Texting the Underworld (19 page)

“Conor-boy! The snake!” Ashling sounded terrified. He whirled around in time to see the python flip the rabbit off its back and thump on top of it, trying to squeeze it to death but not succeeding because the rabbit was already dead.

“S-so . . . the snake's alive now?” Conor said. “And, like, hungry?”

“Interesting.” Nergal watched the snake's head rise from the floor, weaving back and forth in a wide semicircle. “It's looking for something alive to eat now. Which would be you, boy.”

“Stop that! Stop it!” the Lady cried.

Oh good,
Conor thought.
She'll save me.

The Lady shook the cell phone. “Why does this little man keep walking into the wall?”

The snake's weaving head narrowed its radius. It was honing in.

“Boy,” Nergal said, “since her ladyship is otherwise occupied, I think I'll give you another chance. But you need to feed the right bird so the Lady can send you out of here. That snake will smell you soon.”

“You keep helping,” Ashling said. “Why can't I help?”

“You are not me,” Nergal said. “Besides, why do you care?”

“I care, all right?”

Conor couldn't move. The snake's tongue flickered, looking for a scent.

His heart was racing. He. Couldn't. Move.

“Ashling!” Nergal snapped. “Get back here!”

But Ashling stood before Conor. Her eyes—uncanny, blue with gray wedges—gazed deep into his. She put her hand on his chest. “Breathe,” she said. “Calm yourself.”

Warmth suffused him. He breathed deeply—once, twice, three times. His heart slowed. The tension left his shoulders.

He could do this.

“Hurry, boy,” Nergal said.

Not even stopping to thank her, Conor shoved past Ashling to the stone bowls. The Brazilian spider was nowhere to be seen, but he didn't even care.

Worms.

Moths.

Which?

Okay. The bird has the power of life and death. Opposites. Beginning and end . . . and then back to the beginning again, in that Great Cycle the Lady mentioned earlier.

He'd have to call Javier. Could he get his phone back from the Lady?

Boop-boop-boopboopboop . . .

“Conor-boy,” Ashling whispered. “The snake.”

It was contemplating the porcupine, which shivered against the wall with its quills up. Slowly, lazily, the snake eased toward the little creature until it was inches away. Then it halted, indecisive—because of the quills? Because the porcupine was already dead?

“I need my phone,” Conor said.

“You don't have time, boy.” That was Nergal. “Anyway, good luck getting it away from her.”

“What if I choose wrong this time?”

“The white-billed bird will sing you to death,” Nergal said.

“Breathe,” Ashling said.

This was a problem like any other, right?
Except it could kill me.
He thought back to math class.

1. Understand the problem.
   
2. Translate the problem into an equation.
   
3. Solve the problem . . .
   

Okay. Okay. Breathe.

1. X = something that the golden-billed bird wants to eat.

2. So X is something that feeds the power of life and death. What does that mean?

3. Life and death are opposite sides of a cycle, right? Right?

He peeked into the bowl of moths, looking for answers.
A moth changes from one thing to another.
Does a moth turn back into a chrysalis?
No. It does not
.
So, not a cycle.

Earthworms.
They poke holes in the soil.
Great. So what?

Both male and female organs.
Opposites, right? Yeah, but how was that a cycle?

They eat their way through the dirt, pooping out more dirt as they go.
Recycling, right?

Right?

The snake decided against the porcupine. Its head turned, weaving in the air.
Oh god. It smells me.
Conor grabbed an earthworm, hustled over to the ravens' perch, held out his hand to Kawla, the golden-billed bird.

She regarded the worm. Her eyes glittered at Conor. Regarded the worm.

Conor held his breath.

Kawla looked up at the ceiling, over at Nergal. She wasn't going to take it.

A swishing noise. The snake was moving.

Conor closed his eyes.

Something sharp poked his hand. He didn't want to look. But he did.

The white-billed bird—the death bird—stood immobile. Kawla's golden bill, however, was chomping. She threw her head back to swallow the earthworm, then she opened her beak and sang.

It was almost the same croaking and mewing as Crakk's song. But it was the most beautiful music Conor had ever heard. “Yes!” He pumped his fists in the air, did a touchdown dance.

“You did it! You did it!” Ashling danced over to Conor and hugged him.

“The snake is coming,” Nergal said. “My lady, send them back now.”

Conor wheeled around. The snake was ten feet away, staring right at him, tongue flickering.
How is this fair?

“My lady,” Nergal said more urgently. “The boy has won, but there is a living snake coming for him. You must pay attention.”

Boop-boop-boop . . .

“Give me that.” Nergal grabbed the phone, snapped it closed, and tossed it to Conor.

“How dare you?” the Lady said. Nergal pointed at the snake. “Oh dear. And I suppose it's hungry, isn't it?”

The snake put its head down. It oozed forward, undulating across the stone floor.

“Kill it, boy,” the Lady said. “You have the power of life and death now.”

“He can use that power but once,” Ashling said.

“I thought you didn't know anything about the Birds.”
She's a liar,
Conor thought.

Ashling's eyebrows nearly peaked up. “It just . . . it just makes sense. Really, Conor-boy, doesn't it? Make sense, I mean?”

“You're so clever, Ashling, pet,” the Lady said. “Oh dear, I suppose I should send the boy back now. But this is so exciting.”

The snake eased closer. Conor stepped closer to Nergal, which somehow seemed safer. “So I can stop whatever the Death is, right?”

“Yes, dear, you can,” the Lady said. “As long as it's replaced by another. And from the Uí Néill, of course.”

Conor forgot about the snake. “What?”

“Of course, silly.” The Lady tittered. “Haven't you figured that out? Someone from the Uí Néill still must die at the appointed time.

“And when that time comes, you will decide who it is.”

Some kind of emotion pumped through him: Was it despair? Anger? Hatred?

Conor figured he'd start with anger. “You never said a word about me having to choose the Death. I was supposed to
stop
it. How am I supposed to choose? There must be a million O'Neills.”

“I wondered if you had explained, my lady,” Nergal said.

“I didn't see you explaining anything,” the Lady retorted. “Always the disapproval. Conor, Declan, whoever you are—even I, even the Birds, we cannot stop death entirely. And of course you have to choose someone near you, at the appointed time, after you're back in the World. You cannot point vaguely across the ocean and hope to hit an Uí Néill. You must point at a specific person.” The Lady beamed at him. “That snake is very close, dear.”

Conor felt he could personally stomp the snake. “I'll kill someone by
pointing
?”

“Well, no, dear, fate will do the killing. You need not concern yourself with that. You merely, you know, direct fate. By, as you say, pointing.”

Conor would have slumped to the floor if there hadn't been a snake coming for him. Ashling put her hand under his arm to hold him up. He twisted away from her, enraged, betrayed. “Did you know about this too? You did, didn't you?”

“No, no.” Her face was all twisted up, like she was about to start crying. Or pretending to cry, anyway. “I didn't know, I honestly didn't.”

She'd let him waste all this time, risk
dying,
because he'd thought he could prevent the Death. But now the Death could happen any minute, and she knew he'd never have the courage to point at anyone. He'd let the Death happen as fated, and she'd get her new life.

She was getting back at Declan, maybe, for making her die so many centuries ago.

She
was
a monster.

He'd picked up a tarantula. A
tarantula
! He'd figured out what to feed the golden-billed bird all by himself. And now what . . . Let Glennie die? Kill someone else in his family to save her?

The snake was closer—he could hear it.
Me. The Death will have to be me.

The snake was five feet away. He took a step toward it.

“No!” Ashling squealed. “My lady, get him out of here! Please!”

“But this is so interesting,” the Lady said.

The snake raised its head off the floor and eased forward, smooth as molasses. Its head touched Conor's knee. Its tongue flicked. He could see the energy building. It was going to lunge.

“My lady,” Nergal's deep voice said. “Enough.”

“You are such a spoilsport, Nergal.” The Lady sounded aggrieved. “Oh, all right. Let's see . . . to join your phone friend, I think.” She made a gesture that Conor only saw out of the corner of his eye because his attention was on the snake—its empty eyes, its massive body . . .

Everything slid sideways. Conor closed his eyes so he wouldn't puke.

A rush of cold air. Voices in the wind.

The smell of canned vegetable soup.

A shriek, followed by a thump.

“How the heck did that happen?” Glennie sounded breathless. “One minute we're there, the next minute we're here.”

Conor opened his eyes. Angela Timulty, RN, was crumpled on the floor in a dead faint, just visible in the dim light of Grump's hospital room.

“That was cool.” Javier was peeking out from under Grump's bedcovers. “You popped in out of nowhere.” He flung the covers back. “Hurry up. They're moving around down at the nurses' station.”

Ashling and Glennie stepped over Angela Timulty, RN, and stood guard at the door while Conor helped Grump and Javier change their clothes. Safe in bed, Grump lay back on his pillows with a sigh. “So what happened with the Birds, kiddo?”

On the floor, Angela Timulty, RN, moaned and put a hand to her head.

“Tell you later,” Conor whispered. “It's all fine.”

“He was totally awesome.” Ashling took Glennie's and Javier's hands, Conor put his hand on her wrist from behind, and they all disappeared. They hustled through the awakening hospital onto the dark street. The clock in the hospital lobby said it was just after four in the morning, a scant three hours after they'd scuttled by with Grump in the wheelchair. Time had slowed down while he was away—Conor chalked that up as one more thing he shouldn't believe but did.

Nobody felt like flying, and anyway Ashling's belt and cloak strips were long gone. In a stroke of luck, they came upon an empty bus waiting at a stop, doors open while the driver talked through his window to a police officer. They sneaked onboard, invisible, and soon some visible passengers boarded, too. The bus took them halfway home before turning off in the wrong direction.

They walked the rest of the way, a long, silent, invisible trudge. There were enough people on the street to make talking unwise. Conor had nothing to say to anyone anyway.

Especially to Ashling. She wanted Glennie dead, and she'd known exactly what that golden-billed bird offered. She'd lived in the Other Land for sixteen hundred years—how could she not know? Her life had been cut short in a horrible way, and she'd had all that time to plan revenge. She wanted him to kill his own sister, and that was that.

She was a monster.

Javier climbed up to his bedroom using the fire escape. The one at Conor's house was so squeaky that Conor and Glennie let Ashling fly them in Conor's open window. Then Glennie tiptoed off to her room.

“Conor-boy,” Ashling said. “I didn't know.” Her hair was floating, and her ears hadn't reappeared yet.

Conor didn't trust himself to talk to her. He got into bed.

He didn't think he'd ever be able to sleep, considering what he had on his mind. But the next thing he knew his father was pounding on the door. “Hey, Con, it's ten thirty in the morning. You've been in bed twelve hours! You wanna come get Grump with us or what?”

“You kids look awful,” Mom said when Conor and Glennie made it downstairs. “Are you feeling all right?” She put a hand to Glennie's forehead. “I knew I shouldn't have let you go to that hospital. They're such germ pits.”

“We're fine, Mom.” Conor poured himself some granola. Glennie handed him the milk.

“You still worried about Grump?” Dad said. “I'm telling you, he's fine. They're releasing him in an hour.”

“We know he's fine,” Glennie said. “We're tired because we stayed up too late reading.”

Leave it to Glennie to say the one thing a parent would want to hear.

Glennie. Conor watched her crunch her granola, reading a comic book about magic rats. Dad always said she was going to be president someday. Glennie said she was going to be an international crime-fighter.

Either way, he couldn't let her die.

Grump? Mom? Dad?

How about an aunt? A cousin?

Maybe a total stranger was the way to go—some O'Neill he didn't even know. Before they left for the hospital, Conor consulted his map of the neighborhood. There seemed to be an O'Neill he'd never met three streets to the west. Maybe he'd go there that afternoon and check the guy out.

Point at him.

Ashling never emerged from her cupboard before they left for the hospital. That was fine; he didn't want to see her. On the way over in the car, he got a text from Javier:

So? Wut hapnd?

Tel u l8er,
Conor replied.

The hospital didn't want to let Grump go because he, too, looked dreadful. But Grump insisted, and the doctors thought his heart would be okay as long as he took his pills. Plus, they were short-staffed because Angela Timulty, RN, had been ordered to take an extended vacation—she kept insisting that three people had appeared out of thin air in a patient's room.

An aide brought a wheelchair. “Had to get this from the next floor down.” He helped Grump to stand. “Our extra one disappeared overnight. I swear, you gotta nail things down in this place.”

“Sort of stupid to nail down a wheelchair,” Glennie said.

“Glennie,” Mom said in a warning voice.

Grump winked at Glennie and held her hand all the way to the car.

When they got home, Conor and Glennie helped Grump into his half of the house. He refused to go to bed, so Mom installed him on the couch with pillows everywhere he could possibly need them. She left Conor and Glennie to get him some lunch—he insisted on Honey-Glazed Nutsos.

“So, kiddo,” Grump said through a mouthful of cereal, “what happened?”

“Wait,” Glennie said. “I'll go get Ashling.”

By the time she returned, holding the door for the invisible banshee, Javier had arrived. Ashling reappeared with an eager, pleading look in her eye, but Conor ignored her and went to make peanut butter sandwiches. She sat down on the floor next to Grump's couch, saying not one word except “Good day” when Grump greeted her.

Conor took his time over the sandwiches—he'd rather die (maybe really) than tell anyone about his new dilemma. Back in the living room, he used peanut-butter mouth as an excuse not to talk while they ate. Glennie and Grump filled Javier in on their journey to the Other Land and what happened before Conor went in to meet the Birds.

To Grump's dismay, Glennie kept calling the Other Land “the Underworld”—apparently, she'd been very impressed by Nergal. “He has lion feet,” she explained.

Conor finished his sandwich. Everyone turned to him, expectant, and he knew the time had come.

He told them everything that had happened. Plus the kicker: “And now I have to choose who dies.”

Grump's reaction was predictable. “It's simple, kiddo. Choose me.”

Conor shook his head. “There's an O'Neill I don't know three streets over. I'm going over to look at him. Maybe he's sick or something.”

“You're going to kill a complete stranger?” Glennie said.

“Better him than someone I know.” But she was right, wasn't she? Tears formed in Conor's eyes. This was impossible. No one could expect him to make this decision. It was too hard.

Glennie looked like her peanut butter wasn't agreeing with her. “Did we ever find out who the Death is supposed to be?”

Conor blinked back his tears and, without meaning to, found himself gazing right into Ashling's blue eyes. The eyes of a young girl who'd waited sixteen hundred years for a new life. Whose old life still nudged at him, half memory, half dream.

Ashling didn't blink, didn't let her gaze slide away. “It doesn't matter who it is. Conor's going to choose someone else.” Her chin lifted. “I
want
him to choose someone else.”

Easy for her to say. She knows I'm not going to be able to choose, and then it'll be Glennie anyway. She'll get just what she intended from the start.
He broke away from her blue eyes, pretended there was something interesting in the alley outside the window.

He felt Glennie watching him. “Holy macaroni,” she said quietly. “It's me, isn't it?”

Grump slapped his hand hard on the couch. “That's IT!” he roared. “We're not losing another little girl in this family. Conor, you're pointing at me right now, do you hear me?”

Somebody opened the door behind him, but Conor didn't care who it was. “No!” he shouted back. “I'm gonna find an O'Neill who's really, really sick and wants to die. And I'll decide when I'm good and ready, because”—he gulped air—“I'm the hero.”

“He can't do it right now anyway,” a deep voice said. Conor whipped around to see Nergal leaning on his lion-headed staff in the doorway. The Babylonian lord of the dead was wearing a green tracksuit under an oversize purple raincoat, big black rubber boots covering his lion feet. When he turned around to shut the door, his behind wiggled weirdly. After a puzzled second, Conor realized that Nergal had stuffed his tail into his pants.

“What are you doing here?” Ashling snapped. “Did you think I couldn't handle this Death by myself?”

“May I sit down?” Nergal asked. “It will require releasing my tail.”

“It's a free country.” Grump pointed to an armchair. “Want a peanut butter sandwich?”

“No, thank you. We may not eat.” Nergal took off his raincoat and reached into the back of his pants to pull his tail out before sitting down. Tail draped over the arm of his chair, he hauled off his big boots to reveal his paw-feet. “Ahhh.” He leaned back and flexed his leonine toes.

Javier gurgled. “See?” Glennie said. “Awesome, right?”

Nergal raised his eyebrows at Conor. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Uh, yeah. Javier, this is Nergal, Babylonian lord of the dead. Nergal, Javier. The friend I phoned about the spiders.”

“How do you do?” Javier said in a faint voice.

“Ah-ha!” Nergal gave Javier a broad, warm smile. “The knowledgeable one. You saved your friend's life, dude.”