Empire of Bones

by N. D. Wilson

  “Sorry I didn’t say much,” Rupert said. “Didn’t want you two frantic with waiting when it mightn’t work. Almost didn’t, point of fact. Touch and go in the hospital, and again getting her off the grounds. Bellamy Cook has an entire bleeding army at Ashtown now. Dennis Gilly and Nolan were pure gold. Wouldn’t have come off without them.”

  Cyrus took his shirt and held out his right hand. His big Brit Keeper swallowed it with his own rough hand.

  “Thanks, Rupe,” Cyrus said. “Don’t know what else to say.”

  Rupert turned Cyrus around and led him toward the door. “You could say you spent the whole afternoon working on cartography, that’s what you could say.”

  “I could say that.…”

  “And I’d be daft to believe you, yeah?”

  “Would you believe Euclidean geometry?” Cyrus asked.

  Rupert’s laugh exploded up from his chest.

  “I did!” Cyrus said. “I did! And it was even kind of cool. I like math with no numbers. In small doses, at least. Tigs said it might help with the map stuff.”

  They disappeared inside.

  Behind them, the pool slurped. Shadows lengthened, and prophet cicadas sounded their autumn alarm.

  The nights grow cold! The world is dying! Look on the yellowing trees, ye mortals, and despair!

  No one listened.

  Pats’ Diner was as bright as Pat and Pat, the Archer’s new owners, had been able to make it. A dense flock of white-wired lights, each with a red enamel hood, dangled from the polished beam ceiling. The long white countertop bar was set inside sparkling chrome edges. The black-and-white linoleum floor had been waxed until it gave off starlight, and the red vinyl bar stools sparkled with built-in glitter. The bar window that opened into the sizzling kitchen where big Pat and his beard worked the grill was set beneath a large mirror painted with the Golden Lady and her bow.

  And the whole place smelled like bacon.

  Pat the waitress moved between tables with plates loaded with breakfast dinners and burgers and chickenfried steaks and sides of fries and two heavy loads of biscuits embalmed in sausage gravy. And if she was the size of three women, she had the grace of three as well, because not one drop slopped, not one fry slipped, and every diner was remembered, and every diner was doll or honey or darling, and big Rupert Greeves was sugar.

  Cyrus ate, but he couldn’t taste. And he couldn’t stop blinking. Every time he shut his eyes, he expected the world to pull back a curtain, to laugh at its terrible joke, to shatter the scene in front of him with some horrible punch line—the old Phoenix and his new crop of gilled warriors would spring through the glass with fat-barreled fire-breathing guns raised. Radu Bey would burst out of the kitchen and snatch back Antigone. Or maybe Dan’s heart would stop. Or sad Oliver Laughlin possessed by the soul of Phoenix would be waiting for Cyrus in his room, with Dragon’s Tooth raised.

  The unhealing slash on Cyrus’s forearm stung beneath its bandage, as fresh as today’s paper cut. Cyrus pressed on it with his thumb and shut his eyes again.

  He couldn’t trust happiness. Not even a little bit. Maybe this was all a complicated daydream, conjured up by a Cyrus crouching in the fields or beneath a plum tree or in musty Room 111. His room had never burned. His mother was still asleep. His father had been lost at sea, not shot and frozen for three years by Phoenix’s bone-tattooed crazies. He and Antigone and Dan would be forever living on waffles in their slowly rotting motel. They would be forever stuck where tragedy had first dropped them.

  Cyrus pushed the mistrust as far away as he could and opened his eyes, looking down the train of small tables that had been shoved together to handle their party. He was on the end. His mother was on his left, with Antigone beside her. Katie Smith was leaning against Antigone, smiling, listening. Antigone seemed incapable of turning her words off, incapable of letting one second of the last three years go unreported, though she’d already written it all in letters that her mother had been poring over in the two months since her waking. Across from them, Dan leaned over the table, smiling, absorbing everything, as alive in the moment as Antigone was.

  Horace was buttering toast beside Dan, and pale, deathless Nolan was leaning back in his chair with his paper-colored arms firmly crossed and a wry smile tugging at his mouth. Arachne sat across from him with her eyebrows up, feigning irritation at some comment, a heavy bag in her lap. Cyrus knew that it held her eight-legged army. The bandage on his left arm had been woven in place by those spiders. Not long ago, standing above his father’s body, he had watched thousands of them unweaving the white coat that had long been Phoenix’s strength and curse. Antigone had a shirt of Angel Skin that had been woven by that living womb and infused with all the magic of Arachne’s fingers. Cyrus couldn’t imagine holding still for that ticklish spider-marching process. Just the thought made his throat tighten.

  His mother’s hand suddenly rested on his forearm, sliding gently up and down over his silk bandage. Cyrus looked into her eyes, dark as cool shade, flecked with rare pricks of green like hidden emeralds.

  No joke, the world said. This is real.

  Cyrus exhaled and smiled and then looked away. He didn’t want tears. He’d slow-blink and dream-wonder as much as he had to, whatever it took to keep him from crying, from scooting his chair up tight against his mother’s and worming his way under her arm like the Cyrus of three years ago. But even then, he wouldn’t have cried.

  At the other end of the table, Rupert Greeves sat, leaning back in his chair, rolling a toothpick on his lip, watching Cyrus. Cyrus steadied his breathing and met his Keeper’s eyes. Rupert seemed tense, uneasy. The big man nodded toward the big front window of the diner, and then pushed back his chair to stand.

  Cyrus started to stand, but his mother’s hand tightened on his arm. He looked down at her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “Cyrus?”

  Cyrus nodded and smiled. He stood and leaned down, gently wrapping his mother with a one-armed hug, stealing her from his sister. He was only crossing the room, and yet he felt like he had to say goodbye, like this hug should provide enough affection for another three-year separation if need be—as if any hug could.

  Still smiling, Cyrus backed away and turned toward Rupert Greeves at the window.

  “You good?” Rupert asked.

  Cyrus looked out at the mostly empty parking lot, at the leaning Archer and her bow—her neon dull and muted beside the setting sun.

  “Yeah,” Cyrus said. “It’s all unreal.” He looked at Rupert and then back out toward the road, trying to see through the fog in his mind, to find the right words for what he’d been feeling. “I want the world to stop,” he said. “I want Phoenix and the transmortals and their dumb Ordo Draconis to just hold off for a little while. I want a time-out so I can be with my mom without thinking about everything else that’s going on.”

  Rupert nodded. “Feel the moment without fear of future moments. But it’s not the world you want to stop. You want your mind to stop. Focus on right now.” He looked down at Cyrus. “Can you?”

  Cyrus shook his head. “I try. But I want to know where Phoenix is. I want to know if he’s still in Oliver’s body. I want to know what he’s planning and what the transmortals are planning and if they’re still looking for me. I want to know where you sent the Captain and Gilgamesh, and what’s happening at Ashtown, and where Jeb and Diana Boone are—you said they would meet us here—and what Skelton’s old paper globes are supposed to mean, and I want to stop wanting to know all of those things and just be with my mom and my sister and my brother.” Cyrus put his knuckles against the air-conditioned glass of the window and studied the parking lot. A semi chattered past, hauling a loaded cattle trailer. “And where are Gunner and Dennis? Weren’t they with you?”

  Rupert smiled slightly. “You have the makings of an Avengel. My mind chews much the same. Our war is far from over, and worry never rests.” He sighed. “Jeb and Diana should be here. They were stationed along our rou
te to see if we were followed. I sent Gunner and Dennis back to find them. Even assuming that everything is fine and that they roll in late for some mundane reason, we’re no longer staying here tonight. As outnumbered as we are, this close to Ashtown, I would relocate for a hiccup.”

  Cyrus scanned his Keeper’s face. He didn’t look worried. He looked … hard. And still. But Cyrus could feel his own pulse quickening. Rupert thought something had gone wrong. No. Something had gone wrong. Now it was a question of what and for whom. Diana? Jeb?

  Cyrus looked back out at the road. “What do you mean, mundane? Like what?”

  A small orange motorcycle with a milk crate on the front wobbled into view, trailing smoke. It slowed beneath the Archer and then turned into the parking lot. A round man in a brown fluttering monk’s robe dwarfed the bike. His thick calves barely tapered into his ankles, and fat feet splayed out of his leather sandals. His head was shaved except for a short curly Mohawk. Strangest of all, Dennis Gilly, onetime porter of the Ashtown Estate, slumped limply on the back of the teetering bike, his hands tied together around the Mohawked monk’s thick middle.

  The monk parked the little bike thirty feet from the diner windows, uncinched Dennis’s hands, and lowered the former porter onto the asphalt. Dennis was unconscious. This close, Cyrus could see that the monk was actually young, baby-faced despite his punk hair, and soft all over. This close, the monk could see him, too. But he wasn’t looking at Cyrus. He positioned himself beside Dennis, adjusted a long rope belt that had been wrapped three times around his large middle, spread his feet, and grinned straight at Rupert Greeves.

  Rupert did not grin back. He plucked out his toothpick and flicked it away.

  “Mundane,” Rupert said quietly, “looks nothing at all like this.”

  two

  BROTHER NIFFY

  THE BULKY MONK RAISED BOTH OF HIS ARMS and splayed his fingers to show that his huge hands were empty. They were empty, but they were also covered with dried blood.

  “Rupe?” Cyrus glanced at his Keeper.

  Rupert didn’t answer; he was already striding toward the door. Cyrus hurried after him, looking back at the table as he did. Antigone and Nolan were on their feet. Dan had twisted around in his seat. Horace was still eating.

  “Cy?” Antigone asked. “Who is that? Is that a body on the ground?”

  Rupert pushed open the glass door, and Cyrus followed him out of the air conditioning, into the asphalt-baked air of the parking lot.

  “Name!” Rupert bellowed before the door had even shut behind Cyrus.

  The monk’s grin widened, his cheeks rising until they pinched his eyes almost closed.

  “Why the wrath, there, Rupee?” he asked. “I’ve done no harm. In fact, as I’m seeing things, I’ve undone a great deal o’ harm alreadies, and more to come.”

  Rupert stopped ten feet from the monk, and Cyrus stopped beside him.

  The monk looked at Cyrus. His smile quieted, but his eyes sparkled.

  “You’ll be the Smith lad, then,” the monk said. “And with the devil’s own nose for trouble, too, or so I’ve heard.”

  Dennis groaned and twisted slowly on the ground, until his face was pressed into the asphalt. Cyrus could see a nasty gash behind his right ear. His shirt was stiff with blood.

  “You know who I am,” Rupert said, moving forward. “You must know what I can do. Give me your name, monk, and your purpose, and tell me why one of mine is groaning at your feet before I put you on the pavement beside him.” Rupert drew a long-barreled revolver from the small of his back and let the gun dangle at his side.

  The monk snorted and then saluted. “Brother Boniface Brosnan, reporting for duty, sir! Aye, aye, capitanny! Hup, hup, hup, yessir!” Then the monk lowered both his arms and slid his thumbs into his triple-looped rope belt. The laughter and smiles vanished. “I am the seventh Cryptkeeper, eighty-sixth to hold the seat of Monasterboice, established by the Navigator’s own self. I was birthed on the Brendan Stone in the ruins of Fenit Isle; at twelve I tamed the king-wisps of Iona; at fourteen I faced the gin-thralls of Axum; and at sixteen I loosed the curse-knots that bound the eight thousand warrior souls in the statue army of Shaanxi. Now, at nineteen, I stand on a wee patch of tarmac listening to the threatenings of one Rupert Greeves. Do you think I fear your little gun and the metal it spits? I have held the breath of Brendan, and the power that bound him binds me. As for my purpose? I am here because of your own failings, so-called Avengel, because the Brothers of the Voyager will not have the long war lost on account of the follies of Ashtown and the rot of your unbelieving Order. One of your own groans at my feet because he is a weakling, and because he resisted me as I saved him. My favorite band is U-bloody-2, my sport is rugger, and I admire the films of John Wayne. Is that enough for you, then, Master Rupert?”

  “Yeah, but who does your hair?” Cyrus blurted the question before he even knew it was coming. His whole body had tensed through the monk’s speech, and his jaw snapped shut behind his words.

  He hated it when people tried to intimidate him. He hated it even more when the intimidation worked.

  Rupert glanced at Cyrus, surprised. The monk named Boniface smiled slightly.

  “I do me own shearing,” Boniface said. “Are you in need?”

  “Cy,” Rupert said. “Get Dennis inside and have Arachne look him over.” He stepped forward and reached for the monk’s arm. “This Irish gob and I will have words in private.”

  The thick young monk was rabbit-quick. He snatched Rupert’s wrist and jerked him forward. In one burst of motion, a bare leg flashed up, smacked into Rupert’s face, and bent, hooking around Rupert’s head. The monk dropped onto his back, slamming Rupert to the ground with two white legs scissored tight around his throat. The monk’s robe was bunched up around his waist, and his boxers were striped with the green, white, and orange of the Irish flag. He was laughing,

  Cyrus stepped forward, planted his left foot, and kicked Boniface in the jaw.

  Pain shot through Cyrus’s leg. It was like kicking a fire hydrant. He saw blood spray up around his foot in a little cloud, and then two large hands closed around his ankle and he was falling. Asphalt jammed loose gravel through Cyrus’s shirt and into his back. An anaconda arm twisted him sideways and wound beneath his arm and behind his head. He was looking into the blood-spitting, grinning face of Brother Boniface, he couldn’t move, and deep grinding pain shot through his shoulder.

  “Do you prefer your arm in or out of its socket?” the monk asked.

  Cyrus kicked, but the pain and the pressure only sharpened. He heard Rupert scuffle, and then a hammer cocked and Rupert’s revolver slid up the monk’s chest, pointed right at his face.

  Behind Cyrus somewhere, a shotgun pumped. And then pale Nolan dropped into view, grabbing a fistful of the monk’s Mohawk and levering his head back. With the other hand, he pressed a long knife against the monk’s soft throat.

  “Release them both,” Nolan said. “Slowly.”

  Boniface licked his bloody lips, then spat out a molar. Cyrus heard it click away across the asphalt, and he heard Rupert gasp, breathing suddenly. The pain in his own shoulder suddenly vanished. He rolled away quickly and rose to his knees.

  Pat the cook held a short shotgun, and Dan and Antigone stood beside him. Rupert rose slowly, coughing, chest heaving, and then he pointed his gun down at the monk.

  Brother Boniface Brosnan looked up at them all with his thick white limbs splayed and Nolan’s knife at his throat. He snorted and spat a glop of blood after his tooth. Then he grinned.

  “Well,” he said, “shall we try, try again? My best mates call me Niffy. It’s truly a pleasure to meet your little outlaw band.”

  Nolan turned his deep, timeworn eyes onto Rupert, waiting for instruction.

  Rupert shook his head and wiped a trickle of blood from his nose onto the back of his forearm. Nolan withdrew his knife as Rupert looked at the road and another passing semi with a chattering trailer.

 
; “Get our dear Brother Niffy inside,” Rupert said. “Guns and blood and brawling, we’d best get out of sight and quick.” He turned to Cyrus. “Your shoulder okay?”

  Cyrus nodded. “But my foot hurts from kicking him.”

  Niffy stood and straightened his robe. “And my jaw’s just brilliant, thanks. A lovely boot you have.”

  “Don’t start, Irish,” Rupert said. “Get inside and have your story ready. I’m missing people.”

  Dan and Antigone were lifting a whimpering Dennis between them. Dan paused, cocking his head. “Are those for us?” he asked. “The sirens?”

  Everyone froze. Cyrus looked at Antigone, at Rupert, at Dan and Nolan. He heard nothing but cicadas. Then a van passed and faded. But Daniel wasn’t working with normal human ears. He’d gone through horrors on Phoenix’s table, and his heart could still beat thanks only to the flesh-weaving magic of Arachne. But there were some upsides to the modifications. Dan turned to Rupert and nodded.

  “They’re coming closer. And a car. Fast. Someone is seriously hauling.”

  Slow seconds passed. And then Cyrus heard it, too. At first, only the distant whine of sirens. Definitely more than one. And then tires screaming on asphalt, sliding on unseen corners.

  A classic limo-long black car fishtailed around a corner and into view. Smoke rose behind its tires as it again accelerated. Cyrus had ridden in that car before, and he knew it couldn’t have been any faster if it had been part rocket. But speed didn’t help on corners.

  The car whipped around, nearly kissing the Archer’s pole with a chrome fender, and then entered the parking lot sideways, dragging smoking stripes of black rubber behind it.

  As it rocked to a stop, Diana Boone leapt from a rear door. Her strawberry hair was cinched back in a tight braid. She was wearing a long safari shirt belted with a caramel leather double holster. One gun was missing. One shirtsleeve was black and smoking.