N. Wilson - The Dragon's Tooth

Phoenix moved like a gorilla, knuckling off the ground as he rushed toward the wall beneath the vent. Behind him, one of the wounded twins struggled to his feet. The other stepped out of his way.

Phoenix leapt at the wall and two wrecking-ball fists crashed through the plaster. Leaving his arms in the holes, he pulled himself up off the floor. One fist at a time, he punched grips in the plaster as he climbed.

Antigone’s eyes locked on the rumpled white coat. She should have gone already. What was she waiting for? Jax was nodding at her. Dennis, peering through bodies, widened his eyes meaningfully. She had to be fast. Faster than she had ever been in her life.

One of the bodies near the kitchen door moaned loudly, coming to. Another one rolled onto its side. A third struggled to sit up. She’d waited too long. Phoenix’s men were peering back in from the hall.

“Go!” Dennis yelled. “Run!”

Antigone scrambled to her feet. Three men jumped forward through the door. Nolan’s gun cracked again and they jumped back. Both twins turned.

Antigone’s knees were bouncing high. Running through the bodies was like running through Cyrus’s pool of tires — tripping, slipping, bouncing off backs, stepping on wrists. Her eyes searched for empty spots of floor and bounced back up to the coat. Jax was high-stepping toward the kitchen. Dennis lagged behind him.

The twins were hesitating, picking their prey from among three runners. The coat was rumpled on the floor halfway between Antigone and the worried crowd in the doorway. Thirty feet. Fifteen.

She heard Phoenix crash back off the wall behind her. Nolan was firing again, trying to cover her.

Antigone slid across a tangle of teenage limbs in white shirts and snatched the coat. Turning toward the kitchen door, she ran like a dog in drifted snow, leaping bodies, popcorning up and down wherever her feet could find the floor. She was the only real target now. She was racing two bleeding green men with golden eyes.

The coat flapped behind her like a flag.

Guns were cracking all around. A bullet ripped through her short hair, and a pair of fireballs swirled over her head and exploded on the wall. Phoenix was roaring. Nolan was yelling. Jax and Dennis were shouting over their shoulders. They reached the door and burst through in front of her.

One of the lean twins was faster than the other. He dove, snagging her ankle.

Twisting at top speed, she fell backward through the kitchen door, slammed onto the floor, and slid headfirst into the island of still-flaming burners.

The kitchen was all stench and burnt food and groaning bodies. Gunner was sitting up with his head in his hands. Jax was sweeping pots off the burners and shouting something. Dennis had tripped over little Hillary Drake and tumbled beneath a table.

Antigone jumped to her feet, dropped her Quick Water on the floor, and jerked her small revolver from her pocket. Closing her eyes tight, she pointed at the door, looked away, and squeezed three times, feeling the gun bark and jump.

Jax had already cleared the pots and turned up the flames. Antigone threw Phoenix’s coat across the flickering burners.

A yell as primal as pain itself rose up in the dining hall.

The door flew off its hinges, and the twins entered. Behind them, bellowing in agony, white-haired Edwin Harry Ashes leapt into the room. His right arm was on fire.

Ignoring Antigone, he grabbed the edge of the island and swung up and over it, knocked his coat to the floor, and stamped out its flames.

Jax raised a gun, but Ashes sent him sprawling with the back of his charred and smoking arm. He leapfrogged back over the island easily, crashing to the ground in front of Antigone, staring into her eyes with black rage.

Stammering, stunned, she tried to raise her gun. His left hand closed around Antigone’s throat. Bullets hit the floor.

Her breath was gone. She kicked and clawed and punched. She gasped, her ears ringing as she watched the twins throw Dennis back to the ground. Her vision blurred. The ceiling and walls disappeared.

And then there was nothing. Not whiteness, not blackness — nothing. And she became part of it. Almost. She slipped to an invisible floor.

Things were exploding. More guns. More fire. She didn’t like guns. And she wished Cyrus would stop yelling. She was trying to sleep.

Breathing hard, dripping, Cyrus and Diana ran back up the front steps.

“What now?” Cyrus whispered.

“Time for the plane.”

“Do we go all the way around?”

Diana shook her head. “Too long.”

A few of Phoenix’s men were visible down the hallway, peering through a door. Cecil Rhodes was still motionless, a huge knot over his temple. Cyrus hoped he hadn’t hit him too hard.

Gunfire.

“What’s going on?” Diana glanced down at Cyrus’s hand. He held up the Quick Water.

“Shooting at Nolan’s vent.”

Diana nodded. “We have to hurry.” She slid quickly inside and hung close to the wall, the enormous reptile skin above her.

Cyrus had ditched his club next to Greeves. Now he held the little shotgun in his right hand, the Quick Water in his left. He’d wanted the revolver. Diana didn’t care what he wanted. She could hit something with a revolver. Anyone could hit something with a shotgun.

The crowd suddenly flooded back into the hallway as Diana and Cyrus ducked around the corner. Diana jogged down the side hallway and around another corner. She forced a door open and slipped inside. The Africa collection. Cyrus hurried in behind her and shut the door.

“Di?” The room was a black hole.

“Over here,” Diana said. “Keep well to your left and come straight on.”

Something large and breathing bumped into the back of Cyrus’s legs. Yelling, he staggered forward and fell. Teeth clacked together.

Air rushed through the room. Teeth didn’t clack. They ground and snapped. In the darkness in front of Cyrus, the gold outlines around Sir Roger’s eyes began to glow. The skull was on its ear, rocking in place, trying to bite.

Cyrus kicked it hard, skidding it back into the darkness.

The lights flashed on. Frightened, confused, Diana stood at the switch, looking from Cyrus to the big skull.

“I have the Dragon’s Tooth,” Cyrus said. “Sterling wasn’t lying. I have the tooth that killed Roger.”

“What?” Diana blinked. “You’re serious?” She shook her head. “Don’t tell me. We don’t have time. Get up and come on.”

They ran across the room to a small door set between shelves. Diana opened it, and they stepped into old brooms and mops and buckets.

“Shared closet,” she said, and kicked open another door, shattering a brittle jamb.

The next room was lit. Card catalog cabinets taller than houses lined the walls. Flights of spiral stairs on wheels dotted the room. Across from each other, two middle-aged women were facedown on the same desk, a plate of food and a scattered game of chess between them.

“Keepers’ Catalog Room,” Diana said. “Tough job. Every item and collective holding of the Order is listed in here.”

Cyrus set his shotgun and Quick Water on the desk, pinched cheeks and lifted tongues. After the drops, the women’s faces went back onto the chessboard.

Diana rushed off to another door.

They crossed a hall, went downstairs into a machinist’s shop, upstairs through an old coal-chute door, and out into the rain.

Turning his back to the wind, Cyrus checked his Quick Water again.

Diana was running down the hill.

“Trouble!” Cyrus yelled. “Di!”

She didn’t hear him, and he didn’t care. Antigone was running in his palm. Cyrus raced alongside the building, dodging window wells and columns. He could see the kitchen’s garbage stoop, and he passed beneath the lit wall of windows. He could hear the yelling.