MORTAL COILS (83 page)

They
all turned and looked at him.

He
felt his heart stop—then pound recklessly, panicked.

Robert
had been told to keep quiet at the last meeting. He knew these people didn’t
give second warnings.

Mr.
Mimes gave a great sigh. “I had almost forgotten, alas. We should deal with
this matter first.”

“I
agree,” Lucia coolly murmured. “The twins’ fate shall be tabled momentarily
while the Council decides the proper punishment for Henry’s errant Driver.”

Errant—that
was another word for “rule breaker.” And Robert knew what happened to rule
breakers in the League. They got their livers ripped out for an eternity. Or
they were turned into marble statues, then ground up to line someone’s
driveway.

Robert
had pulled a fast one last night. Mr. Mimes had left him alone, so at sunrise
he drove the car to the edge of the base to pick up Eliot and Fiona.

Fiona
had been waiting for him, the base behind her, covered in mist. She looked
relieved, scared . . . and she definitely looked as if she could use a ride.

Robert
looked hopefully now at Mr. Mimes.

His
employer clenched his jaw and gave him a slight shake of the head.

Robert
felt stabbed in the chest, because he knew with that one gesture that Mr. Mimes
definitely did not have his back.

“I
don’t even know where to begin.” Lucia picked up the report and turned the last
page. “This trial could have been ruled invalid by Mr. Farm-ington’s actions.
The twins technically had to clear the base on their own.” She continued to
read. “And we have rules about Drivers fraternizing with League members . . .
even potential League members.”

“I
have heard,” Mr. Mimes added, “that there may even have been a kiss.”

Robert
couldn’t believe this. It had to be a mistake—a joke. Mr. Mimes had told him to
do those things. Okay . . . maybe not specifically the kiss, but everything
else.

He
wanted to jump to his feet and say something. But Robert couldn’t. He was
suddenly too weak to lift his arms or even open his mouth.

Mr.
Mimes walked to Robert. “I am so sorry you have to go through this,” he
whispered. “I must ask you to return my keys.”

Robert
would have felt less pain if he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. The keys were
the symbol of his office. Driving was his life.

“You’re
. . . firing me?”

Mr.
Mimes looked anguished as he took the keys from Robert’s trembling hand.

“Fire,”
Lucia mused. “Now that is a fine suggestion.”

“Oh,
please.” Mr. Mimes turned to her. “I agree the boy broke a few rules, but there
was really no harm done. Let us just lock him up for a few hundred years and
let him mull it over.”

“Always
lenient with the hired help,” Lucia said. “Very well, if there are no
objections . . .”

A
few hundred years? Locked up? Freedom was everything to Robert. If he wasn’t
able to ride . . . to feel the air rushing over his face . . . to see new
things . . . death was better.

“Wait,”
Ms. Audrey Post said. “The boy has been kind to me. I ask that we reduce his
sentence.”

“Audrey
asking for mercy?” Mr. Mimes said, and a broad smile spread over his features.
“Shall the sun turn dark as well? The moon blaze with flame?”

She
glowered at him and his smile faded.

“Oh,
very well, call it an even fifty years—in isolation,” Mr. Mimes said. “Let’s
continue with more important matters.”

“So
be it.” Lucia rang her tiny silver bell.

Robert
finally found the strength to stand. He was going to say something. He had
trusted Mr. Mimes. He had thought he really understood him . . . even cared for
him.

But
what was Robert going to tell them? Was he going to rat Mr. Mimes out?

No.
Despite everything, Robert couldn’t do that. He was no stool pigeon. That would
be sinking to their level.

Instead
he stood and stared at Mr. Mimes, communicating all his anguish, his
disappointment, and his anger with a single glare.

Mr.
Mimes stared back completely unperturbed.

As
the sound of Lucia’s bell faded, the world squeezed in about Robert until he
could no longer see . . . or feel . . . or breathe.

65

THE
NIGHT TRAIN

Sealiah
crossed her legs, sank deeper into the crushed-velvet seat, and loosened her
boots. She let the clicking of the train tracks soothe her nerves.

The
railcar’s stained-glass skylights cast weird half rainbows from the perpetually
setting sun in this part of hell. Beyond the leaded windows on her left was a
desert dotted with towering mesas. Clouds of carrion eaters circled overhead,
waiting to swoop on those trying to escape. Occasionally the flaming fuselage
of some airliner would flash past and spectacularly crash.

It
was a picture-perfect postcard moment.

She
had always enjoyed these little rides upon the Royal Crowned Prince. They
didn’t make, or break, trains like this anymore.

63

Ruining
her momentary peace, however, was Julie Marks, who sat beside her, squirming on
the edge of the settee. The poor thing was unable to enjoy the luxurious
surroundings because she was scared of Sealiah. Understandable.

63.
The Austrian court commissioned the Royal Crowned Prince in memory of Archduke
Rudolf, crown prince of Austria. It was an unusual act considering he was
thought to have died in a double suicide with his mistress (later evidence
indicated a double murder). No expense was spared upon the train, making it a
hallmark of turn-of-the-century opulence. Upon its inaugural run, however, the
Royal Crowned Prince tragically caught fire and ran out of control down the
mountainous Arlbergline—its cars ultimately crashing. Many claim on the night
of the new moon the train can be observed running wild down the mountain, on
fire, its passengers screaming. It has become known as Der Nachtzug, the Night
Train. Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 6: Modern Myths, 8th
ed. (Zypheron Press Ltd.).

But
while she may have been scared of Sealiah, she was absolutely terrified of the
others here, so much so that she refused to leave her side.

The
members of the Board and some stragglers were going home. Too long had they
been in the land of light. Their minds and souls were exhausted. Being among
such mediocrity always did this to their kind. Having to return home was ever
their curse and their blessing.

Lev
lay like a beached sea creature upon two couches that he had pushed together,
sipping martinis through a straw. A dozen empty glasses rolled and clinked on
the floor next to him.

The
wizened Mulciber sat opposite Uziel playing Rogue’s Chess. As expected, the
golden boy was winning, pinning Mulciber’s Whore into a corner of the board
with his Press Gangs.

Abby
and Ashmed sat together (much to Sealiah’s annoyance), engaged in an animated
conversation about the scarab beetle. Sealiah only caught the occasional phrase
about genetic sequences . . . longevity . . . and La Jolla biotechnology investments.

Sealiah
hoped the little Destroyer was not moving too soon upon Ashmed—not that Abigail
would know what to do with him if he ever paid any attention to her. Sealiah
was not done with Ashmed, or his political favors, just yet.

She
reached over and pulled Julie close to her. The girl resisted, but her
struggling only made Sealiah enjoy this all the more.

Dark
circles ringed Julie’s eyes, and her skin had the pallor of the grave. Bruises
mottled her arms. Beauty was a fragile thing for mortals. Age, too much sun,
too much wind, not enough sleep, or death—all made their magnificence fleeting.

“Listen
to me,” Sealiah whispered into Julie’s ear. “They may yet question you. Do not
lie. They will know and not like it. But neither reveal to them everything. Do
you understand?”

Sealiah
released her.

Julie
glared at her, nodding, rubbing her arm. A spark of defiance was still within
this one.

Sealiah
could feel her heart beating, feel the hope inside. Did this girl understand
the magnitude of Eliot Post’s gift? Even Sealiah did not fully comprehend the
ramifications of infusing eternal hope within one of the eternally damned.

Julie
Marks would bear watching.

The
train whistle sounded—the shrieks of a hundred burning souls—and

there
was a noticeable deceleration. The Royal Crowned Prince pulled into a covered
station. Clouds of smoke and sparks swirled about the car.

Other
trains were at the station, some gilded and ornate, some levitating upon
magnetic rails, and one a steaming heap of rust. From this dilapidated vehicle
a dark figure emerged, and all other shadows scattered before it as it
approached the Royal Crowned Prince. As this darkness stepped onto the railcar,
it tilted to one side.

The
rear curtains parted and Uri cautiously entered.

He
bowed to all, but held Sealiah’s eyes a fraction of a second longer.

She
returned his ardent stare, wishing there could be more.

This
matter with her former lieutenant, however, would soon be over. This was best.
Uri would be hers again or forever lost—either way would release him from the
torture he endured by Beal’s side. How she wished there could have been some
other way.

She
glanced at Uziel as he took advantage of one of Mulciber’s Mercantile Lords
with a lowly pawn. When you played the game, pieces were inevitably lost. If
one worried about loss, one should not play.

Uri
reached into his midnight sports jacket and retrieved an electronic device. He
swept the railcar for bugs. He then pulled out a burning incense brazier from within
his voluminous folds, waved it about, sniffed, and scrutinized the patterns of
drifting smoke.

Satisfied
that there were no malicious devices or intentions, he stepped off the train.

Beal
entered a moment later, his cloak of feathers covered with the glowing cinders
that fell in this part of the desert.

Uri
carefully brushed the sparks off with a brush. The feathers bristled at his
touch.

Beal
surveyed them. He fingered the fist-size sapphire, Charipirar, the symbol of
his clan, that hung about his neck on a thong. Such an ostentatious display of
power—Sealiah would dearly love to tear it from his throat and crush that
jewel.

These
blasted lands were part of his domain, and he was far too powerful here. Still,
he had chosen not to ride until this point, which meant he only felt on equal
footing with them within the confines of his realm. A definite sign he believed
his power in decline.

She
smiled and tilted her head at him.

He
smiled at her as well, a shark’s grin that faded as he spotted Julie Marks. “So
your handpicked seductress was not up to the task?”

“It
was all in Sealiah’s report,” Lev replied, and drained another martini. “Didn’t
you read it?”

Beal
shot a quick glance at Uri, who then whispered to him. Beal nodded, frowned,
then moved down the aisle, settling across from Sealiah and Julie.

“My
computer network,” he explained, “is having a few upgrade problems.”