“Um …,” said Cyrus. “Well, just come out here.”
Dennis and Jax and Horace had come into the room and joined the others, sitting on the floor. Cyrus paced as the Captain worked himself back into his shirt—he had sliced the left sleeve open in order to get Vlad through it. When he had the shirt on, he let the chain dangle, and Vlad rested on the floor. Then he began buffing the breastplate in his hands.
“Okay,” said Cyrus. “We have to find a way to deal with Phoenix and Gil at the same time.”
“That sounds nightmarish,” Nolan said.
“How many regenerations has this Phoenix seen?” the Captain asked. “Has anyone glimpsed him? Do we ken his scale and his heft?”
Everyone stared at the Captain.
“Not a real Phoenix,” said Nolan. “A man called Phoenix.”
The Captain seemed befuddled. “Is he transmortaled then? Undead? Undying?”
Arachne looked up. “He has the cloak, John. And has worn it for many years.”
“The Odyssean Cloak!” The Captain sputtered his lips into his slick mustache. “That cursed cloth, and from your hands, weaver!”
“It served you well,” Arachne said quietly.
“ ‘Well,’ you say? Devils have treated me with better love.”
“I could not weave it as I was told,” Arachne said. “Things would have been much worse if I had.”
“Wait,” Cyrus said. “You wove the Odyssean Cloak? The white coat Phoenix wears?”
“Who else could?” Arachne asked. “Odysseus demanded that I weave him a cloth that would make him stronger than any man and more cunning than the craftiest serpent, that would give him immortality like the gods, but an immortality which he could shrug off when he finally wished to die. He began killing my spiders until I let him bind me with his oath. I did as I swore, but not the way he desired.”
Dennis Gilly’s eyes were wide. “At Ashtown! When Phoenix took off his coat, he became a beast! We all saw him.”
Arachne nodded. “The cloak bonds to its master. When it is worn, a man is clever and cunning and unable to die—though he is as strong or weak as he was when he put it on. When it is taken off, he loses all cunning but becomes as powerful as one of the ancient apes.”
“So get his coat off,” Horace said. “And then shoot him.”
Arachne shook her head. “He has worn it too long. His only life is in the cloth. The cloak must be destroyed. Burn it, and he will burn.”
Cyrus nodded. He knew that already. He and his sister had burned one arm off the coat on a kitchen stove in Ashtown. Phoenix had lost his hand.
John Smith finally sat down. “That cloak was my undoing, too, alas, and shame to my folly. I donned it to gain cunning in my war with the dragons. I did not know I would become a beast when I laid it down.”
Dennis’s eyes sparkled with unhidden awe. “That’s why you were Buried?”
“One part to the blend of my damnation.” The Captain sighed. “I wore it too long. Once I learned that I could not shed the cloak and remain a man, I asked Arachne to unweave a corner for me, and I bound it into myself, above my lifeblood, forever.” He pulled open his shirt, revealing the bald triangular scar above his heart. Then he flicked his shirt closed again and began to buckle on his breastplate. “Undying, wily as the serpent, desperate for victory, I broke the oath of a Blood Avenger—I knelt beneath dark sorceries.” The Captain stared down at his breastplate. “Better that I still slept entombed.”
“Dark sorceries?” Jax asked.
The room waited in silence. Horace cleared his throat. “Technically, Captain, you have never been convicted of any wrongdoing.”
The Captain snorted. “God Almighty, lawyer, I covenanted with the serpents. I need no jury to speak. By the thinnest chance, three Keepers encaged the great Radu Bey while hunting another. When I arrived, they had all been killed, but he was not yet free. And I saw how I could end myself and the dragons. I soul-bonded myself to him as a brother. I gave him my very hearts-blood for his spell and swore he would be as unchained as I, if only he betrayed but one Dracul—his hated brother, the Impaler.”
John Smith raised the iron head by its chain. His jaw was set, and his hard eyes angry. “I found the Vlads where Radu promised. And I professed my trans-mortality and begged to be slave-bound to their Ordo.” The Captain drew his sword, and everyone in the room inched back from the flashing steel. “With this ancient blade, gift of the dragon gods of their fathers, they pricked their bloods. They spoke the spells to make me thrall—a Smith as slave to play their fool. And they passed the bloody blade to me, to plunge into my heart.
“But I was already twinned to Radu; my hands could wield the Dracul blade with Dracul power just as they could. With it, I took their heads. And I gave their bodies to a witch’s black flames in a secret place.” He looked directly at Cyrus, and Cyrus couldn’t help squirming. His throat had tightened while he listened, and the stinging in the cut on his throat reawakened.
“Blood can ne’er be unspilt; oaths can ne’er be unbroken,” the Captain said. “My soul was stained. I’d accrued guilt enow. Radu was Buried on a pillar in a cave. And I, as much dragon as he, sent myself into the sea, as anchor to his freedom.”
“Sic semper draconis,” Cyrus said quietly. “Thus always to dragons.”
For a moment, the room watched the Captain in silence. He sheathed his sword, then coiled Vlad’s chain around his forearm and tucked the iron head into the crook of his arm.
Cyrus looked down and saw that his knee was bouncing. He had his plan. He had the whats and the whys and almost all the hows.
The door opened and Alan Livingstone eased his blond bulk into the room. George and Silas slipped in behind him and stood at his sides. Alan sniffed with his stitched nostril and then scratched his beard. “Is this the council of war?” he asked.
Horace tucked his thumbs into his vest. “A confession, more like. Our friend, the Captain, has himself a heavy conscience.”
The Livingstones all looked confused, but Cyrus didn’t try to explain. He moved right into his plan.
“Okay,” Cyrus said. “I’m going to contact Gil.”
“How?” Dennis asked.
“He probably has Antigone’s Quick Water. I’ll hold up messages or something. I’ll figure it out. But I’m going to tell him that if he gives us Antigone—and Rupert, if he has him—he can take Phoenix and do whatever he wants to him. I’ll even tell him where Phoenix is—as much as Dan knows.”
“Lad,” said the Captain. “That’s a steep gamble. This Phoenix holds the tooth. If the dragons take it, the world sinks in a worse slough. But if we take it, e’en the dragons can die and rot. Then ho for a war that can be won, for victory and new treaties writ in dragon blood. We must go for the tooth above all else, even Avengels and sisters.”
“I know,” said Cyrus. “But we race them. We get there first. We beat Phoenix and get the tooth. And then, like the Captain and like Arachne, we keep our promise, just not how the transmortals expect. We give them Phoenix but no tooth.”
“It all sounds so easy,” Nolan said.
“Phoenix won’t roll over,” said Alan. “I won’t say it’s a bad idea, but he’ll have men and defenses. We’ll be betting everything on our little band to win a race and then a battle, and with little time for preparations.”
The Captain pointed at the gold ring on Cyrus’s thumb—the ring that had tumbled from the Radu Bey block when he’d unlocked the Captain. Cyrus looked down at it. He’d forgotten he had it on.
“You hold the blood talisman of Radu Bey,” the Captain said. “Charmed gold. I kept it sealed and hid. Now that it’s out, he’ll trace his own scent easy enow. No need to race. Lead and let them trail behind. Gil and his hounds will be baying at these doors if we wait.”
Cyrus inhaled slowly and looked around the room, waiting for objections. His eyes settled on Dan. His older brother looked nervous. Dan crossed his arms, then nodded.
“Right,” said
Cyrus. “That’s what we’ll do. I need my Quick Water.” He faced Arachne. “Will you help me talk to Gil?”
Arachne rose and moved quietly toward Cyrus.
“As for taking Phoenix,” Big Alan said, “have you any thoughts to that? We have guns in the planes and in this house, but not much else.”
Robert Boone stepped in from the hall and leaned against the jamb. Jeb was behind him. “That’s not all we have, Brother Elephant.” He picked at his teeth with his toothpick, then looked around the room. When his eyes passed over Diana, he smiled. “My name’s not Boone by any kind of accident. My pappy could snare a ghost in high mountain wind using nothing but twine and moonshine. I think we might be able to do something about old Phoenix.” He looked at Cyrus. “Not saying I care for the plan. The dragons will want the Reaper’s Blade, not Phoenix. And that’s not a trade I can allow, two souls on the block or twenty.”
Cyrus clenched his jaw. He knew they couldn’t give the tooth to the Ordo, not for anything. Of course he knew that.
“Maxi wanted the tooth, too,” Cyrus said quietly. “He wanted me to trade it for Dan.” Flashes of memory tumbled through his head. Rupert fallen. Nolan fallen. Fire. Maxi’s grinning face and nothing but a key ring in his own hand and the cold dark tooth jutting out between his knuckles.
Adrenaline whispered through his body, and on his neck, Patricia sensed it. She slithered slightly, tightening. Cyrus could still feel his final lunge, the crunch of bone. He could still see the keys dangling against Maxi’s dying face.
“I didn’t make any trades,” Cyrus said quietly.
“No,” Boone said. “No, you didn’t. But just so we’re clear, I’d rather see the underside of my own tombstone than have that tooth go to the likes of Radu Bey.” He looked from face to face. “I hope that’s what sets those in this room apart from Bellamy bloody Cook and the cowards and compromisers of Ashtown—a willingness to die rather than bow and scrape before the darkness.”
Captain John Smith rumbled a long amen in his chest.
“The Order can rot,” Boone muttered. “If this doesn’t destroy it, maybe we will after. It’s just another institution that’s tried to master free men.”
The Captain’s rumble stopped and he eyed Boone.
“The O of B is still real, Pa,” said Diana. “Our oaths are real. We’re still in it, and if Rupe’s alive, he’s still Avengel; not even the Brendan can remove him while he’s in the field.”
Captain John Smith drew himself up, facing Boone. “Sir, the ants serve queens. Hornets defend a hive. Wolves hail a chieftain, and the great apes bend to their silver king. The tides to moon, the moon to earth, the earth to sun. Man hath the divine seal, but even he must be mastered.”
Boone smiled with tight lips, wry eyes sparkling. “Well then, I stand corrected.”
Cyrus jumped in. “You all can argue more later. We need guns. And whatever Mr. Boone might need to trap Phoenix. Dan can tell you what the place looks like. Mr. Boone, Mr. Livingstone, I’m sure you’ll come up with a plan, but make sure the Captain likes it.”
“But don’t mind me.” Nolan sighed. “I can hate it.”
Cyrus backed toward the door, and Arachne followed him. Alan Livingstone and Robert Boone were eyeing each other like two dogs at a park, deciding if they were friends.
“How long till we’re ready to fly?” Cyrus asked.
“Thirty,” Boone said. “Maybe sooner. I keep the birds ready.”
Cyrus nodded. “Okay. Thirty minutes. Oh, and Jax and Dennis,” said Cyrus. “You’re staying here.”
Relief washed over Jax, but Dennis flushed embarrassment. Cyrus ducked quickly out of the room before there could be another discussion.
Arachne crossed her legs and set down her spider bag. Cyrus had already shut the bedroom door. He grabbed his bag from beside his bunk and sat on the floor across from the wide, icy blue eyes.
“It is hard for you right now,” Arachne said.
Cyrus inflated his cheeks. “Yeah, it is.” He set a little oilcloth pouch in front of Arachne. “I’m doing my best. Now you do yours and maybe we will get Rupert and Antigone back.”
“If you rush at Phoenix,” Arachne said quietly, “he will be unready.” She looked down at the pouch. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
Cyrus stared into her cold blue eyes. “Try to find out … from the room, or from Gil’s face … if my sister is …”
“Dead?”
Cyrus nodded. “And Rupert, if Gil took him. If he has either of them and they’re still alive, then make Gil our offer. Do you need a paper and pen?”
Arachne shook her head, unlaced the pouch, and let the Quick Water roll out and wobble on her palm. Cyrus and Antigone had found it by accident in one of Ashtown’s African collections. When divided in half, each ball looked out of the other, regardless of distance. Antigone and Diana had used it to find Cyrus when the treacherous Ashtown cook, Big Ben Sterling, had tied him up in one of the kitchen pantries. Now Cyrus hoped it would be just as useful.
The small ball of liquid fungus behaved a lot like mercury, but instead of being silver, it was clear. It quivered and wobbled on Arachne’s palm. She traced the surface with one fingertip, then looked up at Cyrus, surprised.
“This is real,” she said. “I expected a Victorian imitation. This is wild-grown. African.”
Cyrus shrugged. He didn’t know what that meant or why it mattered, but Arachne seemed encouraged. She was humming.
When Cyrus had used the Quick Water, he had simply held the ball up to his face and stared into it, seeing whatever was in range of Antigone’s half, bent and warped by the shape of the sphere. But Arachne placed the blob on the carpet in front of her and dragged her fingers through it, separating it into strands. Then she separated those strands again. As she did, the strands tried to bead up into balls, but her fingers forced them back down and stretched them out, like noodles made of water, and then even thinner. Like threads. After a quick hiss through her teeth, Arachne’s spiders marched through the carpet to help. With her small servants lining her fingertips, Arachne began to weave.
Cyrus watched as the Quick Water became a cloth. The cloth became a clear sheet of liquid glass. Arachne leaned over it and peered through.
Still looking down, she raised one hand into a slice of morning sunlight that was pouring in through the window. She smiled at Cyrus, then twisted her fingers. Beams of light flashed down from her fingers like she was holding a dozen tiny mirrors, pouring through her water window in the floor.
After a moment, she spoke.
Antigone opened her eyes. Her body ached and her head felt like a gong, still vibrating from her fall. She was upright, but a little off the ground, pinned to a brick wall. Thick leather straps held her arms and legs tight.
Antigone blinked slowly and looked up. The ceiling was stadium-height, six or seven stories up at least, and paned windows lined the walls just beneath it, letting in a waterfall of morning light. She could actually see birds up there, slowly circling perches.
Down at her level, rows of freestanding bookshelves ran all the way out of her blurry focus. Some held spines, and some scrolls. There were chairs. And tables. And more shelves. And partition walls. And art. And statues.
Halfway between floor and ceiling, there was a room mounted on a towering stone column. It was missing two of its walls, and it was smoking.
She’d fallen from that? No wonder she hurt all over. She tugged at the leather straps that held her to the wall. Strange, having straps like this in a library—if that’s what this place was.
Where was Rupert? There were empty straps next to hers and sticky blood on the floor beneath them.
“Rupe?” Her voice echoed a little. When the echo died, she heard nothing but the muffled sound of feathered wings and her own breathing.
“Rupe!” She screamed the name long and hard, half expecting a librarian to appear to shush her. At least, she expected someone to appear. No one did.
; There was a table, no more than fifteen feet in front of her, tucked into the shadow of a two-story shelf. She squinted at it. Her leather jacket and her bag were on one end. The contents of her bag had been spread across the table—some clothes, the little box with the Chinese lantern globe that Skelton had left them. A knife. Canvas shoes. Hair bandanas. The oilcloth pouch with her half of the Quick Water. The mouth of the bag was open; she could just see the shimmery curve of the strange African fungus. She stared at it, hoping that Cyrus was looking.
As she inhaled to yell again, an old man shuffled out from behind a shelf and stood in front of her. He had a bulbous nose, a bald head, and eyebrows in need of a lawn mower. A straggly beard covered his cheeks and chin. He was wearing a child’s hooded sweatshirt with a zipper, baggy corduroy trousers rolled up around his ankles, and red wool socks that had been forced into flip-flops. Across his chest, his sweatshirt excitedly announced a single word.
Soccer!
Scrunching his face as he examined Antigone, he tugged at loose white hairs on his throat.
“I’m Antigone Smith,” Antigone said. “Who are you?”
The old man began to rustle through her belongings on the table.
“Hey!” She tugged at her straps. “Stop touching my stuff!”
The man found a dry granola bar in her bag, took a bite, and dropped into a chair. Grinning and chewing, he mumbled something in another language.
“What is that?” Antigone asked. “Greek? English would be awesome. Could we use English, please?”
“Shouldn’t do it. Not these things. Not here,” the man said. His accent was rich. “Don’t like it. No.” He studied the granola bar and took another bite.
“What things?” Antigone asked. “What are you talking about?”
He pointed at her. “You.” He gestured at her straps. “This.” His eyes sank to the blood on the floor. “That.”
Antigone followed his eyes to the sticky puddle and then looked back up. “Where is he? Is Gil here?”