by N. D. Wilson
Rupert looked at her. “I approached a somewhat irritable transmortal who was yammering about a pair of kids named Smith and what he thinks they gave to a villain named Phoenix.” He ground the Jeep into gear. Antigone’s smile disappeared.
The red-winged blackbird watched the Jeep go. After a moment of indecision, she dropped out of the tree, wove her way around trunks beneath the canopy, and flew down the hill after Cyrus.
Cyrus’s splitting ribs were breathing for him. His legs were on fire as they churned, and his shoulders were clenched as tight as wire knots. His throat was closing, his tongue swollen and dry, and still he needed to spit. And spit. And spit again. The heat was too much, the pace was too much, and the streaming sweat-salt in his eyes was too much to blink away.
Cyrus had switched off Time. It didn’t matter how long he’d been going. It didn’t matter how much longer he must go. There was only now—only these steps, and these, and these, and these, and no others. He set his mind to ignore all pain and struggled to keep it there. His body’s screams grew distant and muffled, like nightmare residue after waking.
Somehow Jeb was only five strides in front of him, moving easily—shoulders gliding level with the ground, knotted calves driving feet that were casually chewing up yards at a time.
Ashtown was closer now—off to his right. Hulking buildings and statues and rooflines mounded out of the green lawns like a hand-carved mountain range. The sight no longer surprised Cyrus any more than watching planes drop onto the grassy airstrip outside the kitchen windows.
Running erased Cyrus’s frustrations. The exertion overwhelmed thoughts of pale-faced Nolan and his ancient-language drills, along with all of Antigone’s books and worries. The comments in the halls. The blank faces. The complete absence of tutors willing to work with anyone named Smith. Dennis Gilly—a porter—taught them sailing and navigation. Gunner—a driver—had started training them in marksmanship, but he had gone home to Texas months ago.
It should have been Rupert. It should all have been Rupert. But he kept disappearing. And when he was at Ashtown, he just looked at Cyrus like he was hopeless.
A whimper from his side snapped Cyrus’s mind back. He’d been running for at least … no, don’t think about it. Too long.
He could see Rupert’s Jeep a few hundred yards ahead, waiting by the lake. Antigone was standing on the hood, hands shielding her eyes, watching the runners come. Beside her, taller than she was, stood Diana, strawberry hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.
Darn it.
Cyrus looked away from the spectators, focusing only on Jeb, on his pace, on the rhythm his bare feet pounded out on the ground.
Jeb was accelerating.
How? Why? Cyrus didn’t understand. He tried to push, to dig, to find another gear inside him. Mistake. His legs suddenly deadened. Acid surged through his veins, and his knees clipped against each other mid-stride. He was falling.
Cyrus threw up his hands and tucked his head to roll. He flipped too quickly, slammed onto his back, bounced up onto his knees, and fell forward onto his face.
Jackhammers thumped against his temples. His arms wobbled as he pushed himself up. He tried to find his feet, suddenly threw up in the grass, and then stepped in it as he managed to stand. He ignored the wetness between his toes, the foul taste, and the stringy cling on his chin.
He couldn’t stop. Not now. He had to get to the water. Swimming was easy. It would be like resting. Cool water. He’d be fine.
At first, he couldn’t control his direction. His legs carried him sideways. But the slope helped him steady his pace, and he accelerated slowly.
Jeb had reached the water. Cyrus heard Diana whoop and whistle and clap for her brother. He saw her ponytail swing. Jeb waved to her, bounced in a comic stride, and plunged in.
Two lifetimes later, Cyrus reached the Jeep. He saw Rupert check his stopwatch. Antigone was worried. Diana was smiling.
“Cy?” Antigone asked.
“Go, go, go!” Diana said.
Cyrus hit the water. High knees through the shallows. One foot worked; the other didn’t. He collapsed forward, and his knees and toes and fingers banged against silty-skinned rocks on the bottom. He didn’t care. He didn’t feel the pain. He sank and felt the coolness surround him. He felt the relief of weightlessness. And then he needed to breathe.
On the shore, Antigone bit off her thumbnail while her brother splashed away. Diana watched next to her.
“He’s a little crazy,” Diana said. She looked at Rupert. “You’re sure he’ll be okay?”
Rupert shook his head. “I’m not sure of anything.” He looked at Antigone. “That boy can run. I didn’t think he’d even finish the first mile at that pace. He didn’t run in school?”
Antigone snorted. “He hated coaches. Can we make him stop? Or just follow him in a boat or something?”
Stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, breath. And again. Again. Two hundred agains. Three hundred. Or four. Or five. Cyrus didn’t know. He knew that his strokes were growing shorter. His breaths were becoming gasps. Cyrus’s dead, barely kicking legs slowly sank. His shoulders slowly petrified.
Cyrus hadn’t seen Jeb since he’d hit the water. He couldn’t see the buoy. He only knew that he was swimming. He hoped it was in the right direction.
His calves had already cramped twice, his toes felt permanently splayed, and his feet wouldn’t bend. And finally, the next stroke simply didn’t come and Cyrus’s legs swung all the way down beneath him. Bobbing in place and spitting out sweet mouthfuls, he looked around. Ashtown’s little harbor and its stone jetty were directly behind him. He had drifted well off course.
He shook his head and spat again. Water dribbled out of his ears. He could hear something groaning—a machine. A boat?
Cyrus tried to kick up above the waves to scan the surface, but his legs had reached full paralysis. He could barely tread water. The groaning was growing. Engines, but above him. An airplane. He looked up.
A broad, fat-bellied seaplane the size of a small airliner was banking hard out over the lake. It turned, and turned, and turned until it was flying straight toward him. While he watched, it leveled its wings and dropped into a low approach, preparing to touch down. It was coming fast.
Panic erased Cyrus’s weariness. His arms wheeled as he tried to crawl out of the way.
Too late. Fifty yards off, the fat belly hit the surface, blasting sheets of water up its sides. Two wing skis threw up huge rooster tails.
Grabbing one quick breath, Cyrus dove. He kicked and clawed himself down. And down.
Propellers dusted the surface. The white belly carved through the blue above him, and he felt himself being sucked back up. Covering his head, he slammed into metal. Riveted steel punched his back, rolling and spinning him into darkness. And then the plane was gone.
Cyrus was sinking.
Life became simple. Cyrus Smith was going to die. His legs and his arms wanted to die. His back and his head and his lungs all wanted to die.
Fine, thought Cyrus. And then two arms slid beneath his.
They were not freckled arms. They were pale and thin and smooth. And strong. Cyrus looked at them, and then he looked into a girl’s face made of moonlight and pearl, and haloed with long, swirling black hair.
The girl was pulling Cyrus toward the surface, and suddenly, his legs and his lungs and his head were willing to live again.
Fine, thought Cyrus.
two
ARACHNE AND …
THE WAVES IN THE FAT PLANE’S WAKE slapped together and died as rumbling propellers pulled the heavy metal body on toward Ashtown’s harbor. The sun sorted through froth and foam and settled on a floating mat of brown and gray and black—a thousand tiny things with legs linked together, rocking on the waves. Bubbles rose up beneath them.
Gasping, Cyrus surfaced and spewed a mouthful of lake down his chin.
Across from him, the strange girl’s head and shoulders slid up through the water without a splash. C
yrus sputtered and spat and blinked. The girl’s wet black hair glinted in the sun like polished stone. Her eyes—set wide apart—were pale blue and full of light, but also worn and tired like ancient sea glass.
Cyrus shook his head. Droplets still clung to his face. And then one crawled onto his eyelid, and he slapped at it. They weren’t droplets.
“Don’t,” the girl said. But Cyrus wasn’t listening. The things were all over his hands, his cheeks, his ears. All around him, the surface of the water was covered with a tangled mass of floating spiders.
Cyrus yelled. He clawed at his face and pulled at his ears. Spiders were on his lips, his nose, his eyes. Desperate, he grabbed a breath and dove.
Underwater, the spiders came off. While Cyrus sank, he scraped at his arms and neck and face and watched dozens of the tiny bodies float weightlessly through sunlight water-rays like an army of eight-legged astronauts. Above him, he could see the dark outline of the spider mat surrounding the strange girl.
The silhouette of a small boat with an outboard motor bounced into view.
Antigone leaned out over the prow of the boat, bracing herself against every bouncing wave and scanning the surface ahead. She’d spotted Cyrus just before the plane had landed, and then she’d seen the girl dive out of a side door behind the wing. But now … nothing.
She didn’t like this. Not one little bit. She lifted her head just enough to let the wind snap her hair out of her face, and then she bit her lower lip hard. Last year, she’d been in the same boat, at night, in a thunderstorm, circling the burning wreckage of a plane, searching for both of her brothers and her mother.
“There!” she shouted. Two heads bobbed to her left. She straightened and pointed and felt the boat veer beneath her as Rupert followed her hand. Diana Boone slid up into the prow beside Antigone, one hand above her eyes to block the sun, her strawberry ponytail whipping behind her like a flag.
A wave rose and, for a moment, Antigone lost sight of her targets. She caught her breath, waiting. There they were. No. There one was. Just the girl, calmly watching the boat come.
“Rupe!” Diana yelled.
“Got ’em!” Rupert throttled up and the boat surged forward, clipping across the rough water. A moment later, he killed the motor and let the boat drift toward the girl.
“Where’s Cyrus?” Antigone yelled.
The girl didn’t answer. With one easy backstroke, she pulled herself through an odd carpet of flotsam and grabbed on to the side of the boat.
Diana and Rupert each grabbed one of her hands and pulled her up out of the lake and set her on her feet inside the boat. She was Antigone’s height, and she was wearing simple jeans and a black button-down shirt, but Antigone hardly noticed. She couldn’t drag her eyes off the girl’s strangely old and very perfect face. For a moment, Antigone even forgot Cyrus.
“Hello, Rupert,” the girl said, pushing back her long, wet hair. “Not exactly how I was hoping to arrive.”
Rupert nodded. “Arachne. Where’s the boy?”
“Here!” Cyrus was treading water twenty feet off the other side. “Is the water clean? Is there anything floating on top?”
Antigone hopped across the boat and leaned out over the side. “Just us. I don’t see anything. What do you mean? Are you okay? Anything broken?”
Cyrus shook his head and spat out another mouthful of lake water, then crawled slowly toward the boat. His arms felt like stone, but he managed to keep slapping at the water until he made it. Rupert grabbed Cyrus’s wrists and heaved him up, his ribs cracking on the metal edge, and he tumbled inside. After a few panting breaths, he elbowed himself up and looked around.
Rupert’s eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but his mouth was almost smiling. Antigone looked worried. Diana grinned. The girl with the impossible eyes was staring at him. Behind her, the army of floating spiders was climbing into the boat.
Cyrus yelled, staggering to his feet.
Antigone and Diana turned, and then began backing toward Cyrus. Rupert simply watched the dripping rug of spiders slide in over the side.
“Arachne,” Rupert said. “Meet Diana Boone, Antigone Smith, and Cyrus Smith. Di, Tigs, Cy, meet Arachne. The spiders are … hers.”
Cyrus swallowed and wiped his eyes. The spiders were hers? What did that even mean?
Rupert scratched his jaw and focused on Arachne. “Who was flying that plane?”
Arachne looked down at the spiders swarming around her. A slight whisper trickled out between her lips, and the spiders began to herd themselves forward into the prow. She looked up. “Gil was flying. I saw the boy—Cyrus—early enough to pull up, but he still set it down. I thought we might have killed him.” She stared at Cyrus for a moment. “If Gil had known who it was, he would have made sure of it. You’re the one who lost the tooth?”
Bristling, Antigone stepped forward. “He didn’t lose anything. It wasn’t like that.”
Arachne wasn’t listening to Antigone, and she didn’t look away from Cyrus’s eyes. Cyrus couldn’t have blinked even if he’d tried. His eyes were frozen by hers, trying to tell her every thought, every dream, every forgotten memory. He wanted to be strong, to seem carefree and confident to this spider girl, and then he knew it didn’t matter. She saw him truly. There was nothing he could hide. He realized he’d been holding his breath, and he exhaled slowly.
“Yeah,” he said. She released his eyes, and his head sagged. “I lost the tooth.”
For the first time, Arachne smiled. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I’m glad we didn’t kill you. You were smart to dive. Are you okay?”
Cyrus hurt. His legs and lungs and shoulders. His head. His back.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“No need to lie,” Rupert said. “You’d almost killed yourself even before the plane. We’ll get you to a nurse.” He looked at Diana. “You spot Jeb?”
She nodded, shielding her eyes. “At the buoy and turning back. He’ll stop if we make him, but he’ll want to finish.”
Of course he will, Cyrus thought. Perfect.
“Right,” Rupert said. “The clock’s still ticking. We can drop Cyrus off and be waiting for Jeb back at the line.”
Most of the spider army seemed to have straggled into or onto the boat. Rupert Greeves jerked a pull cord, and the outboard motor roared to life.
With the boat racing toward the harbor, Cyrus sat and shut his eyes against the wind. Muscles in his thighs and bruised back shivered and quaked in tiny spasms of exhaustion. He felt someone sit beside him, and he opened his eyes wide enough to squint.
Antigone reached up and touched a lump on his scalp. Cyrus winced. His sister showed him her fingertips—blood. He didn’t want to know what his back looked like.
Antigone leaned toward him.
“I thought you were dead,” she said. “Again.”
Cyrus forced a smile and shook his head. “Not yet.”
His sister studied his face, and then looked at the strange girl in the prow, surrounded by huddling spiders. As the wind lashed and dried Arachne’s black hair, it was beginning to curl.
“Cy, are we ever going to get used to this place?” Antigone asked.
Cyrus reached up and felt the keys hanging safely on cool, invisible Patricia. He stared at the spider girl. How much had he already gotten used to?
“Maybe,” he said. “But I hope not.”
The boat bounced on. After a moment, Antigone leaned her head against her bigger little brother’s shoulder. A year ago, he would have shrugged her off.
“You did good, bruv,” she said. “Better than Rupe thought you would, that’s for sure.”
Cyrus snorted. But he let the compliment settle in. He was grateful. He wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone else, but he was even grateful for the plane. He wouldn’t have finished the swim. At least now he had gotten out of the water with a shred of self-respect and one of the best excuses of his life—a plane had landed on him. But he wasn’t any closer to making Explorer. He w
asn’t any closer to being able to set out from this place on his own.
He focused on the fat silver plane, now anchored just off the harbor jetty. Behind it, the green slope climbed up to the grassy airstrip and the underground hangars, and up again to the hulking stone building that was the heart of the Ashtown Estate, heart of the Order of Brendan. A crown of statues on the roofline posed against the blue sky, and sunlight sprayed off the tall windows Cyrus knew belonged to the kitchen. Last year, Big Ben Sterling had ruled that realm, walking on two metal legs with golden bells dangling from his ears. Now Cyrus only saw Ben in his dreams. Food in the O of B had been a lot better back when Sterling had been around. Even thinking about the crooked cook made Cyrus hungry, which was strange given that Sterling had ended his Ashtown career with a mass poisoning.
Antigone lifted her head from his shoulder. “Wanna go see Mom?”
Cyrus inhaled slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “As soon as I eat something.” He looked up, squinting against the sun. A small bird was flying fast above the boat, its dark outline moving in and out of the glare. As surely as he knew anything, Cyrus knew there were red feathers high on each wing.
Three hours passed before Cyrus opened a door in the hospital wing and stepped into his mother’s room. He’d insisted first on returning to the starting line with Rupert to wait for Jeb—and to congratulate him on shattering an old Order record when he arrived. He’d scrounged for food in the kitchen. Finally, he’d gone to the hospital wing and been bandaged—one butterfly on his scalp, two on his back. Small cuts. He’d had worse from training with dulled sabers with Antigone. Much worse from training with knives against pale Nolan.
The hospital room was white and clean and fresh. A black ceiling fan whirled above the bed, and white curtains fluttered around a window. Bright photographs had been arranged on a small night table. Antigone was already seated beside their mother’s bed, tipped back in her chair with her riding boots on a stool and a book in her hands. Her eyebrows shot up when Cy came in, and she glanced at a clock above the door.