by N. D. Wilson
“The spider girl’s our babysitter?” Antigone grimaced. “Seriously?”
“The ‘spider girl’ has chosen her side,” Rupert said. “She’s betting on Smiths. As am I …” Rupert paused, focusing on Cyrus. “One last thing. Hopefully you’ll be out of sight, but if you are in public, try not to use the word transmortal. It’s accurate, but some of them are quite sensitive about ever having been mortal at all. They insist on immortal. Food will be delivered, and I’ll send along some paint as well.”
“Really?” Antigone jumped to her feet. “Something warm, please. Yellow. Orange. I don’t know. Just bright. Please make it bright.”
Rupert smiled. “Bright it is.” He crossed toward the door. “And Skelton’s estate wasn’t that anemic. You should have some money. I’ll talk to that dirty little lawyer of yours.”
The door opened, and the door shut. Rupert was gone.
Antigone dropped into the armchair and laughed. “Hey, hey, Rus-Rus, you’ll have to help me clean. There’s a lot to do if we’re going to paint this place.”
Cyrus looked at his sister, laced his fingers through his short dark hair, and groaned. His cage had just gotten smaller.
“What?” Antigone said. “We’ll be stuck, but it’s better than being dead or beaten to a pulp by some transmortal, and at least the walls will be bright.”
“I don’t care about bright walls,” said Cyrus. He dropped onto the old rug and flopped onto his back. “Maybe I’ll run away to California.”
“Good plan,” a voice said from beneath the floor. A grate rattled, and the rug shook beneath Cyrus, thumping him in the back. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to come up now.”
At the same time, the front door opened and Diana Boone slipped in, followed by Dennis Gilly in his bowler hat, and pretty little Hillary Drake, who was wearing an apron loaded with cleaning supplies. Her curly hair was knotted in a fountain on top of her head.
“Are we on for Polygoners tonight?” Diana asked. “I wasn’t sure when I saw you come in with Rupe. Thought you might be busy.”
Hillary focused her green eyes on Cyrus and fidgeted with her apron. “I only have about thirty minutes till they notice that I’m missing.”
“Yeah,” said Antigone. “We’re on. Cy, get off of Nolan.”
Cyrus rolled off the rug, and then kicked it toward the wall. A pale face looked up through a heating grate in the floor. The grate rattled again.
“Some idiot locked it,” said Nolan. “Now let me in.”
four
THREE HEADS
IN THE BEGINNING, Polygoners had been a self-imposed nickname, a point of upside-down pride, the only way Cyrus and Antigone could make exile in the Polygon seem like a cool thing. Neither of them could say when it had become something more. In a tight moment, they had promised membership to Dennis in order to keep him motivated and unafraid. He had invited Hillary Drake, no doubt in an attempt to impress the pretty, wide-eyed girl and prove that he wasn’t simply a washed-out Acolyte-turned-porter.
James Axelrotter, the incredibly young zookeeper—Jax to anyone who really knew him—was officially included, even though he hardly ever made the meetings. The Crypto wing of the zoo seemed to be in a perpetual state of emergency, and little Jax was the only one willing to set foot inside it.
Diana Boone had been included because Diana was somehow always included, even though she had already achieved the rank of Explorer within the O of B. She simply liked the Smiths. Nolan had been included because, even though he had no interest in the Order and was an antisocial transmortal who sloughed off his skin like a snake, he had been the Smiths’ first roommate, he had helped them stay alive, and he was the only member who still lived in the Polygon.
Gunner, the tall driver who had first raced the Smiths to Ashtown, had come to the meetings until he’d been sent back to Texas. And Antigone had insisted that they include the perpetually lonely Oliver Laughlin, grandson to the now-dead Brendan. Somehow she’d found a way to actually feel bad for the boy responsible for sticking them under the 1914 standards when they’d first arrived. If he hadn’t, they never would have been sent down to live in the Polygon in the first place.
Oliver had not attended long. He hadn’t liked being in a club with members of “the understaff,” and Cyrus hadn’t really liked being in a club with Oliver and his perpetually curling lip. Once the Brendan died, Oliver had announced his plans to leave Ashtown and the O of B completely. And he had. No one had seen him in months.
Cyrus looked around the room and yawned. As crazy as his day had been, and for all that was happening around Ashtown, the meeting wasn’t amounting to much. Jax hadn’t come, and Hillary was already gone, not that she ever really said anything. She would be cleaning out Acolyte rooms all night, preparing for the anticipated flood of arrivals tomorrow. Nolan was lying on his back with his hands folded on his stomach and his eyes closed. He was wearing his typical oversize fatigue trousers, belted with a rope, and a tight ashen tank that left his knotted paper-pale arms bare. His hair was cropped tight and uneven, and his smooth face looked strangely young when he wasn’t angry and his eyes were closed. But when his eyes opened, smooth and ancient, worn by the years like two rocks tossed in the riverbed of centuries, then his age filled the room. Looking in his eyes was like looking into a pair of forgotten tombs, dark and unlit and impossible to explore or understand.
Beside Nolan, Dennis sat with his legs crossed neatly in front of him. His bowler hat was on his right knee but had left its creased imprint on his hair and forehead. Antigone and Diana were up, examining the walls and talking about paint color and how to get furniture.
Cyrus looked at Dennis and then at Nolan. His back hurt. His head was drumming, and his limbs all felt like splitting rubber bands. What was the point of all of this? Why had he even bothered to try to train if he was just going to be locked up in his rooms? And now Rupert had said they might have to survive on their own outside the walls. That’s what Cyrus had wanted, but he didn’t like how it sounded—survive. There was only one way to make it all stop, to make this strange world slow down and find a place for him that wasn’t a cage and wasn’t a motel and didn’t involve undying people trying to kill him.
“We need to get the tooth back.” Cyrus said it quietly, but Diana heard and glanced back at him over her shoulder.
“And … there it is,” said Nolan. He stretched out his arms. “It has to be said once a meeting. The Polygoners exist for one reason and one reason only.”
“Getting the tooth back is a good reason,” Cyrus said.
“But that’s not the reason.” Nolan let half of his mouth grin. “We don’t gather together to hunt the tooth. We gather together to hear you say that we should. The Polygoners are tooth talkers, not tooth hunters.”
Cyrus bit his tongue. He wanted to hit Nolan, but he knew things wouldn’t go well if he did. The ancient boy could outgrapple, outbox, and outbrawl Cyrus even at his angriest—especially at his angriest. And he was right. They weren’t tooth hunters. And they couldn’t be. And even if they snuck off and were booted from the O of B, Phoenix wouldn’t be easily found. And if found, not easily beaten.
If Rupert Greeves, Blood Avenger, couldn’t find the villain, what chance did Cyrus and the Polygoners have?
“So …,” Dennis said. The porter was nervous, eyes darting between Cyrus and Nolan. “Was there anything else for tonight? Anything you might need me to do before next week’s meeting? Anything you might need me to bring since you’ll be stuck in here?”
Cyrus watched Diana laugh. She had recommended green for something, and now Antigone was sneering. He looked back into Dennis Gilly’s eager face.
Nolan stretched his arms above his head. “Bring Gilgamesh’s head. I think our little society would appreciate that.”
“It’s not a society,” Dennis said. “Private societies within the O of B are strictly prohibited.”
Nolan sat up. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Our s
ecret society would like you to decapitate Gilgamesh of Uruk. He’s a prig and a pig and a killer. Can you handle that, Mr. Gilly?”
“I’m sorry,” said Dennis. “It really is important that we not use the word society. Or order. We can’t be those things.”
Nolan pursed his lips and scratched at his smooth white cheek. “Will you do it if we’re a club?”
Dennis squirmed. “Maybe. A club is better, but we would need to file a form and name a Keeper to oversee us.”
Cyrus wasn’t listening anymore. Something like this happened at every meeting. Dennis was so serious and literal, and Nolan was usually bored enough to needle him.
Cyrus was bored, too. Or maybe just tired and beaten up and feeling defeated. He wondered when Arachne would come and what her unique gifts were—a girl with a million spider pets didn’t exactly seem like an ideal trainer.
Arachne was betting on the Smiths. That’s what Rupert had said. The rest of the transmortals all hated the Smiths—except Nolan, but he pretty much hated everyone some of the time. Cyrus still didn’t even know what it meant to be a Smith. To him, Smithness started with his own memories somewhere around the age of five. It was California and happiness, then heartbreak and the Archer Motel. And then Ashtown …
Even those blond brothers he and Tigs had met in the hall knew more about his family than he did. His father had cut all that history off when he’d defied the Order and married Cyrus’s mother. But the history was still real, even if it was hidden. It was waiting.…
Antigone was saying something to Nolan, probably telling him to stop pestering Dennis. But that didn’t matter. Nolan would do whatever he wanted. He always did.
“Hey!” said Cyrus. Everyone looked at him. “Dennis, there is something you could do to help. Do you think you could find some patches? I would do it, but I’m stuck.”
“Patches?” Dennis asked. “More monkey patches? We already have extras, and I really don’t think it’s advisable to wear them publicly—your leather jacket is the exception, of course. That patch is historical, and predates the Polygoners’ use of the—”
“No,” Cyrus said. “A crest, I guess. A patch of a crest. I want the Smith family crest.”
Nolan’s eyes darkened. Cyrus thought he could feel dust and shadow creeping out of them. One more thing he couldn’t get used to.
“You like trouble that much?” Nolan asked, his voice cold. He shrugged. “Of course, you’ll be stuck in here. No one will see it.”
“People will see it,” Cyrus said. “Eventually. I’m a Smith. I mean, Captain John Smith? Jamestown? Pocahontas?” He looked at Antigone. “Tigs, we have a famous ancestor. You all are used to that around here, but we’re not. I don’t care how many greats away he is … it’s our family, and I want to wear our crest.”
Nolan chuckled. “He’s not that far away, Cyrus Smith. He’s buttoned up in one of the Burials. You have a famous ancestor turned transmortal villain. Take my word for it, Cyrus. He was not a nice man. No one liked him.”
“Cy,” Antigone said. “Three severed heads? It’s gross.”
Dennis, wide-eyed, looked from face to face and back to Cyrus, waiting for his decision.
Cyrus looked at Diana. She shrugged. “It’s your crest. I have ours on some stuff, but I don’t wear it often. Jeb was more into it than I was when we were little. Still, I’d be mad if people told me I couldn’t wear it.”
“Oh, I’m not saying that,” said Nolan. He shot Cyrus half a smile. “But everyone has always loved the Boones. No one—except Pocahontas—loved John Smith. He was more brawler and pirate than Avengel. I never met him, and I made sure I didn’t. The man was crazy.” Nolan stretched back out on the floor. “Before you flash around that crest, know that you’re waving the flag of a man who betrayed his own oaths and was Buried for it. Those three severed heads are his most famous kills—three severed transmortal heads. This isn’t the week to make that popular.”
Dennis sputtered to life. “Those men were evil. My grandmother told me those stories. Captain John did what he had to do.”
Nolan yawned. “And Cyrus had to kill Maxi, but that doesn’t matter to creatures like Gil. Cyrus had no authority to do what he did. We transmortals—sorry, immortals, if you ask the posh ones—are the superior race. You mortals must bow and scrape before us. Cap’n John killed more of us than anyone in history, before he pulled a switch and was Buried. Cyrus here has carried on the great killing tradition.”
Cyrus looked at Dennis. “As many Smith patches as you can. And I need a couple Ashtown boat patches, too.”
Antigone hopped over Nolan and sat down beside Cyrus. “Are there any books that would have the whole story?” she asked Dennis. “Could you find one? I want to know what John Smith really did before I’m going to let Cyrus march around with three heads on his shoulder.”
Cyrus and Nolan both snorted.
“Before you let me?” Cyrus asked.
“A book?” Nolan asked. “You don’t believe me, fine. But turning to a book? I was actually alive at the time, though I gave wild Virginia a wide berth.” He nudged Dennis with his foot. “Make sure the author’s last name is Smith. That way it will be fair.”
Antigone rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Nolan. Like you’re Mr. Honest.” She smiled at Dennis. “Just do your best.”
Dennis, blinking slowly, stood up and set his bowler hat on top of his head. The loose ribbon ties dangled against his cheeks.
“I’m not sure, I … understand what …” His voice trailed off.
“Just a book,” Antigone said. “Whatever you can find about John Smith.”
“Fine.” Cyrus glared at his sister. “Tigs always knows best, doesn’t she, Dennis?”
Diana stepped up beside Dennis. “I could get a book. Jeb used to eat that stuff up. He knows all the old Avengel stories.”
Dennis sighed with relief. “I should go now.” He began to tie his hat ribbons beneath his chin.
“Terrific,” said Nolan, and he yawned and shut his eyes.
“I should go, too,” Diana said. Her freckled face had gone serious. “This could be a pretty rough week for the Order. It really could. It’s been fun, you know, the Polygoner thing, hanging out like this. But we—I—might have to stop.” Diana stepped back toward the door. “Time to get serious. Anyway, I’ll be around through tomorrow. Then I’ll be wherever Jeb and Rupe tell me to be. Could be anywhere. I’m sorry you’ll be stuck here. It would be great to have an honest-to-goodness trek together sometime.”
Antigone’s mouth fell open.
Dennis snuck out the door and shut it behind him.
Cyrus felt himself slumping. He straightened and met Diana’s eyes. They were actually worried. Afraid of what he would think.
He cleared his throat. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault we’re stuck.”
“Seriously,” Antigone said. “Thanks for everything. We wouldn’t be Journeymen without you. You taught us how to fly.”
Diana laughed. “You would have been fine.”
“No,” Antigone said. “I wouldn’t have.”
Cyrus glanced around the room. “You’re still a Polygoner. You know where we’ll be.”
Diana nodded. She opened the door behind her. “I’ll try to come by before I leave.”
Antigone’s smile was a little too big. “See ya.”
Diana wasn’t looking at her. She was looking at Cyrus. He raised his right hand in a sloppy salute.
“See ya,” he said.
The door closed behind Diana Boone.
“And thus,” Nolan said from the floor, “the ancient Order of the Polygoners lost its most notable member.”
Antigone groaned. “Shut up, Nolan. This is terrible. Where could they be sending her? She was the only one who helped us with anything.”
Nolan rolled onto his side. “What ungratefulness is this? I taught you Latin.”
“You know what I mean,” Antigone said, and she dropped onto the floor. “Cy, what are
we going to do?”
Cyrus walked to the window beside the fireplace. It was just high enough that he could rest his elbows on the sill. The sun was long down, but the horizon was still faintly glowing. Staring through the dusty, warped glass, he could just make out the army of lit tents that dotted the green. He didn’t know what they were going to do. About anything. He wanted to leave his stupid rooms, and he wanted something to eat.
He wanted the tooth back. Sometimes he could still feel it and its power slipping from his grasp, being torn from his fingers. His body could remember the strength that had left him when the tooth had—the strength of an unbreakable bond between his soul and body, true deathlessness.
He understood why the transmortals were angry with him. It was hard to blame them. Not because he had killed Maxi; that was stupid. But because what they had could now be taken from them. He had tasted that loss, if only a little bit. Losing the tooth hadn’t made him feel empty; it had made him realize that he had always been empty. There was a crack between his body and his soul that wasn’t supposed to be there. He was meant to be whole—indivisible. But he wasn’t. And in the end, like every mortal, his body and soul would split completely. He would die. Rupert had said mortals learned to face that fear. Maybe Rupert did, but Cyrus was pretty sure most people did the opposite—they just didn’t think about it.
Cyrus’s hand drifted up to his neck, and Patricia’s cool body twitched at his touch. He fingered the silver sheath where the tooth had been. The tingle it used to give him was long gone. Skelton’s two other charms were still on either side—the moon-colored pearl, gripped by the tiny silver claw, and the small reddish piece of wood, polished smooth by fingers and time. He didn’t know what they were for, but they weren’t the tooth. He moved on, fingering his shape-changing Solomon Keys—the longer gold one and the short silver one. Despite all the warnings—or maybe because of all the warnings—they hadn’t turned him into a thief. Not yet. A trespasser, yes. Constantly. And why not? When any door could be unlocked, curiosity was hard to kill.