thirteen 
thirteen YAWNING, CYRUS KICKED his blankets to the floor as he stretched. His legs flexed and shook. His hands pressed against cold stone. Stone? In the Archer?
Cyrus sat bolt upright.
Antigone was facing him, sitting stiffly on her own stone bed. She tapped the bridge of her nose.
“You have some goop.”
Cyrus slapped at his face and then ground his knuckles into his eyes.
The lights were on in the Polygon, and Nolan was missing. His blanket was folded neatly and his pillow was perched on top of it. Antigone’s black hair was freshly wet and pulled back tight. Her eyes were tired. She already had on her riding boots, and her ragged safari shirt was tucked in. A piece of paper and the Order of Brendan, Guidelines for Acolytes, Ashtown Estate, 1910–1914 sat open beside her.
“We’re done for, Rusty,” she said. “Listen to this.”
Cyrus yawned again. His sister picked up the booklet.
Cyrus nodded.
“ ‘In order to achieve the rank of Journeyman, Acolytes must be tested in the following areas before the end of the year in which they were presented: Linguistic: Competency in one ancient language and one modern (in addition to their mother tongue) is required. Celestial Navigation: Acolytes must complete a three-day open-sea voyage without instruments (may be tested in pairs). Weaponry: Acolytes must achieve the rank of Free Scholar with dagger, foil, and saber, and the rank of Marksman with small-caliber pistol and rifle. Aerocraft: Acolytes must complete pilot qualification in the Bristol Scout biplane or comparable (to include advanced maneuvers and solo flight). Medicinal: Acolytes must be competent in the diagnosis and herbal treatment of infectious disease, the resuscitation of the drowned, the setting of bones, and the amputation of limbs.’ ”
Antigone looked up at her brother. His eyes and mouth were wide. “Yeah,” Antigone said, nodding. “The amputation of limbs. And that’s not all. ‘Physical Fitness: Apart from specific exclusions granted by the community of Keepers, Acolytes must be capable of running a grass-track mile in under six and one-half minutes, submerging for a duration greater than two and one-quarter minutes, and free diving to a depth of ninety feet. Zoology: Acolytes must show themselves capable of handling creatures of at least five distinct and deadly species. The Occult: Acolytes must demonstrate themselves to be impervious to hypnosis and intrusive telepathy.’ ”
Antigone sighed and spread the open booklet over her knee. “Should we go home now or wait until they kick us out?”
Cyrus tried to clear his sinuses and ran a hand through his matted hair. “Look on the bright side, Tigs.”
“What bright side would that be, Brother Optimist? I have to learn how to amputate a limb. And shoot a gun. And they want us to fly a plane? That has to be illegal. So please, share with me the sunny bright side.”
“No math,” Cyrus yawned. “As long as there’s no math, I’m fine.”
Antigone burst out laughing. “Cyrus Lawrence Smith! How deluded can a kid be?”
“Who’s the kid? And I can be as deluded as I need to be. Everything gets harder if you start going on and on about how hard it is. This will be tough enough without you giving up beforehand.”
“Cyrus,” Antigone said. “You’ve always hated school.”
“Yeah,” said Cyrus. “What’s your point? This isn’t school. We decided to come here for a reason, Tigs. Because we came here, Rupert Greeves is trying to find Dan. He will find Dan. And after Dan comes back, we’re going to stay here until we learn how to do all those things you just read, and then we get Skelton’s estate, and then we’re going to buy a big house in California right on the cliffs, and we’re going to move back to the ocean and not worry about money and never eat waffles again.” He smiled. “Plus, you have to admit it would be pretty cool if we could actually do all those things. Flying planes? We’d be like, I don’t know …”
“Journeymen in the Order of Brendan?”
“I was going to say ninjas. But you’re right. And we’d be the hardcore 1914 version, the kind that live in the Polygon—the Polygoners.”
“You really think we can do this?” Antigone’s eyebrows reached maximum arch. “We’re going to learn languages and fencing and free diving and flying?”
Cyrus flopped back onto his bed. “And we’ll amputate limbs. I wonder how you practice that? And we have until New Year’s. That’s practically forever.”
“Right.” Antigone puffed her cheeks. “Practically.”
Cyrus laughed. “And maybe Christmas will distract everyone and they won’t notice that we haven’t learned anything. And if that doesn’t work, we can always be squatters down here with Nolan. Where is Nolan?”
Antigone stood up. “I don’t know. But I want breakfast and a toothbrush and a bathroom, and I want some different clothes, and I want to know where the laundry is. And I want to know what Rupert found out about Dan. And I want to find out when we can visit Mom.”
She tucked the tutor list and the Guidelines into her pocket, and walked out into the big room.
“Come on, Cy. You’re dressed already.”
When they finally reached the great hallway outside the Galleria, Cyrus stopped, yawning desperately and rubbing his head. His hair was sticking straight out in back like the feathers on a duck’s butt, and it felt just as oily and water-resistant. But he didn’t care. He just wanted to curl up against a wall and go to sleep. Antigone tugged on his arm and kept him moving.
He watched the mapped ceilings go by, bumping into people and muttering apologies, but when they passed the leather boat on its pedestal, his eyes drifted to the corridor that he knew led to another hallway and two big black doors and a man on a column with a hole in his head. The whole thing felt like a strange dream, and for a moment, he wondered if he should tell his sister about what he’d seen. But only for a moment.
The hallway was crowded, and Antigone was moving slowly in front of him. Most of the people were heading in the same direction—toward the dining hall. But a fair number were leaving—women chewing muffins and carrying fencing sabers, men in flight suits munching bacon, teams of boys and girls in white. Everywhere, Cyrus saw guns on hips. All the passing people looked at Cyrus, at his face and his hair, and all of them smiled.
From down the hall, small bells began to ring, echoing from every wall. The river of people paused and separated. Antigone saw her chance.
Dropping her shoulder, she forced her way into the opening channel in the middle of the hall. With Cyrus jogging behind her, she hurried around the corner and straight toward the dining hall doors. Thirty feet away, a line of monks was coming in the other direction. Ten men in brown rope-belted robes paced in time, chanting something in a strange language. The second man in line was ringing the small bells. A bald, fat-faced man in the very front held a long, thick green bamboo rod, using it to slap at any feet or hands or thighs that encroached into the monks’ center path. Looking up, he saw Cyrus and Antigone, and his small eyes lit up.
“C’mon!” Antigone grabbed her brother’s arm and raced toward the door.
Spitting unintelligible wrath, the thick monk hustle-shuffled to beat them.
Antigone reached the doors and blasted through. The monk, shouting, jumped after her, knocking Cyrus away. The clatter and chatter in the dining hall died as every head turned.
The monk grabbed Antigone by the back of the shirt, raised his bamboo rod, and lashed it down across her neck.
Cyrus saw the first blow, he saw his sister drop to her knees, and the last vapor of sleep steamed out of him.
“Porca spurca!” the monk screamed, and he raised his rod again, but Cyrus was already above his sister. He took the next blow across his raised forearm, feeling nothing but the heat of his own anger. The monk struck again, this time at his ribs.
The bamboo bounced off his side, and Cyrus kicked hard for the monk’s groin, sinking his foot deep into a low-hanging belly instead.
The monk gasped, doubling over, breathless.
Cyrus jumped for the bamboo, wrenching it free with both hands. As shocked monks peered through the doors and hundreds of breakfasters watched in openmouthed silence, Cyrus raised the bamboo rod like a baseball bat. The wheezing monk’s head bobbed in front of him like a piñata. Cyrus hesitated. Then, sliding his hands apart, he brought the rod down over his own knee.
It snapped easily. Two feet of green bamboo jumped free, spinning across the room, clattering onto a platter of sausage.
The monk dropped to the floor.
Cyrus, seething, teeth clenched, stepped over the whimpering monk with what remained of his bamboo club raised.
“You don’t ever touch my sister,” he said. “Ever.”
He looked at the rest of the monks and then threw the broken rod at their feet.
“Cy, c’mon.” Antigone was on her feet, one hand on her neck, tugging her brother from behind.
Cyrus turned. Hundreds of eyes were on him. Some had jumped from their seats, but the fight had been over too quickly for them to intervene. Now they sat slowly.
Standing by the kitchen door in a white suit, Cecil Rhodes grinned and mock-applauded.
Antigone steered Cyrus toward the buffet line. A chubby man in front, wearing a too-small leather flight jacket, stepped away to let them in, staring at the ceiling the whole time, refusing eye contact.
Flustered, Antigone handed Cyrus a plate and grabbed one for herself. A long red welt stood out on her neck. Cyrus eyed the crowd, beginning to eat again.
“We came to eat, Cy, and we’re going to eat. I don’t care what they think.” She knocked the bamboo out of the sausage and shoveled a pile onto Cyrus’s plate. “Thanks, though.” She smiled and lowered her voice to a whisper. “You just beat down on a monk.”
Cyrus set down his plate and rubbed his forearm. The anger was fading, replaced with pain. He grinned at his sister. “That wasn’t me. I’m not a morning person. There’s another person inside me that does all the morning things.”
“No,” said Antigone. “The scary part is, I think the morning you is the real you. The older you get, the more that will be you all the time.”
“Oh, gosh,” said Cyrus. “I hope not. The morning me is always either angry or tired.”
With loaded plates, they turned to find a table. The nearest one, surrounded by girls in white workout wear, immediately emptied.
Antigone and Cyrus sat down.
Working on his first sausage, Cyrus looked around the room. The monks were back, and they’d brought Rupert. They were pointing at him.
Rupert Greeves moved toward them with long strides. He didn’t look happy.
“And … darn it,” said Cyrus. “Tigs.”
Antigone looked up as Greeves reached them. With two big hands, he pulled them up to their feet and leaned his head down between theirs. His whisper was thick and smelled of breakfast.
“That, Cyrus, is not exactly how I want these things dealt with in future. And, Antigone, please do not race the monks unless you intend to lose. You have both made my job more difficult. Leave your plates. Go into the kitchen and eat something there. I’ll feel better when you’re out of this room.”
He straightened and slapped their backs. “Kitchen duty,” he said loudly. While smiles spread and whispers were passed from table to table, he turned and hurried back out of the dining hall.
Cyrus looked at Antigone. She shrugged, and together, they made their way to the swinging door and walked into the sounds of a kitchen waging war on a thousand eggs.
Big Ben Sterling whistled at them, wiping floured hands on his apron. Behind him, on the other side of the wall of windows, clouds were building towers while wind frothed the lake. Sterling waved them toward two empty stools near their spot from the night before, and he lumbered to meet them.
Before they’d reached the stools, his heavy hands gripped their shoulders and his netted beard slid down between their heads. A gold bell grazed Cyrus’s cheek, jingling in his ear. Springs creaked in metal legs.
“Good to see you’re still alive,” he said. His breath was sweet. “But you’ll need food if you’re to survive a second day in Ashtown.”
The big cook forced them onto stools while young men and women in white rushed by with trays. Sterling stopped a girl, robbed her of two plates, and slapped them down on the table in front of Cyrus and Antigone. Fried eggs. Ham. Toast.
Cyrus dug in happily. Antigone buttered a piece of toast.
“Strange times for you two,” Sterling said. “And for the rest of us. Keep your strength up, and no more fiddling about with monks. Choose your battles while you still can. Soon enough, they’ll be choosing you.”
Sterling leaned onto the table beside them. He lowered his voice. “Big Ben Sterling isn’t having a laugh now. Last night, the vice-cook was killed by an intruder. Greeves found him drowndead in the harbor. He’s spent the morning storming about like the world’s largest wet wasp.” He nodded back at the dining hall. “There are plenty in there that think you’re not worth the trouble.”
He eyed them both. Cyrus stopped chewing. Antigone dropped her toast. “But you are worth it, aren’t you? The kitchen knows you are.” His voice sank even lower. “Hear this, Smithlings: People say old Bones carried a pair of keys on a ring. People are wondering where those keys might be. And they’re thinking, well, Skelton was killed in your motel—God rest his dirty soul. John Horace Lawney caught himself a bullet getting the pair of you here. You two are candles lit for trouble’s moths, and the kitchen knows why.”
He smiled and raised his thick eyebrows above friendly eyes. “Phoenix hasn’t got the keys, nor has that bone-chewing stooge, Maxi. If he did, he wouldn’t care one wormed apple for you two. But you see, I know it’s more than just keys that’s lighting this fire. Before his death, whisper was that Bones was holding a set of triplets—relics rarer than a butcher’s fresh cut.” Reaching up, he tapped the bell on his right ear. “A tidal pearl, I heard.” He tapped his left ear. “Bark of a truth tree.” He leaned all the way forward and his eyes bounced between them. “A Resurrection Stone.”
“What?” Antigone asked. “Are we supposed to know what that is?”
Big Ben Sterling curled back his lips and clicked his jaw. “The Soul Knife. The Reaper’s Blade. Old Draco’s Crown—the Dragon’s Tooth. In the chapel, you’ll find brass plates scratched with the names of the O of B’s dead from each of the World Wars. You’ll find newer plates listing the thousands lost at sea, lost on land, and fallen from the sky just in my own lifetime. Those lists run long and sorrowful, but another plate could hang just as long, etched with the names of those who died questing and feuding for that Dragon’s Tooth.
“Keepers and Explorers have died for it, murdered for it, betrayed for it, sold their souls and been damned to the Burials for it.” He paused. “Billy Bones found it. Or so the little birds began whispering two years back. This world has a nest of secrets, but there can’t be many that Phoenix wants his claw hands on more than that little chip of death. If I were a betting man, and I am, I’d put my vice-cook’s name right on that brass list of dead, just beneath William Skelton’s. And those keys, well, I might have just heard some Keepers whispering about doors being opened in the night that should have been closed.”
Antigone glanced at her brother. Cyrus swallowed. His hand floated up toward his neck and stopped. He could feel Patricia, but the weight of the keys was gone. His hand dropped. He’d slept with them in his pocket, but he couldn’t feel them against his leg. Sterling’s eyes were on him. He couldn’t reach for his pocket now. Scooping up eggs, he loaded his cheeks.
“Mr. Cyrus,” said the cook. “Miss Antigone. You can trust Ben Sterling. I was a friend to your father and he to me. I even taught your mother a few of the kitchen’s ways, and that’s not something that’s happened for another. Time may come when you two need a friend who can keep a secret. If you do, Ben Sterling will be standing there, just like he always was for your father.”
Cyrus slid his hand down to his leg and looked at his sister. He could feel chilly sweat beading on his forehead. He groped his legs, but the only lump was a little square that he knew was holding a beetle. Antigone was staring at him, her eyes widening.
“Something wrong, Mr. Cyrus? Egg too slippy?”
“No.” Cyrus was forcing himself to breathe slowly. “No.”
Antigone spun back to the cook. “What is that thing, the tooth, even supposed to do?” Her voice was pitched too high. She knew something was wrong.
Cyrus shoved his hand into his pocket, but he already knew the keys were gone. The lightning bug glass buzzed his fingers as he searched around it.
Ben Sterling turned back to Antigone, scratching his beard. “I couldn’t say—not being a wizard, an angel, a demon, or a man of science. I’m just a cook missing his legs and making do with a pair of delicate ears.”
Hesitating, Sterling twisted around, scanning his kitchen. “Susanna!” he yelled. “Watch the line.”
Cyrus pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket where the keys had been. A short message had been written in hurried black letters.
Inflating his cheeks, Cyrus rolled the paper into a tight ball and dropped it back into his pocket. Trust Nolan? He’d been robbed. He felt insulted. Moronic. Was Nolan taunting him? He looked down at his breakfast, his appetite fading.
“The tooth,” Sterling said. “In tales older than the oceans, from when the moon was young and green, the tooth is always said to have the power of Death. But any sharp stick can kill you, I’m not meaning that. I mean Death’s own power. Death as men imagine him to be, carrying that long-bladed scythe, harvesting souls like corn. The tooth is like the Reaper’s Blade.”
Sterling breathed in deep. When he spoke again, his voice had found a different rhythm. The swirl and bustle of the kitchen was forgotten. His story had dropped into a rocking chair beside some quiet fire.
“When Man was first tilling ground and tending gardens, before he thought to wall his cities, Draco the Devourer came on down from his stars. He hated Man for his body and soul, joined together in one creature, and he meant to rip the two apart forever—Man would be mere flesh, or mere soul, but never both. Old Draco fashioned himself a monstrous scaly body and a set of charmed teeth with edges to them that could slice a soul’s hair sideways.
“But things just didn’t go as planned—they never do for dragons. Raging, Draco spread his wings and dropped through the sky’s floor. Cities burned, and everywhere he went, souls withered, sliced and uprooted from their flesh. But one boy picked up a stone, and while men fled screaming, he threw it into the demon’s mouth and knocked out just one tooth as long as the boy’s own arm. He picked it up by the root, and with it, he slew the dragon body. Draco retreated into the stars, but he left behind that tooth.”
The cook smiled. “And if you listen to an old cook, that’s where the tooth came from.”
“You’re joking, right?” Antigone asked.
“Am I?” asked Sterling.
Antigone ran her hands over her hair and looked at him sideways. “Well, you don’t believe that. A star dragon?”
Sterling straightened. “Come with me,” he said, and springs squealed in his steel legs as he strode away. Cyrus and Antigone followed him across the kitchen to a side door.
“I’ll tell you this much,” the cook said over his shoulder. “Jason used that tooth to fetch the Golden Fleece. Called up immortal warriors with it from sown Dragon’s Teeth, and it was the only blade he could use to cut them down. Cadmus used that blade to call warriors from bone when he founded Thebes. It can call the dead to life—though not as they were—and shatter the undying. Alexander used it to raze the world and only failed when it was stolen. Julius, Hannibal, Attila, Charlemagne, Napoleon, Hitler—all of them sought it, and some of them found it. For a time.”
The cook lumbered down the corridor in front of them, bells jingling, flour drifting off him in slow curls. He was leading them back toward the Galleria, toward the leather boat on its pedestal. Before they reached it, he stopped and pointed up at the wall, where an enormous reptilian skin ran along above the floor.
“Is that real?” he asked.
Cyrus scanned it. “Is it from a huge snake?”
“Not a snake, lad. Follow it around the corner.” The cook turned down a side hall, and Cyrus and Antigone followed him. The skin ran with them. And then it splayed into the fingers of a claw—three forward and one back, each of them longer than Cyrus was tall.
“Not a snake, lad,” Sterling said again. He walked to the end of the hallway and turned into another passage. Cyrus, in a daze, staggered along beside his sister, not paying any attention to where they were going. Whatever the tooth did, it was gone now. Probably forever. He should be relieved. He tried to be. But all that he felt was lead-bellied failure.
Sterling stopped and gripped the handle of a black door.
“Well, it doesn’t have to be a star dragon,” Antigone said. “It could be a dinosaur.”
“Could be,” Sterling said. “But if I was eye to eye with a flying reptile the size of a house and with a mind to eat me, I wouldn’t use the word dinosaur.”
He forced the door open with a pop and stepped to the side. “After you, Miss Antigone.”
Antigone stepped into darkness. Cyrus followed her, dust and decay trickling into his lungs. He sneezed. The door boomed closed and they were left with only four senses—ears straining, skin tingling, the smell of fur and formaldehyde, the taste of old, undisturbed air.
The cook’s bells jingled. “This is one of six African collections, though Celtic and Asian is a bit mixed up in everything.”
He punched a switch and electricity crackled overhead. After a moment, an army of dangling lanterns fluttered to life beneath the high, beamed ceiling.
Row after row of shelves and collection cases, full to overflowing, teetered up beneath the lights. Tiny, cluttered spaces, no more than two feet wide, ran between each row. A backbone the size of a large tree hung above it all, dangling from anchor chains.
Cyrus’s eyes widened, his failure forgotten for the moment. “What is all this stuff?” he asked. “Why is it here?”
“These shelves hold the maps, journals, treasures, samples, and artifacts of every Journeyman, Explorer, Keeper, and Sage to have wandered the African continent on behalf of this Order.” The cook waved big arms at the shelves. “Most of this here is from Ashtown explorations, but some of the collections were brought over from the Order’s European Estates before the French Revolution.
“In here, if you know where to look, you’ll find pieces collected by old Marco Polo, including the rhinoceros horn that sent him into months of black dog funk.” Sterling laughed. “He thought the rhino was his long-sought unicorn, and sadly, it was nothing like he’d hoped a unicorn would be.
“You’ll find skins and photos of various things shot by Theodore Roosevelt—he was a little quick with the trigger when the bushes moved, but those were the times.
“You’ll find charts drawn by Magellan’s steady hand, photographs of Solomon’s diamond mines, and a Phoenician sphere—a true map of the world etched in a globe of silver. That little beauty was recovered from a shipwreck off the coast of Mauritius.” He clicked his teeth. “The Phoenicians are always good for a surprise. The map includes Florida, the Mississippi River, and Tenochtitlán—Mexico City these days. But none of that’s why I brought you here. Turn around.”
Cyrus and Antigone both turned.
“Oh …,” said Cyrus.
Antigone jumped back and covered her mouth.
A huge human skull was sitting on a red cushion beside the door. The jaw, four inches off the ground, was as wide as a horse’s chest. The smooth cranium was waist-high. The eyeholes were larger than cantaloupes, and gold had been plated in halos around them.
“This here is one of the sons of the gods,” Sterling said. “An immortal—not a transmortal, mind you—who chose Ethiopia for his kingdom and fashioned Stonehenge for his bathing circle.”
The cook patted the enormous head.
“That was before the stones were stolen by the Irish.”
“The Irish?” Cyrus laughed. “Stonehenge is in England.”
“Truth,” said Sterling. “But only because Uther Pendragon, Arthur’s padre, stole it again with a few cheater’s tips from the weasel Merlin.” He laughed. “And so it has always gone for the Irish.”
Antigone opened her mouth, but Big Ben Sterling shook his jingling head. “Don’t say a word, Miss Antigone, not about the Once and Future King. I won’t hear it.”
He looked back to the skull. “Well, this lad here, like most immortals, didn’t understand people. He cooked ’em, ate ’em raw, slaughtered ’em for sport, demanded their worship, and then still stewed ’em with apples for their troubles. But one day a young Ethiopian girl stole a sword from a priest, and so much for immortality. Do I need to tell you which sword it was, or are you two sharp enough to fill in my blanks?”
“Couldn’t it have just been a … big guy?” asked Antigone helplessly. “A pituitary problem?”
“Tigs,” Cyrus said quietly. “You’re a total hypocrite. My whole life, you’ve been telling me that dragons and unicorns and giants were real. I never believed you.”
“I never believed me,” said Antigone.
Cyrus pointed at the skull. “What’s the gold for?”
“A touch of religious decoration,” Sterling said. “The skull was idolized in a human sacrificial cult for more than a century. You can hear the thing breathe if you make it angry enough. The demon soul huffs and it puffs, but it can’t find its way back in. There are others—”
“Hold on,” Antigone said, raising her hands. “Stop! The skull gets mad?”
“Miss Antigone,” Sterling said. “Take me or leave me. You’ll sleep better if you disbelieve. It isn’t the skull that gets angry—it’s nothing but bone and gold. It’s what used to live in the skull, unable to leave—that’s all immortality is, drifting around, with nothing better to do than linger.
“This one’s been dealt with, and by a girl like you. But I’m sure he still thinks he was badly treated. I would, too, if I were a hellish big immortal, overfeeding on the villagers, seeing no end of myself in sight. Getting sliced by a wisp of a girl with a sharp tooth would be startling on a warm Ethiopian morning. A mortal would have coped better. We all expect a bit of death at the end.”
Cyrus backed away. He had already seen things in Ashtown that he didn’t want to believe. He stopped and crouched down until he was shorter than the skull. “What makes it mad?” he asked.
“Cyrus,” Antigone said, shivering. “Don’t even ask. I don’t want to know.”
“Ah, she’s a believer now,” said Sterling. He stepped back beside Cyrus. “Don’t you worry about Sir Roger here. There’s only one or two things to anger him. Most of the time I don’t think the big lad even knows he’s here.”
Sterling looked down at Cyrus. “If you whisper the name of the little girl who did him in, the demon finds a memory. And, of course, if either of you happened to be carrying that tooth with you, he’d be more than a little upset.”
Antigone looked at her brother, confused. Cyrus turned away from her, staring at the skull instead. She thought he still had the tooth. That’s why Sterling brought them here? To see if he really had the tooth? Well, he didn’t. He was an idiot, and he’d let it get stolen.
“What happens when he’s mad?” Cyrus asked. He hoped his voice sounded normal.
“Oh, he does a bit of heavy breathing—absorbs some of the room’s light. Years ago, the Journeymen named him Sir Roger, and they got a fair bit of use out of him when it came to hazing the Acolytes.”
Cyrus shifted his weight. “Say the name.”
“No. Stop. I’m leaving,” Antigone said. “Seriously, this is dumber than poking a rattlesnake.”
Sterling sighed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cyrus. But I couldn’t do that to your poor sister. But I’ll spell it so you can test my word when you’re alone sometime—it takes a bit more courage alone. S-E-L-A-M. The name means ‘peaceful,’ a lovely spice of irony.”
Putting his hands on his hips, the big cook scanned the room. “There are other skulls like Sir Roger in the Order’s collections in Europe and Africa—a pair in Istanbul have only a single eye—but this one required the Dragon’s Tooth for the harvest. Like the lads we keep in the Burials.”
Cyrus stood up. Kill me. The whisper ran through his head. The man with the bullet hole and the beard had known he was carrying the tooth.
Edgy nerves were all over Antigone’s face. “What do you mean? About the Burials?”
Ben Sterling jingled to the first row of shelves. He was at least a foot too wide to fit between them.
“Well,” he said. “I’m not saying it’s pretty, but what options do you have when an immortal or transmortal takes to … misunderstanding people? The Sages collect names. Make lists. Do their best to monitor behavior. And it’s up to the Explorers to collect more than names. Before and after everything else, Ashtown is a prison, and don’t you forget it. Beginning and end, start and stop.”
“Wait a sec,” said Cyrus. “Are any of the people in the Burials dead?”
“Not always people,” Sterling said. “Never dead. They sleep.”
“For how long?” Antigone asked.
Sterling shrugged. “Forever. Or, like Maxi, until they are wakened, roused, released, or busted loose. In the beginning, the Burials were all neat and orderly—a polished little dungeon. But there were too many incidents, too many revivals and escapes. Now each Burial is hidden. A guard might know one or two, but only the Avengel keeps a full map. But I’m scaring you now. There hasn’t been a transmortal put down in nearly a century.”
“You know,” said Cyrus, “I saw the thing on Skelton’s keys. It was small—like a petrified shark tooth. I don’t see how it could be the tooth you’re talking about.”
Antigone shot him a warning glance.
Cyrus shrugged. “I saw it. So what?”
Sterling’s face spread into a wide smile. “Did you touch it? Did you handle it?”
“I don’t know,” Cyrus said. “I guess. He had me park his truck. It was just a little black point—not a sword big enough to take off a giant’s head.”
The cook sighed happily, tugged his beard, and then crossed his arms. “Billy Bones, you had the point,” he said quietly. “You old dog.”
He looked back at Cyrus. “The tooth was shattered centuries ago by monks who didn’t want it used as a weapon. They scattered pieces around the world to be used in healing—they said—but the truth was rank grisly. To them, the shards were Resurrection Stones, and they used them to raise the dead. After certain … questionable rites, the gravely ill and mortally wounded would be sealed in chambers with the shards.
“Resurrection rooms, they called them, though nothing appealing ever resurrected. If you’re with Nolan, you sleep in one of those rooms now.”
Antigone grimaced.
Ben Sterling tucked his hands into the pockets of his apron and shifted his weight, leg springs sighing. “Look around in here if you like, but I hear the kitchen calling.”
He tugged the door open, jingled through, paused, and leaned back into the room.
“Cyrus, you said you parked old Skelton’s truck?”
Cyrus nodded.
“And he just gave you his keys?”
“Yeah, why?”
Sterling’s eyes sparked above his smile. “No reason.” The door shut behind him.
Antigone looked at her brother, irritated. “Cy, now he knows you have them.”
Cyrus moved to the nearest shelf. “I don’t have the keys, Tigs.” He fished the little paper ball out of his pocket and tossed it to his sister. “That’s what was in there this morning.”
Antigone unrolled it. “Trust Nolan?” She looked up. “We should tell Greeves. You said you were going to tell him about the tooth today anyway. He needs to know that Nolan has it.”
“I don’t want to tell Greeves.”
“Why? You want to hunt for Nolan yourself?”
“I just don’t want to tell him. It’s embarrassing. And I don’t want to hunt for Nolan. We have enough other things to do, but mostly I don’t think we could find him.”
“We should find Mrs. E.” Antigone tugged on her brother’s shirt. “She said she would help us this morning. C’mon, we should go.”
“I want to look around first.” Cyrus scanned the shelves.
“Cy, I’m not gonna hang out in here with you and Sir Roger.”
Cyrus grinned. “I think you are. If you head for the door, my mouth might just sort of slip.”
He walked toward the skull.
“Cyrus …” Antigone sighed. “If you want to play games, find a new friend.”
“I’m not playing,” Cyrus said. He tapped a gold-plated eye socket.
“Cyrus Lawrence Smith,” Antigone said, raising her eyebrows. “Stop acting your age. Do you think I’m scared? You wet your pants the first time we watched Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”
“Seriously, Tigs?” Cyrus said. “Who has more nightmares? And this won’t be a nightmare. This will be real.”
“Little brother …” Puffing frustration, Antigone smoothed her hair, gritted her teeth, and pointed at the skull. “Selam.”
Cyrus jumped, staggering into his sister. The two of them crashed back into the shelves and down into a row.
Antigone felt her brother’s fist in her stomach and the hard floor against her shoulder blades. A box landed above her head. Glass broke. Paper rained down.
Water slapped into her hair.
Above them, the lights dimmed.