MORTAL COILS (26 page)

“Yes
. . . and no,” Grandmother replied. “Their heroic trials will determine your
lineage. If you succeed and are judged part of the family, then you have a
chance. I can protect you while you learn to protect yourselves from the others.”

“What
if we don’t pass?” Fiona whispered.

Grandmother
said nothing and her gaze turned steely.

Fiona
looked at Eliot. Tension creased her forehead; she was probably feeling the
same thing he was: trapped.

“I
don’t understand why we’re going through this,” Eliot protested. “There are
birth certificates and DNA tests that can prove whom we’re related to.”

20.
“Leaf of blue-veined and white pucker bells be portents of eternal sleep. Taken
seed from devil’s spore, swollen fruit of Swine Bells brings the terror of
night and Angel of Death. Fields of vile bell be purged by flame and salt.”
Father Sildas Pious, Mythica Improbiba (translated version), c. thirteenth
century.

“Of
course there are,” Grandmother said. “The family already knows where you come
from. They are not concerned with that. They want to know what you will be when
you grow up, part of this family, or . . .” She shook her head, unable to
finish.

“Or
part of our father’s family,” Eliot said. “The one you’ve been feuding with?”

A
mix of annoyance and pride rippled across Grandmother’s features, and that was
enough for him to know he’d hit on something important.

Fiona
pressed for more as she scooted to the edge of the love seat. “Why are they
like this? I thought families were supposed to take care of each other.”

“Normal
families do,” Grandmother replied, “or they can. That has never been our way.
In this family the weak are leveraged by the strong. Vendetta and murder are
more a part of your heritage than any DNA. Only the strong survived, and only
then with skill and some luck.”

“Couldn’t
we hide?” Fiona asked, an edge of desperation creeping into her voice. “Like
before Uncle Henry found us?”

Grandmother’s
face smoothed into its normal stony inscrutability. “It has been a very long
night. You must be rested for whatever tomorrow brings. Cecilia, bring tea.”

Cee,
still in the doorway, vanished and returned with a serving tray and two
steaming cups.

“Drink,”
Grandmother ordered. “And then to bed.”

Eliot
wanted more answers. He was familiar, though, with this routine: Grandmother
shutting down, making them do homework or chores or go to bed.

Fiona
took her cup first and obediently sipped.

“It’s
the perfect temperature,” Cee told Eliot.

He
sighed, took the cup, and sipped the blend of chamomile, spearmint, and honey.
It was good, and before he realized it, he’d drunk it all.

Grandmother
said, “We can discuss this more when the sun rises.” She beckoned to them for a
good-night hug. Eliot and Fiona received a token embrace, then were ushered out
of Grandmother’s office.

She
slid the doors shut behind them.

Cecilia
walked them down the hall. “Sleep is best. Rest for the body and soul. And no
eavesdropping,” she warned them. “Your Grandmother is in no mood for your usual
tricks.”

They
halted at their bedroom doors. Fiona shot Eliot a look, then nodded toward the
floor.

“Good
night,” Eliot said to Cee, and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“G’night,”
Fiona echoed.

Cee
shooed them into their rooms.

Only
after Eliot had closed his door did he hear Cee’s steps retreating down the
hallway.

He
waited a moment until he couldn’t hear her anymore, then moved to his bed. He
pulled a wool blanket off and, draping it over his head, lay flat on the floor,
his face over the vent.

“You
there?” he whispered.

Fiona’s
tinny voice drifted from the grate: “Yeah.”

Eliot
had a million things to talk about, but he’d start with the obvious: “You
okay?”

“I
don’t know. I feel like I’m going to throw up—no, like I’m going to wake up
from a dream and then throw up. You?”

“I
feel like that time I hit my head on the sink at Ringo’s. You think it’s true?
Everything Henry and Grandmother said?”

“It’s
so weird, it has to be true. And when has Grandmother not told us the absolute
truth?”

“Well,
she sure has kept secrets,” Eliot shot back. “Homicidal cousins? One side of
the family at war with the other? Us in danger our entire lives?” This isn’t what
he wanted to talk about, so he tried to change the subject. “I still don’t
understand the ride to Uncle Henry’s island.”

“Wait
. . . so you don’t think we can trust Grandmother?” An edge crept into Fiona’s
voice.

“Of
course we can trust her . . . Maybe. I don’t know. She said not to trust anyone
in the family. I mean, she could have really killed that Mr. Welmann guy.”

A
wave of heaviness passed through Eliot’s body: Cee’s chamomile tea working on
him.

“Whatever
she’s done,” Fiona said, “she’s done it to protect us. Can’t you see that?”

“I
just wish she’d told us earlier so we could have figured this out for
ourselves.”

“Figure
out what?” Fiona asked angrily. “If we’d been kids when we met Uncle Henry and
the others, what then? Kidnapped? Killed? Worse?”

Just
as Eliot had known Uncle Henry was part of the family when they’d first met, he
now felt an instinctual mistrust of him and the others. Just as when he saw a
brightly colored spider; it was pretty, but he knew it had a venomous bite.

“I
guess so,” Eliot replied. “I just want to think for ourselves—not take
everything Grandmother says as the absolute truth.”

“Think
whatever you want, but Grandmother has always taken care of us. She always
will.” A long sigh echoed through the heater vent. “I’m tired. I’m going to
sleep. We can figure out what we’re doing in the morning.”

It
was after midnight and technically it was morning. Fiona should have known
that. Eliot felt a spike of irrational irritation that his sister was being so
stupid.

He
wanted to talk more, but Fiona’s presence on the other side vanished, and a
hollowness filled the vent.

“Fiona?”

Neither
of them just left a conversation like that—not without a quip, some obscure
reference. But she hadn’t called him so much as a Stapelia gigantea.21

Eliot
wanted to shout through the vent for her to come back, but that would only
attract Grandmother’s attention and might get them a new rule prohibiting
“clandestine intraventilation communications.”

He
got up and rolled onto his bed, not bothering to take off his clothes.

Eliot
stared into the darkness and wondered about his father’s side of the family.
Why was no one talking about them? Uncle Henry, Aunt Lucia, and possibly
Grandmother had murdered. Could the other family be somehow . . . worse?

21.
Stapelia gigantea, the zombie or starfish flower, is a succulent plant native
to South Africa. The large starfish-shaped flowers exude a “rotting flesh” odor
that attracts flies to transfer its pollen. St. Hawthorn’s Collected Reference
of Horticulture in the New World and Beyond, 1897 (Taylor Institution Library
Rare Book Collection, Oxford University)

17

THE
MANUFACTURE OF TEMPTATION

Beal
Buan, Lord of All That Flies, piloted his Sikorsky S-92 helicopter into an
updraft and soared over the icy Swiss Alps. The sun warmed his face, and he
floated beyond all cares.

In
that instant he was free from his responsibilities as chairman of the Board. Of
course, without his iron rule they would have fallen upon one another in open
civil war. He was, as they say, a necessary evil.

He
drew strength from the air, drew it deep into his center, and cherished the moment
of peace. Beal then spotted his destination and the moment passed.

He
tapped Uri, who sat in the copilot’s seat, and pointed.

Nestled
upon a rocky ledge a thousand meters below was a fortress with high spires and
stained-glass windows that would have looked more at home in a snow globe.

“Le
Château de Douleur Délicieux,” he said into his throat microphone.

Uri
furrowed his brow, his French apparently rusty, then said, “The Castle of
Delicious Pain?”

“It
was an abbey in the Middle Ages. We converted the facilities and monks to
bolster our Foods Division.”

Uri
grunted and looked uneasy in the turbulence.

Beal
had gladly accepted Uri’s service; he was an unparalleled intelligence
operative. But Beal also knew Uri was part of some trap Sealiah had set. He
welcomed the opportunity to expose her treachery. For too long she had hidden
in the shadows of the family, gathering power.

Golden
eagles flanked the Sikorsky, gliding at a discreet distance from its whirling
rotors.

Beal
smiled at the raptors who had come to be his escort. The creatures of the air
were the only things that had never betrayed him.

The
birds scattered, signaling a change in the winds.

Beal
braced.

The
helicopter plunged and spun in a chilled downdraft.

Uri
clutched at his harness.

Beal
released the controls and let the craft pitch toward a rock wall. Granite and
ice and sky flashed by in a dizzying blur.

He
laughed and rammed the power to full. The helicopter’s nose snapped up; the
craft rotated once and featherlike touched upon the landing pad outside the
castle’s walls.

“You
will come to trust my maneuvering skills,” he assured Uri, hoping his double
meaning was clear.

“Yes,
sir,” Uri said, and smoothed out the wrinkles in his black wind-breaker.

Beal
looked into the cargo bay. Pallets of plastic-wrapped burlap sacks sat waiting.
“See to the beans. Make sure they are untouched by human hands.”

Uri
gave him a slight bow, and Beal noticed that his ever-present emerald skull pin
was now a blue star sapphire. He let the minuscule size of his emblem pass. In
time Uri would learn to love him as much as his former mistress.

Beal
removed his sunglasses and checked his leather jacket, sky-blue silk shirt, and
polished boots. Appearance was important to one’s underlings. Image was
substance.

He
jumped onto the landing pad.

The
master confectioner was there to greet him. The man’s head and eyebrows had
been shaved so no stray hairs could accidentally fall into his creations. His
skin was so taut it gave him a near skeletal appearance. He wore the black robe
of a Roman Catholic monk, but carried neither rosary nor crucifix; instead a
silver chain and water-blue stone encircled his neck.

“My
lord, Mr. Baun.” The master confectioner knelt and kissed Beal’s ring.

Beal
accepted the gesture of supplication and then, annoyed at the delay, withdrew
his hand. “All is ready?”

The
master confectioner flinched as if he’d been struck. “Yes, my lord. Save the
beans. The quantity of silver palm required is beyond our means.”