Beautiful Blood Read Free Page B

Teocinte spread from the dragon’s side to sprawl across a substantial portion of the Carbonales Valley, flowing over a lumpy hill (known as Haver’s Roost, referring to an inn once situated there) that bulged up from the valley floor, atop which stood the white buildings of government and a church under construction—from this point continued to spread in all directions for a mile and more, giving out into clusters of ramshackle structures no less derelict than those of Morningshade; yet while Griaule’s paralysis was a condition of apparent permanence, no one had yet chosen to build upon the ground close by his head, doubtless unsettled by the prospect of walking out their door and seeing the dragon’s gaping mouth the first thing each morning. Thus the area remained overgrown by stands of palmettos interspersed with shrimp plants and wild hibiscus, acacias, banana and thorn trees.
    Standing amid the brush at dusk three days after the encounter with Myree and Arthur, Rosacher came to appreciate that Myree might have underestimated the worth of his labors. Viewed from a hundred feet away, Griaule’s head, lowered to the ground, towered above all, looking in its grotesque conformation to be the fantastic conceit of a master builder, an improbable construction that transformed the entrance to a palace into an immense bestial image. The golden scales below the sagittal crest gleamed dully, holding the last of the sun, and one eye, visible beneath the bulge of the orbital ridge, showed black, as if the socket were empty. Framed by the upraised snout and twisted fangs, each as tall as a sabal palm and so festooned with moss that they had the appearance of scrimshaw, the cavern of Griaule’s throat might have been a gateway into the nether regions.
    It was cold, as cold as ever it got in the valley, and Rosacher’s breath steamed. As the light faded he began to hear noises issuing from the mouth, perhaps from even deeper within the dragon’s body, belonging to the creatures that wintered there: the ululations of frogs, bats shrilling, and hoarse, strangely exultant cries that he was unable to identify. The shadows merged into true night and insects announced its onset with a whining sizzle. His mind ached with fear, yet he forced himself to move toward Griaule, having to throw his legs forward, his pack bumping against his shoulders like a second, slower heart.
    Drawing near the mouth, he removed a lantern from the pack and lit the wick with a trembling hand. The scales of the underjaw, no more than six feet distant, glinted among tall weeds. He raised the lantern, illuminating a section of jaw some thirty feet above; higher yet, a portion of gum, brown as tobacco juice, came to light, as did the base of a fang. The wind blew across Griaule’s face and a breath of dry, dusty coolness briefly dominated the vegetable odors. Rosacher hooked the lantern to his pack, buttressed his mind against panic, and climbed, using vines hanging from the lip like strings of leathery drool to haul himself along. Minutes later, he slung a leg over the lip. He scrambled to his feet in a panic, turning this way and that, holding up the lantern to reveal stunted, pale-leaved shrubs sprouting from soil that had accumulated over the centuries; the head-high thickness of the tongue, a mounded shape shrouded in ground moss, and the dim concavity of the dragon’s cheek. Night sounds closed in around him—bleeps, rustlings, and what might have been thin screams—but he could detect no movement. Calmer now, he pushed through a fringe of vegetation to the tongue and suspended the lantern off the end a branch. From the pack he removed a veterinary syringe, the same Myrie had used. Cautiously, he plucked at the moss until he had cleared a circular area. The tongue was dead black. He placed the tip of the needle against it, but over a minute passed before he mustered the courage to shove it home, applying all his weight in order to penetrate the