Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

“Alcatraz,” Bastille said. “Please. My mother…”

I glanced at her. Bastille is strong: Her toughness isn’t an act, like it is with some people. Yet I’ve seen her really, truly worried on a number of occasions. It’s always when someone she loves is in danger.

I wasn’t sure if Draulin deserved that loyalty, but I wasn’t going to question a girl’s love for her mother.

“Right,” I said. “Sorry. We’ll come back for this later.”

Bastille nodded. “You want me to go scout?”

“Yeah. Be careful. I can feel Kiliman ahead.”

She needed no further warning. I turned toward Australia. “How quickly can you fall asleep?”

“Oh, in about five minutes.”

“Get to it, then,” I said.

“Who should I think about?” she asked. “That’ll be the person I look like when I wake up.” She grimaced at that concept.

“It depends,” I said. “How flexible is your Talent? What kinds of things can you become, if you try?”

“I once dreamed about a hot day and I woke up as a Popsicle.”

Well, I thought, that’s one thing she’s got on me. Either way, it meant that the Talent was pretty darn flexible—more so than Kaz had given it credit.

Bastille was back a few seconds later. “He’s there,” she whispered. “Talking into a Courier’s Lens, but not making much progress because of the library’s interference. I think he’s seeking direction about what to do with you.”

“Your mother?”

“Tied up on the side of the room,” Bastille said. “They’re in a large, circular chamber with scroll cases running along the outside. Alcatraz … he’s got Kaz too, tied up with my mother. Kaz can’t use his Talent if he can’t move.”

“Your mother?” I asked. “How’s she look?”

Bastille’s expression grew dark. “It was hard to tell from the distance, but I could see that she hasn’t been healed yet. Kiliman must still have her Fleshstone.” She pulled her dagger from its sheath.

I grimaced, then glanced at Australia.

“So, who am I supposed to look like again?” she asked, yawning. To her credit, she already looked drowsy.

“Put away that dagger, Bastille,” I said. “We’re not going to need it.”

“It’s the only weapon we have!” she protested.

“Actually it’s not. We’ve got something far, far better.…”

* * *

Are you sure I can’t stop the book here? I mean, this next part isn’t really all that important. Really.

All right, fine.

Bastille and I dashed into the room. It was like she had described—wide and circular, with a domed roof and racks of scrolls around the outside. I didn’t need the Discerner’s Lenses to tell that these scrolls were old. It was a wonder they hadn’t fallen apart.

A smattering of ghostly Curators moved through the chamber, several of them whispering tempting words to Kaz and Draulin. The captives lay on the ground—Kaz looking furious, Draulin looking sickly and dazed—directly opposite the doorway Bastille and I came in through.

Kiliman stood near the captives, Crystin sword on an ancient reading table beside him. He looked up when we entered, seeming completely shocked. Even if he’d anticipated trouble, he obviously hadn’t been expecting me to charge into the room head-on.

To be honest, I was a little surprised myself.

Kaz began to struggle even harder, and a Curator floated toward him, looming menacingly. Kiliman smiled, flesh lips rising on one side of his twisted face, metal ones rising on the other side. Gears, bolts, and screws shifted around his single, beady glass eye. The Scrivener’s Bone immediately grabbed Draulin’s crystal sword in one hand, then he pulled out a Lens with the other.

“Thank you, Smedry,” he said, “for saving me the trouble of having to go and fetch you.”

We charged. To this day, that is probably one of the most ridiculous sights in which I’ve ever participated. Two kids, barely into our teens, carrying no visible weapons, charging directly at a seven-foot-tall half-human Librarian with a massive crystalline sword.

We reached him at the same time—Bastille had paced herself to keep from outrunning me—and I felt my heart begin to flutter with anxiety.

What was I doing?

Kiliman swung. At me, of course. I threw myself into a roll, feeling the sword whoosh over my head. At that moment—while Kiliman was distracted—Bastille whipped a boot out of her pack and threw it directly at Kiliman’s head.

It hit, sole first. The Grappler’s Glass immediately locked onto the glass of Kiliman’s left eye. The front tip of the boot extended over the bridge of his nose, jutting out past the side of his face, almost completely obscuring the view out his flesh eye as well.

The Librarian stood for a moment, seeming completely dumbfounded. That was probably the proper reaction for one who had just gotten hit in the face by a large, magical boot. Then he cursed and reached up awkwardly, trying to pull the boot off his face.

I scrambled to my feet. Bastille whipped out the second boot, then threw it—her aim dead on—at the pouch on Kiliman’s belt. The boot stuck to the glass inside, and Bastille yanked hard on the tripwire in her hands—which was tied to the boot.