MORTAL COILS (33 page)

It
hadn’t been easy. He had wanted to listen, but he was afraid he’d lose himself
. . . and something a lot weirder than a few dirty plates getting
antiseptically cleaned would occur.

He
added that to the growing list of hard-to-explain things that had happened
recently: the hand he’d seen in the suds before Mike got burned, the gigantic
dog that had chased them, and Uncle Henry’s limousine ride across the world.

“Come
on, Fiona,” he whispered at her door. “Get up.”

If
he waited much longer, Cee or Grandmother would come looking for them.

They’d
be late for Ringo’s, too. Eliot assumed they were working today. Why not?
Grandmother would expect them to work during a ten-point-oh earthquake while
California sank into the Pacific Ocean.

He
cocked his head and listened, now detecting a third voice in the dining room.

Another
relative? He wasn’t about to miss another conversation as he had when Uncle
Henry had arrived.

Eliot
took a deep breath. He wouldn’t need his sister to face them this time. He
marched down the hall.

Grandmother
and Cee sat at opposite ends of the table, and between them was Uncle Henry’s
driver. Only a year or two older than Eliot, he was a head taller and was
twenty pounds heavier. He wore a black leather biker jacket, faded jeans, and
white T-shirt. His hair fell into his eyes as if it had never been brushed.

This
was how Eliot sometime imagined he looked in his daydreams: part pirate, part
secret agent, and all rebel.

“Hi,”
Eliot said. “It’s Robert, right?”

No
one spoke. Robert sat bolt upright, his hands on the table and feet poised on
boot tips. Cee twisted her hands together. Grandmother’s glare was locked onto
the driver—pinning him like a beetle to an insect collection board.

“This
is Mr. Farmington,” Grandmother said.

“‘Robert’
will be just fine, ma’am.”

Eliot
was impressed that he could correct Grandmother. He had a slight accent.
Midwestern? A little German thrown in? Fiona would have been able to figure it
out.

Eliot
held out his hand for Robert to shake.

Robert
looked surprised, but he rose, never taking his eyes off Grandmother, then
grasped Eliot’s hand.

Eliot
briefly wondered what it would have been like to have a twin brother instead of
a sister. Someone not so emotionally volatile. Robert’s grip was politely firm,
but the muscle behind it was iron. If he’d been his brother, there’d likely
have been more physical instead of mental sparring . . . so maybe things were
better the way they were.

“Pleased
to meet you,” Eliot said.

“Likewise.”
Robert examined him and the wariness on Robert’s features softened.

“This
is about the tests, right?” Eliot asked. “Are we beginning?”

Robert
gave a shrug that seemed to say that the situation was far more complicated
than a cool guy such as himself could ever explain—too many words. “I’m here to
meet everyone. Mr. Mimes thought you’d feel more comfortable with me as your
Council messenger.”

When
he said Council, much of his coolness evaporated.

Eliot
remembered something Uncle Henry had said to Grandmother: Kill not the
messenger. Was that what had happen to Mr. Welmann? Had he delivered some
unpleasant news?

“None
of them has courage to face you,” Cee whispered to Grandmother. “So they send a
boy.”

Robert
flushed and worked hard to look neither at Cee or Grandmother as he said, “I
wouldn’t know, ma’am. I just go where I’m told.”

Grandmother
steepled her hands. “Then go. You’ve introduced yourself. You are dismissed. We
have nothing to communicate to the Council at this time.”

He
bowed, acknowledging Grandmother’s order, but remained where he was.

“There
is more?”.

“Yes,
ma’am. Mr. Mimes wanted me to explain the general nature of the trials. He said
that would be only fair.”

“Fair
indeed,” Cee muttered. “Send my lambs to the Wolf for advice.”

Robert’s
jaw clenched as if he were about to say something, but instead he exhaled and
kept his mouth shut.

“I’d
like to hear it,” Eliot said.

Robert
nodded, relieved that at least one person wasn’t giving him a hard time. “The
Council wants the trials to have meaning for you,” he said to Eliot. “I mean
killing Hydras and dragging Cerberus back from hell . . . who cares about those
things these days?”

Robert
halted, looking as if he’d just said something wrong. He dared glance at
Grandmother.

She
nodded and leaned forward. “Continue . . .”

Robert
licked his lips. “So the trials are going to be based on their myths. Urban
legends. Like Bloody Mary in the mirror.”26

“Bloody
who in the what?” Eliot asked.

RULE
55 forbid any reference material on myths and legends like that, urban or
classical. Eliot had a sinking feeling that the Council had picked one of the few
subjects that he and his sister knew nothing about.

“Oh,
dear,” Cee whispered, echoing Eliot’s thoughts.

Grandmother
shot a look that silenced her.

Robert
continued. “They thought it was the only fair thing to do. Mr. Mimes said, ‘The
children’s own mythology will bridge their mundane world to the fantastic where
they belong.’ Or something like that.”

Behind
Eliot, Fiona said, “I don’t think I like Uncle Henry calling me a ‘child.’ ”

Eliot
whirled about.

His
sister looked as if she had just stepped from the shower. Her hair curled
around her face in dark ribbons, not frizzed as usual. She wore her corduroy
pants, work boots, and a green shirt and had a frayed canvas book bag slung
over her shoulder. These were her least geeky clothes.

She
held herself straight and head high and looked confident. She could almost have
been a younger version of Grandmother.

“You
look nice, sweetie,” Cee cooed. The quaver in her voice, however, indicated
otherwise.

26.
A ghost summoned by chanting her name before a mirror often by candlelight
and/or being spun about thirteen times. This spirit has many alleged origins: a
child murderer (or a wrongfully accused child murderer), a witch, even Queen
Mary I. She maims or kills the summoner—although some claim she gives a glimpse
of one’s future husband (or a skull if one is to die before marrying), making
this game popular among adolescent girls. The hallucinations are explained by
suggestion, poor lighting, and the dizzying antics that “prepare” the summoner.
Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 6: Modern Myths, 8th ed.
(Zypheron Press Ltd.).

“Indeed,”
Grandmother remarked without emotion.

Robert
stared, looking Fiona over, then regained his train of thought. “I’m just
telling you what he said, miss.”

“I’m
Fiona.”

She’d
seen him before on the ride to Uncle Henry’s, but Fiona nonetheless offered her
hand as if they’d just met—a gesture halfway between a handshake and a daintily
held out wrist that someone was supposed to kiss.

Why
was she acting so weird all of a sudden? Eliot’s sister didn’t speak to
strangers, especially boys. And never in front of Grandmother.

Robert
took her hand and held it a moment.

Fiona’s
eyebrow quirked up just as Grandmother’s did when she was irritated or
interested.

After
an uncomfortable few seconds of silence, Grandmother said, “Well, Mr.
Farmington, you have come, introduced yourself, and delivered your message. I
think it is time you left.”

He
released Fiona’s hand. “Yes, ma’am. You have my number and e-mail if you need
me.”

Grandmother
narrowed her eyes, which Eliot knew meant that she would not need Robert
Farmington’s services now or anytime in the future.

“I’ll
see you out,” Fiona offered.

“He
doesn’t need help out,” Cee said, covering up her discomfort with a dry laugh.

“It’s
the least we can do,” Fiona said. “Mr. Farmington has come so far to talk to
us.”

Grandmother
gave her a tiny nod.

Fiona
led Robert to the door.

“It
was nice to meet you,” Eliot said.

Robert
gave him a casual salute, then bowed to Cee, then bowed lower to Grandmother.

Fiona
walked him down the hallway and closed the door behind them.

“I
don’t like her alone with that boy,” Cee whispered.

“She
is growing up,” Grandmother replied, and took a sip of tea. “Perhaps she will
be able to find out more. What is sweet tempts the lips, no?”

Growing
up? Is that what Grandmother thought was going on with Fiona? Eliot felt a
dozen different things pulling and pushing on them both, forces he didn’t
understand . . . or like

24

ONE
SMALL, IMPORTANT TRUTH

Fiona
walked Robert to the stairs.

Her
blood was hot and pounded a drumroll on her chest. She had never been so
nervous.

She
was getting used to it, though. All she had to do was hold on . . . and not
slip back into the ground-staring dork she usually was.

She
had stayed awake most of last night, eating the second and third layers from
her heart-shaped box (how many chocolates could they cram into the tiny
container?), reading Machiavelli, and learning what he thought of the medieval
Italian princes—and more important, how to survive them.

Robert
paused at the door to the stairwell, pretending to read the USE IN CASE OF FIRE
sign there.

He
was taller than her and she was unaccustomed to looking up when she spoke to
boys. It was a nice change. The smell of his leather jacket was intoxicating.

“Thanks,”
he said. “For being nice. They told me what to expect from your Grandmother,
but”—he glanced back at the apartment door—“she’s beyond scary.”

“I
know.”

Grandmother
was a terrifying force of nature like a hurricane or earthquake when she wanted
to be. You couldn’t fight her; you could only survive her. But, oddly, Fiona
wanted to tell Robert that she could be kind in her own way, too. She’d
protected her and Eliot and had always looked out for their best interests.

Robert
brushed the dark hair from his face, and for some reason the gesture made
Fiona’s heart pound even harder.

“Well,
thanks again.” He opened the door to the stairwell and started to leave. “See
you around.”

“I’ll
walk you all the way. It’s no problem.”

Robert
smiled that simple smile she’d seen before. It was nothing like Uncle Henry’s
or the other family members’ smiles, laced with hidden meaning. It was honest.

Robert
held open the door for her. “Cool.”

They
spiraled down the stairs, and despite being alone with a boy for the first
time, Fiona could think only about Grandmother. Was there more than authority
and attitude to her being scary? She’d never lifted a finger against her or
Eliot. But Uncle Henry had said she killed that Mr. Wel-mann. Did Robert know
that, too?