The Dragon's Tooth (29 page)

The images jumped.

Dan was lying on a bed. His eyes were closed, his legs and chest were bare. He was thin. Pale. Underfed.

Antigone bit her lip and covered her mouth with her hand. “What’s he—”

Dan changed. His shoulders grew. His chest and arms and legs thickened. His legs lengthened in jerks between frames. His hair grew long, and then black, and then blond again. Shaved patches appeared on his scalp. Wires dotted his body and then disappeared. His ribs sprouted a regiment of small muscles. And suddenly, bruises appeared across his body, a bloody laceration above his eyebrow, and a bite mark on his neck. His lips were split, and his left eye was swollen shut. His right eye was open but staring into nothing.

“Is he alive?” Antigone asked. She grabbed Rupert’s arm. “What happened? Is he alive?”

Rupert was as stiff and motionless as a statue.

The image jumped. It was one of Antigone’s movies again. Cyrus smiling beside his mother’s hospital bed. Antigone smiling, brushing her mother’s hair, kissing her head.

“No,” Antigone said. She shook her head, looking away. But she had to look back.

Her mother was in a different room, and it wasn’t the hospital. Sunlight poured through the window. Curtains were blowing.

Antigone’s whole body clenched. Rupert’s big arm hardened in her hand.

A tall, thin man with thick black hair stepped in front of the camera. He was wearing a brilliant white suit beneath a dingy and battered lab coat. He looked like the Brendan but much younger. And longer—stretched. He stepped forward and his face filled the frame. Antigone wanted to duck or dive away from his pale eyes.

“The cloak,” Rupert said quietly. “Nolan was right.”

The image on the screen shook. The projector’s lens was vibrating. Somehow, someway, he was speaking. His mouth wasn’t moving.

“Smiths,” the man said slowly. “I seem to have what is yours, and I believe you have what is mine. But I see no reason for us to quarrel. I’m sure some—friendly—arrangement can be reached to avoid the extremely unpleasant. As for you, my brother Brendan, there can be no arrangement.”

Phoenix moved out of the frame.

Antigone’s mother had vanished from the bed behind him. A dead blackbird lay on her pillow with wings spread. And then the image jumped to old black-and-white film. Two cowboys pulled guns and fired. German tanks rolled through Paris.

The screen went white, flickered, and then jumped to the beginning. Dan in the car.

Rupert clicked the projector off and walked out of the room. Antigone hurried behind him.

“Miss Smith,” the Brendan said quietly. “No one can blame you. Give him the tooth. Save your family if you can. The rest of us may be beyond saving. Greeves, dissolve the Estate immediately. Scatter the members. Go. Leave Phoenix an empty Ashtown. I will wait for execution alone.”

Rupert stepped around in front of the Brendan, his chest swelling. He jerked off the old man’s blanket and hurled it against the window. Jaw clenching, hands flexing, he looked down at the feeble shape, and his lip curled. “You betray the people beneath you. You betray the people who lived before you. You betray the world the Order serves.” His eyes were razors. “Graves will be opened. The Burials will be emptied. A millennium’s imprisoned curses will walk free. How long until the nations are on their knees?” He shook his head. “I would rather be the first to die than survive and murder others with my cowardice.”

The Brendan’s eyes sparked, but the spark died quickly. The old man drooped back into his couch. His eyes found the ceiling.

Greeves looked at the boy. His eyes were wide, his arms uncrossed.

“Come with us now, Oliver, or not at all.”

Turning, Rupert strode across the room. The boy, Oliver, jumped to follow him.

Antigone stepped slowly in front of the Brendan. Her body was shaking. Her veins were pumping fear, not blood.

“You’re just going to give up? Can’t you stop him?” she asked. “Can’t you do anything at all?”

“Once upon a time,” the old man said quietly. “But no longer. Lie low and the lightning may overlook you. Phoenix will stumble in the end.”

Antigone could hardly stand. Blinking, with images of her brother and mother swirling in her head, she made her way to the elevator.

As they descended, she sniffed, fighting nausea. Oliver moved into the far corner.

Rupert stared at the ceiling. When they reached the bottom, he spoke. “Neither of you will mention him. You will say nothing of his nonsense.”

He slid the panel open and Antigone stumbled into the hall. Oliver stepped out beside her. With a single angry jerk, Rupert ripped down the elevator’s ceiling and reached up into the cables. A long pin came free and rattled to the floor. He stepped out into the hall.

A moment later, the brass cage groaned, slipped, and plummeted. The three of them watched the cables racing, unspooling in the empty shaft.

When the crash came, Greeves slid the panel closed and turned away.

“Oliver,” he said. “We have much to prepare, and we must find Mr. Rhodes and Mr. Sterling.”

“What about Cyrus?” Antigone asked. “Will you look for him?”

Rupert Greeves, Avengel of the Order of Brendan, stepped back to her, bent down, and looked into her eyes.

“Antigone,” he said. His breath smelled like leather. His face was stone. “My blood belongs to the Smiths. I am ready to die for your mother, for your brother, for Cyrus, and for you. I will die before that creature controls even the sewers of Ashtown. Soon I will send some of my hunters in search of your brother. You will follow them. Stay close to me. I must move quickly. Can you do that?”

Antigone nodded. Oliver was looking at her, pale behind his freckles.

A moment later, Greeves was striding away, Oliver at his side. Hurrying behind them, Antigone dug into her jacket pocket.

Her quaking Quick Water glowed faintly on her palm, no longer dark but far from bright. She raised it to her face.

twenty

WE ALL FALL DOWN

C
YRUS HAD SEEN
his sister. He knew he had, but only for a moment, and her features had been hugely warped in fish-eye—she must have been holding the ball close to her face. But it had definitely been her.

That had been hours ago.

At least she was alive. That made bad things better. She wasn’t in a bear’s stomach or a turtle’s stomach or a dozen different viper stomachs.

He would have gotten a longer look if the Quick Water hadn’t squirted out of his fingertips. Now it was on the floor, wedged behind the biggest jar of miniature pickles he had ever seen.

The pickle jar was taller than he was, but only because he was tied up and strapped into a chair.

The chair was bolted to the floor in front of a large butcher-block table.

Patricia adjusted her cool body on his neck, and the keys scraped quietly against his collarbone. Once again, Cyrus rocked himself forward in his straps and tried to look at the clear fungus ball he’d dropped. When he’d finally managed to get it out of his pocket, he’d only had a few seconds to look before the guards had come in, untied him, searched him, tied him back up, and left.

Cyrus leaned harder, but he could see nothing. Groaning, he sat back up.

Dennis was tied and lying on his back. There had only been one chair in the enormous pantry. His eyes were wide open and he was watching Cyrus. Occasionally, he grunted. A pot holder had been shoved into his mouth. Cyrus’s too, but he’d managed to spit his out.

“Hang in there, D,” Cyrus said. “They won’t leave us in here forever.”

Dennis grunted, widening his terrified eyes.

“That’s what you’re worried about,” Cyrus said. “Right. Me too. I just hope they don’t cook us. I don’t want to be eaten.”

He looked around the crowded shelves. Spices. Grains. Hanging sausages at the other end. An entire wall of garlic. Another of dried peppers. “But why else would we be in here?”

Dennis rocked from side to side, and then rolled onto his face. His hands were tied behind his back. He arched his back and shook his head, fighting the pot holder.

“Go,” said Cyrus. “You can do it.”

Slow steps thumped on the stairs. Bells jingled.

Big Ben Sterling ducked down through the low doorway and into the pantry. No hat, no beard net or apron, no sign that he’d been cooking. He was carrying a large glass of something brown.

“Lads,” he said, raising the glass. “I drink to you, and to all boats and bridges that have ever been burned.” Knocking back half the liquid, he sat on the table in front of Cyrus, banged the glass down, and smacked his lips.

“What are you doing?” Cyrus asked. “What the heck is going on?”

“What is Ben Sterling doing?” the cook asked, massaging his knees. “Why, I’m taking a night off and lying low, Brer Fox. For this last supper, I was nothing but a saucier and prep cook. As for your other question, well, that’s outside of Ben’s control.”

Dennis grunted and bounced on his stomach.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gilly,” Sterling said. “I don’t understand.”

“Are you going to kill us?” Cyrus asked. “You can have the tooth. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Let me go and I’ll get it for you.”

“The tooth, the tooth.” The cook drained his glass and licked the rim. “Soon enough, lad.”

Cyrus jerked against the straps. The cook watched him without a smile. His eyes were heavy.

“I loved this place,” Sterling said. “In its way and mine. Ben Sterling’s done right by the Order, but has the Order done right by Ben Sterling? Tonight it ends, lad. The living have dwelt above the Burials long enough. Let them lay their heads down and be silent.”

“Are you drunk?” Cyrus asked. “Do you want the tooth or not?”

Sterling smiled. “You have it, do you? Where would you tuck a thing like that? Your little nook in the Polygon has already been searched. You swallow it? Tell an old cook and I’ll believe you.”

Cyrus breathed slowly. He could feel the keys against his skin. He could give them away right now, but then what? Sterling wouldn’t let him go. What reason would there be to keep him alive?

Sterling continued. “Rupe would like us to believe that he has it. But maybe it’s in your sister’s hands. There were only so many people in that room when poor Maxi was done in.” Sterling shrugged. “When you’re all lined up and watching each other’s pain, the truth will bubble out.” He looked at his empty glass. “But my coin is on little Nikales, Nolan the Thief. He’s snake-slippery. Undying Nolan. Unaging Nolan. He just sheds his skin and slinks away. He’s a dark one, lad.”

Cyrus lifted his head. “Let me try to find him,” he said. “He’ll give the tooth back. He told me I could trust him.”

Sterling filled the room with laughter. “You had it hid a moment ago. So Nolan does have it, then? He told you to trust him? And you did, didn’t you? And he took the tooth and disappeared. Why does Nolan want it, lad? Would you like to know? It isn’t pretty. Nolan wants to die. Nikales was fifteen years of age—a poor Persian boy—when the hero Gilgamesh went diving for the fruit of life. And he found it, too, at the bottom of the Persian Gulf—he plucked it from the lost garden and the living tree. But when he rose from the waves and lay gasping on the beach, the thief saw his chance. He snatched the fruit and fled, eating as he ran. But it wasn’t to be so easy. Gilgamesh cursed that boy for a serpent and a thief. Oh, Nikales lived on—even when old Gil cut him down. He remained young, but as an undying serpent. Three thousand years and he still looks to be a lad, unless you stare into his eyes. Three thousand years, that boy has been peeling off his snake skin.”

Sterling slapped the table. Then he leaned forward and winked at Cyrus. “Wherever Nolan is, he has that tooth in his hand, a smile on his face, and not a spark of life in him.” He paused, tugging his beard. “But maybe not.”

Dennis had stopped squirming. He was up on his side, staring at the cook.

Cyrus’s heart was racing. “You’re working for Phoenix, aren’t you?” He kicked his bare ankles against rope. “Did you help him take Dan? Did you want Maxi to kill us?”

The cook shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Cyrus. Things have gone as things have gone, and Benjamin Sterling will play his part to the end.”

“What end?” Cyrus asked.

The cook’s face grew suddenly serious. “I am not drunk, Cyrus Smith. Far from it. But tonight … I wish I were. I’d remember less in the morning. Goodbye, lad.”

“Wait!” Cyrus said. “You knew my dad. You cooked us his favorite meal. You must have liked my parents. Why are you doing this?”

Sterling didn’t answer. He was looking at the Quick Water, peeking out from behind the pickle jar. He slid off the table—legs bending beneath him—crouched carefully, and picked it up.

Frustrated, Cyrus banged his head back against the chair. “Please! Just let us go.”

Sterling peered into the Quick Water. Sighing, he glanced back at Cyrus. His mouth twitched into a smile, but his eyes were heavy.

“You may look Cataan, lad, but you’re a Smith through and through.”

Footsteps drummed on the stairs.

Sterling hesitated, but then he nestled the liquid ball into a pile of onions on a crowded shelf and eased quickly away.

Four men tumbled into the pantry.

“Storm or no storm, Greeves or no Greeves, Phoenix is coming in,” one of them said. “Rhodes is ghost-white and pig-sweating. Rupe grilled him good, but he didn’t crack. Not yet, at least. Still no sign of Nolan.”

“Greeves is bayin’ for you, too, Ben,” said another. “And he made a scare speech to the whole dining hall. They’ve gone gun-ready, every last one of them, and they’re as edgy as wildcats. He’s been in and out of the kitchen.”

“Why do you think I’m not in the kitchen?” Sterling asked. “I’ll speak with him after his meal. He has been served, hasn’t he?”

The men grinned.

“He grabbed something,” said the first. “And special deliveries have been made to all the guards. We should have some fun with this pair before the action starts.”

Cyrus bit his lip and twisted in his chair to see Sterling.

The cook shook his head. “Leave them for Phoenix.”

“Why?” All four men were confused.

“Why don’t you go watch the show?” said the first man, grinning. “We’ll stay and cut off their toes. Shouldn’t take too long to learn what they know.”

“Get out,” Sterling said. “Out! I know orders, and I know what Phoenix wants, and it isn’t dead or toeless boys. What there is to get, he’ll get, and no one else. Out of my pantry until your heads hold something more than air!”

The four men squeezed quickly up the stairs and a door slammed behind them.

Sterling sniffed loudly and moved over to the shelf beneath the onions. From the shadows in the back, the cook pulled out an old mayonnaise jar. It was full of clear liquid.

“Strong stuff,” he said loudly. “Remarkable. If I should ever find myself needing to save a life”—he pulled an eyedropper out of his apron and set it on the jar—“I think I’d use two drops beneath the tongue.”

Looking at Cyrus, Sterling curled his own tongue and clicked it behind his teeth. “Farewell, lad. And to your sister, too.” He scratched his beard and smiled. His eyes were hollow. “You’re right,” he said. “I did have a fondness for your father and his bride. Old Billy Bones lived two years running on the road. Don’t know if I could do half that, but it might be time to try. It might.”

He climbed the stairs. His voice tumbled back down. “You were a good porter, Dennis Gilly! One of the best.”

A door opened and shut. Bolts slid.

Cyrus looked at Dennis, again trying to writhe his way to his feet. He looked at the Quick Water, nestled into the onions, and at the mayonnaise jar with the eyedropper. He still had little idea what was happening, but he’d picked up enough, and none of it was good.

“Come on, Tigs,” he said. “You can see us. Now find us.”

Antigone heard the clock strike eight—through the trees, through the wind and the rain and the early storm darkness. She looked down at the small, heavy box in her hand. The sides were wooden, but broken up with the mounding backs of smooth brass tubes. On top, black-and-white images shot past on a glass screen, bulging even more than an antique television—like a slice off a crystal ball. Staring into it gave her a headache.

Antigone blinked and shook her head. An hour ago, in the dining hall, she’d listened to Greeves address the Order. But she hadn’t stayed to watch the members react. Greeves had hurried her outside, given her the box, attached her to Diana Boone, and disappeared. Supposedly, the box showed her what one of Rupert’s flying “hunters” was seeing. But the images moved too fast. She’d barely been able to make out the lake.

When she’d tried her Quick Water, she had seen Cyrus’s fingers and thumbs but only briefly. After that glimpse, the Quick Water had only shown distortion, shadow, and dim greenness. Olive green. Pickle green. Forest green?

While the images had flitted through her hands—treetops, tree trunks, odd shapes, and glowing windows—she had searched every trail through the trees between the zoo and the main buildings. She had kicked every bush. Twice. Next, she was going to start looking under individual blades of grass. She didn’t care how hard it was raining. She didn’t care if her stupid flashlight had died. She didn’t care if the black clouds had swallowed the sun and killed the day’s last light. She was not going to stop until she had found her brother.