The Dragon's Tooth (25 page)

“Who brought us to birth? In whose arms shall we die? He that keeps us neither slumbers nor sleeps. He is the Keeper of souls.”

Rupert exhaled and looked from Cyrus to Antigone. “I owe a debt to your father. I will repay that debt to you.”

Dropping his hands, he ducked through the hole in the wall. The planks sighed beneath him as he left.

Cyrus looked at his sister. For the first time, he knew exactly how his father had died, and it made him feel raw, peeled like an orange. In his head, he could see Rupert Greeves in the truck. The last man to see his father smile? To hear his laugh? To see him move? No. That would be the men who’d shot him—the killers. Had any of them died in the Archer’s parking lot? He hoped so. And Mrs. Eldridge … she was really dead. All the way dead. Not coming back. Gone. He hadn’t liked her enough, hadn’t been kind enough to her, and that made it worse.

Antigone tucked back her short hair and squinted at him out of one eye. She obviously didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want her to cry.

“Should we go to the chapel?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “And then food. And then we’ll find that Douglas guy.”

Dennis Gilly sat on a thirteen-inch stone ledge, with his knees tucked tight beneath his chin. When the other porters were on break, they played cards in one of the porters’ closets. When Dennis was on break, he perched above the kitchen’s garbage stoop, staring at the lake.

The first time he had climbed up onto the ledge, it had taken him half an hour. Now, a mere four minutes into his break, he could be up, breathing easily, his eyes on the water and his mouth around an apple filched from the kitchen. He didn’t know that he oughtn’t take apples from the kitchen, just like he didn’t know that he oughtn’t climb up onto the ledge above the garbage stoop. Some rules had yet to be written. Nobody had ever said anything about it, one way or another. But he still felt a little guilty, and that made enforcing all the rules he did know about even more important.

Despite the growing wind, Dennis was wearing his bowler hat, tied on with a ribbon beneath his chin. Despite the heat, he was already wearing his black waterproof cape in anticipation of the rain he could see on the horizon.

Dennis loved storms. He loved wind. He loved the sound of snapping sails and the creaking of decks and the splash of the bow in rough water. Watching the colors in the harbor and the rise and fall of the small boats in their slips and the larger ones tugging at their anchors, Dennis ached. And he took a bite of apple.

Yesterday had been a bad day. Three porters were in the hospital, two with burns and one with a bullet wound. Judging from the bullet hole in his cape, he had nearly been killed himself—and by one of the nightmare transmortaled, too. But Cyrus and Antigone had put an end to him. Imagine an Acolyte having a weapon like that. Of course, Rupert had taken it away. He had to. The Order was buzzing. And the monks had been shouting at Rupert during breakfast. Why would anyone want something like that? Unless, of course, they were trying to kill someone like Maximilien Robespierre.

Dennis shivered. Today, of all days, he needed water. He needed wind. He needed to race in front of the growing storm on the Great Lake’s hackling back. Then worry would disappear. Loneliness would vanish.

But he couldn’t sail anymore. He couldn’t walk down to the harbor and hop into the Order’s little number thirteen and let the wind drive him out onto the lake.

He was a porter. Not an Acolyte. His parents were dead. Dues had gone unpaid. But at least he was still here, still able to wedge himself onto a ledge and watch the water. He filled his mouth with crisp, starch apple.

Beneath him, the door on the garbage stoop opened. And then it slammed.

Dennis leaned forward. Cecil Rhodes was fidgeting nervously, turning in place beside the trash bins, picking at his mustache. He was talking. Muttering quietly. Not to himself. Someone else was with him, out of sight beneath the ledge.

Dennis Gilly heard the jingle of small bells and the sound of a lighter flicking. Pipe smoke rose up around Dennis’s toes before a gust from the lake swept it away.

“I’m not useless,” Rhodes said. “Sterling, I’ve done everything, everything he’s asked. And more.”

“Having Eldridge tortured in your office was a lovely bit of planning,” Sterling said. “You could have just asked where the whelps were; I’ve been keeping tabs. And Rupe’s more than just a touch curious what Maxi was up to in your rooms, isn’t he now?
And
he has the tooth.”

“I couldn’t stop Maxi!” Rhodes said. “And you couldn’t have done any better. He’s mad.”

“Was,” Sterling said quietly. “Maxi
was
. Rupe incinerated the corpse this morning. Tell me, Captain Cecil, did you stop little John Lawney from filing Skelton a pair of Acolytes? No, sir. You didn’t. Did you stop that sweet little pair of Smiths from entering the Order’s protection? No, sir. You didn’t. Is Lawney still breathing? Yes, sir. He is. And now Greeves is hovering over his bed like a thirsty mosquito. And Maxi? Right, he’s dead. Oh, I’d say you’ve done everything he’s asked of you. If I were a liar. Have you even gained access to Skelton’s rooms?”

“They’re charm-sealed!” Rhodes said frantically. “And I don’t know with what. I need those keys. I’m not equipped to deal with this kind of thing!”

“I agree,” Sterling said. “You’re not equipped to deal with much of anything, are you, Rhodesy?”

“And what about you? What are you supposed to be doing? According to you, the brats weren’t even carrying the tooth. Well, they were, and did you see that hole in Maxi’s head? Somebody told them what that tooth could do. If Phoenix comes tonight and Rupe’s hidden it … if we can’t find it …”

“I’m doing my part,” Sterling said. “And don’t you worry your hollow head about it. As for that chip off the old Reaper’s Blade—they didn’t have it. Sir Roger would have bellowed hell if they did.” The sweet smell of pipe tobacco surrounded Dennis as the smoke came up in clouds. “And ask yourself this: Why would Rupe be putting it out so loud that he took the tooth when he knows Phoenix is after it?”

“Because he’s a fool and a brute and only happy in a fight.”

“Yes, and he’ll get one. But Rhodesy, you’ve never seen war or left a chessboard a winner. He’s drawing fire. He’s set himself as a decoy. Kitchen money says he doesn’t have it.”

“What? Then who does? Did he hide it? If we don’t find it, Phoenix will kill us both.”

“Hush, duckling,” Sterling said. “Who else was in the room when Maxi died? Who would know how to use that tooth? Who, better than anyone, can disappear in this place?”

He paused. Rhodes cocked his head. Sterling continued. “If only I had my sidewalk chalks, I’d draw you a picture. Find Nikales, Nolan, the Polygon boy. The thief. He left the hospital last night and no one has seen him. His pocket will be heavy. You and your clerks search every corner and shadow and stick of this place. Hunt the tunnels, hunt the grounds, hunt the towers. Find him. Seal him. Come fetch me. When we’ve got him and Rupe and the little Smiths, one of them will have it or point to where it is.”

Rhodes stopped his pacing and began cracking his knuckles.

“Now,” Sterling said. “Go.”

Cecil Rhodes disappeared. The door slammed.

Pipe smoke danced with the wind.

Down on the sloping lawn, two shapes were walking toward the harbor.

Dennis Gilly’s heel slipped an inch, and he froze, biting his lip, tasting blood.

“Dennis Gilly,” Sterling said. “Apple thief and eavesdropper.” Bells jingling, he stepped into view. He didn’t look up. His eyes were on Cyrus and Antigone as they crossed the lawns. His hand held his pipe.

Dennis looked at the ledge to his right. It dead-ended in smooth stone. To his left, it dead-ended in smooth stone, but there was a small rainspout—the ladder he used to get up. Climbing higher wouldn’t help him. He wanted to cover his eyes, to hold very still and somehow become invisible.

Sterling puffed slowly on his pipe, and the smoke blew back around his ears. “Come on down, lad. Come have a chat with Big Ben Sterling.”

Cyrus filled his lungs with warm wind, beginning to feel more alive. Poor Mrs. Eldridge. In the chapel, her face had been as pale and peaceful as moonlight, but the sight of her had been as violent as a kick to the stomach. The old woman’s fingers, empty of rings, had been interlaced. Her white hair had been pushed back from her face and woven into a cobweb-silver braid. She actually looked younger in death.

He glanced at his sister. Seeing Mrs. Eldridge, saying goodbye, had been hard, but somehow easier than not seeing her at all.

The green lawns, the sprawling gray lake, the blue sky walled with rowdy black clouds in the distance—the world around them was beautiful and alive. And they were somehow still alive in it. In this world, in this sun, he could almost believe that he would see Dan again.

Cyrus savored the sun on his face. The wind was muscling through his hair, and the keys were clicking back and forth against his collarbones with each downhill stride. The lightning bug banged against his right thigh. And yesterday’s find, forgotten in the chaos—the strange wet ball of Quick Water—was slapping against his left leg while he walked. He looked at Antigone. She looked back. He was turning into a walking collection.

“I don’t feel great about this, Cy. Why would anyone be fishing in a storm?”

“It’s not a storm,” Cyrus said. “Not yet, at least.”

For a moment, they were silent, walking in step. And then his sister cleared her throat and coughed.

“Poor Mrs. E,” Antigone said. “If she hadn’t been helping us …”

“Yeah,” said Cyrus. “I know.”

Antigone looked at him. “Does it make you want to quit?”

Cyrus inhaled. It didn’t. And not just because they had nowhere else to go. He shook his head.

“Me neither,” said Antigone. “I mean, she died helping us. If we flunk out or whatever after that … I almost don’t care about getting Skelton’s money anymore. Almost. I know we need it.”

Cyrus said nothing. His sister was right. But he didn’t need any extra motivation, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d given a thought to Skelton’s estate. Antigone had known sooner than he had—what they’d learned, what they’d seen, what he’d done in the past three days, all of it had changed who they were. But he knew that now. Collecting tires would mean nothing. Sneaking into his school’s gym would be as exciting as sleeping. They could never go back to who they’d been before.

He wasn’t leaving Ashtown, not even if it meant studying something.

In front of them, the grass jutted out in a long row of flat-topped mini-plateaus, each one as big as a house. Between these, the slope continued more steeply, down to a long, level stripe of grass—the airstrip. Cyrus and Antigone jogged down. When they reached the airstrip, they stopped and looked back. Dozens of underground hangars were set into the hillside, with the grassy plateaus for roofs. Most of the doors were closed, but a few were open, revealing crowds of pristine vintage planes and clusters of jumpsuited mechanics.

Diana Boone stood beside the nearest one. She was wearing a ragged leather jacket over a jumpsuit, her hands were on her hips, and she was watching four men winch a pale-blue plane with a green underbelly back into a tight space in the small hangar. Beneath the glass cockpit, the plane’s name was painted in swooping red letters:

Frustrated, Diana shook her head and cupped her hands. “Wingtip, Edward!” she yelled. “You’ll clip the Bearcat!”

The man at the winch looked up. His gray jumpsuit was spotted with stains.

“Get out of here, Di!” he yelled. “Your Tick’s fine. Leave, or I’ll roll all your birds out into the storm and walk away.”

Cyrus opened his mouth to yell, but Antigone grabbed his arm and pulled him back around.

“Not now, Cy. No distractions. We’re going to the jetty.” She dragged him a few steps before he shook her arm loose and kept stride. “And you’re twelve,” she added.

“Practically thirteen,” Cyrus muttered. “And she probably thinks I’m older than you are. I’m taller and less snotty.”

Antigone laughed. “Right. You’re Captain Wonderful. Dream a big dream.” The two of them crossed the airstrip and let gravity lengthen their strides down the slope.

The harbor was full of bobbing sailboats. Sails had been lashed to masts. Smaller motored craft had been lashed into slips along a boardwalk. Some had been cranked up out of the water on metal lifts.

The stone jetty was empty of all but a few shapes. A dripping wet boy and girl were stepping off of it holding a large bucket between them that was splashing madly with something. A woman was running through a crisp routine with two signal flags for the benefit of a distant boat, and then consulting a large pair of binoculars before continuing her gymnastic conversation. At the very end, where wind-swollen lake waves were sending up spray, someone—man or woman—was slumped in a wheelchair with two fishing poles mounted to the hand rests.

“And,” said Antigone, “there’s our guy.”

As they approached, Cyrus could see that the spray was actually reaching the old man. A sopping blanket covered his legs, his chin was tilted forward onto his chest, and his hat had blown off.