Wonderful. Yes, sir.”
He hung up and jumped back, like he was shaking off a spider. The man with the gills laughed.
Edwin Ashes-Laughlin-Phoenix rose from his seat and limped forward into the cockpit of his seaplane. One of the pontoons was grinding against the jetty. But he didn’t care about the rocking waves or the damage to the plane. He cared about what he could see at the top of the slope, with its windows lit. He cared about a small piece of sharp tooth, and hidden sleepers in their Burials. They were now his.
The men and women of Brendan were dead. The time had come for a Phoenix to rise up out of Ashtown.
Behind him, two unconscious shapes lay motionless on narrow cots, and a red-winged blackbird fluttered and screeched angrily in a cage hanging from the ceiling.
“Shall we bring them?” One of the green twins pulled off his headset.
“No,” said Dr. Phoenix. “First, the triumphal entry.”
twenty-one. THE SLEEPING MOB
DR. PHOENIX WAS not going to enter Ashtown through a kitchen door. Nor would he make one of his offspring carry an umbrella for him. He had walked, flanked by his two lean sons, all the way up and around to the main lawn. Now, with rain streaming off his long trench coat and his straw hat, he stood at the base of the great stairs, near the wet body of a porter.
He could hear the beating wings of a platoon of giant dragonflies in the darkness behind him. They had grown in number, but there were no guards to see what they saw, and no one to command them to attack.
Climbing the stairs, he approached the huge wooden door, but it whined open before he reached it.
Inside, the glistening mapped floors and the vaulted frescoed ceilings stretched away toward the leather boat on its pedestal. Phoenix inhaled slowly and then sighed. It had been too long.
Cecil Rhodes and twelve others stood in a line with their backs against the wall.
Dr. Phoenix savored the sight. And then, laughing, pulling off his gloves, and shedding his hat and trench, he crossed the threshold into Ashtown. Farther down the hallway, he could see bodies, all facedown, limbs splaying awkwardly, foam dribbling from their mouths — the casualties of his triumph.
“Where is the boy?” he asked Rhodes.
Rhodes cleared his throat and picked at his mustache. “Not exactly sure, sir. Sterling had him. But, as you know, we seem to have lost Sterling.”
A gilled man laughed. “Crack team.”
Phoenix turned slowly, and then moved down the line until he stood in front of the man. He was much taller than the man was, though far thinner.
“My friend, who gave you those eyes?” he asked, smiling. “Those lovely shark gills?”
The man said nothing. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“Did you ask to be born, sir? Did you ask for sight, for smell, for ten fingers? No. And yet you were given them. And I have given you more.”
The man looked into Phoenix’s eyes and flinched, trying to look away but unable to. Panic raced across his face. Phoenix raised his right hand, a long forefinger pressing against his thumb. He snapped, and the man’s eyes rolled back in his head. His legs wobbled, and he staggered forward, gasping.
“Your body no longer wants its lungs,” Phoenix said. “And gills do need water.” The man fell to the floor. “Be comforted,” Phoenix continued, smiling. “You are unique. Not many men can drown in air.”
While the man kicked, Dr. Phoenix turned back to Cecil. “You are missing nine of the men named to me. Where are they?”
Rhodes licked his lips and shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”
Phoenix nodded, filled his lungs, pushed back his black hair with the heels of his hands, and flattened the lapels on his soiled lab coat. “Do please take me to the bodies, to the harvest, to the sweet sunset of the Order’s chattel.”
“Right,” said Rhodes. “Follow me, then.”
While they moved down the hall, Rhodes cleared his throat. “About what we discussed, sir,” he whispered. “The Brendanship … the coup is complete. It might be appropriate for you to tell the others. I will, of course, reiterate my loyalty to you.”
Dr. Phoenix stopped and let his head hang. His long arms dangled limp by his sides. His shoulders bobbed with laughter, but when he looked up, his face was a sharp tombstone.
“Mr. Rhodes,” he drawled loudly. “You are a traitor to your people, your Order, and your friends. I would not entrust you with my laundry.” He moved on. “When I have need of more betrayals, then I shall have more need of you. Come. I have asked to see the dead, the many you have stung for me.”
“I didn’t—” Cecil stopped himself. The green twins parted around him, neck gills fluttering, heeling to their master. “But you said …”
“There will be no Brendan!” Dr. Phoenix yelled. “No Order, no ranks, no charade of self-importance! Only master and mastered, Mr. Rhodes. I will build a new race, a species apart and above the filth of humanity. Ashtown will be a womb, and you shall be a nursery maid.”
The twins followed Dr. Phoenix down the hall and past the boat. The other men trailed behind, some glancing at Cecil, some smiling, some smirking, some hanging their heads.
A minute later, Cecil Rhodes stood alone. He looked back down the hall at the large door still open onto the courtyard, the door leading away from Ashtown, away from what he’d done. Rain spattered on the stone steps, and he could see a porter’s feet. Dragonflies darted past the entrance.
Turning away, he ran after Phoenix, rushing past hundreds of damning eyes staring out of photos, past sprawling bodies bearing witness to his crime.
One of the bodies jumped to her feet and kicked him in the stomach.
Breathless, he crumpled to the floor and slid into the wall. His eyes filled with tears, and as he blinked them away, he found himself looking up the barrel of a revolver and into the face of Diana Boone.
The hammer clicked back.
Over her shoulder, the Smith boy appeared. He was holding a small African club.
“God knows I should,” Diana said. Her voice was low. A growl. “But I can’t waste the bullet.”
The boy stepped forward and raised his club. The blow fell.
Cyrus looked down at the limp, unconscious lawyer. Diana was already scanning the hallway.
“That’s one,” she whispered. “Your sister? Jax? Dennis?”
Cyrus shouldered his club and looked into the Quick Water. His heart was racing. “All down,” he said softly. “They saw them coming.”
“Good. Watch our backs.”
Diana jogged down the hallway toward the big, open front door and a porter’s feet, pulling out the small corked bottle Jax had given her as she did.
Looking over his shoulder, Cyrus ran behind, keys jingling against his chest.
The two of them stepped out into the wet wind and flipped the small porter onto his back. Cyrus opened the boy’s mouth and lifted his tongue. Diana squeezed two drips off her dropper, and they rolled the boy back onto his face.
Straightening, Diana squinted out into the dark courtyard. “See anyone?”
“Over there,” Cyrus said, pointing. “On the path. Two people.”
Side by side, they stutter-stepped down the slick stairs, reached the gravel path, and jogged through the stinging rain.
“It’s Rupe!” Diana yelled, and she moved into a sprint.
The big man’s head and shoulders were off the path, his face in the grass. He was wearing a rain cape, but the hood had fallen back. In one hand, he held a short shotgun. His other fist was clenched around foil-wrapped
