MORTAL COILS (63 page)

The
world faded and far away he heard the now familiar choir of children singing
along:

   
Babies born in blood and pain; loved or hated, rich or lame; coos and cries and
hungry smiles; not prepared for life’s cruel trials.

He
closed his eyes and thought of the photo of Amanda Lane he had seen on Robert’s
computer. Just a kid. Missing her two front teeth—and looking darn proud about
that.

More
thoughts came unbidden to him: daddy’s little girl . . . growing up strong and
tall . . . a silk ribbon in her dark hair.

His
music became a simpler melody, trickling along as if skipping, happy—and then
Eliot felt something else.

Rough
hands had grabbed her, tape wound about her wrists and ankles, and there were
hot tears.

His
fingers plucked pizzicato notes, dissonant, and leapt upward like sparks of
fire.

He
played louder and cast his song out into the yard.

He
opened his eyes.

The
scattered fires danced to the rhythm of his song. Electric lights pulsed; every
booth and stand and ride flickered to life. A Ferris wheel lit with spokes of
neon and began to turn. A roller coaster grumbled as a car clacked to the top
of its rails, then plummeted to the ground with a tremendous crash. The Zipper,
the Avalanche, the Gold Rusher—all moved now with creaking and screeching
metal, sparks and wild gyrations. The arm of a giant octopus whirled about,
detached, and smashed through the flaming mirror maze.

A
spike of panic pierced Eliot. Fiona had to be out of that place. There was no
way she would’ve stayed inside.

Apart
from bringing the entire place to life, though, had his music worked? He rested
his hand on the quivering strings of his violin.

He
didn’t sense anything as he had with Souhk. He hadn’t expected rats to appear
and show him the way to the girl . . . but something . . . anything.

Eliot
then heard an echo of his song, higher in tone, and far away.

It
was by the entrance: the carousel they had passed on the way in. The ride was
lit and turning. From the center, its calliope piped out his song. It changed
the melody, improvised, and seemed to be singing, Here! Here I am! Come play
with me.

It
was Amanda’s song. He was certain. She had to be there.

Eliot
packed up Lady Dawn and clambered down the container.

He
ran back through the rows of blazing carnival games. He instinctively raised
his hand over his face to shield him from the heat.

Beyond
the crackling and popping of the fire he heard metal grinding and breaking
apart. The crashing and sparking sounded like music. His music.

Eliot
had done this. He hadn’t actually started the fire—that was Mill-house’s
fault—but his music had somehow encouraged it to become a raging inferno.

And
it seemed angry.

Where
was Fiona? He wanted to call out, but he wasn’t sure anymore where Millhouse
was, so he kept his mouth shut and kept running.

Eliot
skidded to a halt before the carousel.

It
spun faster than any merry-go-round he’d ever seen; only it wasn’t exactly
spinning. The base was indeed turning, but that didn’t account for the rapid
pace of the horses.

The
carousel horses ran.

He
saw their legs tramp and gallop . . . just couldn’t quite believe it. In a
slow-motion gait, they raced one another—pink and purple and cream-colored
ponies with eyes that gleamed black and mouths that foamed. As they ran and
dodged the brass poles in their path, they nipped at one another, snarled, and
whinnied.

Eliot
blinked.

Mesmerized
rats, talking crocodiles, a drive halfway across the world—those were all
weird, inexplicable things.

This
was a step beyond.

But
he accepted it. He had to, at least for now.

The
calliope continued to echo his song and the little girl’s desperate call for
help.

His
eyes focused past the moving wall of color at the carousel’s center section.
That part didn’t turn. There was a door there. Inside had to be the motor and
the steam-powered organ . . . and he’d bet anything that’s where Amanda was,
too.

Eliot
took three deep breaths and slowly approached the carousel. If he timed it just
right, he could jump onto the spinning platform.

Horses
snapped at him, then wheeled around out of sight.

Eliot
stepped back.

Those
animals would be another matter, however. He’d have to jump onto the carousel
and dodge them as they ran past.

Fiona
was better at this kind of stuff. He glanced about once more, but there was no
sign of her or Millhouse.

He
had to do this. But how? The instant he was up there, he’d be trampled . . .
and that wouldn’t help anyone.

Eliot
imagined himself as the swashbuckling hero of his daydreams. He would’ve jumped
up there, dodged and weaved—heck, he might even have jumped onto one of the
animated horses and ridden it. He would’ve saved the girl, saved the day.

He
swallowed, then he did what he thought was the bravest, and the most stupid,
thing he’d ever done in his fifteen years.

He
jumped for the carousel.

Eliot
soared through the air . . . and only then realized his mistake: the carousel
turned far too fast to just jump straight onto it. He should have jumped at an
angle.

The
instant his feet touched the wooden planks the carousel’s centrifugal force
wrenched his legs and flung him off.

With
both hands he made a grab for a brass pole; one hand slipped; the other
held—and he swung around, nearly pulling the arm from the socket, and landed.

Eliot
heard thunder. He turned in time to see a silver stallion galloping straight
for him.

He
pulled himself close to the pole.

The
beast sprayed him with spittle and froth and clipped him with a hoof, slicing
open his thigh.

The
pain was electric. There was blood.

Eliot
heard more horses—didn’t bother looking—and flattened himself to the pole and
grit his teeth as three more stallions raced by on either side in a cloud of
angry snorts and blurred gold paint.

Eliot
saw a break in the herd and leapt to the next pole, caught it, spun around on
his uncertain leg—into the path of a black charger he hadn’t seen coming.

It
caught him square in the chest and knocked him to the floor.

A
tangle of legs and flashing hooves passed over his head, then it was gone.

Eliot
rolled onto the center of the platform—where he skidded to a halt on the ledge.

He
lay there a moment, panting. He smelled blood. He was pretty sure he’d just got
a million splinters in his backside . . . but he’d made it.

Eliot
patted his body. His backpack was gone.

He
looked on the ledge nearby. Nothing.

Then
he saw it pass just out of the reach on the moving part of the carousel.

The
black charger ran over the pack, making it spin in place.

Lady
Dawn was in there, and the mythology book, too. One hoof making contact and the
violin would be crushed.

Eliot
reached out—pulled back when the black horse returned—then he darted out and
grabbed his pack.

He
cradled it to his chest. With the greatest care, he checked inside. Inside its
protective rubber boot, his violin was miraculously intact. He exhaled.

Eliot
got to his knees and turned to face the door of the carousel’s enclosed center
section. It had a dead-bolt lock but it wasn’t engaged and it yielded to his
touch.

Inside
it was dark, save for a few sparks. His eyes adjusted and he saw a generator, a
diesel engine, and a large steam vessel that pumped a sputtering atmosphere
through a network of pipes.

The
sound from the calliope outside was loud—inside the center section it was
deafening.

He
fumbled out his flashlight and snapped it on. Against the far wall sat Amanda
Lane, bound and gagged with duct tape. Her eyes were wild and defiant. She
wasn’t a little girl, however. That photo on Robert’s computer had to have been
taken a long time ago. She was maybe thirteen or fourteen, and almost as tall
as Eliot.

Eliot
held up a finger, indicating that she wait. He went to the machinery. He
couldn’t think with that song repeating over and over and the carousel rumbling
around him.

A
yellowed page of instructions had been taped to the machinery, but it was
blurry. He squinted and worked out where to find the kill switch. He flicked
it.

The
steam vessel gave a great hiss and died; the notes faded; outside Eliot heard
the protesting neighs and hoofbeats of the horses stop.

He
knelt by Amanda and ripped the tape off her arms. She hugged him.

“It’s
okay,” Eliot said, gently pulling her arms away.

He
then reached for the tape on her mouth—tore it off in one quick pull. It had to
hurt, but she didn’t cry out.

“You’re
Eliot, right?” she asked. “He said you’d come. He said he was counting on it.”

“‘He’?
You mean Millhouse?”

A
line of light appeared on the wall, an arc that ran through wooden panels and
steel struts. This section of wall fell in with a crash.

Fiona
stood silhouetted by firelight.

Eliot
didn’t know how she had done that, but it didn’t matter. He’d never been
happier to see his sister.

Blood
was trickling from her head, though, and she looked angry. Her gaze softened a
bit as she saw him and then Amanda.

“We
have to move fast,” she said.

48

FIRST
BLOOD

Fiona
had been ready for anything when she cut through the carousel’s wall, but she
exhaled a huge sigh when she saw Eliot inside—not Mill-house as she’d expected.

The
girl was there, too. Fiona hadn’t let herself hope that they would find her.
She had just wanted to find Eliot . . . alive.

This
didn’t feel right. Millhouse had said he was expecting them. Why hadn’t he
caught Eliot? Why leave Amanda Lane where even her brother could discover her?

“Nice
work,” Fiona said to Eliot.

She
offered her hand to the girl. Amanda took it and didn’t let go.

Fiona
wondered for a split second what it would have been like to have a twin sister,
instead of a brother. She would probably have stolen all her clothes.

“Come
on,” Fiona said. “I saw Millhouse a minute ago. Lost him. Then I saw you
running this way.”

Eliot
looked at a section of the wall. “How’d you—”

“Later.
Let’s get out first, then I’ll tell you about it.”