MORTAL COILS (73 page)

For
the first time in his life he was taking control. No more rules. No
Grandmother. No one telling him what to do.

He
felt a stab of guilt about Fiona and a third heroic trial. She’d do okay
without him, but still, the weight of this all-important decision seemed to
crush something inside him.

But
this was about him. His life.

And
Julie’s.

Five
minutes to go. Where was she?

Eliot
touched the strings of his violin again: just a few notes from “Julie’s Song.”
He played the phrase about how there was still hope in her life.

Sunlight
broke through the clouds for a moment.

Eliot
stopped and slipped Lady Dawn back into the rubber boot, then into his pack.

The
hippies and the guy in the suit got onto the bus.

The
bus driver came out of the bathroom and paused by Eliot. “Getting on board,
young man? Or waiting for someone?”

“Both
I guess.”

The
driver tugged on his cap. “We’re leaving at five thirty, sharp.”

“Yes,
sir.” The clock on the wall read 5:28.

Julie
had to be close. He could almost feel her.

He
got up and poked his head outside the bus station. The sidewalks were empty.

He
darted back in, ran to the women’s restroom, and whispered, “Julie—you there?”

There
was no answer.

Behind
him he heard the doors to the lobby swing open. He turned around, hope rising
in his chest like a bubble. . . .

But
it was only the driver leaving and getting onto his bus. He looked at Eliot
expectantly.

Eliot
shrugged.

The
driver nodded, closed the bus’s door, and started the engine. With a squeak of
released air brakes, the bus rolled onto Vine Street and was gone.

She
hadn’t come.

Eliot
imagined the worst: something had happened to her at home. But, of course,
there was a more likely explanation: Julie had already left.

The
crushed feeling he felt a moment ago intensified, squeezing his lungs and heart
so it was hard to breathe.

Maybe
she hadn’t gone home after the park—just come straight here and left on the
four o’clock to Oakland. Maybe she finally realized what a total nerd Eliot
was. . . .

Why
would a girl like Julie Marks hang out with him in the first place? None of it
made sense.

The
only thing that Eliot really understood was that he had turned his back on his
family, that given half a chance he would have left Fiona neck deep in hot
water.

Dejected
. . . lonely . . . overwhelmed with guilt, he hung his head and left the bus
station, going to the only place that would have him. Home.

57

THE
SECOND DEATH OF JULIE MARKS

Julie
Marks strolled toward the Greyhound bus station. She had taken care to pick the
right outfit for the occasion: a black T-shirt with a few rhinestone sparkles
(low neckline, of course), skintight jeans, and black boots. Nothing flashy,
but nothing too timid, either.

Certainly
nothing a fifteen-year-old boy could resist.

This
was the moment she had been working toward for the last three days—three glorious
days alive and in the light. She wanted an entire lifetime of days like these.

She
had been clever to earn Eliot’s trust, play the friend, the tease, and finally
the wounded bird. He was hers to do with whatever she pleased.

Julie
thought they’d have given her something hard to do in exchange for her freedom,
but this was like shooting catfish on the sidewalk.

She
slowed.

Eliot
was nice, though; not like every other man who had been in her life . . . when
she had been alive, that is.

But
wasn’t that the point of all this? A gamble to escape hell and earn her life?
There was no way she was going back.

Julie
approached the glass door of the bus station and reached for the handle.

Three
men were inside.

The
one reading the newspaper was an Infernal agent. Best not to make eye contact.
They all looked the same to her. If she crossed paths with the wrong clan,
they’d as soon eat her as say hello.

The
two hippies, she got no vibe from. They were likely what they appeared to be;
although, in this town, it paid to be cautious.

On
the bench in the middle of the station, so small and unassuming that she had
missed him at first glance, sat Eliot.

He
hadn’t seen her: Bambi in the headlights of an onrushing eighteen-wheel truck.

God,
could she really do this to him? Hadn’t she messed up enough lives? Hers first
and foremost?

She
rubbed her arms. The needle tracks were no longer visible, but they still
ached.

Mama’s
voice whispered in her head: You had your life, child—tossed it away, overdosed
in some Dumpster in Atlanta. White trash in every sense.

Yes,
she was doing this. She got herself dead—out of the frying pan and into the
fire literally. This was her one chance to crawl out.

She
checked her curls in the reflection of the glass. She was the perfect
candy-coated bait.

Inside
the station, Eliot had his violin out. He plucked a few notes.

The
glass rattled in the doorframe.

Julie
withdrew her hand.

Her
boots tapped as if they wanted to dance. The hairs on the back of her neck
stood . . . as if she were his instrument. As if he were playing her.

Well,
there was no way in hell that was happening tonight. Death sucked. For now she
was alive, and she planned on staying that way.

Julie
shook her head to clear it and pushed on the door.

But
Eliot played again.

The
sound turned her arms to Jell-O. She stood helpless and listened. He played her
song.

With
a few notes he conjured her past: parents that weren’t so bad . . . just never
really understood; friends promising a new life . . . then stealing everything;
on the streets having to do terrible things . . . and the end.

White
trash in every sense.

Eliot
managed a new end, though. He turned it all inside out and made her feel
something that she hadn’t felt since she was a little kid.

Hope.

Was
there hope? Really?

She
believed once, but there had been so much pain. She had learned there were
things that could make the pain go away: wine, cocaine, and then heroin.

They
had worked, too. They’d been great. No pain. Job accomplished.

But
after the pain had been blotted out, she always found herself in the same spot
. . . only with less hope.

Until
it had all gone.

Was
that what she felt beating in her chest now? That no matter how badly she had
messed things up, there was still a chance to do the right thing?

How
dare he throw it back in her face like this. Hope wasn’t something you got from
a song. People like her didn’t have hope. They took what they could, and . . .

And
what? Overdosed and died? Went straight to hell?

Eliot
finished with a pizzicato flourish and tucked his violin away.

No
matter what she was thinking, though, hope was inside her once more, warm and
strong and comforting. The feeling that had long been buried and presumed dead,
Eliot had resurrected.

“No,
no, no,” she whispered to her reflection in the door. “Don’t do this to
yourself, Miss Julie Katherine Marks. You all are smarter than that.”

She
put one hand over her chest. Unfortunately smarts didn’t have anything to do
with how she felt.

She
dreamed that there could be another way. Another life. Another way to love. It
was like a sunrise during an endless night. If she had to . . . she could make
that transcendent moment of hope last forever.

It
was nothing short of pure magic.

In
one glorious instant Eliot had given her more than all the lies the Queen of
Poppies could promise her in an eternity.

Sealiah
had brought back her flesh, but Eliot Post had made her feel alive. If she
betrayed him now, she knew the feeling would fade forever.

And
that might be worse than death.

Julie
pressed her palm to the glass, and despite the hope her heart ached. She
couldn’t tell him good-bye. What could she say? How could she avoid being seen
by that man in black?

Julie
turned and quickly walked away—before she changed her mind.

She
glanced down the street and spotted a 1974 Plymouth Duster. That would work. It
was more rust than steel, but it had V-8, and no fancy alarm system.

Ten
seconds and one smashed window later, she was in the car, crossed the ignition
wires, and coaxed the engine to life.

She
floored the accelerator. The more distance she put between her and
in-the-middle-of-nowhere Del Sombra, California, the better it would be for
her.

Could
she really do this?

Maybe.
Sealiah wasn’t all-powerful . . . not here. In the world of light their kind
had money and influence, but they needed people like her to do their dirty
work. If Julie ran far enough fast enough, it was possible she could escape.
She hoped.

She
snapped on the radio. Elvis warbled through the speakers, crooning about true
hearts and how his life sucked. Join the club, King.

Twelve
miles and she got onto the Coast Highway. She’d have to ditch the Duster and
find another ride.

There—she
spotted a flickering neon sunset and two dozen Harleys parked underneath. The
tavern’s sign read LAST SUNSET TAVERN.

She’d
been to places like this before. The pool tables, jukeboxes, sawdust and
peanuts on concrete floors, had been a second home.

Julie
found a parking spot in the shadows and killed the engine.

She
got out and marched to the women’s restroom. She’d worn a little makeup for
Eliot tonight, but to get inside the bar and find a protector and new
transportation, she needed war paint.

Julie
fluffed her hair. She slathered on lipstick, a color that would’ve made her
mama blush.

She
sighed and fogged up the mirror. She wished she were with Eliot. What would it
have been like to hear him play every day?

What
if she had just told him the truth?

Could
Eliot forgive her? More important, would he believe her and be able to protect
her?

Sealiah
had spoken of his family—how they were so powerful that the Infernals had to
dance around to get a chance to grab Eliot.