N. Wilson - The Dragon's Tooth

Cyrus should have been there, sitting on the other side of the bed.

And then the movie had cut to the car, to the flooding windshield, to Dan’s stress, to the yellow truck, to Cyrus in the parking lot, to the rocking bolts of lightning.

Cyrus clawed at his calf and then sat up in bed, switching on the lamp between the beds. An old boxy phone with a tangled cord sat beside the lamp. The lightning bug glass stood on its side in front of it, catching the light. For a moment, Cyrus stared at his sister, breathing beneath a mound of blankets.

His dirty clothes were in a pile by the door. He stood up as quietly as the bed would let him and went over to fish in the pockets of his shorts. Out came the key ring. Out came the small paper card.

Antigone hadn’t moved. “What are you doing?” she asked suddenly.

Cyrus sat back down on his bed. “You awake?”

“Take a guess.”

“We never read the English,” Cyrus said. “Do you want to hear it?”

Antigone didn’t answer.

Cyrus fingered the key ring in the lamplight. He flipped open the silver sheath and rubbed his tingling thumb across the sharp, chilly tip of the tooth. The key ring had been in Skelton’s pocket when the Lady had become golden. It had been in his own pocket when he’d touched the record player.

Antigone sighed loudly. “Tell me I’m not hearing keys. No. Don’t tell me. Just turn off the light.”

“Fine,” Cyrus said. He dropped the keys on the bed. “But I’m reading the card first. Listen.”

Antigone filled the room with a fake snore.

“ ‘Please declare aloud: I hereby undertake to tread the world, to garden the wild, and to saddle the seas, as did my brother Brendan. I will not turn away from shades in fear, nor avert my eyes from light. I shall do as my Keeper requires, and keep no secret from a Sage. May the stars guide me and my strength preserve me. And I will not smoke in the library.’ ” Cyrus looked up. “ ‘Translation approved, 1946.’ ”

Antigone flopped onto her face. “Now you’ve done it. No more smoking in the library.” She pulled her blankets over her head. “Turn off the light.”

Cyrus set down the card with the lightning bug, clicked the lamp off, and sat bouncing his knees in the dark.

“How can you sleep right now?” he asked.

“I can’t,” Antigone muttered.

Sighing, Cyrus rocked back onto his bed and stared at the dimly golden ceiling.

“Whatever it is you’re tapping,” Antigone said, “feel free to stop.”

“What?” Cyrus asked. “I’m not tapping anything.”

He held his breath and listened. Someone, something, was tapping. Faintly, beyond the window. Three taps. Scrape. Three more. Scrape.

Antigone sat up. “That’s really not you?”

Cyrus shook his head. Both of them slipped out of their beds and crept toward the window. When they were on their knees, with noses above the sill, Cyrus hooked one finger in the curtain and peeled it back.

A large, dark shape was moving slowly through the parking lot, sweeping the white cane of a blind man in front of him. He reached the yellow truck, felt it with his hand, and then kept coming, finally stopping six feet from the pair of motel room doors. He was wearing an enormous coat and a heavy stocking cap pulled down snug around his scalp. Two large ears stuck out from the sides of his head like a pair of skin satellite dishes. His eyes weren’t covered, but they were closed. He tapped the ground and turned his head from side to side, listening. Then he sniffed at the air with a flattened and crooked nose. His jaw was broad but uneven, visibly scarred even in the dim golden light. His long, slender cane was in his left hand, tip down, and he began bouncing it slowly beneath the weight of his arm.

“What’s he doing?” Antigone whispered. “He’s not really blind, is he?”

Cyrus put his finger to his lips.

“He can’t be,” Antigone said. “He walked right to Skelton’s room.” She nudged her brother. “Open the door. See what he wants.”

Cyrus looked at her. “Yeah, right,” he whispered. “You’re crazy.”

“He’s blind. He might need help.” Antigone tried to stand, but Cyrus grabbed on to her wrist. The blind man had pulled something out of his coat.

“Gun,” Cyrus said. “Gun!” He forced Antigone back onto her knees. Four short, gaping barrels — two on top of two — all big enough to fire golf balls. Pistol-gripped. Black. Ruthless. An extra handle stuck out to the side of the bundle of barrels. A small cylindrical tank was screwed into the back of the gun above the man’s grip.

Cyrus’s mind was frozen. His nails were digging into his sister’s arm. Should he yell? Should he warn Skelton?

The man tapped his rod on the ground three times. Six inches from Cyrus’s face, a shape slid past the window toward room 111. And another.

Antigone was trying to shake her arm free. Cyrus let go. He wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t blinking.

The blind man stepped forward, raised a heavy arm, and cracked the butt of his gun against the door to 111.

“Bones!” the man yelled. “Friend Billy! Give it up. The good doctor doesn’t take kindly to thieves.”

Cyrus gasped, finally breathing. He pushed his sister away from the window. “Call the cops. Go!”

Antigone dropped to the carpet and crawled away.

Skelton’s voice drifted through the wall. “That you, Pug? Maxi’s letting you do the talking now? Come on in. I’ll get the door.”

The floor under Cyrus’s knees shivered, a high-pitched whine vibrated the glass in front of him, and the door to 111 exploded off its hinges. The big man slammed into the nose of the truck before spinning up onto the roof of the wooden camper.

Smoke snaked out into the golden parking lot. For a moment, the world was still. The blind man’s legs kicked slowly on the asphalt. His arms were draped on the old truck’s bumper and his head lolled against its grille, blood dripping from his nose and lips. His hat was gone. His cane was shattered.

Turning his back to the window, Cyrus slid down beneath the sill.

“Yes,” Antigone said. Her eyes were on him, peering up between the beds. “An explosion. And guns. That’s what I said. The Archer Motel, room one-eleven. No, I won’t hold.”

She hung up. For a moment, Cyrus, breathless, stared into his sister’s frightened eyes, and then William Skelton’s voice roared through the wall.

“Come kill the killer!” he shouted. Something heavy crashed to the floor. “Betray the traitor. Rob the thief! Who wants to die with Billy Bones?”

Antigone dropped to the carpet beside Cyrus and lifted the curtain.

“Is he dead?” she asked. “Did Skelton kill him?” Her voice was low, but her body was shaking.

Cyrus swallowed. “I don’t know,” he said. His sister was hanging on to his leg. He could barely feel it. “I don’t know,” he said again. “Don’t know.” Stop it. He blinked, trying to clear his head. He couldn’t be like this. This was how animals became roadkill. He had to do something. Wake up. Should they get under the beds? Should they run?

“Come on now, lads!” Skelton bellowed. “I know you can take more than that. Or can’t the doctor’s puppets kill an old man?”

Cyrus pulled himself back up to the windowsill. The blind man was on the ground beneath the yellow truck’s bumper. He wasn’t dead. His left arm still held a piece of his broken cane. His right hand still gripped his gun. He raised it slowly.

There was no sound of gunfire, no exploding black powder. Each of his barrels belched a burning white sphere, corkscrewing forward, braiding flame, tracing spirals in the air like racing sparklers.

Two tall shapes leapt into view, moving quickly, smoothly, more like animals than people. One vaulted easily over the truck. The other jumped onto the top of the camper, landing in a crouch. Both were wearing tinted goggles, both were hip-firing searing white flame. Another, shorter shape stepped out from behind the truck.