Lords of Trillium

by Hilary Wagner

“Music,” said Clover.

  “Classical music,” said Oleander. “When I was little, we sometimes played it on the phonograph. We’d drag out the records when the rain kept us inside the manor. Thicket and Stono would dance to it.” She smiled, thinking of them. “They love to dance . . . when they aren’t beating the tar out of each other.”

  Carn squeezed her paw. “We’ll see them soon. I promise.”

  Billycan’s face suddenly dropped. His jaw fell and his shoulders slumped. “Yes . . . classical music. She’s right,” he said limply.

  “What is it?” asked Juniper.

  “I’ve heard that music . . . before,” Billycan said as if in a trance. “In fact”—he held up a claw, waving it in time with the melody—“the record will skip right . . . now.”

  To everyone’s surprise, the record did skip exactly when Billycan said it would.

  “How did you know?” asked Vincent.

  “One of the lab techs, he liked records,” said Billycan. “Stored them in his briefcase. That song . . . it’s one of his favorites.”

  Juniper tightened the strap on his waterlogged satchel. “I believe we’ve found our secret lab.”

  They followed the music to another hall within the museum, its walls covered with old portraits. THE LORDS OF TRILLIUM read the long, gilded sign over the door. “Duncan, isn’t this where you said you heard other rats?” asked Vincent.

  “Yes,” said Duncan, staring up at the portrait of a stout Topsider named Edward Grimsby III. “I remember his face.”

  The music seemed to originate from a cast-iron grate at the base of the wall, a vent of some sort. Juniper approached the grate. He could hear no sound other than music—no rats, no Topsiders. Unexpectedly a rush of air flew up through the vent, ruffling his fur and temporarily muting the sounds of violins, flutes, and clarinets. Along with the air came something else—the smell of rat. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. There were too many scents; the sheer number overwhelmed him. Some he thought he might know, most others he’d never encountered. If what Topher said was true, and there were numerous white rats in the lab, Juniper wondered if any of them could be related to Billycan. Humans bred animals over and over without regard. Since Billycan’s father was unknown, many of the albinos could be his family one way or another.

  “They’re down here,” Juniper announced. The others didn’t look surprised. They had gathered by the vent, following the scents floating around them. The smell of the rats’ fear was deep, thick, and bitter—an acidic wave of terror that only other animals could sense.

  “The lab I was in was well above ground,” said Billycan. “All these scents are coming from down below.”

  “How are we going to get down there?” asked Vincent, examining the vent’s slick metal lining. “There’s nothing to hold onto, and no telling how far down the vent goes.”

  “I’m not sure,” replied Juniper.

  “The golden ropes!” cried Duncan. “They’re all over the museum, roping off the exhibits. They have those fancy metal clasps on the end; we can hook them together. Surely they’ll hold the nine of us.”

  “Good thinking,” said Cole, patting his son on the back.

  “You have a knack for figuring out sticky situations,” said Juniper. “It was you, Duncan, who told us to climb down the chicken wire in the chimneys of the Kill Army kitchens.”

  “I did?” asked Duncan.

  “You don’t remember?” asked Cole. Duncan shook his head. “Well, do you remember Lali cooking you creamed corn with bacon the day you shared that information about the army kitchens?”

  “Oh! Now I remember,” said Duncan. “That used to be one of my favorites, when I was little.” His stomach grumbled. “I wish I had some right now.”

  “Food always triggers his memory,” said Suttor.

  “When we make it home, you can have creamed corn with bacon to your heart’s content,” said Juniper. “Why, I’ll make it myself.” He chuckled softly.

  “Uncle, you’ll burn Nightshade City to the ground,” said Clover, trying to lighten the mood. “You can’t even make porridge without starting a fire.”

  “Let Lali handle the cooking,” advised Cole. “Duncan’s mother surely has better odds than you of keeping Nightshade from disintegrating into a pile of bacon-scented ashes.”

  Duncan nodded. “Yes . . . if we come out of this alive, I’ll help her make it myself.”

  After hooking the brass clasps of the golden ropes together, the rats threaded the rope through the lattice of the grate, securing the last clasp to a cast-iron strip on the grate itself. Not knowing how deep the vent ran, they’d used every possible rope they could find, chasing after Duncan as he raced through the halls of the museum, pointing out which rooms had roped-off exhibits, most unchanged from years ago.

  One by one the rats sank their claws into the thick velvet of the ropes and climbed down the vent, the echoing symphony creating an eerie setting as they descended. Finally a dull glow illuminated the vent. Vincent’s foot hit bottom, his claws scratching the slick metal. “Everyone, quiet now,” he whispered, jerking his foot off the metal. “Soft on your feet.”

  Helping each other, they silently dropped onto the floor of the vent, quickly filling the small space. A light flickered in the music-filled lab. The scent of anxious rats was now intense, the sound of breathing loud.

  “I can hear them,” blurted Duncan. “I can hear them breathing.”

  “Hush,” hissed Suttor, quickly covering his brother’s mouth. He whispered in his ear, “We don’t know what condition these rats are in—they could be like Topher and Liam, happy to rip us to pieces. And there could be scores of humans down here, just waiting to snatch us up and shove their needles in our hides! Understand?”

  Eyes wide, Duncan nodded. “Good lad,” whispered Suttor. “Listen to me. I already thought you were dead once. I couldn’t bear to go through that again. Just pay attention, all right?”

  “All right,” said Duncan softly.

  Billycan grasped the thin metal bars of the grate and peered out into the underground chamber. He knew this type of grate. He knew it . . . only this time he was on the other side of it. As a child, he recalled staring at the grates day in and day out, wondering where they led, wondering if they were a way out. These weren’t the old cast-iron grates like up in the museum. They were slick and modern.

  Without hesitation he slipped his entire arm through the grate and began loosening one of its screws.

  “What are you doing?” asked Juniper in a hushed voice. “We have no plan.”

  “Then stay here,” said Billycan, placing the first screw on the floor of the vent. He pushed past the others, knelt down and reached for the lowest screw on the other side of the grate. “I, for one, am sick and tired of waiting.”

  “It’s too risky to go in blind,” said Juniper. “I don’t want anyone killed!”

  “Then I’ll say it again: stay here.” Billycan deftly removed another screw, gently placing it on the floor next to the other.

  Juniper grabbed Billycan’s shoulder, spinning him around. “This is not just your fight!”

  Billycan turned back to his work and reached up, feeling for the third screw on the other side of the grate. He spoke in an unruffled tone. “In the Catacombs, and well before the Catacombs, I commanded an army. Other than your little insurrection, I always won. Always. I know the ways of warfare. I learned in the lab from my friend and teacher Dorf. Dorf died in that lab. At the time, I wanted to die with him. He was the closest thing I had to a father. They took my friend from me at a time when I needed him most. They left no trace of him, all of his memory erased by the suffocating smell of bleach.” Billycan removed the third screw, quietly setting it next to the others. “So, if you please, this is my fight.” With only one screw left, Billycan softly swung the grate aside and looked down into the space below him. “There is no secret strategy with the humans—no crafty plan we can come up with. They catch us, we die. Whethe
r they kill us on sight or we die from their torturous experiments, the answer is always the same.” His eyes moved over the anxious faces of the others. “Let me check the lab first. I will be the guinea pig, so to speak. I’m going now. I’ll signal you if it’s all clear.” He craned forward, ready to jump.

  “Wait.” Clover pushed forward in the cramped space and stepped in front of Billycan. “You may not care if you lose your life down there, but Julius cares.” She looked up at Juniper. “Your brother cares.” She took Billycan’s large paw in her own. “I care, too. I’ve only just found you, Uncle. I don’t want to lose you just yet.”

  “Uncle . . .” he repeated in a whisper. He studied her for a moment. “How can you be so forgiving, after all I’ve done?”

  Clover’s eyes wandered over Billycan’s elongated spine and overgrown neck, made that way by the daily injections. “You were put through terrible horrors. Horrors none of us could ever imagine.” She glanced through the bars of the grate and out into the shadowy lab, hearing the faint murmurs of the captured rats. “I know you can help them . . . not just now, but after they’re free. That’s when they’ll need you most, and that’s why you can’t die down there.”

  Billycan looked down for a moment, trying to keep his composure. Then he looked up and smiled an impossibly confident smile. “I’ll be sure to come back, then.”

  He gave everyone one last look and silently dropped into the lab.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Frankenstein’s Lab

  BILLYCAN CROUCHED UNDER A LOFTY WALL OF CAGES, the metallic clang of countless feet above his head. The air was thick with fear—a scent so palpable any rat with common sense would run for his life. The echoing voices of those awake overlapped, one on top of the other, an eerie amalgamation of treble and bass mixing with the music.

  He crept to the edge of the wall of cages and looked out into the dim lab. It seemed endless, far larger than the one he’d lived in. There was a long row of cages down the middle of the lab, and against the wall were workstations covered with large monitors and keyboards. Against the opposing wall were more cages and an open entrance that led to another part of the lab. The space was modern, everything polished and new, the low hum of equipment purring below the music. Stepping out quietly, he looked up at the vent, visible from all sides of the lab. He had to move quickly. He looked up, noticing a row of windows yards above the cages, too high to be reached by rats or humans. It dawned on him. Not only had the humans built a new lab, they’d gone underground, hiding the allegedly bankrupt labs of Prince Pharmaceuticals from their own kind. What sinister work were they up to now, that they had to keep this place a secret?

  Other scents began to emerge—familiar scents. Images of the swamp and the rundown chapel flooded his head. His nose twitched wildly. His hackles rose and his mouth watered, the fragile aroma driving him into agitation. He could never forget the mild mix of lemon balm and arrowroot . . . the scent of the big brown bat.

  Clutching a metal pole anchored to the base of the wall of cages, he peered around each corner: no humans in sight. He raced across the lab toward the scent, weaving his way under the endless row of cages lest a rat spot him and start a noisy ruckus.

  As the scent grew stronger, it evoked a memory of the swamp—Billycan’s endless quest for tender bat flesh. He forced himself to recall that he no longer ate bats . . . well, not the ones from Trillium in any case.

  His ears perked as he heard the fluttering of wings. Night was the time when bats fed, even in this sterile excuse for a home. The scent of fear waned as he neared the bats ’manmade roosts. They were more practical than rats, less emotional. Billycan respected that.

  There they were . . . gliding in tight circles inside a great plastic cage, chasing after large winged beetles blown in through a clear plastic tube at the side of the cage. He cringed at the crunching of insect shells, the sound pouring out from the symmetrically placed air holes in the cage.

  Halting at the edge of the last row of rat cages, he watched intently. The bats were graceful creatures, deftly dodging one another, weaving through the synthetic trees, snatching up insects without needing to look at them, their flight guided by the inaudible pulse that only bats could detect. They were actually quite amazing, he thought. It seemed there was more to them than just a delectable meal. He watched a rather large fellow, bulky for even a Trillium bat, clip his wing on the branch of a tree and plummet to the ground. Perhaps they were nothing more than a tasty snack after all.

  Shrouded by shadows, Billycan took his chance and dashed for the corner of the cage where the bat had fallen. The bat’s face was dark brown, similar in shape to a rat’s, but his nose was slightly pushed in and his long ears were set close to his eyes, looking almost like bat wings themselves.

  Silently Billycan approached, slowly popping his head into the bat’s line of vision. “Bat,” he whispered. The bat didn’t notice him; he shook his head, readying himself to take wing. Billycan raised his voice. “Bat!”

  The creature suddenly turned, jolted by the vision of Billycan. He didn’t scream or soar away; instead he dragged himself closer to the edge of the cage, trying to get a better look.

  “Who are you?” asked the bat, mystified. He glanced up at the long rows of cages across the lab. “You escaped your cage, didn’t you? You better leave quickly, before the man comes back.”

  “The man?”

  “Yes, the man in the white coat. He’s here late every night. You should know that by now.”

  “Bat, what’s your name?”

  Narrowing his eyes, the bat cocked his head, inspecting the oversized white rat with only a thin pane of plastic between them. He glanced back at the other bats, all occupied with their nightly feeding high above his head. “I’m Willow,” he whispered nervously.

  “How old are you?” asked Billycan, peering at his boyish face.

  “Old enough to know you must be one dense rat, standing in plain sight in a lab run by humans.”

  Billycan chuckled at the response. “Point taken.” He looked up at the other bats, still swooping and diving for their insect dinners. “How did you all get captured?” he asked, studying the cage for any visible escape routes.

  “It was daytime. I was sleeping at home, in our roost. We all were.” Willow sighed glumly, staring down at the silver tag clamped tightly around his leg, the number 77 etched into the metal. “I heard a noise and opened my eyes. Burning yellow smoke clouded my vision. I tried to fly away, but I was suddenly too weak, like I’d been hit in the chest. The smoke—it made us fall asleep. We woke up in a truck. The next day we were here.”

  “So you’re not from Trillium, then?” asked Billycan.

  “Well, we weren’t born here—at least I wasn’t, but many of our colony were.” He smiled proudly. “The leader of our colony was. He’s the reason we moved away from Trillium in the first place—he kept the farmers from killing us altogether.”

  “You and your colony live in a chapel, don’t you?” asked Billycan.

  “Yes!” replied Willow excitedly. “How did you know that?”

  Before Billycan could reply, a bat plunged toward them at breakneck speed. It hurled its body into the plastic pane. Billycan jumped back as the bat grabbed Willow, pulling him away from the edge of the cage. “Don’t you touch him!” it screamed bitterly. It was a female with a camel-colored coat and exceptionally large ears set close to her tiny black eyes.

  “I mean no harm,” said Billycan.

  “No harm, indeed!” She spat at the pane. “How did you find us?” she demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  Another bat swooped down, a sturdy male with a pushed-up nose that pointed skyward at a most severe angle. “Telula, Willow, stay back!”

  “Don’t worry, Cotton,” said Telula.

  Billycan held up his paws, trying to quiet them. “Please, keep your voices down. If you get me killed, all will be lost!”

  “Oh, and we’d be so disappointed!” said Telula
derisively. “By rights you should have died back in the swamp!”

  “You have every reason not to believe me, but I’m here to help you.” Billycan pointed toward the vent. “Look. Can you see them from here? There are Nightshade rats waiting in the vent, ready to come down at my signal.”

  “Is Juniper up there?” asked Cotton, squinting as he looked at the vent, now hanging slightly askew on the wall. “I see feet, or at least I think it’s feet.”

  “Yes! Juniper is up there. Vincent, Carn, and Oleander, too.”

  “Don’t believe him,” said Telula, stepping between her brothers. “You may be Juniper’s kin. And yes, we heard the news of your supposed cure from Oleander and Carn. But I’ll gamble you’re as wicked as ever!”

  “What are you three going on about?” asked a stern voice from behind them. “Why, the whole colony can hear your bickering!”

  “Father—”

  “Hush, Telula,” said the older bat.

  Telula snarled in frustration, unfurling her wing in Billycan’s direction. “Father, look!”

  Slowly Dresden stepped forward. His eyes met Billycan’s. He craned forward and studied him closely. He had never imagined he’d see the white rat again—the White Assassin, as they’d called him in the swamp. “Your eyes,” he finally said, “they’re different, subdued. I’d heard the reports—that you’d changed. Our brethren in Tosca, the Canyon Bats, they told me of you, of your good works since Silvius . . . well, retired.”

  “Father, you can’t be serious!” said Telula, aghast. “You actually think his transformation is genuine?”

  “Do you think the leader of the Canyon Bat Colony would lie?”

  “Well . . . no,” said Telula, “but it may be part of some elaborate plot. You know him—always scheming.”

  “You know Silvius?” asked Billycan.

  “After he escaped from the lab, he lived on the outskirts of Trillium. He and a few other rats resided on the farmland we came from. We struck up an agreement, he and I. We kept watch for those pesky country cats, and of course the farmers, while Silvius and others helped keep owls away from our colony, scaling trees and destroying their nests—sometimes even fighting them on our behalf.” Dresden shook his head. “I was saddened to hear the news of Silvius’s dementia. He was always an ally to the bats. not to mention a dear friend.”