As she stuck one foot into the opening and began easing the other one in, Castro hissed between his teeth for her to hurry up. She caught the glow of a torch coming across the street, right up to the door. The Dragon Tongue hadn’t disappeared.
Shit, not good.
Castro took to helping her get her other foot in, but realized quickly that it was too late. The Dragon Tongue’s torches were closer.
Meanwhile, not far from the post office, Ignatius, Frieda, and Sherlock made their way to the town square; the dungeons were located just beyond.
Sherlock led the way, searching out with his mind, calling for Maria.
Maria! Maria!
So far he was getting no response.
This is not good. Sadness started to overtake him, and every step forward was numbing. What if she’s hurt…or worse, what if she’s dead?
Maria! Please answer me!
“This way,” Frieda whispered.
Ignatius caught Sherlock’s collar, causing the dog to pull up short. Had he taken just one more absentminded step, he would’ve gone right out into the road, where a gang of Dragon Tongue, carrying torches, huddled in front of a building.
Oh, Maria, please be okay—
A smell invaded his nostrils. It was sweet and…familiar.
Maria!
She couldn’t respond telepathically, but he knew she was close.
“Sherlock, c’mon!” Ignatius hissed. “We are losing our chance.”
But Sherlock held his ground; his muscles going rigid, his tail pointing upward, and his nose pointed toward the building diagonal to the alleyway they were currently in. He focused his nose and honed in on the building. He smelled the bitter sweat and smoldering fire of the enemy, but beyond that, he smelled Maria and— fish guts! The fisherman! The old guy she tried to save. Mmm. Fish guts. No, no time to think about food. Gotta save Maria. Gotta get Ignatius and Frieda to help me. Gotta—
Suddenly, he smelled something else—a scent all too familiar to him, no matter what world he was on. It was the smell of mailmen, and letters, and packages. For all he knew, they were part of a secret society that was out to get all dogs, but especially him. Not to mention they’d sent him that Cat Magazine when he didn’t want it…at least not really.
A low, rumbling growl revved in Sherlock’s chest.
“Sherlock, we must keep moving,” Ignatius pressed, but Sherlock barely heard him.
He only heard the footsteps of the mailman coming up the walkway, and the letters and coupon books shuffling around in his big, blue messenger bag.
He growled louder now.
“What is it?” Frieda asked, her voice alarmed.
She and Ignatius walked up to Sherlock and saw that he was growling at the post office—a place that was, as far as Ignatius was concerned, all but defunct and useless, with magic so prominent on Oriceran.
Sherlock watched as one of the Dragon Tongue broke away from the group, and went straight for the post office door.
He’s going to open it, and Maria will be exposed, and our mission will be ruined. I’ll never get to meet that Gnome named Gelbus, never get to pee on the bastard. Worst of all, Maria will be gone. I have to do something, and fast!
Since Ignatius and Frieda wouldn’t listen to him, he decided to take matters into his own paws.
His low growling changed to deep barks. Had you never known Sherlock and heard that bark, you would’ve thought it had come from a stone-cold killer—not a dog who spent most of his time curled up with half-eaten garbage and dead squirrels, while he watched the same silly soap operas his master did…and quite enjoyed them.
Luckily, the Dragon Tongue knew none of this. When they heard his barks rip through the air, they snapped their heads in the sound’s direction, and the one whose burning hand—via some dark magic—was on the doorknob, dropped his hand.
Maria, this is for you! Sherlock bellowed at the top of his mental lungs. Then he tore off barking and snarling, spit flying in all directions, toward the group of Dragon Tongue.
Behind him, he faintly heard Ignatius curse under his breath; then he heard their footsteps following.
Barking erupted from across the street, shattering the mostly-deserted town’s quiet. It was so vicious it never even crossed her mind that it could be Sherlock’s. She thought it had come from some great beast.
A dragon? No, dragons roar; at least, in the movies they do.
It was only when she peeked over the window ledge that she realized it was her Bloodhound. He was ripping through the street at a million miles an hour toward the frozen Dragon Tongue.
“Sherlock,” she breathed. Then she pulled her foot out of the mail drawer, bringing out a few letters that were stuck to her sole, and went for the door. Through its window, she saw Gramps and Frieda appear on the street shortly after Sherlock.
Gramps’s wand was out and aimed at the lead Dragon Tongue. His lips moved soundlessly, pronouncing words and incantations that Maria hadn’t the slightest clue about, and the tip of his wand glowed with ferocious, electric fire. A burst of energy zapped through the night air and took the lead Dragon Tongue in the shoulder with all the force of a gunshot. The man flew five feet across the road until he landed on his ass with a smack against the post office’s facade, rattling the glass windows in their frames.
Maria’s hand found the hilt of her sword. She was ready to throw the door open, when a rough hand grabbed her from behind, startling her out of her focus.
It was Castro. How could I have forgotten about him when he was right there?
“What are you doing?” he whispered furiously.
“That’s my family. I have to help them.”
“It’s suicide. There’s nearly a dozen Dragon Tongue out there, and more on the way.”
Maria shed his grip and reached for the doorknob again. “That’s exactly why I have to go out there and help them. I took out five by myself.
