Empire of Bones

by N. D. Wilson

The room was silent.

  Rupert dropped his arms. “Yeshua defend us,” he said. His voice was a whisper.

  Beside Cyrus, Jax wiped his eyes. Cyrus didn’t bother wiping his. He didn’t care if his cheeks were wet. He knew what had just happened. A trek of travelers had been blessed.

  And Rupert Greeves had presided over his own funeral.

  The big man up front breathed evenly. Body no longer sagging, but relaxed and ready. Eyes no longer weary, but alight with victory.

  “Cyrus Smith,” Rupert said, “Journeyman of the Order of Brendan, Ashtown Estate, come forward.”

  Cyrus blinked. Then he wiped his cheeks quickly and walked forward, stopping even with the front row.

  “Cyrus,” Rupert said. “Will you take up my badge when I fall? Will you defend and avenge the blood of your brothers and sisters in this Order? Will you go with these people and be their Avengel? If so, kneel, and prepare—”

  “Nope.” Cyrus shook his head. “Absolutely not. No way.”

  Rupert’s mouth hung open for one slow moment before he clamped it shut.

  “I know what you’re doing,” Cyrus said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

  Antigone waited in the moonlight beside the platform that held their airplane on the nose of the S.S. Fat Betty. The engines were roaring. Diana was wearing headphones and checking instruments by the glowing yellow light of the cockpit. Horace was waiting in the plane.

  Antigone looked at the rustling palm trees on the crescent island. This would have been a nice place to stay. Maybe someday. Maybe never. She smelled orangutan and turned back to see Jerome knuckling his way toward her. The great ape dropped down beside her and turned his eyes toward the island to see what she saw. He looked as serious as a poet.

  “It’s been nice, Jerome,” Antigone said. “Though I wish I was in a bed right now and not getting back on a plane.”

  Jerome was silent.

  “You take care of my mom, all right?” Antigone tried to meet the ape’s eyes. “If bad people come, throw them in the ocean.”

  From beneath the trees, Lemon emerged, walking beside Dan and Katie Smith. Nolan trailed behind with a long and obviously heavy duffel bag over his shoulders.

  Antigone forced a yawn to loosen her tightening throat. She was not going to cry. Her mom would be safe. There was absolutely nothing to cry about.

  Katie Smith, as slender and silver as an aspen tree in the moonlight, moved ahead of the others, straight for her daughter. Her eyes were lit like lesser moons, and the darkness in their centers pulled at Antigone like they were trying to drag her into another place and another time.

  Katie’s slender arms wound around her daughter. Lips found Antigone’s cheek.

  “My Tigger,” Katie said. “Your father loved you more than life. And so do I.”

  Antigone cried.

  Katie Smith pulled back, cupping her daughter’s face in her hands. She smiled at Antigone, her eyes pouring out raw, unfiltered affection.

  “I would rather that my daughter could sit and sing with me beside this warm sea, but in dark times, there are claims greater than a mother’s. Be wisdom for your brother, but trust his boldness.”

  Antigone nodded. She had no words. Her mother kissed her on the forehead.

  Dan stepped up beside his mother. His face was pale, and he looked sick to his core.

  “Antigone …”

  “I don’t want to argue,” Antigone said. “I have to go.”

  “Nothing in me wants to argue,” Dan said. “Everything in me wants to lock you in a room and go myself.”

  “Well,” Antigone said, “thanks for being reasonable.”

  Dan licked his lips. He was sweating and almost green.

  “This isn’t reasonable,” he growled. “This is me trusting … trusting a girl who writes with fire on leaves. This is me trusting a ridiculous dream.”

  Katie Smith shook her head. “True dreamers do not trust the dream. They trust the one who sends it.” She looked at Antigone. “Daniel is meant to stay. You are meant to go.”

  Nolan climbed up past Antigone. He was wearing gloves and sneering with slight disgust. His heavy bag clattered with the unseen weapons that he, and no one else, had chosen.

  Daniel put his hand on the back of Antigone’s head and pulled her into his chest. When he let go, her mother took her hands, kissed them each twice, then dropped them and backed away.

  When the plane rose, when it banked away from the freighter with its gardens and its apes, when Antigone slid over the crescent island fringed with cliffs and trees and away from the shapes of her mother and brother and onto the road of silver moonlight over the sea, she felt like she had felt beside her father’s grave beneath that ancient redwood tree. Something was stretching inside her. Something was tearing. Something was already torn.

  It wasn’t exactly the same. This time she felt like the one inside the grave while others stood beside it.

  seventeen

  LIVE BAIT

  OLIVER LAUGHLIN MASSAGED HIS EYEBROWS. Outside, the sun would be rising, but he didn’t want to see it. Right now he needed things dim. His feet were up on a rusty handrail, and he was leaning back in a rickety bent-wood chair. Twenty feet below him, on the cracked concrete floor where large vats once burbled with Holy Soap, dozens of women were sleeping in neat rows.

  Phoenix yawned, and then groaned. In his last body, the white Odyssean Cloak had magnified his mind and multiplied his cunning, but living in—no, being—Oliver was different. He had broken down barriers in the boy’s skull before he’d bothered to move in. He had doubled and trebled the boy’s capacity, pushing it well beyond mortal levels. But oddly, he hadn’t needed to do any real redesigning or even rebuilding. It had all just been there … walled off, unused, and more powerful than he could have imagined until he’d been able to think his way around inside it for himself.

  Man, Phoenix felt, had been meant for tremendous things. More than ever, as he cautiously explored Oliver’s new mind, Phoenix was certain that he was doing God’s work. Or gods’ work. Or more likely, the work of a god. He smiled.

  It had been difficult at first—painful, even—to achieve his old levels. But his consciousness was flowing more easily through Oliver’s brain now. And there were still corners unexplored, potentials that Phoenix had not begun to touch. Psychic potentials. Telepathic potentials. Destructive, creative, invasive, and matter-altering potentials. Exploring them was like opening present after present on Christmas Day and always seeing more beneath the tree.

  Phoenix smiled again. He thought of things like presents now. Oliver, after all, was much closer to childhood than Edwin Laughlin had been.

  Of course, in addition to the thrill of discovery, testing each new ability gave Phoenix a headache that was equally beyond mortal capacity. His forehead felt like a double-barreled volcano ready to blast screaming tangled nerves out of his eyebrows.

  Yes, he could turn off the pain—he’d done it in some varieties of his men—but not without turning off all of it. There would be a more delicate switch in there somewhere. He’d figure it out. Or his skull would adapt. Eventually.

  “Father.”

  Phoenix dropped his Oliver hands and looked up.

  The angular red-haired man who loomed over him was one of the few of Phoenix’s failed creations. The rest of the failed had been thrown into early action at Ashtown. Phoenix had not mourned their destruction, though he had not expected such high casualties.

  This man—Hal, his name was—was physically perfect on every level. But he was a worrier. And worriers made every strength a weakness.

  “Father,” Hal said again. He scratched a freckled cheek. “We haven’t heard anything new from Ashtown. Do you think the transmortals suspect something?”

  “Of course they suspect something,” Phoenix said. “But that won’t stop them. There is more than enough bait in those Burials to draw them.”

  Hal cleared his throat. His gills fluttered. “I can’t h
elp but wonder if including the tooth potion in the package for Radu was a mistake. They may be too scared of you to take the bait.”

  Phoenix dropped his feet off the rail and thumped his chair down. He began to laugh, and then he grabbed his throbbing forehead.

  “Scared? Radu Bey?” Phoenix stood. Hal took a quick step backward. “I have brandished a tiny weapon. I have threatened him meekly and shown that I am the one who feels fear.”

  “But, Father …” The redhead’s gills flared, and his freckled green face flushed.

  “He will sniff the bait,” Phoenix said. “He will circle. And then he will strike with the wrath of the old gods, and we and all the world will know.”

  Phoenix stretched inside Oliver’s new mind. His skull hatched Phoenix’s influence out between his eyes.

  Hal’s arm bent jerkily at the elbow. He extended one wavering finger and then tucked it into his own nostril. He stood there, eyes wide with terror.

  “Stop picking your nose, Hal,” Oliver sneered.

  Hal’s finger twisted and wiggled, picking diligently. Hal began to sweat and shake. He fought to lower his hand, but the finger popped right back into his nose.

  “Hal,” Oliver said. “Your nose is bleeding.”

  And it was. Streaming down around the man’s knuckles. Hal began to sob.

  “Do not bring me such childish fears,” Oliver said coolly. “Bring me no fear at all. I gave you strength; find courage, you pitiful, gutless … human.”

  Hal turned and ran, his bloody hand suddenly free.

  Oliver closed his eyes. His head was crackling. It felt like it was levering slowly open, yawning in his forehead. And as it did, his pain muted slightly, like a long splinter was being dragged out him, like his mind had just grown a new limb.

  He had just made a grown man pick his own nose. Phoenix let Oliver’s mouth twitch into a smile.

  Children could be so spiteful.

  Cyrus stood on the belly of a huge stone statue, floating on its back in a quiet black sea. And that is how he knew it was a dream. Stone. Floating.

  Cold wind tightened the skin on his face, but his body was warm. The stone statue beneath his feet wore carved mail and had outstretched sinewy arms. One hand gripped an ax and the other held the severed stone head of a bearded man. Cyrus walked up the statue’s belly and chest and the stone bobbed like a log, slapping the arms down into the dark water and rocking back up again.

  Cyrus looked down at the stone face as it emerged from the water. He had expected a man. A king. A Viking chieftain, maybe. But the statue had the face of a woman. Not even a woman—a girl. A pretty girl. Her eyes were shut and her brows were low with worry. Her stone mouth was slightly open, like the mouth of a sleeper straining to speak. Black water trickled out between her lips. She wore no helmet, and instead of hair, long stone feathers erupted from her scalp.

  “Do you see her?” The voice was Dan’s. Cyrus looked around. To his left, Dan was seated in a metal chair at a small metal table, both on the surface of the water. He was leaning forward, resting his head on his crossed arms. His eyes were shut, and a caged light hung in the air above him.

  “Yeah,” Cyrus said. “I see her. I’m standing on her.”

  “That’s how the dream goes,” Dan said. “She’s floating, right?”

  “Yeah,” said Cyrus. He looked back down at the black water licking the stone. “Not friendly water.”

  “Death,” Daniel said. He yawned, but his eyes were still shut. “The water is death.”

  “Creepy,” said Cyrus. “And weird. I’m dreaming a floating statue and my brother napping at a table.” He smiled. “But now that I know I’m dreaming, I think I’ll fly away. Wanna come?”

  “You’re not dreaming,” Dan said. “Well, you are. But it’s not your dream. It’s mine. I’m giving it to you. I thought you should see it.”

  Raindrops started puckering the black water around Cyrus. A few slapped the statue. A fat one hit Cyrus in the ear. Not the top of his ear. Somehow, it shot right into his ear hole. He squeegeed at it with his little finger.

  “That part’s all you,” Dan said. “Not me.”

  “So if the rest is all you …”

  “It is,” Dan said.

  Cyrus stared at his napping brother. “Okay,” he said. “A couple things … First, it’s kind of creepy having you in my dream. Cool, yes. But also creepy. Second, why this? You thought I should see it, so what’s the point?”

  “Pythia has been teaching me,” Dan said. “She started by coming into my dreams, and she doesn’t just write on leaves. She helped me figure out that all the abomination, desolation, seventy-weeks stuff was about you.”

  “We’re not talking about that one,” Cyrus snapped. “Don’t show that to me.”

  “Not going to,” Dan said. “But she taught me how to send dreams, and she’s helping me to interpret. This one is easy. The water is death. And the statue is floating in it. But it shouldn’t be floating. It’s stone. It’s meant to sink. It—she—should be deep in darkness, but she is rising.”

  “She,” Cyrus said quietly. “Who is she?”

  “She is called Babd Catha. She was a Celtic war goddess the last time people let her run around. She’s a storm crow who gathers vicious human followers and demands, in Lemon’s words, ‘much unpleasantness’ in her service. Child sacrifice. That kind of thing.”

  “Okay,” Cyrus said. “And she’s floating. Not staying in darkness. Check.”

  “She’s in the Burials, Cyrus,” Dan said. His voice was barely louder than the rain pattering on the table around him. “In one of the oldest and deepest vaults. If she’s coming up, then she won’t be the only one. Also, that’s not her face. Babd has no face. She has only a feathered skull. Whoever that girl is will be her first victim, the required sacrifice when the storm crow wakes.”

  Cyrus didn’t want to look back down at the face of the sleeping girl, at the stone features struggling to speak. But he also couldn’t help it. The girl’s mouth bobbed underwater, choking on liquid darkness. Cyrus felt sick.

  “I think I’d like to wake up now, thanks.” He shut his eyes and turned his face up to the sky, hoping for cool rain. Another drop hit him in the ear hole.

  “Last thing,” Dan said. “And it’s not good. Babd will rise up from the depths of darkness, but how do we keep her from leaving the water for good? If she receives a sacrifice, her awakening will be complete, but we don’t know who that girl in the statue is or where she is, or who is meant to stop it. There has to be a key in the dream. Something. A promise. A clue. Or else it’s just awful news with nothing we can do about it.” He sighed. “Pythia says most dreams are like that, but this one can’t be. I’ve seen what Babd will do and … and that sacrifice can’t happen. It just can’t. You can wake up now, Cyrus. I need to talk to Pythia.”

  Cyrus looked down at the massive floating stone statue beneath his feet. Dan wanted a clue. He rocked slightly and watched dark water ripple up into the statue’s mouth.

  Babd was beneath his feet.

  “Dan,” Cyrus said quietly. “Am I usually in the dream? And I’m standing on her?”

  “Oh.” Dan swallowed. “Cyrus. You’re right. You’re the last thing between her and total reawakening. You have to find the girl, Cyrus. If Babd receives a sacrifice …” Dan’s eyes were still closed tight. “Cyrus. Look around. Look down. She would only be the first.”

  Cyrus scanned the water. All around him, stone fingers and stone faces were beginning to break the black rain-puckered surface. Hundreds of them.

  “Cyrus,” Dan said. “I’ve seen Antigone die. I’ve seen her live. I’ve seen Diana and Jeb and Rupert and Dennis.…”

  “Stop it.” Cyrus bit his lip. “Jeb’s not even here.” He stomped on Babd’s stone shoulder.

  “Cy? Have you thought at all about the words from the other dream?”

  “I try not to, thanks,” Cyrus said quietly.

  “The seventy weeks will soon be passed,�
� Dan said. Cyrus could have recited the rest, he’d heard his brother say it enough times. “One comes on the wing of abominations, and there shall be no end to war. He shall be called the Desolation, and when he casts his shadow, even the dragon shall shrink in fear.”

  Cyrus stared at the black water, at the slowly bobbing fingers.

  “Seventy weeks …,” Dan muttered. “Seventy weeks of what? From when? Any ideas? We need the dragons scared now.…”

  “Dan,” Cyrus said. He faced his brother and opened his mouth to fire irritation. Dan was sitting up now. His arms were crossed. His eyes were open.

  Dan was blond. His eyes were blue. He had thinned down to the tan California boy that now lived only in fading pictures. Cyrus was looking at the brother he’d lost, the brother Phoenix had erased and rewritten.

  Cyrus’s irritation fell out of him; it was swallowed by the black water. He owed Dan better. He owed Dan everything.

  “You can wake up now,” Dan said. “Anytime.”

  Cyrus nodded.

  “Hey …,” Cyrus said. “Thanks. And, I, uh …”

  Dan gave him a wide, sun-bleached surfer grin of years ago. “I love you, too, man. Now look behind you. You’re not alone, little bro.”

  Cyrus turned. Antigone stood on the statue right behind him. She wore her leather jacket belted, with a revolver on one hip and a long knife on the other. A slice of pearly Angel Skin shimmered in the open neck of her shirt, and her fingers were threaded into her glistening black hair as she wove it back into a tight braid. She smiled at Cyrus as she worked.

  “Cowboy up, Tarzan. Let’s go.”

  A raindrop hit Cyrus in the ear hole.

  He opened his eyes.

  Cyrus blinked. He was curled on his side beneath a heavy blanket with his knees pulled up against his chest. And he was on a rooftop, tucked against a small wall beneath a wet morning sky. A dissipating trail of black smoke wandered away from the Brendan’s destroyed rooms on the far side of Ashtown.

  Niffy nudged Cyrus with his toe.

  “Well, you’re a keen little watchman, aren’t you, then?”