N. Wilson - The Dragon's Tooth

“No,” Horace said. “She was not.” He pursed his lips.

Cyrus shifted in his seat. “I don’t care who was a member.”

“Mr. Cyrus, I’m not sure you understand—” Horace began.

“I get it,” said Cyrus. “The bad guys are going to come for us. When they do, I’ll give them these.” He tapped invisible keys. “And they’ll give us Dan. We’re not going anywhere until we get Dan. Talk to us then.”

John Horace Lawney sighed. “Mr. Cyrus, you present yourselves as Skelton’s successors now, today, and receive the help and protection and assets available to you, or not at all. Ever.” Leaning forward, Horace groped for the keys with a thick finger. “The keys,” he said quietly, “are valuable enough.” He paused, having found what he wanted. “But this—” With the click of a small hinge, the black tooth appeared in the air, impervious to the snake’s charm. It was darker than a shard of midnight, and its edge swallowed light. “Mr. Cyrus, how many ways can a living man be changed by someone with knives and drugs and the secret sorceries of flesh mixing — the words and chants that make ape ape and dog dog and man man? Do you know? How much vandalism can a victim withstand before Death finally frees him from his captor?” Horace paused, eyes sharpening, lips tight. Cyrus swallowed, unable to look away. The lawyer’s voice sank into a whisper. “How many ways can a man be changed when death is no obstacle? No release. No escape. Cyrus Smith, this tooth can raise and rule the dead. And while you possess it, you cannot die. When Skelton placed it in your hand, he stepped into his grave. Better that you step into yours than trade it away — even for your brother.” Horace straightened, sighed, sipped his carrot juice, and looked down the length of the diner. “Ah, breakfast,” he said. “Pat comes bearing the wealth of plow and pasture.”

Cyrus stared at the tooth. He didn’t want to touch it, and he didn’t want the sheath open. Antigone reached out and snapped it shut, locking eyes with Cyrus. The sheath, and with it the tooth, vanished.

The little lawyer leaned back in the booth. His attention was entirely focused on the large waitress with platter-lined arms.

Raise the dead? Cyrus didn’t believe it. No way. But ice still crawled beneath his skin, and his feet felt cold and lifeless. What kind of dead? Fresh, unrotten dead? Lost at sea, swallowed by the salt water and all its creatures dead? His father dead?

“Pat, you are angelic.” Horace grinned as plates of steaming food slid onto the table, followed by a pot of coffee and a chipped pitcher of orange juice.

“Enjoy, now,” said Pat, drifting away. “Hoot and holler if you need anything else.”

Cyrus reached for his neck, and his fingers found the tooth’s cool sheath. Raise the dead? Not just record players and lightbulbs and neon signs. The dead.

Smiling, Mr. Lawney folded a stack of bacon into his cheek and pointed greasy fingers at Cyrus. “According to the laws likely to be applied in this situation, you have fourteen hours and forty-four minutes from the administration of the oath to present yourselves and be acknowledged as Acolytes and initiate members. And that,” he added, “doesn’t leave you much time.” He tugged his fat silver watch out of his vest, slapped it onto the tabletop, and began to count, bobbing his head and chewing loudly as he did. “Boiling things down to the bone, that now leaves two hours and fifty-three minutes to present yourselves at Ashtown — the Order’s nearest Estate.”

Cyrus looked at his sister. He wanted her to say something. His stomach banged out a muffled drumroll, and he stared at the sausages.

Breathing deeply, Antigone looked up, tucking back her hair. “Cy, as soon as we talk to the police, we should go. More help won’t hurt. Money won’t hurt, either. I don’t know if that tooth does anything, but money does a lot.” She turned to Horace. “How far is this place?”

“With my driver,” Horace said, “we can be there in two hours.”

Cyrus shook his head. “Tigs, I don’t care about money. I care about Dan and Mom and … us.”

“We don’t have anything, Cyrus,” Antigone said. “Nowhere to live, no way to pay Mom’s bills. If Dan’s hurt …”

“No,” Cyrus said. “He’s coming back.”

Antigone bit her lip. “If Dan’s hurt when he comes back, how are we going to take care of him? And Mom? And find a place to live? If they want a ransom for Dan, how will we pay it? If this Order means money and a place to stay and people to help find Dan, then we should go. It’s not that far. Staying here, just waiting, trying to survive in the Archer, that would be selfish. It’s time for us to do something, Cy. There’s no one else.”

Cyrus leaned his elbows onto the table, grinding his eyes against the heels of his hands. This wasn’t happening. None of it. “Antigone, I can’t. It’s home.” He looked up. “You go. You get the money and the help. I’ll stay at the motel in case Dan comes back.”

Antigone shook her head. “The cops would put you in a home.”

“They wouldn’t find me. Do you really think they could? There’s an old camper in the woods just a couple miles from the motel. I could keep an eye on things from there. I could stay in barns.”

“Cyrus,” Antigone said quietly. “You’re my brother. For now, we’re it. The whole family. I’m not leaving you. We should go, but I won’t unless you do. Now decide. If you stay, I’ll stay. I’ll camp in barns with you or sleep in the swimming pool with the tires. If the cops catch us and put us in a home, oh well. If we go to this place, Ashville, we go together.”

“Ashtown,” Horace said.

Antigone shrugged and finally took her first bite, turning slowly away from Cyrus. “Why fourteen hours and forty-four minutes?” she asked.

Horace smiled, scooping eggs onto his plate. “Because, on the Feast of St. Brendan the Navigator, that is exactly how long daylight falls on the spire of the Ashtown Galleria, from sunup to sundown. Less importantly, but significant nonetheless, 1444 is also the year the Order decided not to prevent new European exploration of the Americas.”

Cyrus wasn’t listening. He couldn’t even see the table in front of him. When he was nine, he’d fallen off a cliff and dropped twenty feet into a tide pool. Now, again, he could feel the ground sliding away beneath him, rock that he’d trusted pulling free and dropping with him. Familiar fear surged through him, throbbing in his teeth. Then, he’d known where he would land. Now, he had no idea. He only knew that he was falling and that grabbing at the cliff wasn’t going to help.

“Okay.” His own voice sounded distant. “Okay. We can go.” He blinked, and Antigone swam into view. “We should get the money. And whatever help we can.”

“You sure, Cy?” Antigone’s eyes were wide, her face serious.

Cyrus nodded.

“Bravo,” said Horace. “In that case, I recommend that you eat what you can. A long day awaits you. We’ll be off in the next twenty minutes.”

Cyrus ran his hand around his neck, tracing soft, invisible scales. His feet were bouncing. His fall had turned into a leap. He was diving toward who knew what, away from what he knew well. Fear wasn’t fading.

“Who’s Maxi?” he asked, and he could hear the waver in his own voice. “I want to know who’s after us.”

Footsteps rattled down the diner, and Cyrus looked up. A small man was approaching in an extremely baggy police uniform. Even without the soot and the goggles and the darkness, Cyrus recognized the small man’s sharp face and his wide, smiling mouth.

His thick hair had been pushed straight back. High on his throat, against tight, pale skin, a thick scar completely encircled his neck. His tiny teeth were bleached white, but gapped and worn to nubs. The corners of his eyes were jaundiced, muddy with yellow around faded brown irises.