the driver and his head down, massaging his temples.
Outside the windows, bushes and pastures and signs and road reflectors snapped and flickered past like frames in one of Antigone’s home movies.
Antigone looked up. “Maxi’s dead, right?” She nudged Horace with her toe, and the little lawyer looked up. “Please tell me he’s dead.”
Horace sighed, and the car bounced gently and banked hard around a curve.
He shook his head. “That … man … was born Sebastián de Benalcázar in Córdoba, Spain, more than five hundred years ago. As a conquistador, he traveled with Ponce de León into Florida—until Ponce had him shot. He escaped into South America and tried to set himself up as a governor, slaughtering Incas and his fellow Spaniards along the way. He was hung, stabbed, poisoned, and even keelhauled. But to no effect. The Order finally captured him when he tried to return to Europe. He was held without food or water for more than two centuries before some weak-minded fools released him. He reemerged in France under the name of Maximilien Robespierre. There, his taste for destruction reached revolutionary heights. More than thirty thousand French men and women were sent to the guillotine, including King Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, and several of the Order’s most notable French members. The Order did not capture him again until the mobs turned against him and he himself was beheaded—you saw the scar on his neck, did you not? It was a simpler matter when his head was in a basket and his body was in a cart. He was imprisoned again but escaped the Order’s French Estate when it was destroyed during the Second World War.”
Horace looked up at Cyrus, and then into Antigone’s eyes. His brow was furrowed. “Unfortunately, the answer to your question is no. Dead is one thing that he certainly is not.”
Cyrus swallowed. His throat had tightened and his serpent necklace felt suddenly heavy. He had nothing to say. He wanted to disbelieve, but he couldn’t—not with everything he had already seen. He looked at his sister, and her dark eyes were worried.
The car surged forward and swooped around an RV. The Archer was visible in the distance. Cyrus leaned against his window. The Golden Lady was on her pole. But she wasn’t golden. She was pale. Dead.
As the car approached, she began to glimmer. The tooth was returning.
“Who are they?” Antigone pointed at the motel. Three men were picking through the rubble. A fourth hopped out of Skelton’s camper.
All four looked up as the big car screamed past. Two of them were tall and identical, pale green in the daylight. The other two were bare-shouldered. Tattooed. One bearded, one bald.
The driver ignored a double yellow line and passed two cars at once. Two minutes later, they were nearing town. And traffic lights. The first one was red.
“Um …” Cyrus sat up.
They shot through it.
Antigone looked around the interior of the car. They slowed slightly for traffic and ran the next light. She grabbed her brother and tugged him back in his seat. “Buckle, Cy. We’re in trouble.”
There weren’t any seat belts.
The car accelerated and skimmed past a police car, nearly clipping its side mirror. Cyrus and Antigone wheeled around, watching the patrol car flick on its lights and then quickly miniaturize behind them. They were already through the small town. Fields and highway stretched ahead.
Horace cleared his throat. “Please don’t worry yourselves. This car is a thing of beauty. She came off the line in 1938 and track-tested above three hundred feet per second. They won’t catch up to us. Gunner up there isn’t even pushing her yet, are you, Gunn?”
Cyrus turned back around, watching the tall driver’s hands on the wheel. Something slammed into the roof above him.
A hole appeared in the leather ceiling and tiny feathers snowed down from the upholstery. Another. And another. Like hammer blows. Like piercing hail. Lead hail.
The car
Outside the windows, bushes and pastures and signs and road reflectors snapped and flickered past like frames in one of Antigone’s home movies.
Antigone looked up. “Maxi’s dead, right?” She nudged Horace with her toe, and the little lawyer looked up. “Please tell me he’s dead.”
Horace sighed, and the car bounced gently and banked hard around a curve.
He shook his head. “That … man … was born Sebastián de Benalcázar in Córdoba, Spain, more than five hundred years ago. As a conquistador, he traveled with Ponce de León into Florida—until Ponce had him shot. He escaped into South America and tried to set himself up as a governor, slaughtering Incas and his fellow Spaniards along the way. He was hung, stabbed, poisoned, and even keelhauled. But to no effect. The Order finally captured him when he tried to return to Europe. He was held without food or water for more than two centuries before some weak-minded fools released him. He reemerged in France under the name of Maximilien Robespierre. There, his taste for destruction reached revolutionary heights. More than thirty thousand French men and women were sent to the guillotine, including King Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, and several of the Order’s most notable French members. The Order did not capture him again until the mobs turned against him and he himself was beheaded—you saw the scar on his neck, did you not? It was a simpler matter when his head was in a basket and his body was in a cart. He was imprisoned again but escaped the Order’s French Estate when it was destroyed during the Second World War.”
Horace looked up at Cyrus, and then into Antigone’s eyes. His brow was furrowed. “Unfortunately, the answer to your question is no. Dead is one thing that he certainly is not.”
Cyrus swallowed. His throat had tightened and his serpent necklace felt suddenly heavy. He had nothing to say. He wanted to disbelieve, but he couldn’t—not with everything he had already seen. He looked at his sister, and her dark eyes were worried.
The car surged forward and swooped around an RV. The Archer was visible in the distance. Cyrus leaned against his window. The Golden Lady was on her pole. But she wasn’t golden. She was pale. Dead.
As the car approached, she began to glimmer. The tooth was returning.
“Who are they?” Antigone pointed at the motel. Three men were picking through the rubble. A fourth hopped out of Skelton’s camper.
All four looked up as the big car screamed past. Two of them were tall and identical, pale green in the daylight. The other two were bare-shouldered. Tattooed. One bearded, one bald.
The driver ignored a double yellow line and passed two cars at once. Two minutes later, they were nearing town. And traffic lights. The first one was red.
“Um …” Cyrus sat up.
They shot through it.
Antigone looked around the interior of the car. They slowed slightly for traffic and ran the next light. She grabbed her brother and tugged him back in his seat. “Buckle, Cy. We’re in trouble.”
There weren’t any seat belts.
The car accelerated and skimmed past a police car, nearly clipping its side mirror. Cyrus and Antigone wheeled around, watching the patrol car flick on its lights and then quickly miniaturize behind them. They were already through the small town. Fields and highway stretched ahead.
Horace cleared his throat. “Please don’t worry yourselves. This car is a thing of beauty. She came off the line in 1938 and track-tested above three hundred feet per second. They won’t catch up to us. Gunner up there isn’t even pushing her yet, are you, Gunn?”
Cyrus turned back around, watching the tall driver’s hands on the wheel. Something slammed into the roof above him.
A hole appeared in the leather ceiling and tiny feathers snowed down from the upholstery. Another. And another. Like hammer blows. Like piercing hail. Lead hail.
The car
Similar Books
