Legacy of the Claw (22 page)

AS BAILEY EMERGED FROM the forest, his first thought was to find Tremelo. Despite his own desire to read the book, it was more important he tell Tremelo what he had seen. The school was in danger, and someone would be coming after the Glass. The clock tower boomed—it was five thirty, time for Scavage practice. He remembered Finch's promise to expel him if he was late, but he didn't care—he had to reach Tremelo.

As he raced up the hill past the Scavage field, Bailey saw Taylor. He had a cruel smirk on his face and a mottled black cat on his shoulder, its green eyes flashing in the evening light.

“Back from another session with your loony professor?” Taylor asked.

“Get out of my way, Taylor,” Bailey said. He was breathing heavily, and his body vibrated with energy.

“Why, what's so important?” he asked, motioning to the leather pouch in Bailey's hand. Bailey instinctively clutched it tighter.

“What is it?” Taylor asked. “Some crazy Tremelo contraband?”

“It's none of your business,” Bailey said, putting the Glass in his backpack.

“I wasn't making a polite request. Show me what's in the bag, or else.”

Bailey stood his ground as Taylor approached, but just then Coach Banter came around the side of the stands.

“Walker!” Coach barked, brushing past Taylor. “Thank Nature you're here. Can't afford to have you late, not with Finch breathing down your neck!”

Bailey felt trapped. He fell in line behind Coach and cast a warning look at Taylor before entering the field. The book and the Glass felt heavy and foreboding in his bag.

“Get yourself into your gear, and let's get started,” said Coach.

Bailey rushed into the locker room, Taylor eyeing him from the edge of the field. He changed into his Scavage gear and hid his bag with the Glass and book at the bottom of his locker under his folded clothes. The locker door latched into place and he padlocked it, feeling for the key in his pocket. He ran out onto the field to join the team.

Practice was excruciating, and the air was growing colder. All Bailey wanted to do was leave and find Tremelo. He couldn't wait to see what the Loon's book said about the Velyn, and what it might reveal about his own past
.
In light of this new information, Tremelo would see Bailey did the right thing  …  at least, he hoped so.

He was too distracted to play well. He got hit with a practice Flick and “accidentally” tripped by Taylor, but he didn't have time to care. As he tried to leave the field after the final practice match of the day, Coach waved him back.

“Where do you think you're going? You were late to practice, Walker—I won't lose you to Finch, but you've still got a lesson to learn! That's three laps around the field!”

Bailey wanted to collapse right there. He needed to talk to Tremelo—now. But instead, it was three laps around the whole Scavage field. The temperature was dropping quickly and his breath billowed out of him. He ran faster than he ever had before.

By the time he finally returned to the changing rooms, he wanted nothing more than to find Tremelo, show him the Glass, and make everything all right.

But his locker door hung open on its hinges, and his clothes had spilled out onto the changing room floor.

His bag, with the book and the Glass inside, was missing.

“No!” he cried. He emptied his pockets and found nothing. Taylor must've swiped the key when he tripped him on the field. He looked around the empty locker room wildly. Whoever had broken into his locker and stolen the items was long gone.

Still in uniform, Bailey ran out the entrance to the Scavage field. He leaned back against the wall to catch his breath. Rage pounded inside him with every heartbeat. He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, trying to clear his mind, but he couldn't focus. Any chance of knowing the contents of that book were gone, and he was certain Tremelo would never trust him again. He yelled—a deep, reverberating sound that startled a charm of finches. They flew out of sight into the underbrush—all except one, which still hopped in the dry, winter-ready grass.

It began to skip over to him, holding something in its mouth.

Bailey watched as the finch approached and looked up at him with its beady black eyes. Metal eyes. The finch was an automaton, like a little windup toy. In its copper mouth was a rolled up piece of paper, which it dropped at Bailey's feet. The bird unfolded its clinking wings and flew off toward the forest.

Bailey reached down and picked up the roll of paper. His hands shook as he unrolled it.

It was a map, about the size of his palm, of the forest that surrounded the Fairmount cliff, and of the Dark Woods beyond. A spot in the Dark Woods, just off of the dirt path, had been circled. Bailey saw scribbled handwriting in the margins.

I know of your troubles,
the note said.
And I wish to help. Meet here after sunset, and the Seers will help you find the path to your Animas.

The handwriting was neat and small, and Bailey thought he'd seen it before—but it didn't belong to any of his friends or Tremelo. He wondered if the note could be from the Velyn. But the metal bird seemed to hint at another kind of person, someone with more power.

I know of your troubles
 … 

Bailey tried to think of who he knew that was Animas Finch, but he came up with nothing. Could it be from the Velyn?

Tremelo would never speak to him again. His Awakening training was over. At that moment, he wished he'd never laid eyes on Tremelo's book or heard of the people of the Velyn Peaks. Tremelo had been right—his curiosity had driven him to do something foolish, even deceptive, and he'd lost what could have been the very key to his Awakening.

He looked down at the note. He didn't know who had written it, but he realized that it didn't matter. Tremelo's help was no longer available to him, and Hal, Tori, and Phi couldn't help—not when it came to his Awakening. What other choice did he have? He would go. Overhead, he saw massive snow clouds gathering as the last light sank under the horizon. Bailey reached into his coat pocket and took out the sharpened claw. He hoped he wouldn't need to use it.

VIVIANA STOOD INSIDE THE great wooden doors of the Gray City Library. She was too distracted to relish the loud cheers of her followers outside; her mind was racing as she thought of the note from Joan that had arrived only moments ago. She had found the prophecy.

It does speak of a True King who will lead an army—with the Child of War as his standard-bearer, a special child whose Animas has been lost. I have the child in my sights  … 
Joan's message had read.

Not only did the prophecy speak of a True King, but a “Child of War” too? She felt dizzy with anger and confusion; it was impossible that another heir to the throne might exist. She knew that the only other child of King Melore was dead. She remembered the flames licking the underside of the locked door, and the small, panicked voice—
Vivi, let me out! Don't leave me!
But the door had been stuck fast; she had been unable to open it. She'd fled in terror, and left the palace with the Elder without saving her brother. No. There could be no true king. Whoever would follow this “Child of War” was an imposter. She had given Joan a new mission now—she would kill the Child of War, and all the omens he represented would die with him.

“My lady looks as though she's seeing ghosts,” said Clarke the tinkerer. He emerged from the shadows of the library's foyer.

Irritatingly perceptive man, Viviana thought. But she needed his help tonight. With Clarke's skills, she would give the Dominae a symbol of her power.

“On the contrary,” she said, smiling. She'd painted her lips a deep mauve. “The Parliament has fled, and our followers are ready for a new age. I am feeling
very
confident.”

Clarke bowed slightly.

“Your grand entrance is ready, then,” he said, beckoning to a man and woman who stood back in the shadows. Together they pulled a heavy sheet off of a large rectangular cage. Viviana heard the whir and creak of moving metal. A fierce growl sounded and out of the cage stalked a hulking tiger, its fiery red eyes lit by intricate workings within. Its coat was copper painted with swirling white stripes. It seemed to glow.

Clarke reached for a wide strap secured at the automaton-tiger's neck, and handed the end of it to Viviana.

“The beast is yours to command,” he said.

Viviana threw back her shoulders and felt the grain of the strap in her hand—it was real leather of rare quality. Someone's kin had died to make it.

“At the right time, press this button here,” Clarke said. He pointed to a small gold button set into the leather strap, which connected to a wire that ran inside a seam.

She nodded, and two attendants opened the massive wooden library doors wide. A deafening cheer washed over her. She'd chosen a long, flowing red opera gown with no embroidery or decoration for the occasion—and it swept around her ankles as she walked slowly down the marble steps.

The square teemed with citizens of the Gray City. Many of them had protested there for days, even weeks—until the pressure became too much for Parliament. Sitting attentively in doorways and on window ledges, watching the crowd, was her army. Weasels, coyotes, badgers, hares, and yes, even jackals, surrounded the shouting crowd, silent and ready, waiting for her next command.

Viviana held tightly to the leash of the automaton-tiger as it roared and pulled at the strap. It was all a show, intricately calculated by Clarke. She pressed the gold button and the tiger turned to face her. It roared, showing off a razor-sharp set of metal teeth. With one exquisite movement, its metal muscles flexed and it bowed low to Viviana. She smiled, and the crowd in the square cheered wildly.

Viviana waved. She had been nervous to greet her followers without Joan by her side  …  but if Joan succeeded tonight, then her power over the prophecy—and the people—was certain.

THE BELLS IN THE Fairmount clock tower bellowed, announcing eight o'clock. Tremelo walked swiftly between the dorms, dodging the stream of students coming out of the dining hall. He looked frantically for Bailey as Fennel followed close on his heels.

He saw Hal and Tori walking together. They were talking excitedly, but at his approach their expressions changed into looks of stark concern.

“You,” Tremelo said, pointing at Hal and Tori. “Where's Bailey?”

“I don't know,” said Hal. The boy squinted behind his glasses.

“I need to find him,” he replied. “He has taken something from me, something very important.”

Tori scowled at him.

“You think Bailey stole something from you?”

“I think he's done something that he believes will help his Awakening, but he may have put himself in danger.”

“What are you talking about?” pressed Tori. One of her snakes had crept out of her bag, and was wrapped around her slender wrist.

Tremelo looked around and stepped closer to Tori and Hal.

“You may recall, Victoria, a certain trunk in my possession, and a certain book in that trunk,” said Tremelo. “It can't be read. It's written in an impossible language—but Bailey believes this book has the answers to his questions. This book has a way of attracting the
wrong
kind of attention. We have to find Bailey.”

“He might be with Phi,” Hal said. “Scavage practice only ended a little while ago.”

The group made their way toward the Scavage field, but just over the hill, they heard someone shrieking in terror. Tremelo sprinted up, clearly worried, with Tori and Hal close behind. But it wasn't Bailey—it was Taylor. Phi's falcon, Carin, was flapping her wings around his head and chasing him across the field.

“What did you tell Coach?” Phi was yelling.

“Get her off!” pleaded Taylor. A black cat hissed and tried to pounce at the bird, but he couldn't jump high enough. Fennel bounded into the fray and yipped, trying to herd Taylor's cat away.

“What did you take from Bailey's locker?” Phi demanded. “I
heard
you bragging about it!”

“I didn't take anything!
Ants!
Get this crazy bird away from me!”

Tremelo rushed forward and brushed Carin away with a forceful arm. Taylor's cat was immediately swatted by Fennel.

“What's going on here?” Tremelo asked. “What's this about Bailey's locker?”

“I'm
bleeding
,” shouted Taylor. “That bird's an anting menace!”

“Believe me, she could do worse!” said Phi. “She was barely trying!”

“Enough!” Tremelo ordered. “Phi, rein in your kin. Taylor, stop your whining and answer my question
now
.”

Taylor rubbed a scratch on his neck from Carin's talons, and looked at the ground.

“Is it my fault if he comes running in late, with ‘secret' stuff? I just thought Coach ought to know what he's been up to, that's all.”

“You were trying to get him kicked off the team!” said Phi. “You can't stand that he's a better Scavage player than you!”

“Calm down!” shouted Tremelo. “What did you take from Bailey's locker, and where is it now?”

Taylor scowled.

“I don't
know
what it was,” he groaned. “He came out of the woods acting funny, holding a little pouch. I didn't get to look inside 'cause I got caught opening his locker.”

“Caught by whom?” asked Tremelo.

“By Sucrette,” said Taylor. “She confiscated the bag and gave me detention. Then she took it away with her while Bailey ran laps.”

“What was she doing in the Scavage locker room?” asked Hal.

“Ms. Sucrette  … ” Tremelo raised his hand to his mustache. At his feet, Fennel now sat very still, looking up at him.

“Can I go now?” asked Taylor.

Tremelo ignored him, turning to leave.

“Follow me,” he said to Hal, Tori, and Phi.

They formed a silent parade to the Linguistics and Interspecies Communications building, with Carin flying low overhead before settling onto the leather gear on Phi's arm. Outside Sucrette's classroom, Tremelo knocked once before opening the door.

The orderly classroom was deserted. The posters with verb conjugations hung in their tidy rows, and the desks had been expertly straightened.

“Ms. Sucrette?” Tremelo called. The door to the teacher's office at the back of the room was ajar. “Joan?”

Tremelo began to feel his skin prickle. Something was wrong.

He marched to the office door and pushed it open. Inside, the scene was chaotic: desk drawers flung open and emptied, loose papers and pens littered the floors, and the chair behind the desk lay overturned on the floor. A thin scratching caught Tremelo's attention—a rat huddled in a corner, nibbling on bits from Sucrette's overturned candy dish.

“I don't understand,” said Hal. “Where's Ms. Sucrette?”

Tremelo shook his head.

“Perhaps the more important question,” he said, as his hands trembled, “is ‘
Who
is Ms. Sucrette?'”