The Last Dragon Chronicles: Dark Fire (12 page)

At the back of the family group, Lucy was sticking close to David. She was peering over her shoulder through the trees. “Leave it,” he said. “I’ll deal with Gwilanna afterwards.”

“It’s not her. I’m looking at the

church,” Lucy muttered. “Why do they
 
always
 
have gargoyles? They make me crawl. They remind me of… ”

“Darklings?” David said.

Lucy moved a little closer, taking

reassurance  from  the  brush  of  his

shoulder. “What
 
is
 
a darkling? I’ve never understood how I was able to make one.

I’d never even
 
seen
 
one before the Ix got

me.”

David checked ahead. They were stillsome way from the mound of earth thatmarked Henry’s burial site. “That’s notstrictly true.”

Lucy threw him a quizzical look.

So he explained: “Long ago, when the Ix became a breakaway part of the Fain,they began to seek control of the medium

of the universe that Arthur would call dark

matter. To do that, they needed to combat the dragons. So they developed a template for what might be called  an anti-dragon or darkling. A darkling is far smaller and less graceful than a dragon, but extremely robust and agile nonetheless.”

“Can they kill dragons?”

“In a straight fight, no. That’s because the Ix have never been able to create the

dark fire to delumine one. If they did, a darkling would be a thousand times more deadly. The only way to create dark fire is to invert a source of spiritual purity, such as you might find in a dragon like Gwillan or a selfless act of love or a moment of

inspired creativity. That’s kind of where

you come in.”

“Me?”

“Humankind – well, near-human in your case. Apart from dolphins, dragons, and a couple of other species, humans are the only sentient creatures capable of displaying the altruistic emotions that might, under the right circumstances, be inverted into dark fire.

“Thousands of years ago, the Ix tried an experiment in cumulative terror. Knowing that humans had a fantastic capacity for imaginative reconstruction, the Ix planted the image of a near-perfect darkling into the murkiest corners of our psyche and let it ferment in the playground of our thoughts.”

“So we’d see it in our nightmares?”

“Nightmares,   stories,   dimly-held

beliefs. People have  been dragging the gargoyle – or the grotesque, to give it its correct name – from their memories ever

since and reviving it on churches and in works of art. This is how you were able to create the monster out of obsidian during your capture. You simply found that elemental seed in your mind.”

“OK, stop now, you’re making me feel sick.”

David looked up. The mourners werebeginning to gather round the grave. Heplaced a hand lightly on Lucy’s arm andstopped her walking. “One last thing. About your journal. I thought the bit youshowed me was excellent.”

“Oh, cool,” she said, blushing like a

plum. Now she too was glancing ahead.

“Shouldn’t we talk about this later?” She

could see her mother wondering why she was dallying. The four men carrying Henry’s coffin were preparing to lower it into the ground.

David toyed with a loose cufflink. “Why don’t you put it on my website as a blog – coded, perhaps, by Gwendolen?”

“
 
What?
 
” Lucy wrinkled her nose as if she’d just sniffed a lemon. “Don’t be dumb. I can’t put stuff about our dragons

on
 
there
. People
 
read it
, David. They’d

think we were freaks.”

“Not if they were like-minded people,”

he said.

Once again she threw him a questioning

look.

“You’re not alone, Lucy. Whatever

Gwilanna may have told you,” (he glancedback the way they’d come; there was nosign of the sibyl for the moment) “you andyour mum are not the only living daughtersof Guinevere.”

Lucy gulped. Her upper body began to

shake.

He picked up her hand and kissed itsoftly. “Pretty soon dragons will becommonplace,” he said. “Trust me, you’reno freak. You’re a wonder of creation.”

He tipped his head back. “Just like yoursisters.”

Lucy had been dreading the final part ofthe service and David’s revelation didn’t

made it any easier. Even so, she managed to compose herself for the burial itself. It

was surreal, she thought, to watch a box containing the remains of a man she’d known for all but a few months of her life

being lowered into a hole in the ground. She fought back a tear when her mum followed Agatha Bacon’s lead and threw a handful of earth onto the coffin. But what

finally set her off was the sight of a grey squirrel, sitting in the grand horse chestnut tree whose branches swept out over the hole. It was only there a moment before it chirruped and ran away. Alexa saw it too and pointed it out. A single five-thumbed chestnut  leaf tumbled gently into the grave, burying with it the age-old squabbles Lucy had had with Henry over the right to have squirrels running free in the Crescent. At that point, she broke down into her

mother’s arms. David, meanwhile, looked across the plot at Zanna. She was strikingly  wistful,   lost  in  her  own cherished memories of the neighbour who had helped her so wisely, so often. Arthur was bent in prayer, and Agatha Bacon was standing at the foot of the grave like royalty. She neither wept nor seemed to take breath, her gaze fixed firmly on the coffin   nameplate,   gradually   being concealed  by  soil.   Her  companion, showing a respectful solemnity, puckered his lips and stood just behind her, the way he’d done for the entire proceedings.

Eventually, it was Agatha herself who broke rank and went around the grave, shaking hands and greeting the mourners. The only one she failed to acknowledge

was Gwilanna. The sibyl had stayed in the sanctuary of the trees throughout the burial rite. But as Agatha led the walk back to the cars, David dropped off the pace and started sidling back towards the grave. Gwilanna was over it, sifting her own handful of dirt.

He was about to challenge her when Zanna’s voice suddenly reared behindhim. “You!” David caught her as she triedto sweep past, on her way to do murder,by the  look of it. “Give me one goodreason why I shouldn’t push you in thereas well, you
 
witch
, even if it would be asacrilege against a decent man!”

“I will give you three good reasons,”said Gwilanna, with her typical arrogantzeal. “First, I still have this,” she twisted

Gawain’s isoscele through her fingers, “which I could use to cast a spell thatwould boil your blood if you dared toattack me.” She swiped her palms. “Second, Elizabeth’s child will die atbirth if I am not present. Third, I want todo a deal.”

Zanna pushed forward again, still heldtight in David’s grip. “You can go andplay with the mushroom fairies. I will

never
 
do a deal with you!”

“I was talking to the boy wonder!” Gwilanna snapped.

David finally pulled Zanna away, pushing her several yards further up the path. “No deals,” he said.

The sibyl’s face contorted with fury. “Then you’ll die,” she snarled. “All of

you. Is that what you want for your pretty little daughter? They’ll come for her, when they know what she is.”

David turned his back and walked

away.

“If the darklings find her she won’t

have a
 
chance
! Not even Gawain himself

could protect her. You’re nothing but a meddler and a common thief, boy. Give the fire back to me!”

David whipped round to face heragain. “You’re the one in danger,” he said,with menace. “Leave the isoscele where

you stand. It won’t be long before Gawain will be looking for that.”

“You can’t raise him,” she hissed. “He’s stone, broken.”

“Not while his ichor is dripping

through your fingers. He’s in Liz’s dragons. In the ice. In me. Leave the isoscele. Run. Hide. There are dragons who would willingly see you dead. I repeat, there are
 
no
 
deals.”

“Fool,” Gwilanna growled, closing her fingers in a fist around the scale. “You’re right, boy. The auma of Gawain
 
is
 
deep inside you – I can feel your heart resisting my squeeze. But for how long? Even a dragon has to sleep. It’s only a matter of time.” And with that the air bubbled and

the sibyl was gone.

“What was all that about?” Zanna

demanded as David came sloping up the path towards her. She banged his shoulder to make him stop.

“Nothing. It’s just talk.”

“Don’t
 
lie
 
to me.” Zanna slapped his face, leaving him looking at the grass verge beside them. “What did she
 
mean
?”

“She has no control over me, Zanna.”

“I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about Alexa.”

“Excuse me.”

The warring couple looked up.

Agatha Bacon was waiting on the path. Black dress, black boots, black lacedgloves. She looked like a phantom, Zannadecided. An old Victorian ghost.

“The cars are ready to return us to the Crescent. And your charming daughterseems anxious to see you.”

“Yes,   forgive   me,”   Zanna   said,flustered. She moved her clutch bag fromone hand to the other, straightened her

dress and walked on quickly.

David followed a little more sedately, stopping momentarily as he came shoulder to shoulder with Agatha.

“You—?” he began.

“The cars,” she said, refusing to engage him.

He nodded and continued up the path.

When he reached the church and Alexa’s

eager hand, Agatha Bacon was still among the trees, looking back at the spot where Gwilanna had been.

Last will and testament

The only people to return to Henry’shouse were the Pennykettle clan, Agathaand her companion. Several plates of foodhad been set out on the table, waiting to beuncovered. Liz, with Agatha’s approval,adopted her usual motherly role andhanded out paper plates and serviettes. Afew minutes later everyone, barring Zanna, was eating. Zanna had taken a seaton the end of the sofa and was directingoperations with Alexa, primarily theavoidance of chicken drumsticks beatinggreasy rhythms on the child’s dress.

Agatha Bacon, eating a piece ofmushroom quiche, sat very properly in thearmchair opposite Henry’s favourite. That

position was occupied by her over-round companion, whom she finally introduced once everyone was settled.

“This is my brother’s solicitor. He is a partner in the firm of Hamilton, Portley and Smythe.”

“Are they local?” asked Arthur.

“From the Isle of Wight, where I live and where my brother was born.”

“So are you Mr Port—?”

“Hedley Hamilton,” he said, cutting Lucy off. He  manoeuvred like a bloated rodent and from the floor beside him

picked up the most distressed leather

briefcase Liz had ever seen.

“Hedley is here to read Henry’s will,” said Agatha. “Of which you are all beneficiaries to some extent.”

Lucy spat a droplet of tea at the fishtank. “You’re joking,” she said, inviting awarning glare from her mother. “I’m in Henry’s
 
will
?” After all the argumentsthey’d had? He’d probably left her hisfavourite rat-trap.

Agatha’s gaze moved sideways to Liz. “Henry always spoke fondly of yourfamily. He often talked about your potterycreations. I would like to see one – if I

may?”

“I’m afraid they’re all next door,” said

Liz.

“I can fetch one?” said Alexa, jumping up. She looked hopefully over her shoulder at Liz.

“Lexie, sit down,” said Zanna.

“No.” Agatha’s voice overruled her.

“Come closer, child, let me look at you.”

Zanna cast a concerned glance at David, but he remained sitting calmly, sipping a cup of tea.

Alexa came up and almost curtsied before the old woman.

A ragged pattern of wrinkles formedaround Agatha’s prune-coloured eyes. Shereached out and lifted Alexa’s  chin. “You

are a delightful creature,” she said. “I see you’re wearing a fairy, child. Do you like fairies?”

“Yes,” said Alexa.

Agatha   said,   “My  brother   liked

fairies.”

“
 
What?
 
” Lucy again. She left her mouth open for added effect. “Mr Bacon thought anything like that was weird.”

“Of course he did,” Agatha said. “The