MORTAL COILS (62 page)

Her
mouth watered.

Some
of the nuts, however, moved.

She
froze, her hand almost touching.

Bugs.

Bugs
were on her chocolates: crawling flies and wriggling grubs. They had to have
gotten in when she tossed the box into the Dumpster. How stupid could she have
been?

She
needed them.

Fiona
pulled out a red chocolate strawberry. Tiny cocoa nibs had been arranged to
look like seeds . . . but it was also covered with squirming maggots.

Her
tongue curled to suppress her gag reflex as she brushed them off. Minuscule
holes were burrowed into the candy. There had to be more inside. It was so
gross.

But
she had to eat it. For Eliot’s sake. How else was she going to get back on her
feet?

The
flames made a nearby glass pane fracture with a loud crack.

Time
was running out. She forced herself to bring the chocolate to her mouth.
Something moved under her fingertips.

She
pulled away. She couldn’t do this.

Why
didn’t she have the willpower to get up on her own? Wasn’t she strong enough?

She
licked her lips, imagining the richness of the chocolate. She wanted it . . .
even covered with maggots.

She
stared at the truffle. Yes, she wanted it. She hated herself for it, too.

She
was weak. The chocolates had so much power over her. It was as if she weren’t
eating them. It was as if they were somehow eating her.

She
focused intently on the chocolate and saw a thread dangling from it,
spider-silk fine; it undulated in unseen air currents. She tilted her head and
saw that it arced to her wrist.

Was
it from one of the bugs?

Upon
closer inspection, she saw a microscopic dimple on her skin. It looked as if
the line of silk actually penetrated her flesh there.

She
tugged at the thread and felt it pull inside her arm.

Was
this a concussion-induced hallucination? Or was it maybe one of the threads
that Aunt Dallas had shown her?

Did
that mean her destiny was tied to these chocolates? That she wanted them so
badly they had become a part of her life?

Or
did it mean that they had attached themselves to her? . . . Like a parasite.

She
tugged harder on the thread. It pulled deeper and painfully inside her.

Smoke
swirled about Fiona’s ankles. She coughed.

She
had to figure this out quick or she’d sit here going back and forth trying to
decide to eat the chocolates or not . . . while her brother died, and this
place burned around her.

She
could do this. All she had to do was stay calm.

Fiona
stared at the thread until it became the only thing she saw.

She
pulled on it gently . . . drawing out the entire tangle of threads that represented
her life: it was a snarl of lines and knots and snags that extended an arm’s
length.

Fiona
traced the line from the chocolates as it entered the weave. It corkscrewed
through fibers that looked like spun glass, human hair, hemp twine, and helixed
about others that gleamed gold.

The
fiber ultimately attached to a single fat tube—a vessel that throbbed like an
artery, but instead of blood it pumped dark sludge.

What
aspect of her life was this supposed to represent?

It
didn’t matter. She’d just cut the line from the chocolate and be rid of them
once and for all.

She
pulled the rubber band encircling her wrist so it was taut. She pushed this
toward the tiny spider-silk fiber. It would be easy to cut.

She
pressed hard.

The
nearly invisible line shimmered . . . but the rubber band refused to go
through.

Fiona
tried again, frustrated. Nothing.

She
had cut iron and steel. This was one silly thread. It should work.

Uncle
Aaron had told her she’d be able to cut through anything . . . but he also said
that she had to want to cut. That was the reason her fingers didn’t amputate
when she held the cutting edge.

That
had to mean on some level she didn’t want to cut herself free from the
chocolates.

She
still wanted them, even covered with maggots, and even though she could die
here in the fire. She wanted more, right now. Not just one chocolate, or three,
or seven—she wanted every last one of them.

Tears
blurred her vision. Fiona had never before given up, but now she felt that she
had to. She was strong, but her desire was stronger.

She
hung her head and her gaze dropped to the tangle of threads heaped in her lap .
. . the thick pulsing artery the chocolates had latched onto sat coiled on top.

She
had no idea what that was, but maybe not knowing would work in her favor. Her
subconscious mind wouldn’t allow her to sever the line from the chocolate, but
what if she severed what they had bonded to?

She
pulled out a loop of the unknown tube. Inside, more gelatinous sludge pushed
through. It was disgusting. Certainly she could do without this in her life.

But
still, she’d be cutting part of herself.

What
choice did she have?

She
steeled herself and stretched her band—snapped it across the thing. The rubbery
vessel cut through with only a buttery resistance.

Sludge
poured out in pulses. It smelled of bile and blood and chocolate.

Fiona
instinctively held her arm far away. A river of the stuff sloughed out from
her, covering the floor, her book bag, and the heart-shaped box with thick,
steaming goo.

At
first she thought it was blood.

But
she wasn’t getting weaker—in fact, the more of the stuff that pumped out of
her, the stronger she felt.

The
flow lessened to a trickle and she stood.

She
stared at the half-congealed mess at her feet. She never wanted to eat another
chocolate again. In fact, if she never ate anything again, that would be fine
with her, too.

She
no longer felt weak and helpless—she was mad.

Whoever
had given her the heart-shaped box had known what it would do to her. She
promised she’d find out who had done this and get even.

But
first, there were more important things to do.

Fiona
turned toward the maze exit. That’s where Eliot had gone. That’s where
Millhouse had followed as well, his path clearly marked by the trail of fire
blazing over the floor.

There
was no time left to make her way carefully through the maze, so she stretched
out her rubber band and took three steps forward.

At
the first glass barrier she snapped the rubber band.

The
pane shattered into a thousand pebbles that bounced about her feet. The
plastic-coated safety glass didn’t cut her, but the bits that she had sliced
through were razor sharp.

Slivers
embedded in her arm. Droplets of blood welled. It felt like a dozen stinging
wasps.

She
ignored the pain; that didn’t matter now. Nothing did except getting out.

Cutting
as she walked, Fiona left a trail of shattered glass and severed steel frames.

She
didn’t look back at the chocolates, not even once, and vowed never to let
anything control her like that again.

Fiona
moved forward, unafraid, avoiding the spreading fire until she emerged on the
far side of the maze. She hopped to the ground.

The
trailers behind her were completely engulfed in flames.

Now
she had to find that little girl and Eliot.

And
if she had to, she’d deal with Millhouse, too.

47

FIRE
SERENADE

Eliot
jumped off the top of the stairs and tumbled onto straw-covered ground.

Millhouse
emerged from the maze a moment later and limped down the stairs after him.

“Stay,”
Millhouse hissed. “I have things to tell you, kid. Things you’ll need to know.”

Eliot
sprinted for the shadows, toward the cargo containers along the back fence. He
wouldn’t be caught by such a simple trick.

After
a minute of running, Eliot stopped, caught his breath, and looked back.

Millhouse
was a smoldering dot, still coming for him, but far behind—far enough so Eliot
could stop and think again.

From
the mirror maze flames spread to the concession stands. Would Fiona be okay?
She could get out easily; she was right by the entrance . . . but then what?
Would she circle around to meet him?

He
wished he had a cell phone like everyone else in the world.

He
couldn’t wait for her. He moved at a brisk pace to the cargo containers. There
were at least a hundred of the trailers, stacked three high in places like
building blocks. The little girl could be in any one of them or, as Fiona
believed, none of them.

“Amanda?”
he whispered. “Amanda Lane?”

He
didn’t dare yell loudly enough for her to actually hear him—that might give
away his position to Millhouse. But if he didn’t shout, he’d have to search
each container, and that could take hours.

There
had to be a quicker way.

Eliot
spied a ladder and clambered on top of some containers. From this vantage, he
saw several small fires flare across the lot.

Would
anyone see these blazes from the road and call for help? He doubted it. On the
drive up here there hadn’t been any other cars.

The
fear he had managed to outrun caught up with him. He had almost been trapped
inside the maze, until he figured out to look at the floor, spot the glass and
mirror frames that had blocked his way, and avoid them.

Millhouse
had still gotten close enough to grab at him—singeing his shirt.

His
body shook. He stopped it, but then it started again.

He
had to get a grip on himself. If Millhouse didn’t find him, he’d probably go
back for the little girl. Time was running out for them all.

It
was unfair to put Fiona and him in mortal danger for some test, and doubly
unfair to involve someone outside the family.

How
was he going to find Amanda Lane?

Before,
when he had to find Souhk in the sewers, he’d used his music. Could he use a
similar trick now? There were no rats to lead him, but maybe the music could
find another way.

He
knelt and retrieved the violin from his pack. Resting Lady Dawn on his
shoulder, he strummed her strings.

Eliot
played. He started where he always did, with the simple nursery rhyme that
Louis had taught him. His fingers leapt over the strings; his bowing was a
natural part of him, like his heartbeat, smooth and regular.