The Dragon's Tooth (31 page)

The door opened. Stairs moaned.

“Hello?” Cyrus said. “Who is it? This room is occupied.”

“Cyrus!”

Diana staggered into the room, Antigone pushing from behind.

“Wow,” said Diana. “You guys are the lucky ones.” She bent down and plucked out Dennis’s gag.

The porter sputtered. “Lucky? This is lucky?”

Diana nodded.

“It’s terrible upstairs,” Antigone said, pulling on Cyrus’s straps. “Sterling’s poisoned the whole Order. Everybody. The kitchen is full of bodies.”

“You didn’t even see the dining hall,” Diana said. She stopped suddenly, forcing herself to breathe. She looked dizzy. “The Order’s gone. Everyone.” Her eyes widened and she blinked quickly. Pulling the last ropes off Dennis’s wrists, she helped him to his feet.

Cyrus stood up, and Antigone thumped into him with a hug. She was soaking wet.

Cyrus pulled free and picked up the mayonnaise jar and eyedropper, handing them to his sister. “Sterling said to put two drops under the tongue. We were the only ones in here. He was telling us what to do.”

“What to do after he poisoned everyone?” Antigone asked. “Why would he do that?”

Cyrus shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s not all bad.”

His sister’s eyebrows shot up.

“Or,” said Cyrus, “maybe he is all bad, but he doesn’t want to think he is.”

“Come on,” Diana said. “Back upstairs. We’ll ask Jax.”

In the kitchen, all four of the thugs had been tied up with apron strings.

Jax had Hillary and Gunner lying on their backs, and his fingers were on the Texan’s throat.

Dennis staggered through the kitchen and dropped to his knees beside Hillary.

“His heart’s beating,” Jax said. “Slowly. Every five seconds or so. With spasms. Hillary is worse, but she’s much smaller.” He looked up at Diana and the others. “It doesn’t take much with a Jaculus Viper, and unlike normal snakes, it doesn’t need to be injected. The venom is acidic enough to get into the blood through tissue—skin, stomach lining, anything that has blood in it. It was in the food, so that gives us a little time—they’d all be dead already if it was a direct bite. But there’s too many people.” He teared up and looked away quickly. “The small ones have thirty minutes. Forty-five if they’re lucky. Maybe. I have to get to the zoo, catch a viper, cut it open, drain a gland, and get back. And that might only give me enough for five people.” The zookeeper sobbed. “I’ll have to pick. I don’t want to pick.”

“What about this?” Cyrus asked, holding out the jar. “Sterling had it.”

Swallowing, James Axelrotter took the jar, twisted off the lid, and sniffed at the contents. Surprised, he snatched the glass eyedropper out of Cyrus’s hand. Pinching a dropperful, he raised it to his mouth and dabbed it with his tongue. It hissed. The boy zookeeper flinched, and then laughed. “This is it! I don’t know how he got this much, and I don’t care.”

Jax opened Gunner’s mouth and squeezed two drops under his tongue. Then he rolled him onto his face.

“It’ll foam,” he said. “And they won’t come to for a little while. They’ll choke if we leave them on their backs. There are hundreds of people and not much time. I’ll need help.”

He turned to little Hillary Drake, and Dennis opened her mouth.

“Excuse me,” Nolan said. “But we can’t stay here, and soon enough, we won’t be able to do this at all.” He pointed at the window. “The plane has landed, Phoenix will be here any minute, and there are other thugs still around to give him a welcome.”

“Have any ideas?” Diana squinted at the dark window.

“Maybe,” said Nolan. “Almost.”

Jax and Dennis rolled Hillary onto her face, and then crawled to the next body—a busboy.

“Whatever we do,” Cyrus said, pointing at the four tied-up men, “they shouldn’t hear about it.”

“Drag them downstairs,” Antigone said. She jumped over to Jax. “Give me some,” she said. “We need more droppers. I’ll start in the dining hall.”

Cecil Rhodes sat on his couch, drumming his fingers on his knees, wiping sweat on his sleeve, and then drumming his fingers on his knees. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Maxi had done to Mrs. Eldridge in that very room. His eyes kept drifting to the bloodstain on the floor, and then up to his telephone. It was supposed to ring. Any second.

He looked across the room at the muscle who had been assigned to him. The man was working on his teeth with a fingernail.

“Did it really work?” Cecil asked. “What happened?”

The man sighed, examining his hand. “I told you already. They kicked, they screamed, they dropped down dead.”

Cecil didn’t like the man’s eyes. They were cold. And catlike. But they weren’t as bad as the gill slits on the sides of his neck. He used to wear a scarf, and Rhodes wished the man would tie it back on. Cecil knew what the man had done as an Explorer. Cecil had served as the O of B’s prosecutor at the trial.

The phone rang.

Rhodes jumped forward, nearly knocking it off the desk.

“Hello, sir. Yes, sir. It’s done. Just the boy, sir. The girl may be among the poisoned.” Rhodes covered the handset and looked up at his guard. “Sterling?”

“No sign of him.”

Cecil lifted the phone back up. It was slippery with sweat. “No, sir. We don’t know where he has gone. Would you like us to begin moving the bodies? No? I understand, sir. We will leave them for you to view. Wonderful. Yes, sir.”

He hung up and jumped back, like he was shaking off a spider. The man with the gills laughed.

Edwin Ashes-Laughlin-Phoenix rose from his seat and limped forward into the cockpit of his seaplane. One of the pontoons was grinding against the jetty. But he didn’t care about the rocking waves or the damage to the plane. He cared about what he could see at the top of the slope, with its windows lit. He cared about a small piece of sharp tooth, and hidden sleepers in their Burials. They were now his.

The men and women of Brendan were dead. The time had come for a Phoenix to rise up out of Ashtown.

Behind him, two unconscious shapes lay motionless on narrow cots, and a red-winged blackbird fluttered and screeched angrily in a cage hanging from the ceiling.

“Shall we bring them?” One of the green twins pulled off his headset.

“No,” said Dr. Phoenix. “First, the triumphal entry.”

twenty-one

THE SLEEPING MOB

D
R
. P
HOENIX WAS
not going to enter Ashtown through a kitchen door. Nor would he make one of his offspring carry an umbrella for him. He had walked, flanked by his two lean sons, all the way up and around to the main lawn. Now, with rain streaming off his long trench coat and his straw hat, he stood at the base of the great stairs, near the wet body of a porter.

He could hear the beating wings of a platoon of giant dragonflies in the darkness behind him. They had grown in number, but there were no guards to see what they saw, and no one to command them to attack.

Climbing the stairs, he approached the huge wooden door, but it whined open before he reached it.

Inside, the glistening mapped floors and the vaulted frescoed ceilings stretched away toward the leather boat on its pedestal. Phoenix inhaled slowly and then sighed. It had been too long.

Cecil Rhodes and twelve others stood in a line with their backs against the wall.

Dr. Phoenix savored the sight. And then, laughing, pulling off his gloves, and shedding his hat and trench, he crossed the threshold into Ashtown. Farther down the hallway, he could see bodies, all facedown, limbs splaying awkwardly, foam dribbling from their mouths—the casualties of his triumph.

“Where is the boy?” he asked Rhodes.

Rhodes cleared his throat and picked at his mustache. “Not exactly sure, sir. Sterling had him. But, as you know, we seem to have lost Sterling.”

A gilled man laughed. “Crack team.”

Phoenix turned slowly, and then moved down the line until he stood in front of the man. He was much taller than the man was, though far thinner.

“My friend, who gave you those eyes?” he asked, smiling. “Those lovely shark gills?”

The man said nothing. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Did you ask to be born, sir? Did you ask for sight, for smell, for ten fingers? No. And yet you were given them. And I have given you more.”

The man looked into Phoenix’s eyes and flinched, trying to look away but unable to. Panic raced across his face. Phoenix raised his right hand, a long forefinger pressing against his thumb. He snapped, and the man’s eyes rolled back in his head. His legs wobbled, and he staggered forward, gasping.

“Your body no longer wants its lungs,” Phoenix said. “And gills do need water.” The man fell to the floor. “Be comforted,” Phoenix continued, smiling. “You are unique. Not many men can drown in air.”

While the man kicked, Dr. Phoenix turned back to Cecil. “You are missing nine of the men named to me. Where are they?”

Rhodes licked his lips and shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”

Phoenix nodded, filled his lungs, pushed back his black hair with the heels of his hands, and flattened the lapels on his soiled lab coat. “Do please take me to the bodies, to the harvest, to the sweet sunset of the Order’s chattel.”

“Right,” said Rhodes. “Follow me, then.”

While they moved down the hall, Rhodes cleared his throat. “About what we discussed, sir,” he whispered. “The Brendanship … the coup is complete. It might be appropriate for you to tell the others. I will, of course, reiterate my loyalty to you.”

Dr. Phoenix stopped and let his head hang. His long arms dangled limp by his sides. His shoulders bobbed with laughter, but when he looked up, his face was a sharp tombstone.

“Mr. Rhodes,” he drawled loudly. “You are a traitor to your people, your Order, and your friends. I would not entrust you with my laundry.” He moved on. “When I have need of more betrayals, then I shall have more need of you. Come. I have asked to see the dead, the many you have stung for me.”

“I didn’t—” Cecil stopped himself. The green twins parted around him, neck gills fluttering, heeling to their master. “But you said …”

“There will be no Brendan!” Dr. Phoenix yelled. “No Order, no ranks, no charade of self-importance! Only master and mastered, Mr. Rhodes. I will build a new race, a species apart and above the filth of humanity. Ashtown will be a womb, and you shall be a nursery maid.”

The twins followed Dr. Phoenix down the hall and past the boat. The other men trailed behind, some glancing at Cecil, some smiling, some smirking, some hanging their heads.

A minute later, Cecil Rhodes stood alone. He looked back down the hall at the large door still open onto the courtyard, the door leading away from Ashtown, away from what he’d done. Rain spattered on the stone steps, and he could see a porter’s feet. Dragonflies darted past the entrance.

Turning away, he ran after Phoenix, rushing past hundreds of damning eyes staring out of photos, past sprawling bodies bearing witness to his crime.

One of the bodies jumped to her feet and kicked him in the stomach.

Breathless, he crumpled to the floor and slid into the wall. His eyes filled with tears, and as he blinked them away, he found himself looking up the barrel of a revolver and into the face of Diana Boone.

The hammer clicked back.

Over her shoulder, the Smith boy appeared. He was holding a small African club.

“God knows I should,” Diana said. Her voice was low. A growl. “But I can’t waste the bullet.”

The boy stepped forward and raised his club. The blow fell.

Cyrus looked down at the limp, unconscious lawyer. Diana was already scanning the hallway.

“That’s one,” she whispered. “Your sister? Jax? Dennis?”

Cyrus shouldered his club and looked into the Quick Water. His heart was racing. “All down,” he said softly. “They saw them coming.”

“Good. Watch our backs.”

Diana jogged down the hallway toward the big, open front door and a porter’s feet, pulling out the small corked bottle Jax had given her as she did.

Looking over his shoulder, Cyrus ran behind, keys jingling against his chest.

The two of them stepped out into the wet wind and flipped the small porter onto his back. Cyrus opened the boy’s mouth and lifted his tongue. Diana squeezed two drips off her dropper, and they rolled the boy back onto his face.

Straightening, Diana squinted out into the dark courtyard. “See anyone?”

“Over there,” Cyrus said, pointing. “On the path. Two people.”

Side by side, they stutter-stepped down the slick stairs, reached the gravel path, and jogged through the stinging rain.

“It’s Rupe!” Diana yelled, and she moved into a sprint.

The big man’s head and shoulders were off the path, his face in the grass. He was wearing a rain cape, but the hood had fallen back. In one hand, he held a short shotgun. His other fist was clenched around foil-wrapped chicken. A dragonfly screen flickered in the grass. The boy, Oliver, was lying facedown in the gravel.

Antigone’s cheek was pressed into the red carpet. She’d put a large man’s foot on her head to disguise herself, but there hadn’t been much need. The place was strewn with bodies. Young, old, men, women, children, monks. Under tables, on tables, tangled up in tablecloths, buried beneath food, shattered china, and the limbs of dining partners.

So many people and so much silence. Each breath felt like a sneeze in church. The Quick Water had worked. She’d seen the horrible man coming with his people, and she’d shoved Dennis down and whispered at Jax. He hadn’t stopped. Not at first. Not until the doors had moved and the two green men had stepped aside for the monster in the bright white suit beneath the soiled lab coat. She stopped her breath and felt her heart quicken.

The cloak. She hoped Nolan was right.

A small crowd had entered behind Phoenix. Don’t look closely, she thought. Don’t, don’t, don’t.

The bodies closest to the kitchen were all facedown. The bodies closest to the kitchen were all foaming at the mouth.

The monster in the white coat moved farther into the room, prodding the unconscious dying, grinning from ear to ear.

Suddenly, he stopped and closed his eyes, lifting his face and raising his arms.

“Children of Brendan,” he said, falsely somber, “I pardon thee whatever sins thou hast committed—”

He stopped, interrupted by a cough. Lowering his long arms, he squinted around the room. Nolan’s voice descended from the ceiling.

“ ‘My name is Edwin Harry Laughlin.’ ” Lilting, mocking. “ ‘I am sixteen years old and a recent Acolyte in the Order of Brendan, Ashtown. My father’s name is Harry Hamilton Laughlin. My mother’s name was Pansy. She died two years ago, after one of my father’s experiments.’ ”

Phoenix’s face purpled, and then paled quickly as he collected himself. “It seems we have a wit in the room,” he drawled. “Do show yourself now. Or how can I know in which direction to applaud?”

Antigone bit her lip, watching Phoenix’s men swivel and search. And then the two identical green men slid forward, creeping smoothly across the bodies like stalking wolves. Their nostrils were flared, and their eyes were on one of the heat vents just beneath the beamed ceiling.

“Shoot him,” Phoenix said.

The men drew guns, and a pair of fireballs corkscrewed toward the vent, exploding in the grate.

“Idiots!” Phoenix groaned. “I would prefer if you didn’t burn the place. Bullets! Use bullets. And your heads.”

The men tucked away their weapons and drew new ones—long-barreled revolvers. The beveled grate bent and puckered as they fired, and the smell of sulfur and gunpowder drifted through the room.

Antigone jerked at each report, but no one was watching. She could see Dennis breathing hard. Jax was inching forward, his jar tucked beneath his arm, dropper in hand. Antigone wanted to yell at him to stop moving. The men were right there. If any of them so much as glanced down, he’d be killed.

The firing stopped. All eyes were on the ruined grate. The silence was brief.

“ ‘My mother,’ ” Nolan said, “ ‘was the sort of sweet, empty-headed thing great men like my father can find themselves burdened with. There were even moments when I loved her. But I hate her Gypsy blood. I hate that it is in me. I want it out. I will get it out. My father tried, and he came close. I will succeed. At least, there are times when I think I will. I dream that I will. But my waking hours are spent in pain. My legs. My mind. Too many blood purifications. Too much electricity. I cannot sleep without nightmares, and when I wake, my bed is swamped with sweat.’ ”

Dr. Phoenix was a statue, his face bloodless. His eyes unfocused. “You, sir …,” he began, but his voice trailed away. His jaw clenched, pulsing. His chest heaved. He was panting now, rolling his head, clenching his fists. Antigone tensed and slid a little farther away. Nolan had wanted Phoenix angry, but why that would make him take off his coat, she didn’t understand.

And then, suddenly, the thin man with the black hair raised quivering hands to his shoulders. He tore off the stained white coat and threw it on the ground. His suit coat followed. Antigone blinked. The man’s hair was whitening. His nostrils flared, and his shoulders thickened, broadening. Huge hands balled into hairy melon fists. His legs thickened, shortening and bowing out.

Snarling, Phoenix—Mr. Ashes—leapt forward, scrambling over bodies, jerking the guns from his sons’ hands.

A gun fired, but not his. Flame flashed out of the vent, and Dr. Phoenix—Mr. Ashes—dropped to his knees. One of the twins fell. The other reached the wall. The firing shifted toward the door, into the crowd.

Yelping, leaving one of their own behind on the floor, the men flooded back into the hall.

Antigone saw Jax pinch two drops into the next mouth, roll over the body quickly, and wriggle on.

Dennis raised his head nervously and then scooched himself forward.

The coat was on the ground. Antigone puffed out her cheeks. It was her turn.

Antigone tucked her little bottle into her jacket pocket. She had a gun in the other, but guns were everywhere. Sliding slowly over a drooling monk, still gripping her Quick Water, she braced herself and prepared to run.

Phoenix rose to his feet, and his back rippled beneath his shirt as he looked up at the vent. Dropping his guns, he splayed and flexed huge fingers. His voice was molasses-thick and just as slow. “I’m not that easy to kill, friend.”

“You and me both,” said the voice of Nolan. “But the green one there looks hurt.”