Outlaws of Time #3

by N. D. Wilson

  Millie tucked back her hair and pressed her hands against her cheeks. She felt ill. A sick weight in her stomach. An ache in her chest.

  “Alex loves the light,” she said quietly. Her eyes spilled heat down her cheeks. “In every story he has ever read or listened to. In life. Truth, goodness, and beauty. He’s loyal to all three. I know he is. You gave him that. He’d die before he let that woman turn him.”

  “I pray you’re right,” Jude said. He reached for her, but suddenly jerked back in his seat.

  Jumping to his feet, Jude yanked his left sleeve up to his elbow and slapped at his forearm.

  Bloody cursive was forming in blisters beneath the skin.

  Palace Tenochtitlán La Noche Triste

  Midnight July 1 1520 El Terremoto

  When the script had stopped, Jude leaned over the table to hold his forearm under the hanging light. Breathing hard, he read the words aloud.

  “What is it?” Millie asked. “What does it mean?”

  She traced the letter blisters with her fingertips.

  “The Dervish woman is taunting us,” Jude said. “She’s telling us where Alex is. Where she intends to unleash her new earthquake. And it isn’t good. Tenochtitlán is Mexico City. La Noche Triste means the ‘Night of Sorrows.’”

  “What sorrows?” Millie asked. “Do I even want to know?”

  “The night Hernán Cortés and his men killed Montezuma, the Aztec king, and fled the city in a complete bloodbath.” Jude looked into Millie’s eyes. “Some nights change everything, and that was one of them. The hinge that began the end of one empire and extended the power and wealth of another. The kind of night Dervish would love . . . a night of violence and darkness.”

  “All right,” Millie said. “What do we do?”

  “What can we do?”

  Millie selected the largest scrap of vellum off the table and handed it to her husband. “Send the message back to us on Neverland. Tell our younger selves to tell Sam and Glory,” she said. “They can get there. We can’t.”

  Jude took the scrap, and Millie spun around and pulled open a small drawer in the kitchen full of rubber bands and paper clips and pennies and grocery coupons. Off the top of the junk, she picked up the feathers Manuelito had left them, and a box of matches.

  “We’ll spread the word,” she said. “She thinks she can brag about sending Alex into a bloodbath?”

  “Wait,” Jude said. “Maybe she wants us to.”

  “Wants us to?” Millie said. Her blood was thumping. “Why on earth would she burn all your vellum if she wanted us sending messages back to ourselves?”

  “That’s different,” Jude said. “That was a particular story. A warning that could have prevented all of this.” He sat back down, studying his forearm.

  Millie struck a wooden match and the smell of sulfur crawled across the kitchen. But that smell vanished when she lit the feathers. Carrying both feathers back to the table, she threw them onto the surface, away from the flammable vellum scraps. Foul black smoke twisted up to the rough ceiling in a braid and then separated, slithering away across plaster and gold glitter.

  Jude watched the flames devour the feathers. He watched the smoke rise. And then he sighed.

  “All right. We’ll spread the word. I’m gonna need a fountain pen for the blood.”

  SAM AND GLORY HAD FINALLY MANAGED TO DRAG THE motorcycle out of the shed and Glory was gassing the tank, when they heard the pig squeal. Across the little inlet from where they stood, a pale sow was bucking in the pen like a rodeo bull, snorting and twisting, squealing and kicking as all the other pigs retreated quickly.

  Sam watched for a moment. Glory set the gas can down and spun the cap back onto the bike’s tank.

  “Bee sting?” Sam asked.

  “Big bee,” Glory said. “Maybe another message.”

  Sam looked up at the house. Through the big kitchen window, he could just see his sister standing next to Jude. He pointed to the bucking pig and saw their heads turn.

  ALEX TURNED SLOWLY IN PLACE, DIZZY IN THE DARK. HE had no idea where they had flown or how long it had taken, but he could hear Rhonda gasping down by his feet. He couldn’t see a thing, even with his floating watches still glowing above him.

  He had gone through three different watches, but for some reason, none of them had felt right for very long. And each time he had changed his mind in frustration, brushing one watch away and replacing it with another, he and Rhonda had lurched in a new direction, and his confusion had thickened. But the fourth watch had calmed him somehow. It had felt . . . right.

  Good, Mrs. Dervish had said in his head, and perhaps that should have worried him.

  Now, the darkness was so thick, the glowing watch light didn’t reach much lower than his chest. He could feel his feet scraping across rough stone, but he couldn’t see down. Or up. And the air . . . if it was air . . . stung the inside of his nostrils and the back of his throat like thick and foul smoke. He wondered how long air had to sit to ferment like this. Of course, traveling in the darkness beyond time was so strange, it was impossible to know how long they had even been moving. After choosing his first watch and jumping out of Mrs. Dervish’s tower, he had spun around so much, he could have been sinking or flying, sleeping or dying. By the time watch number four was leading the way, he had drifted off into some sort of strange sleep, his conscious mind slowly losing track of his own existence until it was jarred back by a quick change in temperature or Rhonda’s kicking.

  They had been surrounded by needle-sharp cold for so long that Alex had wondered if they had stopped moving. And then the darkness had become thick and warm, oily against his skin, and the sour smell of death and rot had filled his lungs, his throat, his mouth, his skull. It had tried to seep into every part of him. And on the other side of that cloud of reek, his boots had scraped against stone and he had shoved Rhonda away as he struggled to keep his balance and stay upright.

  “Your head,” Rhonda said. “From down here it looks like a ghost’s, floating in a chain cage.”

  “Well, it’s not,” Alex said. He snorted, cleared his throat and spat, trying to rid himself of the oily filth in the air. But he couldn’t.

  “Gross,” Rhonda said. “That sprayed all over me.”

  “Well then, stand up where I can see you,” said Alex. “Help me find some way out of this place.”

  “I can’t. Not yet,” Rhonda said from somewhere below him. “Give me a minute.”

  Alex spat again, this time in the other direction. He turned slowly in place and felt the grooves between large stone blocks under his feet.

  “There’s got to be stairs or a door or something, right? Like those stairs down to the clock door in France?”

  “How should I know?” Rhonda said. “But do you know what’s weird?”

  “Everything.” Alex extended his arms straight out to his sides and his fingertips disappeared. The buffalo coat was heavy on his shoulders and he was sweating beneath it. He could see clearly to his wrists. His palms were vague, and his fingers were gone. “Every single thing is weird.”

  “Well, sure,” Rhonda said. Alex heard her rustling invisibly in the darkness. “But also, the temperature of the floor.” The sound of bare hands slapping stone was followed by coughing. And then a sneeze. “Dusty.” Rhonda sniffed. “But my point is that stone should be cool, right? But it’s not. It’s warmer than the air. It’s almost hot.”

  Alex crouched down and pressed his right palm against the soft dusty surface. Warmth, slow at first but sure, crawled up through his skin and into his hand.

  “It must be warmer on the other side,” Alex said. “I’ve always wanted to go somewhere tropical. But we still need to find a door or stairs or something.”

  Straightening, he began to feel his way into the darkness.

  “Alex!” Rhonda yelled. “Hold on. Don’t leave me here!”

  “Then get up and do something.” Alex kept walking away, extending his feet and groping the floor with h
is boots to be sure it was still there before leaning forward with his hands.

  “Alex!”

  Alex took another step and leaned, sweeping the oily dark with his fingers. He heard something flicking behind him, and he turned around, just in time to see a single flame jump up out of Rhonda’s hand. She was seated on the stone floor, and she was holding a cigarette lighter. But the flame was much too large and growing quickly—one foot tall and then two, sucking and slurping at the flammable air.

  “I found it in this jacket. Ow!” Rhonda threw the lighter down and grabbed her hand. The flames grew into a hip-swiveling cyclone beside her, spinning the lighter like a top at its base and twisting upward until it was well taller than Alex and still growing.

  “Not good,” Alex said. “Stomp it out or something!”

  “You stomp it out!” Rhonda crab-walked away from the erupted vine of fire. “At least now we can see!”

  Alex stared. It was like a magic beanstalk of flame. How high could it reach? Where was the ceiling in this place? Would it walk away like a tornado or would it sit here growing until there was no more oily air to burn? And how long would that be? He could see tendrils of darkness being swept up in the cyclone, slithering across the stone floor and groping through the air like his own hands had been only moments ago. The spinning inferno slurped it all in as it grew.

  The edges of the floor he and Rhonda had landed on were now completely visible. They were standing on a wide hexagon of dusty paving stones with no walls. No doors. No stairs. Beyond the edges of the stone, the ground was so dark, that he couldn’t even tell if it was there. None of the firelight that touched it escaped again. It could have been liquid or stone or simply a drop off into nothingness, and in another step or two, he would have found out.

  “Alex!” Rhonda was yelling from the other side of the flames. And she was pointing at something right in the middle of the room. An iron handle set into the floor. The fire tornado licked it, swallowed it, and then spat it back out as it moved.

  Alex moved a few steps closer, and raised one arm to block the heat from his face, grateful for the heavy coat on his arm.

  The iron handle was surrounded by triangular paving stones like petals on a flower. Like treads on a spiral stair. Alex dropped onto his knees and shrugged his coat up over his shoulders and head, sheltering his skin. Keeping his face as low to the stone as he could, he wriggled forward until the heat forced him to stop. But he was still fifteen feet away at least. The trunk of the fire vortex was the size of a Hula-Hoop now, but it was drifting away from the center of the room, drifting toward Rhonda. Every foot it went, Alex moved another foot forward. Rhonda retreated, circling all the way around the pillar of flame and then army-crawling in beside Alex.

  Hot air spun all around them as the fire breathed.

  “What do you think will happen when it goes off the edge?” Rhonda asked.

  “No idea,” Alex said. “Maybe it dies. Maybe it goes nuclear. Let’s not be here to find out.”

  He slid forward and the tornado bent toward him, huffing and puffing and gurgling up the oxygen and whatever flammable gas was feeding it. Alex ducked his head down but he didn’t retreat. After a moment, it was moving, swinging its flame hips as it moved away, accelerating slightly as it approached the dark edge.

  Alex scrambled forward with Rhonda right beside him. The stones were painfully hot, but he hoped they wouldn’t be on them long. The handle was within reach.

  Together they both grabbed it, and then flinched away. The iron was blistering to touch. The tornado paused, almost like it was thinking, like it was deciding whether to return and slurp up two humans along with all the greasy air.

  Alex wasn’t going to give it the chance. He slid his hand up into his sleeve, and Rhonda did the same in hers. Mittened, they gripped the handle together.

  “Pull,” Rhonda said. The tornado drifted away again, all the way to the floor’s edge.

  “I know,” said Alex.

  Together, they pulled. The handle rose, and three links of an ancient chain came out of the floor. At the same time, the fire cyclone slipped off of the stone platform, and as it did, the darkness erupted with a sound like a thousand falling mattresses. Alex’s eardrums flexed painfully. He gasped for air, but found none. The oxygen was gone. Fire raced away in every direction in a blazing flood. Dozens of towering firenadoes leapt up out of the torrents of flame.

  Beneath him, stones crunched and shifted. Alex felt them shiver and grind and then recede into a stairwell beneath him.

  Alex and Rhonda, and a smoking buffalo coat, tumbled down hot stairs.

  10

  Gathering

  THE STREETS OF PARIS WERE AWASH WITH ONE SINGULAR unending crowd. Sam, taller than everyone pressing in around him, pushed his way through the mob, fighting his way toward a fountain in the center of a large square. His scaled arms led the way, slithering through gaps and widening a path broad enough for Sam’s shoulders.

  Behind him, Glory was gripping a fistful of Sam’s jacket between his shoulder blades, dragging in his wake. The constant tug told him that he still hadn’t lost her. Finally reaching the fountain, Sam climbed up onto the edge of the pool and turned around. The extra height gave him a clear view over the sea of heads and hand-painted placards and banners made from bed sheets. He had never been in a crowd so large . . . or so angry. Murmuring rage hung in the air like invisible fog, and it made Sam’s heart race. Something big had happened here. Something political.

  Glory grabbed Sam’s right hand and Speck helped him pull her up beside him. Brushing back her snow-white hair, she squinted at the signs.

  Torn sheets were strung between broomsticks. Tricolor flags were waving. Butcher paper and boards and effigies in nooses were swinging from poles. Slogans had been painted everywhere in red.

  Mort à l’Espagne!

  On les aura!

  Vive la France!

  Mort à l’Espagne!

  On les aura!

  Mort à l’Espagne!

  Mort à l’Espagne et à l’Allemagne!

  “Death to Spain,” Glory said. “Death to Spain and Germany. Whatever Alex did has already been done and Spain is taking the blame. When this all rolls forward into the present . . . I don’t even want to know what it will mean.”

  “Let’s just worry about finding him right now,” Sam said. “Then we’ll see if we can glue Humpty-Dumpty back together again.”

  “If you know that story,” Glory said, “you wouldn’t make that reference. Unless you’re trying to fill me with despair on purpose.”

  “Always my goal,” said Sam. “You know me.” He tugged the broken pocket watch out of his jeans and let it dangle against his leg. Glory watched it.

  “He’s not here,” she said. “Dervish has already moved him along.”

  Glory snapped her wrist like she was cracking an invisible whip. Black sand poured out of her palm and ran down into the fountain behind her.

  “Excuse me!” Glory yelled. “Step back, please!”

  Angry men and women turned and looked up at her from the street below. Others, currently sharing the fountain rim with Sam and Glory, leered at her from the sides.

  “Pardon!” she shouted raising her hands to shoo the crowd back. “I just don’t want to cut anybody in half!”

  One man started shouting at Glory, pointing and spitting. Sam didn’t know French, but he was pretty sure he was listening to curse words. But everyone else seemed to have noticed the sand pouring from Glory’s hand.

  Eyes widened. Whispers raced through the crowd and more heads turned.

  “Oh, great,” Glory said.

  “Just do it,” said Sam. “They’ll scoot back.”

  Glory tugged Sam’s watch free, dropped it onto her foot, and slid it nearly three feet to the side. Then she swung her hand above her head and the sand hissed and then hummed, melting into a black glass blade like a reaper’s scythe. Finally, the blade sang like crystal, trailing a windy storm of sand
behind it.

  Men splashed into the fountain to get away. A woman screamed. The crowd scrambled back.

  Glory stepped closer to Sam, tightened the spin of her arm above her head, and then snapped it down.

  Together, the two of them stood alone inside a cylinder of cloudy glass. The only sound was Glory’s quickened breathing.

  “That never gets old,” Sam said. “But was there a plan to go along with this?” Reaching out, he knocked on the glass with a knuckle. The motion of the crowd outside was now so slow they seemed frozen, statues mouthing words that would take days to finish. Flags and banners were suddenly as rigid as wire on the wind.

  “Just keep your eyes on the watch,” Glory said. “This is like your plan, but improved.” She spiked her reaper’s blade into the glass above her head, and it quickened at its touch.

  Sam crouched while Glory worked, staring at the watch just on the other side of the molten glass. Glory swung her arm like she was working a lasso and the cylinder began to turn counterclockwise. The crowd outside suddenly began to move in reverse. Faster and faster, men and women marched backward. The flood of anger receded, reversing course, thinning, and finally disappearing.

  And the watch was still.

  Night rose. Day fell. Night rose, and day fell again. The streets outside were full of reversing carriages, pushed by the rumps of horses galloping backward. And then Sam saw the broken watch chain jump.

  “Hold up!” Sam yelled and Glory stopped, breathing hard. “It moved, but barely.”

  Glory switched directions, rotating the glass clockwise now, far more slowly. Still crouching, leaning across her, Sam hooked Speck and his right arm around the back of her knees.

  “There!” Sam whooped. The chain had jumped again. Glory slowly wound the cylinder back until the watch chain moved, and then she stopped, leaving it still in the air.

  “That’s not very much time,” she said. “How long was he here? Two minutes? Somewhere in this huge city? And he changed everything?”