she heard rustling footsteps, louder and louder. She could never get away. Even if she made it to the trees, the slayer would still catch her.
A hand clamped around her mouth, and she tumbled forward. She threw her arms out, but stronger arms held her fast. Lying on her stomach, she kicked backward, but her foot struck only air. Then she heard his voice.
“Bonnie! Settle down or the slayer will find us!”
She spun her head as far back as she could. “Billy! It’s you! Thank God!” She pulled free and sat up, throwing her arms around his neck.
Billy pushed her away and whispered, his voice hoarse in the cold wind. “No time. We have to hide. The slayer’s coming this way.” He lifted Bonnie to her feet and pulled her arm around his back. With his hand gripping her shoulder they trudged across the dim mountainside, wading and kicking through ankle-deep leaves. He helped her over a rise, then downslope, crossing flat rocks to hide their path, and they hid behind a huge stump that stood in the midst of a hedge of short evergreen trees. The lush, dark foliage promised a much better hideout than anywhere else she had seen, but would it be dense enough to hide them from the slayer’s evil eyes?
“I saw the slayer down the slope,” Billy said, pointing over the rise, “so I followed him. Then I heard you crying. He heard you, too, and started this way, but I got here before he did. He’s got that limp, you know.”
“What—” Bonnie started, but Billy shushed her.
“Let’s watch and listen,” he said in his softest whisper.
Bonnie quieted herself, though she kept trembling, and every few seconds her whole body heaved; her sobs were trying to come back. But what could she do? She was scared. A madman lurked only seconds away. Would he find them? And if he did find them, what would he do? Oh God, please, please, don’t let him find us! Please keep me calm!
Bonnie felt Billy’s arm fall gently around her shoulders and then his tight, encouraging squeeze. The pain it brought to her wounds pierced like a hundred tiny knives, but the warm reassurance was worth it. Her spasms stopped, and the two waited quietly for the inevitable appearance of the slayer. They knew he was close; the sound of a ringing cell phone announced his arrival. They both leaned forward to concentrate, trying to listen in on his side of the conversation. At first they could only see him nodding with the phone to his ear, but as he drew closer, they could hear his gruff tones.
“Good. You found the sword . . . Yes, I’m on the trail of the witch. I’m sure I heard her. She’s wounded and crying somewhere around here. . . . Yes, keep to the schedule, but make sure you bring the papers and the badges. And bring a syringe and a vial. I’m sure I’ll be able to get some blood yet. Did you get all that?”
The slayer stopped suddenly and looked down at the leaves. He turned his head to the right and then to the left, obviously trying to follow a trail. He finally made up his mind, and with his head still down he walked slowly, raising his feet high to keep from making noise. But his efforts didn’t matter. Bonnie could see which way he was heading, straight toward their hiding place!
Walter and Mr. Hamilton listened, still hiding in the closet. Since they had huddled in a kneeling position between a bookshelf and the back corner of the closet, the tight squeeze was making them uncomfortable. Walter’s left knee cried out for a stretch, and his thigh cramped. Why wouldn’t the man in the trench coat just leave so they could get out of there?
The man Walter had dubbed “Rocky” spoke loudly into the cell phone, as though he had a weak connection. “Think you can find the girl? . . . If anyone can find her, it’s you, Sir Devin. What dragon has ever escaped your grasp? Shall I still pick up the others before I come to look for you on thirty-three? . . . Yes, I got it. Every word, sir, every word.”
Rocky slid the phone back into his coat pocket, turned off the closet light, and then doused the office light before closing the door softly behind him. After waiting a few seconds to make sure the mysterious man was gone, Mr. Hamilton jumped up and grabbed Walter’s arm. “Come, Walter. We must hurry.”
The two skulked out of the office, guided by Mr. Hamilton’s flashlight. Walter knew better than to ask questions now. Besides, his throat felt so tight he would probably squeak. And what made his back tingle like that? Was it excitement or fear? Danger brought a buzzing thrill, but it could also bring a painful end, sort of like jumping from the top of a building. The feeling of flying through the air was awesome, but the splat on the ground kept a guy from taking the leap.
When they reached the exit, Mr. Hamilton switched off the flashlight and cracked the door open just enough to peek out.
Walter whispered. “Do you see anyone?”
The teacher kept his focus on the scene outside. “A car is just now leaving the parking lot. I wonder if the driver noticed mine parked in the teachers’ lot.”
Mr. Hamilton pushed the door fully open. “Come. The man is gone.” After emerging into the cold evening air, he turned to Walter, his eyes gleaming. “At least we know to drive on highway thirty-three. When my call comes in, we’ll have a better idea of where to go. We have to find them before Whittier and this man do. Are you with me?”
Walter spread out his hands. “I don’t get it. What was that about dragons, and why do we have to get there before they do?”
Mr. Hamilton bent over to speak to Walter face-to-face. “It’s clear that Dr. Whittier is mad. He fancies himself to be the real Sir Devin, and he still thinks he’s chasing dragons. Remember, he mentioned ‘the girl.’ Do you know about whom he may have been speaking?”
Walter felt that lump in his throat again. “Bonnie?”
Mr. Hamilton slapped himself on the forehead and leaned back. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of it? Whittier asked me about Miss Silver. He somehow thinks of her as the fair maiden whom he must rescue from the Bannister family. Because of Arthur’s refusal to allow Devin to go out on his insane dragon missions, the king’s descendants, the Bannisters, symbolize the dragons for him! I know it sounds totally mad, but don’t you see?”
Walter watched the teacher blankly. “Uh, if you say so, Mr. Hamilton.” He read the earnestness in the aged man’s face and shrugged his shoulders. “Okay. I’ll go with you. But can I stop by my house first?”
Mr. Hamilton stepp
ed quickly toward the parking lot, and Walter followed, nearly running to keep pace with the spry gentleman. “Of course, of course,” he said, waving his hand while he walked. “We shall be in a great hurry, but I should like to see your father again. We shall both explain the situation to your parents. I’m confident they’ll still allow you to accompany me.”
Walter caught up to the teacher’s side and looked up at him hopefully. “But leave out the dragon part, okay?”
Mr. Hamilton stopped suddenly and stared at Walter, fumbling nervously with his keys. “Oh . . . very well . . . As you wish, Mr. Foley.”
The slayer stood atop the small rise on the slope and scanned the mountainside. Bonnie tried to follow his gaze, looking back at him every couple of seconds to see where he might go next. The dense patch of trees they hid in stretched out in a tapered hedge for at least a few hundred feet, following a narrow footpath along the mountain’s face as though the hedge were trying to wrap the whole mountain in a leafy garland. How could the slayer possibly search through all of those trees?
The slayer turned to stare directly into their hiding place, his unearthly eyes seemingly piercing the dense growth. He bent his head forward and squinted, keeping his gaze pinned on their refuge. He’s staring right at me! He’s going to find us! Dear God, please help us!
The slayer raised his head again, and a long stream of white vapor gave away his sigh of frustration. He looked at the leafy floor and kicked up a few leaves before turning to march downslope. When he finally disappeared over a ridge, Billy turned to Bonnie and whispered, “He’s out of sight. I saw which way he went, but if we don’t keep up, we’ll never find our way to the road. I have a map I drew, but it won’t be any good when it gets dark, so it’ll be better if we can just follow him from a distance.”
Still throbbing all over, Bonnie reached for Billy’s hand, and he helped her to her feet. She held onto their interlocking grip and caressed his fingers while keeping her voice low. “Your hands! They’re ice cold!”