The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [57]
“How does Rose figure into this?” asked John. “Why was she so important that she was to be killed? And how does her being here now help our cause?”
“Verne can answer you more fully as to the destiny we suspect is ahead of the girl,” Edmund Spenser said, leaning over the table to better be heard. “But what little we do know also comes from the Prophecy.”
Chaucer turned to a page near the front of the Last Book and scanned it until he found the passage he wanted. “It said that in the final conflict with the King of Shadows, three scholars from the Summer Country will stand united against him. An ageless knight will deliver to them the means to defeat the Shadow King, which will be wielded by a daughter of the Houses of Troy and Aramathea. Rose Dyson, the Grail Child, is the only person in all of history who has that specific heritage. And we believe that she is the key to his final defeat.”
“Dear God,” said Charles.
“It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” asked Twain.
“That’s why we’ve taken the steps we have,” said Bert. “We needed to make sure you were here, now, under the right circumstances, to see that Prophecy fulfilled.”
“I think I need a drink,” said Jack. “Or five.”
“We should adjourn for brandy and a bit of air,” suggested Irving. “We’ve been at this so long it might be a good time for a break.” He looked at his watch and frowned. “Drat. I think my watch is running a bit fast. What time do you have, Rudyard?”
Kipling blanched. “I’m not sure,” he said, craning his neck. “Do we have a clock in here, Bert?”
“Just check your watch,” said Irving. “You do have a watch, don’t you?”
Kipling went pale. “I, uh, I seem to have left it elsewhere,” he said with a weak laugh. “Sorry—no watch.”
The room went still.
“A Caretaker is never without his watch,” Spenser said coolly. “Where is yours, Kipling?”
In response, Kipling turned out his pockets like a circus clown and grinned sheepishly—then shoved Irving off his chair and leaped onto the table.
“Hell’s bells!” Twain exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing, Rudyard?”
Kipling ignored the question and the shouts of the others and instead threw over the candles on the table. Then, amidst the confusion, he bolted from the room.
“Someone stop him!” Irving shouted. “He’s heading for the gallery!”
Jack was closest to the doors, and the most able-bodied of the Caretakers—or so he thought. He had exited the room and was racing after Kipling when Jakob Grimm passed him by.
Kipling wheeled about and pushed open the doors to the gallery anteroom, then threw them shut just as Jakob caught up to him. Jakob was struggling with the doors as Jack and then the rest of the Caretakers ran down the corridor.
“He’s locked it!” Jakob exclaimed. “I can’t get it open!”
“Stand back,” said Hawthorne. He took the measure of the doors, and then smashed into them with a powerful, well-placed kick. They didn’t budge.
“You thought one kick would do it?” asked Jack.
“Well, I am Nathaniel Hawthorne,” he answered, gesturing to the others. “All together now!”
Hawthorne, Jack, Irving, and Jakob threw themselves against the doors, which cracked open in a shower of splintered wood.
“There!” said Jack. “He’s going back inside the painting!”
At first glance, that seemed to be precisely what Kipling was doing—until the Caretakers rushed forward to capture their colleague and suddenly realized that the portrait of Kipling . . .
. . . was shrinking.
“What kind of enchantment is this?” Irving declared.
Whatever was happening, it was too late to catch the Caretakergone-wild. The image was the size of a playing card now, and there was no way to reverse or halt the process. In seconds the image would disappear completely.
“Be seeing you,” Kipling said with a wink. And then he was gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Master
“It wasn’t a portrait at all!” John exclaimed. “It was a Trump, just like the ones Hank and Ransom use!”
“You’re right, young man,” Twain said, examining the painting. “A rather