The Search for the Red Dragon Read Free

it?”
    “Yes, it is,” said Warnie, nodding, “after the brick buildings down the way.
    “We’ve taken it for a few months so that Jack could get some work done,” he went on. “It’s a very pleasant place, actually, and very convenient to Oxford, as you’ve seen. The gardens are quite large—almost a park—and extremely overgrown. But I wouldn’t mind settling here for good, if we had the coin to afford the price.”
    He regarded Charles appraisingly. “You called it the Kilns—you know Headington Quarry, then?”
    “I’ve had my opportunities for walking expeditions from the city,” replied Charles. “Not so much now that I’m based in London, but I do like returning here to Oxford now and again.”
    “I haven’t been out this direction yet,” John said, “but now that I’ve been given the new position at the university, I expect I’ll have plenty of opportunities.”
    “New professor of Anglo-Saxon, Jack said?” asked Warnie.
    John nodded. “Yes. The professors and college tutors don’t have too many occasions to socialize, but I imagine we’ll be coming together sooner or later.”
    “How is it that you know Jack, if you don’t mind my asking?”
    “We, ah, we met during the war,” said John. “The three of us, that is. It was a very unusual circumstance….”
    Warnie made a dismissive gesture but smiled knowingly. “Say no more. It’s all clear to me now. The war created brothers in an instant, and made allies of enemies and vice versa. I was wary that he’s asked me to summon colleagues he’s never mentioned to me—but if you served together in the war…I didn’t mean to pry, but brothers should look out for one another, you understand?”
    “We do,” said Charles. “That’s why we didn’t hesitate to answer your summons.”
    Warnie smiled again. “Good show, good show. Let me take you back to Jack’s study—he’s waiting for you there.”
    “You said it was personal matters he wanted to discuss,” John said. “But it wasn’t clear in the telegram you sent what exactly Jack wanted to see us about.”
    “He’s stopped writing in his journal—stopped writing altogether, now I think on it,” said Warnie. “Then he stopped reading. That’s when I really began to worry.”
    “Why?” asked John.
    “He lost a very close friend in the war. And although he was nowhere near at the time, Jack feels he is somehow responsible for the fellow’s death.”
    Charles and John each drew a sharp breath. That had to be a factor in why Jack had asked for them. In the battle with the Winter King, he had been responsible for the death of an ally, and it had affected him greatly. But Jack seemed to have reconciled himself to it well before their return to London—or so they had assumed. Apparently they were mistaken.
    “How is he sleeping?” John asked.
    “He isn’t. Night terrors, I’m afraid,” Warnie said somberly. “They’ve been going on for several days now, and there’s been little I could do to help. The worst was two nights ago. Lots of screaming and thrashing about, and calling out a word over and over—‘Aven.’ I have no idea what it means, and Jack wouldn’t speak of it. It was that next morning he told me to seek out the two of you and ask you to come here.”
    He paused at a sturdy door and hesitated before knocking. “I’ll leave the three of you to catch up. I’ll be puttering about in the garden if you need anything.”
    As Warnie moved back down the hall, John and Charles opened the door and entered the book-crammed study. Jack—taller, broader, more manlike than the boy they’d known—stood at the window with his back to the door.
    “Jack?” Charles ventured. “Jack, we’ve come. It’s Charles and John.”
    Jack tilted his head slightly, acknowledging their presence, but he did not turn around. Instead he asked a question.
    “Was it real? Did it all really happen, after all?”
    It took a moment for them to realize what he was