He paused, licking thin lips. His brow furrowed. “Would you expect your brother and sister to be more … intriguing? Do say yes. After all, they seem to have far more of your feral mother in them than do you. And your mother’s mind is truly a remarkable maze of striking images and animal desires — as one would expect, of course, from a woman raised as she was.”
The doctor looked at Dan, at his feet, his legs, his arms and chest, and his sharp nostrils flared. “You are still my friend, Daniel Smith. And your mind is rotten with worry. Your body is malnourished and weak from pitiful sacrifice. I cannot allow this, this you, to exist any longer.” He leaned forward and cracked his long knuckles. “When you wake again, you will have been renovated. Remade.” He waved his fingers, studying them as he did. “As a friend, I will find you a more interesting way … to be alive.” Daniel twitched as a long fingernail traced his bare rib cage. “More interesting than you being you as you are currently being. But don’t feel badly about yourself. Traditional humanity is all so … dull.”
“Dr. Phoenix?” The voice was male. The speaker was out of Daniel’s view.
Cocking his head, Phoenix stroked Daniel’s cheek with the back of his cold, damp hand. Dan’s body managed a shiver.
“Yes,” Phoenix said. “What is it?”
“Word from Ashtown,” said the voice. “Maxi’s inside.”
“Lovely,” said Dr. Phoenix. “Dear little Maximilien should keep them busy. The twins and I will join him tomorrow. They’re the only company I’ll be needing.” He leaned farther forward, his empty eyes pulling at Daniel’s. Close, closer, and Dan’s eyes watered out of focus. Tears leaked down into his ears.
“The Smiths are in need of a reunion,” Phoenix whispered.
His moist breath was tinged with cinnamon. Daniel blinked it away, but reality softened and faded. His heart slowed, and darkness swallowed him.
Cyrus’s first Latin lesson had consisted of being shut in a small second-story, one-window, stone-walled room with his sister and a stack of yellowed and flaking books, and then having his head slapped repeatedly by an old woman.
Mrs. Eldridge had thumped him, flicked him, kicked him, and pulled on his ears. Antigone had gotten one mild cheek pat, but then she had actually been trying to make sense of the material in front of her. Cyrus had been more interested in the windows, the planes that occasionally floated past, and thoughts of hot-air balloon wars and flying bicycles and keys and a cold black shard of tooth.
And then, finally, Mrs. Eldridge had moved to the door. “If I’m not back in thirty minutes, you may as well try and find old Llewellyn Douglas. He’s usually at the harbor.”
“Where are you going?” Antigone asked.
Cyrus wanted to kick his sister. Who cared where Mrs. Eldridge was going so long as she went?
“To speak with Mr. Cecil Rhodes about the two of you.”
That had been an hour ago.
Now Cyrus was lying on his back on a small table, his feet resting on the sill of the open window and his new jacket mounded beneath his head. He could still hear his sister turning pages.
His eyes were on green treetops, shuffling slowly, straining for the small grazing clouds above them.
Today was a day to go looking for tires — to distract himself from thinking, to hunt, collect, and explore. But that wasn’t possible, and his mind was beyond distracting.
Was Dan dead? Was there blood? Had there been pain? What did he look like right now? Would Rupert find him? Would they ever get to see his body? Would there be a goodbye, or would it be like that older loss, the loss that began all of their losing — a smiling face and a door closing against the rain? That was the only goodbye. Goodbye to a father and then a mother and then a house and then an ocean. And to something inside him — he didn’t know what, but something important.
Cyrus’s throat tightened. The familiar ache started behind his ribs, his stomach flipped slowly, and he shut his eyes like someone fighting motion sickness. The air from the window was warm, but his skin went cold. Moisture beaded up on his nose and forehead.
He wanted to break something, to smash his knuckles into a wall and trade pain for pain. But he’d done that too many times before, and it didn’t work. Still, his fists clenched, and his toes curled in his boots.
Breathing slowly, he forced his body to relax, to liquefy. His pulse slowed, and his stomach calmed. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He might even sleep. Maybe he’d dream again, and this time, he’d get a look at the man in the truck, leaving with his father.
“Hey, boy genius,” Antigone said above him. “Wake up. I don’t think she’s coming back. Let’s go.”
Cyrus blinked. “Go where?”
“You pick,” Antigone said. “I’m tired, and I think my brain pulled a muscle. We can look for Nolan or Greeves or that Llewellyn Douglas guy.”
“I’m hungry,” Cyrus said.
Antigone snorted. “Good luck with that.”
Cyrus sat up. He wanted to find Nolan, but that didn’t seem likely — not if Nolan didn’t want to be found. They should look for Rupert. Or Diana Boone. A flight lesson would be fun.
Antigone grabbed his wrist. “C’mon. I want to talk to Rupert.”
“I thought I was picking.”
“Yeah,” Antigone said. “But then you didn’t, and I did.”
She pulled open the door and dragged him outside into the humid air. Dotted with doorways, the covered stone walkway overlooked the sprawling green courtyard. Three doors behind them, a stairwell would take them down to the lawn.
“What about the books?” Cyrus asked.
“Leave them,” said Antigone. “We don’t know where they go.”
They reached the stairs and clipped down. At the bottom, they stopped. In the main building, bells had begun to ring.
Cyrus looked at his sister. This was not the slow tolling that kept time. And it wasn’t celebration. This was panic. The hot-air balloons, beginning another battle, cut their fans and hung motionless. All around the courtyard, people had stopped and were looking back at the main building.
Three stories up, above a bank of sleeping gargoyles, a tall window erupted and a black shape dove to the grass below in a storm of falling glass. Tucking into a ball, the shape bounced, rolled, and found its feet.
fifteen. AN END
WHISTLES SCREAMED. Porters ran. White-uniformed runners and grapplers scattered. The black shape began moving across the grass. It — he — wasn’t running. He was walking coolly, and he was walking straight toward Cyrus and Antigone.
Antigone squinted, trying to make out the distant face. “Who is it?”
Cyrus grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her back into the shaded stairwell. His eyes were better. He could make out the small man’s shape, his frazzled, haloing hair, his lean limbs dressed in tight black, and the heavily loaded belt around his waist.
“Maxi,” he said.
The bells roiled the air, and doors all around the courtyard were flying open. Maxi drew two guns and emptied them while he walked. A porter tumbled onto his face and the others retreated. He threw the guns down and drew two heavier, four-barreled monsters — the kind that spat fire, the kind that could burn motels. People shouted. Doors slammed.
“Up, Tigs!” Cyrus said. “Go! Go!” He hadn’t needed to say it twice. Antigone was already scrambling back up the stairs on all fours, keeping below the solid railing. From around the courtyard, adults and training teens and porters had drawn sidearms and were returning fire. Cyrus snuck a look above the rail and watched corkscrewing flame explode first one and then another hot-air balloon. Baskets dropped while people screamed.