N. Wilson - The Dragon's Tooth

Antigone leaned forward, squinting. “You have a little snake brand all the way around, Cy. A blister for every scale. Jeez. That could scar. I can even see the head on your collarbone.” She looked at Horace. “What is this thing?”

Horace smiled. “She’s a patrik, the one family of serpent permitted to roam free in Ireland. This is the only specimen I have ever seen. Skelton called her Patricia, and she must have been quite hot from the flames to have burned you. She will not eat or sleep, she can become invisible when she swallows her own tail, she will breed only once, and she will not die, though she is quite deadly.”

Antigone slid away. Cyrus looked up, startled. The snake was now twisting around his forearm.

“Oh, not deadly to you, Mr. Cyrus,” Horace said. “Or to anyone to whom you might give her. Deadly to the one who attempts to remove her from you. She is venomous and can become quite large in anger. If you were to die without passing her on to another — God forbid — she would remain with your bones until the end of the world.”

“Patricia,” Cyrus said quietly. “She doesn’t like to be visible, does she?”

“How is this possible?” Antigone asked. “You seriously want us to believe that that snake won’t die?”

“Trust your own eyes,” Horace said. “Or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me what you believe, and we don’t have time to marvel at natural or even transnatural wonders.” He leaned forward. “Cyrus, please, slide her through the key ring and then place her around your neck. She will be quite useful to you.”

Gently, Cyrus unwound the snake and tried to feed her through the ring. Without balking, she shot through and twisted quickly back, searching for her tail. Using both hands, Cyrus raised her to his neck and let her cool body slide around his blistered throat. The keys clicked high against his sternum.

“Wow.” Antigone blinked. “They’re invisible, too, Cy.”

“Really?” Cyrus lifted the keys, trying to squint down his nose. “Do you think they’re too heavy for her?”

Horace shook his head. “She’s fine. And now, despite every distraction, please try to listen. It is, of course, good and proper that you have called the police about Daniel. But as your brother was taken by William Skelton’s former comrades — people with distastefully inhuman abilities — I must tell you that the police haven’t the faintest shred of a chance of finding him, alive or dead. Excuse my blunt insensitivity.”

Cyrus clenched his fists. He’d seen the fireballs. He’d seen how the dark shapes had moved outside the motel — everything had been so quick and fluid and effortless, like cats. Wolves, maybe. One had even jumped over the truck. “We should trade,” he said. “I don’t care if we use the cops. Find the Maxi guy and tell him I don’t want the keys. Tell him to let Dan go.”

Horace leaned over the table, his voice sinking to a harsh whisper. “I am here to help you two. I am. Truly. But know this. I will have no part in any action that intentionally places”—he nodded toward Cyrus’s throat—“ what you have in their hands. You cannot understand the many ways the master of the men you saw has already worked to reinvent and mutilate humanity — humanness — itself. Give him what he wants, and … well, suggest it again, and I walk out the door.”

Cyrus looked at his sister. She set her fists on the table. His own hands drifted to his neck and the cool body around it. Horace straightened and moved on.

“But I am not without suggestions. In fact, I believe I am able to solve all of your current problems. You are in desperate need of allies.” He looked from Cyrus to Antigone and back again. “Skelton was an outlaw and a rogue, but he was also a member of an extremely private global community.”

“It couldn’t be a nice one if they let him in,” said Cyrus.

Horace raised a finger. “Skelton’s membership was by birth, and he was never successfully expelled — due mainly to my efforts — and several highly organized attempts were made. The Order of Brendan, as it is called, is — in its current vision — an international community of exploration. In reality, things are never quite so simple as a committee-approved vision statement, but that’s not relevant at the moment. Once, the O of B was an empire. Now it could perhaps be best described as an extremely wealthy global chain of sovereign city-states called Estates. Members — citizens, if it helps to think of them that way — have access to resources that boggle and defy imagination. Your godfather, a member of sufficient rank in the O of B, knew that he was going to die. And for a number of reasons, it was his desire that the two of you stand as his heirs. But no member can pass inheritance to anyone outside the global membership of the Order. Thanks to my sleepless night, the necessary paperwork was filed before Skelton was declared dead by this county’s noble and competent EMTs, and you two, Cyrus and Antigone Smith, were named as his Acolytes in the Order of Brendan.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Antigone said. “And I’m not sure I care right now.”

Horace raised his left hand. “It means that — should you appear and accept the appointment — you will be initiate members in the Order with the opportunity for advancement. That was Skelton’s entire purpose in coming here. He has made you eligible to inherit the entirety of his estate, which, contrary to his personal appearance and style of life, is uniquely … valuable. In addition, the cost of your memberships, as well as the cost of all food, board, training, placement, and material supplies, will be paid by Mr. Skelton’s estate, of which, of course, I am the executor.” He raised his eyebrows. “This is a terrific opportunity for a pair of underprivileged siblings, one which will never come to you again. If you accept the appointment, your woes — your homelessness, your motel-lessness, your malnutrition, and your poverty — will all be over.”

Cyrus opened his mouth, but Horace raised his hand and barged on. “Of course, of course, you don’t care about money at the moment. Daniel’s situation is your highest priority. The police are on their way. You have a photo and a nickname — Maxi — to provide as leads. But I can swear to you as solemnly as a judge — they will not find him. And if you run into police custody, then what does tomorrow bring you? Foster care? An orphanage? Of course, such care won’t last long. Your brother is missing, taken by men you cannot begin to comprehend, and you two will be their next targets. You’ve got something they will kill for as soon as smile. Unlike the police, the Order knows these enemies of yours and has the tools to hunt them. They have real strength, real power, and they will go to the ends of the earth to protect their members.

“Accepting this appointment won’t simply bring money. It’s the best chance you have at keeping blood in your veins and in your brother’s. It won’t be easy. The Order has high standards for their members and, quite honestly, I’m not sure you can meet them. I do not know of a time when children of your station and education have ever been named as Acolytes. Of course, I am a lawyer — the best the Order’s got — and it’ll be my job to help you succeed, and short of that, to help the right people think that you have. In the end, it’s often the same thing.”

Cyrus picked up a knife and rapped it on the table. “Excuse me?”

“Finally,” Horace said, ignoring Cyrus and inflating his lungs, “here is my last morsel of information to contribute: Your father was a member.”

Cyrus stopped. “What?”

Horace nodded. “For a while.”

“Our mother?” Antigone asked.