The Book of the King (16 page)

The creature crawled to the middle of the page and stopped on the word
Mucker
.

“If you're the Mucker, what in the world is a Wormling?”

The Mucker set off across the page, and Owen moved his hand out of the way. But no matter where Owen moved his hand, the Mucker seemed to pursue it. Finally he stopped and allowed the Mucker to alight on his finger. It crossed its arms and flashed its teeth.

“What?” Owen said.

Mucker tapped Owen's finger.

“I'm a Wormling?”

Mucker nodded.

Now I know I'm dreaming.
Owen moved Mucker to the edge of the page and leafed through the book. Mucker seemed to watch in fascination as the pages whipped by, like a kid on the playground awaiting his chance to hop in the jump rope.

Owen stopped at a page with a sketch of the Dragon and Mucker cringed. That was enough for Owen. He turned to the back and the blank pages. “What's supposed to go here, Mucker?”

“Who Owen is talking to?” Petrov said, rubbing his head and yawning.

Owen closed the book, hoping he hadn't squished Mucker. “Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you. Just reading aloud.”

“What wrong with couch?”

“A little lumpy is all.”

Petrov stepped closer, staring at the book, so Owen slipped it back into his backpack.

Petrov eyed Owen an uncomfortably long time. Maybe it was Owen's imagination, but Petrov's eyes looked red. Finally Petrov turned and went back to his room without another word.

Owen moved back to the couch and decided he would leave the next morning. But where would he go? He was to see Clara that evening, and he wouldn't miss that, but then what? If he was a Wormling, he should search for the portal. No matter what, he would keep the book—and Mucker—safe.

Owen dreamed of flames and wings and ominous dark figures. In the middle of the night, when the fire was reduced to glowing embers, he dreamed someone was crushing him, trying to squeeze every ounce of breath from him. He awoke caught between the cushions and the back of the couch, covered with crumbs and dust.

When the sun finally streamed through Petrov's apartment, Owen stretched and yawned, his stomach growling. He shook off the dreams, attributing them to the hamburger. Had Mucker also been a dream? Or was his father right? Had Owen broken from reality and entered a mental dungeon of his own making? Now, only a day after what had happened with Mr. Page, it all seemed too fantastic to believe.

He put his hands behind his head and let the sun warm his face. This was his first morning away from home. Soon thoughts of school invaded: his speech, Mrs. Rothem, Gordan, Clara . . .

Suddenly Owen sat straight up. The apartment was quiet. He thrust a hand inside his backpack. The paper bag was empty. He dumped everything else onto the floor. His headlamp clattered, his toothbrush and clothes—everything but the book.

A shadow passed in the kitchen.

“Petrov?” Owen's heart sputtered. His breath came in bursts. He hurried into the kitchen.

“You look for book?” Petrov said, his face blank, his eyes dark and swollen.

“Petrov, what's wrong?”

“They look for you.”

“Who?”

“Someone from tavern. See you talk to me. See you go to roof.”

“Petrov, what have you done with the book?”

“What is matter, Owen? What you have done?”

“Nothing!” And he poured out the story, details he hadn't wanted to share. But he had to get his book back. “Now, who was looking for me?”

“Strange man. Bad breath. Lives on street—”

“Karl?”

“I don't know name.”

Owen described him.

“Yes, that him. He ask if I see you. Say father upset. You in trouble.”

Owen shuddered. “Did he ask about the book?”

“Owen, father sick with worry.”

“Did Karl ask about the book?”

“I-I said I no see you—”

“Petrov! Did he ask about the book?”

“—I tell him you probably home in bed—”

“The book!” Owen shouted.

“—and he leave!” Petrov seemed exhausted, his eyes red pools, despite the fact that Owen had heard him snoring the night before.

Owen drew close. “Tell me what happened to the book. If I lose that, I can never prove any of this happened. I may never be able to—”

“To what?”

Owen feared he was losing his mind. “I just need the book back. I can't lose it.”

“I no take,” Petrov said. “I no touch.”

The Dragon flew over his kingdom, licking his wounds after his long search. Half the threat to his dominion was gone, but the other half—the worst half—still thrived, limping through his miserable life.

“The wretched urchin will be better off dead,” the Dragon muttered.

The Dragon had been sure the boy was with the grizzled old man when he had burned him from the face of the earth in a two-for-one fire sale. The beacon in the boy's foot confirmed they were together. But no. He had caught only the old man.

The Dragon reached his lair, wings strained from the long flight and blood coursing down one. His crash through the window of the B and B had pierced shards of glass into his leathery skin. But that was nothing compared to the wood splinters he'd picked up breaking through the floor. Had he prepared the floor with another blast of fire he might have been fine, but with the taste of blood in his mouth he could not hold back. The chance to annihilate those two at once, not to mention the bystander—the girl . . .

The minions had come after the onslaught at the B and B, praising him, telling him the victory had been won. They stroked their own egos, wondering which might draw close to him, might become a confidant to the most powerful being in the universe, might one day rise to the council. He slapped them away with a flap of his good wing, then belched a fiery blast that consumed one and sent the rest scurrying.

There was no victory, and there would be no rest until the total threat had been eliminated. He would leave no possibility of escape, no hope of rising from the ashes. Even the death of the boy would not end it. He had to also sever the link to the other world.

The book.

Once it was gone, along with its secret formula for his downfall, only then could he rest.

With a light tap came RHM into the Dragon's chamber.

“Leave me, Mephistopheles,” the Dragon said, still reclining.

RHM would have, had it not been for the crumpled paper in his hand. Others had disobeyed this direct order and had paid for it with their lives, as evidenced by the charred bones on the floor. “A thousand pardons, sire, but I believe you need to see this.”

The Dragon clenched his teeth and turned, a rumble gurgling.

“It may have come from the book.”

The Dragon sat up. “Where is the book?”

“Destroyed, sire.”

The Dragon turned his head and blew a blast of fire against the wall. “I wanted the book brought to me!”

“Our Stalker felt it necessary to destroy it by fire so the boy would not have access.”

Blood drained from the Dragon's face. “The boy had it?”

“The old man must have given it to him before his demise,” RHM said, bowing and passing the page to the Dragon.

The monster scanned it and closed his eyes. “I've seen this before. I know these words.”

“Then the threat is over, Your Majesty?”

The Dragon crumpled the page and tossed it in the air, consuming it with a quick blast from his throat. “Fools. This is not the writing of the enemy. It was from a story written long ago. I recognize the names.”

“So the real book—”

“He deceived our Stalker. He knew he would be unable to tell the difference. I underestimated this boy.”

“Then the book is still out there.”

“He has it,” the Dragon roared, pacing. “And he must have been given directions to find this . . . what does he call it?”

“Wormling, sire?”

“Yes. He will go into hiding until he finds this Wormling. The device has been removed from his foot. Use every resource at your disposal. I want the boy found. And I want the book brought to me intact, not a page missing. He will not find this Wormling creature.”

“Yes, sire.”

“If he gets the book into the wrong hands and this Wormling figures out how to cross over, how to breach the portal, he could get lost in the Lowlands. Imagine trying to find a single Wormling in the midst of that rabble.”

“It would be difficult, sire, but we would do it. Dreadwart has volunteered—”

“I don't want a member of the council involved,” the Dragon growled. “I want the boy found before he understands, before the prophecy is fulfilled.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Do you have any idea what this could mean to your future?
my
future?”

“I assure you, my liege, every available—”

“And who would
not
be available? This means our very existence, our future!” He drew closer. “Find the boy. Take the book. Bring it to me. And kill the boy.”

“But, sire, your agreement—”

“Do you understand?”

“I do, sire,” RHM said. “I will personally see to it.”

Owen was unsettled when Petrov left for work. Maybe he should have tested him with a knife, as Mr. Page had with Karl. Could Petrov be in league with the beast? If he was, Owen's father would already know everything and likely be on his way.

Owen frantically searched Petrov's room. Nothing.

He was throwing things into his backpack when he heard the voice that always sent a shiver down his spine.

“Look above the fireplace. Hurry. You must leave soon.”

Owen stood quickly. “Who are you?”

The fireplace was made of stones placed haphazardly between globs of cement. Owen tapped all the stones until he heard a hollow sound. He pushed, then pulled a piece of concrete sticking out between the stones. A section two feet long and a foot tall moved.

That's when Owen heard footsteps on the stairs outside.

* * *

Thick black clouds were rolling in as three men hurried up the steps. One was balding, thin, and out of breath. Mr. Reeder. Another was younger and seemed to know the stairs, skirting one that had splintered. Petrov. The third glided up behind them, rising like smoke. Karl.

“I want to tell you last night,” Petrov said, “but I afraid he run. Better he sleep, then I bring you here.”

“You did fine,” Mr. Reeder said.

Karl nudged Mr. Reeder. “The book?”

“Yes, tell me about the book. Did he have it?”

“I hide. I show you.”

“His mind makes him latch onto things like this,” Mr. Reeder said. “He throws himself into stories and believes he can . . . well, that he can actually insert himself into them. I once caught him making a raft from broomsticks. He said he was going to float down the Mississippi and save Huck and Jim. I thought it was funny at the time, but I'm afraid his mind is going.”