by N. D. Wilson
“I don’t think so, Father.”
Phoenix made his Oliver head nod. “Good. Are the women ready? And the vats?”
“Both ready. The potion is bottled and the vats were cleaned last night.” The redhead looked nervous. His blue goat-pupiled eyes were unsteady. Tremendous peripheral vision in those sideways eyes, Phoenix knew, but truly grotesque on a man. He turned away. The Holy Soap warehouse was waiting for him.
“My name is Dr. Oliver Phoenix,” he said aloud. He closed the knob over the tooth and pressed it against his lips. “Oliver. My name is Oliver. I am Dr. Oliver Phoenix.”
He sniffed as he walked, stepping around the tall dry forests of weeds that owned the sidewalk cracks.
“Dr. Oliver,” he said. His nose itched, and he rubbed it with the heel of his hand. His eyes began to stream. “Oliver Phoenix. I am Oliver Phoe—”
A sneeze erupted out of him. He snorted and spat and widened his eyes while he walked. This could be fixed. He would find a way. Three more sneezes took him to the bottom of the low hill. Main Street was a rustling pastureland of weeds. Shattered storefronts gaped darkness. The Founder’s Park had been swallowed by scrub brush.
Oliver Laughlin, lean, gilled, and furious, whose portrait hung in the Galleria of Ashtown, sneezed his way across the street.
Two large coyotes watched the strange one from their barbershop cave. He smelled like the other mans that now wandered their town, but rot and death clouded around this young one with the snout fits. He smelled like traps, like poisons in meats, like one whose eyes would soon bleed and whose snarlings would drip foam. He smelled like mate-killer, young-eater; he smelled like madness and rage.
Lips curling, hackles rising, the animals growled loathing and backed deeper into shadow.
The plane jostled through another pocket of turbulence, and the wheel shook in Antigone’s hands. Again. Her copilot headset rattled down onto her cheeks. Again. She pushed it back up. Again. Then she looked at Diana Boone. Tan, freckled Diana in her aviators and ponytail and khaki safari shirt with the sleeves buttoned up and the neck open, showing a long scar just above her collarbone. Diana who liked Cyrus.
“I don’t like this,” Antigone said. She was sick of her chair and the fizzly air-conditioning; sick of her headset and the noise it couldn’t keep out; exhausted from too little sleep and too little food and too much worry. She didn’t want to be flying the plane. It added even more stress to the layers of things she had to fret about. And it made her tense. Her shoulders were knotted tight.
“You don’t have to like it,” Diana said again. She glanced over from the pilot’s seat and then rechecked the instruments. The tilt-rotor plane hadn’t pulled itself out of the mud by the lake easily. For a while, it had looked like it might not pull itself out at all. But Diana had gotten in the air eventually, though they were still behind Rupert’s mandated schedule. Four and a half hours in the air—three of them Antigone’s—and another hour until their fuel-up at some nowhere airstrip in Mexico.
“Do you like this?” Antigone asked.
Diana looked at her. “What if I do?”
“You don’t,” Antigone said.
Diana shrugged. “I like this more than I like ignoring orders from the Avengel of the O of B. I like this more than I like the idea of explaining my disregard of orders to that Avengel when he eventually shows up mad.”
Antigone twisted in the copilot’s seat, looking back into the cabin. Dan was reading some old book he’d found at the camp. Katie Smith was leaning on his shoulder, her eyes open but blinking slowly. She gave Antigone a smile. Pythia ignored her empty chair and sat on the floor in a nest of her own hair. Nolan and Horace were both asleep. The rest were still at Llewellyn’s camp. The division between those who had stayed behind and those on the plane had been part of Rupert’s instructions. Dennis Gilly, Gunner, and Llew were the only mortals still at the lake with the Captain, Arachne, and Gil.
Antigone turned back around.
“I don’t know why we brought the hair along. If we wanted protection, we should have at least brought the Captain. And Arachne is basically our doctor and we left her with all the people who will never need one.”
Diana smiled. “The split makes sense if you think about it. You would never want to leave Nolan and Gil together. Dan is the only one who even talks to Pythia, so why leave her behind? The Captain and Arachne both have a chance at controlling Gil if things go bad, so they should stay with him. And if Bellamy or Phoenix or both take a shot at the camp, I think it’s in pretty good hands. Would you want to drop in on that gang?” Diana laughed. “Gilgamesh, John Smith, Arachne and her ten billion forest spiders, and Gunner, too. Did you see all those rifles in the weaponry shed?”
The plane bounced hard and Antigone’s heart skipped. Her headset slipped down. She sputtered her lips and pushed it back up.
“You don’t like leaving, either,” Antigone muttered.
“Of course not,” Diana said. “Because I’m selfish. Because right now Cyrus and Rupert are in the fight, or at least circling the enemy. Because I haven’t talked to Jeb and I don’t know how he’s doing. Because I’m anxious and curious, and because my job is to sit still for hours and make sure you fly straight and don’t crash.”
Antigone looked down at the globe Skelton had left them, folded neatly and tucked into a leather pouch below the instruments. Rupert had given it back but took his with him. After refueling in Mexico, she would be pointing the plane south and very, very west, all the way to a ship on the globe marked:
S.S. FAT BETTY
LIBRARY, ARMORY, FUEL
MS. LEMON CHAUNCEY, SAGE
“Have you ever heard of Lemon Chauncey?” Antigone asked.
“I have,” Diana said. “But nothing good.” She turned her aviators at Antigone and smiled. “What would you expect from a friend of old Billy Bones? She was tried twice at Ashtown and got off both times. When they wanted to charge her a third time, she filed a trek and skipped out of there. Basically the same thing Rupert did before Bellamy could raise a tribunal.”
“Charged for what?” Antigone asked.
“I only know the dining hall stories,” Diana said. “From other kids. Not exactly reliable. They said she murdered three Acolytes she was training. Some other kid said she was charged with sorcery—curses, charms, dark stuff. You’ll have to ask her.” She laughed. “I’m sure she remembers.”
Antigone adjusted her headset, thinking. “That map might be outdated,” she said.
Diana nodded.
“Skelton died more than a year ago.”
“Yep,” Diana said. “And he even made the map before that.” She smirked.
“And we’re trying to find a ship. Ships move. What if this Lemon lady decided she wanted to go somewhere new? What if Skelton didn’t know what he was talking about?”
“Well,” said Diana, “then we will fly for a very long time and look at a whole lotta ocean, and then we will run out of fuel and fall into it.” One side of her mouth twitched up. “Don’t worry, it’s not a bad way to go. Popular, even. Been used a lot in the O of B since people started strapping wings on.”
“Well, thanks for that,” Antigone said. “Good to know. But if we’re going to die, I’d rather keep the cause of death unique. Think you could you arrange that?”
“You mean like being eaten by a dragon? Tigs, you could have done that months ago. Opportunity missed. I think right now it’s falling out of the sky or nothing.”
Antigone looked out her window at the herd of clouds marching around the world. It was like being back in Radu Bey’s strange open room on the pillar, looking out at sky that wasn’t really there. She exhaled slowly, remembering how close she had come to death that day. She could still smell his hot dragon breath. Her ribs remembered the crushing strength of his tail. If Arachne hadn’t woven her the Angel Skin, Antigone would have died right there. For weeks after, she hadn’t wanted to take off that shimmering spider silk. Now she kept it in he
r pocket, folded into a tiny square as light as a pack of tissues. Two spiders lived in its center, always ready to march down her bare spine, binding her into her charmed pearly skin. They were friendly, but the thought still made Antigone shiver.
“Tigs?” Diana asked. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that about dragons. You don’t need to keep that memory fresh.”
Antigone shook her head. “No, it’s fine. I think I’ll skip the dragon option. Maybe a meteorite. Lightning. A tornado.”
Diana held out her hand, palm up. She waited, eyes hidden behind her glasses, strong jaw set. Antigone took the older girl’s hand.
Diana squeezed. “Old age,” she said. “Let’s die of old age. In times like this, with what lies ahead, old age is as unique as it gets. Maybe even impossible, but we should definitely give it a shot.”
Antigone felt her throat begin to tighten, but she smiled, and she meant it.
“Deal,” she said. “And that goes for everyone.”
Cyrus leaned against a shelf loaded with battered copper pots, and metal sheets ringed with the baked footprints of ten thousand cookies, and saucepans big enough for him to sit in. These were the rejects, the spares, the backups for special days when Ashtown was overflowing with members from continental Estates and family holdings around the world. The last time they had been used was most likely when Bellamy Cook had been named Brendan, when Ashtown had been so full the Acolytes had been forced out of their rooms and into a tent city in the courtyard. Cyrus wondered how many people were still around and how many had retreated to homes in faraway places to wait things out.
The storage room was at least fifty feet long, but narrow and dim. The walls were gray stone, the floor was cement, the ceiling was cement. Four large bulbs spread light that was more moon than sun and added to the quiet underground coolness of the place. Cyrus and all the pots were on one side. The other side was packed tight with towers of plates and bowls, wooden boxes stenciled with pictures of forks and spoons and knives, and then more boxes, bigger boxes, overflowing with foam and labeled with stenciled letters: CRYSTAL, SILVER, CHINA. There were dozens of them, and some were the size of hay bales.
Cyrus looked toward the door at the end of the room, where Sterling had disappeared. Then he looked down at his hands and feet, sleeved in black, and he looked back at the shelf, with the door hidden behind it, where they had entered. He had memorized his step counts and turns along the way, exactly how Rupert had shown him. He could duck back in and disappear before Sterling came back. He could get into the lake and swim for the harbor and steal a boat and try to find the plane. But he knew he was too late. Men had been in the tunnels, hunting for him. Of course, he could steal another plane. He could even call it borrowing. But if he did, where would he go? There was no way he could fly back to the camp. And it wasn’t like there was a telephone number he could call for help if he just flew somewhere random and then hid.
He flexed his gloved hands and listened to his knuckles pop. Why was he trusting Sterling? He wasn’t. Not really. Would he really be surprised if Sterling stepped back into this room with Bellamy Cook himself, if all the cook really wanted was to pack Cyrus up and ship him to Phoenix?
Cyrus knew that he needed his own plan, and he needed it soon.
Down the room, the shelf in front of the hidden door suddenly rocked and wobbled. Pots clattered together.
Cyrus backed away. He watched the shelf slide out into the room as the door behind it opened wider. His breath had stopped. His heart pounded on his eardrums. Run? Hide?
Dropping into a crouch, Cyrus pulled his knife and slid quickly toward the wobbling shelf. Tucking his shoulder, he rolled past it and froze, pressing himself tight against a large wooden crate.
The shelf stopped wobbling. Cyrus was stone. A single pot clicked against another as it rocked itself still.
Cyrus leaned forward, just past the crate, peering between pots at the narrow slice of darkness where the door had been pushed open.
“I smell you, boy,” a man whispered. Hidden beyond the door, he inhaled long and slow. “Your taste hangs sour in the air like your brother’s and mother’s.” He sniffed again. “But there’s something more rotten, something more like … your dead father.”
The door exploded open, flinging the shelf of pots across the room into towers of plates, knocking Cyrus back off his feet. In the rain of copper and china, a large shape stepped into the room, his head just below the lights. He was darker than Cyrus, but the bone tattoos were still easily visible. His hair was long and straight, his brow was heavy, and the bridge of his nose was wide, lined with folds, and tinted blue.
Cyrus crab-crawled back through rolling pots and shards of porcelain, and then scrambled to his feet.
The man drew two long, thin knives from his belt, then dropped into a low crouch, like an ape sitting on his heels. He grinned, baring the huge fangs of a baboon.
“Dear Cyrus Smith,” he growled. “Please come play. From, your friend Oliver.”
twelve
GARLICKER
CYRUS ADJUSTED HIS GRIP on the knife and shifted into the simple fighting stance Nolan had taught him. He kept his left hand loose and low; his fingers wanted to twitch, but he kept them still—never show fear—knees bent, weight lightly shifting from toe to toe like a boxer, body leaning slightly forward—always show attack. The man with the baboon nose and teeth stepped forward and flipped both of his long knives, catching the handles in big fists, blades pointed down. His black hair swung forward against his cheeks.
“Father wants you alive,” the ape-man said, inching forward. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t kill you first. He can raise the dead.”
Cyrus knew the strikes would come as punches—jabs and hooks that would land sharp steel instead of knuckles. And the man’s arms were extremely long. Cyrus’s breath quickened. He stared straight into the man’s dark eyes—worry him, be unexpected.
“What was your name?” Cyrus asked. “Before Phoenix turned you into a monkey?”
There are no real knife fights among mortals, Nolan had said. Only knife murders. The only true defense is.… a kill.…
The man paused, straightening slightly, showing his fangs.
Cyrus managed half a smile. “Bobby? Wayne? Curtis, maybe? I’m sure you’re quick and you can climb,” he said. “And I know you have some nice little goldfish gills. But did Phoenix tell you about the monkey face before you signed up?” Cyrus did a bad imitation of Phoenix’s southern drawl. “ ‘I tell you what, Curtis, how about I make you look like the ugliest ape on the planet?’ ” Cyrus watched the man tense. “And you said what? ‘Yes, please, I want a baboon face’? Did he give you the butt, too?”
The strike came even faster than Cyrus had expected.
A left fist, trailing vicious steel, flashed at his face. Cyrus ducked forward, between the man’s long arms. Knuckles grazed his forehead, the knife nicked his scalp, and he knew the right fist was already coming. Cyrus jerked toward the blow instead of away, and the man’s heavy wrist slammed into his temple. The blade missed its mark.
Slipping with the force of the blow, Cyrus stabbed and felt his blade find gut. He twisted and tore, hearing the man snarl in pain, but he knew it was only deep enough to irritate.
Cyrus dropped straight to the floor. Steel whispered in his ear. He landed and tried to roll away, but he was too slow and he knew it.
A foot pinned Cyrus’s knife hand to the floor. Strong fingers gripped his short hair and jerked his head back, exposing his throat.
The end, as Nolan always said.
“Romeo,” the man said. “My name is Romeo.”
“Bummer,” said Cyrus.
The room hissed with light. A white fireball swirled between the shelves and shattered around Romeo’s shoulders and head, flinging him off of Cyrus and into the pots.
Romeo lay on a bed of saucepans that were glowing orange with heat. Cyrus coughed and rose to his knees. He could hear fat sizzling, and
the smell in the room was vile.
Sterling raised a fat-barreled gun to his shoulder and smiled. He was wearing a white apron and a hairnet over his beard. “For all their gills and ugliness, they’re still not fireproof.” He nodded at the door and his gold bells rang. “Come on, then. Your carriage awaits. There are more of ’em sniffin’ around.”
Sterling turned and swayed toward the door on his metal legs. He pulled it open and peered out.
Glancing back at the cooked body, Cyrus wiped his knife on his leg, sheathed it, and hopped through shattered plates and scattered pots to where the poisoner cook was waiting.
Two large trolleys with canvas sides waited in a dim hall outside. One was empty and one was filled to the brim with dried garlic cloves. Sterling tapped the empty one with his gun.
“Hop in and get down. These boys might as well be hound dogs with the noses they’ve got. We don’t need you trailing foot scents.”
Cyrus climbed over the side and curled up at the bottom. The trolley smelled like apples. Sterling dropped the gun with its fat barrel and little gas chamber in on top of Cyrus. It was heavy. And hot. A moment later, Sterling tipped the garlic trolley up over Cyrus like the bed of a dump truck. Garlic cloves rained down.
Cyrus saw Ben Sterling’s smiling face, and then he couldn’t see anything but cloves and darkness. He had been completely buried.
The apple smell was gone.
Sterling began to whistle. The trolley wobbled and rolled. Wheel squeaks mixed with the small sound of Sterling’s ringing bells.
Cyrus felt the trolley tilt as Sterling pushed him up a ramp. He heard the rattle of an old elevator cage door. A moment later, a motor hummed, gears and cables whined, and Cyrus felt himself rising.
Cyrus squirmed. He didn’t trust Sterling. Not at all. So why was he buried in a garlic bin, completely blind to where Sterling was taking him? Yes, Sterling had torched Baboon Boy, but if there was a price on Cyrus’s head, that might not mean anything. To the pirate cook, it was probably only a question of who would pay him more, the transmortals or Phoenix?