by Greg Cox
Whose bright idea was this again?
For a second, it felt like they were going to go spilling down the pipe forever, but they burst through one last curtain of hanging roots and reeds to splash headlong into the deep, dark pool at the base of the hill. Gillian hit the chilly water first, followed almost immediately by Stone. With no chance to hold his breath, he swallowed a good chunk of the pool before kicking to the surface and gasping for breath. Paddling in the water, he glanced back toward the exposed end of the storm drain to make sure the spider wasn’t still pursuing them, but he saw no sign of the creature. With any luck, it was toast or buried alive by now.
“Gillian?”
“Over here!” she called, making her way toward the tall reeds marking the shore. “God, this water is cold!”
He paddled after her and, within moments, collapsed onto the muddy bank beside her, crushing the damp reeds beneath him. They were both soaked to the skin and shivering. Fall in North England was no time for a refreshing dip outdoors, even with the sun coming up. The cold and damp chilled them to the bone.
On the bright side, they didn’t smell like vinegar anymore.
“We did that wrong,” she said, cuddling up to him for warmth. “I’m supposed to come tumbling after you.”
He drew her closer. “I went off-script … just like Mother Goose.”
“Yes, about that…”
“Later,” he promised. “Preferably in front of a warm fire.”
She shivered in agreement. “My place or yours?”
“I’m guessing yours is closer.”
Despite the appealing prospect of cozying up with Gillian somewhere warm and dry, Stone kicked himself for letting Mother Goose abscond with another third of the book, bringing her one step closer to putting Humpty Dumpty back together again. He hoped his phone had also survived the crone.
Sorry, team, he thought. Watch out for that witch.
18
Oregon
The Dead Man’s Chest was gaining on Baird.
Intent on devouring the Golden Fleece, the ambulatory treasure chest chased Baird through the Library, practically chomping at her heels. Baird could feel the chest’s hot breath, redolent of rum and gunpowder, at her back, even as the fleece thrown over her shoulder felt as though it was getting heavier by the moment. At least the Argonauts had a ship to transport the fleece, she thought crankily, instead of having to schlep it halfway across a magic library.
To make matters worse, she couldn’t even try to get too far ahead of the hungry chest for fear of it abandoning the chase to go after easier, more stationary prey. She needed the chest to keep pursuing her until she had it where she wanted it, assuming she could keep a few steps ahead of the chest until then, despite her aching legs and straining lungs. Sweat glued her clothes to her body. Her feet pounded against the hardwood floor of a seemingly endless corridor deep within the labyrinthine bowels of the Library.
I swear, I do more running as a Guardian than I ever did hunting terrorists.
Still, she was pretty sure she was heading the right way. She might not know the Library as well as Jenkins or Flynn, and she might even still get lost if she strayed into some of the more esoteric, less frequented galleries and collections, but she’d been a Guardian for a couple of years now. As long as she stuck to the areas she knew, she should be able to get where she was going.
In theory.
She entered a long hallway lined with closed doors hiding various special sections of the Library, some of which she was actually familiar with. She ticked them off in her head as she sprinted past them.
The Sun Room … no.
The Frozen Land of Giants … no.
The Lost Jungle … no.
The Hive of Giant Bees … hell, no!
Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw that the chest was only a few yards behind her and showed no sign of slowing. She envied its preternatural persistence; she was running on fumes and adrenaline at this point, all while being acutely aware that this whole sideshow with the runaway goose and the treasure chest was keeping her from finding Flynn and focusing on the larger threat posed by Mother Goose and Humpty Dumpty, as insane as that still sounded to her.
The chest clattered after her. In a pinch, she could always save herself by ditching the fleece and letting the chest devour it while she got away, but what kind of Guardian threw a literally legendary relic under the bus just to keep from being chomped on? Digging deep, Baird pulled out a fresh burst of speed, increasing her lead on the treasure chest, but not by too much.
Just a little bit farther, she promised herself. Almost there … I think.
Her doubts were dispelled when, moments later, a sealed wooden door came into view at the end of the hallway. A bronze plaque confirmed that she had at last reached her destination:
The Ozymandias Room.
“About time,” she gasped. Despite her relief, an involuntary shudder ran through her as she recalled the time that she and Flynn had gotten trapped in this very same room while desperately attempting to shore up the Seven Pillars of Wisdom. That had been a close one.…
But now was no time to stroll down memory lane (which was actually two floors down on the southeast side of the Library). Reaching the closed door, she turned to face the oncoming treasure chest. Her hand rested tensely on the knob as she waited for the voracious artifact to catch up with her. She took a deep breath to clear her head and steady her nerves. This was going to take split-second timing … and some seriously bad weather.
Drooling rum, the chest scuttled toward her as fast as its ridiculous peg legs could carry it. Iron-edged jaws snapped incessantly, eager to tear into the fleece as well as anything and everybody that got between it and all that yummy gold. Baird remembered the fifteen evil spirits trapped inside the chest and wondered if they were the source of the chest’s insatiable lust for gold or its victims or both.
She’d have to ask Jenkins about that … later.
“C’mon,” she muttered. “Let’s get this over with. I’ve got Librarians to look after.”
Drawing closer, the chest sprang at the fleece and Baird, who yanked open the door and jumped to one side, shielding herself behind the door as a ferocious sandstorm blew out of the Ozymandias Room into the hallway. A hot, desert wind flung a barrage of sunbaked yellow grit at the startled treasure chest, sandblasting it. Baird could feel the blistering heat and force of the storm even through the sturdy wooden door protecting her. The howling wind drowned out the rapid beating of her heart. Anxious to see if her plan was succeeding, she peered cautiously around the edge of the door to see the beset chest vanishing beneath the sheer accumulation of sand piling up in the hall. More sand blew into the chest’s gaping maw, faster and harder than it could possibly swallow.
“Choke on that,” Baird said.
Within moments, the chest had disappeared completely beneath a newly born sand dune. Taking no chances, Baird waited until the chest was entirely covered before, shoving her shoulder against the door with all the strength she could muster, she struggled to push the door shut again. The storm fought her every inch of the way, but finally the door clicked back into place—and the howling winds and flying sand ceased at once.
Whew!
Panting from exertion, she leaned against the closed door while keeping watch over the out-of-place sand dune, just in case the inundated chest tried to dig itself out, but nothing stirred beneath the piled sand. The storm appeared to have been too much for the chest, just as she’d planned.
Makes sense, she thought. How else do you dispose of a treasure chest?
You bury it.
“Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair,” she murmured before scooting past the dune to head back the way she came, leaving the Dead Man’s Chest safely buried behind her. That should hold it for the duration, she hoped, or at least until we have Mother Goose under wraps as well.
Now if only Jenkins had dealt with that other goose in the meantime.…
&nb
sp; Uncertain where to find Jenkins and the goose, she headed back toward the Annex. If the goose was indeed looking to escape the Library, it was bound to find its way there eventually. And if, alternatively, Jenkins had already dealt with the goose situation, the Annex would be the logical place for her to meet up with him and regroup.
“Jenkins?” she called out as she retraced her path through the Library, carefully avoiding any potentially confusing detours. “Jenkins? You within earshot?”
Nobody responded at first, but as she neared the front of the Library, it was hard to miss the strident honking of an upset goose, along with the annoyed utterances of a certain immortal caretaker.
“Get down from there, you infernal creature! I have better things to do than round up an ungrateful egg-laying machine!”
Sounds like Jenkins still has a goose problem on his hands, Baird thought, and could probably use some backup.
Following the commotion to its source, she arrived at the Library’s main entrance hall: a vast, cavernous chamber with vaulted barrel ceilings. Dark wooden bookcases and wainscoting lined the walls, while row after row of glass display cases held some of the prizes of the collection, including the Spear of Destiny, the Shroud of Turin, a crystal skull, and the Philosopher’s Stone. A pair of life-sized gold lions guarded the stone steps leading up to the frosted glass door barring the way to the Annex. Bird droppings and golden eggs, scattered randomly about the premises, testified to the goose’s incursion.
Ignoring the fantastic relics and marvels on display, which were old news to Baird by now, she instead scoped out the chaotic scene playing out in the hall. To her surprise, she saw that Jenkins had traded in his oversized butterfly net for … a squirt gun?
A super-soaker-sized squirt rifle, to be precise, which Jenkins was firing at the squawking goose flying back and forth overhead. Unfortunately, the hall’s high ceilings meant that the bird was out of range of the squirt-rifle, so that the pressurized streams of water fell short of their avian target, spilling back down onto the floor and furnishings. Baird had to jump backward to avoid being splattered herself.
“Watch yourself, Colonel,” Jenkins warned, noting her arrival. The front of his suit and shirt were shredded as though by fierce claws, making Baird wonder what else he might have run into since they split up. “Trust me when I say you don’t want to get doused with this particular water.”
Baird attempted to bring herself up to speed. “And that would be bad because…?”
But Jenkins was too busy to offer an explanation, which, given that he lived and breathed exposition, meant he was busy in the extreme. “Hold this if you please, Colonel,” he instructed as he thrust the half-empty squirt-rifle into her hands and turned to retrieve another item that Baird had overlooked before: an old-fashioned jet pack (!) resting on the floor at the base of a glass display case containing the Maltese Falcon. The gleaming silver gadget looked like something straight out of an old, pulp-era comic strip, complete with twin gas cylinders mounted to a stainless steel backpack and harness.
We have one of those? Baird thought. And where on Earth did we get it from? If it is from Earth.…
With his hands now free, Jenkins pulled the jet pack on over his usual gray suit and buckled the straps before reclaiming the squirt-rifle from Baird. “I’ll take that back now, thank you.”
Baird gaped at the unlikely sight of Jenkins decked out like a pin-striped Buck Rogers. “A jet pack … seriously?”
“Borrowed from the Retro-Futurist collection, naturally,” he said blandly, as though that went without saying. “I anticipated that this highly inconvenient interlude might come down to a matter of altitude.”
She noticed something missing. “No crash helmet?”
“Immortal, remember?”
“Right. As you were.”
“If you’ll pardon me, Colonel.” He stepped away from her in the interest of safety. “All systems, as they say, are go.”
Clutching the plastic yellow squirt-rifle, he activated the jet pack and blasted off from the floor atop a column of swirling orange vapor that smelled like Tang, the one-time drink of astronauts. Coughing on the fumes, Baird blinked and covered her mouth as she tilted her head back to watch Jenkins rocket after the goose.
Alarmed by the blast-off, the soaring bird attempted evasive maneuvers high above the floor of the Library, but Jenkins zipped after it, trailing streamers of citrus smoke. The goose flapped its wings frantically in hopes of escaping its airborne caretaker, but Jenkins had the bird in his sights. Squeezing the trigger, he nailed the goose with a well-aimed stream of water.
“That should dampen your wanderlust,” he said. “And none too soon.”
The squirt had an immediate effect. The large white goose shrunk in midflight, its feathers blurring into a soft yellow down, the soaring wings contracting into stubby little limbs that were wildly inadequate for flight, no matter how hard or how fast they were flapping. Booming honks were dialed down to cheeps. As Baird gazed upward in amazement, a full-grown goose transformed into a cute baby gosling—and began to plummet toward the floor.
“Jenkins!”
“Have no fear, Colonel.” He discarded the empty rifle, letting it fall onto the top of a tall oak bookcase, and dove after the falling bird. “I have the matter in hand … or soon shall.”
Accelerating past the terrified gosling, he reached out and caught it with both hands before it could hit the ground. He cradled the chick against his chest as he reversed his orientation in the air and slowly descended to the floor, touching down only a few feet away from Baird, who was still trying to process what she had just seen.
“How in the—?” she began, appropriately boggled.
“Water from the Fountain of Youth.” Jenkins kept a firm but gentle grip on the squirming gosling. “I thought it would make the goose easier to manage, at least until it wears off.”
Baird recalled that the Fountain of Youth gurgled elsewhere in the Library, not far from Noah’s Ark, and she thanked her lucky stars that she hadn’t been splashed accidentally. She wasn’t quite sure how long the water’s rejuvenating magic lasted, but the Librarians didn’t need a Guardian who was back in diapers again.
“Creative,” she said.
“And the Dead Man’s Chest?” he asked.
“Buried … outside the Ozymandias Room.”
He nodded in approval. “That should keep it contained for the time being, although I’m not looking forward to sweeping out that corridor at some future date.”
Baird recalled the flooded Greco-Roman collection. “Someone’s going to need to mop up Antiquities as well.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Neptune’s trident?”
“Got it in one.”
He sighed, but heroically refrained from scolding her. “Well, I’m sure it couldn’t be helped.” He handed the chirping chick over to her as he shrugged off the jet pack and placed it securely on a nearby shelf. “Congratulations, Colonel, on a job well done.”
Baird appreciated the kudos, but she could savor her triumph over the treasure chest later. She had bigger things on her plate.
“What’s going on with our Librarians?”
19
Florida
The door opened readily, admitting Cassandra and Cole into the Hell Room, which turned out to be just as spooky as one might expect. Black curtains shrouded all six walls, while a six-legged table occupied the center of the chamber, where a large pentagram ominously adorned the parquet floor. A silver candelabra holding six black candles rested on the ebony table. A chill ran down Cassandra’s spine as she saw that there were two chairs set at the table. One for Ezra Wilshire, and one for … a guest? The upholstery on one of the chairs, she observed, was badly scorched. And was it just her screwball senses or was there still a trace of sulfur lingering in the air?
“I don’t know about you,” Cole said, “but I’m having second thoughts about finding this place.”
Cassandra couldn’t blame him, bu
t, in her experience, dangerous magic relics weren’t always found in cozy settings. More often than not, you had to venture into a forgotten dungeon or dragon’s lair.
“Let’s just find those pages and get out of here,” she said. “No need to stay here any longer than we have to.”
“Amen to that,” Cole said.
They swept their beams around the room, searching for another clue. Cassandra was tempted to light the candles on the table, but thought better of it; the last thing they needed was to summon an unwanted visitor. Peering at the floor, she noted that it was charred at one point, breaking the protective seal. That probably hadn’t boded well for Ezra Wilshire.
“Yo!” Cole said. “Looks like there’s another way in.”
His beam spotlighted another door on the opposite side of the room. Because it was painted black, she had almost missed it among the sable drapes.
Cassandra’s brow furrowed in confusion. “That’s not possible.” She didn’t conjure up her mental model again, but she remembered it well enough. “There’s simply no room, spatially, for another stairwell.”
“You sure of that?” Cole crossed the room and took hold of the doorknob. “Then where does this go?”
He pulled open the door, letting in the wind. A six-story drop to the ground waited beyond the doorway.
“Nowhere,” she said. “Another door to nowhere.”
“No lie.” He shut the door and stepped away from it. “Guess there’s only one way in or out, unless you’re in the mood for a one-way trip.”
“I don’t think we’re quite that desperate yet,” she quipped, as her beam lighted upon an antique grandfather clock resting in one corner of the chamber. As with every other clock she’d spied tonight, its hands were stuck at midnight. Want to bet, she thought, that’s the exact time that Ezra Wilshire’s luck ran out?
She forced that sinister supposition from her mind in order to focus on the puzzle at hand. The crooked man rhyme had led them to the Hell Room, but what about the other rhyme they had stumbled onto, the one on the crooked page?