"So that's it for her?" Simone said, unable to contain the wave of bitterness. "She's one of the lost?"

Lake of Spirits deals with "one of the lost" – shapeshifters who transformed at a very early age and were unable to shift back. Poor Jolie was just a one-year-old baby, part of an experimental shapeshifter program in Simone's world, when she turned into a jengu (one of the miengu water spirits) and stuck in that form. Faced with raising a creature they knew little about, the scientists had no choice but to hand Jolie over to others of her kind, the mysterious people of the lake.

Sixteen years later, Simone is busy introducing Hal and his friends to their new home when it occurs to her that, with the help of Abigail's little glass faerie ball and its ability to unlock deep-seated memories and abilities, she might be able to bring Jolie back into the human world. It's said that the miengu can heal the sick, and Jolie would be an invaluable asset to have around – that is, if her enchanting beauty and mischievous ways don't escalate into disaster.

This is a tale of paranoia, betrayal, and impending doom. Like sirens luring ships onto rocks, Jolie may seem sweet-natured at first, but she's incredibly dangerous as Hal and his friends slowly discover. Can they figure her out before the proverbial ship smashes itself to bits?

The first three books of the series formed a trilogy, a three-part story that wrapped up at the end of Mountain of Whispers. This new book, Lake of Spirits, continues on directly but also starts a new chain of events for the young shapeshifters.

Lake of Spirits
A novel by Keith Robinson

This is a special preview of the prologue and first two chapters.

Prologue

Simone stepped outside, banged the door shut behind her, and paused in the sweltering heat, grateful for her sleeveless dress. Part of her longed to return to the depths of the cool, dark cottage . . . but she was too excited and intrigued by the words of the messenger boy who'd stopped by minutes before: "Emergency at the lab. Old Bart needs you."

Her parents had been going on at her lately, telling her she needed to get out more, meet people, get a job—anything besides lurking in her room poring over dusty scientific journals. "You're seventeen now," her mom nagged constantly. "Old enough to earn a living. You might be an important shapeshifter, young lady, but you still have to pull your weight around here." And her dad always chimed in with, "Yeah. Time you got your nose out of those old books."

Simone joined the throng of slow-moving villagers that packed the dusty streets, weaving around them as fast as she could. It was even busier once she got around the corner, and it was hard to avoid being sucked into conversation. She darted past the market stalls with barely a nod and smile to dozens of familiar faces.

Her light, knee-length dress snagged on the handle of a wheelbarrow and brought her up short. As she pulled free, a couple of greasy-haired young men by the fruit stall leered openly at her. Flustered, she averted her gaze and hurried away, grimacing at the wolf whistle that followed.

Her mom often remarked that "a young woman of such beauty" had the world at her fingertips. Practically any man would give her a job if she asked; she tended to attract customers so was good for business even if she did nothing but sweep the floor. But Simone had only one career in mind, and that was working with Old Bart and his team of doctors and professors.

The science laboratory stood at the edge of the village. Carter's population was nearly four hundred strong, but the council that ran the place—a small group of bored men and women—still couldn't bring themselves to agree that the decrepit science lab was too close to noise and prying eyes, not to mention being too small. Things might be different if only Old Bart would show up at a meeting once in a while; as the most senior and respected member, he could wield considerable clout if he wanted. But he despised politics.

Simone clicked her tongue with annoyance as she spotted a group of kids peering through a smeared side window, no doubt hoping for rare glimpses of new-fangled technology or ‘ghastly' experiments. She strode past them, burst in through the front door, and nearly bumped into Dr. Kessler in the hallway.

She was a small, stern woman with brass-rimmed spectacles. "Young lady," she said with a frown, "one of these days you're going to knock me flying."

"Sorry," Simone said. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. "Professor Bart wanted to see me?"

Dr. Kessler nodded, looking troubled. She took Simone by the elbow and led her along the narrow hall, ignoring several doors that opened into cluttered laboratories. "You know," the doctor said softly, "the old codger doesn't have much time left."

Simone stopped dead, her mouth dropping open. "What?"

"He's been talking about it lately, saying he's feeling old, not got his wits about him anymore. He's tired, Simone, and I think he knows that he needs to pass the reins on to someone else."

Confused and more than a little shocked, Simone struggled for words.

"But that's not why you're here," Dr. Kessler said, urging Simone onward. "I'm just saying, that's all; warning you in case he starts moping." They came to a closed door at the end of the hall. "He's in here. Go on in."

Simone had been in this room many times. None of the doors in the science building were marked—something that irked her—but she knew this to be where a select few worked on the Shapeshifter Program. Being a shapeshifter herself, Simone had special privileges.

She turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. Dr. Kessler faded from her periphery as she moved into the dark, musty room. Professor Bartholomew, or Old Bart as he was known around the village, was standing by a sturdy oak bench against the far wall opposite the windows. On the bench stood a large glass tank about six feet long and three feet high. The professor's tall, lanky frame was hunched over as he peered through the glass into the murky water.

"You wanted me?" Simone said respectfully.

Professor Bart glanced over his shoulder and waved her closer. As usual he skipped any preamble. "Come and meet the new Jolie."

Simone drew in a sharp breath. "The new Jolie?"

She moved closer, absently noting how the tables in the cluttered room had barely an inch of space remaining on their surfaces. There were glass phials, books, papers, jars and boxes, numerous contraptions with clamps and rods and trailing wires, glowing energy rocks . . . and most of it covered with dust that blew in off the street whenever the windows were open.

Simone's eyes widened as she approached the glass tank. Inside was an infant humanoid figure with black, shiny eyes and luminescent scaly skin. Instead of legs, the one-year-old baby had a slender fishtail. She seemed happy enough, drifting from one end of the tank to the other, pressing her tiny fingers to the glass as she turned.

Even though Simone had never seen Jolie in this form before, the round face, button nose, and curly black hair were instantly recognizable. "Jolie," she mumbled, leaning closer. "So . . . she shifted, then."

"As we feared," Professor Bart said softly. He looked even more gaunt than normal, and his completely bald head seemed to have developed a few more liver spots in the last week. "The treatment failed."

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and Simone knew he was indicating a special adjacent room that, when the door was sealed and the machines working, reduced the amount of oxygen in the air. It was just a subtle difference, hardly noticeable, and nurses and nannies had been in and out of that room for the past year without any problems. But the reduced oxygen was important for Jolie.

"This is what I get for trying to outsmart nature," the professor mumbled.

"But you were doing so well," Simone assured him. "Normally they change within a month or two after birth. What you did was working."

"It wasn't enough." The professor turned to her and a smile wrinkled his face. "Shapeshifters have always been bred on the Other Side, in the alternate world with its lower concentration of oxygen. Centuries ago it was all witch doctors, barbaric ceremonies, mumbo-jumbo incantations, and a heap of good luck thrown in. There were far more failures than successes. I've made it my life's work to understand and refine the procedure, but the key factor in all this continues to elude me. How old are you now, Simone?"

"Seventeen."

The professor had been about to continue, but instead did a double take. His eyebrows shot up as he rounded on her. "Goodness me! Are you really? I thought you were just fifteen."

"I was," Simone said, smiling, "two years ago."

"And your twin?"

Simone frowned, sure that he was jesting. But he had returned his gaze to the tank and seemed perfectly serious. "He's seventeen, too," she confirmed. "We're all seventeen now, Professor. We've grown up."

"Time flies," the professor said, nodding sagely. "Well, anyway, how old were you when you first changed?"

"Eight."

"And your friends?"

"Eight," she said again.

The professor nodded. "Ten of you, Simone, born and raised in a secure location—well, twelve of you, actually, but ten that made it through the program." He scowled and waved his hand as if impatient with himself for digressing. "My point is, every one of you changed on schedule at age eight. It's the way of things, the way it's always been. But it's so blasted inconvenient raising shapeshifters in the other world, with all that running back and forth through portals, and the risk of discovery. So we can either go live high on a mountain where the air is thinner, or install a hypoxicator as I did in the room next door." He shook his head and gestured at the creature in the tank. "But neither alternative works. I'm beginning to suspect that thinner oxygen is not the only requirement for a successful shapeshifter program."

The fishtailed baby rose to the surface, peering directly upward as if fascinated by something on the ceiling of the room. "When did she change?" Simone asked.

"A few hours ago." He rapped his knuckles on the glass. "I had to dunk her in the emergency tank. I'm afraid the water wasn't particularly clean. I had to siphon it off, bit by bit." He spoke in a monotone, as if all the enthusiasm for his work had evaporated with Jolie's failure.

Simone turned up her nose at the thought of swimming in stagnant water. "Why the rush? She can breathe air, can't she? Like me?"

The professor closed his eyes and mumbled something under his breath. Then he turned and gripped one of Simone's bare shoulders with strong fingers, fixing her with a glare. "No, no, no. She's not like you. Mermaids breathe air like humans, whereas the miengu primarily use gills like fish. They can breathe air like humans, but it takes a special effort in this form; the miengu are more comfortable using gills. You and Jolie may look the same with your fishy tails, but there's a world of difference between you. Look at her skin, Simone. Is your skin scaly when you shift? Does it glow?"

"No," Simone admitted.

"Do your eyes turn completely black? Do your ears turn pointy?"

"No."

"Well, then."

The professor pointed into the tank, and Simone noted the slits on each side of the baby's neck. They looked like the razor-sharp gashes of a savage animal.

"The gills appeared the moment she shifted, so naturally she tried to use them—and suddenly she was gasping like a fish out of water. It's a good job her nurse was around. She came tearing in here like a lunatic, waving the baby around. That's what this tank was here for, you see, just in case."

He suddenly looked ashamed.

"I got complacent and let the water stagnate. But Jolie didn't seem to care. She was just glad to be submerged. She took her first underwater breath and looked positively surprised. Now look at her—happier than I've seen her in a year. She's one of the miengu now."

He rapped his knuckles on the glass again, harder this time, and Jolie turned toward him with black, expressionless eyes. Simone thought she saw the baby's pointed ears twitching like a cat's, but might have imagined it.

"So now what? What's going to happen to her?"

Professor Bart turned away from the tank, put his long arm around her shoulders, and ushered her toward the door. "This, my dear, is something you're going to have to help me with. You're just like her, you see, and I need—"

"You just told me I'm not like her," Simone complained.

The old man chuckled. "Well, you're more like her than I am. Simone, we can't keep her in this state. We have no idea how to raise a jengu. Even if we did, it's a simple matter of logistics. We can't keep her in a glass tank, and we certainly can't join her underwater. We don't know what kind of diet is good for her, or what makes her sick. We know nothing of use about these creatures, which is exactly why we wanted to raise a jengu shapeshifter in the first place."

His voice had risen, his familiar impatience bubbling to the surface. But he quickly sobered as they headed into the hallway.

"Simone, I hate to steal away your teenage years—"

"But you're going to anyway," Simone said, giving him a wry grin.

"The truth is, of the ten children that blossomed into shapeshifters on my watch, you're the one that shows the most promise as far as scientific research goes. You have a natural curiosity about you. That's why you've kept coming back to this dusty old building ever since that first visit when you were—what, nine?" He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, grinning suddenly. "Ah, I remember like it was yesterday: those big blue eyes of yours, peering into every corner, your lips in a permanent ‘O' shape, the questions you asked. I could tell, even then, that you had a life of science ahead of you, whereas the others . . ."

He gave a grunt and said no more until he steered Simone forcibly into a brightly lit room where three men toiled over their desks. Not one of them looked up as they passed by.

The professor unexpectedly opened his inner floodgates and allowed his suppressed thoughts to pour out. "Did you know that Ellie ran away to be with the unicorns? What a waste of a shapeshifter she turned out to be! Riley is only now making headway with the goblins—after all these years. And your brother, Felipe; he's a good, strong dragon, don't get me wrong, but I do wish he'd stop moping around and get on with his job."

"He's trying," Simone protested. "It's not his fault the other dragons see him as an impostor."

"He needs to try harder," the professor grumped. "And Orson—well, I guess his handicap is my own stupid fault for bringing him into our world prematurely. Witch doctors knew the folly of that centuries ago, but I just had to find out for myself. I should have waited until he had taken to the air. Flapping wings vigorously is not the same as mastering flight, as I found out too late. Tell me, Simone—what exactly is the use of a winged horse that can't fly?"

She said nothing, allowing him to continue his tirade.

"Even you, Simone," he complained. "You won't go anywhere near your kind. What good is that to me? The purpose of being a shapeshifter is to learn."

"Mermaids are silly and childish," Simone said under her breath.

The professor sighed. "Well, at least you're making yourself useful in other ways. Oh, and speaking of which . . . Did you know your friend Charlie Duggan is thinking of heading north to the town of Louis?"

They had arrived at a table by the window, but Simone ignored it and stared hard at the professor, her heart quickening. "Charlie's leaving? Are you sure? He never mentioned it."

"Ah, yes, well," he said mysteriously, "I suppose I should keep my mouth shut about that. But mark my words: he's leaving. There are no griffins around here, and there's no point him being a griffin if he can't interact with them and get to know them. There are plenty up near Louis. Dragons, too, for that matter. Maybe I should send Felipe with him!"

With thoughts of Charlie and Felipe dropping out of her life, Simone was only vaguely aware of what was rigged on the table: a foot-square section of silver fabric clamped securely between two metal rods.

Like Simone, the professor's mind was elsewhere. He remained motionless for half a minute, staring out the window at a group of boys that loitered there. Finally he sighed and nodded, as if he had just reached a decision. "Simone, I'm going to recommend to the council that you take my job."

Simone was dumbstruck. All thoughts of Charlie evaporated in an instant. She'd expected the professor to announce his retirement, but offering his job to her as well? She felt horribly underqualified.

"You have the aptitude for this line of work," he went on. "You were always planning to work here at the lab, yes? Especially since you can't stand to be around your mermaid folk. And I think the Shapeshifter Program needs a shapeshifter leading it. It's a no-brainer, really, when you think about it."

"But what about the others? Your colleagues?" Simone nodded toward the men seated nearby, who had surely heard the professor's announcement. If they had, they showed no sign of reaction.

The professor shrugged. "They all have jobs to do. Nothing will change that." He leaned closer and grinned. "Truth is, being in charge isn't all it's cracked up to be. You have to go to meetings, make decisions about useless stuff, listen to people complaining . . . It's really nothing to get excited about. But still, you need this job."

"Why?"

"Because, Simone, I want you to start thinking about the next generation of shapeshifters. There's no sense in waiting decades again. We need shapeshifters, and we need them now. We have a shortfall. We need to understand the other species that inhabit our land. We need to make peace with the naga in the woods, the same way that Riley is smoothing things over with the goblins. We also need a liaison for our snooty centaur neighbors, and one for the trolls, and one for the harpies. A manticore would be useful, too. And the dragons—if only Felipe could get through to them, become one of them . . . Can you imagine being buddies with dragons, Simone? Maybe we need another . . . In any case, shapeshifters are important. The program is important. And I want to keep the momentum going before all the portals to our breeding ground vanish without a trace one day in the future."

After this rushed, breathless speech, he shook his head and stared at the shiny fabric stretched before him. Grinning suddenly, he pressed the tip of his finger into the center of the sheet. He applied pressure, and the material yielded, stretching effortlessly.

"See that?" he said. "A normal reaction, yes?"

Simone shrugged, unable to find anything particularly interesting while her mind buzzed with news of her future job.

The professor released the pressure and the fabric sprang back. "Now press your finger into it."

Bewildered, Simone gave the experiment her full attention. She stuck out her index finger and mimicked the professor, pressing directly into the center of the silver fabric so that it yielded and stretched—but then it abruptly split apart and left a two-inch gap for her finger to pass through.

Assuming she'd torn it, Simone snatched her hand away and muttered an apology. But the words froze on her lips as the fabric shimmered and rippled, and repaired itself before her eyes.

"Marvelous, isn't it?" the professor said, delighted.

Miss Simone stared in amazement. The material was undamaged. She stuck out her finger again, and for a moment it yielded under her pressure. But then, as before, it split apart and allowed her finger to pass through.

As she stood back and watched it knit fluidly together, she blinked and shook her head. "I don't understand."

"It's enchanted," the professor said. He laughed. "Yes, I know, we scientists don't believe in magic. But there's no other way to explain it. Sometimes it's best to stop trying to explain every little thing in scientific terms and just accept it for what it is—a wonderful example of magic. And perhaps magic is why Jolie shifted early. I suppose it's possible that our world has an abundance of magic in the very air we breathe, whereas the other world does not. Perhaps it's not the lower oxygen but the absence of magic that enables a successful shapeshifter program—as those old witch doctors no doubt knew."

Abruptly, the professor took her by the elbow and ushered her from the room. Simone twisted around, not quite ready to move on. "Where did the material come from?" she asked. It seemed so innocuous at first glance, yet clearly full of mystery and wonder.

The old man spoke as they navigated the tables and headed for the hallway. "The miengu. Two years ago we negotiated with them. They seemed curious at the idea of a human-jengu shapeshifter and offered a subject: a female jengu, oddly alluring despite her black eyes and scaly skin. Never knew her name. Anyway, she came close to the grassy bank of the lake so that my colleagues could obtain a blood sample, and for the first time we saw miengu clothing half out of water. Fascinating stuff—just had to borrow a sample. Pure silk, you know. Where they get it is a mystery. It turns out that the material responds to the touch of certain types of people."

"Certain types of people?" Simone repeated.

The professor nodded. "The miengu, for one. They seem to enjoy the feel of it on their skin. It has a sort of magical warmth. Also, it doesn't need much work to shape and size it—they just make a very rough one-size-fits-all robe, and it adapts to fit snugly."

"Adapts?" Simone pressed, confused.

"Doesn't work for me, though," the professor remarked. "Nor anyone else in this place. But it works for shapeshifters. It responds to them."

"Meaning?"

The professor winked. "Another time, my dear." He tugged open the front door and stared out into the dazzling sunshine, watching villagers pass by in the street. An expression of sadness descended over his wrinkled face.

"So you're retiring," Simone said quietly.

He nodded. "Things are getting muddled. I'm becoming forgetful. I'm clear at the moment, but sometimes . . . well, I just don't want to be booted out of my lab because of some disastrous mistake caused by my dementia. I want to leave while my mind is mostly intact. You see?"

Simone swallowed hard, fighting to keep tears from welling up.

The professor apparently sensed her anguish and put an arm around her shoulders. "Now, now, no tears, please. Listen, I need you to take Jolie to the miengu. While you're there, see if you can get some more of that material. I have a hunch that you shapeshifter types might find it useful, no? When you get back, we'll go and see the council together. They'll be surprised to see my ugly old mug, let me tell you."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for all this," Simone said weakly.

"You will be. Look, I'm not going anywhere yet. If you don't waste any time getting started on the Shapeshifter Program, I can work with you, set you on the right track, peer over your shoulder, hold your hand, that sort of thing. Then, by the time I pop my clogs, well, you'll be—"

Simone rounded on him. "Don't you dare! You have at least another decade left in you. Please don't talk about . . . about that kind of thing. Not yet."

Professor Bart smiled and winked. "Go pack a bag, my dear. I'll have the nurses pack a few bags, too. You'll be going by boat up the river to the lake. Well, the nurses will; you'll be swimming alongside, cradling Jolie under the water. It's not far to the lake. When you get there, use your mermaid charms and see if the miengu will be kind enough to adopt the poor little thing."

"So that's it for her?" Simone said, unable to contain the wave of bitterness. "One of the lost?"

The professor shrugged. "So history has it. When they change this young, they stay changed and never figure out how to change back. Most don't even know they were once human. She's a jengu now, one of the water spirits."

The old man fell silent, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully.

"But you never know," he said eventually. "Maybe one day, years from now, you'll figure out a way to bring her back into the world of humans."

Chapter One
Into the labyrinth

The goblin brought the gigantic steam-driven vehicle to a halt at the edge of the labyrinth. He switched off the engine, and clouds of pure white steam hissed out from underneath, billowing up the sides. In the silence that followed, Blacknail leaned back in his creaky seat and said, "We're here."

Hal had been awake for the last leg of the journey, but Abigail was still snoozing beside him, her head lolling on his shoulder. He hated to wake her so waited while Miss Simone, in one of the front seats, stretched and climbed to her feet. Fleck, her centaur colleague, was standing in the narrow center aisle, facing forward but sound asleep.

The vehicle had five rows of seats arranged in blocks of three on each side of the aisle, room for around thirty passengers in all. Hal and his friends called it a ‘buggy' because of its six massive cast-iron wheels and the fact that it had been open-topped on their first journey, with just a small glass windshield in front of the driver. In truth, it was more like a bus, especially now that the goblin had finished adding a roof. With the welded steel framework overhead and the rough leathery fabric stretched across, it provided welcome relief from the unrelenting sun as well as the frequent downpours of rain over the last couple of days. Blacknail had promised to install glass in the window openings along the sides but hadn't gotten around to it yet, so Hal's seat was a little damp.

The goblin appeared to be settling in for a long nap. Miss Simone spoke to him for a moment, then patted him on the shoulder and headed up the aisle. She nudged Fleck as she squeezed past. He jolted out of his slumber and blinked rapidly, then stood up straight and promptly bumped his head on a steel bar.

A ladder was fixed to one side of the vehicle. Miss Simone hiked a leg over the side and began to climb down, her long, golden hair and silky green cloak whipping suddenly to one side as a vicious gust came out of nowhere. When she had dropped out of sight, Fleck peered down after her.

"Need help again?" Hal called.

"No, thanks," Fleck said, somewhat stiffly.

Hal chuckled to himself and nudged Abigail awake. She came to, her eyes open but not yet seeing. "Huh," she mumbled.

"We're here," Hal whispered, "and Fleck says he doesn't need my help getting down."

Abigail rubbed her eyes and turned to watch the show.

The centaur was making a play of securing a strange contraption on his broad horse back. It was like a small iron oven, complete with door, but it had a metal frame at the rear, attached to which was an assortment of crudely welded boxes and a few sacks hanging from hooks. Tubes ran all over and down into the oven. Most of its weight sat on Fleck's powerful withers, but he stopped it from sliding off by tying a strap around his human torso.

Being a scientist, Fleck was not the most formidable of centaurs. He had a gentle face and, usually, an inquisitive nature. However, right now he looked troubled and more than a little irritated as he prepared to jump down from the buggy. It was no easy task placing his forehoofs on the slippery metal side and then ducking his head to avoid the ceiling. He leaned out, his rear hoofs inching forward. Then, with a powerful bound, he scrabbled and leaped into the air.

And dropped like a stone.

Hal and Abigail hurried out of their seats when they heard a thud, an "oomph," and a clanging sound. Ten feet below, Fleck wriggled on the ground, limbs akimbo, trying to get up. Finally, the centaur scrambled onto unsteady legs like a newborn foal. His contraption lay on its side, the frame a little bent.

Behind them lay a barren, rocky landscape, flat all the way back to the distant horizon from whence they had come. Directly in front was the edge of a cliff, and beyond the cliff, towering high above, was an active volcano. The smell of sulfur was strong, and dust clouds danced in random places as the wind tore through. A gust picked up Abigail's ponytail and tickled Hal's face with it, and he brushed it away.

"Well, at least it's not hot this time," he said, swinging a leg over the side and feeling for the ladder.

"I prefer hot and calm to wind and rain," Abigail replied shortly. High on her back, the fabric of her light dress abruptly peeled apart and insect-like wings sprouted. She buzzed effortlessly into the air, her feet dangling. "How many times did it rain on the way here?"

Hal clambered over the side, hurried down the ladder, and dropped onto solid ground, mumbling as he went. "I don't know. Six? Seven?"

They had been traveling since dawn, eleven hours straight. Being a dragon shapeshifter, Hal could have flown and carried Miss Simone all the way. And if Abigail's faerie wings had tired, he could have carried her, too. But Fleck wasn't used to trotting such long distances and there was no way Hal could have managed a full-grown centaur and a heavy iron contraption, so a vehicle had been arranged. Blacknail had a rickety airship, but it had been torn apart by rocs and was still being repaired high on Whisper Mountain, so the goblin's trusty steam-powered vehicle had seemed the best bet.

"Let's get on with it," Miss Simone suggested quietly. She was looking up at the sky, where dragons had begun to circle. Fleck hurriedly hoisted his contraption onto his back, retied it, and trotted in a circle of his own, clearly agitated.

The four peered down into the chasm. Standing precariously on the crumbling cliff edge, they saw a river of slow-moving lava, some of it covered with a gray skin. Farther along, they saw a huge pool of bubbling red and yellow liquid, steaming and hissing. The last time Hal had been here, he'd felt the heat from where he stood at the top of the cliff. Today, though, the wind was strong and surprisingly cool.

Two hundred feet away, the opposite wall of the chasm was riddled with openings—caves and tunnels that marked the entrances to numerous lava tubes. Once, the landscape had been unbroken, but an earthquake had split the ground, forming a chasm, and the labyrinth of tunnels had effectively been cut into two. Most of the dragons that lived in the labyrinth had since migrated to the east side, and it was there that Hal had to visit.

"Let's hope the reception is a little friendlier this time," Abigail murmured, stepping up to Hal's side. Her wings became still and then retracted smoothly, almost fluidly, into the flesh of her back. A split second later, the eight-inch vertical slit in her dress repaired itself. Mesmerized, it took a moment for Hal to realize that Abigail was arching an eyebrow at him over her shoulder. "It's rude to stare, you know."

Hal snapped to attention and shook himself. "Okay, let's get this done. Just stand back and . . . well, let me do my thing."

He felt the burden of responsibility on his shoulders again. The last time he and his friends had been to the labyrinth, Abigail had been snatched by a dragon, and Hal had ended up badly burned and clawed. The mission had turned out all right in the end, but lives could have been lost. Hal was determined not to make the same mistake again.

As a trio of dragons circled closer, eyeing the group warily, Hal moved into a clear space away from Miss Simone, Fleck, and Abigail.

Then he transformed.

He hardly gave his shapeshifting ability a thought these days. Just a few short weeks ago, he had not even known he was a shapeshifter. Then, like his friends, he had begun to change. The first transformation had been slow, starting with an itch on his arm and then a scaly rash that came and went, coupled with occasional feelings of boldness and strength from deep within. Once, in class, he had belched up a sheet of flame, scorching the back of a chair. Then, in a forest, he had undergone the full shift to his alter-form in an instinctive act to protect himself from a vicious monster. It had been terrifying, but once he'd learned how to shift back into his familiar human form, the transformations had come more naturally thereafter, instantaneous and completely at will.

Too bad it had taken him much longer to learn how to fly.

As several thousand pounds of reptilian bulk suddenly filled the space, Hal turned and stamped, digging his claws into the ground and swinging his clubbed tail in an arc. Feeling a surge of energy, he straightened up and roared, sending a sheet of fire into the air. He felt as though he had suddenly been released from a compact prison, a wild animal that had flung off its restraints, clothes and all. His simple, flimsy shirt and pants, made of the same enchanted material as Abigail's, did more than just peel apart—they completely reshaped and formed into a sash that encircled the lower part of his neck, all in the blink of an eye.

He beat his wings, sending up huge clouds of dust, and launched into the sky. This time he would meet the dragons head on and stay out of reach as he negotiated.

"I'm here at the request of your leader," he yelled to the approaching dragons. This wasn't strictly true, but it would be a far more effective way of keeping these brutes at bay. "Go fetch him!"

The words left his lips in a series of grunts and roars. Hal had never understood the magic behind shapeshifter language; he had certainly never sat down in a classroom and learned to speak in a dragon tongue. Yet he did so fluently. The only thing he had to watch was using words and phrases that were too smart for dragons to understand or perhaps had no direct translation.

The three adults, each twice the size of Hal, soared around him in a spiral as he whipped straight upward. Their expressions were far easier to read now that Hal was one of their kind, and he saw scorn and distaste. We know who you are, one spat. Our leader wants you dead.

Hal had thought long and hard about this exchange throughout the entire journey to the labyrinth. He always knew that he would be held responsible for the ancient emperor losing his son. The ornery second-in-command, Lumphead, had chased Hal and Abigail through a ‘hole,' a portal to the other world, and gotten himself blown to pieces by a military tank. The third-in-command, Burnflank, had thus stepped up in his place . . . only Burnflank was a whole lot nicer than the hotheaded Lumphead.

"I know your leader wants me dead," Hal roared, ducking and diving between the other dragons. The four of them were performing some kind of midair dance, with long bodies and tails flowing in and out as though they were an orchestration of streaming kites. "But that's for him to decide, not you. Go ahead—I dare you to harm a scale on my hide without his permission."

The resulting snarls and snaps reminded Hal of a pack of angry dogs. Still, they resisted the urge to attack, such was their respect for their leader. If Hal had learned anything about his alter-kind recently, it was that they rarely challenged the chain of command.

"Now quit delaying and take me to him," Hal demanded.

This parting shot was too much for one of the dragons. It whipped its head around and took a jab at him, its teeth closing around Hal's broad reptilian shoulder. Adrenaline surging, Hal brought up his tail and whacked the heavy club end across his attacker's jaw. It was akin to a light slap on the face, but Hal instantly followed up with a savage burst of fire that inflicted a great deal of pain. Even a dragon, with its tough armored hide, tended to recoil from the onslaught of another dragon's fire directly in the face.

With a screech, the creature fell away, trailing black smoke. It regained its flight immediately, limped and lurched through the air, and landed roughly on a clump of rocks sticking up out of the bubbling lava. There, it howled with a fury that made Hal shudder. Another enemy, he thought sagely.

His defiant, breathtakingly risky act surprised the other two dragons so much that they veered away and shot him cautious glances. Hal could almost hear their thoughts: What kind of young whippersnapper dares to come here, to our home in the labyrinth, where the emperor wants him dead, and attacks a dragon twice his size? The inevitable answer was no doubt just as troubling: Either one who knows no fear and is extremely dangerous . . . or one who was truly invited by the emperor himself. Or perhaps both.

In any event, the pair grunted and headed off, vying for the lead. Satisfied, Hal pumped his wings and sailed around in an extravagant arc, daring to sweep close to the numerous tunnel openings in the cliff face where dozens of dragons watched him silently. Hal felt empowered now. He was cautious enough not to feel invincible, but he knew that his act of boldness and aggression—and his bold-faced lie—had been the key to an audience with the embittered emperor.

He gave a wink to his friends as he swooped by but doubted they picked up on it. Abigail was white-faced, huddling up to Miss Simone, who stood with feet planted firmly apart and cloak billowing in the wind. Fleck seemed too nervous even to trot in a circle.

Hal didn't have long to wait. The two dragons emerged from a nondescript tunnel and launched off the ledge, spreading out as they approached. They looked angry.

You lied, one snarled. It flew right up to Hal, and their snouts touched as they both beat their wings furiously and hovered in place. The emperor knows nothing of your visit. He nearly executed me for not killing you already.

"So what's stopping you now?" Hal asked quietly.

For what seemed an age, Hal's life hung in the balance as the ugly adult monster pressed up against his face. Hot steam vented rhythmically from its nostrils while its wings beat steadily. In the background, Hal became aware of the curious howl of an approaching storm.

Because, the dragon grunted, now he really does want to see you.

With a hiss, the creature swept around, angled its gigantic leathery wings, and headed back to the tunnel. The other dragon waited, rising up and down with each beat, apparently trying with all its might to kill Hal with its glare.

Hal went after the leader, pleased that his audience with the emperor had been granted but dreading the danger he was putting himself in.

He landed deftly on the narrow ledge of the tunnel entrance, high up in the sheer face of the cliff. Below, lava churned slowly. It was more sluggish here, cooler, with dark gray and black skin trying to form on its surface. The molten rock flowed freely from the nearby volcano, splashing down a number of tunnels and exiting lower in the chasm. The dragons loved the year-round warmth of the labyrinth and had long ago learned their way around the tunnels and lava tubes. Hal, on the other hand, knew he could get hopelessly lost in no time at all, so he made sure to stick close to his lead.

The tunnel was pitch-black just a few yards in. But the bull dragon gave several bursts of flame to light the way, and Hal found that he had no need to do so himself as long as he kept up.

The tunnels wound and twisted, headed upward a short way, then down again and around some more random bends. They passed several forks and junctions, but the lead hurried on without pause, claws clicking on rock.

Abruptly, they arrived in a cavern. Hal recognized it immediately, partly because of its pungent smell. This was where the emperor spent his days and nights, perhaps unmoving due to his age. The enormous domed cavern had two vents in the ceiling through which poured rays of early evening light. Dozens of gnarled, twisted stalagmites grew upward, reaching for the ceiling. Two other tunnels led off, and Hal immediately got his bearings and recognized them both. He'd come through this cavern during his previous visit, sneaking from one tunnel to another right under the noses of the emperor and his dangerous son, Lumphead.

Hal's guide grumbled something, backed up, then clumsily turned and shouldered past, head lowered.

The ancient dragon's hide was dull and gray, its claws yellowed. Great folds of dry, scaly skin brought to mind some of the wrinkled old men back at the village, some of whom had to be over a hundred years old. How old was this dragon? Hal realized he had no idea how long his alter-kind lived.

Standing near the emperor was a much younger, far more vibrant bull, wings drawn up and tail curled serenely around its haunches. This one had seen a battle or two judging by the burns along its flank. Hal tried to suppress an exclamation of delight and averted his gaze as Burnflank swung his head toward him. He forced himself to focus on the emperor, who had already fixed him with a steely glare.

You, the old one murmured. His throaty growls sounded wet and gurgling. You have a lot of nerve, returning here. Give me one good reason why my faithfuls shouldn't rip out your guts where you stand.

Hal sensed movement and glanced sideways. Out of the shadows, dragons appeared—mostly males but a few females as well, ten or eleven of them, all staring at him as they edged forward one paw at a time, hunkered low.

"Because I'm here to do you a favor," Hal said softly, aware that he was trembling. His dragon voice sounded pathetic and weak, a puppy in a room of snarling hounds. But something told him that was a good thing. There was no need for aggression now. In fact, aggression would get him killed in no time. Now was the time to bow and scrape, to be respectful. "I'm here to close the hole."

The old dragon tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. He said nothing, but the meaning was clear. He had no idea what Hal was talking about.

"The hole," Hal explained. "The portal."

This confused the old one even more. Perhaps there was no translation for the word ‘portal' in dragon-tongue.

Hal tried again. "Deep in this labyrinth is a boiling pool. There's a hole there, a gateway leading to another world."

The emperor's eyes widened. Where the humans came through breathing fire of their own.

"Exactly," Hal said, relieved.

And where you murdered my son, the old dragon added.

Hal shook his head, an action that struck him as odd in his dragon form. It was okay nodding and shaking his head when trying to communicate with his friends, but with another dragon . . . it just seemed weird. "I didn't murder him. That's just it. I escaped through the hole the other world and your son followed me through. He tried to find me . . . and that's when the men—the humans who breathe fire—murdered him."

He refrained from elaborating on the subject, hoping the simple explanation would be enough. Instead, he concentrated on the task at hand, which was beneficial to the dragons regardless of whether or not the emperor liked him.

"This other world," Hal said, "is full of humans who breathe fire. And they plan to return. I need to close the hole for all our sakes."

There was, in fact, no known way to ‘close' holes, but Hal had no desire to get into technicalities. The old dragon stared at him for an eternity, then shifted his head a few inches, a tiny movement that prompted Burnflank to edge closer. Hal heard curious snuffles and grunts as the emperor whispered to his new second-in-command. Hal had never tried whispering in his dragon form before. The very idea that a creature his size could whisper seemed ludicrous to him.

He waited nervously, trying to ignore the hulking mass of dragons pressing in from both sides, blocking his escape. Burnflank was leaning close to the emperor, listening to the whispering and then returning grunts of his own. Hal suddenly noticed the piles of clothing on the floor behind the aging dragon and instantly wished he could forget about them again. He'd seen them before, of course, during his last visit . . . and, as before, he shuddered to think that these clothes—these sorry rags, torn and bloody—had once belonged to people snatched from the streets of their village.

But all that had changed. With the volatile Lumphead gone, Burnflank was the overriding influence in the labyrinth, the emperor's trusted second. And Burnflank was no ordinary dragon.

You will close the gateway, the old leader gurgled, finally returning his attention to Hal.

Hal felt a surge of relief. But he remained cautious. "And I have your word that I will not be harmed afterward? That my friends will not be harmed?"

The emperor scowled. You, and you alone, will close the gateway this evening. But make haste and be far away by dawn. Our truce ends then.

Bowing his head in agreement, Hal sensed a sigh of disappointment from the dragons crowding him at both sides. They began to turn and shamble away, bumping into each other as they went.

"I'll need a guide," Hal said. "And I'll need the centaur with me. Only he knows how to—"

You heard me, the emperor snapped, suddenly animated. For the first time since Hal had arrived, the old one heaved himself up onto front paws, belly sagging and tail flicking back and forth. The creature shook with the effort, and Hal knew without a shadow of doubt that this old leader wouldn't be around for very much longer. You alone will close the gateway, he finished with a grunt.

Hal bowed, knowing it was senseless to anger the monster further. "I'll need to fetch a machine from the centaur," he said, "and he'll need to show me how to use it. Then I'll be back." He cast a glance at Burnflank, who watched him through narrowed eyes. "Will you . . . escort me?"

Again, the emperor reacted. His body shook violently and a rumbling growl rose up from his throat. But before he could say anything, Burnflank placed a paw firmly on the old one's armored shoulder. Still yourself, Old One. I would rather take care of this personally. Rest.

Burnflank unfurled his tail and stretched. Behind him, the ancient dragon sank with a groan, his eyes burning fiercely.

Come, Burnflank said to Hal with a gruff barking sound. He strode toward the tunnel. Other dragons quickly moved aside and then stood and watched as Hal hurried past.

Burnflank said nothing as he led Hal through the dark, twisted labyrinth, occasionally lighting the way with blasts of fire. Nor did he say anything when they emerged into daylight at the cliff face. Burnflank launched from the ledge into the early evening sky. Dazzled for a moment, Hal blinked rapidly before following.

The sun was setting in the clear sky to the west. To the far east, ominous thunderclouds rolled in—yet another storm coming to dump on them.

Hal followed Burnflank across the chasm, then took the lead. He could see his friends clearly, huddled together near the six-wheeled iron buggy at the opposite side of the chasm. In the days of Lumphead, the dragons of the labyrinth would not have waited long before diving in to attack. But the new reign, helped along by Burnflank's wisdom and guidance, had steered the monsters away from picking on humans.

The two of them thumped down on the edge of the cliff, sending up more clouds of dust that the wind whipped away in a flurry. Hal felt a surge of excitement as Burnflank peered at the golden-haired woman with the billowing cloak. He stared for what seemed a long time while she stared quizzically back, occasionally shooting Hal a questioning glance. He nodded, trying to indicate that this was indeed Burnflank—her shapeshifter brother.

Tell her we will meet in private later this evening, Burnflank rumbled quietly. Away from prying eyes.

Hal glanced around, realizing that dragons were everywhere, flying in circles and peering out of the uppermost tunnels in the opposite cliff face. All were watching closely, curiosity getting the better of them.

He abruptly transformed and staggered for a moment as his center of gravity shifted. Routinely checking that his shirt and pants had reformed around him, and the light foot-shaped plastic soles remained correctly adhered to the bottoms of his feet, he approached his friends.

Abigail broke away from Miss Simone and ran to his side, gripping his arm firmly. Fleck nodded rapidly, murmuring to himself. Miss Simone continued to stare at Burnflank with her eyebrows raised.

"This is Felipe," Hal told her.

"But the burn . . ." she said, looking mortified as she gazed at the hideous scarring on the dragon's side.

"It's a battle wound," Hal said. "If he transformed back and forth a few times, it would probably heal. But that would give him away. He's better off staying in dragon form, showing off the scar."

Miss Simone moved toward the silent dragon, her hands beginning to rise in greeting. She hadn't seen her brother in a long time and had only recently found out he was still alive.

"Don't," Hal said sharply.

She stopped dead. "What? Why?"

"We're being watched. If these other dragons get the slightest whiff that he's a shapeshifter, then he'll be torn apart. We all will. He said he'll meet you tonight, away from prying eyes. In the meantime, just act scared."

"No problem there," Abigail said, eyeing Burnflank with obvious awe.

Out in the daylight, he was certainly an impressive sight. Bigger than the three dragons that had approached them on arrival, and far bulkier, the emperor's new second-in-command radiated power and wisdom. The others were mere whelps in comparison. Burnflank would make a great leader once the old emperor fizzled out. That is, if the pretense could be maintained.

Hal explained that he had to go in alone with the machine. The centaur was both relieved and flustered. "But . . . I mean, that's fine, but you don't know how to use it . . . I mean, if you get it wrong, you could—"

"Then teach me," Hal said firmly. "How hard can it be?"

Chapter Two
The hole

Under the watchful eye of a silent Burnflank and dozens of swooping dragons, Fleck showed Hal, Abigail and Miss Simone how the machine worked. In truth, the centaur didn't really know how it worked, only the process involved in setting it off. He went over it several times, pointing to the small dials on the top of the frame and the small sack that hung on the side. He opened the heavy iron door with a scrape and pointed at the glowing rock nestled inside, held in place by brackets. He made sure to point out the dangers of getting the temperature and the mixture of fluids wrong. Everything had to be just right, otherwise the procedure would fail with either a disappointing fizzle and pop or a deadly explosion.

Fleck was peering at a bundle of well-worn papers as he spoke. "The geo-rock's energy has to be released in a certain way for the desired effect. In the old days, people just bashed them open with hammers, and they exploded. Then, somewhere, a hole between our worlds opened." He glanced at Hal when he said this, then resumed his scrutiny. "At the right temperature, with the correct mixture of volatile liquids, and with a precisely timed impact, a hole can be created right in front of the oven."

"What are the liquids for?" Abigail asked, poking a finger into the side of a sack that Fleck had just been filling from a small tin container.

"Don't do that," the centaur said nervously. "That stuff alone is dangerous. Mix it with this stuff"—he pointed to one of the welded boxes—"and you get a flash that'll burn off your eyebrows. And mix both with the nasty-smelling stuff in here"—he tapped another of the welded boxes—"and you have a bomb on your hands."

"So it makes the geo-rock explode even more?" Abigail said, frowning. "And we do that
because . . . ?"

"Because otherwise there's a delay before the energy coalesces," Fleck explained, waving his papers. "During that delay, in a form of stasis, Earth rotates on its axis at a thousand miles per hour and moves through space even faster, hence why some clumsily formed holes are miles away from their point of origin, with gateways that don't line up in the alternate terrains. Understand?"

"Well, I remember Dewey talking about all this back at Charlie's inn," Hal said carefully. "Not sure I really understood it, though."

Fleck sighed. "Let me try again." He spoke slowly and carefully. "If you throw a ball high in the air, and I mean really high, like miles and miles—straight upward into space—you can imagine that by the time the ball returns to earth, the earth has rotated on its axis a fraction. So even if you stand perfectly still and the ball goes absolutely straight up and back down, it will still come down some distance away—or miles, depending on how long it's up there."

"We should—" Miss Simone started to say.

But Fleck gripped Hal's shoulder tightly, leaning down so that his face was inches away, the bundle of papers in his other hand. "That's what happens when you crack open a geo-rock with a hammer, as they did in the old days. The energy slowly, lazily coalesces, forming a hole between worlds, but often far enough away that the person who cracked open the rock isn't even aware of it."

"Well, to be fair, the person who cracked open the rock is blown to smithereens in the explosion," Abigail reasoned.

Fleck ignored her. He waved the papers in Hal's face. "Imagine all those holes that ended up not just miles away across land but miles in the sky, perhaps floating in the vacuum of space . . . or holes buried deep under the ground . . ."

Miss Simone cleared her throat noisily.

"Well, anyway," Fleck said, his face reddening, "speeding up the explosion with volatile chemicals and intense pressure allows us to create holes very quickly, right in front of us, right where we want them—and safely. Since we don't know how to close holes, we have to improvise, and we do that by opening a new one right in front of the other, thereby creating a sort of loop that renders the first hole useless. You step through one and are immediately transported to the other world; then, before you know it, you've stepped through the second hole and are immediately transported back again. Call it a redirection, if you like. A shunt—"

"We should move on," Miss Simone interjected quietly. "The dragons are getting restless and Hal has work to do."

Burnflank, who had been listening intently, gave a grunt and strode to the edge of the cliff, looking back over his shoulder. Hal gave a wan smile and backed away from his friends, then transformed.

As his dragon bulk once more filled the space, he heard a number of barks from above, where dragons continued to circle. They sounded indignant, clearly infuriated by the shapeshifting act. Hal guessed they were disgusted by the idea of a mere human donning a dragon disguise.

Hal reached out with one of his front paws and gently grasped the metal contraption. Though fairly small, it was still heavy as he took to the sky and followed Burnflank across the two-hundred-foot gap to where lava bubbled and spat at the foot of the cliff on the opposite side of the chasm. Each tunnel entrance looked the same as the next, a black hole in the sheer rock face, yet Burnflank chose one without hesitation.

The dragon led the way into darkness. At first, there was no need to light the route with bursts of flame because several offshoot tunnels glowed bright orange from sources deep within—flowing lava and almost unbearable heat. Farther in, the tunnel grew pitch-black, and Burnflank gave a few huffs once in a while, providing flashes of light to see by.

Then he stopped. They had arrived.

Hal joined Burnflank at the edge of a drop. A few bursts of fire showed that he had arrived at the top end of the cavern containing the boiling pool of water. He could hear it bubbling, and the air was thick and clammy. Lower down, on the opposite side of the pool, the tunnel continued into darkness. This was where he and Abigail had ended up previously, their escape thwarted. With dragons pursuing and lying in wait ahead, and with no room to fly safely in such a confined space, the only chance for them both had been to jump into the pool—only the water was deadly, superheated by scorching plasma below the ground and bubbling up through gaps in the rock. It had taken a monumental effort for Abigail, in her buzzing faerie form, to keep Hal out of the water.

Yet there had been an escape route after all—a pulsing black hole, like a cloud of ink squirted from a squid that hovered just above the surface of the pool. A portal to Hal's old world.

To his surprise, Hal found that the pool was now lit with flickering torches. Soldiers had come through here and made their mark. Survivors of the deadly virus, wearing biosuits and carrying weapons, had tracked Hal's route and found a way through into this new world . . . but it was impassable without some form of structure over the steaming pool. And so they had built one.

It was simple but effective. A long, sturdy plank had been pushed through the hole from the other side and weighted down so that it protruded over the boiling water. If this were a pirate ship, the plank would be the ultimate walk of death. Cables had been attached to the bouncy end of the plank and secured to the surrounding rock walls. Then a makeshift platform had been nailed on and secured in a similar fashion. The entire rickety structure hung and wobbled a foot above the boiling pool. Four flickering torches lit the cavern and caused shadows to dance across the walls. There was an aluminum ladder, but it had been knocked down by a dragon and now protruded uselessly from the pool.

No doubt the soldiers had built the platform without interruption, but when they had begun exploring, traipsing around in the tunnels shining flashlights, they had come across a dragon or two—and rather than retreat, they had used their weapons to fight their way through. The emperor had spoken of humans that breathed fire, and that wasn't far from the truth, for these soldiers had used flamethrowers, effectively giving the dragons a taste of their own medicine. Hal had to admire their tenacity.

Do it, Burnflank rumbled, standing alongside and peering down at the platform.

"Why haven't you burned it all?" Hal wondered aloud. Even as he asked the question, he noticed that the planks of wood were badly scorched in places.

They fight too well, Burnflank answered. They had this place guarded for a while, but then they vanished as if they had received an order to retreat. One of our dragons dropped down onto the platform and began to burn it, but the soldiers must have felt the disturbance under their feet. They came through and killed him, and he tumbled into the pool. Burnflank turned to gaze at Hal. Be careful, my young friend. I don't want to tell my sister that you burned or boiled to death in this cavern.

Hal shuddered. He considered his options for a moment and sighed. No matter which way he thought about it, he would have to go down there and stand on that platform. To make this work, he had to be very close to the hole, no more than a foot or two away.

He took a breath and stepped off the safety of the ledge. He angled his wings in an effort to slow his descent but still landed heavily on the platform. Wood creaked and cables thrummed. He lowered the iron oven onto the platform and stood there a moment, bouncing gently, staring at the pulsing black cloud that floated before him. Then he reverted to his human form.

At that precise moment, two biosuited soldiers burst through, brandishing weapons.

Alarmed, Hal recoiled and almost fell off the platform into the bubbling water. He heard it hissing and boiling all around. Now that he was in his human form, the heat and humidity washed over him in an instant, drenching him in sweat. "Whoa!" he yelled, holding up both hands.

The soldiers stared at him down the long barrels of their flamethrowers, no doubt taken aback by the appearance of a young human boy.

"Don't shoot," Hal said, his voice sounding decidedly squeakier than he would have liked. "I just need to—"

Without a word, the soldiers rushed forward and grabbed him. Looking around with urgency, they backed up and dragged Hal straight through the pulsing hole. His feet never even touched the floor, and his protests were ignored. He had time to glance up at the tunnel above to see Burnflank's hulking silhouette, then down at the metal contraption standing on the deck . . . and then he experienced a moment of total blackness.

After that, the light in the basement was blinding. Dimly, he heard the sound of a motor outside the room and saw a bunch of cables trailing down from the door above, leading to the four enormous bright lamps that shone in his face. He blinked rapidly, seeing that the room had been cleared out and a new staircase installed; the previous one had been demolished by Lumphead. The basement now seemed to be a hive of activity. In addition to the two biosuited soldiers that had dragged him from the cavern, another four soldiers waited with long-barreled guns pointing his way, and a fifth suited figure lurked in the shadows near the stairs.

"Who are you?" a voice barked.

"I—well, my—" Hal stuttered.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Hal Franklin," he shouted.

"He's one of them," the lone figure said quietly. "One of the shapeshifters." It was a woman. Hal couldn't see her face through the biosuit mask because the light reflected off it as she approached. "You're the dragon."

Hal nodded, uncertain whether it was a good thing that this person knew who he was. "And who are you?"

"A scientist," she said. "I came straight here from the island."

She moved closer and Hal squinted, trying to see her face. He thought he recognized her, although he didn't know her name. She had been one of those in the cottage ravaged by giant ants; Hal remembered her suggesting they save the biosuits from the critters. Although he knew nothing about her, he thought she had seemed fairly level-headed.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "I assume you got through the labyrinth unscathed because you're one of them? A dragon?"

Hal nodded.

"So why are you here?"

While he was trying to think of something to say, one of the soldiers that had dragged him through the hole muttered something and stepped away. He sank back into the pulsing cloud and disappeared from view.

"I was just curious," Hal said, stalling. He had to think of something plausible. He couldn't tell these people why he was really here.

Unfortunately, the soldier returned within seconds, hoisting the heavy metal contraption. He clanged it down on the stone floor and Hal's heart sank.

"He brought this," the soldier said.

The woman bent to study the device. Even through her visor, Hal could see that her eyes were wide. "This is . . . this is what you people used to—"

She shot upright and advanced on Hal.

"You're here to close the gateway, aren't you? I saw that centaur carrying this thing right before the other gateway was closed back on the island. Only she didn't have it afterward when she took off into the woods."

"It wasn't hers anymore," Hal muttered.

"We all felt something in the air, a ripple of energy," the woman said. "And when we tried to cross back through the gateway, it didn't work."

Hal nodded, knowing it was pointless to lie. "We had to stop you coming through again."

"And so you planned to close this gateway, too?"

"Actually, we can't close them," Hal admitted. "We can only create new ones. I was going to use this machine to make another hole—another gateway—that would act like a loop."

The woman thought about that for a long time, during which Hal nervously looked around. These soldiers meant business. He felt that if he so much as breathed funny, they'd gun him down. He pondered the idea of backing into the hole and transforming. He was so close, no more than a few feet away. But two soldiers stood by his sides, a step or two behind him, and he feared they would grab him the moment he tried anything. Besides, he would never have time to get hold of the machine.

He could transform right here and now. It would startle them, and he could use the element of shock to grab the machine and duck through the hole. But he was afraid they would start shooting with their trigger-happy fingers.

"I see," the woman said after a while. "So we step through the gateway to the other world . . . and immediately step through a second gateway that leads back here. A loop, as you say."

"It's not ideal, but . . ." Hal trailed off and shrugged.

"All right," the woman said. She started to turn away. "Bring him outside. But bind him first, with chains. We don't want him turning into a dragon. And bring the machine outside, too. Let's take a good look at what—"

Hal acted on the spur of the moment. He'd remembered, suddenly, that he had developed an ability recently—breathing fire while in his human form. He hadn't experimented with it at all, but now seemed like a perfect time to see what he could do. Still, he didn't want to burn anyone so aimed his fire at the four dazzling spotlights, turning his head in a slow arc as the flames shot forth.

He was acutely aware of the danger he was in, blowing fire at the trigger-happy soldiers behind the lamps. But, perhaps because he was in his human form, and because he was just a twelve-year-old boy with two other soldiers standing right at his shoulders, they refrained from shooting and instead ducked and started yelling. Their guns were waving dangerously as Hal superheated first one lamp, then the second, then the third . . .

One by one, they burst into flame and popped. As the fourth light went out, Hal ignored the screamed warnings and struggled against the soldiers that had clamped their strong fingers around his arms. In total blackness, he heard scrambling sounds, someone tripping, and a number of curses. But the soldiers held him grimly. Flashlights would be shone around the place in a matter of seconds and he'd be a prisoner again.

Hal felt the butt of something hard strike him behind the ear. He went limp immediately, his thoughts scattering. Confused and in pain, he struggled to stay conscious, heard more shouts, saw the beam of a flashlight piercing the darkness, felt a kick in his ribs . . .

Unable to prevent the transformation, he reared up and roared, throwing off his attackers with anger. He swung his tail around, knocking all manner of obstacles aside. Some of them were soft and yelled, while others were hard and clattered across the floor.

A gun started firing. There were bright flashes and sharp, deafening reports. A nasty stinging sensation spread across his chest. A man behind him yelled in pain, and the woman screamed from across the room.

Hal breathed fire, and this time the flames were enormous, lighting up the room and enveloping the biosuited soldiers that crouched behind the spotlights, which were now a mass of twisted metal. Behind the men were wooden crates and Hal ignited those, too, along with a table and four chairs. Now that he had regained control, he took care not to burn anyone too badly if he could help it. Their anguished yells hurt his ears as it was.

Despite the chaos, he allowed them to scramble for the staircase, although one of the soldiers, whose legs were on fire, was too busy rolling across the floor to care about escaping. Hal left the soldier alone until the poor man had smothered the flames and staggered to his feet; then he encouraged him up the stairs with a well-aimed fireball.

The stairs caught alight and, as the last of the biosuited soldiers disappeared up them, Hal finished the job by burning the supports. When the stairs and crates were roaring and belching smoke, and his eyes were beginning to sting in the acrid fumes, he knew it was time to go. He grabbed the iron oven, turned, and ducked through the pulsing cloud.

The air was much clearer back in the cavern. Relieved, Hal turned around on the wooden platform. The flimsy structure bounced, bent, and creaked under his weight. The chains were still holding it up at the corners, but they wouldn't help if the whole thing snapped in half. The idea of being dunked in boiling water hastened his shift back into human form.

He took a moment to check himself over. He remembered he'd been shot at, had actually felt the bullets spraying across his broad dragon chest . . . and, with a shock, he realized that blood was soaking through his shirt. When he pulled the shirt up, he saw three tiny holes across his chest, each trickling blood. They were probably half-repaired already, though still leaking.

A wave of dizziness overtook him and he swayed. He knew he could transform several more times to fully heal himself; he'd done so before. Still, he had a job to do. The sooner he got it done, the sooner he could get out of this place. He glanced upward and found Burnflank watching him quizzically.

Hal knelt before Fleck's metal contraption, recalling the instructions. The first thing was to check the geo-rock. He pulled open the iron door and looked inside. The rock was locked in place, glowing bright orange, a source of energy that would keep a home powered for months. He closed the door with a bang.

Next, he checked the dials. One showed the internal temperature of the oven. He knew it had to reach two hundred and sixty degrees, or thereabouts. And it would only begin heating when he allowed two of the volatile fluids to flow and mix.

He twisted a small lever on the bottom of one of the welded boxes. He could hear nothing over the noisy bubbling of the pool but could feel the short hose thrumming as the liquid flowed through it. He moved on to the other metal box and released that fluid, too. This time, he saw the connecting hose kick and twist. Both liquids were now splashing down over the geo-rock and mixing. In seconds, they would react and begin to heat. Hal watched the temperature gauge as, gradually, the tiny needle began to creep up.

Fleck had already preset a couple of the other dials. One had to do with the duration of the burn, whatever that meant. A precise amount of liquids had been injected, and Hal had been given specific instructions to release the final sack of juice once the temperature hit two hundred and sixty. It was simple, really, he thought as a stab of pain shot through his chest.

The pulsing gateway before him bulged outward suddenly and a great black cloud of smoke—real smoke—billowed all over him, making him choke. In that moment, he could feel and taste the heat of the fire in the basement not four feet from where he knelt. He feared an explosion. If something blew up within that basement, it would sent fiery chunks of debris all over, and some of it would come flying through the portal. Although he couldn't see or hear it, the raging fire beyond was still deadly.

"Come on, come on," he whispered, watching the dial. It had just reached two hundred degrees. He assumed it was measured in Fahrenheit but honestly had no idea. For all he knew, it was Celsius or something entirely foreign to his world. In any case, two hundred and sixty was the target, and he had a little over fifty degrees to go.

He winced again, wondering if the bullets were still lodged in his chest. He found one shell on the wooden platform just a couple of feet away. He looked for the others but found none. They might have fallen in the pool, or they might still be lodged inside his flesh. He shuddered at the thought.

As the dial crept up to two hundred and thirty, his thoughts wandered. What if the bullets had found his heart? He could be dead right now. What damage had they done to his organs, and how much had been repaired when he'd changed back into his human form? He was still on his feet—well, his knees at the moment—so clearly he was not at Death's door . . . but how close had he come to being killed by a stray bullet?

Two hundred and forty . . . two hundred and forty-five . . .

It was then Hal noticed something that chilled him to the bone. The sack that hung from the side—full of liquid that needed to be dumped into the oven at the precise moment the dial reached two hundred and sixty degrees—had a bullet hole in it. The precious liquid was dribbling out, and as Hal peered closer he saw that it had been dribbling for some time. It pooled underneath the machine and ran through the cracks between the boards of the platform.

Hal ran his finger up the backside of the oven, finding it slippery and wet. The sack was perhaps half empty.

Panic set in. Did it matter if half had been wasted? He knew it did. Fleck had measured all the liquids carefully, studying the papers as he did so. Everything had to be precise. With half the stuff missing . . . what would happen?

Hal watched the dial. It was now up to two hundred and fifty-five. He had to make a decision: dump the remaining half and hope for the best, or abort and come back later. The idea of aborting mortified him. He couldn't come back here! He'd have to fly back to the other side of the chasm, get Fleck to repair the bag, replenish the liquids, and then fly back—most likely in total darkness by that time. Would the emperor be that patient with him?

But if he dumped the remainder of the liquid, would it be enough to do the job? It was supposed to—what? He heard the centaur's words in his mind: It instantly reacts with the heated liquid and creates an internal burst of pressure that pulverizes the rock and releases its pent up energy, thus—

Hal shook his head. Fleck would know what to do. The centaur would make an instant decision and everything would be all right. But right now, right here, it was all up to Hal. He couldn't fail. As far as he remembered, if the oven didn't get hot enough, or if there wasn't enough pressure, the geo-rock would implode and he'd have to start over—which was not an option.

"What do I do?" he asked himself out loud.

With his fingers hovering over the release valve at the base of the sack, Hal finally made up his mind. The dial was already at two hundred and seventy. He'd missed the boat, so to speak. But he knew what he had to do.

He climbed shakily to his feet and stepped back as another billow of black smoke puffed out of the gateway. Choking, he shifted to his dragon form, almost toppling off the platform as he did so. He fought for a foothold, his wings beating. Then he launched upward, his wing tips scraping the smooth walls on either side. It took only a few strong beats to rise to the tunnel above, and once his clawed feet scrabbled onto the solid rock, he found himself facing Burnflank.

Is it done? the dragon asked.

"We need to leave," Hal said. "It's gonna blow."

They hurried up the tunnel, leaving the cavern behind. At a safe distance, Hal stopped and turned to wait.

He didn't have to wait long. A tremendous boom rocked the labyrinth, and the floor beneath his feet shook. Seconds later, heat blasted out of the tunnel. Hal heard cracks and splinters somewhere, and the trickling of dust and small bits of rock. The rumbles continued for half a minute afterward, gradually fading into silence.

When he returned to the cavern, it no longer existed. The tunnel ended in a wall of fallen rock, completely blocking the way. Hal couldn't be absolutely certain but imagined that the cavern ceiling had fallen in along with thousands of tons of rubble from above. The strange little iron oven had done its job and the hole was blocked forever. But as it had turned out, Hal mused, a few boxes of dynamite would have done the job just as well . . .

* * *

Later that night, in the pouring rain, Hal waited with Abigail and Blacknail in the gigantic steam buggy. Fleck, furious at the loss of his precious machine, had already started heading back home despite the weather. "I'll go on ahead," he had said stiffly. "I'm sure you'll catch up."

The centaur wasn't angry with Hal, Miss Simone assured him, but with the situation. Still, he griped continuously about it just before he left. "If I'd known you were going to blow everything up," he muttered, "you could have used dynamite and saved me a long journey. Now I'm going to have to build another machine."

Hal rolled his eyes as Fleck took off into the night.

"So what happened?" Abigail asked again, staring at the spots of blood on the front of Hal's shirt. Now that the two of them were seated together in the buggy, waiting for Miss Simone to return, Abigail had resumed her fussing.

"It's nothing," Hal told her. "Seriously, I'm all healed up now."

"But what happened? Did you get clawed, or what?"

Hal mumbled something.

"Sorry?" Abigail persisted, a frown lining her forehead. "I didn't catch that. It's almost as if you were trying not to be heard."

"They shot me," Hal repeated loudly.

Blacknail twisted in his seat and stared at him with small black eyes, his face shrouded in shadows.

Abigail couldn't take her eyes off the three crimson spots. "They shot you," she said quietly. "In the chest."

"They were just stray bullets. I was a dragon at the time." He looked over her shoulder, squinting into the moonlight. "What's taking so long?"

Together, they peered into the distance. Two figures stood in the rain, holding hands and facing each other. Blacknail had parked well away from the labyrinth so that Burnflank, otherwise known as Felipe, could reunite with his twin sister in secret. He was wrapped in Miss Simone's cloak, hunched over as he swayed on two human legs for the first time in years. Hal couldn't help fearing that the transformation would heal those telltale battle scars and give him away as a shapeshifter . . . but the wound was old and deep and would still be there when Felipe returned to the labyrinth in an hour or so.

"It's quite sweet, really," Abigail said softly. "All this time she thought he was dead, a failure, when he was here in the labyrinth doing the work of a hero."

"He is a hero," Hal agreed. "He's second only to the big chief, and that old thing's on his last legs. When he's gone, Felipe will be in charge."

Abigail sighed. "An entire labyrinth of dragons led by a shapeshifter. Now that's an achievement."

ISLAND OF FOG BOOK IV
LAKE OF SPIRITS
by Keith Robinson
Available in paperback for $11.95
Also available on Kindle and Nook
ISBN 978-0984390632

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