The Drowned Vault Page 29

  Just thinking about it made Antigone start sweating again. They’d shot up floors, and then had to take the fire stairs again, and then shot up more floors. They’d forced their way into another set of offices and past another set of security guards, and then into a residential block, and finally through a door that had set off alarms as they entered someone’s extremely nice penthouse. A man in a very nice suit was having lunch with some fragile-looking bony women—he was the only one eating.

  Rupert had politely said hello, and then pushed past the lunch party out onto the balcony. From there, they’d climbed to a bigger balcony that led to a helicopter pad and one fat security guard, the one that had elbowed her in the face and split her lip.

  A strange plane, with a propeller above each wing, had been descending like a helicopter. After they’d boarded and taken off, the propellers had swung down in front of the wings.

  The heat in the cabin was stifling. Antigone stood and stretched, then moved forward to the cockpit door. The blackbird was perched on the dash, looking out the windshield.

  “Liv, listen to me, love,” Rupert said. His face was slick with sweat. “I need speed. I need it.”

  “What is this tone?” the old woman asked. “Where is the young Rupert who was content to enjoy the air and a soda?”

  Antigone glanced at the controls. They were at 11,000 feet, flying almost 300 miles per hour. Pretty fast.

  “There are times to fly like a grandmother,” Rupert said. “This isn’t one of them.”

  “I am not a grandmother,” Liv said. Her voice was accented. She glanced back at Antigone and smiled. Her face was creased, but thin and younger-looking than Antigone had expected. Her teeth were impossibly white, and her eyes were a very Nordic blue, ready to freeze. “I fly like an affectionate aunt.”

  “There are too many miles to make up,” said Rupert. “Fly like an affectionate banshee. I know what Thor did to these Rolls-Royce engines before he died.”

  “Um,” Antigone said. “Could we turn on some air-conditioning?”

  “Heat is healthy,” Liv said. “It stimulates memory and the flow of the bloods.” She looked at Rupert, smiling slightly. Then she unbuckled and slid out from behind the controls. “It also stimulates odor in men.” She patted Rupert’s shoulder. “Fly my plane as you like, Rupert Greeves. Play at banshee with my Thor’s old toy.”

  Rupert had already taken the controls.

  “Air-conditioning?” Antigone said again.

  Rupert nodded, flipping switches.

  Antigone went back to her seat. The old woman sat down across from her. She was surprisingly tall—almost Rupert’s height. She stretched out a pair of very long legs that ended in worn knee-high boots.

  The whining pitch of the engines shifted. The plane was accelerating.

  “So,” said Liv. She smiled with pursed lips, and then crossed her long legs at the knee. “Antigone Smith, is it? And we’re having trouble with the dragons, yes?” She raised her eyebrows and pushed back her gray-blond hair. “It all seems so primitive. One would think the Order could simply move on from such … earthy … conflicts.”

  Antigone cocked her head, listening to the woman’s accent. She didn’t recognize it.

  “Where are you from?” she asked.

  Liv laughed. “Norway, once upon the times. But my Thor loved New York. He left and died. I stayed.” She studied the back of her hand. “The Order, for me, is only memory. I haven’t set foot on an Estate in years. But I pay the dues.” She smiled. “I’m sentimental. But really, all those Explorers milling about training, and for what? At least the medievals had a mission, dreadful as it now seems to modern minds. Still, it was something. Young Rupe has that in him. He’s terribly … what is it?” She held up her hands on either side of her eyes. “Tunnel-visioned? Blinkered? But I admire his simplicity. He finds importance in his work.”

  Liv glanced over her shoulder at the cockpit, then leaned toward Antigone as if she were going to tell her a secret. “When he was younger, I wanted him to call me Auntie Liv.” Liv laughed. “The stubborn boy never would! My Thor had some of the same primitive fire—boys, yes? I couldn’t get it out of them. Thor took Rupert in and oversaw some of his training after his dear parents passed. When I think of what that boy could have achieved outside the Order …”

  “What Rupert does is very important,” Antigone said. Her voice was low, almost gruff.

  “Ah,” said Liv. “Yes, you would think that, dear one. You’re young, and you’re a Smith. I’d almost forgotten it. The fight, the mission, the fanatic is in your blood.”

  Antigone bit her lip and winced from the pain. She stood, bracing herself as the plane shook, then nodded at the cockpit.

  “Do you mind if I go up?”

  Liv smiled and shook her head. “Go. Sit with your Keeper and plan your wars. I had a long morning in the stables. I will nap.” Her smile was genuine. Antigone felt as if the woman truly liked her, but she also felt more than a little pitied … and not for the right reasons.

  While Liv reclined, Antigone moved through the narrow doorway and slid into the empty pilot’s chair. The plane was bouncing hard, tearing through a stretch of rough air. The controls weren’t like in any of the little planes she had flown. They weren’t even like Gil’s plane. She twisted open her soda bottle and set it in a cup holder. Then she slid on a headset.

  Rupert flashed her a smile. His voice crackled quietly in her ears.

  “What do you think of Auntie Liv?”

  Antigone grimaced and stuck out her tongue. “Nice, though,” she added quickly.

  Rupert nodded. Antigone scanned the dials. She could hear the low chatter of pilots and air-traffic controllers in the headphones, and wondered how anyone knew whom it was they were talking to. There were a lot more voices than when she cruised around at low altitude over Lake Michigan.

  The needle was kissing six hundred miles per hour. They were really hauling, and it felt like it, too. She looked out her side window and back at the big turboprop engine.

  “How long till we get there?” she asked.

  “Ninety minutes,” Rupert said. “Seventy-five, hopefully. I need a little more altitude, and then I’ll push this Boop harder.”

  “Where are we now?” Antigone asked.

  A loud voice chirped in her headphones. “This is Andrews Tower. You are entering regulated airspace. Identify and redirect. Repeat. You are entering regulated airspace. Identify and redirect.”

  “Washington, D.C.,” Rupert said to Antigone. “Cross all your fingers and your toes.” He held down a switch in front of him. “Andrews Tower, this is Brendan-Zed-one-one-eight. We are clear of your traffic and passing through.”

  Antigone looked at Rupert and waited. She didn’t have long to wait.

  “Andrews Tower to Brendan-Zed-one-one-eight, you are not cleared to pass through. Repeat, you are not cleared to pass through. Redirect now. Be advised, we will engage.”

  Rupert squinted, rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Despite her headphones, Antigone heard a sudden roar even louder than their own engines. To their left, a needle-nosed fighter ripped through the cloud layer and leveled off just off their wing. Beyond it, another jet rose.

  “That was quick,” Rupert said. He pushed the switch back down. “Brendan-Zed-one-one-eight to Andrews Tower. Note: Red-Zed on board, Red-Zed, Adams-Jefferson-Madison, one-eight-one-two. Advise.”

  Antigone looked from the jets to Rupert and back to the jets. All the distant pilot chatter in her headphones was gone—the airspace was silent. She wondered how many other pilots were listening in. She waited, and waited, expecting some missile to suddenly smash them out of the sky. Finally, the tower responded, but the voice was now a woman’s.

  “Andrews Tower to Brendan-Zed-one-one-eight, you are cleared to continue on. Good luck, Red-Zed. Over.”

  “Thank you, Andrews,” Rupert said. “Cheers.” Outside of Antigone’s window, the closer pilot waved, an
d then the two jets banked hard, disappearing into the clouds.

  “What just happened?” Antigone asked.

  “We cut five minutes off our flight time,” Rupert said. He laughed. “You can thank the Marquis de Lafayette. After he poured himself into the War for Independence, he wasn’t about to let the O of B support the British in 1812—and the fools would have, too. But Lafayette prevailed upon the Keepers, and the Order tipped battles in New Orleans and Baltimore in America’s favor. In exchange, a grateful President Madison signed a treaty with the Order. Relations have been cautiously maintained ever since.”

  Antigone looked out her window. “And they know all that? Down there? Because of something that happened back in 1812, we get to fly where we want?”

  Rupert grinned. “Oh, no. All that woman in the tower knows is that we have the necessary security clearance.”

  The bird hopped off the dash and onto Antigone’s shoulder. She looked at her Keeper. “Where exactly are we going?”

  Rupert’s jaw flexed and his brows lowered slowly.

  “To war,” he said. “And that’s as exact as I can be.”

  twenty-one

  CIGARS

  CYRUS EXAMINED the factory from the shelter of the trees. It had five large entrances on this side, and more small ones than he wanted to count. Somewhere in there was his father’s body and Phoenix and the tooth. In a minute, Cyrus would be in there, too. He hoped Phoenix was already preparing to escape down the river, but not really. Cyrus surprised himself—he wanted to see him. He wanted to face him, and he wanted to fight.

  Cyrus had taken a revolver from one of the three cases they’d carried up from the river. It rested in a holster on his right hip. Nolan, even paler in the sun, had two long knives tucked into sheaths at the small of his back. Beside him, the Captain was standing with his face tipped back, savoring the sun with his eyes closed. He had Vlad on his left hip, just above his sword hilt. A short grenade launcher like the one from the plane was slung over his right shoulder. The leather football-looking rounds were belted around the black tube.

  “We have to make sure he doesn’t come this way,” Jeb was saying. “We should split up and push into all the doors at once.”

  Diana shook her head. “I don’t think so. We don’t know what we’re up against in there.”

  “A lot of guys with tattoos,” Dan said.

  Jeb pointed at the closest door. “If we all push in at the same door, they can escape out the other doors and into the bayou. We need them to go into the river.”

  Cyrus tried to assess the situation. Too little sleep, he thought. Doesn’t matter. Too little training. Maybe. But also doesn’t matter. You’re here now. This is really happening. Think.

  The Livingstone brothers carried short, antique-looking double-barrel shotguns with pistol grips. On their belts, they each had a bag full of shells, a thick bladed knife, and a small club. The sun cast a gnarled shadow beneath Silas’s eyebrow scar that made him look a lot older.

  Cyrus waved at the factory. “What do you two think?”

  George glanced at his older brother, then stepped forward. “Leave your two best marksmen out here, centered on the building. They can cover any attempted escape in this direction, or any attempt to circle around and surprise you from the rear. Then divide in two, and send a team in on each end and work toward the center. Hopefully, that will press them into retreating on the river.”

  Silas and Jeb were nodding. Diana shrugged.

  “Who are our best marksmen?” Cyrus asked.

  The argument was short. Everyone knew the Boones were the best shots in the Order. But Diana didn’t want to be left outside. Eventually, Jeb quieted his sister’s objections.

  “Ridiculous,” Diana muttered.

  “Okay. Teams,” Cyrus said. “Nolan leads one, the Captain leads the other. Smiths go with the Captain. Livingstones go with Nolan. Arachne …” He looked around. “Arachne?”

  “Cy …” Diana was pointing. While they’d been talking, Arachne had quietly drifted away from the group. Now she was walking up one of the factory’s ramps. She didn’t try the large sliding door. Instead, she tried a smaller door beside it, pulled it open, and stepped inside.

  “Treachery,” the Captain said. “Transmortal treachery!”

  “No,” said Cyrus, shaking his head. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not that.” He looked around at the group. “Everyone ready.”

  “No,” said the Captain. “You’re a Smith, lad, and are Kept by the Brendan’s Blood Avenger. Ye need a blade leading this parade.” He unbelted his sword, the sword from his own tomb that had parted the skin on Cyrus’s neck with just a touch. “You’re worthy enow to smite with this, Smithling.” He wrapped the belt around Cyrus’s middle and cinched it tight. The scabbard dangled most of the way down his leg. The Captain grinned. “War! Can ye hear the blood drums beating in thine ears? Can ye feel the prickling lightning in thy limbs? Come! Let us send this Phoenix back to his ash.”

  Turning suddenly, with Vlad crooked in one arm and his new hand-cannon in the other, he began to run toward the far end of the factory. Dan and Cyrus ran after him, revolvers in hand. Cyrus fell behind as the sword clattered and kicked against his legs and darted between his shins. Finally, still running, he switched the revolver to his left hand and drew the long blade, letting the scabbard bounce limp.

  The blade was light. Lighter than the sabers he trained with in Ashtown, even though the blade was longer and thicker. The hilt felt familiar enough, but the steel looked samurai. As the sun glanced off it, he saw the ghost of an image—scaled, long, reptilian.

  The sword was sharp; that’s all that mattered. And it felt good in his hand. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

  When the Captain reached the farthest ramp, Cyrus was with him. Breathing hard, he made his way up, glancing toward the other end as he did. Nolan and the Livingstones were in position and waiting. Jeb and Diana were centered, lying in the grass with rifles extended. There was no reason to wait, no reason to start thinking again, to start worrying about …

  Cyrus stopped his mind.

  The big sliding door was chained. He slid his new blade down behind the rusted links and jerked down. Surprised, he watched the iron split and tumble loose. The sword was a lot more than sharp. Grabbing the door handle, he tugged. The door rattled along its rails, revealing … darkness. Dust trickled out into the sun. Cyrus inched forward, blade raised.

  A tiny flame flickered to life in the darkness. Shadows moved inside the room and a roiling fireball suddenly swirled toward Cyrus. With a yell, the Captain jumped to the front and the fireball shattered around him. Cyrus dropped to the ground in his shadow.

  Somewhere distant, Cyrus heard Nolan shouting. And gunfire. As the fireball died, Cyrus scrambled backward, raising his revolver. Dan had sheltered against the factory wall, beside the door. The Captain stood inside the doorway, legs spread, armor glowing with heat, hair smoking. Bellowing like a bull, he swung Vlad from the chain on his left wrist like a medieval mace. From his right hip, he fired his first grenade into the dark room.

  Lightning flashed inside and thunder shook the ramp under Cyrus’s feet. The Captain and Cyrus tumbled backward.

  Dazed, Cyrus rose to his feet, clutching the sword in front of him. Dan was halfway down the ramp, shaking his head and trying to stand, his back to the door. There were bodies just inside the doorway—Cyrus could see tattoos beneath scorched skin.

  Cyrus heard Diana shouting over the sound of rifles firing and a more distant explosion. Glancing down the length of the factory, he could see that the far end was burning. In the center, shapes were flooding out of the building, parting, and racing toward the ends.

  This didn’t look like running away. The Polygoners were being surrounded. But that didn’t matter. Not just yet.

  Tall men, lean and tattooed, stepped out of the doorway. In the sunlight, their skin was tinged green. Cyrus had faced creatures like this once before, but never s
o many. Six, seven stepped onto the ramp. Some carried the four-barreled fire-belching guns that had burned down the Archer. Others carried something smaller—pistols with short belts of darts dangling beneath the barrels.

  The man in front raised his dart gun and pointed at Dan’s back. Cyrus didn’t hear himself yelling as he ran forward. Dan twisted and flipped to the side in a way the old Dan would never have been able to do. The dart punched into the wooden ramp where Dan had just been.

  Cyrus heard a roar from behind him and felt the trailing heat of the Captain’s second grenade as it passed over his shoulder, plowing through the air toward the tattooed men. They parted like cats, like vapor, and the grenade disappeared into the room behind them. A moment later, the world shook again. Thick black smoke billowed out the door, engulfing Phoenix’s men.

  Swinging his sword and shouting, Cyrus plunged into it.

  His blade sliced into something, and he heard a scream. Smoke burned his throat and eyes as he pressed on, blindly executing the thrusts and slashes of a training routine.

  Someone grabbed his blade and pulled him forward. A hand clamped onto his throat. Cyrus raised his revolver and fired blind.

  He tripped over his falling attacker, and then collided with a wall. Holding his breath, smoke tears streaming down his face, he followed the wall until he found a door.

  Somewhere ahead of him was a prize he was willing to die for. Cyrus went through the door.

  Dennis Gilly sat in the open door of the plane beside John Horace Lawney VII and gnawed his fingernails. The blunderbuss sat across Dennis’s legs; Horace wouldn’t let him touch the Boones’ launcher.

  There had been no movement on the river side of the factory. The windows were still shuttered. The doors were still closed. The boats and the plane were still lashed to the pylons.

  But from the other side of the factory …

  “Do you think they’re okay?” Dennis asked Horace. “We should have gone with them.”