MORTAL COILS (96 page)

“And
what’s the catch? There’s usually a catch with you people, isn’t there? Do you
have tests and trials that Fiona and I have to pass? Or is it some different
trick with this side of the family?”

A
smile appeared on Louis’s face. It was broad and genuine. “Of course there’s a
trick. There always is.”

Louis
looked up to the sky. There was no light. The sun had set while they had spoken
and not a single star yet twinkled.

Eliot
felt something near Louis—a gravitational force that tugged upon his center. He
found it hard to breathe.

He
squinted and saw a silhouette behind Louis in the shadows. Not his shadow.
Another’s. This other person must have been there the entire time, heard
everything . . . that, or he had just materialized from the blackness.

The
candle flames leaned toward the shadowy figure as it stepped forward.

He
was a man, but much larger than anyone else Eliot had ever seen. As Louis
towered over Eliot, this person towered over Louis and made him look like a
child. The man held himself with a majestic ease as if he commanded everything
his gaze fell upon.

He
wore a cloak of feathers: ostrich and owl and eagle and peacock plumes that for
an instant looked like wings on his back. He was bare-chested and muscular.
About his neck was a leather thong, and dangling from it over his breastbone
was a faceted sapphire the size of a grapefruit.

Eliot’s
vision swam in the stone’s watery depths for a moment . . . lost.

Then
Eliot gazed into the man’s face. His features were sharp like a bird’s, but handsome
and perfect. Eliot sensed power about this being. It repulsed him and at the
same time he wanted to step closer and bask in it as well.

Something
deep within him knew what this was; it was programmed into Eliot’s DNA—he knew
that the creature towering before him was part of his family.

Louis
prostrated himself before the cloaked figure. “All hail and tremble before
Beelzebub, Lord of All That Flies, Prince of False Gods.”

Beelzebub
stepped past Louis without a glance.

“Our
young Mr. Eliot Post.” Beelzebub’s voice was smooth and echoed inside Eliot’s
head. “You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Eliot
miraculously found his voice. “So you’re . . . what? My uncle?”

Beelzebub
laughed, a great sound that made the bones in Eliot’s body tremble. “Oh, no,
that would make Louis my brother. And if that were true, I should have to slit
my throat. No, cousin is the closest term that applies. But you will have all
the time in the world to learn about our family tree.”

Eliot
definitely didn’t like the sound of “all the time in the world.”

He
remembered his manners, though, and said, “It’s very nice to meet you, sir.”

The
faintest flicker of annoyance creased Beelzebub’s thin lips. “Lie not to me,
young man.”

“I
. . . I’m sorry, sir.”

“No
harm done,” Beelzebub cooed. “Lessons in decorum will follow soon enough.
First, however”—he drew a jagged blade from the scabbard on his belt—“one small
technicality.”

“Technicality?”
Eliot’s voice faded.

Beelzebub’s
blade was black-green obsidian and left a trail of shadows in the air.

Faced
with this knife, Eliot’s mind drained of all thoughts. Instinct took over: he
backed away, toward the mouth of the alley.

Bricks
and cinder block broke free of their mortar. They spun and crashed and
reassembled into a wall blocking the alley’s only exit.

Eliot
glared at Beelzebub, adrenaline uselessly pumping through his body. There was
nowhere to go now. Nothing he could do.

Beelzebub
lowered an outstretched hand. “We must sever your mortal flesh from your
spirit. If worthy, you shall join me in my domain. If not, well . . . this
might sting a little.”

He
raised his obsidian blade and started toward Eliot.

Eliot’s
pulse thundered in his ears. He saw his reflection on the knife’s chiseled
surface. He saw his own death move closer.

Louis
cleared his throat. “My lord, I beg your pardon.”

Beelzebub
halted, scowled, and tilted his head at Louis, not quite deigning to look upon
him. “You dare speak, worm?”

Louis
slowly got to his feet. “Regretfully.”

Beelzebub
wheeled on Louis, his cloak of feathers bristling. “I shall enjoy splitting you
in half, my now mortal cousin.”

Louis
looked completely unafraid and held up one index finger. “I wouldn’t do that if
I were you. You have forgotten something.”

Beelzebub’s
hand trembled, barely holding his blade back from cleaving Louis in twain.

Eliot
could have cheered. Of course, Louis had some trick up his sleeve. A trap he
was about to spring on this Beelzebub. His father was going to save him.

“Our
deal,” Louis said, “was that I separate the boy from his sister and then
deliver him to you. Have I not accomplished this?”

Beelzebub
lowered his knife.

“Before
you take delivery of said goods,” Louis continued, “you have a contractual
obligation to render payment.”

Beelzebub
chuckled. “Of course, Louis. How foolish of me.” He touched his blade to Louis’s
shoulder and whispered, “Votum de Vir fio a vermis epulum.”

69

Louis’s
hair glistened ebony and sterling silver. He straightened and seemed twenty
years younger.

“All
the power a mortal could possibly ever use. Enjoy it while you can,” Beelzebub
muttered, “and never cross our path again.”

“It
shall be as you say.” Louis grinned from ear to ear. “Please, Lord, proceed.”

Eliot
couldn’t believe it. Louis had had a trick, but it had been played upon him.
Louis had fooled him into coming, alone . . . and then sold him off . . . for
power?

Eliot
was not afraid. His blood boiled and his fingers twitched with anticipation. He
had never been this mad before.

Beelzebub
turned to him and raised his black blade.

Eliot
stood tall and set Lady Dawn upon his shoulder.

69.
Translation from Latin: “Prayer of Man becomes a worm’s feast.”—Editor.

73

DEFIANT

Some
backbone, after all?” Beelzebub whispered. The tip of his blade dipped
slightly. “How delightful. And we had thought your sister was the fighter.”

“She
is. But so am I.”

That
was no lie. Eliot had been scared before. He was scared now. But he had
survived three heroic trials. He’d bested one side of his family on their own
terms . . . now it was time to show the other side what he was made of.

“Then
let us see what you can do,” Beelzebub replied, as if reading his thoughts.

Eliot
quickly drew his bow over Lady Dawn’s strings, playing the middle part of the
Symphony of Existence. Mist snaked along the alley, and curtains of pea-soup
fog closed between him and Beelzebub.

The
giant man slashed at the vapors curling about him, but to no effect. He was
quickly surrounded and obscured.

Eliot
played and crept along the right side of the alley. With luck, he’d get to the
back door of Ringo’s, slip inside, and make a run for it. Being brave and
fighting when cornered was one thing. Being stupid and fighting alone when he
could run away was an entirely another matter.

Serpents
slithered past Eliot in the fog, oceans of tentacles groped, disembodied eyes
blinked, and ghostly hands plucked at his shirt.

Within
the mist, though, Beelzebub laughed.

A
wave rolled through the vapor, and the imagined creatures swirled about
confused—then were blasted away as wind filled the alley.

The
air pushed Eliot backward and he slammed into the dead-end wall.

Another
great rush of wind, and for an instant he saw a headless horseman and air
sharks and swarms of giant swimming bacteria, and then the nightmares all
washed away, leaving only tiny vortices in their wake.

Beelzebub
stood, his cape drawn with upraised arms. Eliot swore they were real wings . .
. but he blinked. It was only a cape.

“Child’s
play,” Beelzebub declared. “Exactly what I expected from a child.” He motioned
with his blade. “Come to me, Eliot. Come willingly. It will be better.”

Eliot
pushed himself upright, more irritated than scared now.

Louis
crouched in the far corner of the alley, watching, but showing no indication of
helping. In fact, he smiled as if this were some sort of game.

Eliot
flexed his hand. The poison was still there, hot in his palm, pulsing with
pain.

“Child’s
play?” he whispered. “Try this on for size, then.”

He
drew one slow note from Lady Dawn. The pain in his hand disappeared. This was
from the last bit of the Symphony of Existence. The part about the death of
all. The end of the universe.

Beelzebub’s
eyes widened.

The
music was low and steady; it drew the light from the air and plunged the world
into darkness. Eliot felt space pucker about him as it drew power from the very
fabric of reality.

He
imagined a black hole, pulling the last planets and stars and galaxies toward
its ultradense core. The end of everything . . . crushed to neutron density.

Eliot
tilted his violin, directing the center of the music upon Beelzebub.

Bricks
in the wall shattered. The asphalt under Eliot’s feet cracked. He felt the
earth tilt upon its axis.

Beelzebub
gritted his teeth and rushed toward Eliot.

But
he was too late.

The
walls of the alley collapsed—blocks and bricks and steel pipes whistled through
the air, narrowly missing Eliot—all flying toward his adversary.

Stone
and metal struck Beelzebub and exploded in the clouds of dust. He staggered
back. He raised his arms to protect his head, but that didn’t matter. Tons of
material buried him, compacting under intense gravitational force.

Eliot
stopped playing.

He
squinted, but couldn’t quite see through the dust.

Pebbles
and chunks of asphalt continued to roll to the spot where Beelzebub had stood.

The
air then cleared enough to see.

A
ball of stone and pipes and blacktop rested in what had once been the alley
behind Ringo’s. The sphere was half as tall as Beelzebub. Surely he had been
squashed like a bug inside. Even now the mass crackled and popped as it
continued to shudder and compact upon itself.

As
more dust settled, Eliot saw the walls of the alley still precariously stood.
Most of the bricks and cinder blocks had torn free, but the remaining bits
balanced in a skeletal lattice. It all swayed back, somehow upright.

Then
Eliot saw why.

The
chalk design that had been drawn upon the walls was intact. Even where bricks
were missing, the lines wavered in the air like spider silk, holding it all
tenuously together.