The Dragon's Tooth Read Online Free PDF Page B

behind him, leaning against a lamp.
    “Not a great idea,” Antigone said. She lifted a black projector off a shelf and set it on a wobbly TV tray. “Someone like that, you don’t steal their keys. You don’t steal anything.”
    “Did Dan tell you more about him?”
    Antigone shook her head. “Just what you heard. He thinks he remembers the guy at Christmas once, but he’s not sure. And he thinks Dad chased him off when we were little.”
    “I should look through his camper.”
    “Worse idea.” Antigone glanced up from her work. “Go give the man his keys and get some clean clothes. You’re not staying in here until you’ve showered and changed.”
    “Whatever,” Cyrus said. The key ring felt strangely light in his hands, and he couldn’t stop himself from fiddling with it. There were only two keys hanging from their own smaller rings—the long gold one with a square head that he’d used to start the truck, and a shorter, round-headed silver key with a green tarnished head and a gleaming, polished shaft. More interesting than the keys were three large charms. Cyrus fingered each of them. A pearl, or something like one, moon white and gripped by a tiny silver claw. Beside it, a piece of reddish wood, worn smooth and polished with handling. And then the largest and heaviest of the three, the one that had looked at first glance like a silver animal tooth. On second glance and third handling, it had become more interesting. The silver tooth was actually a small sheath on a tiny hinge, hiding a real tooth within.
    Cyrus popped it open one more time and ran his thumb along the edge of what he assumed was a large, petrified shark tooth—black, smooth, and cold. It could have been stone.
    His thumb tingled. It wasn’t the keys, it was the tooth that chilled his skin.
    Cyrus snapped the sheath shut, dropped onto a bed, and lobbed the keys up against the ceiling. A cloud of white paint powder and dust ghosted down, and the key ring bounced on the bed beside him. William Skelton. What did the old man with the yellow truck really want with his room? What was he doing in there? Room 111 was his, and it had been from the very beginning, ever since the world had ripped the three young Smiths up by their roots.
    When Dan had finally pulled the Red Baron into the Archer’s parking lot for the first time, Antigone had cried. It wasn’t the California house. There were no cliffs. No sea. No father. And a mother in the hospital.
    Ten years old, Cyrus had looked out his car window and seen three 1s together on a door—111—a picture of what was left of his family. It had seemed like a safe number. It had been a safe number. A number not easily divided. And it held two years’ worth of new roots—at least what he hadn’t buried in the pastures and drowned in the streams. Antigone had insisted on taking the room beside him. When he was honest with himself—which didn’t happen often—he was grateful that she had.
    Cyrus looked over at his sister. Two years ago, she’d had long hair. Black glistening braids. It was all pixie cuts now, even though her short hair wouldn’t stay tucked behind her ears and was always falling into her face. Antigone never seemed to do the easy thing. That was his job.
    Cyrus yawned. “I’m starving.”
    “A pocket-size grilled cheese isn’t enough for you?” Antigone had collected a blue collapsible tripod and movie screen from the corner. “Dan offered you waffles. Waffles are unlimited.”
    Cyrus groaned. “I think I’m made of waffles.”
    Room 110 was all Antigone. Like Cyrus, she had lined every bit of the open walls with shelves. Unlike Cyrus, she had actually painted the paneled walls first (pale blue), she actually dusted her shelves, and she actually vacuumed the golden-brown carpet. Cockroaches, ants, and spiders actually died in 110—111 was more like a wildlife preserve—and Antigone had found sheets for herself that were softer than the Archer’s standard polyester