The Dragon's Tooth

by N. D. Wilson

  His pale eyes drifted up into Dan’s.

  “A very good morning to you, Daniel Smith.” His drawl was slow and flat, and he yawned into the back of his hand. “Forgive me.” He straightened in his chair, and then leaned forward. “I must also apologize for entering your mind without a formal invitation. You were sleeping, and as I believed we were friends, I thought it unkind to wake you for something so trivial as permission. But Daniel Smith, I’m afraid our friendship is already in danger. Friends help each other, and you seem to know absolutely”—his hands became clenched, bloodless fists; his voice sank and hardened its edge—“absolutely nothing about that which I need.”

  Sighing, he massaged his eyelids slowly. “And now, unfortunately, I must befriend your siblings as well. Though I’m told that they, too, may not have what I need.” He lowered his hands and inhaled slowly. His face was full of regret. “If that proves to be the case, Daniel Smith, I’m rather worried that I may take off this lab coat. And when I take off this coat—I won’t tell a lie—things are liable to become heated.”

  Daniel tried to twist, to see if his mother was still in the room. He tried to open his mouth, to lick his cracked lips, to speak. But his jaw was locked and his tongue was trapped inside his teeth. Where were Cyrus and Antigone? What had happened to them?

  Phoenix grimaced, and then answered Dan’s thoughts. “Regrettably, they have been taken in by some rather unsavory characters. But I wouldn’t worry yourself about them. I’ve taken steps.”

  Dr. Phoenix smiled—his almost pupilless blue eyes were looking directly into Daniel’s. He stood up slowly from his chair, his long, thin body towering over the bed.

  “On a more scientific note, I must say that it is both remarkable and unfortunate how precisely your mind is cut from the Smith mold. I did once have the opportunity to study two of your aunties—terrifyingly dull examples of the same simple mental organization and total lack of imagination that you manifest, forgive me for saying. So much potential in Smith blood and Smith bones, but never realized.”

  He paused, licking thin lips. His brow furrowed. “Would you expect your brother and sister to be more … intriguing? Do say yes. After all, they seem to have far more of your feral mother in them than do you. And your mother’s mind is truly a remarkable maze of striking images and animal desires—as one would expect, of course, from a woman raised as she was.”

  The doctor looked at Dan, at his feet, his legs, his arms and chest, and his sharp nostrils flared. “You are still my friend, Daniel Smith. And your mind is rotten with worry. Your body is malnourished and weak from pitiful sacrifice. I cannot allow this, this you, to exist any longer.” He leaned forward and cracked his long knuckles. “When you wake again, you will have been renovated. Remade.” He waved his fingers, studying them as he did. “As a friend, I will find you a more interesting way … to be alive.” Daniel twitched as a long fingernail traced his bare rib cage. “More interesting than you being you as you are currently being. But don’t feel badly about yourself. Traditional humanity is all so … dull.”

  “Dr. Phoenix?” The voice was male. The speaker was out of Daniel’s view.

  Cocking his head, Phoenix stroked Daniel’s cheek with the back of his cold, damp hand. Dan’s body managed a shiver.

  “Yes,” Phoenix said. “What is it?”

  “Word from Ashtown,” said the voice. “Maxi’s inside.”

  “Lovely,” said Dr. Phoenix. “Dear little Maximilien should keep them busy. The twins and I will join him tomorrow. They’re the only company I’ll be needing.” He leaned farther forward, his empty eyes pulling at Daniel’s. Close, closer, and Dan’s eyes watered out of focus. Tears leaked down into his ears.

  “The Smiths are in need of a reunion,” Phoenix whispered.

  His moist breath was tinged with cinnamon. Daniel blinked it away, but reality softened and faded. His heart slowed, and darkness swallowed him.

  Cyrus’s first Latin lesson had consisted of being shut in a small second-story, one-window, stone-walled room with his sister and a stack of yellowed and flaking books, and then having his head slapped repeatedly by an old woman.

  Mrs. Eldridge had thumped him, flicked him, kicked him, and pulled on his ears. Antigone had gotten one mild cheek pat, but then she had actually been trying to make sense of the material in front of her. Cyrus had been more interested in the windows, the planes that occasionally floated past, and thoughts of hot-air balloon wars and flying bicycles and keys and a cold black shard of tooth.

  And then, finally, Mrs. Eldridge had moved to the door. “If I’m not back in thirty minutes, you may as well try and find old Llewellyn Douglas. He’s usually at the harbor.”

  “Where are you going?” Antigone asked.

  Cyrus wanted to kick his sister. Who cared where Mrs. Eldridge was going so long as she went?

  “To speak with Mr. Cecil Rhodes about the two of you.”

  That had been an hour ago.

  Now Cyrus was lying on his back on a small table, his feet resting on the sill of the open window and his new jacket mounded beneath his head. He could still hear his sister turning pages.

  His eyes were on green treetops, shuffling slowly, straining for the small grazing clouds above them.

  Today was a day to go looking for tires—to distract himself from thinking, to hunt, collect, and explore. But that wasn’t possible, and his mind was beyond distracting.

  Was Dan dead? Was there blood? Had there been pain? What did he look like right now? Would Rupert find him? Would they ever get to see his body? Would there be a goodbye, or would it be like that older loss, the loss that began all of their losing—a smiling face and a door closing against the rain? That was the only goodbye. Goodbye to a father and then a mother and then a house and then an ocean. And to something inside him—he didn’t know what, but something important.

  Cyrus’s throat tightened. The familiar ache started behind his ribs, his stomach flipped slowly, and he shut his eyes like someone fighting motion sickness. The air from the window was warm, but his skin went cold. Moisture beaded up on his nose and forehead.

  He wanted to break something, to smash his knuckles into a wall and trade pain for pain. But he’d done that too many times before, and it didn’t work. Still, his fists clenched, and his toes curled in his boots.

  Breathing slowly, he forced his body to relax, to liquefy. His pulse slowed, and his stomach calmed. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He might even sleep. Maybe he’d dream again, and this time, he’d get a look at the man in the truck, leaving with his father.

  “Hey, boy genius,” Antigone said above him. “Wake up. I don’t think she’s coming back. Let’s go.”

  Cyrus blinked. “Go where?”

  “You pick,” Antigone said. “I’m tired, and I think my brain pulled a muscle. We can look for Nolan or Greeves or that Llewellyn Douglas guy.”

  “I’m hungry,” Cyrus said.

  Antigone snorted. “Good luck with that.”

  Cyrus sat up. He wanted to find Nolan, but that didn’t seem likely—not if Nolan didn’t want to be found. They should look for Rupert. Or Diana Boone. A flight lesson would be fun.

  Antigone grabbed his wrist. “C’mon. I want to talk to Rupert.”

  “I thought I was picking.”

  “Yeah,” Antigone said. “But then you didn’t, and I did.”

  She pulled open the door and dragged him outside into the humid air. Dotted with doorways, the covered stone walkway overlooked the sprawling green courtyard. Three doors behind them, a stairwell would take them down to the lawn.

  “What about the books?” Cyrus asked.

  “Leave them,” said Antigone. “We don’t know where they go.”

  They reached the stairs and clipped down. At the bottom, they stopped. In the main building, bells had begun to ring.

  Cyrus looked at his sister. This was not the slow tolling that kept time. And it wasn’t celebration. This was panic. The hot-air balloons, begin
ning another battle, cut their fans and hung motionless. All around the courtyard, people had stopped and were looking back at the main building.

  Three stories up, above a bank of sleeping gargoyles, a tall window erupted and a black shape dove to the grass below in a storm of falling glass. Tucking into a ball, the shape bounced, rolled, and found its feet.

  fifteen

  AN END

  WHISTLES SCREAMED. Porters ran. White-uniformed runners and grapplers scattered. The black shape began moving across the grass. It—he—wasn’t running. He was walking coolly, and he was walking straight toward Cyrus and Antigone.

  Antigone squinted, trying to make out the distant face. “Who is it?”

  Cyrus grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her back into the shaded stairwell. His eyes were better. He could make out the small man’s shape, his frazzled, haloing hair, his lean limbs dressed in tight black, and the heavily loaded belt around his waist.

  “Maxi,” he said.

  The bells roiled the air, and doors all around the courtyard were flying open. Maxi drew two guns and emptied them while he walked. A porter tumbled onto his face and the others retreated. He threw the guns down and drew two heavier, four-barreled monsters—the kind that spat fire, the kind that could burn motels. People shouted. Doors slammed.

  “Up, Tigs!” Cyrus said. “Go! Go!” He hadn’t needed to say it twice. Antigone was already scrambling back up the stairs on all fours, keeping below the solid railing. From around the courtyard, adults and training teens and porters had drawn sidearms and were returning fire. Cyrus snuck a look above the rail and watched corkscrewing flame explode first one and then another hot-air balloon. Baskets dropped while people screamed.

  Maxi, laughing, focused both his flaming guns on the main building. One, two, three white-hot spiraling spheres splattered on the steps, erupting toward the doors. A tall shape tumbled through the flame and down the stairs, rolling back to his feet—Rupert Greeves. He was carrying a gun longer than he was tall, what looked like a wooden-stocked musket but with a massive black ammunition drum above the trigger.

  “Maximilien!” Rupert bellowed. “Stand and fight!”

  Cyrus inched up.

  Maxi was less than fifty yards away, heavy guns dangling from his hands. “Are we hunting elephants, Monsieur Greeves? The Avengels I’ve tilled into earth must weep for you.”

  Greeves raised his long gun. Still laughing, Maxi ducked and began running, zigzagging toward the stairs. The gun roared and green turf exploded. Again, and again, and two more craters emptied themselves into the sky. Again, and Maxi’s running legs were swept out from under him.

  Giggling, coughing, wheezing like a child tickled sick, Maxi staggered to his feet. Rupert was aiming while jogging. A pair of fireballs spiraled back toward him.

  “Cyrus!” Antigone barked. She was still on her hands and knees. “Where do we go?”

  The walkway was lined with doors, but Cyrus didn’t know if any of them had exits. Windows. They’d have to jump and hope for the best. He glanced back into the courtyard as Rupert dove into a somersault, a sunburst of white fire licking at his heels. Once more, the huge gun rose to his shoulder. Behind him, just visible through the hazing smoke, another, smaller shape dove from the high, broken window. A bounce, a roll, and it raced to the side of the courtyard.

  “Into the room!” Cyrus said, crawling forward. The elephant gun fired, but he didn’t look back again.

  Inside, he jumped to his feet, slammed the door, and tried to wedge a chair beneath the knob. It didn’t work.

  Antigone was already at the window, leaning out and looking down. “There’s a tree, maybe close enough if we were squirrels and if this window opened wider. It’s high, Cy, and the ground looks pretty rough. I don’t think we can jump.”

  Cyrus dropped the chair and ran to the casement. Pushing Antigone to the side, he jumped onto the table and kicked at the window’s hinges. His boots were solid. Aluminum bent and warped and popped. Finally, the window swung wide, slammed against the outside wall, and tore free, dangling awkwardly.

  Antigone was right. A straight leap out was their only chance, and it wasn’t a good one. “You first, Tigs,” he said. “Roll when you land.”

  The door to the room banged open and Cyrus spun around, grabbing a chair, not sure what he would do with it.

  Breathing hard but evenly, Nolan shut the door behind him. His bare arms and white tank top were covered with dust. His eyes were empty. His voice was strangely calm. “Maxi’s up the stairs. Eldridge is dead. Greeves is burning. You should jump.”

  The wall shook, and fingers of flame curled in and fisted around the door behind him, tearing it from its frame. Nolan, the door, and blazing heat tumbled across the room.

  As Latin books crackled, Maxi stepped into the doorway.

  Antigone lunged for the window, but Cyrus pulled her to the floor as Maxi fired again. Searing magnesium flame swirled out the window and into the tree, exploding through the branches.

  “No window this time,” the man said, licking his worn smile. “Not again, ma chérie. Mi florita.”

  Nolan rolled out from beneath the door and stood. Cold, rigid, he stepped in front of Cyrus and Antigone. His dirty skin was striped with angry veins, and a piece of glass stuck out from the back of his neck.

  “Children,” Maxi said. “There is something you are very much wishing to give me.”

  A bullet whistled into the room and ceiling plaster shattered. Pumping fireballs over his shoulder, Maxi stepped to the side, leaning his back against the blackened wall. Antigone’s fingers were digging into Cyrus’s arm. She was trying to pull him up. Together, they stood.

  “If you do not give it to me”—Maxi shrugged, showing them his tiny teeth—“then there will be much dying. Your brother, your mother, the two of you.” He pointed his four-barreled gun at Nolan. “And this one.”

  Nolan took a small step forward. His voice was low, unruffled. “Fight with me, Maximilien. You think you cannot die? Fight with me.” His fists pulsed. Clenched in Nolan’s right hand, Cyrus glimpsed the keys, the unsheathed black tooth protruding between his knuckles.

  “Ah …” Maxi’s eyebrows shot up. He brushed back his hair, and his smile grew.

  Cyrus’s eyes drifted down from Maxi’s miniature teeth to the thick scar that encircled the man’s neck.

  “You are Nikales,” Maxi said. “The little serpent, oldest and most cursed of thieves. I can free you from your curse.”

  Without looking, he blasted fire out the door beside him, swiveling his gun around the walkway. Shouts. A scream.

  Then he drew a long, slender knife from the small of his back.

  Nolan took another step, tense as a coiled snake. “I can kill you, Maxi. I will be the one to pluck the life from your flesh—as easily as picking some low, worm-riddled fruit.”

  “Can you?” Maxi asked. “Are you then greater than God, little thief?”

  Nolan exploded forward. Latin ashes tumbled and sparked.

  Cyrus watched Nolan spit himself on Maxi’s knife. He saw Maxi’s gun rise and Nolan’s toothed fist flash forward. The gun fired too soon. Swallowed in flame, Nolan tumbled across the room, slamming into the wall.

  The blast knocked Cyrus to the ground, Antigone gasping beneath him. Singed, hair smoking, Cyrus clattered toward Nolan. The keys were dangling from his limp hand, and his shirt and the skin from his chest and stomach had burned away.

  Maxi fired again out the doorway, and then moved forward through the rubble.

  “Cy!”

  Cyrus heard Maxi step behind him, and he hunched farther forward, trying to hide what he was doing. The key ring was around Nolan’s finger, and it had been crushed in place. Frantic, gritting his teeth and pinning Nolan’s wrist down with his knee, he tugged harder. The knuckle popped, and the key ring slid free.

  “Give them to me.” Maxi jerked Cyrus around and clamped his hot hand tight around Cyrus’s neck, crushing veins, nails digging deep
into skin. Cyrus tried to twist, he tried to breathe, he heard Antigone scream, and then he felt Patricia grow.

  The silver snake, suddenly as thick as his arm, struck straight for Maxi’s face. Shocked, releasing Cyrus, Maxi staggered back, knocking the first strike away. But the snake was still growing. Patricia slid down Cyrus to the ground and reared up after Maxi, chest height, hissing like a monstrous silver cobra, emerald eyes sparkling with wrath. Maxi raised his gun and fired as Patricia struck the barrel, taking the fireball down her wide throat. The snake’s thick body bulged, glowing orange, and then a pillar of fire exploded back out of her mouth and up Maxi’s arm.

  Heart racing, Cyrus slid the tooth out between his knuckles as Nolan had done, clenching his fist around it. Selam. Kill me. He knew what had to be done. Maxi’s gun was on the ground and his back was against the wall. With one hand, he was gripping Patricia just beneath the head as she spat and fang-groped for his forearm. With the other, he raised a knife.

  Muscles taut with drumming adrenaline, Cyrus threw himself forward, fist raised, focusing on the man’s temple as he swung. He saw Maxi’s eyes turn toward him, surprised. He saw the knife flick through the air, but he didn’t feel the blade graze his scalp and nick his ear. He didn’t hear himself yelling.

  Bone crunched.

  A cold, jarring shiver ran up Cyrus’s arm and into his skull. He staggered backward and sat down in smoking rubble. Patricia, her head now the size of a football, retreated to him, slowly winding her heavy body around his waist. She was shrinking quickly.

  Maxi still stood, back against the wall, arms hanging limp at his sides. The keys and the charms hung from the tooth in his head, brushing against his cheekbone as he began to sway. His eyes, no longer surprised, rolled slowly toward Cyrus. His lips twitched into a final smile.

  “Merci …,” he said quietly.

  Cyrus scrambled to his feet. Patricia was barely a belt now, and she’d found her tail.