A black shadow slipped in front of my view. I drew back.
Heart thumping, I forced myself to look again. I needed to know what I was up against. This time, I saw them: three men, dressed all in black, their faces hidden. Two were lifting one side of the piano; the third was shoving a platform with wheels under one of the legs. I ducked down.
Three men.
One, I could handle.
Maybe two, if I were clever enough.
Not three.
Think, Sky,I told myself.Think fast.The men were lifting the piano onto wheels. That meant they planned to take the entire thing, which meant they couldn’t leave via the windows—much too narrow for a grand piano. They’d have to open the doors that Dad had sealed shut. If I could hold them here, just until someone else came home…
Spinning around, I scanned the foyer. Statues, vase with flowers, mirrors on wall…By the door, there was a pile of mail, plus my brother Tuck’s fishing supplies. It was his newest hobby, after his failure at beekeeping. (Seriously, Tuck? Beekeeping?) I beelined for them. No fishing rod, but the box held tackle, copious amounts of fishing line, and a hideous plaid hat.
Behind me, I heard a hiss. I turned to see a line of char on the music room door. It spread, inch by inch, top to bottom. Dad had melted the hinges, so the thieves were carving their own way through.
Grabbing the fishing hat, I booked it to the door and hung the hat over the knob, so it would block the view through the keyhole, and then I worked fast: taking the fishing line and weaving it between the bases of the statues and the legs of various end tables. Goal was simple: slow the thieves.
The line of char now was all the way down one side of the door and proceeding to the right. Blue smokeless flame licked at the ash. It looked like a blowtorch, but I’d bet a wheelbarrow full of gold that these weren’t ordinary human thieves and this wasn’t any kind of torch.
These men were like us.
Wyverns, aka were-dragons, aka distant descendants of the (extinct) mighty dragons of old who once dominated the skies of Home.
In other words, these men were dangerous.
Now would be the time to hide in the safe room. Still, I hesitated. The fishing line might trip them (best case) or slow them (second-best case) for a few minutes, but it wouldn’t stop them. If only I could sound an alarm…
I had a thought, the kind that feels like there’s a cartoon lightbulb over your head.
All the security alarms were on the same computerized system. But we also had ordinary battery-powered smoke alarms that my father cursed at whenever the batteries ran out and they started to beep. We had no need for high-tech ones—we aren’t afraid of fire, only theft. There was one on the ceiling of the foyer, next to the chandelier.
Running up the stairs, I climbed onto the railing. The chandelier was only a few feet from me, close enough to change the lightbulbs. The alarm was a few feet beyond it. Grabbing one of the golden arms of the chandelier, I stepped on. It swung under my weight.
Shifting, I inched closer to the alarm. Now I only had to trigger it. I needed something to set on fire. I reached into my pocket for the chopsticks.
You can do this,I told myself. Breathe. Stay calm. Center yourself. I tried to remember the lessons that had been drilled into me: Draw the flame from your center, think of warmth, believe in the heat. And dream of flying free through the sky in your true form, on your own wings, the sun on your scales, the world beneath your talons.
Pursing my lips in an O, I breathed out a tendril of fire.
The tiny flame landed on the chopstick and then died.
Below, the wood of the door creaked.Block it out,I told myself. Focusing, I breathed, trying to summon more fire. The flame seared up my throat and out my mouth. It shot onto the chopstick, and the chopstick caught fire. Leaning forward, I stretched out my arm, holding the fiery chopstick so that the smoke rose up toward the sensor.
As the ash crumbled, the door began to fall. The men caught it before it crashed. Carrying it back into the music room, they set it aside, leaving a gaping hole. They began to wheel the piano into the foyer. The first man was walking backward, and his ankles hit the fishing line. He lost his balance and fell, pulling the line with him—and yanking down the statue of Sir Francis Drake that it was tied to, which pulled over the end tables. Thief, statue, and tables all crashed down. The vase of flowers shattered, spraying shards of glass across the tile.
And the smoke alarm began to wail.
My fingers slipped, and I dropped back, hanging from my knees, upside down, from the chandelier. Swearing, two of the men tried to help the one who had fallen as the front door to the house slammed open. A familiar figure filled the doorway.
My father put his hands on his hips. “You are all idiots,” he proclaimed. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t disown you all.”
Below me, the three thieves snapped to attention.
Oh, no,I thought.
“Clean up this mess and meet me in my office,” Dad said. “And get your sister down from the ceiling. We are not monkeys; we should not act like them.”
