The Dragon's Tooth

  “Where’s Dan?” Cyrus yelled. “Where’s my brother?”

  Keys jingling, Maxi fell forward.

  Cyrus caught him. The man was bird-light. Rolling him onto his back, he stared into empty eyes that had seen centuries of murder and massacre and revolution, that had struck fear into the hearts of kings and chieftains and mobs. Now they were glassy and false—their secrets gone—like the eyes of some huge and horrifying doll. Grimacing, Cyrus tugged the keys from the man’s skull, ignoring the gore, and shoved them quickly into his hip pocket.

  Antigone dropped to the ground beside Nolan’s smoking body. His eyes were closed, but somehow he was still breathing. The long knife stood out from his chest.

  “He alive?” Cyrus asked.

  Antigone nodded. “For now.”

  With his huge gun raised, Rupert Greeves crashed into the room. Parts of his safari jacket were missing and the rest was smoking. He had burns on his forehead and jaw. Half of his pointed beard was gone.

  Lowering his gun, he nudged Maxi with his foot and then crouched to feel for a pulse. His eyes settled on the black oozing wound in Maxi’s temple. Again, he checked for a pulse.

  “Sebastián de Benalcázar,” he said quietly, “Maximilien Robespierre, you have been hung, shot, stabbed, keelhauled, and decapitated by guillotine, but now you are dead.”

  Rupert looked at Cyrus and raised a long finger. “Cyrus Smith, I will give you only this one moment to speak the truth to me about what you have done and what you are carrying. Decide now if you want me for a friend.”

  Nolan groaned.

  “I’m sorry,” Cyrus said. “I was going to tell you today. Seriously. Antigone made me promise.” He pulled the key ring from his pocket and held up the sticky tooth. Hooking his finger through the ring, he then unwound an extremely slender Patricia from his waist.

  Rupert’s eyes widened. “And a patrik?”

  Cyrus nodded. “Skelton gave her to me. She and Nolan are the ones who really did the fighting. I just punched him once.”

  While Greeves watched, Cyrus wiped the tooth on his pants and clicked the sheath closed. Patricia was winding around his wrist. Rupert blinked when she found her tail and vanished.

  “Now you know everything,” Cyrus said.

  Rupert sighed. “I know that in all the Estates of the Order, in every villain’s den and necromancer’s lair, from the hidden alleys of New Orleans to the witch doctors’ lanes of Sierra Leone, men and women will hear that Maxi Robes is dead. They will hear the name of Cyrus Smith, Acolyte of Ashtown, and they will know that he carries the Reaper’s Blade.”

  He looked into Cyrus’s eyes. His voice was low but furious. “They will know that once more the immortal can die, and the dead can be raised. Cyrus, I cannot protect you from what will come, but I must protect Ashtown. Give me the tooth.”

  Cyrus swallowed, looking at the key ring in his hand. Then he looked up into Rupert’s eyes and shook his head. “Skelton told me not to give it up. Not ever.”

  “Rupe?” A nervous voice trickled in through the door. “You all right in there?” A head peered in around the corner.

  “A moment!” Rupert yelled. His eyes hadn’t left Cyrus’s. The head withdrew.

  “They got him!” the voice yelled. “Maxi’s dead!”

  “Cyrus,” Rupert said. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Outside, the murmur and chatter of a crowd began to grow. Three more faces peeked in the doorway.

  “Go!” Rupert yelled, and they pulled away.

  “Listen, um, Mr. Greeves,” Antigone said. “Could we be mad at Cyrus later? Nolan really needs help.”

  Rupert ignored her. He held out his hand to Cyrus. “Let me keep it safe for you. It’s what your father would have done.”

  In the corner, while Antigone winced and turned away, Nolan whimpered and raised his arm. He slowly pulled the knife out of his chest and dropped it in the rubble.

  Sighing, Cyrus began to twist the charm off the key ring. “My father,” he said, “was kicked out of this place.” He reached out to drop the silver sheath in Rupert’s broad palm. He felt weak, like all his adrenaline was falling through the floor. “You don’t know what he would have done,” he said quietly.

  Rupert suddenly closed his empty fist, looking at the silver sheath still in Cyrus’s hand. “Good. I can trust you, Cyrus Smith.” He looked up. “Do you trust me?”

  Cyrus nodded.

  Rupert leaned down eye to eye with Cyrus. “When I ask for it again, you must give it to me. Without question.” Cyrus nodded again, closing his fingers tight around the sheath. The bones in his arm tingled. Greeves continued. “The tooth stays on the patrik. Tell everyone that I took it. If they think the Avengel of Ashtown carries it, those who come will come after me.”

  Antigone grimaced, listening to Nolan’s spastic breaths start and stop, and then she raised her voice. “Nolan should really be in a hospital right now!”

  Rupert shook his head. “No … Nolan should be in a grave. But he will not be, no matter how hard he tries. The little thief has been cursed with life.”

  Nolan’s eyes opened, sparking. His breath fluttered, and they closed again.

  Rupert hoisted Maxi’s corpse easily to his shoulder and picked up his enormous gun. He looked at Nolan. “Take the thief where you will. Tell no one—no one—what you still carry.” He began to turn toward the doorway.

  “Wait!” Antigone yelped. “Mrs. Eldridge? Nolan said …”

  Rupert paused, and then nodded. “She’s gone. Bravely. No doubt trying to protect you.” Turning quickly, he left the room.

  Antigone stood up. “What?” she yelled. “Really? You’re just going?” She looked back down at Nolan and inhaled slowly. “Cy, come here.”

  Cyrus turned away from the door and began twisting the tooth back onto the misshapen key ring as quickly as he could. Then he unwound Patricia, fed her through the ring, and raised her to his neck while he moved to help Antigone.

  Gripping Nolan’s arms, they pulled him to his feet, and then each slid under a shoulder.

  Nolan muttered something in another language.

  Outside, the courtyard and walkway were crowded. Armed guards, porters, young runners and bicyclists and balloonists, men and women with guns in hand were all parting as Rupert Greeves strode through them with a corpse on his shoulder. As Cyrus and Antigone emerged with Nolan, the sea of shocked and gaping faces swung back to them.

  The stairs were crowded.

  A tall boy in white workout clothes with a tattoo of a hieroglyphic eye on his neck stepped out of the crowd. “Who killed Maxi?” he asked.

  Cyrus gritted his teeth and ignored the question as they moved down the stairs to the path below.

  “Cy did,” Antigone said. She looked at her brother. “With some … black bone blade from Skelton. Greeves took it.”

  A rumble rippled through the mob as the people in front passed the news to the back.

  “Hey!” Diana Boone tore herself free of the crowd and hurried forward. Antigone was struggling. Diana relieved her, ducking a shoulder beneath one of Nolan’s arms and grabbing on tight to his waist. She nodded at Cyrus. “Come on.”

  Cyrus imitated her on the other side, his arm crossing Diana’s on Nolan’s back. She didn’t seem to notice the oozing burns and tarring blood, or care that she was pressing up against it.

  “Grab his belt and lift,” she said.

  Antigone jumped around front and drove herself like a wedge into the crowd, pushing, shoving, shouldering a path into existence. People began to move before her elbows reached them. Cyrus, Diana, and Nolan followed.

  “Nice, Tigs,” Cyrus grunted.

  “What’s the fastest way to the hospital?” Antigone asked.

  “Not hospital,” Nolan mumbled.

  When they reached the bottom of the main stairs, Diana shrugged Nolan off, hooked him onto Antigone, and wiped her wet face on her arm. “The fastest way is to find some nurses. Get him up the steps and wait
there.”

  She skipped quickly up the stairs and disappeared. Cyrus watched her run. Antigone watched Cyrus watch.

  “Come on, Cy.” The two of them lumbered forward. “Don’t forget that you’re not even thirteen. She’s sixteen.”

  “What?” Cyrus asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Suddenly, Nolan tore himself free and fell onto the stairs. Cyrus and Antigone dropped beside him.

  His eyes fluttered open and found Cyrus’s. “Used the keys. I know Phoenix”—he swallowed, writhing—“stole the cloak. His coat. Phoenix’s coat.”

  Nolan’s nostrils were flaring, and the veins on his neck flickered above his burnt chest. His eyes sharpened with desperate pain. “The tooth. Like Maxi. Kill me.”

  “Nolan, stop it!” Antigone yelled. She leaned over him, holding his face. Nolan began to cry.

  “Nikales,” he sobbed. “The thief.” Spreading his arms and legs, he leaned back, gritted his teeth, and closed his eyes.

  Diana Boone and two nurses crested the stairs.

  Daniel Smith opened his eyes. He didn’t recognize the room. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. He didn’t know if he had been asleep.

  He sat up.

  Two metallic rods slid out of his nose. Curly cords rattled as he moved. They were taped all over him. He tugged thin receptors out from beneath his fingernails. He reached for his eyelids and peeled off four small pieces of tape. Tiny shaved patches dotted his scalp—each with its own coiling cord dangling down through a grid in the low ceiling. Wincing, he ripped them off in fistfuls.

  Working slowly down his body, he freed himself. And then he stood.

  He was a lot taller. His arms were longer, and his legs were thicker. His heart was beating slowly. Very slowly. And his eyes—he could see the fibers in the threads in the window curtain as he pulled it back. The sun, low above the water, seemed larger, and its aura clear.

  Something, someone was pulling at him from somewhere. He was supposed to leave the room.

  Dan turned and walked around his bed to the doorway. His hand twisted the knob and his ears caught the smooth, oily click and slide of the hidden metal tongue.

  The hallway was long and the floor was as green as a horsefly’s eyes, tiled with thin rectangular pieces in a herringbone pattern.

  Someone needed to be seen.

  Dan walked down the hall. He chose a door, and he entered. Dr. Phoenix looked up from behind an enormous desk. Half of his mouth smiled.

  “Daniel Smith,” said Phoenix. “Well, don’t you look splendid. And our relationship is beginning to find its proper footing.” His smile grew. “You came when called.” He pushed his thin body up from his chair. His lab coat was as dingy as ever. Beneath it, he was back in his white suit. “You do feel well, I hope? You’re so much improved already. Not all that you will soon be, mind you, but it is a start.”

  Something tripped in Daniel’s cotton-candy mind. Anger bubbled up in his chest and overflowed, roaring through him. A white marble bust of a bald man with a large beard rested on a wooden pedestal beside the door. Daniel’s right hand found the back of its stone neck. He lifted it easily, and he threw it.

  The bust spun through the air. Dr. Phoenix slipped to one side, and the heavy head crashed onto his desk.

  Wood splintered. Papers flew, and glass vials shattered. The head bounced to the floor without its beard, cracked tiles, and split in half.

  Breathing evenly, Daniel stared into Dr. Phoenix’s pale, dilating eyes.

  “Where’s my mother?”

  Dr. Phoenix eyed the rubble on the floor, and another small smile creased his face. “A certain amount of aggression is to be expected after even minor animalian modification, but I must say, you’ve been rather unkind to poor Mr. Darwin, don’t you think? Do please remember that I am your friend.”

  “I could kill you right now,” Daniel said. His voice was cold and even. Somewhere deep inside himself, he was surprised. “Take me to her.”

  “No, sir, and no, sir,” said Dr. Phoenix. His smile vanished. “You could not kill me, and I will not take you to her.” He looked Daniel up and down.

  Clarity wavered. Something was changing.

  The white-coated doctor eased back into his chair, and then pointed a long finger across his damaged desk to a chair on the other side.

  “Mr. Daniel Smith,” he said. “Such a short time, and I have already made you magnificent. Imagine what I could do in a year.” He sighed. “Look at those legs of yours—thighs swollen with strength, calves of a kangaroo. Envy overwhelms me, my friend. Please, do sit down.”

  Daniel stepped behind the chair. He didn’t sit. He was struggling to find his mind. His normal mind. The mind he had been using for twenty years. It was angry, but his anger was … useless, erased, buried deep with unremembered dreams, taped in a cardboard box and forgotten. He shut his eyes, chasing the feeling, not wanting the rage to leave him. Why? Why should he want anger? He didn’t. Not anymore.

  “Sit,” Dr. Phoenix said again.

  Daniel sat.

  The doctor grinned, picking thoughtfully at the gap in his teeth. “People repress themselves,” he said. “They repress their strengths, their potential, their dreams. They close doors. I hate closed doors, Daniel. I open doors. I am an opener of doors, a realizer of potentials, a philanthropianist of human obtainments, a composer of goodnesses and judgments.” He paused. “And I am your friend. Are you mine? I have given you new strengths, Daniel Smith. Will you use them for me? Will you fight for your friend?”

  Daniel blinked. The man wasn’t making sense.

  “Yes, I am,” said Phoenix.

  Yes, he is, thought Daniel. Now I understand. His mind suddenly focused. His image of the thin man in the coat grew bright, as sharp and crisp as ice crystals after fog. He saw intellect. Sacrifice. Love.

  “Good,” said Phoenix. “Indeed, I am all of those things.” He smoothed the lapels of his coat. “But every god has a devil. Anger me, disobey me, betray the gifts of my friendship, and you will meet with a storm of wrath greater than any sea can hurl up at the cliffs. In anger, the Phoenix burns. I am Dr. Phoenix. I can become Mr. Ashes.”

  He leaned forward, his pale eyes bright. “Soon there will be a funeral with very few guests and very many boxes. You will help me to fill them. Ashes for Mr. Ashes, and then the Phoenix will rise. Our real work will begin.”

  No part of Daniel Smith’s mind was listening. Phoenix had mentioned the sea. And cliffs. And anger. Insuppressible memories welled up. Cold, pounding waves. His father’s boat chewed and swallowed by distant rocks. His mother’s unconscious body—

  Dr. Phoenix ground his teeth. “Daniel Smith,” he said. “Where have you gone? Leave her. She will never wake up. Come back to me.”

  Daniel blinked. He was staring at the strange man who had taunted him and threatened him and climbed inside his head. The man who had kidnapped his mother.

  Lunging across the desk, Daniel clamped his hands around the man’s thin throat. They crashed backward in the desk chair and rolled onto the floor.

  Daniel sat up and put his knee into the man’s chest. “Where is she?” He clenched his teeth and squeezed.

  Four large hands grabbed his shoulders from behind, picked him up, and threw him against the wall.

  Gasping, Daniel slid to the floor.

  The two men were identical—tall, lean for their strength, eyes bloody gold, features sharp, skin more green than tan. A row of skin slits fluttered on both sides of their necks. They helped Dr. Phoenix to his feet and stood behind him as he stepped toward Daniel.

  Daniel coughed, swallowed blood, and tried to stand.

  “Daniel Smith,” said Phoenix, rubbing his throat. His eyes were sparking, and clumps of his black hair had fallen forward. He brushed them back. “These, Daniel, are my firstborn. Twins—my Romulus and Remus. They have a human mother, a wolf mother, a mother from among the great orange
apes, and a mother devouring tuna in the sea. I am their father, and in them I am well pleased. You could have been their brother.”

  He extended his thin arms out from his sides. Behind him, the two gilled men stepped forward and began removing his coat.

  Phoenix pulled his arms free of the stained sleeves and crouched in front of Daniel. His black hair began to lighten to white. His pale eyes muddied. His teeth lengthened, and a growl rumbled in his throat. “Now you must meet Mr. Ashes.”

  Rocking forward, Daniel slammed his fist into the man’s face.

  sixteen

  CONFESSION

  CYRUS SHRUGGED HIS blankets farther up around his shoulders. He had been awake for a while, but the blankets were warm, the stone bed was cushioned perfectly to his shape, and the night had been long, too much of it spent in the hospital wing watching Nolan writhe. But Horace was doing better—the nurses thought he might even wake soon. And Gunner had been there, watching his uncle breathe and gloating over Maxi’s death.

  Cyrus’s sleep had been full of dreams, full of his fist swinging and bones crunching and Patricia swallowing people whole. But all dreams led to the one dream, and eventually, he’d ended up back in the kitchen of the California house. But this time, he’d been holding the tooth in one hand and the keys in the other. This time, he’d walked all the way outside into the rain, and his memory-vision had been clear.

  He’d seen the man in the truck.

  There was no way to tell what time it was without rolling over and checking the stilted clock. For the past hour, rolling over had seemed like way too much effort. It still did. His mind was too busy chewing.

  Antigone’s breathing was steady—slow, out of sync with the ticking clock. She sniffed. No. The sniff was wrong. A throat cleared.

  Cyrus whipped over and sat up. Antigone was sleeping, virtually invisible in her nest of blankets. Seated one alcove over, Rupert Greeves was reading a book. At least, he had been reading. Now his eyes were on Cyrus. His forehead and jaw were bandaged. So was his left hand.