The Dragon's Tooth (7 page)

“Well?” Antigone said.

Horace cleared his throat. “No, thank God. I do not.”

Antigone turned to her brother. Cyrus was expecting anger in his sister’s eyes, but he didn’t find it. Her eyes were like he remembered his mother’s being whenever he’d gotten hurt—which had been often. She wasn’t angry. She was in pain.

Blinking, Cyrus looked at the keys in his hand. “I’m sorry, Tigs. I didn’t know. I couldn’t.”

“I know.” Antigone tucked back her hair and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I would have kept them, too, Cy. You know I would have.”

Horace slid forward, onto the edge of his seat. Reaching out, he set one hand on Cyrus’s knee, and one hand on Antigone’s. “I am going to say something that may initially be perceived as wildly insensitive.” He coughed politely. “There are worse things in this world than your current circumstances. And an entire flock of those worse things—I do profoundly believe this to be the truth—would now be under way if the gentleman called Maxi was now in possession of what you, Mr. Cyrus, have been given. Worse for you, worse for all of us.” He sat up. “Ah, breakfast. And well earned, too.”

The car swung off the road, bouncing to a stop. Cyrus opened the heavy door and stepped out into a gravel parking lot and the sticky morning heat.

Antigone followed him, slamming the door behind her. Horace was already hurrying toward a low green-and-yellow building lined with murky windows. Behind it, tangles of brush were swallowing barbed-wire fencing, where a single cow was rubbing its shoulder against a sighing fence post. On top of the building, a large, flaking plywood sign spelled out
PATS’
in hand-painted letters.

Antigone kicked a rock and watched it bounce away. “I couldn’t eat anything right now. Especially not here. Do you think they have a phone?”

“Who knows,” said Cyrus. The two of them moved toward the door. “Do you think it’s owned by someone named Pats? Or is there more than one Pat?”

Horace had stopped at the door. Pulling it open, he stepped to the side and smiled. “Mr. Cyrus, I wouldn’t have thought that you would be one to notice—or care about—an apostrophe.”

Cyrus glared at him.

“Right. Well, there are two Pats,” Horace said. “And this place belongs to both of them.”

Inside, Horace hustled all the way down to the far end of the long, dim dining room and squeezed into a corner booth.

Antigone looked around, irritated. “This place is a hole. Do you see a phone, Cy?”

Cyrus shook his head.

An enormous woman rocked toward them between two rows of yellow booths. “I don’t know about ‘hole,’ honey.” She winked. “Some people call it heaven.” Turning to Cyrus, she pointed to the far end. “Go ahead and join your little friend in the corner. I’ll be right back. Menus on the table.” She nodded at Antigone. “Little lady can follow me if she needs a phone.”

The woman made her way around a small counter lined with stools, and then back toward the sizzling grill. Antigone hurried after her.

Cyrus inhaled long and hard. The dining room was full of the sounds and smells of bacon frying and diced potatoes hopping in the grease. Only a few booths held customers, and they were all men, each of them alone with their newspapers and toothpicks and trucker hats and coffee cups and grease-stained knuckles. The photo of Dan had wiped away Cyrus’s hunger, but the power of the smells brought it roaring back. His mouth was watering and his stomach was ringing hollow bells. Cyrus’s body needed to eat, and that angered him. Dan was gone. Taken. He shouldn’t eat. He shouldn’t smell. He should be gone, too.

In his daze, Cyrus nodded at the other customers as he passed, but their return nods were better, more practiced, exchanging respect with only the slightest lift of the head and a glance from unblinking eyes.

Cyrus slid into the corner booth beneath a low-hanging lamp with a dead bulb. The key ring dug into one leg; the lightning bug glass dug into the other. His neck burned, and his wrist itched. From across the table, John Horace Lawney leaned forward, tenting his fingers. “What will you have?”

“Anything,” Cyrus muttered. He grimaced and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to adjust the contents of his pockets. “Dirt. I don’t care.”

The large woman was lumbering toward them with what looked like a pint of carrot juice. Horace flashed her a wide smile. She smiled back. According to the plastic rectangle on her shirt, her name was Pat.

“You dolls ready?” she asked. “What can I get ya? I can tell you right now that you’ve never had waffles as mean as what we sling. You’ll be full till Christmas.”

Cyrus’s stomach seethed, and he groaned. He made himself look up. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just that waffles …”

Pat shrugged. “Don’t you worry about it. You’re not a waffle kid. Well, you can’t go wrong on this menu, no matter where you settle. And wherever you settle, it’s gonna be on the house. This breakfast is on Pat and Pat. It’s gotta be hard, your place burning down.” She hesitated. “You are the Archer kids, aren’t you?”

Cyrus looked at his sooty hands and then back up at the big woman. “Yeah. No water at the motel right now. No showers.”

She patted Cyrus on the shoulder. “Well, you kids ever need to eat, tell Dan to bring you on by.”

Cyrus nodded.

Horace rose to his feet. “Madam,” he said. “Pat, we are ready to order.” He handed her the menus. “Do you squeeze your own orange juice?”

“I stomp the oranges myself.”

“Where are the oranges grown?”

“You know,” Pat said. “I couldn’t say. But they’re orange, they’re sweet, and they come with peels.”

“Right.” Horace rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. “We’ll have a large pitcher of fresh-squeezed, a pot of coffee, two plates of links, one of patties, half a pound of bacon, eight eggs scrambled with your sharpest cheddar, diced ham, tomatoes, mushrooms, chopped—fresh, not frozen—spinach, black pepper, and a pinch of cayenne. Four fried eggs, not too runny, and half a loaf of wheat toast. And hashed browns. A pile of them. Oh, and with gratitude for your offer, I will be picking up the tab nonetheless.”

He sat down, raised his eyebrows, and looked at Cyrus. “Will that do?” he asked.

Cyrus blinked. “I thought we were in a hurry.”

“Oh, we were. We are. In part so that we could have time for this.” Horace smiled. “Always breakfast like a man condemned. One never knows what a day may bring.” He nodded at the waitress.

“Okay then,” she said, tucking the menus under one arm while she scribbled notes on a tiny pad. “We are hungry, aren’t we? Big Pat will be happy. He never likes an empty grill.” Dropping the pad into her apron pocket, she turned and moseyed slowly away, the floor creaking beneath her.

Horace sipped his carrot juice, leaned back, and rubbed his jaw. Fine black-and-white stubble rasped against his palm.

Cyrus stared at him. “Tell me how to get Dan back.”

Horace pursed his lips. “That’s a difficult question.”

“I have lots of questions,” Cyrus said. “Not that you’ll have any answers.” He leaned forward. “What’s so special about the keys? Who was Skelton? How do you know he was our godfather, and what exactly did he leave us besides a lot of trouble?”

Horace sighed. “Should we wait for your sister?”

“No,” said Cyrus. “Start with the keys. What’s the deal? They turn things on, don’t they? Our sign never worked, not until Skelton touched it. And I had a broken record player, too. That’s it, right? The keys turn things on.” He looked at the dead lamp above him. Glancing at Horace, he reached up and wriggled the bulb. Nothing. He lowered his arm. Ridiculous. He was going crazy.

“Guess not,” he muttered.

“Well …,” said Horace.

The lightbulb blinked and buzzed. But it wasn’t alone. Every booth in the diner had its own dangling lamp, and half of them—running down the length of the room—had been out. Now, in unison, they pulsed dimly, sputtered, and came to life.

“It appears,” said the lawyer, “that you have your answer. But only part of it.”

Cyrus frantically tugged the keys free of his pocket and dropped them loudly onto the table.

Horace groaned. “Without meaning to be paranoid, I cannot advise leaving them visible. Remember Skelton’s warnings.”

Cyrus swung a glance over the room. Antigone was coming. And none of the men in trucker hats seemed to have noticed a thing. He would be more nervous with the keys back in his pocket. He scratched at his itching wrist and looked down, surprised. He couldn’t feel his nails, and his wrist seemed swollen. But it didn’t look swollen. It looked soot-covered and grubby. He poked at it. His fingertip stopped short of his skin, but he was definitely touching something—something soft and very smooth.

“What is it?” Horace asked. “What are you doing?”

Cyrus didn’t answer. He ran his hand over his blistered neck, remembering Skelton’s liquid arms holding the glowing hot necklace in the dark. He’d torn it off. And then it had … he focused on his wrist. It was … he didn’t know what it was. Carefully, he pinched his nails around the soft, invisible bulge, and he tugged.

Antigone slid into the booth next to Cyrus. “They said Dan didn’t qualify as a missing person yet, but I told them about the picture and now they’re sending someone right out. They’ll come by here first, and then the motel. Cyrus! What is that?”

Every head in the diner turned, but Cyrus didn’t notice. He was unwinding a snake—now visible—from around his wrist. Slender, silver, smooth, it twisted around his fingers and slid its own tail into its mouth. As it did, it disappeared.

Horace chuckled. “Little Patricia, I am very glad to see you. Or not, as the case may be.”

“What’s going on?” Antigone asked. “Cy, a snake? Is that what he put around your neck?”

Cyrus nodded, and he blindly pulled the snake free of its own tail. Visible again, he let it slither through his palms. After a moment, it wound itself tight around his fingers, ate its tail, and again disappeared. Pulling it free, Cyrus tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck. “And it burned me, Tigs. There are blisters.”

Antigone leaned forward, squinting. “You have a little snake brand all the way around, Cy. A blister for every scale. Jeez. That could scar. I can even see the head on your collarbone.” She looked at Horace. “What is this thing?”

Horace smiled. “She’s a patrik, the one family of serpent permitted to roam free in Ireland. This is the only specimen I have ever seen. Skelton called her Patricia, and she must have been quite hot from the flames to have burned you. She will not eat or sleep, she can become invisible when she swallows her own tail, she will breed only once, and she will not die, though she is quite deadly.”

Antigone slid away. Cyrus looked up, startled. The snake was now twisting around his forearm.

“Oh, not deadly to you, Mr. Cyrus,” Horace said. “Or to anyone to whom you might give her. Deadly to the one who attempts to remove her from you. She is venomous and can become quite large in anger. If you were to die without passing her on to another—God forbid—she would remain with your bones until the end of the world.”

“Patricia,” Cyrus said quietly. “She doesn’t like to be visible, does she?”

“How is this possible?” Antigone asked. “You seriously want us to believe that that snake won’t die?”

“Trust your own eyes,” Horace said. “Or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me what you believe, and we don’t have time to marvel at natural or even transnatural wonders.” He leaned forward. “Cyrus, please, slide her through the key ring and then place her around your neck. She will be quite useful to you.”

Gently, Cyrus unwound the snake and tried to feed her through the ring. Without balking, she shot through and twisted quickly back, searching for her tail. Using both hands, Cyrus raised her to his neck and let her cool body slide around his blistered throat. The keys clicked high against his sternum.

“Wow.” Antigone blinked. “They’re invisible, too, Cy.”

“Really?” Cyrus lifted the keys, trying to squint down his nose. “Do you think they’re too heavy for her?”

Horace shook his head. “She’s fine. And now, despite every distraction, please try to listen. It is, of course, good and proper that you have called the police about Daniel. But as your brother was taken by William Skelton’s former comrades—people with distastefully inhuman abilities—I must tell you that the police haven’t the faintest shred of a chance of finding him, alive or dead. Excuse my blunt insensitivity.”

Cyrus clenched his fists. He’d seen the fireballs. He’d seen how the dark shapes had moved outside the motel—everything had been so quick and fluid and effortless, like cats. Wolves, maybe. One had even jumped over the truck. “We should trade,” he said. “I don’t care if we use the cops. Find the Maxi guy and tell him I don’t want the keys. Tell him to let Dan go.”

Horace leaned over the table, his voice sinking to a harsh whisper. “I am here to help you two. I am. Truly. But know this. I will have no part in any action that intentionally places”—he nodded toward Cyrus’s throat—“
what
you have
in their hands. You cannot understand the many ways the master of the men you saw has already worked to reinvent and mutilate humanity—humanness—itself. Give him what he wants, and … well, suggest it again, and I walk out the door.”

Cyrus looked at his sister. She set her fists on the table. His own hands drifted to his neck and the cool body around it. Horace straightened and moved on.

“But I am not without suggestions. In fact, I believe I am able to solve all of your current problems. You are in desperate need of allies.” He looked from Cyrus to Antigone and back again. “Skelton was an outlaw and a rogue, but he was also a member of an extremely private global community.”

“It couldn’t be a nice one if they let him in,” said Cyrus.

Horace raised a finger. “Skelton’s membership was by birth, and he was never successfully expelled—due mainly to my efforts—and several highly organized attempts were made. The Order of Brendan, as it is called, is—in its current vision—an international community of exploration. In reality, things are never quite so simple as a committee-approved vision statement, but that’s not relevant at the moment. Once, the O of B was an empire. Now it could perhaps be best described as an extremely wealthy global chain of sovereign city-states called Estates. Members—citizens, if it helps to think of them that way—have access to resources that boggle and defy imagination. Your godfather, a member of sufficient rank in the O of B, knew that he was going to die. And for a number of reasons, it was his desire that the two of you stand as his heirs. But no member can pass inheritance to anyone outside the global membership of the Order. Thanks to my sleepless night, the necessary paperwork was filed before Skelton was declared dead by this county’s noble and competent EMTs, and you two, Cyrus and Antigone Smith, were named as his Acolytes in the Order of Brendan.”