MORTAL COILS (49 page)

He
shifted to a minor key and found new phases within Julie, pouring from her
heart, an inversion of the nursery rhyme, and anguished chords so low in the
guitar’s register they were felt more than heard.

Julie’s
song yearned for release from pain and the notes wavered and ran together.
Eliot felt pinpricks on his arm, but resisted the urge to itch. He forged
ahead, following the spiral of tragedy and regret into the shadows, until the
music ended in a pulsing heartbeat . . . notes that faded to nothing: the sound
of a young, strong heart broken.

Shadows
flitted over the skylights, and there were thumps upon the roof.

No
one took notice of the noise overhead. Every eye in the audience glistened.
Tears streamed down Julie’s cheeks. No one moved.

But
her song couldn’t end this way. It was almost as if she had died.

Eliot
wouldn’t let that happen.

The
music was his to make and control—not the other way around.

His
fingers reversed and made the heartbeat come back, faint at first, then
stronger, and bridged back through minor keys with a complex set of harmonies
that nearly made his hand cramp—ended back at the sweetness and light and
innocent happiness where she had started.

Julie
blinked and wiped away her tears. She smiled. It wasn’t the hundred-watt grin
she seemed able to summon upon command. This was real. No glamour, but simple
joy. And it was just for Eliot.

He
ended with a flourish that echoed the nursery rhyme; it sounded like . . .
hope.

The
sunlight pouring through the skylights brightened.

Eliot
set his hand on the steel strings to still their insistent vibrations.

The
world seemed normal again.

The
customers clapped, stomped their feet, then got up and gave an ovation.39

Eliot
had never had anyone applaud anything he’d done. It was almost better than
making the music. Almost.

He
could have stayed up there all day, entertaining them, just so they would fill
him with their praises.

Julie,
however, was not one of the people clapping. She stood and stared at him
intently, looked fascinated and somehow horrified, too.

She
beckoned to him.

Eliot
then understood that there were more important things than the adulation of
strangers.

He
set the guitar on its stand.

The
bartender clapped him on the back and said he could come back and play anytime.

Eliot
muttered his thanks and moved to Julie.

She
embraced him, gripping him hard, her tears wetting his shoulder. She sniffled
and wiped her face on his shirt, then pulled back so she could look at him.

For
a moment, she seemed like a little girl. She looked so desperately grateful, as
if no one had ever given her anything in her life.

“That
was for me?”

“It’s
your song,” Eliot whispered.

She
trembled. “It’s not supposed to go like this.” Her voice was different. The
Southern accent was still there, yet without the honeyed smoothness. She looked
away. “You weren’t supposed to make me . . . I can’t do this.”

Julie
pulled away and turned to the waitress. “Make those orders to go, miss.”

“I
thought we were going to talk,” Eliot said.

39.
When the survivors of the Del Sombra conflagration were later interviewed, many
cited the public demonstration of Eliot Post days before as a transformative
experience. It was not the most technically proficient performance, but all the
interviewees agreed that it was the most heartfelt music they had ever heard. More
than one person said, “It sounded like angels sang with him.” Gods of the First
and Twenty-first Century, Volume 11: The Post Family Mythology, 8th ed.
(Zypheron Press Ltd.).

Julie
straightened and blinked and smoothed her dress. Confusion rippled over her
face, but quickly set into a mask of determination.

“Coffee
break is over, Post. We’re going back to work.” She strode to the exit.

Eliot
wasn’t sure what had just happened. Had he offended her? How could he mess up
everything—even the things he was good at like music?

He
fumbled out the money Fiona had lent him, leaving enough for their drinks and
the tip, then ran after Julie.

He
caught her in the doorway.

Julie
whirled on him. “Don’t.” The iron in her features melted a little and she
tried, but failed, to smile. “I like you, but I can’t do this to you . . . not
today.”

She
pushed through the door.

Do
what to him? She was making less sense than Fiona.

He followed
her outside. Julie had frozen stock-still on the sidewalk. In fact, several
cars on Vine Street had halted in their tracks.

Crows
roosted on the telephone and power lines overhead, crowding them so they bowed
from their collective weight. Some of the birds, however, were on the sidewalk
and in the street, flapping confusedly, recovering from flying into the Pink
Rabbit.

There
were hundreds of them.

Eliot
grabbed Julie’s hand and took a step backward, pulling her along, remembering
how the rats in the sewer had tried to eat him and Fiona.

Every
crow turned and pointed its beak at him, cawed, beat its wings, and yet
remained in place.

Eliot
didn’t move, terrified that they might take wing and swoop down upon them. But
none of them moved. It was almost as if they were applauding.

36

CUT

Fiona
forced herself to smile as she sat the couple at the best table in Ringo’s.
They asked about today’s lunch special. She recommended the meatballs.

As
she did this, she felt as if someone pulled strings that controlled her. And
why not? She had been Grandmother’s puppet for fifteen years, doing everything
she wanted, thinking it was all for the best. And now she was the Council’s
puppet—jumping when they yanked her cords.

Fiona
the Marionette, that’s what she should call herself.

She
still couldn’t believe that Grandmother had refused to step in and at least ask
the Council to stop. She realized that she was the only one she could count on
now . . . well, and Eliot; he’d always be there for her.

But
her brother had two new distractions in his life: that stupid violin, and their
boss, Julie Marks.

Julie
had snatched Eliot the instant they’d got to work. A “coffee break” before he’d
rinsed a single dish. In her sweetest voice Julie had ordered Johnny to cover
the dishes (admittedly a lot easier with that new behemoth of an automatic
dishwasher, but still, it was Eliot’s job). Then she had Fiona cover her
hostess duties.

She
should have picked Linda. Fiona hated talking to people. It wasn’t natural for
her.

Linda
hadn’t said a word, but from her nonstop glares, Fiona knew what she thought of
her being replacement hostess.

How
could Julie be so bossy and so nice at the same time? That irritated Fiona more
than anything else. With her Southern accent, her quick smile—she must get her
way all the time.

Fiona
settled behind the cash register, waiting for more customers, bracing herself
to be pleasant.

What
was Eliot thinking, running off? The next trial could come at any time.

She
reached into her book bag for her chocolates. She pulled out a truffle and
admired the crushed hazelnuts covering it. She bit into it and tasted creamy
coffee and nibs of lavender. The texture was a wondrous juxtaposition of silk
smooth and granularity. She shuddered with a chill of delight.

Then
she devoured it.

Linda
looked in . . . probably to give Fiona another drop-dead glare.

Fiona
was sick of being blamed for Julie’s decision, so she blasted Linda with a
hate-filled glance of her own.

Linda
went white and her gaze dropped.

“Johnny’s
slowing down on the orders,” Linda said. “Customers are complaining . . . a
little.” She hurried back into the dining room.

Fiona
felt ashamed. Linda had only come to tell her about Johnny.

Why
was she mad at everyone? Fiona peered into her book bag and the half-opened
chocolate box. Could it be all the sugar?

It
then registered what Linda had told her. Johnny was never slow with orders.
Maybe the new automated dishwasher had blown up. Fiona marched back into the
dining room and told Linda to cover the front.

Linda
brightened and unstrung her apron.

Fiona
passed into the kitchen.

There
were pots with boiling marinara sauce, pasta draining, dishwasher churning . .
. but no Johnny. Fiona went to the men’s changing room and knocked. No answer.

Johnny
wouldn’t leave stuff unattended on the stove unless there had been a good
reason.

She
turned off the burners.

The
back door opened. Johnny stood in the doorway. He looked like someone who had narrowly
missed getting hit by a truck.

“Madre
de Dios,” he whispered, then saw Fiona. “I was just coming for you, señorita.
There’s a man in the alley. He said”—Johnny’s face crinkled with worry—“he
knows you.”

“Oh.”
Fiona’s anger rekindled. “Him.”

It
was the old, creepy guy back for more free pizza. Or maybe he wanted to hassle
Eliot again. She’d give that bum a piece of her mind, maybe call the cops.

To
tell the truth, Fiona wanted to be mad at someone. Linda, Johnny, even Julie,
it wasn’t fair to be mad at them. Even Eliot, although he was a pain sometimes,
didn’t deserve her unjustified wrath. But the old bum—she could be mad at him
and no one would care.

She
pushed through the back door, her irritation feeling like a million army ants
crawling under her skin.

The
old man stood with his back to her.

The
door banged shut and he turned.

He
wore a long black leather coat, tight jeans, a T-shirt with the words DONE
TAKING NAMES. I’M HERE TO KICK ASS, and a cowboy hat with snake-skin band and
rattlesnake tail tassel.

This
was not the old bum. Every flicker of fire inside her cooled to ashes.

“Uncle
Aaron,” she whispered.

Was
he here to announce their second trial? Wasn’t that Robert’s job? Or had the
Council some other, more unpleasant announcement? Like they hadn’t really
passed the first test and had sent Uncle Aaron to . . . what? Kill her and
Eliot?

Her
fight-or-flight adrenaline reaction flooded her body. She licked her lips and
tasted chocolate.

She’d
fight.

She
was tired of being pushed around. Even if Aaron was here to do something
horrible—she’d make sure she stood tall when it happened.

She
stared into his bottomless brown eyes.

Aaron
likewise regarded her.