Free The Black Dragon by Julian Sedgwick

It’s the one she always keeps on her.”
    He adds
WHERE IS THE RED NOTEBOOK?
to the list of problems.
    â€œLet’s start at the Golden Bat. There must be a reason that Lo wanted to divert attention away from it.”
    â€œI take it we won’t be following his advice then?” Zamora says with a smile.
    Danny shakes his head.
    â€œBut we’re going to take my advice,” Zamora says, straightening himself to his full height and stretching. “We’re going to eat something. And get forty winks. Recharge. No good running around on empty. We’d just make stupid mistakes. Like that time I fell off the Wall of Death. I was just tired.”
    He rubs his thigh thoughtfully at the memory, the old break aching there like it always does when the weather’s stormy.
    â€œStrength and balance, Danny, that’s what Rosa always said. Doesn’t matter whether we’re doing trapeze or acrobatics or voltige or cyr wheel or tightwire or cloud swing or any of the other skills. We always need to be balanced—and we always need to keep our strength up. That way we don’t make mistakes. Take our ringmistress’s advice even if you won’t take mine.”
    Danny nods, remembering the way Rosa could manage the wilder elements of the company. Get the best from everyone with her Italian charm. Or turn on the anger just when it was needed.
    â€œYou’re right. But just a few hours. And then let’s get on with it.”

11
    HOW TO CONCENTRATE COMPLETELY
    But sleep doesn’t come easily for Danny.
    He lies awake for an hour, then two, listening to sirens, the sounds of boats in the bay, while his mind churns images, thoughts, fears.
    When he does drop off, it’s into that strange halfway place again, into the borderland between waking and sleeping—his head blurred by the long-haul flight, sleep deprivation, and shock. The last thing he’s thinking about is the aquarium in the Golden Bat, and its tumbling bubbling water, the breaking glass, the fish.
    The surge of water from the shattered tank repeats and his mind links one event to another, and slips a gear—and he’s back there again, under the hemisphere of the Mysterium, standing beside the water torture cell.
    His father has loosened the chains and is wrenching himself up toward the top of the tank, working the ankle locks. His expression is slightly different from normal. But then, he has only ever done this in practice, never as a performance. He looks surprised. And rather tired. As if all the energy is draining out of him.
    â€œTwo minutes ten . . . fifteen,” Danny calls, his voice sounding small against the music. You can sense the expectant crowd, waiting, holding one long collective breath . . . Two minutes thirty is the limit and they’re past it now.
Come on
. . .
    His father makes one more assault on the ankle locks and suddenly flops back down. Defeated! A few more bubbles escape from the corner of his mouth, his gaze searching out Zamora’s. A single shake of the head, eyes wide, imploring help.
    And then it all goes very quickly. Major Zamora takes a mighty heave with the axe.
Clung
. It bounces back off the glass. Zamora takes another swing and this time the glass splinters with a resounding crash. There is water everywhere. Simultaneously Danny can hear his father gasping for breath, retching, the crowd noise rising in uproar. Rosa Vega, their beautiful ringmistress, is stalling, her voice bright but faltering on the PA system.
    The Khaos Klowns are coming on instead—they’re only half changed but are snapping into their emergency
charivari
act like they know to do when there’s an accident or hiccup in the running order. They rush past, some of them in the skull masks, brandishing torches and fire staffs, some made up with the leering smiles that haunt Danny’s nightmares. Roustabouts are rushing to pull Dad from the wreckage.
    Darko Blanco is crouched