The Drowned Vault by N. D. Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

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
    I N THE BEGINNING , Polygoners had been a self-imposed nickname, a point of upside-down pride, the only way Cyrus and Antigone could make exile in the Polygon seem like a cool thing. Neither of them could say when it had become something more. In a tight moment, they had promised membership to Dennis in order to keep him motivated and unafraid. He had invited Hillary Drake, no doubt in an attempt to impress the pretty, wide-eyed girl and prove that he wasn’t simply a washed-out Acolyte-turned-porter.
    James Axelrotter, the incredibly young zookeeper—Jax to anyone who really knew him—was officially included, even though he hardly ever made the meetings. The Crypto wing of the zoo seemed to be in a perpetual state of emergency, and little Jax was the only one willing to set foot inside it.
    Diana Boone had been included because Diana was somehow always included, even though she had already achieved the rank of Explorer within the O of B. Shesimply liked the Smiths. Nolan had been included because, even though he had no interest in the Order and was an antisocial transmortal who sloughed off his skin like a snake, he had been the Smiths’ first roommate, he had helped them stay alive, and he was the only member who still lived in the Polygon.
    Gunner, the tall driver who had first raced the Smiths to Ashtown, had come to the meetings until he’d been sent back to Texas. And Antigone had insisted that they include the perpetually lonely Oliver Laughlin, grandson to the now-dead Brendan. Somehow she’d found a way to actually feel bad for the boy responsible for sticking them under the 1914 standards when they’d first arrived. If he hadn’t, they never would have been sent down to live in the Polygon in the first place.
    Oliver had not attended long. He hadn’t liked being in a club with members of “the understaff,” and Cyrus hadn’t really liked being in a club with Oliver and his perpetually curling lip. Once the Brendan died, Oliver had announced his plans to leave Ashtown and the O of B completely. And he had. No one had seen him in months.
    Cyrus looked around the room and yawned. As crazy as his day had been, and for all that was happening around Ashtown, the meeting wasn’t amounting to much. Jax hadn’t come, and Hillary was already gone, not that sheever really said anything. She would be cleaning out Acolyte rooms all night, preparing for the anticipated flood of arrivals tomorrow. Nolan was lying on his back with his hands folded on his stomach and his eyes closed. He was wearing his typical oversize fatigue trousers, belted with a rope, and a tight ashen tank that left his knotted paper-pale arms bare. His hair was cropped tight and uneven, and his smooth face looked strangely young when he wasn’t angry and his eyes were closed. But when his eyes opened, smooth and ancient, worn by the years like two rocks tossed in the riverbed of centuries, then his age filled the room. Looking in his eyes was like looking into a pair of forgotten tombs, dark and unlit and impossible to explore or understand.
    Beside Nolan, Dennis sat with his legs crossed neatly in front of him. His bowler hat was on his right knee but had left its creased imprint on his hair and forehead. Antigone and Diana were up, examining the walls and talking about paint color and how to get furniture.
    Cyrus looked at Dennis and then at Nolan. His back hurt. His head was drumming, and his limbs all felt like splitting rubber bands. What was the point of all of this? Why had he even bothered