MORTAL COILS (56 page)

She
licked her lips, desperate for a bite of cinnamon truffle.

Fiona
glanced again at the towering trees. Giants. Like Uncle Aaron, Grandmother, the
rest of the Council, watching over her and Eliot.

“Are
Eliot and I the only ones? Kids, I mean. In our family.”

Robert
blinked and thought about this a moment. “I’m not sure. There are about a
hundred members total in the League.”

“The
League? That’s our family?”

“The
League of Immortals.”

“But
they don’t really live forever . . . ”

“I
know it sounds crazy, but they might. They know things and they can do things.”
Robert looked away, unable to hold her penetrating gaze. “But no kids . . . at
least none I’ve ever personally met.”

“Then
there have been others before? Henry and Grandmother said there were, but said
that things happened to them, too.”

Robert
looked back. “You should know the truth. Know that the Council’s tests are
life-and-death serious.”

Fiona
wondered what kind of trouble Robert could get in by telling her these things.
What would Grandmother do to him if she found them in this forest together,
alone, revealing family secrets?

The
air stilled and fog settled about them.

“There
were others like you and Eliot,” Robert whispered.

“Are
they close? Do you think we could talk to them?”

“I
said there were others. They’re all dead. Or grown-up and in the League for
longer than I’ve been alive.”

She
moved closer to him. The fog chilled her. She felt the heat from his body. “So
some of them did survive?”

Robert
reached out to her, but stopped himself. “I’m not going to candy-coat this for
you. For every one of their kids that lived long enough for history to
notice—Hercules, Horus, Tantalus—there were supposedly hundreds, maybe
thousands, that didn’t make it.”

“Grandmother
told me,” Fiona whispered. “The kidnappings . . . and the poisonings.” She felt
weak in the knees. She needed her chocolates.

“Maybe
I’ve said too much,” Robert whispered.

“No.”
Fiona took his hand and squeezed. “I understand. Thanks for telling me the
truth.”

She
appreciated the warning about her family—she just couldn’t stand to hear any
more. It was all too much.

They
walked quietly along the path through the fog.

So
she and Eliot were sacrificial pawns in a game. The stakes were clearer than
ever. Before Robert had spelled it out for her, she had hoped that the Council
was bluffing with their “life or death” threats—just trying to scare them.

But
they weren’t.

Robert
stepped closer to her and gently tilted her face toward his. “Don’t worry. You
have a real chance. What you did to that alligator . . . ” He whistled low. “I
couldn’t have done that. Most professional hunters wouldn’t have even found
it.”

Fiona
remembered the raw power of the oracle crocodile. How he had knocked her over
and almost devoured her with his black hole of a maw.

And
she remembered what it had said: that her father’s family was even worse than
the League. Fallen angels . . . they seemed more improbable even than gods or
goddesses.

“There
are other families?” she asked. “Like the League?”

Robert
cocked his head, thinking. “Yeah. There are others—some hippie writers in Seco
County, New Mexico; the Scalagaris of Sicily; and the Dreaming Families . . .
but none of them has half the power of the League.”

“What
about the Infernals?”

The
blood drained from Robert’s face. “Those are very scary individuals. Where did
you hear about them?”

“They’re
in competition with the League, aren’t they? At least that’s the way Uncle
Henry talks about them.”

“They
don’t exactly compete.” Robert looked around nervously. “If they did, it’d be
all-out war. There’s some treaty. From what I understand, they can’t even touch
each other.”

“Do
they have kids?”

Robert
shrugged.

A
breeze cleared the fog. The trail widened and a tall log-cabin structure stood
to one side. It bore the dual pictogram for male/female.

Robert
nodded at it. “Do you mind? I’ll just be a second.”

“Oh,
sure.”

She
watched him enter the outhouse, almost happy that he was gone. She needed a break
from all this truth.

Fiona
suddenly didn’t like these trees. They were majestic, awe-inspiring, but alone
with them now, she felt as if they had all taken a giant step closer to her.

She
felt so small among them.

She
backed to the opposite side of the trail. There, lying on its side, was a
fallen log approximately the size of a truck. A sign explained how fallen trees
like this were called nursery logs and provided nourishment for younger trees
in the forest as they decomposed.

Draped
completely around the circumference of the downed tree was a hemp rope. It had
a mark each foot along its length and a placard at eye level that read:

   
California (or Coast) Redwood (Sequoia sempervirens). 20-foot circumference.

Fiona
reached out and took the rope in her fingers.

So
she had to become like the rest of the family? Kill or be killed? She had found
a way not to kill on the first trial, though. Could she do the same for the
last two?

Her
hand wound the rope, tightening it in her grip.

But
was it worth taking the risk? Or was it better for both of them to change and
live? Not be pawns anymore?

And
become what?

She
wanted to go back to the way it was: homework, a normal job, reading—no trials
or murder, no gods or devils.

An
image of Eliot, beaten and bloodied, flashed through her imagination—and her
only thought was to protect him.

She
yanked the rope.

It
ripped free without resistance—cutting effortlessly through the tree’s width.

A
sixty-foot-long section of the downed log cracked and rolled onto the trail,
tons of wood easing to a stop, crushing the gravel underneath.

Robert
tore out of the bathroom, cell phone in one hand, gun in the other.

“What
. . . ?” He looked confused at the displaced log, then back to her.

“That
was me.” Fiona sighed and looked at her feet, feeling once again like some
dorky little kid. She then looked up at the sky. The edges were tinged yellow
and orange.

“You
better take me back,” she said bitterly. “Grandmother will be expecting me home
soon.”

An
extremely confused-looking Robert holstered his gun. “Grandmother . . . right.”

“I’ll
explain about the tree on the way home.” Fiona went to him, leaned against him,
and they walked back down the trail.

41

DALLAS

Eliot
would never understand girls.

As
he walked home from Ringo’s, Julie had started walking with him up Midway
Avenue.

“I’m
in Hillcrest Apartments,” she explained without breaking her stride. “A few
blocks past Oakwood.”

Earlier,
Julie had wanted to have coffee with him. He’d serenaded her and made a
connection.

Why
she had pulled away and said that she “couldn’t do this”? What did that mean?

Eliot
had been raised by women . . . you’d think he’d have some clue.

He
watched her walk. Julie had her own music, one that didn’t require an
instrument. The curves of her pale skin, the flex of taut muscles, every liquid
motion, even the downy blond hairs on her arm, seemed to sing to him.

“How’d
you know I live at Oakwood?” he asked.

“Your
employment application.”

Great.
If she had read that, then she knew that he and Fiona were weird, homeschooled
shut-ins.

A
hot breeze swirled about them and made Julie’s dress flutter. It was the most
entrancing thing he’d ever seen.

He
should just ask her why she ran away at the Pink Rabbit. Was there something
terrible about her family that she couldn’t share? Eliot bet he could match her
family—terrible secret for terrible secret, and then some.

What
would be the point? She wouldn’t believe him. He hardly believed it.

Maybe
some people were just destined to be alone because of the truths they thought
no one else would believe . . . when, in fact, they all had similar things to
hide.

Or
maybe she was still freaked out by the hundreds of crows that had been outside
the Pink Rabbit, watching them, cawing at Eliot, what he thought was a cry for
more music.

He
wasn’t sure where those birds had come from. He hadn’t exactly been scared of
them, but hadn’t felt entirely comfortable with two hundred solid black eyes
staring at him, either. When Eliot had shooed them away, however, they had
taken to the air—a tornado of feathers and caws.

Eliot
stopped on the sidewalk. Julie kept walking for a few paces, halted, and looked
back at him.

“What?”
she asked.

“Whatever
I did at the café . . . I just wanted to apologize.”

Julie
opened her mouth—closed it. She looked as if she might cry again, but then her
brow crinkled. “Forget it.” She started walking.

She
stopped, whirled about, and came back to him. “The problem is you’re too nice,”
she said, sticking her face into his. Her eyes were narrow slits of pure
hatred. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I
was just trying to help,” he whispered. “If it bothered you, I’m sorry. I’ll
just—”

The
expression in Julie’s blue eyes changed, and something entirely different
smoldered within. Something primal.

She
touched her lips to his. Her flesh was hot.

His
arms found her waist and drew her close. This seemed as instinctive as his
heart beating or inhaling his next breath.

His
bewilderment dissolved. Everything was liquid and flowed between them. This
moment was all there was—him and her—nothing else in the entire universe.

And
while he wasn’t sure exactly why this was happening or if he would ever
understand girls in a million years—he knew it was best not to ask any stupid
questions.

Julie
pulled away. She smiled and bit her lower lip.

He
would’ve done anything to continue that kiss, but he relaxed, worried that if
he pushed too hard, he might scare her off.

“Like
I said,” Julie purred. “You’re too nice.”

She
started to move closer—but hesitated and quickly turned her head, listening.

Eliot
heard something as well: a rumble that echoed down Midway Avenue.