The Dragon's Tooth (13 page)

The truck moved down the gravel drive, hopping in the puddles and potholes as it went. The dream disappeared with it.

“Cy!”

Cyrus opened his eyes and tried to stretch his arms above his head, cracking his knuckles—and a slender snake—against cool stone. His hand closed around sharp keys. Wincing, he sat up. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than five minutes. Or an hour. Or two. He began to gently pull the snake loose from his fingers, but he stopped. Antigone was standing in the middle of the room, her cheek creased with sleep. Nolan was beside her, and his arms were full of ragged clothes.

Nolan set down his pile. “You shouldn’t sleep any longer. I tried to find you a way into some normal showers. But you two aren’t terribly popular, so you’re left with mine.” He nodded toward the hole in the wall. “Take turns outside. Stay on the planks. Not even a toe on the floor. I’ll be back.” He pointed at the grandfather clock. “Twenty minutes. I’ll find you an actual list of the 1914 standards.”

Tugging a stiffly folded towel and a brown brick of something soapish out of one of the alcoves, he handed them both to Antigone. Then he ducked through the hole and walked quickly down the bouncing planks.

Antigone opened her mouth to object, but the objections didn’t come. She was filthy. Horace’s blood was still caked between her fingers, and her hair looked like it had spent some time in a deep fryer. Even Cyrus had showered more recently than she had.

She stepped to the hole.

“You’re going to do it?” Cyrus shook his head. “I’m not. No way. Not out in the middle of a room, standing beneath a cold drip.”

“Yes, you are,” Antigone said. “If I do it, you’re doing it, too. And I’m doing it, Rus. Scoot around the corner and look in the coffins or something.”

Standing on a wobbly plank beneath a corked spout on an ancient mini-aqueduct carrying who knew what kind of water, Antigone hesitated. But not for long. Holding her breath, she reached up and tugged out the cork. Frigid water tumbled down, tightening skin and panicking nerves. Gasping, Antigone bounced in place.

“Sounds cold!” Cyrus yelled.

Antigone chattered.

“Tigs,” Cyrus said. “You remember when Dad went out to the island, you know, the last time?”

She said nothing. He knew she did. Cyrus continued. “Did you get a look at the guy he went with? The guy in the truck? I dreamed it again, but this time I could almost see …” His voice drifted off.

“No,” Antigone managed. “Just the back of the truck. Two heads.” Scrubbing the soap brick at the blood on her arms and hands, she looked around the cold cavern, shifting her feet on the plank. Why did Nolan live here? Why was she here? Because nobody wanted the two Smith kids around. These people wanted her to fail, maybe even die. Why else would they send her off to live in an infestation? They’d hated Skelton and now they hated her. She wasn’t used to being hated.

A crowd of feelings jostled around inside Antigone’s cold skull. She was shivering. She was confused. She was hungry and worried and more than a little creeped out. But louder than all of those things, she was curious. And irritated. Mad, actually. Angry. And anger made her feel a little stronger. She needed to feel strong right now. It would be too easy to curl up in a corner and cry about the burnt motel and her sleeping mother and missing brother. Who did these people think she was? She wiped cold water from her cheeks. She was a Smith. Her father never backed down. Her mother didn’t, either.

“Cyrus,” she said. “We’re going to get Dan back, and we’re going to beat these stupid people.”

Cyrus laughed. “Fine with me.”

When Nolan returned, he was carrying a huge nest of pillows and blankets and had a creased booklet clamped in his teeth. Cyrus and Antigone, both shivering awkwardly in new clean clothes, were looking through his books.

Antigone was wearing ripped brown pants that almost fit tucked into tall, extremely worn caramel riding boots. She had slicked her hair straight back. Cyrus’s hair had been rough-toweled in every direction, and he’d cuffed his pocketed and tattered pants at the bottom to shorten the legs. Patricia’s cool body was back around his blistered neck and the keys dangled high on his chest. The canvas shoes Nolan had brought had been too small, so his feet were back in the pair he’d stolen from Dan’s room that morning. Both of them were wearing overly pocketed linen safari shirts with sleeves that rolled up and buttoned in place, but the color was badly faded and blotchy. Cyrus’s collar was torn, and two of Antigone’s pockets had threadbare holes. But at least the clothes were blood- and soot-free.

Nolan dropped his pillow pile and held out the booklet.

Cyrus took it and read the title. “
Order of Brendan, Guidelines for Acolytes, Ashtown Estate, 1910–1914
. Are they much different from the guidelines now?”

Nolan scratched his chin and turned away. “ ’Lytes now wouldn’t survive the 1914 kitchens.”

“Well, that’s encouraging.” Antigone gestured at her battered boots. “Who did you take the clothes from?”

Nolan twisted back around, his eyes suddenly alive, his already-pale face whitening. “You think I’m a thief?”

Antigone glanced around at the room’s odd assortment and then looked at her brother. She shrugged and raised her eyebrows. “Um …”

“Out!” Nolan yelled. “Out!” He grabbed Antigone by the shoulders, driving her toward the hole.

Twisting, kicking, punching, Antigone pummeled the lean boy, but his grip only tightened. An arm slid around her ribs and she was off the ground.

“Stop!” Cyrus yelled. “Put her down!” Grabbing a thick book, he jumped forward and swung with both hands, driving the corner of the spine into Nolan’s ear. Dropping Antigone halfway out of the hole, Nolan turned.

“If you touch her again …,” Cyrus said. “If you touch her again, I will seriously try to kill you.”

Nolan’s white-hot face cracked with laughter. “Kill me? Yes, please,” he said. “Especially with a book.” Rubbing his ear, he looked down at Antigone, her head and shoulders lying on the plank pathway. Turning, she reached down to push off the linoleum floor.

“No!” Nolan jumped forward, kicking her arm as a gray shape flicked out from beneath the plank toward her hand.

Tripping over Antigone, Nolan staggered down and out onto the dusty white floor. A swarm of clattering shapes suddenly swirled around him.

While Cyrus watched with wide eyes, Nolan spun, jumping, cursing, stamping, crunching something with every step, slapping at his legs, and then his hips, and then his stomach and back. Reaching the showers, he jumped and grabbed on with one hand. With his other hand, he kept slapping, grabbing, and throwing.

“Meat, eggs, anything!” he yelled at Cyrus. “From the fridge!”

Cyrus rushed to the little fridge and jerked open the door. Rank eggs. Fuzzy cheese. Green meat. He grabbed two fistfuls, turned, and lobbed it all out the hole.

A moment later, the scene changed.

Nolan knocked the last clambering shapes to the floor and monkey-barred his way back to the plank path.

The Whip Spiders had found a new focus, and more and more of them were tap-dancing in from around the room, clicking and swarming on the food.

Breathing hard, Nolan looked at Cyrus and Antigone. His right arm was dotted with large red welts all the way up to his bare shoulder and onto the side of his neck.

“Um,” said Antigone, pointing. “Your pocket’s moving.”

The pocket on Nolan’s right hip bulged, and then a leg emerged. Nolan made a fist and slammed the spider against his leg. Then he shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out the stunned creature.

He held it on his palm. Five inches long, its back was hinged with armor like a tailless scorpion. Two slender crab claws on arms longer than the body extended forward. Behind those, two long, barbed whips curled and groped slowly. The remaining six legs dangled off the sides of Nolan’s hands. The creature seemed to be naturally brown, but its color shifted and lightened, approaching the shade of Nolan’s skin.

“Were they pinching you?” Antigone asked.

“Stinging,” said Nolan. “The whips have stings to bring down prey. Then they strip it with their pincers.” The Whip Spider on his hand quickened and its legs tensed. Nolan dropped it on the plank, crushed it with his heel, and kicked the limp remainder into the seething mass on the floor. “They hunt in packs, change color like octopi, and, given their preferences, would camouflage themselves on the ceiling, dropping onto whatever passed below. In this circumstance, they make do lurking beneath my planks.”

The three of them turned, staring down at the melee of creatures polishing the floor. The food was virtually gone, and dozens of spiders were already scurrying sideways back beneath the paths.

Cyrus looked around the room. “Can’t they climb these walls?”

“Oh, they could.” Nolan smiled. “If I hadn’t rubbed down the base of every surface and pillar with oil. I did that before I hung the planks. And got a share of stings to show for it.”

“Your arm looks terrible,” Antigone said, grimacing. “Should you put something on it?”

“I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“I thought you were done for,” Cyrus said. “That many scorpions would have killed you. At least these aren’t fatal.”

“They are,” said Nolan. His tired eyes emptied, and he sighed. “For you. One whip strike would stun a man. Two could bring death. Three would kill a draft horse.”

Cyrus eyed Nolan. The lean boy was rubbing his sting-blotched arm and staring glassily at the floor. “You almost killed my sister.”

“Yes,” Nolan said quietly. “But I did not kill her. And I regret my anger.” He looked up at Antigone. “I do not care to be called a thief.”

Cyrus snorted. “Do you care to be called a murderer?”

“No.” Nolan’s shoulders sagged. His worn eyes held no argument. “Forgive me.”

Cyrus looked at his sister. Antigone was pale with anger and shock, and her short hair was reaching for everywhere. She pressed it flat, shivered, and crossed her arms.

“Nolan,” she said. “If you ever … just don’t, okay? Don’t ever do anything like that again. Don’t ever touch me, don’t ever freak out like that, and for the record, now I really think you stole the clothes. Especially since you went so nuts about it.”

Nolan took a long, slow breath and his head drooped. He looked young and old at the same time. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no intention … I … Skelton asked me to help you. I gave him my word. I give it to you now.” His river-rock eyes rose from the floor. They were wet. “Those clothes were being thrown away. You’ll get your own soon enough.” He looked from Antigone to Cyrus. “I’m sorry. You
can
trust me. I will make this up to you.”

Cyrus looked at his sister. Antigone inhaled slowly, tense, her eyes searching the strange boy’s face. And then she exhaled, tension vanishing, and her eyes settled on the stings. “You really should put something on those welts.”

Nolan looked down at his dotted, lumpy arm. Moving quickly, he jerked a long-sleeved red shirt out of one of his piles and stepped out onto the planks, tugging it on. “I’m fine. And my penance starts now. I will introduce you to
my
Ashtown. Bring the
Guidelines
—there’s a map in the front.”

Antigone looked at Cyrus. Cyrus shrugged. A moment later, the two of them were balancing carefully on the bouncing planks, passing peeling posters and bunk beds as they tried to catch up. Nolan was already out of sight.

Somewhere in Nolan’s stuff, Antigone had discovered a long red string, and Cyrus watched her use it like a headband, tying back her damp black hair while she walked. She didn’t seem too worried about her balance. Or about Nolan.

Cyrus tugged on his sister’s shirt and leaned forward to whisper, “You want me to go first? He did try to kill you.”

“I’m fine,” Antigone said, pulling free.

“Right,” Cyrus said. “I forgot that girls love moody guys.”

“Don’t be a moron, Cy. It’s not a good time.”

Cyrus grinned, following his sister. “When is a good time to be a moron? You should get me on some kind of schedule.”

“You know what I want to know?” Antigone asked. She twisted back, whispering over her shoulder. “Why didn’t the spiders kill him?”

Cyrus shrugged. “Maybe he built up some kind of immunity or he drinks their milk or something.”

“Drinks their milk? What did I just say about morons?”

“You two do not learn quickly.” Nolan’s voice echoed off the walls. He had stopped at the door, waiting. “Sound behaves oddly in this room.”

“So which is it?” Cyrus yelled. “Are you immune, or do you drink spiders’ milk?”

“I am immune to many things.” He pushed the big door open and stepped back in surprise. He’d knocked someone back onto the stairs.

“Excuse me,” a boy’s voice said. “Apologies. We’re looking for Cyrus and Antigone Smith. Is this the Polygon?”

Cyrus and Antigone bounced up to Nolan. The pimply porter stood beside a pretty girl with green eyes and curly brown hair pulled tight in the front and exploding in the back. She was clutching a clipboard to her chest and fidgeting nervously.

“Hey!” said Cyrus. “It’s the ten-year-old from earlier. Thanks for your help, by the way. We wouldn’t have made it if you hadn’t grabbed his legs.”

“I’m fourteen,” the porter said. “And my name is Dennis Gilly. You’re welcome.” He nodded at the girl beside him. “This is Hillary Drake. She failed the Acolyte exam when I did, but she was placed in Accounts.” He inflated his chest. “When she heard that I was the one who found the outlaws and helped carry Mr. Lawney’s corpse, well, she knew she could ask me to help.”

He smiled at the girl beside him. Her wide green eyes were bouncing from Nolan to Cyrus.

“Corpse?” Antigone asked. “Horace is dead?”

“No. Well, I don’t know,” said Dennis. “Maybe.

Maybe not. Anyhow, Hillary asked me if I would bring her to you. I’m on break, and she has questions for you. For her forms. And well, what with inheriting from Billy Bones, and him being murdered, and people saying that you probably killed him and Horace and maybe Gunner, too, and you being all the way down here, she was a little scared to meet you alone. And the infestation notice was disturbing, too.” He looked at Hillary, and his pimples practically glowed with pride. “Not to me, though.”