The Dragon's Tooth

carpet and opened his eyes. The walls bent and wobbled. Why was he in Dan’s room? He shouldn’t have spat. Not on the floor. Dan would yell. He looked around for a tissue. No tissue. No Dan. Just the little man from last night and Antigone curled up like a snail shell.

Last night.

The firemen had been angry with him. Dan had been angry. He couldn’t remember how it had ended, but Antigone’s arms were full of pictures. He must have made it into her room. Or she had. He dug his hand into his pockets. Key ring in one. A thick, misshapen square of glass in the other. The glass sent a buzz into his fingertips. Lightning bug. The paper card was gone.

Squinting, Cyrus looked up. “Where’s Dan?”

“Ah,” said the little man. “I couldn’t say. I’m here in my official capacity. In fact …” He tugged at his sleeves, adjusted his glasses, and pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket. “I regret to inform you that a guest of this motel, one William Skelton, died early this morning, a fatality resulting from the conflagration.”

Cyrus blinked. “Confla—? The fire? Yeah,” he said. “I know. I was there.”

“Mr. Skelton was pronounced dead shortly after his arrival at the hospital, may his soul find peace.” He glanced at Cyrus over his glasses. “Though I wouldn’t wager any large sums on that happening.” Lowering his paper, the little man suddenly bent at the waist to examine Antigone’s sleeping face. “Miss Antigone. Excuse me. It would be more ideal if you joined us.”

Cyrus stood up, wobbling. Antigone opened her eyes and yawned.

“We spoke but were not formally introduced last night. I am John Horace Lawney the seventh, Mr. Skelton’s solicitor,” the little man said. He looked into Cyrus’s eyes. “His lawyer.”

“Yeah,” said Cyrus. “I know.”

“And what I have to say concerns you both.”

“Oh, sick.” Half coughing, half gagging, Antigone sat up and scratched at her matted black hair. “I feel like I ate a box of burnt crayons.” She looked at the little lawyer and licked her teeth. “You’re back? What are you doing here? Where’s Dan?”

“Allow me to continue,” the lawyer said. He straightened, sniffed, and looked back down at the paper in his hand. “Mr. William Skelton, Keeper in the Order of Brendan, is survived only by his goddaughter and godson, both recently declared as his chosen Acolytes, and, thereby, heirs to whatsoever of his estate and property may be deeded through said Order.” He folded his paper, tucked it into his jacket, and sighed. “There. We’ve all had an eventful night, and I, for one, am glad to have survived it. I should, of course, be wearing black to deliver such news, but I haven’t been out of this suit since we last met. And have I offered you, the bereaved, official condolences on the death of your godfather?”

Cyrus looked at his sister. She was blinking slowly, her mouth half-open.

“Heirs?” Antigone asked. “That’s what that little card was about?”

Cyrus coughed up another shot of char. The skin around his neck felt badly sunburned. He touched it tenderly, tracing a band of tiny blisters all the way around, remembering the burning necklace from the night before.

John Horace Lawney VII pulled off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Could I interest the two of you in breakfast? We have much to discuss and not much time for discussing.”

Cyrus shook his head. “Thanks, but no. We have breakfast stuff here.”

Antigone laughed. “Who wants waffles?” She turned to the little man. “Breakfast, like restaurant breakfast?”

“There’s a little diner not far from here, if I understand correctly.” The man raised his eyebrows. “I’ve heard it recommended by several discerning truckers.”

“Dan!” Antigone yelled, and she limped toward the door. Cyrus followed her out into the puddled and ashen courtyard. Together, barefoot, they walked into the parking lot and stopped.

The blackened carcass of the Archer loomed in front of them.

Cyrus stared at it, his throat tightening, his already-singed tongue drying. This was bad. Where would they go? They didn’t have any insurance. Antigone grabbed his hand. She was covering her mouth. Greasy, soot- clumped strands of hair were clinging to her forehead, and tears were piling up in her eyes. He couldn’t do that. No crying. Not again. He’d been ten when they lost the California house. He could do better this time.

“Dan!” Antigone yelled. “Dan, where are you?”

five. HELLO, MAXI

CYRUS PEERED INTO the charred remains of his old room. Behind him, Antigone was still yelling for Dan. They had both lapped the motel and had looked inside the Red Baron and in every burnt and unburnt room that they could get into. Without the walkway, a lot of the second story wasn’t an option.

Cyrus was dizzy with heat and hunger and nervousness. Dan wouldn’t just go away. He could be with the police. It was possible. But he would have left a note.

Memories from the night before were jumbled, but clear enough when it came to Dan. He’d been there. Alive. Angry. And sorry. He’d even apologized for giving Cyrus’s room to Skelton.

The image of a burnt body tucked beneath a slumping wall slid into Cyrus’s mind, and he quickly forced it away. He shook his head. They wouldn’t find a body because Dan wasn’t dead. He hadn’t been in the fire.

Cyrus stepped back from his doorway. Throwing up was a very real possibility, but stomach acid and ash were all he had inside him. Breathing slowly, trying to calm his gut, he turned around.

Horace was leaning against the yellow truck, checking his watch. “He’s not here,” the lawyer said. “I told you already. I made a thorough search before waking you. As he was your legal guardian, I had hoped to speak with him.”

“Not was,” Antigone said. “Is. He is our legal guardian.” She was angry, flushed beneath the soot, which meant that she was worried. Cyrus watched his sister tuck back her hair and cross her arms. “We have to eat, Cy. He’s probably talking to the police. Let’s leave him a note and go.”

Chewing his lip, Cyrus scanned the ruin. Unless they wanted to eat waffle batter and drink from puddles, they needed to go somewhere. The waffle batter wouldn’t even be an option soon.

He turned back to the lawyer, pieces of the previous night shuffling in his head. “Did you know this was going to happen?”

Horace raised his brows. “No. I knew something was going to happen. I knew Skelton’s old brotherhood was on his trail, and I knew that he intended to die. That is what I knew. I did not know that there would be a fire or such damage done to your property. As for what I know now, I know that Skelton has given you an object that some very dangerous gentlemen would like to possess for themselves, that we three are desperately hungry, and that there are legal matters that will require my — and your — attention immediately. Time, as I have already said, is short.”

Cyrus spat a gray glop into the rubble.

Horace checked his watch again and tucked it back into his pocket. “And after speaking with police and hospital administrators early this morning, I know that there were three fatalities in addition to William Skelton, and none of them was your brother. I know what the thugs were after, but not how many of them there were or which ones were in attendance.”

“I only saw four,” Antigone said. “One was called Pug.”

“Ah, yes,” said Horace. “Pug. Thanks to his own terrible life choices, he has passed on. I wish I could pity him.”

Cyrus looked at his sister. He could hear the first explosion and see the tongues of fire, the evaporating glass, the slender man who’d trapped them beside Skelton’s body. “They talked about a doctor. And there was one called Maxi.”

“Maxi?” Horace blinked slowly, looking from Cyrus to Antigone. “How much did Daniel know?”

Antigone shrugged. “What do you mean?”