There's a Dragon in my Stocking Read online

  Pan sliced the leaf to shreds with his claws.

  “It’s a … stone,” I said, looking at Pan’s present.

  “It’s not a stone,” laughed Isabel, even though it clearly was.

  “It’s my old bed,” said Pan, smiling politely.

  “Now you don’t have to sleep in Eric’s sock drawer every night,” said Mr Long.

  “Er … yeah, great,” said Pan. I knew for a fact that he thought my sock drawer was the comfiest bed he’d ever had.

  I opened my present to reveal another, pretty much identical, rock.

  “Oh … a bed for me,” I said.

  Pan’s parents looked bemused. “A bed?” said Mr Long. “How on earth are you going to fit on to that? Can’t you tell the difference between a bed and a stone?”

  “It’s from our rock garden,” said Pan’s mum. “We thought you’d like it.”

  “Oh! It’s … um … really nice,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Mrs Long turned to Min and Jayden. “Sorry we didn’t bring presents for you. We didn’t really have room for anything else.”

  “That’s OK,” said Min.

  “Yeah, don’t worry about it,” said Jayden.

  It was time for Pan, Min, Jayden and me to exchange our gifts.

  “That’s a lot of prawn crackers,” noted Pan’s dad.

  “The three of us chipped in to get you something else,” I said, handing Pan another package. Beaming, he ripped it open.

  “A scooter!” he said. “Just like yours.”

  That wasn’t quite true. Pan’s scooter was only about ten centimetres tall. It was designed for an action figure but was the ideal size for a Mini-Dragon.

  “It’s battery-powered,” said Min.

  “Yeah, according to the packaging it can reach speeds of up to one mile an hour,” I added.

  Pan and his dad grinned at each other.

  “Oh, I think we can do better than that,” said Mr Long.

  The next day, Min, Jayden and Toby headed off for the airport. Toby emailed me once they had arrived in New York to tell me everything he had got. It was a long email.

  Pan’s parents stayed around until the new year, so Pan and I got to spend plenty of time with them. We managed to fit in quite a bit:

  But eventually it was time for them to go. On the morning they were leaving, the snow had cleared a bit so Pan suggested we scoot out to Bramble Park to spend the last of our time together.

  “Can’t you stay a bit longer?” Pan asked his parents as we came to a stop in a secluded part of the park.

  “We’d love to, son,” said Pan’s dad, “but if we don’t get back soon, some other Mini-Dragons will have moved into our patch. The Zhang family have had their eyes on our rock garden for months.”

  “You could always come back with us,” said Mrs Long. “I’d say you’re a strong enough flyer now for mountain-living.”

  “It’s your choice, of course,” said Mr Long. “By Mini-Dragon laws, being able to fly means you can make your own decisions about things like that. But your mother and I would love to have you back home.”

  My heart sank. In all the chaos, it hadn’t really occurred to me that Pan’s parents might want to take him home with them. But before I could give the idea much thought, Pan was already shaking his head.

  “No, I’m going to stay here,” said Pan. “I think it’s pretty obvious that Eric and his family need a Mini-Dragon around.” Pan’s parents quickly nodded in agreement. “But maybe I can come and visit soon?” he added.

  “That would be lovely,” said Pan’s mum, wiping a tear from her eye, before giving Pan a massive squeeze. Then she turned and gave my wrist a hug.

  “And you’re welcome to stay again,” I said. “Though if you can call ahead next time…”

  Pan’s dad shook my pinkie finger. “Perhaps we’ll come back next year,” he said. “And it’s a leap year … you know what that means?”

  I did. In the Dragonian Calendar, the extra day in a leap year gets added to December 25th, making…

  “DOUBLE CHRISTMAS!” shouted Pan in delight.

  Given how hectic one Christmas with the Longs had been, I tried not to think about what a two-day event would be like.

  “Sorry you couldn’t meet my mum,” I said to Mrs Long. “I know how much you were looking forward to it. I just don’t think it would have been a good idea.”

  “Er … yes, not a problem.” Mrs Long’s eyes suddenly started darting back and forth. “Ahem … I suppose we should be off, then…”

  She swung round to grab her backpack but accidentally knocked it over with her tail. A glossy sheet of paper tumbled out of it.

  “What’s this?” I said, picking it up.

  “NOTHING, IT’S NOTHING!” she shouted.

  I held up the paper to reveal a picture of Mrs Long giving the thumbs up to the camera. Behind her was my sleeping mum, drooling away on her pillow.

  “Wait a minute … you snuck into my parents’ bedroom?”

  I asked. “When—”

  Pan’s mum snatched the photo out of my hand. “OK, got to go,” she said, planting a final kiss on Pan’s forehead, before shooting off into the sky. “TALK SOON!”

  Pan’s dad shrugged. “Nothing to do with me,” he said, before launching himself after her.

  Pan and I watched them in silence until they had disappeared into the clear blue sky.

  “Hang on … so who took that photo, then?” I said. “And who printed that picture for her?”

  But Pan wasn’t there. I looked round just in time to see a tiny scooter zipping off into the distance.

  “Pan, come back!” I shouted, jumping on to my own scooter. “PAN!”

  “Hey, Eric,” said the tiny short-haired girl standing outside my front door. Min Song and I were in the same class at school, but right now she was here on official business, which was why she was carrying a dozen Chinese takeaway boxes under her chin. “Sorry we’re so late.”

  “Er … we ordered five minutes ago,” I said, checking my watch.

  “I know, I know, but traffic was a nightmare,” she said, nodding towards her dad who was sitting on a moped with the words “Panda Cottage” emblazoned on the side, impatiently tapping his watch.

  “No, what I meant was—” But before I could finish Min had shoved the huge pile of boxes into my arms.

  Then she picked up a box that had fallen to the ground. “Oh, and don’t forget your beansprouts.”

  ”Beansprouts?” I said, looking puzzled. “I don’t think we ordered—”

  “No, they’re free,” interrupted Min. “We have way too many of them. Please, just take it.”

  “Oh, OK,” I said. “You know, I’ve never actually tried them.”

  “You’ll love them. Probably. Anyway, I have to go.”

  I put down the boxes and handed her the money, before she hopped on the moped and it disappeared down the road.

  “Min took her time!”

  That’s my dad, Monty Crisp. He’s the reason we were having a Friday-night Chinese. My dad manages the local football team, the Kippers, and we were celebrating their latest success – a 10–1 scoreline.

  “I still can’t believe it,” he said as I handed him the boxes. “We got an actual goal. First time in five years. All right, so technically it was the other team that scored it for us, but an own goal still counts!”

  Sorry, I should have been more clear: They lost 10–1.

  The Kippers are the worst football team of all time. In their fifty-year history they’ve only ever won a single game, and even then it was because the other team had to forfeit after getting stuck in traffic.

  “You should be very proud, dear,” said my mum, Maya. In case you’re wondering, her legs are currently over her head because she’s a yoga instructor, not because she’s weird.

  Though she is weird.

  Mum unfolded herself and joined me, Dad, my two-and-a-half-year-old sister Posy and our horrible, definitely evil, cat Pusskin
at the kitchen table.

  Half an hour later, the Crisp family was officially stuffed, as you can see from my helpful diagram:

  The number of boxes for Posy is misleading. Those are the number of actual boxes she attempted to eat. She doesn’t bother about the food, she just loves chewing plastic.

  After dinner, Dad was back talking sport.

  “All I’m saying, Eric,” he said, reaching for the fortune cookies, “is that it wouldn’t kill you to take an interest in athletic pursuits. Like football or rugby or…”

  “Yoga?” suggested Mum.

  “Be serious, Maya,” said Dad. “Er… I mean…”

  Mum glared at him. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  Dad mimed wiping sweat off his brow. “Phew. But really, Eric, it was only last week you told me you thought offside was when only one side of the bread had gone mouldy…”

  “He was teasing, Monty,” said Mum. “You were teasing him, weren’t you, Eric?”

  Before I could reply Dad cut in: “Hey, would you look at that?”

  He held up a small piece of paper.

  “You beauty!” cried Dad. “It’s destiny.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Everyone knows fortune cookies are rubbish, Dad. The last one I got said ‘Your shoes will make you happy’.”

  “And did they?” Dad asked.

  “Not that I noticed…”

  “What did you get this time, Eric?” asked Mum.

  I cracked open the shell and unfurled the piece of paper inside.

  “Hmm. Well, you do turn nine soon,” Mum said.

  “A week tomorrow,” I reminded her. She probably knew that already, but my birthday was WAY too important to take any chances with.

  “Ooh, look at mine,” said Mum. “‘Your son will handle the washing-up’.”

  “It doesn’t say that,” I said.

  “Well, all right,” she admitted. “It’s actually the same as Dad’s.”

  “But you cleaning up will be a nice victory for me,” she said.

  I let out a groan, but I knew from experience that I had about as much chance of getting out of it as the Kippers did of winning, well … anything.

  I rinsed out all the boxes and took them outside. I’d almost finished putting them in the recycling bin when I realized that the box of beansprouts was still unopened.

  Even though I was stuffed, I was curious to find out what they tasted like. I opened the lid and jumped back in fright. Not because of the beansprouts, though they didn’t look that appetizing, but because nestled inside the box was a small green scaly object. It had:

  A long dragon-like snout.

  A long dragon-like tail.

  Big dragon-like wings.

  Sharp dragon-like teeth.

  Short dragon-like arms and legs.

  Dragon-like claws.

  There was no doubt about it. Whatever it was looked a lot like a dragon. Its tiny marble-like black eyes seemed to stare back at me and, for the briefest of moments, I almost convinced myself it was real.

  Ha. A real dragon. Can you imagine?

  Were Panda Cottage giving out free toys with their food now?

  “Snappy Meals,” I said out loud, before remembering there was no one around to laugh at my joke.

  I took the toy out of the box and was surprised by how it felt. Whatever it was made of, it wasn’t plastic. I once touched a lizard at the zoo and it felt quite similar – rough and cool to the touch – but this was much, much harder. It really was the most lifelike toy I had ever seen. It must have taken forever to paint. Not that it even looked or felt painted, mind you. It was too realistic. Every scale was a different shade of green, with small, freckle-like flecks of yellow across the snout. Gently, I moved its arms and legs back and forth, feeling a little resistance as I did so, almost as if it didn’t appreciate me doing it.

  Whoever had made it must have gone to some trouble – way more than a free Chinese takeaway toy was worth, that’s for sure.

  After trying a handful of beansprouts and deciding I wasn’t a fan, I shoved the dragon into my pocket, went back inside and headed upstairs. After all, it was Friday and I had a lot to do. My comics weren’t going to read themselves.

  I put the tiny dragon on a shelf before diving on to my bed and settling into issue #437 of my favourite comic: Slug Man.

  A short while later, Slug Man was just about to take a call from the Police Commissioner on the Slug Phone when I felt something tugging at my trouser leg.

  “Yeah?” I said, too absorbed in the story to bother looking down.

  “What you reading?” said a childish voice.

  “Oh, it’s the latest issue of Slug Man,” I replied.

  “Any good?” asked the voice, which sounded like it had a Chinese accent.

  “It’s amazing,” I said. “He’s about to fight his arch-enemy, The Salt Shaker.”

  “Cool. I love comics. I mean, I haven’t actually read any, but they look awesome.”

  “Help yourself,” I said, still not taking my eyes off the page but pointing towards the pile at the side of my bed.

  “Don’t mind if I do. Thanks!”

  “No worries,” I said.

  I continued to read for a few seconds more, before it finally dawned on me. Slowly, I lowered the comic and looked towards the end of my bed.

  Sitting there, reading a Captain Bin-Man comic with his dragon-like claws, was the dragon toy from the beansprout box.

  Two things were clear to me:

  The toy dragon was not a toy.

  Whoever makes Panda Cottage’s fortune cookies had really raised their game this time.

  STRIPES PUBLISHING

  An imprint of the Little Tiger Group

  1 Coda Studios 189 Munster Road,

  London SW6 6AW

  First published as an ebook by Stripes Publishing in 2017

  Text copyright © Tom Nicoll, 2017

  Illustrations copyright © Sarah Horne, 2017

  Author photograph © Kaye Nicoll, 2017

  eISBN: 978-1-84715-897-0

  The rights of Tom Nicoll and Sarah Horne to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work respectively has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any forms, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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