Free Empire of Bones by N. D. Wilson

ago. Only Nolan, lean and pale and strong like a whip, was capable of blending in with mortals, of making himself seem light enough for this world. At least if he wasn’t angry and if you avoided looking into his ancient eyes, layered by time like limestone, and polished by trouble. When Cyrus entered the lodge, Nolan was the last transmortal he noticed. His old roommate from the Polygon had a small smirk and he was leaning back in a chair with his partially closed eyes on Gil. Gil, his ancient rival, the hero he had robbed and who had cursed him with his peeling serpentine skin. Nolan yawned and looked away from Gil to watch the slightly pimply Dennis Gilly, who was off in a corner, wearing short shorts, high striped socks, a head bandage that tufted his brown hair straight up, and a damp lightning newt shirt. He was attempting to copy an abdominal workout from a dusty booklet.
    Dennis looked up and waved at Cyrus. Cyrus nodded, but his attention shifted quickly.
    One end of the room was dominated by a huge stone fireplace full of cold ash. A small bed sat beside it, tidilymade, and clothes were stacked neatly on top of it. The other end opened into a large kitchen. Cyrus could hear Rupert’s voice coming from somewhere, but he was more interested in the walls than in where Rupert might be.
    Old photos striped the lodge in rows. Men and women in faded color smiled on mountaintops, dove from cliffs, swam underwater behind fat-bodied sharks. Cyrus paused in front of two photos that hung together. A tall black teenager and a tall white teenager stood on opposite ends of a canoe, holding a green flag with a white lightning bolt tadpole between them. In the background, Cyrus could see the camp, the tidy cabins, the stream, and the meadow where the tilt-rotor plane now sat. The boys were both shirtless and muscled like young Olympians, and they were far from serious. The photo had captured them mid-laughter, mid-war—tugging on the flag, rocking the canoe with their bare feet, struggling to balance.
    Cyrus stared at the younger version of his father, at the taut lines in his arms, at the blur of his smile, a little too quick for the camera. Then he studied the young Rupert Greeves. Rupert looked more determined, more insistent, and a little more likely to topple. But what struck Cyrus the most was that this Rupert had no scars. The boys were undamaged, ready for life and laughter and adventure. Now one was dead, and the other carried enough scars for three lifetimes.
    Antigone stepped up next to Cyrus. Together they studied the next photograph.
    Rupert Greeves and their father, now years older, stood shoulder to shoulder. They looked lean and sickly; their clothes were in tatters and their beards were ratty and out of control. Behind them, green cliff walls climbed up and out of view. Out of focus in the background, there was a stone structure like a ziggurat. Rupert’s face was serious and his eyes hard. He had one arm extended, and a huge dragonfly was perched on his wrist like a falcon. Beside him, Lawrence Smith was grinning. He was leaning away from Rupert slightly, toward a girl with deep-olive skin and wide dark eyes. She was wearing a white dress intricately embroidered with swooping red and blue swirls that looked half bird and half wind. Her jet hair was pulled tight and wound into a tower on the back of her head. She wasn’t smiling, but the corners of her mouth were tugging up as if she was about to.
    She looked almost exactly like Antigone.
    “Crazy, right?”
    Dan’s voice made Cyrus jump. He turned to see his older brother standing with his mother leaning on his arm. Her eyes were on the picture, too, and there was nothing tentative about her smile now.
    “Mom,” Cyrus said. He glanced back at the picture. “You’re so …”
    “Young?” his mother asked. “Frightened? In love with the crazy blond boy beside me?”
    “So beautiful,” Antigone said.
    “So Antigone,” Cyrus said at the same