“What about Cyrus?” Antigone asked. “Will you look for him?”
Rupert Greeves, Avengel of the Order of Brendan, stepped back to her, bent down, and looked into her eyes.
“Antigone,” he said. His breath smelled like leather. His face was stone. “My blood belongs to the Smiths. I am ready to die for your mother, for your brother, for Cyrus, and for you. I will die before that creature controls even the sewers of Ashtown. Soon I will send some of my hunters in search of your brother. You will follow them. Stay close to me. I must move quickly. Can you do that?”
Antigone nodded. Oliver was looking at her, pale behind his freckles.
A moment later, Greeves was striding away, Oliver at his side. Hurrying behind them, Antigone dug into her jacket pocket.
Her quaking Quick Water glowed faintly on her palm, no longer dark but far from bright. She raised it to her face.
twenty. WE ALL FALL DOWN
CYRUS HAD SEEN his sister. He knew he had, but only for a moment, and her features had been hugely warped in fish-eye — she must have been holding the ball close to her face. But it had definitely been her.
That had been hours ago.
At least she was alive. That made bad things better. She wasn’t in a bear’s stomach or a turtle’s stomach or a dozen different viper stomachs.
He would have gotten a longer look if the Quick Water hadn’t squirted out of his fingertips. Now it was on the floor, wedged behind the biggest jar of miniature pickles he had ever seen.
The pickle jar was taller than he was, but only because he was tied up and strapped into a chair.
The chair was bolted to the floor in front of a large butcher-block table.
Patricia adjusted her cool body on his neck, and the keys scraped quietly against his collarbone. Once again, Cyrus rocked himself forward in his straps and tried to look at the clear fungus ball he’d dropped. When he’d finally managed to get it out of his pocket, he’d only had a few seconds to look before the guards had come in, untied him, searched him, tied him back up, and left.
Cyrus leaned harder, but he could see nothing. Groaning, he sat back up.
Dennis was tied and lying on his back. There had only been one chair in the enormous pantry. His eyes were wide open and he was watching Cyrus. Occasionally, he grunted. A pot holder had been shoved into his mouth. Cyrus’s too, but he’d managed to spit his out.
“Hang in there, D,” Cyrus said. “They won’t leave us in here forever.”
Dennis grunted, widening his terrified eyes.
“That’s what you’re worried about,” Cyrus said. “Right. Me too. I just hope they don’t cook us. I don’t want to be eaten.”
He looked around the crowded shelves. Spices. Grains. Hanging sausages at the other end. An entire wall of garlic. Another of dried peppers. “But why else would we be in here?”
Dennis rocked from side to side, and then rolled onto his face. His hands were tied behind his back. He arched his back and shook his head, fighting the pot holder.
“Go,” said Cyrus. “You can do it.”
Slow steps thumped on the stairs. Bells jingled.
Big Ben Sterling ducked down through the low doorway and into the pantry. No hat, no beard net or apron, no sign that he’d been cooking. He was carrying a large glass of something brown.
“Lads,” he said, raising the glass. “I drink to you, and to all boats and bridges that have ever been burned.” Knocking back half the liquid, he sat on the table in front of Cyrus, banged the glass down, and smacked his lips.
“What are you doing?” Cyrus asked. “What the heck is going on?”
“What is Ben Sterling doing?” the cook asked, massaging his knees. “Why, I’m taking a night off and lying low, Brer Fox. For this last supper, I was nothing but a saucier and prep cook. As for your other question, well, that’s outside of Ben’s control.”
Dennis grunted and bounced on his stomach.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gilly,” Sterling said. “I don’t understand.”
“Are you going to kill us?” Cyrus asked. “You can have the tooth. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Let me go and I’ll get it for you.”
“The tooth, the tooth.” The cook drained his glass and licked the rim. “Soon enough, lad.”
Cyrus jerked against the straps. The cook watched him without a smile. His eyes were heavy.
“I loved this place,” Sterling said. “In its way and mine. Ben Sterling’s done right by the Order, but has the Order done right by Ben Sterling? Tonight it ends, lad. The living have dwelt above the Burials long enough. Let them lay their heads down and be silent.”
“Are you drunk?” Cyrus asked. “Do you want the tooth or not?”
Sterling smiled. “You have it, do you? Where would you tuck a thing like that? Your little nook in the Polygon has already been searched. You swallow it? Tell an old cook and I’ll believe you.”
Cyrus breathed slowly. He could feel the keys against his skin. He could give them away right now, but then what? Sterling wouldn’t let him go. What reason would there be to keep him alive?
Sterling continued. “Rupe would like us to believe that he has it. But maybe it’s in your sister’s hands. There were only so many people in that room when poor Maxi was done in.” Sterling shrugged. “When you’re all lined up and watching each other’s pain, the truth will bubble out.” He looked at his empty glass. “But my coin is on little Nikales, Nolan the Thief. He’s snake-slippery. Undying Nolan. Unaging Nolan. He just sheds his skin and slinks away. He’s a dark one, lad.”
Cyrus lifted his head. “Let me try to find him,” he said. “He’ll give the tooth back. He told me I could trust him.”
Sterling filled the room with laughter. “You had it hid a moment ago. So Nolan does have it, then? He told you to trust him? And you did, didn’t you? And he took the tooth and disappeared. Why does Nolan want it, lad? Would you like to know? It isn’t pretty. Nolan wants to die. Nikales was fifteen years of age — a poor Persian boy — when the hero Gilgamesh went diving for the fruit of life. And he found it, too, at the bottom of the Persian Gulf — he plucked it from the lost garden and the living tree. But when he rose from the waves and lay gasping on the beach, the thief saw his chance. He snatched the fruit and fled, eating as he ran. But it wasn’t to be so easy. Gilgamesh cursed that boy for a serpent and a thief. Oh, Nikales lived on — even when old Gil cut him down. He remained young, but as an undying serpent. Three thousand years and he still looks to be a lad, unless you stare into his eyes. Three thousand years, that boy has been peeling off his snake skin.”
Sterling slapped the table. Then he leaned forward and winked at Cyrus. “Wherever Nolan is, he has that tooth in his hand, a smile on his face, and not a spark of life in him.” He paused, tugging his beard. “But maybe not.”
Dennis had stopped squirming. He was up on his side, staring at the cook.
Cyrus’s heart was racing. “You’re working for Phoenix, aren’t you?” He kicked his bare ankles against rope. “Did you help him take Dan? Did you want Maxi to kill us?”
The cook shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Cyrus. Things have gone as things have gone, and Benjamin Sterling will play his part to the end.”
“What end?” Cyrus asked.
The cook’s face grew suddenly serious. “I am not drunk, Cyrus Smith. Far from it. But tonight … I wish I were. I’d remember less in the morning. Goodbye, lad.”
“Wait!” Cyrus said. “You knew my dad. You cooked us his favorite meal. You must have liked my parents. Why are you doing this?”
Sterling didn’t answer. He was looking at the Quick Water, peeking out from behind the pickle jar. He slid off the table — legs bending beneath him — crouched carefully, and picked it up.