The Dragon's Tooth

EPILOGUE

IN A COLD, dark room, Dr. Phoenix sat at his desk, chewing thoughts, digesting dreams. A smooth black tooth chilled his one remaining palm. His soiled white coat had only one full arm, and so did he. Despite every spell and charm and oily medicine, the other hand had drifted away. In ash.

Smiths. He hated all Smiths.

He ran a finger across the tip of the Reaper’s Blade. He had done much with it already. He had planted many seeds. Soon the harvest would come.

This would be a year the world would remember.

Five minutes later, Phoenix stepped down a flight of tight stairs and pulled open a heavy metal door. Frozen air flowed out around his crippled legs, and he hobbled in, passing between stacks of long metal boxes, each with a glass door in its side. Naked shapes were visible behind them.

Finally, he stopped, breathing hard, puffing vapor.

Behind a glass door, three boxes up from the floor, lay the lifeless body of a tall man with blond hair. His puckered bullet wounds were pale. His dead lips and ears and eyelids were blue. His name was written in ink on a small card attached to the glass.

LAWRENCE JOHN SMITH

END OF BOOK ONE

Obsecro ut haec recites: Jam incipio calcare orbem terrarum, colere agrestia, jugum injicere maribus quemadmodum antea fecit frater meus, sanctus Brendanus. Nec prae timore avertam gradum ab umbris nec mea lumina a luce. Secundum imperia Procuratorum me geram, nec quicquam secretum ab Sagis habebo. Sint stellae mihi duces et Dominus me servet semper. Ceterum, in Bibliotheca inhaustu abstinebo fumorum.