Ascendant: The Revelations of Oriceran (The Kacy Chronicles Book 2) Page 3

  "I do," said Jordan shyly.

  Sol stared at her.

  Jordan's bashfulness turned to certainty. "I want him. I'll find a way to pay you back for him. Please."

  "How?" Sol put his hands on his hips. "With what gold?"

  Jordan shrugged. "I'll find a way. Money is easy to get, you just have to be creative."

  Sol groaned inwardly. "I'll give you five coin for him." He said to the gypsy woman. "If you care so much for him, you'll agree to it. We did not come here for a dragon; he was thrust upon us. If you don't accept my offer, the dragon stays, and you'll be as much a party to murder as we would be." Sol shrugged and crossed his arms to communicate he was finished negotiating.

  The gypsy woman's mouth dropped open but quickly snapped shut, realizing how he'd trapped her. Her brown eyes flashed from one solemn face to the other, then to the little dragon now perched peacefully on Jordan's shoulder. "Make it ten coin, and let’s say no more about it."

  Mutely, Sol dug the coins from his satchel and dropped them into her upturned palm with a frown. "Good day."

  "Wait," the gypsy woman said, opening the bag at her hip and rifling through it. She retrieved a small folded piece of paper. "Here are his papers. You might need them."

  Sol took the paper and opened it, reading the handwritten certificate saying that the dragon was a Predoian Miniature born in Maticaw the year before. Sol glanced from the page to the gypsy and was about to ask if it was even legitimate—after all, the dragon couldn't even fly properly yet—but he thought better of it. They didn't have time for this. He tucked the page into his satchel and nodded goodbye to the dragon peddler. The Arpaks left the gypsy woman standing in the street, with a moue of unhappiness on her face.

  "You'll have to carry him," Sol warned as they made their way up to Cles's terrace. "Are you okay with that? I can do it, if you like." Even though she didn't complain about it, Sol knew Jordan was still sore from the journey from Charra-Rae. It was a long way to go for an Arpak who'd just gotten her wings.

  "I can do it," said Jordan with a smile. She followed at his heels as they climbed the steps. "How was your delivery, by the way?"

  "Not good," Sol grunted. "Cles didn't have what he was asked for. I don't think Juer will be happy."

  "Who is Juer?" Jordan had begun to pant and blew out a big exhale as they reached the terrace, flexing her wings in preparation. She and Sol crossed the landing to the balcony.

  "The royal physician," said Sol. He hopped up onto the platform built into the terrace railing and held a hand out to Jordan. "Are you ready?" His wings opened out halfway.

  Jordan stepped up and looked down at the city below them, her tummy quivering. "This part still freaks me out a bit." Her wings opened out, the feathers brushing the tops of the foliage reaching up from the garden patches.

  "Want me to take him?" Sol nodded at the little blue reptile cupped now in Jordan's hands.

  "No, I've got him." Her eyes were bright and her face pink. "How far to Rodania, did you say?"

  "Five to six hours, depending on the wind. We have to bank north and follow the coast for a bit. Storms gather between Maticaw and Rodania, but they're easily avoided by going north."

  Jordan faced the sea and stepped to the edge of the stone ledge, built just so Strix could drop off and catch an updraft. Maticaw stretched out before her, its rooftop terraces and towers cascading down the steep mountainsides to the sea. Her heart vaulted into her throat, as it seemed to do without fail whenever she had to take off. She looked down at the little dragon, contemplating that she now had a companion for life, if the gypsy was to be believed. Jordan felt the ties between her and Oriceran tighten.

  Miserably, Jordan thought of her father and wished he could be with her to experience all of this. Did he receive my message? Did it frighten him? What am I thinking, of course it did.

  "Jordan? You okay?"

  Jordan turned to Sol, eyes glistening. She brushed at her face. "What should we call him?" She looked down at the reptile to hide her emotion. She was still so relieved that Sol hadn't left her to fend for herself in this strange land that the idea of burdening him further with her problems was abhorrent to her.

  "Uh," Sol gazed at the tiny creature’s sapphire blue scales. He was actually a spectacular specimen; a real beauty, for a reptile. Not that Sol had seen many dragons in his lifetime, but the ones he had seen were a dull gray color, and somewhat misshapen. "Blue?"

  " ’Blue’!" Jordan laughed. The dragon looked up at the sound of her laughter and rattled off a purr in his throat. "No points for creativity. Don't worry," she looked down into the dragon's face, "we won't call you Blue," she crooned.

  "Jordan—"

  "Yes, I'm ready." She clutched the dragon against her chest with both hands so he'd feel secure. "Don't worry. I won't drop you," she murmured. With a squeal and a gasp, she spread her wings and hopped from the platform. She dipped face-first toward Maticaw and banked upward at the last moment, just missing a weathervane spire, which spun as she passed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Kacy Estate

  There has to be a logical explanation for this.

  Allan paced back and forth in front of the 'booze bureau'—that's what Jordan called it—pausing at either end to eye the strange glass bugs in his bourbon bottle. Since he was now out of bourbon, the glass in his hand carried single-malt scotch instead. The normally smooth oaky flavor had turned to diesel on his tongue. Still, he was on his second tumbler, and his hundredth journey across the carpeted floor.

  These same bugs might enable me to contact Jordy, but how? The bugs had gone dormant and rested in the bottom of the bottle, along with traces of bourbon still left inside. As though to reassure himself that he'd not imagined the whole thing, Allan tapped a finger against the glass. Two of the bugs sprouted legs and crawled over their companions to the glass walls of the bottle, where they began to climb, ever optimistic that the cork had been removed since the last time they'd checked. How glass could cling to glass was beyond Allan, but the bugs were somehow able to scale the slippery surface, their tiny feet click click clicking.

  Allan set his drink on the bureau, rooted his cell out of his pocket, and scrolled through his contacts until he found Inspector Cranston's number. His thumb hovered over the green ‘Call’ icon. He had to have answers, and if Cranston could talk all kinds of crap about avian-human chimeras, he'd have to be open to the idea of parallel universe bugs spelling out messages from his missing daughter.

  "I am crazy," he whispered, but he hit the dial button anyway. He lifted the cell to his ear, failing to block out the tink tink of bug legs. He turned his back to the bourbon bottle and wandered to the archway between the parlor and the foyer. Bracing against the doorjamb, Allan sank to the floor and listened to the ringtone. The phone rang twice, and then clicked as it was answered.

  "Senator Kacy?" Cranston's voice came through clear and crisp. "What can I do for you?"

  "Cranston." Allan's heart doubled its speed, and his palms suddenly felt cold and clammy. He felt his resolve weaken. "I – have there been any developments in the case? Have you found anything else out about the – uh, the chimera?"

  "Nothing new, sir," Cranston replied, then cleared his throat. "I hesitated to tell you about the blood for this very reason. I didn't want you to worry. I assure you that everything is under control, sir. We'll find Jordan and we'll bring her back. I promise."

  Allan cringed. He hated when people said 'I promise'. Cranston was just a man, and when men made promises, they nearly always broke them. Allan thought that it was one of the many ways God kept men humble, as if to say, ‘I can make promises. But you shouldn't.’

  Allan's eyes tracked to the bourbon bottle where two of the bugs were jammed into the neck. As he watched, they both put their legs away and fell with a clink into the pile of their companions below.

  His mouth formed a grim line. Jordan's bug message had told him the answer—she'd fallen through a portal. How is
it possible? How can any of this be real? Maybe they slipped drugs into my bourbon and I’ve hallucinated the whole event. That doesn’t explain the bugs, though. He'd felt them beneath his fingertips; they were all he could see now.

  Glass marbles moving and–

  Cranston was talking. Allan had almost forgotten he was still holding the phone to his ear.

  "…get some rest, Senator Kacy. You'll feel better after a good night's sleep."

  "Wait, Cranston." He took a steadying breath. "I've found something."

  The tuk tuk of a helicopter's blades overhead sliced through his certainty like a hot blade through butter. He was a senator; he was under watch, under protection, and he sure as hell couldn't afford to look crazy at a time like this. At any time, really. Even a whiff of crazy equated to weakness, loss of all credibility, loss of any pull he might have.

  Loss of power and credibility could endanger his life, and Jordan's.

  "What did you find?" Cranston asked.

  Allan gritted his teeth at the bugs.

  "What did you find, Senator?"

  "It's, uh, it's a picture of Jordan. I thought you might need an up-to-date one for your records."

  "Oh," Cranston replied, and the disappointment leaked through the phone. "That's fine, sir. I'll come over in the morning to collect the photographs."

  "Goodnight." Allan hung up before he blurted out anything about glowing marble bugs and portals. He let out a long exhale. "What do I do?" He forced himself upright and readjusted his glasses.

  The bugs were unconcerned by his plight; their fat glassy bodies lay dormant again in the bottom of the bottle, looking like so many eggs.

  "What am I supposed to do?" Allan asked again, frustration mounting. He lifted the bottle and poked at the glass with his fingertip. "You in there. Things. What am I supposed to do?" He’d neatly crossed the line from tipsy into drunk quite some time ago.

  If Jordan used these little suckers to send me a message, perhaps I can use them to send one back. I can ask her where she is, how to get there, and whether she needs anything.

  What if she’s hurt? Or cold? Or lost? Fear pasted his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

  Decades had passed since Jaclyn's disappearance, but he'd harbored a secret fear ever since it'd happened. He'd tended to it in the silence of sleepless nights, and nurtured the fear like one would care for an orchid—this belief that someone would one day take his baby away from him. That he'd lose his daughter, the only person who mattered anymore. It was unthinkable, which of course meant that he thought about it far too frequently.

  And now, it had come to pass.

  These little glass balls were the only tie he had left to her. "I'll be damned if I let this happen," Allan whispered. "I'll be damned if I just wait around and do nothing!"

  He clutched the bottle in his fist and charged through the house, out the back door, down the deck stairs, and toward that five-hundred-year-old oak tree and its swinging chair. He was buoyed up on scotch and belief.

  I’ll contact Jordan again. It has to be real.

  Allan dropped to his knees in front of the old oak and said a quick silent prayer. Let me see her again. Let me bring her back. Let me talk to her. Please, she's all I have left. She's my little girl.

  An image rose from the dust of his memories–Jordan as a five-year-old, her chubby hands squished against his cheeks.

  ‘You're the best daddy borned. Smartess, too.’

  ‘Smartest, sweetheart.’

  ‘That's you.’

  Tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes, and he lifted the bottle. His breath caught in his chest. The bugs were glowing. Those two yellow eyes on each glassy marble had reappeared. His heart skipped to a strange rhythm to see how they'd responded to being near the tree. More proof that there was some invisible portal here.

  "I need your help," Allan said to the bugs. "I need to speak to Jordan. I'm going to let you out, but you have to help me, okay?"

  They seemed to stare at him, unmoving now. Is that a sign that they agree?

  He uncorked the bottle with a ceremonious hollow pop, and then laid the bottle in the grass on its side.

  The bugs crawled out one by one, and scurried toward the tree.

  "No, wait! No, you have to do the message," Allan said, and grabbed one, then another. He tried arranging them, but their glassy bodies darted toward the tree as soon as he released them. He tried to gather them up all at once between his palms, as many as he could, but each time he placed them in a pattern, they scuttled off again, always toward the oak tree.

  "Stop it," he commanded. "I have to send a message to Jordan!"

  The bugs didn't stop. They glowed brighter, their yellow eyes blending into one, blindingly bright light. They became like small stars. They reached the tree, crawled up its roots, and swarmed over the bark. They blazed now, so bright that Allan had to blink against the glare.

  Allan stifled panic and tears and raised his arm to block the light. "Please," he said. "Jordy."

  The light evaporated and was replaced by darkness and silence. Nothing moved; not even a whisper of wind in the long grass, or the creak of the swinging chair. He lowered his arm. The bugs were gone, and it was too quiet.

  "Hello?" he croaked, staring at the tree where something was happening.

  The center of the tree moved and blurred. A hole widened in the fabric of Allan's reality; the bark of the tree melted away and pulled back, stretching open like it was made of latex. The hole wobbled and expanded, exposing a strange deep blackness which changed color from dark to midnight blue, then to the bright glaring blue of a clear summer sky. The radiant azure rim stretched outward, undulating and widening with a serpentine sway.

  The hole broadened, and the blue haze at its center dissipated and revealed… something else. Another place, another time, a view of–

  "It is a portal," he whispered, and broke out in a cold sweat. The bugs hadn't sent a message to her, but they had left a hole, a path, a doorway.

  It didn't matter if the bugs had heard him and done it on purpose or if it was purely an accident, a result of their travel back home. They'd created an opportunity. Allan scrambled upright and swayed on the spot. The edges of the hole in the fabric of Earth's universe tightened, and Allan gasped—the opportunity, it seemed, would be very short. ‘Now or never’ took on new meaning. He glanced back only once at his plantation home, his jaw tightening with resolve. He could no more say no to this opportunity than he could prevent the grass from growing up around the old house.

  He clenched his fists, faced the new world, and entered it to find his daughter.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "We have to descend here," Sol shouted over the wind buffeting their eardrums.

  Jordan nodded and clutched the dragon closer to her chest as they banked and dropped out of the stream of cool air that had been keeping them aloft for the last hour. The five-hour journey had not been as difficult as the one from Charra-Rae to Maticaw, and Jordan was beginning to understand how air currents behaved differently over water than they did over land. It was almost as though the sea air was made to buoy up wings and carry them for miles and miles, almost effortlessly. The currents over land were shorter, choppier, and changed temperature and direction quickly. Maybe it had something to do with altitude; Jordan didn't know, but she was grateful for the difference of having water beneath her.

  Passing over an endless sea and allowing her wings to do most of the work meant that Jordan could phase into a meditative place. The endless stretch of blue on blue, sky over sea, and the soft haze where the two met, made her feel partially deprived of sensation.

  The currents whispered under their wings, caressing and lifting. Jordan had to remind herself to close her nictitating membranes to protect her eyes from wind and ultraviolet light. One of these days she supposed she would do it without thinking, just as she was learning to fly without thinking. Sol had been right. It was like walking—you didn't have to tell your legs to mov
e, they just did.

  Below them was a speck in the sea, a small disc-shaped platform with a transparent dome protecting it. Two Nychts could be seen moving about under the dome. A deck extended around the glass dome, and it was on this that the two Arpaks finally landed and closed up their wings.

  Jordan took a deep breath and stretched her shoulders and back, letting the dragon climb up to rest in the cradle made between her wings and the back of her neck.

  "How much further to Rodania?" she asked, her eyes glazing over as she looked out at the empty horizon, stretching out in all directions. They'd already been flying for hours; the sun was well past its crest, and there was still no land visible anywhere. Her stomach dropped. She was tired. How did Sol misjudge the distance so badly? Doesn’t he make the journey between Maticaw and Rodania all the time?

  "We're here," replied Sol. He signalled to the Nychts inside the dome, and one of them nodded at Sol and held up two fingers, letting them know he'd be out to address them momentarily.

  "We are?" Jordan scanned the endless horizon around them. "What do you mean? I thought Rodania was a huge city?"

  "It is." Sol smiled at Jordan's confusion. "I can see it, but you can't. You'll be able to as soon as we register you."

  "Oh." She assumed this was like having to present your passport at customs. "I don't have any documentation," said Jordan. "Will that be a problem?"

  Sol shook his head. "They can see you're Arpak. That's the first and most important box ticked. Believe me, it’s a lot more difficult to get in the first time if you're not Strix."

  A square seam outlining a door appeared in the glass dome, then popped out and lifted, rolling up the curved walls of the dome on invisible hinges like some space-age garage door. One of the Nychts stepped outside. He was short and wiry with a dark tan and hair so blonde it was nearly white. He reminded Jordan of a surfer with tough-looking skin and wiry arms. A pair of dark glasses perched on the top of his head. The Nycht might have been beautiful, in a weathered sort of way, but for the dark purple bruising which cupped each eye. The whites of his eyes were threaded with capillaries. He looked as though he hadn't had a good night’s sleep in his life.