Dragon Tears

snarling, end over end.

* * *

Snarling, a startled cry, and the thump-crash of falling bodies caused Connie to turn away from the open pantry door where shelves were stacked with bundles of cash. She spun toward the arch beyond which the back stairs curved upward out of sight.

The dog and Ticktock spilled onto the kitchen floor, Ticktock flat on his back and the dog on top of him, and for an instant it looked as if the dog was going to tear out the kid’s throat. Then the dog squealed and was flung away from the kid, not thrown by hands or booted with a foot, but sent with a pale flash of telekinetic power, hurled across the room.

It was going down, holy God, right there and then, but going down all wrong. She wasn’t close enough to jam the muzzle of her revolver against his skull and pull the trigger, she was about eight feet away, but she fired just the same, once even as the dog was in the air, again as the dog slammed into the front of the refrigerator. She hit the perp both times, because he didn’t even realize she was in the kitchen until the first shot took him, maybe in the chest, the second in the leg, and he rolled off his back, onto his stomach. She fired again, the bullet spanged off the tile, spraying up ceramic chips, and from his prone position Ticktock held one hand toward her, the palm spread, that strange flash as with the dog, and she felt herself airborne, then slammed into the kitchen door hard enough to shatter all the glass in it and send shockwaves of pain up her spine. Her gun flew out of her hand, and her corduroy jacket was suddenly on fire.

* * *

As soon as the snarling dog exploded past Harry and scrambled-bounced-leaped out of sight around the first curve in the narrow spiral staircase, Harry followed, taking the steps two at a time. He fell before he reached the turn, cracked one of the mirrors with his head, but didn’t tumble all the way to the bottom, came up wedged at the midpoint of the well, with one leg twisted under him.

Dazed, he looked around frantically for his weapon, discovered it was still clutched in his hand. He clambered to his feet and continued down, dizzy, one hand braced against the mirrors to keep his balance.

The dog squealed, gunshots boomed, and Harry spiraled down, into the last turn, to the foot of the stairs in time to see Connie catapulted backward, crashing into the door, on fire. Ticktock was lying on his stomach, directly in front of the stairs, facing out toward the kitchen, and Harry leaped off the last step, landed hard on red silk stretched taut across the kid’s back, jammed the muzzle hard against the base of the kid’s skull, saw the gunmetal suddenly glow green and felt the start of what might have been a swift and terrible heat in his hand, but pulled the trigger. The explosion was muffled, like firing into a pillow, the green glow disappeared in the instant it first arose, and he squeezed the trigger again, both rounds into the troll’s brain. That was surely enough, had to be enough, but you never knew with magic, never knew in this pre-millennium cotillion, these wild ‘90s, so he squeezed the trigger again. The skull was coming apart like chunks of rind from a cantaloupe hit with a hammer, and still Harry pulled the trigger, and a fifth time, until there was a terrible spreading mess on the floor and no more rounds in the revolver, the hammer snapping against expended casings with a dry click, click, click, click, click.

2

Connie had stripped off the burning jacket and stamped out the fire by the time Harry realized his gun was empty, climbed off the dead troll, and managed to reach her. It was amazing she’d been able to act fast enough to avoid going up like a torch, because shedding the jacket had been complicated by the fact that her left wrist was broken. She’d suffered a minor burn on the left arm, as well, but nothing serious.

“He’s dead,” Harry said, as if it needed saying, and then he put his arms around her, held her as tightly as he could without touching her injuries.

She returned his hug fiercely, one-armed, and they stood that way for a while, unable to talk, until the dog came sniffing around. He was lame, holding his right rear leg off the floor, but he seemed otherwise all right.

Harry realized that Woofer had not, after all, been the cause of a disaster. In fact, if he hadn’t plunged down those stairs and knocked Ticktock ass over teakettle, thereby preserving the surprise of Connie’s and Harry’s presence in the house for just a few vital additional seconds, they would be dead on the floor, the golem-master alive and grinning.

A shiver of superstitious dread swept through Harry. He had to let go of Connie and return to the body, look at it again, just to be sure Ticktock was dead.

3

They built houses better in the 1940s, with thick walls and lots of insulation, which might have explained why none of the neighbors responded to the gunfire and why no oncoming sirens wailed in the fogbound night.

Suddenly, however, Connie wondered if, in his last moment of life, Ticktock had thrown the world into another Pause, exempting only his own house, figuring to disable them and then kill them at his leisure. And if he had died with the world stopped, would it ever start up again? Or would she and Harry and the dog wander through it alone, among millions of once-living mannequins?

She raced to the kitchen door and through it to the night outside. A breeze, cool on her face, ruffling her hair. Fog swirling, not suspended like a cloud of glitter in an acrylic paperweight. The rumble of waves on the shore below. Beautiful, beautiful sounds of a world alive.

4

They were police officers with a sense of duty and justice, but they were not foolish enough to follow prescribed procedures in the aftermath of this one. No way could they call it in to the local authorities and explain the true circumstances. Dead, Bryan Drackman was just a twenty-year-old man, and there was nothing about him to prove that he’d possessed astonishing powers. To tell the truth would be a ticket to institutionalization.

The jars of eyes, however, floating blindly on the shelves in Ticktock’s bedroom, and the mirrored strangeness of his house would be evidence enough that they had crossed paths with a homicidal psychopath, even if no one ever produced the bodies from which he had removed the eyes. They were able to provide one body, anyway, to support a charge of brutal murder: Ricky Estefan down in Dana Point, eyeless, with snakes and tarantulas.

“Somehow,” Connie said, as they stood in the pantry staring at the shelves laden with cash, “we’ve got to concoct a story to cover everything, all the holes and weirdnesses, the reason why we broke procedures on this case. We can’t just close the door and walk away because too many people at Pacific View know we were there tonight, talking to his mother, seeking his address.”

“Story?” he said blearily. “Dear God in Heaven, what kind of story?”

“I don’t know,” she said, wincing from the pain in her wrist. “That’s up to you.”

“Me? Why me?”

“You’ve always liked fairy tales. Make one up. It has to cover the burning of your house, Ricky Estefan, and this. At least that much.” He was still gaping at her when she pointed to all the piles of cash. “This is only going to complicate the story. Let’s just simplify things by getting it out of here.”

“I don’t want his money,” Harry said.

“Neither do I. Not a dollar of it. But we’ll never know who it was stolen from, so it’ll only go to the government, the same damn government that’s given us this pre-millennium cotillion, and I can’t tolerate the idea of giving it more to waste. Besides, we both know a few people who could sure use it, don’t we?”

“God, they’re still waiting in the van,” he said.