MORTAL COILS (58 page)

“Look
closely,” Dallas urged. “Sink into the groove. . . .”

Eliot
and Fiona leaned in closer. The string was white cotton, tiny threads curled
about one another . . . and it caught and held the sunlight, looking like gold
and rippling water.

Eliot
focused on this thread—only this thread—and the rest of the apartment fell in
the shadows.

From
someplace distant he heard Dallas whisper, “Look along its length now. From
here to there. Now to later.”

Eliot’s
gaze moved down the string. The single thread became part of a weave, a web
that glistened with silver and rusty iron the color of blood. He imagined that
he ran a finger over these and felt ice and sandpaper, tasted sea salt and
kiwifruit, and the smoky sharpness of whiskey.

He
tried to see where this string ultimately led. It was far longer now than the
arm’s length Dallas had pulled from her skirt. In fact, it stretched as far as
he could see—past the walls of their apartment, past the horizon, past the sun
. . . to the stars.

Eliot
blinked and found himself sitting back on the apartment floor, slightly dizzy.

Fiona
blinked as well, looking intrigued.

“Sometimes
you see things,” Dallas explained. “Other times, you might sense things: a
noise, a glimpse, a taste.” She shrugged. “Some in the family have a talent for
it. Others, like me, just muddle along.”

“It’s
cool,” Eliot breathed.

“I’m
glad you think so.” Dallas’s catlike eyes widened. “Because now it’s your
turn.”

“You
go too far,” Grandmother said.

Cee
worried her hands over one another. “Oh,” she whispered. “I’ll have to fix
their clothes.”

Dallas
made a disgusted sound deep in her throat. “These clothes need to be burned . .
. but we’ll get to that soon enough. Maybe a shopping trip in Paris?” She
patted Fiona on her knee.

“If
you’re going to do it,” Grandmother said, “then best get it done quickly before
the sun sets.”

“So
right.” Dallas sobered. She pulled Eliot’s arm straight and found a loose
thread in the cuff of his shirt. She ripped out a long string, which she handed
to him.

Dallas
found a similar loose thread from Fiona’s khaki pants.

“Hold
them taut,” Dallas instructed. “And like you did before, sink into the groove.
Wait for the sensations to come to you.”

Eliot
held his string and let his eyes wander its length.

As
the sun set, his thread shimmered silver and twisted with deepening shadows.
Other colors appeared: bronze and cast-iron black that braided and frayed and
branched.

He
felt them vibrating and wanted to touch them, play them like his violin . . .
but he followed Dallas’s instructions and just watched.

He
heard a song from the strings. Not like his violin. It was a funeral dirge of
church bells.

And
even though he wasn’t touching them, he felt glass shattering and fire.

He
tasted blood and smelled brimstone.

Something
terrible was going to happen . . . soon.

He
dared look as far as he could. The threads wove back and forth into a confusing
tangle that grew more confused the farther he focused.

Eliot
wasn’t sure what any of it meant, but he did know it scared him.

He
blinked and was back again in the apartment. The string he held between his
fingers was just string again.

He
wanted to explain what he saw, tell Dallas and Fiona how weird it was, but the
words died in his throat.

Fiona
sat next to him. Her thread wasn’t the arm’s length that Dallas had originally
handed to her. It was a nub that extended just past her fingertips.

“It’s
so cold,” Fiona whispered.

Dallas
scrutinized the string. All joy on her face vanished and she said, “That’s
because you’re going to die.”

42

ONE
DAY TO LIVE

Fiona
knew something was wrong the instant she touched the thread.

At
first she had been worried that she’d focus on it the way Uncle Aaron had
showed her—accidentally cut with it. But it hadn’t been like that. The way
Dallas had her focus wasn’t really focusing at all; it was more like pressing
your face to a blurry window trying to get a better look outside.

Her
string went slack. It shrank as she watched.

Fiona
imagined warm liquid pulsing between her fingers . . . then it congealed and
cooled.

It
was blood. Her blood.

Blood
that was going to be shed soon.

“I’m
sorry,” Dallas whispered so softly that only Fiona could hear. “A day. Maybe a
little longer. That’s what it says you have left.”

Fiona
glanced up. Everyone was giving her a weird look.

“I
don’t get it. A day until what?”

But
she knew. The ticks and tocks left in her life were crystal clear along the
string, measured out . . . and then they stopped.

“The
strings have been wrong before,” Dallas said, and looked back to Grandmother,
“at least once or twice.”

Fiona
examined the thread. It was again just a piece of string. No blood. No
impending portents of doom. And yet, she had the taste of ashes in her mouth.
She dropped it and watched it spiral to the floor.

One
day? Maybe a little longer? That was nothing. And now when everything was
supposed to change—a new family, Robert—things Fiona had only dreamed about her
entire life.

How
could they let this happen? Grandmother and Cee stared back at her helpless.
They didn’t care. They could’ve done something to stop this . . . at least try.

And
Dallas? Fiona wished she had never met her.

Only
one thing could make any of this better.

Fiona
ran to her room. She slammed the door and locked it.

She
threw down her book bag, reached inside, and dug out a fistful of truffles. She
jammed them all into her mouth. Seven or eight: dark and white and milk
chocolate, toffee, lemon, and vanilla, hazelnut and caramel.

She
chewed and chewed and half choked swallowing it.

Her
pulse pounded and her blood roared like a tide—but the panic and anger churning
inside didn’t dull.

She
hammered her fists on her desk in one last futile gesture, then fell still.

Was
this how she wanted to spend her last day? Throwing temper tantrums and pigging
out on chocolates?

She
heard a knock—not on her door, but on the apartment’s front door. There were
footsteps and new voices in the dining room.

After
a moment, there was a gentle knock at her door.

“Fiona,”
Eliot whispered. “It’s me. Are you okay?”

That
was a titanically stupid question, but Eliot’s heart was in the right place.

She
tried to answer, but her throat was too parched from the chocolates.

“Robert
is here,” Eliot said. “The Council has started our next trial.”

If
the thread was right, if she only had a day or two left, then she’d use them.
Maybe she’d live, maybe not, but she had to help her brother make it through
this.

Fiona
marched to her door—halted, then went back and grabbed her book bag.

There
was one thing she had to do first, though.

She
opened her bedroom door, walked down the hall and through the dining
room—ignoring everyone there, even Robert—and marched straight into the
kitchen.

She
got out the heart-shaped box . . . the still full heart-shaped box. It was the
best gift she had ever received.

Fiona
opened the trash chute, but froze, unable to move the box any closer.

How
could she throw them away? They made her feel so good.

Those
feelings weren’t real, though. If she only had a day left, she wanted to live
it as herself, not hopped up on sugar and chocolate-triggered endorphins. She
wanted to be Fiona Post . . . whatever that was . . . shy and awkward . . .
scared . . . but herself.

She
forced her hand to move the box past the lip of the trash chute.

Fiona
then let go.

She
watched her red satin heart fall . . . and vanish into the dark.

SECTION
V

THE
SECOND HEROIC TRIAL

43

TEST
OF DEATH

Eliot
had never seen so many people in their dining room—not even when the pipes had
busted, flooding the second floor.

Robert
stood at the table flanked by Grandmother and Aunt Dallas. He looked scared but
resolute—as if telling them about a test that could kill them were all in a
day’s work.

Fiona
emerged from the kitchen, looking pale, tears staining her cheeks.

Eliot
wanted to tell her it was all going to be okay. That he didn’t believe in Aunt
Dallas’s predictions, and neither should she. That they would deal with this
test, just as they had with Souhk.

Before
he could speak, though, Robert cleared his throat. “Sorry about the short
notice. The Council wanted it that way.”

“I
should not be here for this.” Dallas went to Fiona, took her hands, and kissed
them. “My blessing upon you, child.”

Dallas
turned to Eliot and drew him aside. “My blessing upon you as well, noble born.”

She
kissed his forehead.

It
felt like a brand and made his brain flash with kaleidoscopic colors. Eliot
wanted to scream, but all he managed was a startled gasp.

Aunt
Dallas withdrew and the sensations vanished. She went to Grandmother and they
embraced. Grandmother squeezed her with genuine affection, which surprised
Eliot almost as much as the kiss.

Dallas
then moved to the door, but lingered near Robert. “I was not here,” she
whispered to him. “Tell not even the moon if it asks.” Her tone was light and
lyrical, but also managed to convey a threat.

Robert
swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Fiona
stiffened and her eyes narrowed at this exchange, and she watched with an
intensity Eliot had never before seen in his sister.

Dallas
left and closed the door; the light from the sunset seemed to depart with her.

Cee
turned on the dull, yellowed overhead lamp.

Robert
looked to Grandmother, who gave him a nod to proceed. “The Council wants
someone’s blood spilled this time. Mr. Mimes calls it l’essai de la mort.”

“That
means ‘the test of death,’” Fiona whispered to Eliot.

Eliot
shifted from foot to foot. “We’ll just outsmart them like last time.”

“It
may not be that easy,” Robert said. “There’s an abandoned carnival near Mount
Diablo State Park. A crazy guy has kidnapped a little girl, and he’s going to
kill her at midnight if you don’t rescue her.”