She left the paved path at the churchyard, wandering off among the gravestones. “Didn’t you hear Mrs. Hudson? She told us to consult Gulliver.”
“Gulliver?” Jack rested his hands on his knees, breathing hard. “Is that . . . the name of the cat?”
Once his heart rate had dropped to a dull pound, he left the path and followed her through the stone markers. Time had worn them down, leaving dents and divots filled with moss and lichen. “What is it with you people and cemeteries?” He stopped. “And what are you doing?”
Gwen had lain down on an empty slab, hands folded on her stomach like the effigies around her. The only thing missing was a flower.
“I know you’re exhausted, Gwen, but . . .”
She rolled her head to the side and shot him an exasperated look. Then she balled up a fist and pounded twice. The slab tipped up on its axis, and Gwen slid down into the black beneath.
Jack ran to the grave, but the slab tilted back into position with a heavy thump, and before he could call after her, he heard boots on the path. Someone was coming. He ducked into the shadows behind the slab.
A few seconds later, the skinny guy from the bus strolled into view, looking left and right—searching. He fixated on the bushes on the opposite side of the path, and Jack took the opportunity to roll his body onto the slab. He pounded twice.
Nothing happened.
The spook froze, listening. He started to turn.
Jack pounded harder—three, four, five times. And just as he gave himself up for lost, the stone tipped up and dumped him into the dark. He sailed down a spiral slide, out of control, until his feet met solid ground and he crashed through a door, stumbling out into soft yellow light. There were books on every side, three stories of them, with wrapping balconies and wrought-iron staircases in the corners. Gwen stood right in front of him.
“The skinny guy,” said Jack, finding his tongue. “From the—”
The clerk drew an urgent finger across her throat and pointed behind him. “Look, Jack. The Archivist is here in the Tracker Collection. Out of all the collections in the Archive, she’s here, in ours.”
Jack spun around, backing up next to Gwen, and saw a blond woman in a blue waistcoat and green skirt, sliding books one by one onto the shelves. The rotating bookcase that had spat him out clicked back into place beside her.
“Hello, Jack. How may I help you?”
He waved and immediately felt foolish for making a silent gesture at a blind person. “Um . . . hi.” Jack had more pressing matters to deal with. He turned to Gwen once more. “That guy from the bus, Gwen. He—”
Gwen stomped her foot. She made her shut-up face and drew her finger across her throat again.
“There’s no point in silencing him,” said the Archivist, adjusting a pair of round glasses so dark they were almost black. “I already know about the Crown Jewels.”
Gwen turned to stare at her. “You do?”
“Why do you think I chose to be here at this particular moment, as you subtly pointed out?” She slid the last of her books into place and headed for the long desk at the center of the collection. “Neither of you strikes me as a jewel thief. So, as I said before, how may I help you?”
That was good enough for Jack. He didn’t have time to mull over issues of trust. “A spook saw me in the churchyard. He’ll know we came to the Archive. This place’ll be crawling with ’em in minutes.”
Gwen smacked him across the arm. “Well, why didn’t you say something?” she said, and strode off after the Archivist. “We came for a book. Fiction. Jonathan Swift.”
Jack tried to follow, but he found that his legs were blocked. A big calico cat rubbed against his shins, leaving hundreds of white hairs on his jeans. “You again,” he said in a flat tone.
The cat purred.
By the time Jack reached the desk, Gwen had poured herself a cup of tea from a silver service.
“What are you doing? I said we don’t have much time.”
“There’s always time for tea.” Gwen added a splash of milk and took a long sip. As she did, the cat hopped up onto the desk and began lapping away at the milk in the pitcher. Gwen stopped mid-sip, teacup hovering at her chin, and shifted her eyes to the Archivist. “Does he do that quite often?”
“More often than I’d like.” The Archivist was thumbing through a ledger on the desk, running her fingers over the handwritten entries.
Gwen set down her teacup and pushed it away, scowling at the cat, but the calico ignored her. It finished its milk and curled up atop a broad leather-bound text, right next to Jack.
“Ah, here it is,” said the Archivist. “A Swift book was added to the collection nine months ago.” She frowned. “Strange, there’s no name associated with the entry.” She left the desk, nimbly sidestepping a leather chair on her way to a shelf across the room, and singled out a thin volume with a blue cover. She shook her head as she returned. “Shelved with the works of Theodorus of Samos, of all places. Who would do such a thing?”
The Archivist handed the book to Jack and walked away, leaving him to read the silver lettering on the cover. “Gulliver’s Travels. Oh,” he said. “That Gulliver.”
The cat dropped to the carpet with a flump and sauntered after the Archivist, who held open the door to the main Archive for it. A gondola with brass rails hovered at the threshold, burner rumbling. “I have something else that may help you,” she said. “But it’s down in the Ministry of Secrets Collection. I’ll be back as quick as I can.” She let the cat go through and followed, pulling the door closed behind her.
Gwen took the novel from Jack, and as soon as she opened it, she smiled. “I don’t know what the Archivist was complaining about. The works of Theodorus of Samos were a perfect companion for this.”
Jack frowned and gave her a shrug. He had never heard of Theodorus of Samos.
“Keys, Jack. Theodorus of Samos invented the modern concept of a key.” She tilted the book, and he saw that the inside had been hollowed out. Resting in the pocket was a ministry access card much like his, titanium by the look of it, with an engraving that read PERCY KINCAID.
“Uncle Percy,” he said as Gwen drew out the card. Her uncle, quartermaster to Jack’s father, had been wounded by the Clockmaker, and Mrs. Hudson had released him for a long sabbatical to convalesce, sending him off to what she termed the Colonies. “Why would he leave his key card behind?”
Gwen slipped the card into her pocket. “More importantly, why would he hide it in a book in the Archive?”
“It’s almost as if he and Mrs. Hudson knew something like this would—” Jack stopped as an undulating bronze hum drifted across his mind. In the quiet of the collection, he had no trouble processing the sound. “I hear something,” he whispered. “Out in the main well.”
“You mean the Archivist is back?”
Jack pressed a finger to his lips and started for the door. “If she is, then someone else is out there with her.”
Chapter Nineteen
JACK CRACKED THE DOOR and peered out into the main Archive, a bottomless well of bookshelves, carved entirely of dragonite. He could see the deep purple fabric and gold netting of the Archivist’s spherical balloon far below, lit from beneath by the gondola lanterns. Halfway up from there, a shaft of gray light stabbed into the well from the open doors of the Archive’s Ministry Express station. Based on the hum, Jack had expected to see QEDs. Instead, he saw two men hovering there—literally hovering. Spikes of blue-white energy shot down from their heels.
“They’re coming for us.” Gwen had an eye pressed to the door beneath Jack’s chin. “And with those ankle thrusters, they won’t have to wait for the balloon.”
“We need to get out of here.” Jack started for the rotating bookcase.
But Gwen hooked his arm and pulled him back. “Not that way. You’ll never lift that slab from beneath.” She stared at the door for a long moment, then slid her hand down to his. “Do you trust me?”
“Not really. No
.”
“Right then. Just asking.” She threw open the door and yanked him out into empty space.
The two spooks watched, stupefied, as the teens fell right between them, plunging down through the well.
Jack kicked his legs and clawed at the air. “What are we doing?”
“Steady on, Jack!” shouted Gwen, squeezing his hand. Her blond hair and purple scarf streamed above her. “It’ll be over soon.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of!”
An instant later, they sank into the top of the hot-air balloon, and the force of the landing split them up. Jack tumbled over the side. He hooked the gold netting with two fingers, swung his legs inward, and found the gondola rail with his toes. He laughed, amazed at having survived.
And then his two-fingered grip failed.
As Jack reeled backward, grasping for the net, the Archivist leaped up to the gondola bench and caught his wrist. She pulled him in. “Are you quite all right, Jack?”
“He’s fine. But I could use a little help, if you don’t mind.”
Jack leaned to look past the burner and saw Gwen’s feet dangling above the rail. The calico stood on its hind legs beneath her, playfully batting at her boots. He rushed over to help.
“The spooks are coming down,” said Gwen, once both feet had reached the bench. “They’re already below the Ministry Express exit, and we won’t get past them in this balloon. Is there another way out of here?”
The Archivist nodded. “Through the Ministry of Dragons Collection, assuming we can get there before they reach us.”
“Oh. I think we can.” Gwen crossed the gondola and took hold of the six tassels that controlled the balloon’s air flaps, three in each hand. “Jack, you might want to grab the cat.”
“I might want to what?”
She jerked the tassels down, filling the Archive with the hiss of escaping air. The ropes went slack, and the gondola dropped.
The calico, eyes as wide as Jack’s, let out a confused “Brrrrowl?” as it floated up from the bench. Jack pulled it to his chest, face-first, and wrapped his other arm over the rail to make sure he didn’t float away himself. He glared at Gwen. “Wasn’t one free fall enough for you?”
A second later, the Archivist stomped on the burner pedal. The balloon filled. Gravity returned. And the gondola bumped to a stop against an ancient door of black iron. Jack plopped down onto the bench, and the calico looked at him with what might have been gratitude. He held it up, smiling. “Don’t worry. No matter what that mean Gwen does, I’ll take care of you.”
The cat sneezed in his face.
“Yeah,” said Gwen. “You two were made for each other.”
Jack had never been so deep in the well. The books on the shelves had given way to leather-bound papers and stacks of scrolls. Still, looking over the rail, he couldn’t see the bottom.
“Quickly, children.” The Archivist removed an iron key from her waistcoat and pulled open the gondola gate. She slipped the key into the lock. “They’re coming.”
“Wait,” said Jack. “Wasn’t there something you were getting for us?”
“Oh yes. I had quite forgotten.” She produced a pocket-size text from her waistcoat. “The Great Balas Rubies by Dr. Dimitri Lazarev. You might be interested to know that Professor Tanner has spent a great deal of time with this. It appears to be his current favorite.”
Before Jack could ask how the Archivist knew Tanner was involved, Gwen had taken the book. “Lazarev,” she said, sliding the text into her pocket. “Why does that sound so familiar?”
“Haven’t a clue. Now. You really must go.” The Archivist turned the key and yanked open the door, flooding the gondola with a burst of stale, musty air. “Take the lift at the far end. Don’t stop for any reason. Understand?”
Jack nodded, unnerved by her tone. How bad could a library be?
“No reason whatsoever, Jack.” The Archivist repeated her warning as she ushered him through. “This collection is nothing like the others.”
Chapter Twenty
THE DOOR CLANGED SHUT behind them and a dozen different tones thrummed against Jack’s brain, interfering with his senses. “Can’t see a thing,” he muttered. “She could have at least given us a lantern.”
He heard a tiny click. A wide beam cut through the dark. Gwen shined the light on her own face and pumped her eyebrows. “Voilà.” She had produced a big steel flashlight—what she would call a torch—making Jack wonder how deep the pockets of that coat actually went.
“What happened to your penlight?”
“Self-defense.” Gwen swung the oversize tool up and down like a hatchet, then handed it to Jack. “London isn’t as safe as it used to be.”
“London was never safe for me.” He shined the light ahead, illuminating a line of script carved into the dragonite where the passage turned. The words were Latin, which was part of Jack’s Ministry of Trackers schooling. But he knew Gwen would still translate them for him, whether he needed her to or not.
“ ‘Aperta . . . flamma . . . Prohibetur,’ ” she read, true to form. “ ‘No open flame.’ ”
They looked at each other for a long heartbeat, and then they walked on.
The passage curved left and right at random, with the occasional set of steps, always leading up. All the while, the pulsating tones in Jack’s head continued, getting stronger.
“Can you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Nothing.”
Lantern sconces jutted out from the walls, filled with cloudy liquid. “Must be a flooded conduit,” Gwen suggested, nodding up at them. There were doors as well, on either side of the tunnel, made of dragonite instead of wood or iron. Whenever the teens drew near one, the thrumming in Jack’s head intensified. After several minutes, words formed amid the tones.
The flame Fire The flame.
Something slammed against a door on Gwen’s side of the tunnel, shaking dust from its hinges. She squealed and pressed into Jack. “I don’t like this place.”
“Yeah. Me neither.”
Some of the doors were short, others twice as tall as Jack. Hurrying around the next bend, the two saw one that reached the full height of the passage, the size of a small hangar. At that moment, a sharp creak echoed through the tunnel.
Jack spun and fixed his beam on the bend. “The spooks are in the passage.” He heard the clang of a door closing and the light shink of a bolt shifting into place. He glanced at Gwen. “But why would they lock the door?”
“Let’s not find out.” Gwen tugged at his sleeve. “We have a good lead, let’s keep it.”
Jack didn’t move. Something had changed. A white glow steadily grew in the passage, emanating from the sconces. They weren’t flooded after all.
Gwen saw it too. “Bioluminescence. Water lights.”
“No open flame,” said Jack, nodding. And then the thrumming in his head shifted into high gear.
The flame Yes. The fire. Fire. Flame. The flame. Yes.
New sounds joined the chaos. A hundred hinges creaked at once. Jack squeezed his eyes shut.
“Um . . . Jack?” Gwen gripped his arm.
“It’s all the noise,” he said. “I’ll be okay.”
But when he opened his eyes, he found that Gwen wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was locked on the bend in the passage. A snout—long, gray, and rubbery—poked around the corner. It snorted, sending up a puff of mist. Then the whole creature ambled into view, taller than Jack, walking on a single knobby knuckle at the base of each leathery wing.
“It’s a dragon,” whispered Gwen, pulling Jack back a step.
“Yeah. That much I got.”
Another one appeared behind it, with green metallic scales, crawling along the floor in serpentine bursts. And then another, hovering on buzzing wings. Every time the teens stepped backward, new dragons appeared. There were dozens. The spooks hadn’t followed Jack and Gwen into the collection. They had released the dragons and locked the door.
This was an assassination.
The dragons varied in color, from the darkest blue to light green, to the sickly pink of the small one hovering above the rest. All the eyes, however, were the same coal black. Whenever Jack looked into them, the dragon under his gaze would look away. The creatures bowed and bobbed like courtiers before a king. But always, they inched closer. The gray one that had appeared first let out a chortling groan and lowered its head.
“Look, Jack. It’s okay. He’s friendly.” Gwen stretched out her hand to pet its snout.
Jack was not getting that vibe at all. “Careful, Gwen. I don’t think you should—”
The dragon bared its yellowed teeth and snapped. Gwen jerked her hand away.
“—do that.”
The dragon’s chortle became a growl, and the others joined in, still inching forward. But as Jack raised the flashlight in defense, they all stopped. The gray dragon cocked its head to one side. It yelped, and the whole pack scrambled, slithered, and waddled out of sight.
“What now?” asked Jack.
The chamber filled with a deep, metallic grind. Slow, pounding impacts shook the dragonite floor. The teens turned around, cringing. The hangar-size door was open.
The flame Yes. The fire The flame . . .
Now.
Jack doubled over, grabbing his head and letting out a pained cry. One voice. It had been only one voice amid the tones the whole time. That voice.
A huge snow-white head ducked into view, capped with scimitar horns covered near to the tips in leathery skin. The tips themselves were translucent, as if they were made of quartz. White vapors fell from its jaws like drool and pooled on the floor in great wispy clouds.
The dragon stared Jack down with those same coal-black eyes. The flame The fire Yes The flame Now.
Jack gritted his teeth and glared up at the creature. “Get out of my head!”
Instantly, the dragon shifted its gaze to the floor and the thrumming tones dropped to nothing. The words grew soft. The flame Please, the flame.
The pain subsided. Jack breathed in and out. Had his command made the dragon back off?