The Dragon's Tooth (20 page)

“A touch of religious decoration,” Sterling said. “The skull was idolized in a human sacrificial cult for more than a century. You can hear the thing breathe if you make it angry enough. The demon soul huffs and it puffs, but it can’t find its way back in. There are others—”

“Hold on,” Antigone said, raising her hands. “Stop! The skull gets mad?”

“Miss Antigone,” Sterling said. “Take me or leave me. You’ll sleep better if you disbelieve. It isn’t the skull that gets angry—it’s nothing but bone and gold. It’s what used to live in the skull, unable to leave—that’s all immortality is, drifting around, with nothing better to do than linger.

“This one’s been dealt with, and by a girl like you. But I’m sure he still thinks he was badly treated. I would, too, if I were a hellish big immortal, overfeeding on the villagers, seeing no end of myself in sight. Getting sliced by a wisp of a girl with a sharp tooth would be startling on a warm Ethiopian morning. A mortal would have coped better. We all expect a bit of death at the end.”

Cyrus backed away. He had already seen things in Ashtown that he didn’t want to believe. He stopped and crouched down until he was shorter than the skull. “What makes it mad?” he asked.

“Cyrus,” Antigone said, shivering. “Don’t even ask. I don’t want to know.”

“Ah, she’s a believer now,” said Sterling. He stepped back beside Cyrus. “Don’t you worry about Sir Roger here. There’s only one or two things to anger him. Most of the time I don’t think the big lad even knows he’s here.”

Sterling looked down at Cyrus. “If you whisper the name of the little girl who did him in, the demon finds a memory. And, of course, if either of you happened to be carrying that tooth with you, he’d be more than a little upset.”

Antigone looked at her brother, confused. Cyrus turned away from her, staring at the skull instead. She thought he still had the tooth. That’s why Sterling brought them here? To see if he really had the tooth? Well, he didn’t. He was an idiot, and he’d let it get stolen.

“What happens when he’s mad?” Cyrus asked. He hoped his voice sounded normal.

“Oh, he does a bit of heavy breathing—absorbs some of the room’s light. Years ago, the Journeymen named him Sir Roger, and they got a fair bit of use out of him when it came to hazing the Acolytes.”

Cyrus shifted his weight. “Say the name.”

“No. Stop. I’m leaving,” Antigone said. “Seriously, this is dumber than poking a rattlesnake.”

Sterling sighed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cyrus. But I couldn’t do that to your poor sister. But I’ll spell it so you can test my word when you’re alone sometime—it takes a bit more courage alone. S-E-L-A-M. The name means ‘peaceful,’ a lovely spice of irony.”

Putting his hands on his hips, the big cook scanned the room. “There are other skulls like Sir Roger in the Order’s collections in Europe and Africa—a pair in Istanbul have only a single eye—but this one required the Dragon’s Tooth for the harvest. Like the lads we keep in the Burials.”

Cyrus stood up.
Kill me
. The whisper ran through his head. The man with the bullet hole and the beard had known he was carrying the tooth.

Edgy nerves were all over Antigone’s face. “What do you mean? About the Burials?”

Ben Sterling jingled to the first row of shelves. He was at least a foot too wide to fit between them.

“Well,” he said. “I’m not saying it’s pretty, but what options do you have when an immortal or transmortal takes to … misunderstanding people? The Sages collect names. Make lists. Do their best to monitor behavior. And it’s up to the Explorers to collect more than names. Before and after everything else, Ashtown is a prison, and don’t you forget it. Beginning and end, start and stop.”

“Wait a sec,” said Cyrus. “Are any of the people in the Burials dead?”

“Not always people,” Sterling said. “Never dead. They sleep.”

“For how long?” Antigone asked.

Sterling shrugged. “Forever. Or, like Maxi, until they are wakened, roused, released, or busted loose. In the beginning, the Burials were all neat and orderly—a polished little dungeon. But there were too many incidents, too many revivals and escapes. Now each Burial is hidden. A guard might know one or two, but only the Avengel keeps a full map. But I’m scaring you now. There hasn’t been a transmortal put down in nearly a century.”

“You know,” said Cyrus, “I saw the thing on Skelton’s keys. It was small—like a petrified shark tooth. I don’t see how it could be the tooth you’re talking about.”

Antigone shot him a warning glance.

Cyrus shrugged. “I saw it. So what?”

Sterling’s face spread into a wide smile. “Did you touch it? Did you handle it?”

“I don’t know,” Cyrus said. “I guess. He had me park his truck. It was just a little black point—not a sword big enough to take off a giant’s head.”

The cook sighed happily, tugged his beard, and then crossed his arms. “Billy Bones, you had the point,” he said quietly. “You old dog.”

He looked back at Cyrus. “The tooth was shattered centuries ago by monks who didn’t want it used as a weapon. They scattered pieces around the world to be used in healing—they said—but the truth was rank grisly. To them, the shards were Resurrection Stones, and they used them to raise the dead. After certain … questionable rites, the gravely ill and mortally wounded would be sealed in chambers with the shards.

“Resurrection rooms, they called them, though nothing appealing ever resurrected. If you’re with Nolan, you sleep in one of those rooms now.”

Antigone grimaced.

Ben Sterling tucked his hands into the pockets of his apron and shifted his weight, leg springs sighing. “Look around in here if you like, but I hear the kitchen calling.”

He tugged the door open, jingled through, paused, and leaned back into the room.

“Cyrus, you said you parked old Skelton’s truck?”

Cyrus nodded.

“And he just gave you his keys?”

“Yeah, why?”

Sterling’s eyes sparked above his smile. “No reason.” The door shut behind him.

Antigone looked at her brother, irritated. “Cy, now he knows you have them.”

Cyrus moved to the nearest shelf. “I don’t have the keys, Tigs.” He fished the little paper ball out of his pocket and tossed it to his sister. “That’s what was in there this morning.”

Antigone unrolled it. “Trust Nolan?” She looked up. “We should tell Greeves. You said you were going to tell him about the tooth today anyway. He needs to know that Nolan has it.”

“I don’t want to tell Greeves.”

“Why? You want to hunt for Nolan yourself?”

“I just don’t want to tell him. It’s embarrassing. And I don’t want to hunt for Nolan. We have enough other things to do, but mostly I don’t think we could find him.”

“We should find Mrs. E.” Antigone tugged on her brother’s shirt. “She said she would help us this morning. C’mon, we should go.”

“I want to look around first.” Cyrus scanned the shelves.

“Cy, I’m not gonna hang out in here with you and Sir Roger.”

Cyrus grinned. “I think you are. If you head for the door, my mouth might just sort of slip.”

He walked toward the skull.

“Cyrus …” Antigone sighed. “If you want to play games, find a new friend.”

“I’m not playing,” Cyrus said. He tapped a gold-plated eye socket.

“Cyrus Lawrence Smith,” Antigone said, raising her eyebrows. “Stop acting your age. Do you think
I’m
scared? You wet your pants the first time we watched
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
”

“Seriously, Tigs?” Cyrus said. “Who has more nightmares? And this won’t be a nightmare. This will be real.”

“Little brother …” Puffing frustration, Antigone smoothed her hair, gritted her teeth, and pointed at the skull. “Selam.”

Cyrus jumped, staggering into his sister. The two of them crashed back into the shelves and down into a row.

Antigone felt her brother’s fist in her stomach and the hard floor against her shoulder blades. A box landed above her head. Glass broke. Paper rained down.

Water slapped into her hair.

Above them, the lights dimmed.

fourteen

QUICK WATER

C
YRUS COULDN’T ROLL
to either side. And he didn’t want to scoot backward toward the skull. So he crawled forward, over the top of his sister, carefully sliding his hands through paper, glass, and some kind of puddling liquid.

“Get off!” Antigone slapped at him.

“There’s glass,” Cyrus said. “Hold on.”

Antigone pushed his hips up into the air, got her boots braced on his legs, and then heaved him into a somersault.

Cyrus slammed awkwardly to the floor.

“Ow.” He groaned. “Tigs, you just ruptured my kidney.”

Antigone sat up. “My apologies. Now shut up. I’m trying to listen.”

She leaned forward, staring at the skull.

Cyrus scraped himself up. “I think my hand is bleeding.”

“Shhh.” Antigone grabbed a shelf, thought better of it, and then pushed herself up off the floor. Water dribbled down from her hair and slapped onto her boot. “Nothing,” Antigone said. “Absolutely nothing.”

“The lights dimmed,” Cyrus said. “I know they did.”

“How would you know?” Antigone asked. “You were busy tackling me while screaming and sucking your thumb.”

“First,” Cyrus said, standing up, “I didn’t scream. Second, that was
your
thumb in my mouth.”

“Selam,” Antigone said, stepping forward. “Selam.”

Dust trickled across the floor. The lanterns dimmed and swung on the ceiling. For a moment, the temperature wobbled, and a long sucking sound, like a breath pulled through teeth, filled the room.

And it was gone.

The dust stopped.

The light grew.

“Hmm,” said Cyrus. “We’ve seen it. It happened. Now let’s agree not to do that again.”

Antigone laughed. “Really, Cyrus? Who was just pretending to be the brave one?”

“I wouldn’t have done it. I’m not dumb, Tigs. You’re just funny when you’re scared.”

“Yeah, right. Can we go now, or do you need to change your pants?”

“Why? Oh. Aren’t
you
hilarious. No. I didn’t wet myself, Brave Sister. But only because you inspire me. What’s all over the floor? It’s on your boot, too.”

Tiny drops of clear liquid were rolling through yellowing pages and ancient envelopes. Cyrus thumped to his knees. The drops were seeking each other, growing larger as they tumbled over shards of glass, through bunnied dust, and around Antigone’s boots.

A ball slopped off Antigone’s toe, swallowing a whole flock of drops, and gathered around her sole.

“I wouldn’t touch it,” Antigone said.

Cyrus extended a finger. “It looks like water.”

“It’s not acting like water. It’s acting like mercury.”

“I’ve never seen how mercury acts.” Cyrus poked it. The ball quivered and slid slowly away on its flat belly.

“
That’s
how it acts,” Antigone said. “But it’s silver, and it doesn’t go looking for itself.”

More tiny droplets tumbled past to join the ball. The bigger it got, the faster the smaller drops moved toward it.

Cupping his hands, Cyrus picked it up.

“Mercury is poisonous,” Antigone said. “In chemistry, Mr. Sampson said it can soak through your skin and kill you.”

“But this isn’t mercury,” said Cyrus. “This is water. Should I taste it?”

“You’ve been a little hard to deal with lately, so yeah, go ahead.”

Cyrus held the ball up to the light. Antigone pressed up beside him to get a look. Tiny particles of dirt and splinters of wood were floating inside it, but as they watched, all of the impurities rose to the top of the sphere, then slid down around the outside until they reached Cyrus’s skin.

It was cleaning itself.

“Wow,” said Cyrus. “Tigs, try something. Cup your hands beneath mine.”

Antigone held out her hands beneath her brother’s, and then Cyrus spread his fingers.

The liquid immediately slopped through and bounced into Antigone’s cupped palms.

Cyrus examined his fingers. “It feels just like water, but my skin’s dry. All the gunk is left, though.” He brushed off his hands and began scanning the rubble on the floor. A rectangular box lay open on its side. Glass was scattered around it.

Cyrus picked up the box. Inside, it was lined with red velvet and looked like the inside of an egg carton. A dozen baseball-size indents were set in two rows. One of them held half a hollow glass sphere. The rest were empty. A small, lined piece of paper had been tacked inside the lid.

“This is really weird, Cyrus,” said Antigone. “Look what happens when you break it in half.”

Cyrus glanced at his sister. She was cupping an egg-size ball of the water in each hand.

“They’re two feet apart,” Antigone said. “But they pull like serious magnets.”

Her hands slapped together, and a single large ball dropped to the floor and bounced like a doomed water balloon.

Antigone scrambled after it as Cyrus looked back at the list. Eleven names had been handwritten in a column labeled
MEMBER
. They had written their ranks in the next column, and the “date of withdrawal” in the next. The “date of return” column was completely empty. The last “date of withdrawal” was 1932.

“They need some librarians around here,” Cyrus said. “Some curators. Something. Somebody should be collecting late fees. Tigs, we can take stuff out of here. You just write your name down.” He closed the lid and looked at the top of the box. A typed label had been filled out with a sloppy fountain pen and then glued down.

“Tigs, it’s a fungus,” Cyrus said. He held out the box. “And it was collected by a Smith. That makes it practically ours.”

Slopping the ball from hand to hand, Antigone read the label. “Let’s go with Quick Water. The other ones sound evil.”

“Quick Water it is,” said Cyrus. “Give me half.”

Antigone splashed half her blob into her brother’s hands. He held it back up to the light.

It was clearer than any water he had ever seen. Clearer than air. And it did strange things with the light, like a fish-eye camera lens. Looking into it was like looking into a different room, a different world, spread out, bent, curving, but perfectly sharp. He raised it all the way up to his eye and tried to look through it. Shelves warped up toward the ceiling around … his sister?

Antigone screamed, and Cyrus jumped backward, tripped, and nearly fell again.

“Cyrus!” she said, covering her water. “We have to put them back. I saw an eye. The whole thing was magnifying an eye—an eyeball just sitting in my hand.”

“It spooked me, too,” Cyrus said, “but mine was looking at you. You were in mine.”

“What are you saying?” Antigone asked. “I was in yours? How?”

“I was looking at you. I looked into the water, and the room was all bent, and at first I didn’t notice that it wasn’t the right part of the room, but then I was looking up at you.”

“I don’t get it,” Antigone said. “More importantly, I don’t like it. We’re putting them back.”

“I was looking into mine and out of yours!” Cyrus said. “I mean, I’m guessing that’s what happened. That was my eye. Hopefully. Look again.”

Cyrus held his water up—farther from his face this time—and he grinned. His wobbling ball was dark. But then Antigone opened her hands. When her water’s quivering had settled down, there was her brother, smiling up out of her sphere like a bizarre cartoon—enormous-nosed and pencil-necked.

“Tigs,” said the cartoon Cyrus. “This is the coolest thing ever, and we’re taking it with us.”

The door banged open, and Cyrus and Antigone jumped.

Eleanor Eldridge glared at them. She was wearing a straw hat and had a heavy book bag slung over her shoulder.

“What do you two think you’re doing?”

Antigone slipped her water into Cyrus’s hand and jumped forward. “Sterling said we could look around.”

“Sterling,” Mrs. Eldridge muttered. “Don’t you go listening to Benjamin Sterling—he’s a man with a dirty soul, though he did tell me where to find you.”

She turned around. “Come along, then. It’s time we talked about your tutors.”

“Oh, we have the list,” Antigone said.

The old woman laughed. “Throw it away. You two may be the most unpopular Acolytes Ashtown has ever seen. Nobody wants to share a room with you, let alone share a lesson. And the club masters with their little white uniforms wouldn’t go near you for a triple fee.”

She glanced back at Cyrus and snorted around a half smile. “You surely won’t be getting any language help from the monks. But I’ve done my best and you should be grateful. Hop to, hop to! I’m not waiting.”

She hurried back through the door. Tucking balls of Quick Water into their pockets, Cyrus and Antigone jogged after her.

“Now,” she said when they’d reached the main hallway, “you’re on the list as having paid all dues—though I’m not sure how—so we’ll start with proper clothes. Keep up, keep up. I’ll explain things on the way.”

Mrs. Eldridge led them out the main doors and into the muggy summer morning. Dennis Gilly, sweating under his bowler hat, grinned at them as they passed. The far side of the lawn was busy with white-uniformed grapplers taking turns throwing and bouncing each other in the grass. On the gravel path directly at the bottom of the stairs, two boys were each working on a single bicycle with its own large umbrella propeller.

But Cyrus’s eyes were in the air.

He stopped and Antigone stopped with him. No more than fifty feet off the ground, six small, football-shaped hot-air balloons were engaged in a battle. Three of the balloons were white and three were red, but each was painted with a different symbol—Cyrus saw the ship, the snake, and something that looked like a bear.

The baskets were tiny, barely big enough for one person but each holding two. On the back of each basket there was a large fan, like something off a swamp boat. Mounted on the front, there was a small cannon.

From one of the baskets, two people had fallen and were dangling at the end of long ropes tied around their waists. A third person, a girl, had taken over their balloon. She was running the fan and the cannon by herself.

Mrs. Eldridge stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked back up at Cyrus and Antigone. She clicked her tongue and snapped her fingers. Cyrus didn’t hear. The balloons were circling each other, ramming each other, and firing brown lumps at each other that tumbled down to the ground.

One of the lumps bounced off a balloon and spun through the air toward Cyrus, thumping onto the stairs not six feet from where they were standing. It looked like a compressed loaf of bread.

“What are they doing?” Antigone asked.

“Nothing productive,” Mrs. Eldridge said. “It’s quite childish, though Journeymen have been doing it as long as I can remember. It’s a game of conquest. Board an opponent’s balloon and hurl him from the basket. They’re only supposed to fire stale bread at each other, though Sterling’s kitchen tends to provide it fresh. Now come on, and watch your heads.”

Cyrus and Antigone stumbled down the stairs. While they watched, two balloons collided. Bread and shouted threats were exchanged from point-blank range, and then the boarding struggle began, with fan-driven baskets spinning.

Antigone yelped as two bodies fell, bounced, and dangled—one from each balloon. The war above them raged on.