MORTAL COILS (46 page)

Dallas
swayed a bit as she danced to music only she heard. “Yes,” she said, “of course
they passed.”

Two
against and two for the children. So far a tie.

Lucia
sighed and looked at Henry. “I suppose I know your vote.”

Henry’s
mind churned—so many delightful variables to this. His aim was neither to win
nor lose, but merely to prolong the game and enjoy himself as long as possible:
chaos with a purpose.

“The
day you are able to predict my actions, my dear Lucia, will be the end of
days.” He smiled. “The childrens’ fate is not to be determined by me: I also
abstain.”

Lucia
registered shock for only a split second, then delight rippled over her
features.

Aaron’s
mouth dropped. He looked as if Henry had stabbed him in the heart.

At
least no one was bored.

“Well
then . . .” Lucia turned to Gilbert. She practically glowed in anticipation of
victory.

Gilbert
the Once King had only been elected to the Council because Lucia had engineered
it. He was a blatantly unpolitical creature. When he bothered to vote at all,
he always sided with her.

But
Lucia had not seen what Henry had seen in Gilbert . . . something of his old
self.

Gilbert
cleared his throat and emotions played over his face: worry, frustration—and
then the resolve that he had possessed millennia ago as Gilgamesh, First King.
He stepped to the center of the platform. A change welled up from within him.
He stood taller. The wind blew about him. His deep laugh lines vanished and his
face took on a serious cast.

“I
will not do it.” He turned and faced Lucia. “I will not side with you on this.
I must vote with my heart. And it says the children passed.”

They
were silent a long moment and only the winds spoke.

Lucia
stood impassively, her gaze turning upon Henry . . . knowing he had won a much
greater victory today than this one vote.

Then
she said with a great inhalation of breath, “So be it. We next take up the
matter of the twins’ second trial. We must be specific with our language and
make it something of a challenge this time.”

Aaron
slammed his spike into the deck, embedding it a foot through the teak planks.
“I will have no part of this. You sent two children to clean up a mess we left
long ago—and they only failed you because they did not die.”

“Hardly,”
Lucia murmured.

Aaron
held up one finger, warning her into silence. In his eyes was the glint of
violence. “I will have no part in this debate of lies.”

He
turned and stalked off.

“Where
are you going?” Lucia called after him. “The Council has not dismissed you.”

“To
help my kin,” Aaron told her.

Lucia
pursed her lips, irritated, and nodded to Cornelius. “Let the record show that
Council member Aaron left these proceedings—”

“Left
them under protest,” Dallas corrected, shooting her sister a puckish look.

“Yes,
left under protest,” Lucia added, “but that the Council maintains a quorum. We
shall continue with the task at hand: the twins’ second heroic trial.”

Gilbert
moved close to Henry and whispered, “There goes Morocco.”

“Much
more than that goes,” Henry whispered back as he watched Aaron descend
belowdecks.

What
would Lucia make of this? Aaron now strongly aligned against her will? Audrey
poised to destroy the Council. And what of the real issue? The children? Were
they something delightful and new? Or the means to unravel the treaty that had
protected them all from the Infernal clans? Indeed, so many variables to keep
spinning the air. . . .

33

A
TINY REBELLION

And
then I pulled the spike out,” Fiona explained, pantomiming the motion to Cee,
who sat wide-eyed at the dining table. Fiona felt the thrill again as she
relived what had to have been the most dangerous thing she’d ever done.

“It
was this big.” Eliot spread his arms as wide as he could. “I can’t imagine how
that spike got stuck there in the first place.”

Grandmother
sipped her tea, listening without comment.

Fiona
had purposely omitted the part about the rats. That would have required that
she tell how they survived those rats . . . which would entail explaining the
book from the basement, the violin, and Eliot’s miraculous talent.

All
these were violations of rules on the List. Successful trial or not, it would
have landed them in hot water.

“You
were so brave.” Cee patted Fiona’s hand. “My little darlings, I cannot believe
they sent you down there.” Cee looked at Grandmother for confirmation of this
sentiment, but Grandmother sat just as impassive as if Cee had just commented
on the weather.

“It’s
okay,” Fiona reassured Cee. “We made it.”

“And
then?” Grandmother asked. “Did this talking reptile, Souhk, just let you pull
the spike out?”

Fiona
steeled herself. “It did. I think it wanted the thing out.”

This,
technically, was not a lie. It did, however, leave out the vital detail that
Eliot had been playing to first lull the creature into complacency.

The
lie of omission was to protect her brother. He really loved that stupid violin.
And Fiona had to admit he had a talent she didn’t understand. It had certainly
come in handy, and she was sure it would come in handy on the last two trials.
If Grandmother found out, however, she would have confiscated the instrument.

But
why even bother to try to hide the truth? Grandmother always knew when she
wasn’t getting the entire story.

Fiona
held her breath . . . waiting for Grandmother to demand the rest of the tale.

She
said nothing.

“Then
it spoke to us,” Eliot said. “It told us that we were heroes. That it could
read the trash floating by like a Gypsy fortune-teller reads tea leaves.”

Cee
shifted in her chair. “How silly,” she murmured.

It
stuck Fiona as odd that Cee didn’t believe that, but could believe in a
two-ton, talking crocodile.

“Did
it foretell anything?” Grandmother asked.

“It
said great things would happen to us.”

“And
terrible things,” Eliot added.

“I
don’t think it was sure,” Fiona said, “that we’d survive the next two trials.”

“I
see.” Grandmother looked distracted. “As Cornelius indicated, much still hangs
in the balance.” She turned her attention back to Fiona. “Did it say anything
else?”

Fiona
shot a quick glance at her brother.

He
gave a shake of his head—so slight that she almost missed the subtle motion.

“He
said stuff that didn’t make any sense,” she told Grandmother. “It was that
language you and Uncle Henry spoke in the limousine.”

Again,
this was not a lie—not exactly, anyway; it was just part of the truth, and out
of chronological order.

She
and Eliot had agreed not to reveal what they had learned about their father’s
family. Grandmother had gone to such great lengths protecting them from her
side of the family . . . if she knew what Souhk had told them, there would be
at least one full page of new rules added to the List.

Infernals.

She
and Eliot had barely understood the reference, shielded by RULE 55, but as with
the meaning of gods and God, they had absorbed enough from everyday sources to
understand that fallen angels were part of the societywide mythology of evil:
demons and devils.

Did
she believe it?

Talking
crocodiles? A family of immortals? It wasn’t a big leap from these to accepting
fallen angles as aunts and uncles.

And
this new fact fit what little she knew about her mother and father. There was
Uncle Henry’s account of them meeting in Venice and falling in love, then
fleeing because of their warring families. And then what? An accident at sea?
Both drowned?

Or
murdered by families who wouldn’t let them be together?

Just
as the Council was figuring out if they would live or die because of their
mixed blood.

She
suppressed a shudder.

Fiona
looked to Grandmother, waiting for her to ask for the whole story . . . free of
omissions and twisted facts.

“Very
well,” Grandmother said, “and then what?”

Fiona
was too stunned to reply. She had actually gotten away with a lie to
Grandmother. How was that possible?

“We
dragged the spike up to the surface,” Eliot said. “It was heavy and we almost
got lost on the way back—but we made it just before the time ran out.”

“Mr.
Farmington took the spike with him?” Cee asked, sounding disappointed.

“Proof
for the Council,” Eliot said. “It had a lot of blood on it.”

Fiona
remembered the smell of Souhk’s blood, like hot metal. There was strength in
that blood. Had she fooled Grandmother because she was growing strong, too? A
pawn turning into something else?

“We
passed the Council’s trial and we didn’t have to kill anything,” Fiona said.
“Do you think that’s enough for them? Will we have to go through with the other
two?”

Grandmother
considered this, and her head tilted. “The Council will rule and let us know.”

“But
you could ask,” Fiona said. “Maybe even convince them?”

“Oh—a
marvelous idea,” Cee said.

Grandmother
closed her eyes, deep in thought for a moment, then she opened them, her face
that curious combination of inscrutability and irony. “You must complete all
three trials. They reveal much of your characters”—one of her eyebrows
arched—“apparently things that even I had not been aware of.”

She
looked at Fiona.

Fiona
was suddenly sure Grandmother knew about her lie of omission . . . sure she
knew everything.

Grandmother
looked at Eliot, and he also withered under her gaze.

But
Fiona’s willpower rekindled. The next two trials might kill them—didn’t
Grandmother understand that? Fiona stepped closer to her brother, feeling
stronger even than when she had faced Souhk.

“The
household rules,” she started, and her voice quavered. She cleared her throat,
wishing she had eaten a few chocolates before this. “I want to talk about
them.”

“Oh?”
The slightest ripple of interest appeared on Grandmother’s face.

Cee
clasped her hands and inhaled.

“Yeah,”
Eliot whispered. Then he, too, found his voice and said, “They were meant to
keep us safe from the family, right? Make us seem . . . normal? But they know
about us now, and we know about them, so what’s the point?”

“We
were thinking,” Fiona said, “that maybe it’s time to relax a few of the rules.”

“You
think that’s all the rules are for?” Grandmother said. “Your protection?”