The Drowned Vault (23 page)

“Cy?” Her voice was Antigone’s. “Rus! Calm down and hold still!”

And then she slapped him.

Panting, Cyrus opened his eyes. He was lying flat on his back with sweat running down into his eyes and ears. Antigone was hunched over him.

“You slapped me,” Cyrus said. And then he jerked and writhed. The tickling hadn’t stopped. “Tigs! What’s
going on?” His limbs weren’t moving—not well, at least. He levered up his head and looked down. He was strapped onto what looked like a dirty cot, and Arachne was seated on a stool between his tortured feet. She looked up at him with her wide icy eyes.

Both of his feet were covered with spiders. Rows of spiders marched across the tops and back around the bottoms, dragging silk lines as little gangs of weavers followed. Spiders lapped his toes. Spiders were strapping a loose toenail back down. Spiders were nipping at flaps of torn skin.

Cyrus screamed. Or he would have if Antigone hadn’t shoved a sock into his mouth first. She leaned over, eyeball to eyeball.

“Cyrus Lawrence Smith, get a grip. Seriously. Your feet are really torn up. She’s working on them. Stare at the ceiling or something, but stop kicking. It’ll take longer, you might hurt some of them, and you might make them scared enough to bite.”

Cyrus yelled a muffled death threat through the sock. He’d yelled the same one in a dentist office more than a year ago as Antigone had begged the hygienist to knock him out. For fillings. And this was a lot worse than fillings.

Antigone looked down at Arachne. “Okay, fine. Knock him out again.”

Cyrus watched as a pair of larger brown spiders marched around his ankles. He could see their clustered
eyes, their twitching fangs. He could feel their fuzzy abdomens dragging across his skin. Something else was marching up his neck. Arachne was humming.

Cyrus shook his head. He tried to spit out the sock. Something sharp pinched him hard behind his ear. He’d been bitten. And then the room began to spin.

Antigone tugged the sock out of his mouth. “Gosh, you’re embarrassing sometimes.”

“Tigs,” Cyrus said. “Tigger. Don’t let statue man … needs a shirt. Speak, snake!”

Daniel Smith opened his eyes, and a ceiling came slowly into focus. There were cords and tracks and lights up there. Somewhere, something was beeping.

“He shall be called the Desolation,” he mumbled. He had no control of his own voice. “Seventy weeks. Seventy.”

“Mr. Shad?” A woman leaned into view. Daniel’s mumbling stopped. His head cleared. “Welcome back,” the woman said. “You’ve had a close call. Your heart—”

“I know,” said Daniel. “Is there a phone in here?” He looked into the nurse’s worried eyes. She was young and wearing blue scrubs. She was probably nice, but he didn’t care. Cyrus was in trouble.

“Mr. Shad, I’d be happy to call any relatives for you,” she said. “Right now, you really shouldn’t—”

Daniel sat up, threw his legs over the side of the bed,
and stood up in his hospital gown. The emergency number Rupert had given him was on a card in his wallet, which would be in his pants, which he’d put in his bag when he’d changed into his uniform before the game. He looked around. His bag was on a chair beside the bed.

“Mr. Shad,” the nurse said. “Please. Lie back down!”

While the nurse yelled for help, Daniel ripped open his bag and pulled out his jeans. His wallet was still in the hip pocket, and Rupert’s card slid right out.

Two orderlies hurried into the room as Daniel grabbed a phone off his nightstand. Through a tall window beside the door, he could see his coach and a cluster of worried teammates.

“Mr. Shad!” the nurse yelled. “You had a heart attack. You were dead an hour ago. Please lie down!”

Daniel grabbed the phone and sat on the edge of his bed. “That better?” he asked. He began to dial. The orderlies watched him, unsure of what to do. A moment later, he heard ringing. He flashed a grin at the nurse. Six rings. Eight. Ten. Fifteen. At nineteen rings, a loudly breathing man picked up but said nothing.

Daniel cleared his throat. “I need to speak with Rupert Greeves.”

“Who is this?”

“The brother of your brother.” It was what Rupert had told him to say.

“Name?”

“Ben Shad.”

A long pause. The orderlies crept closer. Daniel eyed them. He didn’t think they’d do anything rough. After all, he’d had a heart attack. But they might try to sedate him. He looked at the back of his hand, where the IV tube was taped down. If they tried to stick the needle in the IV bag, he’d tear the tube out.

He could hear papers rustling through the phone.

“You’re Daniel Smith? Brother to Cyrus and Antigone Smith?”

“That’s correct,” Daniel said. “And I need to speak with Mr. Greeves immediately. It’s serious.”

The phone banged down on a desk. It always did. Daniel knew that he’d be waiting for a while now. Rupert wouldn’t be immediately available, and Ashtown was a big place.

Just to make the nurse happy, Daniel swung his legs up onto the bed and leaned back into his pillows. She hurried forward and slid a stethoscope down his gown against his chest.

“Ah, Daniel Smith.” The voice in his ear wasn’t Rupert’s. It was Australian. Daniel sat back up.

“Who is this?” he asked. “I need to speak with Rupert Greeves.”

“Can’t be done, I’m afraid,” the voice said. “Rupert’s off adventuring—more fox than hound this time around.
Not sure we’ll be seeing him again. My name is Bellamy Cook, and I’ve been hoping to have a word with you.”

“Why? What happened?”

“I would rather speak in person, but this will have to do. First, the estate of the late William Skelton, of which you are currently an indirect beneficiary, is being seized by the Order. Ill-gotten and piratical gains, as it turns out, cannot be passed along legally.”

The nurse was holding out her hand for the phone. Daniel turned his head away. “I don’t understand.”

“Simple enough, really. Skelton was a thief, and his heirs cannot benefit from his thievery. And the documentation of his estate is a little spotty. We’ll be sending representatives out to look over the paperwork on your end. They should be there tomorrow.”

“Paperwork? Mr. Cook, I don’t have paperwork.”

“Who pays your tuition? Your rent?”

“They just get paid, all right? When will Rupert be back?”

The Australian voice laughed. “Mr. Smith, Rupert Greeves is on the run. With the dragons on his trail, he’ll be a lucky man if he outlasts the new moon. Sadly, Cyrus and Antigone are with him. I expect they’ll share his grave. A great loss to the Order. We grieve. Unfortunately, our hands are tied. Political issues.”

“What?” Daniel jumped back to his feet. The orderlies spread out, surrounding him.

His coach loomed in the doorway. “Ben,” he said, hands raised. “Settle down now.”

“Listen to me!” Daniel yelled into the phone. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. I will come for anyone who touches my brother or my sister, do you understand me? Do you know what I can do?”

Bellamy sighed. “I’ve read the file. Phoenix reworked you. My condolences. I have some unofficial experience with those types of modifications. Ox strength today, exploding heart tomorrow. Best of luck to you, and to your brother and sister, wherever they may be.”

The phone clicked off.

An orderly lunged forward with a syringe, and Daniel smashed the handset into the man’s face. He was limp when he hit the floor. The second orderly backed away.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the nurse. “I’m sorry. I appreciate what you’re doing, but my family’s in trouble.”

He jerked out his IV, grabbed his bag, and looked at his coach blocking the doorway.

“Shad,” his coach said with wide eyes. “Son …”

Dan slipped into his shoes. “My name is Daniel Smith. I’m not sure I’ll make the next tournament.” He threw the IV stand through the window beside the door and followed the spray of glass out into the hall.

Bellamy Cook leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the Brendan’s ancient desk. That went
well, he thought. Now the boy would run, and they would follow. Daniel was more likely than anyone to hear from his brother and sister. He looked up at Phillip, his freshly hired secretary—short, wire-thin, with round glasses perched on a needle-sharp nose, he was more dangerous with a knife than any man Bellamy had ever seen.

“Anything?” Bellamy asked.

“No, sir,” said Phillip, sniffing. “The estate is disappointing. A small cash account. Dues paid. The rooms. Nothing else.”

Bellamy massaged his eyebrows. “The snake lawyer is lying. William Skelton was richer than some countries.”

“Yes, sir,” said Phillip. “I’m sure he would be lying … if we could find him.”

The new Brendan sighed and examined the back of his hand. He could see the pale ghosts of the tattoos that had once been etched beneath his tan skin. Bones.

“Sir?” Phillip asked.

“What about the books? In Skelton’s rooms? Weren’t there books?”

“Thousands,” said Phillip. “But every volume appears to be from a different library collection. All stolen or very, very late. Not one with any apparent value.”

“Find the lawyer,” Bellamy said. “And bring him to me.”

The paneled door slammed behind Phillip, leaving
Bellamy Cook alone with his thoughts. Bellamy understood money. Wars cost. Winning wars cost more. But voiding the treaties was a dangerous game.

For the Sages, it had made a simple kind of sense, at least in the short term. They had been sitting on a volcano. Now they were sitting several miles from that volcano. The eruption would reach them, but not just yet. But for Phoenix?

The transmortals were like wolves. One at a time, with powers bound by the Order, they’d been easy to hunt. Easy to control and even kill. But now they were swarming into a pack, forming around the strongest of them, the one who had never bent beneath the chains of a treaty. The one Bellamy hadn’t even been sure existed.

But Phoenix had wanted them unbound. Phoenix had wanted them to reengage with the nations of men. He had wanted turmoil. And when the time was right, Phoenix would crack his dark whip. Chaos and fear would birth new treaties—for the nations, for transmortals, but never again for the Order of Brendan.

Bellamy remembered the last time he’d looked into Phoenix’s eyes, and felt that man’s thoughts wandering around inside his own mind, the whispered threats he couldn’t shake. Clenching his fists, he listened to his knuckles crack.

He needed those Smith children
now
, before the
transmortals got to them and any clues to Skelton’s hoardings slipped out of reach.

At least the dragons were free and the Order was broken and limping. Phoenix had asked him to sow the wind, and he had. Soon they would reap the whirlwind.

twelve
NOVA

C
YRUS SHIFTED
on his boulder perch and shut his watering eyes against the cold wind. The lumpy stone under him was digging into his rear, but he didn’t bother to move to another. His bare arms were bristling with goose bumps; he wrapped them tight around his knees.

Beneath him, the ocean growled at the base of a tall cliff, and a clatter of rolling rocks sucked out with every wave. It sounded like California. It smelled like California. The salt in the air and the cold and the crash and the clatter—it had been too long since he’d sat beside the sea.

The last time had been a long goodbye. The house had been sold; the red station wagon had been loaded. His sleeping mother had already been flown away. Dan had given him an hour on the cliff. He had spent it staring out at the island where his father had been shot, and down at the waves that had taken his body. Antigone had spent the same hour just fifty yards away, sitting on her own rock, where her brothers couldn’t see her cry.

Cyrus opened his eyes again and looked down at
the cold, frothing waves. He had a familiar stone in his chest—a collapsing stone, a black hole growing smaller and smaller even as it grew heavier. His father was gone. His mother might never wake up again. And then this ache would be forever. He hated this feeling, and the fact that things he loved brought it on—the sea, the salt, the taste of old memories. The stone inside him slid down behind his ribs and into his gut. He could’ve thrown up. His ribs wanted to shake—a sob was bubbling up from that sinking stone. But if he let it come, he wasn’t sure it would ever stop.