The Drowned Vault

  Lifting his face, Radu Bey shouted. Lightning lashed in through the open walls and struck the linked chain between his hands. Thunder rocked the room. Antigone tucked and curled into a ball as bolt after bolt cracked through the room. She was deaf. Her eyes burned with white light, and the stone floor smoked around her.

  The lightning stopped. Thunder rolled away.

  Stillness.

  Antigone blinked. Her fillings throbbed in her mouth, and her ears were ringing. She watched Radu drop the unbroken chain and pick up the others. His chest was heaving, and the blood dragon still twisted beneath his skin. Rupert lifted Antigone to her feet.

  Leftover electricity danced down the chains and Radu stepped forward, dragging three crackling metal serpents, prepared to strike.

  Rupert grabbed Antigone’s hand.

  Radu Bey looked into her eyes and raised his chains.

  “A little Smith blood,” he said, “is better than none at all.”

  The chains whipped forward, and Rupert pulled Antigone back. He pulled her off the edge. Together they fell, down into the sky. Lightning flashed above them.

  Antigone could feel the scream in her throat as she fell, but she heard nothing.

  Instead of piercing clouds, she slammed against a wooden floor. Her limp body bounced and thumped back down, landing in a tangle with Rupert’s legs.

  Perched on a pole high above her, there was a room with only two walls. She wondered why. Above that, she could see huge steel beams holding up a distant roof.

  Gil’s enormous face slid into view.

  “Don’t … like you,” Antigone said quietly, and the world went dim. She was already far away, dreaming that she was a bird, and that a red-winged blackbird was teaching her how to glide.

  Cyrus stretched, kicking bare feet across crisp cool sheets. He opened his eyes and blinked. He was on a bottom bunk. Through a window beside his bed shone the rosy light of a predawn sky.

  Little Jax was sitting on a stool in front of another bunk bed, with a piece of toast on his knees. Cyrus squinted at him.

  “Dennis is still asleep, too.” Jax took a bite, chewing quickly. “I’m worried about the zoo. The Cryptos can do without, but the others will be tough to feed correctly. I did leave instructions.”

  “Where are we?” Cyrus asked. The room had thick carpet and maps and antlers on the wood-paneled walls. Blankets were rumpled on the other bed, but it was empty.

  “Kentucky,” Jax said. “But I don’t know what part. Somewhere in the mountains. We got in late.” He managed to fold the rest of the bread into his cheek. “You left my squid in the North Atlantic. Do you want breakfast?”

  Cyrus sat all the way up and swung his legs to the floor. He was wearing a clean white shirt and a pair of blue shorts; they weren’t his. Someone knuckle-knocked on the bedroom door. Before he could answer, Diana was in the room. Her hair was wet and pulled back in a tight braid. Her face shone like it had been freshly scrubbed.

  “You’re awake. Good. My dad’s been complaining about late sleepers for the last hour, but I made him leave you for a while.”

  Cyrus raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth, trying to widen his eyes by stretching his face. “What time is it?”

  “Six forty-seven in the a.m.,” Diana said. “Big Alan had to carry you in from the plane. You should come out now. They’re talking.”

  Six forty-seven was too early. And Cyrus didn’t even know who “they” were. “Where’s Tigs?” he asked. “Is she up?”

  Jax stopped chewing. Diana bit her lip. She sat down on the bed beside Cyrus, clenched her knees, and looked at him.

  She didn’t need to say anything. It was all in her eyes. The last twenty-four hours flooded over Cyrus. His sister was gone. His Keeper was gone. His brother was having heart attacks and visions.

  Phoenix had his father’s body.

  “I’m really, really sorry,” Jax said. Cyrus looked at James Axelrotter, the little zookeeper. The boy’s face was sagging. He meant what he said; after all, he’d lost most of his own family a long time ago. But it didn’t help. Cyrus nodded and stood up. He wasn’t going to lose his family. He wasn’t going to be the last Smith standing.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  The hallway outside the bedroom surprised him. For starters, it was fifteen feet wide and at least forty long. And quiet. He followed Diana over polished slate floors in the dim light. The walls were heavy with art and trophies and skins and old rifle racks.

  They turned a corner and walked into a great room the size of a gym. Cyrus crossed bear rugs as he walked beneath a full-size cloth airplane, hanging from peeled log rafters thirty feet above him. Couches and chairs surrounded a river-rock fireplace bigger than his old room in the Archer. The floor was littered with blankets and pillows as if people had slept here. Rough log beams framed floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a meadow that ran down to a glassy black lake. Deer were nosing through the meadow, and two long docks stuck out into the water. Boats were lashed to one; the other led to a massive floating plane hangar. Cyrus stopped and stared. Beyond it all, he saw a blue-green mountain range and a glowing horizon. As he watched, the sun crept above the mountains, painting the forested hilltops with morning gold.

  “Cy!”

  Cyrus turned his back on the morning. Diana was waiting for him, ready to descend a flight of stairs wider than a mobile home.

  “This is your house?” Cyrus whispered. He couldn’t help it. “Seriously? You said your parents lived in the wilds.”

  Diana laughed. “Well, this isn’t the city.”

  Cyrus looked around. “It’s like a log palace.”

  “Logs, yes. What did you expect? But don’t say palace around my dad. And don’t say rich, either. He hates rich people.”

  Cyrus reached the stairs and began to follow her down. “Hates rich people? That doesn’t make any sense. You’re now officially the richest people I know. You’re the only rich people I know.”

  Diana glanced back at him. “You know plenty; you just haven’t left Ashtown and seen them at home. Besides, if dining hall gossip is true—and it always is—you Smiths are the richest people I know.”

  “Yeah, right,” Cyrus said.

  At the bottom of the stairs was a slate and maple kitchen the size of a restaurant. Off to Cyrus’s left, there were stone counters and wooden cabinets and a fridge the size of a car, and a large sizzling stove beneath a polished metal hood. The far wall was made of glass doors that had all been thrown open to a terrace, the sunrise, and the breeze. Sitting in front of the windows was a rough-hewn table big enough for fifty. It was lined with picnic benches currently dotted with breakfasters. Only Nolan and Arachne were missing. And the Captain …

  Right in the middle, Horace had a napkin tucked into his shirt and was surrounded by eggs and bacon and sausage. Jax passed Cyrus and hurried over to a jar of jam and a stack of toast at an empty spot on the bench beside the lawyer. George and Silas were across from Horace and working on omelets. Huddled around one end of the table, Dan and Alan and Jeb sat with emptied plates pushed away, their arms crossed on the table and intent looks on their faces. Between them, at the head, leaning back in the only chair, there was a tall, wiry man with dark brown hair, combed with a sharp part. His face was hard and worn, with grimace lines around his eyes and deep creases in his cheeks.

  Dan was trying to tell him something, but the man seemed more interested in mining his very white teeth with a toothpick.

  Standing beside the stove, a tall woman with silver in her long red braid was wiping her hands on her apron. Her face was dotted with sun freckles, just like her daughter’s. When she caught sight of Cyrus, her green eyes flashed a moment of pity before dousing him with warmth. She hurried over.

  “Cyrus, honey,” she said. “I’m so happy we could have you here, though I wish it were under happier circumstances. I’m Sadie, and you just tell me what you need.” She swallowed him in a hug, and her arms were soft but strong. The smell of b
reakfast hung all over her, but especially cinnamon. She released him and turned to the table. “Boone, you have another guest to meet.”

  Everyone looked up. The man at the end studied Cyrus. Cyrus couldn’t even see his eyes inside his hard-creased squint.

  “We met,” the man said. “In my plane.”

  “Sorry,” Cyrus said. “I don’t remember much.”

  “You were busy rubbing your sad all over my floor.”

  “Pa!” Diana said.

  Cyrus flushed. The table was silent. No one even chewed.

  “He’s a boy, Robert,” Sadie said. She threw an arm around Cyrus and steered him toward a bar stool near the stove. “Can I get you some biscuits and gravy? French toast? Oatmeal? What would go down best right now?”

  “Thank you, but I’m really not hungry,” Cyrus said. Sadie released him, and Cyrus turned back around, focusing on the table.

  “Mr. Boone.” He said it loudly, like the words were something to throw. His heart was racing, and his cheeks were hot. “I need to borrow your plane.”

  Robert Boone lowered his toothpick and waited a moment. “Son,” he finally said. “I wouldn’t loan you my horse.”

  “Well, that’s lucky,” Cyrus said. “Because I don’t need your horse. I need your plane.”

  “Pa,” Diana started. “I think—”

  Robert Boone raised his hand. “And what do you think you could do with my plane?”

  “I’m going to go find Gilgamesh and get my sister back.”

  Robert Boone drummed his fingers on the table. “In my plane?”

  “Yes.”

  Dan leaned in over the table. “Sir … we really need the help. I was trying to tell you—”

  “Daniel Smith, you’re still breathing. You’re here. You’re fed. I’ve given you help. Now, you’re not in the Order, so I don’t expect you to know this, but we don’t hold truck with dreaming or visions or sightseeing in your sleep—whatever you might call it.”

  “Didn’t used to be that way, Bobby Boone,” said Sadie quietly. “And you know it.”

  “No, ma’am,” her husband said. “But the Order outgrew that dabbling and a lot of other nonsense, too.”

  Diana moved toward the table. “Pa, you have to try something. Rupert and Antigone are both missing.”

  Her father looked up. “Diana Boone, I am aware. And while I appreciate my daughter telling me what I have to do, you might wanna save your speeches till you’ve spent more than one night under my roof in the year.”

  “Pa …,” said Jeb.

  Alan Livingstone cleared his throat and rapped his knuckles on the table politely. The room grew quiet. His voice was smooth, but there was disappointment in it. “Robert, Sadie, my sons and I appreciate your assistance and your hospitality. However, we have a search waiting for us, and an Avengel to support. I apologize, but I must request the loan of a number of tools, some materials, and a flight back to Nova Scotia, where we will attempt to repair our own plane, which is currently floating damaged in a harbor.”

  Robert Boone chewed his lip, and then he nodded.

  “No,” said Cyrus. Dan was shaking his head, too. “I’m sorry, but no. We don’t have time. All the way back, and then plane repairs?”

  “In my dream,” Dan began, “Phoenix—”

  Robert Boone burst out laughing.

  “Hey!” Cyrus yelled. He snatched up a bowl and banged it on the table. It smashed in his hand, and glass skittered down between the loaded dishes and onto the floor.

  Cyrus leaned his hands against the table, careful to avoid the glass. “Mr. Boone, you can loan me your plane, and I will use it to find my sister and my Keeper, Rupert Greeves. Then I will find Phoenix, and I will kill him and get back the tooth and my father’s body. I will not be careful with your plane. I do not care what happens to your plane unless it stops flying while I still need it. And if you don’t loan me your plane, I will go down to the lake right now, and I will steal it.”

  “Finally!” Horace said. “Some initiative!” He pulled his napkin from his shirt, dabbed at his mouth, and stood up. “Shall we go, then?”

  Cyrus was staring at Robert Boone, and Robert Boone was staring back—or Cyrus assumed he was. He could have been asleep behind the creases around his eyes.

  “Sorry about the bowl, Mrs. Boone,” Cyrus said.

  “Perfectly fine, honey,” Sadie said behind him. “Break one over his head if you need to.”

  “Well?” said Cyrus.

  Robert Boone smirked. “You got the blood, kid. But you gonna fly this plane yourself?”

  “If I have to,” Cyrus said. “But I’m pretty sure everyone is coming with me. Jeb can fly it, if he wants.”

  “Am I invited on this warpath?”

  “Do you have another plane?” said Cyrus. “We might need two.”

  “All right, little chief,” said Mr. Boone. “You got me.

  Where to?”

  Cyrus opened his mouth, but he didn’t have an answer. He looked at his brother.

  “I’m not sure about the Gil guy,” Dan said. “Just Phoenix, and that’s a little general, locationwise.”

  Cyrus looked around the kitchen, his eyes drifting out of focus. His mind was racing. No, it was tumbling down a flight of stairs completely out of control. Where would they go? Rupert would know, but … maybe Diana would … Dan? Could Dan be in charge? He shook his head at the thought. He needed Antigone. He needed to talk all of this through with her. Even if he could just see her … He blinked in surprise. He could see her.

  The Quick Water. Antigone had said his half was in his pack. If she was alive, Antigone would have hers. She’d remember. But there was a good chance Gil would have taken it from her. So maybe he couldn’t see Antigone, but he could see the man who had taken her. Would that help? Would he even be able to tell where Gil was? No, but …

  The kitchen returned to focus. Even Rupert had gone looking for help.

  “Where’s the Captain?” Cyrus asked. “Are Nolan and Arachne here?”

  Sadie handed Cyrus a fat slice of cold apple pie on a plate. “Boone wanted the transmortals to eat in their rooms,” she said. “And you need to eat something, too, honey.”

  “Hey, now,” Boone said, raising his hands. “Under the circumstances, transmortals won’t be dining at my table for some time, even if …”

  Cyrus was already walking toward the stairs, wolfing the pie. Diana was right behind him. Dan jumped off his bench and jogged to catch up. When they were gone, Robert Boone looked around the room. He nudged Jeb.

  “Little hard on him, Pa,” Jeb said. “Given what he’s going through.”

  “Hard?” Boone asked. “Nah. I like that kid. Born to trouble. Hard is what he’ll be when he’s passed through this valley he’s in. Hard … or dead.”

  seventeen

  EVERY WHICH WAY

  CYRUS REACHED the bedroom door and stopped. There was a padlock on the handle.

  “Wow,” Diana said. “Sorry. I’ll try to find the key.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Cyrus. He was already slipping Patricia off his neck. A moment later, the padlock was off and he’d thrown the door open. Nolan and Arachne looked up from the carpeted floor inside. Nolan was eating scrambled eggs; Arachne hadn’t touched her plate. She was sitting primly with her legs crossed and her spider bag in her lap.

  “Where’s the Captain?” Cyrus asked.

  Nolan nodded at another door. “Bathroom,” he said. “Been in there awhile.”

  Cyrus crossed to the door and knocked hard.

  “Hey!” He gripped the handle. “John Smith! We need to talk.” Cyrus pushed and the door swung in. Steam billowed as Cyrus stepped inside.

  Captain John Smith was sprawled on the floor. He was on his side, bare-chested, and his shirt was dangling over a towel rack like he’d washed it and set it out to dry. His breastplate was in the dry bathtub and glistening gold—a tube of metal polish sat on the edge of the tub beside blackened rags. His coat
was on the floor as well, and the buttons gleamed.

  The Captain had his chained left hand hooked into the toilet bowl. Steam was rising up around his wrist, and his chest was heaving. The chain ran down to where iron Vlad III was leering on the floor.

  Cyrus jumped forward, and Dan and Diana followed. Together they rolled the limp Captain onto his back and fished his hand out of the steaming toilet. His eyes were shut tight, and his skin was slick with sweat. The chain was hot around his wrist, and his skin was badly blistered.

  “Bloody heat,” the Captain muttered into his beard. “Bastard nighly molt his last shackle.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you okay?” Cyrus asked. “Can you stand?”

  “Can I stand? Child, away!” the Captain shouted. He pushed Cyrus back, then grabbed the toilet bowl and the sink and heaved himself to his feet. Vlad rolled behind him. Above his wide belt, his belly and chest were thick with hair except in a sharp bald triangle over his heart—there, his flushed skin visibly quaked with his pulse. He rolled his head slowly, moaning, his chest hair clinging to his square beard like straggling Velcro.

  “I have a plan,” Cyrus said. “Sort of. But I need help. Have you read Sun Tzu?”

  The Captain squinted. Centuries-old lines jutted out from the corners of his brown eyes—eyes that had hardened long ago, staring at the sea and sun. “A right tick, that one. A blood-suckling eel.”

  “I mean, you were a general or something, right? You planned battles?”

  “Admiral,” the Captain said. He seemed to have oiled his square beard and slimed his mustache into heavy curling loops at both ends. Cyrus looked at the counter around the sink. Two small bottles of hair conditioner were empty and missing their caps. Cyrus opened his mouth, but clicked it back shut. It didn’t matter what the man did with hair conditioner. Not right now.

  “Grab your shirt and get out here,” Cyrus said, backing through the door. “I need a strategy.”

  “A stratagem?” the Captain asked. “Aye. That you do.”

  John Smith snatched his shirt off the towel rack and picked his gold breastplate up out of the tub. “From plotter’s clay, the plotter’s hands shall soon beget a plot unseen. Lead me to thy plottery wheel! Ha!”