MORTAL COILS (20 page)

On
one side there were alcoves with works of art: a Greek vase; a bronze
Babylonian winged bull; and a life-size Chinese clay Han warrior.

These
relics sat protected from the salt air behind glass, which is where the past
belonged: contained and protected, but with an understanding that it was dead
and too fragile to be touched.

Audrey
knew that too many of her kind dwelled on ritual, superstition, and the old
ways—when all their concerns ought to be firmly fixed upon the future.

The
other side of the walkway was open to the sea. Water churned upon the rocks
below in sympathy to her agitation.

“They
will be safe where they are?” she asked Henry.

“Of
course,” he said, feigning offense. “You have my most solemn word. They will be
treated as if they were my own children.”

Audrey
halted and frowned.

“I
mean,” he said, “better than my own.”

Henry
had had two sons. Neither had lived long . . . or well.

She
continued walking, quickening her pace. “Remind me why I didn’t kill you?”

He
ignored this and said with sobriety, “They are safe for now, but I cannot
guarantee this after the Council’s interview.”

“Interrogation,”
she corrected.

“As
you say.”

A
balcony jutted over the cliff, and Audrey paused there and let the sea spray
her face and the winds ruffle her short hair. She inhaled. The Aegean was
swirls of turquoise and foam.

“So
unlike the Pacific,” she said. “I have missed these waters.”

Henry
joined her, perching precariously on the railing. “I’m sorry that you left us.
I know you had to . . . try I mean.” He looked at the water a hundred meters
below. “I’m sorry that you return to us under a cloud. I will stand with you
through this trial.”

Audrey
took a careful look at the Fool. He was as handsome and as polished as sterling.
He was the closest thing she ever had to a brother, yet that meant so many
different things to their people . . . none of which translated into trust. She
loved him, but Henry had to be handled as one would a rabid wolf.

It
was ironic that he of all people offered to stand by her. Henry continued his
adventures and sexual exploits without consideration of their ramifications.
His greatest gift seemed to be escaping the responsibility of his actions.
Whereas Eliot and Fiona were the result of a single mistake: long ago a man and
woman thought they loved each other.

It
was a mistake Audrey had devoted the last sixteen years of her life trying to
resolve.

She
turned away from the comfort of the sea and continued along the walkway.

They
turned a corner and faced the arching bridge that connected Henry’s estate to a
finger of stone rising from the water. Unlike the surrounding white cliffs,
this stone was black.

On
top were low hills and an orchard of wind-bent olive trees. Nestled in the
center were a series of descending concentric rings, an amphitheater. Audrey
had seen Sophocles and Shakespeare here and listened to the poetry of Jim
Morrison under the stars.

There
would be no poetry today.

Instead
there would only be the Council, judgment, and a good chance that blood would
be spilled upon the ancient stones.

Audrey
hesitated before stepping onto the bridge.

Was
she ready? After sixteen years of hiding and restraint? It was such a short time
. . . but so much had changed. Could she face them? If this didn’t go her way,
was she ready to kill Henry and the others? All the others?

She
decided in an instant: if Eliot’s and Fiona’s lives were at stake, yes, she
could. She would.

Henry
spoke and the winds seemed to tear the words from his lips. “I urge caution, at
least until you see who is here.”

That
sounded very much like a threat from nonthreatening Henry. She didn’t like
that.

She
stepped onto the bridge. There was no going back now. The winds ripped at her
clothes and made the stones in the span resonate as she walked over them.

As
she set foot on the sliver of land, the winds died.

It
was like a sealed chamber, silent; the air was not only still, it felt dead
upon her skin.

Audrey
held her head high and descended the steps of the amphitheater wearing her
usual mask of ironic composure.

Waiting
for her, sitting on the inner ring, were four people.

Her
eyes fell upon a man with broad shoulders, wearing a leisure suit and white
shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his massive chest. His face was chiseled and
tanned. Long, dark hair curled about his shoulders, and a Genghis Khan mustache
draped over his square chin. He was ferociously attractive . . . not that he
understood relationships of that nature. He was Aaron.

Audrey
instantly understood Henry’s warning.

Aaron
could stop her if she moved against the Council. Few could match her skills. He
was one of them. If they clashed, they would both likely die. And with her
dead, the children would be unprotected.

They
had checked her power.

Aaron’s
black eyes met her steel gaze with a mixture of appreciation and determination.
He understood that she understood that he was willing to die if required.

She
exhaled, controlling her fear and rage, trying to keep her head figuratively
and literally.

How
had they made Aaron part of this? Bribes, blackmail, or bullying? He hated the
Council’s politics almost as much as she did.

On
Aaron’s right was an old man, his head ringed with a circle of snow-white hair.
He wore flip-flops, shorts, and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. He sat cross-legged,
and about him were scattered notebooks and astrological charts. He smiled and
nodded with a practiced naÎveté that Audrey knew he had never possessed.

This
was Cornelius, a perennial member of the League Council, one of the wisest
among their numbers. He kept that wisdom to himself, however, for his own
inscrutable purposes.

Audrey
considered him neither ally nor enemy.

The
man on Aaron’s left was Gilbert, an athletic man with golden hair and beard. He
stood to greet her, his thick arms thrown wide for an embrace.

Audrey
held up one hand and stopped him.

It
was genuine affection, she had no doubt, but she could not tolerate another’s
touch now. Gilbert had once loved her, and it would be all too easy to let
herself fall into his strength . . . and let go of hers.

He
nodded and bowed, seeming to understand.

Gilbert
occasionally dabbled in politics, but never seriously. He rarely took anything
seriously. He would only be here to debate such a serious matter if he had been
pressed into service.

He
looked uneasily over his shoulder at the fourth member of the Council: a woman.

She
sat apart from the men. Her age could have been twenty or forty; she had a
timeless beauty that seemed to defy age—as long as she hid it with makeup. She
wore a black dress with embroidered red roses. A small black hat sat upon her
dyed red hair. Her face was pale, lips the same rose red as in her dress, and
light brown eyes set into an appraising gaze that gave away nothing.

She
was Audrey’s younger sister, Lucia—lovely, hateful, and scheming.

Audrey
already knew what she was thinking. The black dress and hat gave it away. Lucia
wore her emotions upon her sleeve: the black dress was for a funeral.

“I
am so glad you could join us this morning, Sister.” Lucia’s voice was smooth
and musical. Men adored it, but it grated upon Audrey’s ears. “And the
children?” Lucia asked Henry.

“Being
fed and safely sequestered on the estate,” he said.

“Good,”
she purred. “I cannot wait to meet them.”

The
enmity between Audrey and her sister was timeless. And unlike Eliot and Fiona,
they would not be settling their differences with a game of vocabulary insult.

Lucia
had to be after the children. Audrey took two steps toward her. She vowed if
any were to die today, Lucia would be the first.

She
then noticed something. “There are only five of you. Where are the other two
Council members?”

“En
route,” Lucia assured her. “We decided to start as this matter is most
pressing.”

Henry
left Audrey’s side and sat between Lucia and the others. “We do have a quorum,”
he said.

Technically
this was true. Five Council members could pass binding resolutions. This was
rarely done, however, as it was perceived as subverting the normal process, one
that had been designed to be thoughtful and slow.

Lucia
would never attempt such a thing unless she knew the outcome. She had to have
leverage on Aaron and Gilbert. Henry’s allegiance, however, was like the winds,
ever changing and unpredictable. And old Cornelius would be impervious to her
charms or blackmail.

That
gave Lucia three out of five votes. So was this already decided, and debate
merely a formality, an opportunity for her to watch Audrey squirm?

Not
if she could outmaneuver her little sister.

“Let
us begin.” Lucia rang a tiny silver bell. “I call this session of the League
Council of Elders to order. All come to heed, petition, and be judged. Narro,
audio, perceptum.”15

“I
move we skip the reading of last session’s minutes,” Henry said with hopeful
raised eyebrows.

“Seconded,”
Aaron immediately added.

“So
moved,” Lucia noted, and set her hands upon her lap. She looked meaningfully at
the Council members and then at Audrey. “Today we seek guidance on how to deal
with a delicate matter. My oldest sister has in her care two children of
questionable origins.”

Audrey
didn’t like this dancing about, nor did she appreciate the not-so-subtle
insults. She kicked sand at her sister, showering her dress.

Audrey
caught Aaron covering his lips to hide his pleasure at this act of rebellion.

“Too
many words fill your mouth,” Audrey said. “Simply make your proposition: you
want them killed.”

Lucia
smiled—all fake sweetness. “Still the knife, Sister? Cutting to the heart of
the matter and ignoring all the nuance of a situation.”

Audrey
had a smile of her own for her sister. This smile, however, was

15.
Latin for “Speak, listen, learn.”—Editor.

one
born from imagining cutting out Lucia’s heart and dropping it onto the lap of
her funeral dress—an artistic still life of rose red and fresh blood.

Lucia’s
smile withered.

Gilbert
asked, “Are they of age? Before I judge them, I would know if they are mere
children.”

“We
decide this before they reach adulthood,” Lucia said. “That is when the trouble
begins.”

Henry
chimed in, “Their ages are irrelevant. Others will take action before such
considerations as puberty.”

Aaron
crossed his arms over his chest at the mention of these “others,” and old
Cornelius looked up from his notebooks, worry creasing his already wrinkled
brow.