The Dragon's Tooth by N. D. Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

Listen.”
    Antigone filled the room with a fake snore.
    “ ‘Please declare aloud: I hereby undertake to tread the world, to garden the wild, and to saddle the seas, as did my brother Brendan. I will not turn away from shades in fear, nor avert my eyes from light. I shall do as my Keeper requires, and keep no secret from a Sage. May the stars guide me and my strength preserve me. And I will not smoke in the library.’ ” Cyrus looked up. “ ‘Translation approved, 1946.’ ”
    Antigone flopped onto her face. “Now you’ve done it. No more smoking in the library.” She pulled her blankets over her head. “Turn off the light.”
    Cyrus set down the card with the lightning bug, clicked the lamp off, and sat bouncing his knees in the dark.
    “How can you sleep right now?” he asked.
    “I can’t,” Antigone muttered.
    Sighing, Cyrus rocked back onto his bed and stared at the dimly golden ceiling.
    “Whatever it is you’re tapping,” Antigone said, “feel free to stop.”
    “What?” Cyrus asked. “I’m not tapping anything.”
    He held his breath and listened. Someone, something, was tapping. Faintly, beyond the window. Three taps. Scrape. Three more. Scrape.
    Antigone sat up. “That’s really not you?”
    Cyrus shook his head. Both of them slipped out of their beds and crept toward the window. When they were on their knees, with noses above the sill, Cyrus hooked one finger in the curtain and peeled it back.
    A large, dark shape was moving slowly through the parking lot, sweeping the white cane of a blind man in front of him. He reached the yellow truck, felt it with his hand, and then kept coming, finally stopping six feet from the pair of motel room doors. He was wearing an enormous coat and a heavy stocking cap pulled down snug around his scalp. Two large ears stuck out from the sides of his head like a pair of skin satellite dishes. His eyes weren’t covered, but they were closed. He tapped the ground and turned his head from side to side, listening. Then he sniffed at the air with a flattened and crooked nose. His jaw was broad but uneven, visibly scarred even in the dim golden light. His long, slender cane was in his left hand, tip down, and he began bouncing it slowly beneath the weight of his arm.
    “What’s he doing?” Antigone whispered. “He’s not really blind, is he?”
    Cyrus put his finger to his lips.
    “He can’t be,” Antigone said. “He walked right to Skelton’s room.” She nudged her brother. “Open the door. See what he wants.”
    Cyrus looked at her. “Yeah, right,” he whispered. “You’re crazy.”
    “He’s blind. He might need help.” Antigone tried to stand, but Cyrus grabbed on to her wrist. The blind man had pulled something out of his coat.
    “Gun,” Cyrus said. “Gun!” He forced Antigone back onto her knees. Four short, gaping barrels—two on top of two—all big enough to fire golf balls. Pistol-gripped. Black. Ruthless. An extra handle stuck out to the side of the bundle of barrels. A small cylindrical tank was screwed into the back of the gun above the man’s grip.
    Cyrus’s mind was frozen. His nails were digging into his sister’s arm. Should he yell? Should he warn Skelton?
    The man tapped his rod on the ground three times. Six inches from Cyrus’s face, a shape slid past the window toward room 111. And another.
    Antigone was trying to shake her arm free. Cyrus let go. He wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t blinking.
    The blind man stepped forward, raised a heavy arm, and cracked the butt of his gun against the door to 111.
    “Bones!” the man yelled. “Friend Billy! Give it up. The good doctor doesn’t take kindly to thieves.”
    Cyrus gasped, finally breathing. He pushed his sister away from the window. “Call the cops. Go!”
    Antigone dropped to the carpet and crawled away.
    Skelton’s voice drifted through the wall. “That you, Pug? Maxi’s letting you do the talking now? Come on in. I’ll get the door.”
    The floor under