six 
six CYRUS SQUIRMED IN HIS SEAT until Antigone elbowed him in the ribs. Then, just for her, he squirmed a little harder. The two of them were wedged into a short wooden couch with itchy wool cushions on the humanity side of the room. Of the mortals, only Rupert stood.
Cyrus glanced back at the door. His mother had been pretty shaken by the interrogation of Flint. Of course she had been. And Cyrus hadn’t even noticed. Not until Dan had asked that they be excused from Niffy’s little show and had practically carried her from the room. And now Antigone was angry because Rupert had told her to stay. She was even angrier because she hadn’t noticed how upset her mother was in the first place. And now her elbows were taking it out on Cyrus.
Ten normal humans, Cyrus thought. It was hardly an army. It was hardly even an outlaw band. And that was including his mother and Llewellyn Douglas in his wheelchair. But the mortals weren’t really where this gang packed its punch. He looked across the room at the transmortals.
Nolan was slumping in his chair with his knotted paper-colored arms crossed and his eyes almost shut. His blue veins were faint beneath the surface of his skin, like long-healed bruises. He was calm, but no one who had seen Nolan angry would ever forget how dangerous he could be. Those veins weren’t always faint. Cyrus had seen them bulge and writhe.
Arachne was beside Nolan, sitting straight up in her chair with her hands folded politely over her saggy bag of spiders like an etiquette instructor. Her icy eyes were focused on Niffy, where he stood on the hearth, and her obsidian hair was pulled back so tight that it looked like black glass. Cyrus wondered if her spiders had done it for her. Probably. Arachne was small and quiet, and he’d never seen her move quickly, not even when she’d faced Phoenix. Wherever there were spiders, she was dangerous. And spiders were everywhere.
Gilgamesh overwhelmed a little wooden chair, and it squealed in pain every time he breathed. His legs stuck out like felled trees, and his six-fingered hands were splayed out on his knees. His serpentine lips were sneering in his beard, and his cow eyes always seemed to be on Cyrus. He could explode like a humpbacked rodeo bull, and the small ice-eyed spider girl beside him might have been the only thing keeping him from tearing Cyrus’s head off. Of course, Cyrus had saved Gil from Phoenix in a burning cigar factory on the Mississippi. Maybe that was enough to erase Gil’s hate.
Cyrus met the huge man’s eyes. They were still and dark and unblinking. Anger was trapped inside them, like a prisoner behind glass. Cyrus looked away quickly.
Gil was a problem.
The Captain stepped into the lodge, carrying Pythia on his back. The small girl with the wide eyes and the dark skin peered over the Captain’s shoulder. Her thick ropes of hair were coiled around his arms, holding her in place. The other transmortals seemed almost normal by comparison. Her hair moved and gripped like the tentacles of an octopus, and life—ancient and mossy—almost dripped from her eyes. But unlike the other transmortals, her bright eyes looked young, and her focus seemed sharp enough to bend the world and time around it. She was mute, communicating in thoughts and dreams to seers like Dan, or in mysterious words written in fire on leaves so that they couldn’t be kept and treasured.
From the Captain’s back, Pythia cupped a dry leaf in her hands and blew it at Niffy. A fiery word sparked on the leaf as it fluttered through the air and settled on the hearth beside the monk’s feet. Without a glance, he kicked it back into the fireplace.
The Captain lowered Pythia to a chair, but she slipped down onto the floor, wrapping her hair around herself and beginning to rock in place. Her eyes were locked on Cyrus, and he could see her lips moving in a string of endless whispers. He could guess what she was saying—the same thing Dan had been dreaming about for months, starting right before they had found their father’s body and stopped Phoenix in the cigar factory where he had been using the tooth to redesign and resurrect a crop of New Men, where Phoenix had even managed to resurrect himself into the body of his nephew, Oliver.
Dan only ever came away from the dream with a string of words about the one called Desolation, and abominations, and the darkness of his shadow, and even the dragons being afraid.
It was about Radu Bey. Or Phoenix. One or the other, and as far as Cyrus could tell, it didn’t really matter which. They were both terrifying enough without a crazy oracle or Dan’s nightmare visions to spread the good news.
Nolan, Arachne, Gil, John Smith, and Pythia. Five transmortals. None if you figured that Gil was going to turn on the group eventually and the other transmortals would all be kept busy trying to control him.
How many transmortals did Radu Bey have? Rupert had been unwilling to guess, but Antigone had gotten a number out of him eventually. Over two hundred and climbing. Maybe two dozen of the great ones, at least as powerful as Gil. Two or three as powerful as Radu Bey himself. And how many New Men did Phoenix have? As many as he had had the time to make. And how tough were they? Nobody knew. Yet.
Cyrus looked up at Rupert Greeves, feet spread, strong arms crossed, narrowed eyes focused on a grinning Irish monk with a Mohawk. He knew that of all the obstacles they faced, Rupert’s greatest fear—greatest fears—still lay beneath Ashtown, in the deepest vaults, behind hidden doors, beyond ancient seals. The Burials.
That number had been easy for Antigone to get out of Rupert. He had insisted that they memorize it. One hundred and forty-four Powers had been Buried before the first modern treaties and the settling of the New World. All had some form of flesh, even if stolen, but many were in no way truly human. The oldest and worst were gods and goddesses of war. Necromancers. Fallen stars. Leviathan. Panic. And worse. Seventy-two more had been Buried in the five centuries since the treaties, and they were mostly modern transmortals—once human, but no longer.
“Right,” Niffy said. “Lovely little gathering. I’d been told you had Ponce along as well.”
“We did,” Rupert said, and he glanced at Arachne. “Now we don’t.”
“He’s safe,” Arachne said. “In hiding. This fight wasn’t for him.”
“Ah.” Niffy glanced at Rupert as he said it. “Tight ship you run, eh? What’s it matter if the occasional hare slips the noose.”
“I’m sorry,” Nolan said. “You think we’re prey? Last I checked, we’re volunteers, all except Gil the vassal.”
Gil snorted, shifting his glare from Cyrus to Nolan.
Rupert groaned and waved at Niffy. “Could we move along, then? Get on to the crucial bits. I’m only allowing this as a courtesy to your order.”
Niffy grinned. “Right. Well, these are the crucial bits as far as my Brothers are concerned, and the very bits that Monasterboice requires me to press. Five centuries ago, we broke from the O of B when they chose to enter into treaties with the transmortals. We refused to make peace with darkness, and we would not lay down our strongest weapons even if all the transmortals had agreed to have their powers bound. The O of B has made do without us. But now that the treaties have been dissolved …” Niffy shrugged. “Ashtown’s oldest weapons may be used again. Help us acquire them and put them to use, and we are your allies to the end, until the last dogs have been put down and the last pints have been hoisted and our voices are raw from the singing.”
“Dogs?” Nolan asked, his brows rising. “Do we have a dog problem?”
Niffy stared at him. “Our call in this earthly sphere is to triumph over evil, not to arrange a cease-fire. Some enemies cannot be made into friends. Or pets.”
“And we’re evil?” Nolan’s eyes hardened. Cyrus saw a vein quiver on the ancient boy’s temple.
“You?” Niffy said. “No more than any mortal down the blood river from the first Adam. But for us, the struggle against our inner darkness ends at a headstone and full stop. For you, seeds of evil grow to weeds no matter how often you pluck them from the garden. One with eyes to see can spot it in you even now, Nolan, once called Nikales. Rage. Despair. Boredom. The asp sting of bitterness. You fight against it for lifetimes. You fall and you rise and you fall again, but your inner war can never leave off, it can never stay won. Mortals weren’t made for it. We were made to run the race and hit the finish. Transmortals face pain with no end but the world’s end. And most can’t take it. They grow weary. They go mad. The flesh never dies, but the soul rots away inside.”
Nolan was perfectly still. Cyrus waited for him to explode, but the monk’s words seemed to have frozen him. After a moment, Nolan’s jaw relaxed and he sank back into his seat. Niffy adjusted his rope belt and stepped forward, staring at the undying boy, older than empires. When he spoke again, Cyrus was surprised at how soft and sad the monk’s voice had become.
“You’ve held up better than I ever could,” Niffy said. “But you wear your guilt like a gaping wound. Evil haunts you, little brother.”
Niffy turned back to the hearth while Nolan stared at the floor. Gil smirked. The room was silent, and outside, tall trees popped and sighed in a breeze.
“The point,” Niffy said, “is this. Those treaties locked away the O of B’s most dire weapons. Blades and charms and chains and seals useful for the confinement and destruction of Powers of spirit and flesh. Why loose the devils and leave willing devil catchers unarmed?”
“There was a reason for laying those weapons down,” Rupert said. “Some of those things were corrupting—the Dragon’s Tooth not least among them.”
Niffy ignored Rupert. “The monks still within the O of B, your so-called Brendanites, have requested our … assistance … in cleansing the Order from her cellars to her spires. They desire a purge, and no small one at that. They want Bellamy Cook, the traitor Brendan, tried, hundreds of memberships vacated, assets seized, and strict monastic orders instituted throughout the whole of the O of B.” He grinned. “It has some appeal.”
“But?” Rupert asked.
“But before we gave our answer, I was sent to find you, to see if there was yet hope for our mother Order.” Niffy scrunched his face, and then grew serious. “Hear the questions of Monasterboice and my brothers. Will you take up the arms forgotten? Will you sign no treaty with the last Dracul and his Ordo Draconis? Will you hunt the dog Phoenix until his death or yours?”
“Brother Boniface Brosnan,” Rupert said, and his voice was edged. “I will take up no weapon that would darken my own soul. But while God and my fathers guide me, I will hurl every stone, swing every ax, slash with every blade, fire every gun, and loose every arrow and dart that I believe to be clean, holy, and fit for slaughter. I will sign no peace with Radu Bey or his Ordo, though I would rejoice to gift him with fresh chains. As for Phoenix, I hunt him even in my dreams.”
Niffy’s lips were tight, his brows low.
“And Gilgamesh of Uruk,” he said. “Why is he among you unless you have already made peace with one of Radu’s beasts? And here also is John Smith, a traitor to his own Avengel vows, who knowingly took up transmortality. Why have they not both been put down?”
Gilgamesh stood, nostrils flaring. “Monk,” he growled. “You rope-belted Celts are no more than flies to one such as I am. I cannot count how many of your blood and cowl I have crushed and brushed aside when they came hunting for a hero. Your Druid magic does nothing more than tickle the hairs on my arms while my fingers crush your Irish skulls.”
John Smith inhaled slowly and every hair in his thick beard seemed to crackle with static. The gold on his breastplate shone suddenly red, like copper. He reached up and put his hand on Gil’s shoulder, and his voice was a low growl.
“Ho, now, beastie. The monk may be fool-born, but he’s not all misses. I deserve no better, nor does one as blood gorged as ye. Though this one and his crew couldn’t do nay about it.”
Niffy ignored them both and looked at Rupert.
“If Gilgamesh of Uruk is condemned, it will be enough. My brothers will put him away, and Monasterboice will aid you against Phoenix and the dragons. If not …”
Rupert inflated his cheeks and looked up at the ceiling. “Then you aid those tomfool Brendanites in opening the weapon vaults of Ashtown and attempting to purge the O of B.”
Gil picked up his chair with one huge hand and raised it like a club.
“Gilgamesh.” Arachne sounded like a disappointed kindergarten teacher reminding a boy in the back row not to pick his nose. She was tiny next to Gil, and she looked up at him from her seat with raised brows and wide eyes, still as the moon turning a tide, waiting for him to make his decision.
The giant set down his chair. And then he sat.
The room was silent. On the floor, Pythia resumed rocking in place. She looked at Gil and her eyes sparkled. Gathering up her hair to cover her face, she began to giggle. A leaf floated through the air toward Gil, and two burning letters said simply, HA.
Gil closed his fist around the leaf and shook the ash onto the floor.
“Make your choice, Avengel,” Niffy said.
Rupert sighed and looked at Gil. “God knows he deserves it, but I gave my word. Until Gil breaks his, I will not break mine.”
Niffy nodded. “Then you have already chosen the fool’s path, laying out new treaties to bind yourself and give him time to betray you. Cheers, mate. Best wishes and all that, and I’m away for Ashtown.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave,” Rupert said. “Not knowing what I know.”
“You’ve no choice,” said Niffy, smiling. “I’ll not stay on a dog’s lead, and my brothers are waiting for me outside.”
“What?” Rupert glanced at the lodge windows. “You led them here?”
“You led them here,” Niffy said. “But I’ll lead them away.” He winked at Cyrus and Antigone. “Been lovely meeting the cheeky young Smiths. Pleasure and all that. Enjoyed the brawl and frolic.” He backed toward the door and nodded at the Captain. “And you, guv. Bit of a hero of mine since I was a lad. Admire you still despite the circs.”
The Captain drew his sword. “The Avengel bade you stand.”
“Niffy,” Rupert said, and he unsnapped the leather flap on his holster. “Please.”
Niffy laughed. “And I bid the Avengel not to start a brawl he’s no chance of finishing.”
The lodge doors opened and four lean monks with hard, creased faces stepped inside. They were all unarmed, and Niffy was as thick as any two of them. The oldest-looking was also the shortest, with a ring of white hair on his speckled scalp and a pair of needle eyes peering out from a nest of wrinkles.
He stepped forward and reached up to his neck. Cyrus gaped as a small golden snake became visible in the man’s hand. Patricia suddenly went frigid cold and cinched tight around Cyrus’s neck, cutting off his breath.
Gripping the little snake by the tail, the old man lashed it forward like a whip. The gold serpent grew in size as it swung and a heavy writhing body slammed into the plank floor. It reared, hissing, ready to strike, with a head the size of a football, fangs dripping, and egg-size emerald eyes glistening against its gold scales. The monk still held the tip of the snake’s tail. Surveying the room and the stunned crowd, the old man spat on the floor.
Choking, Cyrus forced two fingers beneath Patricia and behind the key ring at his neck, just managing to loosen her enough to take a breath.
The monks began to retreat.
“Wait!” Cyrus gasped. “Niffy! If I ever need, you know, a Cryptkeeper, how do I find you?”
Niffy blinked, surprised. “If you’re in a true need, we’re like to know already.”
The old monk bullied Niffy out the door, and then backed through himself, trailing the massive snake behind him.
As the hissing head disappeared, Patricia finally relaxed.
Rupert and the Captain raced to the door. Gunner drew a long revolver and stood to follow them. Cyrus realized that Antigone was squeezing his arm almost as hard as Patricia had been squeezing his neck.
Nolan began to laugh. “Wow,” he said. “Gil, I hope you feel loved. No allies for this little band while we have you.”
Llewellyn rolled his wheelchair toward the door. “I’m not leaving, Rupert Greeves!”
Rupert disappeared outside.
Llewellyn only shouted louder. “I’m not! You all can scram-flutter to your next roost like spooked pigeons now that you’ve been found, but I’m going no place!”
Antigone let go of Cyrus, put her face in her hands, and moaned. “We’re moving again, aren’t we?”
Cyrus looked at Nolan. Nolan nodded. “A long retreat becomes a long defeat.”
Rupert Greeves raged back into the room. Cyrus stood up, watching his Keeper, waiting. Rupert held his hands over his head, and then turned, raising a fist to punch the wall, He dropped it to his side instead, clenching and unclenching his fingers. He swore loudly, hooked a chair with his toe, and flicked it up into his hands.
“Rupert …,” Arachne said coolly.
“That one’s always been wobbly,” Llewellyn said.
Rupert Greeves turned, yelling, and the chair spun through the air into the fireplace. Ash and splinters exploded out over the hearth. A cloud of gray rolled slowly over the floor.
Breathing hard, hands on his hips, Rupert faced the group.
“Well,” he said, “they’re gone, and I don’t know how. With enemies all around, they’ll tear Ashtown down from the inside. Phoenix and Radu can pick through the ruins. And they know where we are, which means those fool Brendanites will know, and Bellamy will have eyes on them, which means he will know, and that’s just as good as giving Phoenix an engraved invitation.” He turned in a slow circle and then looked at Llewellyn. “I could eat.”
The room was silent.
Llewellyn cleared his throat. “I have a whole summer larder of smoked meat. Fish, deer, elk, bird. Cheeses, too.”
“Clever you,” Rupert said. “Beer?”
“Do we need a new plan?” Antigone asked. “Or do we just keep recruiting and … running?”
“I have a new plan,” Rupert said. “I have a dozen new plans and more brewing. What I don’t have is a full stomach.”
Cyrus ate on the lodge roof, seated on the accumulated mulch of needles and cones and branches compressed by time and weather. Antigone sat on his left. Dan on his right. Five minutes earlier, Dennis Gilly, still in his short shorts and tall socks, had wandered out of the lodge door below them with a loaded paper plate in his hands. He had looked around for a grub buddy, but the Smiths had chewed silently and unnoticed above him. He’d gone back inside.
“How’s Mom?” Antigone asked. She was picking at a small pile of oily smoked salmon.
“Tired,” Dan said. He rolled his big right shoulder like it hurt. Then he stretched his muscled arm across his chest. “Sad. Asleep, I hope. It’s strange, I was so scrawny and small and blond when we last saw her. I’m completely different now, and I notice every single change when she looks at me. It’s like I’ve switched bodies.”
Cyrus understood, even though his body had merely grown. Dan’s body had been overhauled from toes to nose—his hair had darkened, his eyes changed along with what they sometimes saw, and his underfed surfer physique was long gone. He looked more like a professional fighter now. His heart still tried to explode whenever he had serious visions, but Arachne’s flesh-weaving touch had helped with that. It hurt him, but it hadn’t been able to kill him.
Antigone set her plate beside her. “Why is Mom sad?”
“Why wouldn’t she be?” Dan asked. “Think about it. For her, it’s like Dad died two months ago. She was trying to swim after him and she passes out. We were a family when she fell asleep. Homework. Sports. Fishing. That stupid little garden she made us weed. Then she wakes up and the last thing she remembers is swimming. Dad’s really gone, I’m completely different, Cyrus is grown up, and Antigone had no mother to dress her or teach her girl stuff, and on top of that we’re all caught up in Dad’s old world and people are trying to kill us.”
“I did okay,” Antigone said.
“Sure,” said Dan. “But that’s not the point. Mom lost more than we did, and she lost it all at once, right when she woke up. Her body is weak and her mind, well, she spent the last three years dreaming. All she remembers are some weird things about being in a bird. She gets distracted. She has trouble focusing. And when she does focus, she remembers everything and she cries.”
Cyrus looked up at the swaying trees. They were almost too tall for their trunks, bending and rocking as they strained and stretched to reach the sun. It made him dizzy. But these days, everything made him dizzy.
“Will she get better?” Cyrus asked.
“Rupe thinks so,” Dan said. “But not if we keep running like this.” He tucked his final bite into his cheek and folded his greasy plate in half.
Antigone sighed and looked down between her knees at the forest floor below.
“Do you think we could get away?” she asked. “I mean just us. And Mom. Could we just change our name to Wankenschnitzel or something and move to, I don’t know, Des Moines? Go back to school. Have friends.”
“We have friends,” Cyrus said.
Antigone laughed. “We have Diana, Jeb, and Dennis and a bunch of unstable people who don’t die.”
“And a short lawyer and his tall driver,” Dan said. “Don’t forget them.”
“We have Rupert,” Cyrus said. “And Rupert doesn’t have much more than us.” He Frisbeed his paper plate off the roof and watched it flutter into the trees. “No matter where we go, we are who we are. Skelton left us what he left us. I’ve done what I’ve done and started what I’ve started. People who don’t die won’t forget that. Those poor Wankenschnitzels wouldn’t last very long with Radu Bey and Dr. Phoenix looking for them. Skelton knew a lot more than we do, and he only survived on the run for two years.”
“You just don’t want to go back to school,” Antigone said.
Cyrus smiled and shrugged. Then he climbed to his feet.
Antigone nodded at his plate, caught in a spray of ferns twenty yards away. “You gonna pick that up?” she asked.
“Nope,” said Cyrus. “But you can. Thanks for asking. I’m gonna go sit with Mom.”
“Cy,” Dan said. “Hold on just a sec.”
Cyrus looked at his remodeled brother—at the muscles on Dan’s too-square jaw, at the rope-size veins on his bull neck, at the deep brown eyes that had once been blue, the eyes that saw things. Those eyes were worried.
“More dreams?” Cyrus asked. “I’ve heard it, Dan. I know.”
“Cyrus,” Dan said. “This is different. I saw real things … like I did when I dreamed about Dad’s body in Phoenix’s cigar factory. That dream led us to him. You can’t blow this one off.”
“I’m not,” Cyrus said. “But if I don’t understand it, it doesn’t matter anyway.”
“My heart tried to stop,” Dan said. “Twice. It hurt like … well, it hurt. Then my eyes stopped seeing everything around me and I fell down. Pythia was with me in there, in the vision.”
Cyrus knuckled his eyes, groaned frustration, and turned away. Antigone, still seated, grabbed his ankle.
“Wait, Cy,” she said. “Listen to him.”
“Why?” Cyrus asked. “It’s been the same thing almost every night. I almost have it memorized. Let me guess: ‘Seventy weeks will soon be passed. One comes on the wing of abominations, and there shall be no end to war. He shall be called the Desolation and bad, bad, bad, worse, worse, worse.’ Phoenix is scary. Radu Bey is scary. I know, Dan. I’m scared enough already without you reciting that to me all the time.”
“But the dream has never been about Phoenix,” Dan said. “And it’s not about Radu Bey. Pythia helped me. I saw …”
Cyrus tugged his leg out of Antigone’s grip and stared at his brother.
“Who?” he asked. “Super villain number three?”
Dan’s dark eyes locked onto his brother’s.
“You, Cyrus. It’s about you.”