MORTAL COILS (37 page)

He
wondered what the new guy had done to warrant that. Eliot had shown up nearly a
half hour late . . . and got a promotion.

“In
fact, you’ll have so much free time, you might want to ask me out for coffee on
our break.” Julie grinned and her cheeks dimpled in an enchanting way.

She
flounced off and Eliot watched, fascinated.

Johnny
whistled low. “Listen, amigo.” He crept closer and wiped flour-dusted hands on
his apron. “You better listen to that new boss lady. Stuff like that doesn’t
cruise into your life every day.”

“I
know.”

In
point of fact, Eliot did not know. Stuff like this never happened to him, the
prince of all nerds. Only in his daydreams were there music and girls who asked
him out. His entire life had been turned upside down, and not necessarily in a
bad way. He could get used to it.

But
he was breaking Grandmother’s rules 34 and 106 (music and dating, respectively)
. . . and she always found out.

“What
happened to your assistant?” he asked Johnny.

Johnny
shrugged his hulking shoulders and stirred a pot of meatballs in marinara.
“Just didn’t show up today.”

Funny,
Julie said she fired him. That meant she talked to him, right? Something seemed
wrong with that, but Eliot was sure she had a good reason.

Johnny
checked on his pizzas in the oven and the flames lit his face. “So what are you
waiting for? Lady gave you an engraved invitation.”

Eliot
went to the new dishwasher and pressed the start button. It whirled to life.

It
was too easy. Grandmother’s voice echoed in his thoughts: Hard work is the
cornerstone of character. What would she say about this?

The
dishes done, he left the kitchen to take his break.

In
the dining room he spotted Fiona taking orders from a tourist couple.

She
smiled and almost looked happy talking to total strangers.

This
day just got more and more weird.

Julie
waited for him by the cash register, bouncing on one foot. “You asking me out
to coffee?”

“Who’s
going to run Ringo’s?”

“Fiona’s
taking orders, and Linda’s covering for me.” Julie twined a finger around a
wisp of honey-blond hair. “It’s not like we’re running off to Hollywood.”

Eliot’s
head felt like a helium balloon. He couldn’t believe this: a girl was
interested in him.

“There’s
the Pink Rabbit across the street,” he said, trying to sound as if he did this
all the time. “They have juice and coffee.”

“Sounds
dreamy. Let me grab my purse.”

The
phone buzzed. Julie snapped up the headpiece and held up one finger, indicating
this would only take a moment.

Eliot
saw that she’d chewed her nails to the quick.

“Ringo’s
All American Pizza Palace. How can I help you?” Julie’s face went slack and she
stared at a distant point, concentrating. “Yes, they’re both here. May I ask
who is calling please?” Her eyebrows shot up and she pulled the earpiece from
her head. “Same to you!” She handed it to Eliot.

No
one had ever called for him at Ringo’s.

“Hello?”

“It’s
Robert Farmington, Eliot. They’ve decided. Your first trial has started.”

27

TEATIME
OMENS

Audrey
listened intently to the phone.

She
then hung up, left her study, and sat at the dining table.

Cecilia
had outdone herself today for teatime. Coffee crumble cakes had been set out
along with tiny plates of Waldorf salad (both ordered from the Pink Rabbit’s
Organic Delicatessen and Bakery), and there were three teapots: one filled with
her chamomile blend, one Darjeeling, and her spiderweb pot with plain boiling
water nestled in its crocheted cozy. Cecilia had prepared for any eventuality.

“It
has begun,” Audrey told her. “Their first trial.”

Cecilia
rose from her seat. “That was the boy on the phone?”

“Our
Mr. Farmington, yes.”

Cecilia
gathered her shawl about her shoulders and twisted its ends nervously. “Did he
say what? Or where?”

“I
did not ask.” Audrey settled into her seat. She poured a cup of the Darjeeling.

Cecilia
blinked at her. “We are going to do something, aren’t we?”

“Of
course we are. We are going to have tea.”

“Yes,
yes.” Cecilia’s eyes clouded milky white. “I shall start the ritual. There is
much we can divine and then influence from here.”

Audrey
made a cutting motion with her hand. “I meant we will have tea, and that is
all. We have done too much already. It is up to the children now.”

“There
must be more. We can—”

“Do
no more. Otherwise we risk the Council detecting our help. They would summarily
judge against the children.”

“You
talk as if this is a game,” Cecilia said. “As if two points would be deducted
instead of Eliot and Fiona ending up . . . end up . . . I cannot even speak the
words.”

Audrey
narrowed her eyes. “I know what is at stake.”

Cecilia
sat hard in her chair, appearing, if possible, even more frail than normal. For
someone masquerading as a centenarian, this was considerable.

Audrey
added creamer to her tea, spooned in heaps of sugar, and stirred. Cecilia’s
theatrics were working, however; doubt and guilt yipped at the edges of
Audrey’s thoughts. She hated her for that.

“Everything
has been done to tip the scales in their favor,” Audrey said. “Did I not
intimidate Henry into sending Mr. Farmington? And then maneuver the boy into
revealing as much as he dared?”

“You
mean Fiona maneuvered him.”

“Yes
. . . that was unexpected.” Audrey realized that she still stirred her tea and
stopped.

“She
grows up faster than you think. Like her mother after she learned of love.”

Audrey
dropped her spoon with a clatter and Cecilia recoiled.

Why
did she keep this old crone? One day she would push too far and Audrey would
impale her bloodless heart—put Cecilia out of the world’s misery.

Audrey
sipped her tea. “Did we not leave them all the tools they’d need in the
basement?”

“The
product of a quick and shoddy divination that left them half what they need,”
Cecilia murmured. “Supplemented with a collection of lies disguised as a book.”

Audrey
shrugged. “They would never have accepted the truth if it were told to them.
The book, though; they love their books, do they not? They believe anything
that is written.”

Cecilia’s
thin lips twisted into a cruel smile. “Henry would die if he knew anyone read
his old writings.”

“I
do not think we are that lucky.”

Cecilia
considered this and her smile faded. “Eliot and Fiona are not ready: fifteen
years and so innocent. You have suppressed all they could have been.”

“They
are smarter than any children in or out of this family. That shall have to be
enough.”

Audrey
wished Cecilia would be silent. More doubts surfaced in Audrey’s mind. Had it
been the right thing to hide them? What choice had there been? Eliot and Fiona
were powerless, true, but had they been trained, the families would have found
. . . and consumed them.

The
families. Plural.

That
her side had discovered the children was bad enough. If their father’s family
found them, it could be the end of the long truce between the clans.

Cecilia
dragged the spiderweb teapot close and poured steaming water into a china cup.
Her face puckered into a defiant expression.

Audrey
sighed and nodded. She would allow her a simple divination, but no more.

Cecilia
mixed snow-white petals and a pinch of belladonna to the water and stirred with
her finger. Vapors rose from the cup. Her dim eyes kindled as the mists
thickened and braided into strands.

Cecilia’s
problem was that her sight was shortened by her strong emotions—emotions that
ironically also made her Audrey’s greatest asset.

One
of them had to feel.

Audrey
longed to love—unconditionally, unyieldingly, and irrationally—but she had long
ago chosen to sever herself from those possibilities. She had decided to keep
her head, calculate and recalculate, and survive. Regardless of the cost. That
is what their kind did.

The
tendrils of fog that spilled from Cecilia’s cup slithered over the tablecloth.
Poised upon this smoke sat a vaporous spider that tested each thread with
tremulous legs.

“What
do you see?” Audrey asked.

Cecilia
and her spider spoke together, one croaking, the other squeaking. “Danger.
There is hunger in the water, and I hear . . .” She inhaled, surprised.
“Music!”

Music
was a black omen. It likely indicated the other family.

Audrey
wanted to touch the web, but stilled her hand. With one finger she could bring
the entire probability grid into focus. She could pull strings and destroy
forces aligned against the children . . . but with a single touch, the Council
would be alerted to her influence.

“Try
to sense more,” she urged.

Cecilia
reached for the spider and stroked its thorax. It elongated and sprouted
cellophane dragonfly wings and flitted among the foggy threads.

Audrey
squinted at the leaves floating in Cecilia’s teacup: they looked like a hundred
tiny eyes, then coalesced into teeth that opened and snapped shut.

“Another
danger awaits them,” Cecilia whispered. “A trap. More than one, and then only
one. Smaller . . . and then much larger.” Her eyes widened and the milky film
covering them cleared. She snatched her dragonfly and held it to her chest.
“Reptile,” she murmured trancelike, then started breathing heavily. “A river of
teeth. Eater of the innocent.”

Audrey
waved her hand.

The
web of fog condensed into fine strands of ice—hung in the air for a
heartbeat—then fell and shattered upon the table.

“Enough.
They must finish this alone.”

The
danger was too great. While Audrey could not feel love, per se, she could feel
her protective instincts roused. If Cecilia told her more, she would act and
destroy any chance, however slender, Eliot and Fiona now had.

Cecilia
glared at her. “How can you be so cold?”

“What
would you have me do?”

“You
could kill the Council. All of them. Quickly.”

Audrey
quirked one eyebrow at Cecilia’s bold suggestion. “I am not so certain I could
best Aaron.”

“You
would have tried in the old days,” Cecilia hissed.

Audrey
took a deep breath, stilled herself, then said, “There were no children in the
old days. Begin a blood vendetta and they will make sure Eliot and Fiona would
be the first casualities.”