The Drowned Vault (6 page)

“The Order of Brendan,” he said. Then he tapped another round patch below it—silver chains knotted into the shape of a Celtic cross inside a green circle. “The old emblem of the Ashtown Estate.” Beneath the two circles, there was a long, thin red band. Inside it, a golden dragon with six wings was roaring. Rupert traced it with his finger. “That tells you that I am the Blood Avenger for my Estate—First Avengel for the Order of Brendan.” He turned and tapped the lone patch on his left shoulder—a silver chess knight with eagle wings, flying inside a dark blue shield. “The symbol my great-grandfather adopted as the sign of Greeves.” He tugged his shirt back off, inverting it again. Then he slipped it on with the patches against his skin and began to button it up. Cyrus and Antigone were staring at him. He smiled and nodded at the doorway. “Get in there.”

When William Skelton died in the firefight at the Archer Motel, he had already made Cyrus and Antigone his Acolytes and heirs. But they hadn’t been allowed to move right into his old rooms. They’d been stowed in the Polygon until they’d made Journeyman, and that hadn’t happened until the New Year. Anything would have been an upgrade from sleeping in a crypt and walking on planks above hungry Whip Spiders, but they’d expected something more from the rooms of the notorious and wealthy outlaw.

There were five rooms in all. The largest was a long central room with a stone fireplace at the end, two windows, and a moth-eaten Persian rug on the floor. The walls had been decorated with black-and-white photographs of Skelton’s bone tattoos, all of which Antigone had quickly shoved into a small closet—only because Cyrus hadn’t let her throw them away. There had also been one threadbare armchair. Now there was one threadbare armchair and a wooden chair stolen from the dining hall.

Every corner of the tiny bathroom was covered with tiny white tile, and every white tile had been covered with a filthy gray sedimentary skin. Antigone had scrubbed the place with bleach every day for a week. Now the tiles glistened like fresh false teeth, but the grout between them was a crumbly and rotten set of gums. The shower occasionally drooled a chilly trickle and occasionally blasted
a fleet of sizzling liquid lasers that could blister skin. And the toilet sang like a dying bullfrog in the night. But it was all still better than the Polygon.

Off the central room, there had been one empty bedroom with one window, a moldy curtain, and absolutely nothing else. Now the room held two hammocks, slung in opposite corners. Cyrus had wanted a hammock. Antigone had wanted to sleep anywhere that wasn’t the floor. Beneath each hammock, there were cardboard boxes that held what little the two had been able to salvage from the Archer. Cyrus’s clothes were piled into another box. Antigone’s were hanging in the little closet.

The remaining three rooms were unusable. The first was an active volcano of old boxes. Crates and cartons and chests and bins had at one time been stacked from floor to ceiling, but those stacks had slumped into each other and become a monolithic heap of dust. They called it Dump Number One and never bothered with it. The next room held a pile of exactly the same size and shape, but made entirely of books. Cyrus called it the library or Dump Number Two. Antigone called it the Book Dump.

They didn’t know what was in the last room, because they had never been able to open the door. Cyrus’s silver Solomon Key had released the lock, and the knob had turned easily. But the door had merely wiggled in place. And it was a completely interior room, so there was no chance of using a ladder to break in through a window.

Rupert Greeves stepped into the long central room and looked around. On the timber mantel above the fireplace, there was a small ebony box, left to the Smiths by William Skelton. Leaning against it was a battered book titled
How to Breed Your Leatherbacks
. Hanging by a string from the ceiling was a spherical rice paper Chinese lantern with a map of the world inked onto it, and oceans full of scrawls written in a language Cyrus and Antigone had not been able to identify.

“And the two of you,” Rupert said, “have done half a notch more than nothing.”

“Hey!” Antigone stepped forward. “Look in the bathroom and you won’t say that.” She crossed her arms. “Besides, what were we supposed to do?”

Rupert looked around at the bare walls. “Furniture? Art? Lamps wouldn’t hurt a bit.”

Cyrus looked at his sister. He knew she hated the rooms. He knew she desperately wanted to overhaul everything. Antigone sniffed and tucked back her hair.

“How?” she asked. “Rupe, how? We don’t have a car. And if we did, we wouldn’t be allowed to leave. We don’t have money—Horace says there’s barely enough still in the estate to cover our Order dues. You’ve been gone forever. Dan’s in California. How would we do anything?”

Antigone’s eyes were actually wet. She wiped them quickly. Rupert looked stunned.

“Do you think we want to live in a place like this?”
Antigone asked. “ ’Cause we don’t. We don’t come in till we have to sleep, and we leave as soon as we wake up.”

“You do,” said Cyrus quietly. “Sometimes I do, too. It depends on what the shower is doing.”

Rupert’s big shoulders sagged. “Antigone, I’m sorry.”

Antigone wiped her eyes again. “I can fly an airplane, but I can’t drive to a furniture store. And if I did, I would have to rob it.”

Rupert stepped forward and cautiously slid his arm around Antigone’s shoulders, patting awkwardly. She was tiny next to him.

“I’m sorry,” Rupert said again. He looked at Cyrus. “I haven’t been a good Keeper to either of you.”

Cyrus shrugged. The whole scene was too uncomfortable for him.

“It’s stupid,” Antigone said, stepping back. “It’s not your fault. You’re not our dad. And you’re not Dan. And chasing Phoenix is a lot more important than helping us. I’m still not used to having no one, you know, in charge of us.”

“Forgive me,” Rupert said. “Truly. And forgive me again, because I’m about to make things much worse.”

“What?” Cyrus said. “What do you mean?”

Rupert dropped onto the ratty rug and crossed his legs. “Sit. There are unpleasant things you need to know.”

Antigone silently lowered herself to the floor. Cyrus thumped down beside her.

“First,” Rupert said, “I haven’t found Phoenix. I haven’t come close, not in a long while. The transmortals have become the more immediate problem. They’re always difficult, but they tend to live in small enough pods to keep them manageable. Now they’re fast becoming a bloody great herd. And that herd is coming here.” He raised his hands defensively. “Please know that I was already sorry to do this, and even sorrier now, but for the foreseeable future, you are not to leave these rooms unless you are with me.”

“What?” Antigone’s mouth hung open. “You’re joking. Why?”

“What do you mean ‘foreseeable’?” Cyrus said.

“I mean foreseeable,” said Rupert. “Indefinite. For the time being. Until further notice. In addition to the transmortals, members of the O of B are flying into Ashtown from all over the globe to remember the last Brendan and elect a new one. When they have, he will name a new Avengel.”

“That’s why there’s a campout in the courtyard?” Cyrus asked.

Rupert nodded. “Right. And that’s why you’ll be in here.”

“That all sounds like craziness,” Antigone said. “But I don’t see what it has to do with us getting locked up.”

Rupert exhaled. His eyes drifted up to the window. Cyrus turned, glancing back at the age-rippled glass
panes behind him. Then he looked back at Rupert. The Avengel’s dark eyes locked with his own. Cyrus didn’t need to be told. It was obvious.

“The transmortals,” Cyrus said, thinking of Gil. “You’re worried because they’re unhappy about the tooth.”

Rupert scratched his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was slow and cautious. “I worry because your name is Smith. Because you were the first person in generations to kill one of the transmortals—something they disapprove of in even the most extreme cases, and something that your family has an historical habit of doing. I worry because you are the one who held the tooth and lost it to Phoenix, who has now done some transmortal killing of his own. I am worried because the transmortals are more than unhappy. They are angry—with me, with the Order, and especially with you. Those who have treaties with the Order will hope to influence the election of the Brendan and the selection of the next Avengel. They do not forget, and they do not forgive.”

Antigone groaned. “I’m so tired of everyone only blaming Cyrus. If it weren’t for Cyrus, do you know how many people would be dead in this place?”

“Yes,” Rupert said. “I do. But the transmortals blame me as well, and they are right to. The responsibility for all that happened lies with me.” He knuckled his swollen cheek. “Phoenix has begun hunting them. You asked
where I was? Egypt, Greece, and then France. Dozens of transmortals are missing—on the run, taken, or killed. We only found three bodies, but three is enough to start the stampede.” He looked from Cyrus to Antigone. “Mortals like us live with fear, with the certainty of our own eventual deaths—some more boldly than others. Not so the transmortals. The undying live with boredom, with apathy, with love or anger or hate, any number of emotions. But never fear. Fear and death are two sides of the same coin, and death has been well behind them for centuries. To have the Reaper’s Blade reemerge now, and in the hand of an enemy? To have friends struck down? Fear roars and they cannot control it. It rules over them like so many hunted animals. And men like Gilgamesh are
very
dangerous when afraid.”

Cyrus exhaled slowly. “So what are we going to do?”

Rupert smiled grimly. “
We
are going to keep
you
in your rooms as long as
we
can.
I
am going to do what I can to calm the coming herd.”

Antigone looked around the dingy room. “Does it have to be in here? I hate it like this. Could you at least get me some paint?”

Rupert stood slowly. Cyrus scrambled up beside him, but Antigone stayed on the floor.

“I’ll come when I can,” Rupert said. “Phoenix has been even more fox-cunning than I’d expected. He’s diverted me and managed to threaten Ashtown even while
he hides. And my own Acolytes are woefully unprepared.” He shook his head. “I’d hoped there’d be time this fall for a stronger traditional training regimen for my two Smiths, but immediate danger creates immediate needs, and soon enough the two of you may be fighting to survive outside of these walls.” Suddenly, he smiled. “But I have a card to play, no longer hidden in my sleeve. Arachne will be staying with you and working with you in ways that only she can. Some Keepers might object—fallaciously—to her unique skills, but I’m in no mood to care. You will do as she says without question. After dark tonight, if she thinks it’s safe, you can walk the green with her. Tomorrow morning, the planes will really begin to arrive and you’ll be locked in tight. I’ll be by when I can.”

“The spider girl’s our babysitter?” Antigone grimaced. “Seriously?”

“The ‘spider girl’ has chosen her side,” Rupert said. “She’s betting on Smiths. As am I …” Rupert paused, focusing on Cyrus. “One last thing. Hopefully you’ll be out of sight, but if you are in public, try not to use the word
transmortal
. It’s accurate, but some of them are quite sensitive about ever having been mortal at all. They insist on
immortal
. Food will be delivered, and I’ll send along some paint as well.”

“Really?” Antigone jumped to her feet. “Something warm, please. Yellow. Orange. I don’t know. Just bright. Please make it bright.”

Rupert smiled. “Bright it is.” He crossed toward the door. “And Skelton’s estate wasn’t that anemic. You should have
some
money. I’ll talk to that dirty little lawyer of yours.”

The door opened, and the door shut. Rupert was gone.

Antigone dropped into the armchair and laughed. “Hey, hey, Rus-Rus, you’ll have to help me clean. There’s a lot to do if we’re going to paint this place.”

Cyrus looked at his sister, laced his fingers through his short dark hair, and groaned. His cage had just gotten smaller.

“What?” Antigone said. “We’ll be stuck, but it’s better than being dead or beaten to a pulp by some transmortal, and at least the walls will be bright.”

“I don’t care about bright walls,” said Cyrus. He dropped onto the old rug and flopped onto his back. “Maybe I’ll run away to California.”

“Good plan,” a voice said from beneath the floor. A grate rattled, and the rug shook beneath Cyrus, thumping him in the back. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to come up now.”

At the same time, the front door opened and Diana Boone slipped in, followed by Dennis Gilly in his bowler hat, and pretty little Hillary Drake, who was wearing an apron loaded with cleaning supplies. Her curly hair was knotted in a fountain on top of her head.

“Are we on for Polygoners tonight?” Diana asked. “I wasn’t sure when I saw you come in with Rupe. Thought you might be busy.”

Hillary focused her green eyes on Cyrus and fidgeted with her apron. “I only have about thirty minutes till they notice that I’m missing.”

“Yeah,” said Antigone. “We’re on. Cy, get off of Nolan.”

Cyrus rolled off the rug, and then kicked it toward the wall. A pale face looked up through a heating grate in the floor. The grate rattled again.

“Some idiot locked it,” said Nolan. “Now let me in.”

four
THREE HEADS