Dragon Shield Page 7

  BLAM

  The second bullet hit it in the body, knocking its legs out from under it so that the head suddenly disappeared as it dropped like a stone, hitting its chin on the lip of the wall, snapping its neck upwards with a sharp crack as it disappeared from view. The last that Will saw of it was a final burst of wildfire vomitted straight into the air like a blazing fountain that geysered upwards before making a nearly perfect umbrella shape, and falling straight back down to earth.

  Will didn’t move.

  He’d seen it. His ears had heard the gunshots. His brain had just not managed to take it in.

  ‘You still with us then, nipper?’ said a man’s voice with a cockney edge to it.

  Will scrambled to the edge of the wall and looked down.

  A statue was looking up at him. It was a soldier in a First World War uniform, made of brass that was black with age and spattered with pigeon mess much as Victory had been. He had a tin helmet and a pack, and was standing over the sprawled and immobile dragon with his rifle pointing at its head. There was a long and very pointy bayonet, almost like a sword, fixed on the end of the gun.

  He had one eye on the dragon and one on Will.

  ‘There you are. Good. Thought this blighter might have roasted yer . . .’

  The dragon tried to lift its head.

  Without thinking the soldier lunged and stabbed the dragon.

  ‘No no,’ he gritted. ‘Can’t be having that, matey. ’Cos my mother said . . .’

  Stab.

  ‘. . . you shouldn’t go aroun’ . . .’

  Stab.

  ‘. . . trying to roast up little boys . . .’

  Stab.

  ‘. . . all aroun’ the town.’

  And with that he put a hobnailed boot on the dragon’s neck and yanked the long sword-bayonet free for the last time.

  Wildfire spilled out of the wound, its energy spent, dribbling like a liquid, pooling on the ground around the dragon’s head, melting the sickly green astroturf before dying out entirely.

  The soldier looked at his bayonet, then down at the dragon.

  ‘Ugly brute, isn’t he?’

  Will’s mouth worked silently.

  ‘Something you want to say?’

  Will swallowed.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said.

  The soldier tipped back his helmet and fixed his eyes on Will’s with a stern look.

  ‘That’s the first thing you want to say is it?’

  He scratched his chin. He looked very grim.

  ‘Oh well. Kids these days, eh? Ain’t got the manners of a butcher’s dog, have you?’

  Will swallowed. The soldier exhaled and shrugged

  ‘Who am I? Well sonny, I’m Corporal thank-you-very-much-for-saving-my-bacon-from-the-big-nasty-dragon-that-was-trying-to-turn-my-ungrateful-little-hide-into-nice-crispy-pork-crackling is who I am.’

  Will felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. The soldier relaxed his face a millimetre, so that it at least looked like a face that could smile, maybe one day in the long distant future, even though it wasn’t letting much of that show right now.

  A familiar voice piped up from behind the big soldier.

  ‘But you can call him Fusilier. Everyone else does.’

  Will’s jaw dropped in surprise. It was Little Tragedy, grinning so wide his face was close to splitting.

  ‘Right,’ said Will. ‘I mean thank you. For saving my bacon. Hide. You know . . .’

  ‘I do know,’ agreed The Fusilier, hanging his gun over his shoulder by the sling. ‘Same as I know you should thank this little devil for coming and getting me.’

  Will looked at Tragedy who was beaming back at him, hopping nervously from foot to foot.

  ‘Thank you Tradge,’ said Will.

  ‘Pleasure,’ he replied, and then he put the sad mask over his face, ‘And I’m sorry about your sister an’ all.’

  Will nodded. All the relief at having survived the dragon drained out of his boots at the mention of Jo, and he felt suddenly very shaky and hollow. The Fusilier looked at him closely.

  ‘Right chum. Need to get that arm seen to. We know just who to take you to, right Tradge?’

  ‘You do?’ asked Will. His arm was throbbing badly.

  ‘Ho yes,’ grinned Tragedy. ‘What you need is a ministering bleedin’ angel.’

  ‘So come down off of that roof, careful like, keep your eyes peeled and follow me,’ said The Fusilier.

  ‘And don’t argue,’ said Little Tragedy. ‘No more arguing please.’

  Will rolled to the edge and lowered himself to the ground. It was very odd stepping over the dead dragon and seeing the happy smiling faces of the couple watching their daughter frozen on the swing, unaware of the mayhem that had just passed in front of their unseeing eyes.

  ‘Right,’ said The Fusilier. ‘Let’s scarper.’

  Will remembered how he’d wished he’d kept hold of the shield, so he ran over and picked it up.

  ‘Seriously sonny. We need not to be here,’ said The Fusilier. ‘Dragons are all brothers, least them silver ones are. They’ll know something’s up with one of theirs and be flocking over here for a look-see.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Tragedy. ‘Why aren’t you moving?’

  ‘Wait,’ said Will. His eyes had seen something else on the ground. ‘Just wait a moment. Please.’

  That wasn’t the question, thought Will, remembering how frozen and lifeless Jo had suddenly looked in the dragon’s talons. He could move if he wanted to; it was Jo that wasn’t moving. Why?

  He knelt and pulled something familiar out from under one of the exercise bicycles.

  It was Jo’s bracelet.

  He stared at it. Something clicked in his head, like a puzzle piece landing in place. He looked at the scarab on his wrist.

  ‘What?’ said Little Tragedy.

  ‘I think I might know why Jo stopped moving,’ said Will slowly.

  ‘Who?’ said The Fusilier.

  ‘My sister. And I think that means I know why I’m moving and everyone else is frozen in time.’

  11

  Under the Blue Light

  Jo’s eyes blinked and she woke up. She was lying on the bottom of something with steep black sides. A couple of feet above her was a ceiling, not quite solid, like a layer of smoke with light rippling slowly across it, through which she could make out shapes bending over and looking down at her.

  She had the terrifying thought that she was under water, but realized that couldn’t be because she didn’t feel wet and could breathe.

  She did not feel strong enough to move much more than her hand, however, which reached up and touched the blue plane of light, making ripples as her fingers poked through it.

  ‘Where am I?’ she said.

  The voice that answered her seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, like a voice that bypassed her ears and spoke right inside her head.

  ‘WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE.’

  ‘Hospital’ she answered, without thinking.

  She saw a hand reach down through the light and feel the brace on her knee. She was pleased that it was not aching. Maybe they’d given her something for the pain. Whoever they were. Wherever this was . . .

  YOU HAVE BEEN HURT.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘TELL US WHAT WE ASK AND WE WILL HURT THOSE WHO HURT YOU.’

  Jo’s heart bumped out of rhythm. Something was wrong with a voice that said things like that.

  ‘This isn’t a hospital.’ She said.

  ‘IT IS A PLACE OF SAFETY.’

  ‘No it’s not.’

  ‘IT CAN’T BE.’

  ‘Where’s Will?’

  She could feel fear welling up inside her.

  ‘WHO IS WILL?’

  ‘My—’

  Jo tried to crush the fear by stopping talking and trying to think. She didn’t want to give this voice anything. Not until she knew what was happening.

  ‘AH.’

  ‘Who are you?�
�� she said.

  ‘WILL IS THE BOY.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘DID WILL HURT YOU?’

  ‘No.’

  The voice was like a purr. Gentle. Comforting, even.

  ‘HE BETRAYED YOU.’

  Dangerously soft. Like a cat with claws hidden but ready . . .

  ‘No.’

  ‘IF HE DID NOT BETRAY YOU, HOW DID YOU COME HERE?’

  ‘You said this was a place of safety.’

  The voice said nothing.

  ‘So how can he have betrayed me by bringing me here, if this is somewhere safe?’

  ‘SHARP GIRL. DON’T CUT YOURSELF ON YOUR CLEVERNESS.’

  There they were. The claws.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked carefully.

  12

  The Dark City

  The sun had set. Will hadn’t noticed exactly when, but as The Fusilier led them at a fast trot away from the gardens he realized the city had got much darker.

  On reflex he pulled his phone and checked the time. It was stuck. The clock had not moved on from the moment he’d first seen the dragon back in the hospital window.

  ‘What you doing, slowcoach?’ said Tragedy. ‘Keep up.’

  ‘Checking the time,’ he said.

  ‘Only one thing you need to know about that,’ said The Fusilier as he jinked round a corner in a controlled slide, the hobnails on his boots skating noisily sideways on the pavement. ‘If the dragons are attacking you, it’s already too late.’

  ‘So what’s this big secret you know?’ said Little Tragedy. ‘Why aren’t you froze like the other Regulars?’

  The Fusilier looked back over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow.

  Will felt Jo’s bracelet in his pocket. He pulled it out and showed it to them. Then he shot his wrist out of his cuffs and showed his own bracelet.

  ‘Bracelet?’ said The Fusilier. ‘I think it’s more than jewellery, mate.’

  ‘No,’ said Will. ‘It makes sense . . . When we were both wearing them, we weren’t frozen. Then Jo’s got torn off and she did freeze.’

  He looked at them both. They didn’t look convinced.

  ‘It makes sense,’ he repeated, hearing how weak that sounded second time round. Maybe he was just wanting it to be so because he needed something to make sense in the midst of all this scary craziness he was trapped in.

  ‘OK then,’ said The Fusilier. ‘Take your bracelet off. See if you freeze.’

  Will shook his head.

  ‘I’ll put it back on you,’ smiled Little Tragedy encouragingly. ‘Go on, give it a go!’

  Maybe it was because his hair was pushed back revealing his little horns that made Will shake his head. He didn’t seem quite trustworthy. Something that the Victory had said that stuck in his head: Tragedy often meant well but wasn’t quite reliable.

  ‘What you scared of?’ said The Fusilier.

  ‘That it might not work.’ said Will.

  The Fusilier exhaled in frustration and shook his head.

  ‘So why do you want to find your sister and put hers back on?’

  ‘Because it might work,’ said Will. ‘Sorry. It makes sense to me.’

  And it did. If there was a tiny chance he’d go to sleep on his feet like all these people in the street around him, the frozen taxi drivers and people on buses and bicycles and the crowd on the pavements they were moving through, he couldn’t afford to take it. But if there was a tiny chance he could get Jo back and awake, he had to take it.

  He slipped her bracelet back in his pocket and zipped it up. The Fusilier shrugged and led on. Tragedy tutted and shook his head at Will.

  ‘You don’t trust me,’ he said. ‘We’re meant to be mates. I brought him back to save you!’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Will. He wasn’t going to be guilted into doing it. Maybe he was too scared to try taking off his scarab bracelet in case it didn’t work. Maybe he just needed the possibility he was right: maybe he was clinging to that straw because otherwise he would have nothing, and drown.

  As they carried on he realized what was so extra creepy now that evening was on them: normally street lamps come on when it gets dark. Normally cars turn on their headlights and people in buildings turn on the lamps when the sun goes down. Normally it’s so automatic that you don’t even notice it. None of that had happened.

  The buildings were taller now as they got closer to the centre of the City, big purpose-built office blocks replacing the two- or three-storey houses they had been passing. There were some lights on – traffic lights, some windows and a few cars that had the kind of lights that were on all the time, but that meant there was just enough light to throw deep shadows that made the darkness seem all the weirder and more threatening, and the road felt less like a street than a deep dark canyon.

  The falling darkness sucked colour out of the world, and without colour the unmoving pedestrians looked all the more like statues and less like real people. And now they stopped looking like actual people who might spring back into action at any moment, it was like they were even more absent. Because of that Will suddenly felt very alone indeed.

  He looked sideways into the murky interior of a supermarket as he passed. People were black silhouettes standing at the till waiting to pay, backlit by the dim light of big fridges full of soft drinks and frozen produce. He had the nasty thought that maybe they’d be there forever, money in hands, queuing for eternity.

  It also made him realize how dry his mouth was.

  Then he had the slightly better thought that he could just go into a shop and take a can, and that thought led to the next, which was that, in other circumstances – circumstances that didn’t include dragons or his sister and mother getting frozen in time – this should be fun. He could go into any shop and take anything. The city could, in those other circumstances, be the best game ever. Instead of the worst nightmare—

  He ran straight into the back of The Fusilier. Which was painful. Partly because The Fusilier was made of bronze, mainly because he hit him with the arm that had been burned by the wildfire.

  ‘Ouch,’ he said, stumbling backwards, clutching it.

  ‘Shhh,’ said Tragedy as the Fusilier dropped to one knee behind a rubbish bin and motioned for Will and Tragedy to get behind him.

  He quickly unslung the rifle from his shoulder and aimed it over the top of the bin. Will watched him very quietly work the lever on the gun to put a bullet in the chamber, ready for firing. Tragedy flinched his eyes shut and stuck his fingers in his ears.

  If Will’s mouth had felt a little bit dry before, it now felt parched as a desert. He breathed shallowly and squinted in the direction the gun was pointed at. At first he couldn’t see anything in the darkness and occasional slashes of light ahead, but then it shifted.

  It was a shadow, and it was being thrown by something moving towards them from a side street on their left. It prowled forward silently with the ease of a predator, a big four-legged hunter, unmistakably feline and deadly.

  ‘What is it?’ whispered Will, very aware that something at the base of his brain was trying to tell his legs to get the rest of him as far from this corner as it could, as fast as possible.

  ‘Tiger, I reckon,’ said Tragedy. ‘Looks like a tiger anyway.’

  The Fusilier nodded.

  ‘There’s a big statue of a tiger out West, Victoria way. Must be that one. Can’t think of any others. Nasty blighter it is when it’s riled.’

  The shadow stopped and tensed, the long tail slowly curling over its back as it dropped its chest to the ground, back legs ready to spring.

  ‘Heard us,’ said The Fusilier. ‘That’s not good.’

  He looked behind him and pointed to the open door of the shop with the queue in it.

  ‘Back up slow,’ he whispered.

  ‘Can’t you just shoot it?’ breathed Will.

  ‘I can shoot at it. And I can miss it, like as hit it,’ hissed The Fusilier, easing back from the bin and waving him to do the same. ‘Ti
ger moves faster than you can think and it’ll need more than one round to put it down even if I get lucky. Step quiet now . . .’

  They inched backwards, pace by silent pace.

  They were halfway between the safety of the bin and the open door when the tiger moved – its shadow getting bigger and bigger as it neared the corner. Will forgot to breathe. His legs forgot not to start shaking.

  The Fusilier risked a quick look behind to see how close they were and then snapped his head back to aim at the corner.

  ‘Run,’ he said. ‘I’ll nail it.’

  Will’s legs didn’t need telling twice, but he and Tragedy were in such a hurry to be elsewhere that they somehow got in each other’s way as he turned to run, and they both stumbled and fell instead.

  Pain jagged up his arm as he slapped the pavement with his hand, trying to stop himself, and then he was spread-eagled on the ground with no protection as the tiger leapt round the corner.

  BLAM

  The Fusilier’s shot went high and missed.

  Partly this was because he jerked the muzzle towards the sky at the last minute.

  Partly it was because the big tiger wasn’t either big, nor in fact a tiger.

  It was a small house cat.

  Not a real cat, true: a statue of a cat, but life-sized.

  It stood there blinking at them in surprise.

  ‘Hodge!’ said The Fusilier. ‘I nearly punched your ticket, you mug!’

  ‘You know it?’ said Will.

  ‘Course I know it. Everyone knows it,’ giggled Tragedy in relief. ‘Most famous cat in London is that. It’s Dictionary’s cat.’

  He uncocked his rifle and slung it over his shoulder as he walked towards the waiting cat.

  ‘Here kitty—’

  ‘Dictionary?’ said Will. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Dictionary Johnson,’ said the Fusilier. ‘Splendid old buffer, lives on a plinth down Aldwych way, but his cat’s normally on a different plinth down Fleet—’

  Little Tragedy grinned and bent down to pet the cat.

  The cat leapt at his face and slashed its claws across it so powerfully that Tragedy dropped the mask he carried and shrieked in pain.