Daniel Smith opened his eyes. His throat was desert-dry and desert-hot. He blinked, and the world hardened a little, regrowing its edges. He squeezed his eyes tight and tried opening them again. This time, he could see a blue curtain partitioning his bed from the rest of the room. Was he in a hospital? What had happened? The fire? The smoke? He remembered the fire trucks leaving before dawn. He remembered Cyrus and Antigone unconscious across his bed.
He had been standing in the parking lot, alone with the Golden Lady, staring at the ruins of his life. And there had been … a man. With very worn teeth. And knives.
He tried to sit up. An invisible weight on his chest crushed the breath out of him, pinning him down.
Cold fingers stroked his cheek. Dan flinched, twisting his head to the side.
An extremely thin man seated next to Dan’s bed withdrew his hand. He was wearing a jarringly white suit and vest beneath what looked like a tattered and stained lab coat. His thick black hair was slicked into heavy curls at the back and shone like polished wax. His needle-sharp eyes were as pale as blue pearls.
The man smiled slowly, folding long, tight lines into his cheeks. His teeth were whiter than his suit, and a large gap in the front punctuated his smile like an exclamation mark. “Mr. Smith,” the man said, his voice crawling out slowly in a musical drawl. “Welcome to my home. I apologize for your unconsciousness, and for any pain you may have been caused. My name is Dr. Edwin Phoenix, and I do hope we can be friends. There’s just so much I can do for you and for yours.”
He leaned forward and turned Daniel’s head to the right.
“If we’re friendly, that is.”
Another bed was just beside Dan’s. His mother, breathing softly, as peacefully unconscious as she had been for the past two years, was propped up on pillows.
Phoenix sat back, his smile shrinking. “Are you my friend, Daniel Smith? Do please say yes.”
Dan tried to kick but only managed to wiggle his toes. He tried to roll, but his shoulders wouldn’t come off the mattress. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped into his eyes. The man stood and leaned his thin body over the bed, eyes locked on Dan’s.
“Don’t rush your answer, now.” He pressed cold lips against Dan’s forehead, then straightened and turned away.
Anger and panic inflated Dan’s veins. A roar filled his lungs, but it rose from his chest as silent as a breath.
Cyrus Smith jerked, opening his sleep-clouded eyes. He blinked, his mind still half-dreaming. In the doorway, Nolan was writhing, jerking at his skin, scraping his naked body with a knife, peeling off translucent sheets, stepping out of his legs like reptilian socks. The skin, empty and weightless, floated out to the clattering spiders.
Cyrus closed his eyes, and he was running through deep, cool sand toward two unconscious bodies stretched out on the beach — his brother beside his mother.
thirteen. TOOTH TALES
YAWNING, CYRUS KICKED his blankets to the floor as he stretched. His legs flexed and shook. His hands pressed against cold stone. Stone? In the Archer?
Cyrus sat bolt upright.
Antigone was facing him, sitting stiffly on her own stone bed. She tapped the bridge of her nose.
“You have some goop.”
Cyrus slapped at his face and then ground his knuckles into his eyes.
The lights were on in the Polygon, and Nolan was missing. His blanket was folded neatly and his pillow was perched on top of it. Antigone’s black hair was freshly wet and pulled back tight. Her eyes were tired. She already had on her riding boots, and her ragged safari shirt was tucked in. A piece of paper and the
“We’re done for, Rusty,” she said. “Listen to this.”
Cyrus yawned again. His sister picked up the booklet.
“Are you listening?”
Cyrus nodded.
“ ‘In order to achieve the rank of Journeyman, Acolytes must be tested in the following areas before the end of the year in which they were presented: Linguistic: Competency in one ancient language and one modern (in addition to their mother tongue) is required. Celestial Navigation: Acolytes must complete a three-day open-sea voyage without instruments (may be tested in pairs). Weaponry: Acolytes must achieve the rank of Free Scholar with dagger, foil, and saber, and the rank of Marksman with small-caliber pistol and rifle. Aerocraft: Acolytes must complete pilot qualification in the Bristol Scout biplane or comparable (to include advanced maneuvers and solo flight). Medicinal: Acolytes must be competent in the diagnosis and herbal treatment of infectious disease, the resuscitation of the drowned, the setting of bones, and the amputation of limbs.’ ”
Antigone looked up at her brother. His eyes and mouth were wide. “Yeah,” Antigone said, nodding. “The amputation of limbs. And that’s not all. ‘Physical Fitness: Apart from specific exclusions granted by the community of Keepers, Acolytes must be capable of running a grass-track mile in under six and one-half minutes, submerging for a duration greater than two and one-quarter minutes, and free diving to a depth of ninety feet. Zoology: Acolytes must show themselves capable of handling creatures of at least five distinct and deadly species. The Occult: Acolytes must demonstrate themselves to be impervious to hypnosis and intrusive telepathy.’ ”
Antigone sighed and spread the open booklet over her knee. “Should we go home now or wait until they kick us out?”
Cyrus tried to clear his sinuses and ran a hand through his matted hair. “Look on the bright side, Tigs.”
“What bright side would that be, Brother Optimist? I have to learn how to amputate a limb. And shoot a gun. And they want us to fly a plane? That has to be illegal. So please, share with me the sunny bright side.”
“No math,” Cyrus yawned. “As long as there’s no math, I’m fine.”
Antigone burst out laughing. “Cyrus Lawrence Smith! How deluded can a kid be?”
“Who’s the kid? And I can be as deluded as I need to be. Everything gets harder if you start going on and on about how hard it is. This will be tough enough without you giving up beforehand.”
“Cyrus,” Antigone said. “You’ve always hated school.”
“Yeah,” said Cyrus. “What’s your point? This isn’t school. We decided to come here for a reason, Tigs. Because we came here, Rupert Greeves is trying to find Dan. He
“Journeymen in the Order of Brendan?”
“I was going to say ninjas. But you’re right. And we’d be the hardcore 1914 version, the kind that live in the Polygon — the Polygoners.”
“You really think we can do this?” Antigone’s eyebrows reached maximum arch. “We’re going to learn languages and fencing and free diving and flying?”
Cyrus flopped back onto his bed. “And we’ll amputate limbs. I wonder how you practice that? And we have until New Year’s. That’s practically forever.”
“Right.” Antigone puffed her cheeks. “Practically.”
Cyrus laughed. “And maybe Christmas will distract everyone and they won’t notice that we haven’t learned anything. And if that doesn’t work, we can always be squatters down here with Nolan. Where
Antigone stood up. “I don’t know. But I want breakfast and a toothbrush and a bathroom, and I want some
