“This better pay off big time,” Coop said.

“That would be a nice change,” said Phil.

After what felt like an eternity, Coop made it to the far wall. Before him was a large oil painting of a spectacularly ugly woman in a fuchsia ball gown. The Bellicose family claimed that it was a two-hundred-year-old portrait of the first Lady Bellicose back in Whereverthefuckland. Coop, however, had it on good authority that it was Grandpa Bellicose in a wig and party dress after losing a bar bet to Aleister Crowley. Coop touched the brass nameplate on the picture frame and the painting slid up into the ceiling to reveal a safe underneath.

“Well, that was disappointing,” said Phil.

“Missing your Wendigo already?”

“A little. I mean, we’ve been here half an hour and still no carnage. And we haven’t stolen anything. It’s nerve-racking, you know? Mind if I sing?”

“Don’t you dare.”

Coop felt a tickling on the inside of his skull.

“It helps my nerves.”

“Please don’t sing.”

“Fine,” said Phil in a huff. “I’ll hum.”

Phil went into a hushed, tuneless free jazz number. Calling it noise would have given it too much credit. It sounded like claws on a blackboard, thought Coop, if the claws were chain saws and the blackboard was a busload of grizzly bears. Now that he was close enough, Coop could see why Phil had chosen this particular moment to turn his head into a karaoke bar.

In a darkly enchanted house like Bellicose Mansion, the term wall safe could mean a lot of things. In this case it meant a ten-foot reptilian snout with teeth the size of dragon fangs, which, in fact, was exactly what they were. The dragon growled at Coop uncertainly, like it didn’t know whether to roast him or invite him in for a nightcap. Coop didn’t like dragons.

“Neither do I,” Phil said.

“Do you know what it is?”

“It’s a dragon. Shit comes out one end and fire out the other.”

“I mean what kind of dragon.”

“Right. Sorry. It looks French. Rich jerks like French.”

“Why?”

“They’re loyal and vicious. Plus, did I mention it’s a dragon? You might want to shake a leg.”

“Good idea.”

He pulled the portable alchemy kit from the utility sack at his waist. On other occasions, Phil had called it Coop’s wicked witch fanny pack, but now he was too busy being terrified to say a word, which suited Coop just fine.

The dragon’s growling changed, like it had decided that Coop was more of a petit four than a drinking buddy. As it opened its mouth, sucking in air to stoke its internal furnace, Coop held up the potion so it got a good whiff of the brew.