The Fire Chronicle Page 10

  The directions, Michael thought:

  Choose rightly, and you may never die.…

  Choose wrongly, and you will join me.…

  And Three will become One.

  Michael felt a shiver of excitement.

  And Three will become One.…

  Dr. Pym had said it referred to the three Books of Beginning, and perhaps it did. But perhaps it also referred to something else.

  The green-yellow sludge was now half solid in the bottom of the goblet. Michael yanked the cork from the red bottle and splashed in the root-beer-smelling liquid; there was a hissing and bubbling, and the concoction turned black and, if possible, smelled even worse than before; but Michael was already upending the tiny flask, shaking out a few clear drops. The effect was immediate. The hissing and bubbling stopped, and the liquid in the goblet turned the color of pure silver.

  “Michael, this is your last warn—”

  “I’m drinking from all three jars!”

  He wanted them to know what was happening. In case he was wrong.

  Then, unable to resist the dramatic gesture, he raised the goblet toward the skeleton. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anything suitably offhand and cavalier to say as a toast. Finally, he just muttered, “Well, here goes …,” and drank.

  It was as if he’d poured ice water directly into his heart. The goblet clattered to the floor as Michael dropped to his knees. The cold was spreading through his body, and he could feel himself beginning to shake. Was it possible he’d been wrong? But he’d been so sure! He tried calling to his sister, but his voice failed him. He could feel his lungs freezing, ice forming in the chambers of his heart; his vision went dark; he bent forward, his forehead pressed against the rocky floor; a pounding shook his entire body. What a strange way to die, Michael thought. The pounding came again, and again. Then Michael’s vision cleared, and he realized that the pounding was the beating of his heart, and he felt life and warmth moving through him, and he took a deep, deep breath, and once again he could hear Emma calling his name, crying, begging him to please, please come back.…

  “I’m coming!” he shouted, getting to his feet. “I’m okay!”

  And he was better than okay, much better than okay, for he knew where the Chronicle was hidden.

  What happened afterward was a blur.

  He scrambled through the tunnel. Hands pulled at him. Emma hugged him, told him he was an idiot, and Dr. Pym shouted to come away, there was no time.…

  And then running. Back through the crease, reaching the cavern underneath the tomb, hearing the Screechers so close above them, the wizard yelling for the children to follow him, plunging into the tunnel that led toward Malpesa …

  And running again, as fast as they could.

  They had to get to the port; there was something waiting for them; plans had already been made; something would take them away. “I had a feeling”—the wizard’s voice was coming in quick huffs—“that we might need to leave Malpesa in a hurry.”

  And as they ran, the awful screams echoed down the tunnel, enveloping them, making everything inside the children small and cold and weak, and it was all they could do to run on, faster and faster.

  Abruptly, the tunnel spilled out into a wide underground canal, through which a dark river flowed, and they splashed into the water, which was ice-cold and slimy and reached to their knees. As they struggled forward, the lights of their torches showed the mouth of another tunnel, paved in brick, on the far wall, and Michael knew they’d arrived at the sewers of Malpesa. Then the chilling cries erupted behind them, and he turned to see dark shapes leaping from the tunnel they’d just quit.

  “Run!” the wizard cried. “Don’t stop! Run! Leave them to me!”

  Michael took two steps and realized that Emma hadn’t moved. He seized her by the arm and dragged her forward, stumbling through the black water.

  “It’s not real!” he shouted. “The screams can’t hurt you!”

  “I—I know!” she shouted back. “Stop yelling in my ear!”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Michael saw Dr. Pym standing to meet the Screechers; only the wizard wasn’t facing the monsters, he was looking up the canal, into the darkness. Michael and Emma reached the far side, and Michael pushed Emma up the embankment. Then he turned again and saw Dr. Pym wading toward him, a dozen Screechers in pursuit and more pouring like rats out of the other tunnel, and he became aware of a roaring, and then a great wall of water rushed down out of the darkness, filling the tunnel, and the wizard heaved him into the sewer as the wave struck the Screechers and carried them away in a tumble of dark water.

  The next thing Michael knew, they’d reached a ladder; Emma went up first, and he followed hard on her heels. They climbed out of a well beside an old church, and the city was so quiet, so still, and then the wizard was climbing out and Emma was asking if Dr. Pym had caused that flood, but before the old man could speak, they heard a fast, stamping thud-thud-thud, the ground shook, and the lumbering shape of a troll rounded the corner, swinging an enormous, metal-studded club, and charged toward them.

  It was like fleeing before an earthquake; the ground trembled so that it was hard to find footing. The wizard led them down a narrow alley where the troll could not follow, and Michael heard it bellowing in rage, bashing the walls with its club. And then they were running along a crooked, boat-lined canal, and they heard the cry of a Screecher, and then another, and another, closing in from all sides, and Dr. Pym seemed to be rearranging the map of the city as they ran, causing bridges to vanish behind them, forcing buildings to smash together and bar their enemies’ way; but at every turn, three or four morum cadi would appear, rushing toward them, swords drawn and shrieking.

  “The port,” Dr. Pym kept saying, “we must reach the port.”

  Then they rounded the corner to the main canal and found a dozen Screechers guarding the bridge, and there was a man standing before them. He was the largest man Michael had ever seen. He wore a long, dark overcoat and black leather gloves, and his bald head shone in the lamplight. The very sight of him filled Michael with fear, and he felt Emma grab at his arm.

  “Doctor!” The man held his hands out wide as if in welcome. “We’ve been waiting for you! Now, enough of this running about. We’re going to wake the neighbors.”

  “You can’t have them, Rourke!” The wizard had moved in front of the children. “Not while I’m alive.”

  “Well, you see, Doctor.” And the man smiled. “I’m actually okay with that.”

  The Screechers charged forward, but Dr. Pym blew on his torch and a wall of flame sprang up in the middle of the street. Then, as if conducting an orchestra, the wizard threw up his arms, and a ball of fire shot into the night sky, turning in a great circle above the city.

  “Dr. Pym!” Emma cried. “What’re we going to do?”

  “If we cannot reach the port”—the wizard’s face was grim, and he had to shout over the noise of the fire—“then the port must come to us. This way!”

  They sprinted to a decrepit four-story building that clung to the edge of the canal, and Dr. Pym pushed through a rotted door into the dark, musty interior and herded them up a wide staircase.

  “To the roof! Hurry!”

  As they climbed upward, Michael heard the door being torn from its hinges. His legs were burning and trembling with fatigue. At the top floor, a ladder led up through the rotten rafters, and the wizard urged them up, up, up, and then they were all three standing on a slanting, half-ruined tile roof, looking out over the city and the dark water of the canal, and the wizard sent another ring of fire, like a flare, into the sky, so that it hung there, burning above them.

  “Who …,” Michael panted, “… was that man?”

  “Rourke,” the wizard said. “The right hand of our enemy. I have to gather myself. They will be on us in moments, and we need time. Time above all else.”

  Bells had begun to clang across the city, and Michael could see lights going on in windows as voices
called to one another in fear and alarm, and then the Screechers began to gain the roof. Some of them came up the ladder, but others scaled the outside of the building, clambering over the edge of the roof.

  “Back!” the wizard commanded the children. “Get back!”

  Michael and Emma retreated, but the tiles were loose and slippery, and one gave way under Michael’s feet, and he slipped and nearly slid off the edge.

  There were Screechers everywhere now, and Dr. Pym sent a crescent of flame toward the creatures, the dry rags of their uniforms catching fire in an instant, and many of them fell flaming off the roof; and then the whole building shook, and Michael could hear enraged bellowing from below, and he peered over the side and saw a pair of trolls hammering at the building like lumberjacks attempting to fell an enormous tree. Meanwhile, Emma was hurling broken bits of tile as fast as she could snatch them up, and there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run.…

  Then Dr. Pym was grabbing Michael’s arms and leaning close. The fire that was raging on the roof held the Screechers at bay.

  “Michael, listen to me! You must find the Chronicle! It all depends on you! You saw where it is hidden? You can find it?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “The Dire Magnus must not have it! Promise me. Promise me!”

  “I … promise.”

  “You will be its Keeper! Katherine foresaw this! You understand? Do you understand?”

  Michael nodded, but he felt panic grip him, and he suddenly knew that he wasn’t ready. Why had he pretended he was? He tried to say this, but his throat was dry and the words wouldn’t come.

  Emma was shouting, pointing down the canal.

  The wizard turned. “Thank goodness, he saw my signal.”

  Michael could hear it now, an engine, growing louder. And he saw a floatplane skimming along the canal, its pontoons cutting large Vs in the still water. It was passing under a bridge and would be even with them in seconds.

  “Once you land in the water—listen to me, Michael—once you land in the water, hold to your sister tightly. They will only have one chance to pick you up.”

  “You—you’re coming too,” he managed.

  “No. Someone must stay. Rourke knows about the grave. We cannot risk him learning the location of the Chronicle. I am the only one who can slow him down. I can buy you time you need.”

  “But I—”

  “I know what you’re afraid of. Trust Emma. Trust yourself. You have a good heart. Let it guide you.”

  “But you can’t—”

  “He is coming. Go now.”

  And Michael could see the bald man stepping up onto the roof.

  “Now you have to jump! Go!”

  He pushed Michael toward Emma. Michael seized his sister’s hand.

  “We have to jump!”

  “What about Dr. Pym?”

  “He’s not coming!”

  Before she could argue, Michael clenched her hand tighter and—remembering to take off his glasses and slip them in his bag—took three running steps and Emma had no choice but to jump.

  They fell and fell and fell. Hitting the water was like striking concrete. Emma’s hand was ripped from his as Michael plunged deep underwater. He struggled upward with all his might, and as he broke the surface, he saw the propeller of the plane bearing down. Emma was a few feet away, looking bewildered and scared, and he swam to her, wrapping his arms tightly around her, and, at the last moment, the plane swerved, the propeller missing them, and Michael felt himself seized by iron hands, and he and Emma were lifted from the water and into the plane. Emma cried out, and Michael, still sprawled on the floor and struggling to breathe, saw her hugging Gabriel, Gabriel, who had pulled them in and who was now shouting to the pilot, and the plane was rising into the air, clearing a bridge by inches, and they climbed higher and banked, and Michael scrambled to put on his glasses and, through the open door, he saw on the roof two distant shapes, facing one another and outlined against the flames. Then the building teetered and collapsed, crumbling into the canal, and the plane, still rising, banked again, and Malpesa vanished behind them, and there was no sound save the engine and the rushing of the wind, and nothing to see but the darkness of the night sky, and Emma was hugging Michael and crying, “Oh, Michael, Dr. Pym … he … oh, Michael …”

  “I say, Master Jake …”

  “Yes, Master Beetles?”

  “I do believe she’s finally waking up.”

  Kate opened her eyes. She was once again lying on the floor, and, once again, two sets of eyes were fixed upon her. But the room she found herself in was a different one, and the two boys were not leaning over and inspecting her for signs of life; they regarded her from a pair of rickety wooden chairs, their feet propped up on crates and pushed close to a battered iron stove. Both boys were smoking pipes.

  “How long have I been asleep?” Kate raised herself to a sitting position.

  The one named Beetles removed his pipe and seemed to consider the question thoughtfully.

  “How long would you say she’s been asleep, Master Jake? Five hours?”

  “Oh, I’d venture six hours, Master Beetles.”

  “Six? That many?”

  “At the very least. I half suspected she was going to open a shop—”

  “All right,” Kate said.

  “Is that so?” Beetles grinned. “What sort of shop, Master Jake?”

  “Why, one a’ those Sleepin’-on-the-Floor-All-Day-Gettin’-Nothing-Done sorts a’ shops, Master Beetles.”

  Kate shook her head as the boys collapsed into laughter, Beetles making a great show of doffing his cap and bowing, evidently in deference to his friend’s wit. She took a moment to look around.

  Pale winter light forced its way through a single dirt- and frost-scrummed window, illuminating a small, unremarkable room. There was little to behold apart from the stove, the overturned crates now serving as footstools, and the chairs the boys were sitting on. The room’s one notable aspect was that the walls and floor were constructed from large blocks of gray stone. Only the ceiling beams were wood.

  Kate saw she had been laid on a folded blanket, and that another blanket had been placed over her bare feet. The gesture seemed oddly considerate. She was still wearing the wool overcoat she’d gotten in the Bowery, the one she’d acquired by trading the chain from her mother’s locket, and her hand now went into her pocket, seeking out and closing over the locket’s familiar egg-like shape. She would have to find a new chain soon. She missed the weight of the locket around her neck, being able to reach up at any time and know it was there. She thought about the magic bazaar, and the witch who’d drugged her, and the two creatures who’d tried to carry her off. She thought about how she’d been saved by that other boy, Rafe, and she saw him again, leaping down from above—he’d known her, recognized her. But how was that possible? Who was he?

  She glanced at Jake and Beetles. They were having a smoke-ring competition, though every time one blew a ring, the other would conveniently cough or leap up crying that something had bitten his backside, and in the process destroy his friend’s ring, until Kate realized that disrupting the other person’s smoke ring was the game.

  They were having such a good time she couldn’t help but smile.

  “You do know,” she said finally, “that smoking’s bad for you?”

  The boys found this frankly hilarious.

  “Listen to her, smoking’s bad!” guffawed Beetles. “Everyone knows a pipe’s about the best thing you can do for your body.”

  “Best medicine in the world!” Jake agreed, and blew another ring.

  “Smoking ain’t good for you! Har-har!”

  “And look who’s telling us what’s good,” Jake said. “Didn’t we tell her not to go to that witch?”

  “We did,” Beetles replied. “We told her and she done it anyway.”

  “Fine,” Kate said. “Next time I’ll listen to you.”

  “Good,” said Beetles. “ ’Cause we ain’t always gonna
find Rafe in time to save you, right?”

  “So, Rafe—is he the one who brought me here?”

  “Yeah,” Beetles said. “You were passed out. He had to carry you the whole way.”

  Kate thought about the blanket placed over her feet and wondered if that same fierce boy from the alley had been the one to do that.

  “Where is he?”

  “Well, well, well, ain’t this a nice change, Master Jake?” Beetles grinned broadly. “Suddenly, someone wants to see ol’ Rafe.”

  “Sure. She’s in love with him, ain’t she?”

  Kate felt a rush of heat across her face and was glad for the gloom and smoke.

  “I want to thank him for saving my life.”

  And, she thought, ask him how he knows me.

  “He’s a busy man, Rafe is,” Beetles said. “He told us to make sure you don’t go running off.”

  “Though that ain’t likely now’s you want to marry him,” Jake said.

  “Nope. Not likely at all.”

  “You should open a shop. The I-Wanna-Marry-Rafe-and-Have-a-Hundred-Babies Shop.”

  Kate could sense when she was being baited and let the remark pass.

  “So where am I?”

  “You’re in the hideout, course!”

  “What hideout?”

  “What hideout?” Jake repeated. “Ours! The hideout a’ the most ruthless, most best gang in New York!”

  “Best gang anywhere!” Beetles said.

  “Yeah, best gang anywhere, that’s us! The Savages!”

  The hideout—Kate had been laid in a back room—turned out to be an old, abandoned church. It must have been, at one time, a magnificent structure, for, on stepping into the long main hall, Kate was struck by the scale of the thing. Stone columns rose eighty feet to a vaulted ceiling. Many of the stained-glass windows had been broken and covered with boards, but those that remained filtered in green and red and yellow and blue light, in complex and beautiful patterns. There were lines of cots up and down the stone floor, and sheets hung up to cordon off areas, and Kate’s impression was that it looked like the dormitory of a large orphanage.