MORTAL COILS (93 page)

Robert
turned and went back into the tavern.

“What
are you doing now?” Eliot asked, following.

Robert
paused at the bar and grabbed a handful of pretzels out of a bowl. He examined
them, seeming dissatisfied.

“You’re
hungry at a time like this?”

“Not
exactly.” Robert moved behind the bar and rummaged about, pulling out a large
bag of pretzels. “Hansel and Gretel.”

“Huh?”

“A
trail of bread crumbs. I got the feeling Fiona had a hard time finding the
door—even though she was probably standing right in front of it.”

Eliot
knew “Hansel and Gretel” had to be some mythological or popular-culture
reference that he’d never understand in a million years, but he got the “trail
of bread crumbs” from context.

Robert
started for the back room. “So what’s it going to be? You coming with me or
not?”

Eliot
truly didn’t know. He had to help Fiona; that was the right thing to do. But
Louis said the Valley would be safe. And Eliot believed that . . . to a point.
He didn’t think she’d die in there, at least.

He
also believed Louis when he said that he’d die if Eliot didn’t come to him. It
seemed outrageous, yet something about the way he said it, and the way he left
it up to Eliot to decide his fate, made it seem plausible.

Eliot
felt torn equally in opposite directions.

His
gaze fell upon the bar . . . and the dice there. He couldn’t take his eyes off
their gleaming red surfaces.

He
moved closer and touched them. They were plastic, nothing special. They
immediately warmed, however. He scooped them up and rattled them. It felt good.

What
if he let them decide? What harm could there be if he was truly split in his
thinking?

He
shook them in his closed fist, feeling the excitement build in the air around
him.

It
was so simple. If the dice rolled an even number, he’d go after Fiona first.

If
they came up odd, then he’d help Louis.

“What
are you doing?” Robert asked, the slightest edge of apprehension in his voice.
“There’s no time for games.”

“It’s
not a game.” Eliot’s voice sounded strange to him, older and deeper and darker.
“It’s never been a game.”

He
tossed the dice.

They
bounced and scattered along the bar, spinning to the edge, then halted . . .
and forever changed Eliot’s world.

A
six and a one.

Seven.
Odd. He’d go to his father.

71

THE
LAND OF NEVER

Fiona
held her hands before the bonfire, flexing her fingers. The flames gave off
heat, but not with the intensity she expected from such a pile of timbers. It
was as if she stood in front of a sixty-watt lightbulb.

It
had taken her a while to find a fire without toga-wearing dancers whirling
around it. Metal drums with burning trash were scattered here and there as
well, but those had bums gathered around them, a bottle of wine in every hand.

Wasn’t
anyone else here as cold as she was?

She
pulled the collar of Robert’s leather jacket higher and examined the crowds.

Lots
of people danced; maybe that kept them warm. A group of ice-skaters were
whirling to a disco tempo. Farther from where she stood, a proper hardwood
floor sat under a massive tent where men in tuxedos waltzed with women. Fiona
had been tempted to go there, but she couldn’t muster the courage to enter
looking the way she did.

She
had faced a giant crocodile, infiltrated a high-security military base, but
when it came to her appearance . . . she was still such a coward.

Maybe
it was all the food here that kept these people from freezing. There were
tables heaped with bacon-wrapped appetizers smoldering over cans of Sterno;
mountains of cheese cubes clustered about ice swans; enough shrimp cocktail to
fill a small ocean; and trays with chocolate-covered strawberries. Fiona
suppressed her gag reflex.

A
group of boys ran past her, their faces hidden by masks. They wore

doublets,
fur-lined capes, sabers, and carried steins of beer. They laughed and screamed
and pelted one another with snowballs.

One
boy in a lion mask almost tripped as his gaze caught hers. He smiled.

Fiona’s
face reddened.

The
boy saw someone else, though. He forgot Fiona, chucked a snowball, and ran off.

Just
as well. Maybe he might have helped her, but she hadn’t liked the hungry glint
in his eyes.

Fiona
then spotted several couples walking arm in arm, some pausing in the shadows to
find other ways to keep the cold at bay.

She
looked away, embarrassed.

So
many of them wore strange clothes. Some girls had their hair up, artfully
curled, and wore dresses that looked like something Cee might’ve worn to an
antebellum cotillion. Others had on sequined gowns and shimmered as if they’d
been dipped in quicksilver. Lots of boys and girls wore sweatshirts adorned
with two or three Greek letters (although they spelled nothing that made sense
to Fiona).

There
must be hundreds in this village . . . but she was completely alone. She
crossed her arms over her chest, trying to insulate herself from the cold. Good
thing she had Robert’s leather jacket. It had probably saved her life.

Fiona
recalled how she got here, though. Her rage rekindled.

Robert.
If she ever got her hands on him again . . . well, she wasn’t sure what she was
going to do to him, but he wasn’t going to enjoy it.

He’d
shoved her through that doorway. When she’d pulled herself out of the snow and
turned back to the tavern—there wasn’t any tavern. Nor was there any Robert,
nor Eliot . . . nor most important, any doorway back. She’d searched, but there
hadn’t been so much as a peanut shell in the snow.

There
hadn’t been a choice. It was bitterly cold, and the only place to go was this
village. The tents, kegs of beer, Christmas lights draped over steep-roofed
buildings—it all looked new, warm, and inviting.

Fiona
stopped thinking as everyone started singing that dopey song about “old friends
not forgotten” for what had to be the bazillionth time since she had gotten
here.

And
how long had that been exactly? It only felt like a few minutes, but she knew
that was wrong.

Kazoos
and horns sounded. Confetti, streamers, and fireworks filled the air. All the
strange partygoers gave a great cheer and hugged and kissed the person next to
them.

Fiona
was glad she was by herself. These people were crazy.

There
was a crunch in the snow. She whirled and stood face-to-face with the boy in
the lion mask.

“My
lady,” he said, speaking with a Scottish accent. He bowed extravagantly.
“Please allow me to accompany ye. No one should be alone on this night o’ all
nights.”

The
boy then did the strangest thing: he moved toward her, arms open as if to
embrace.

“Hey!”
Fiona raised her hand and stopped him cold.

He
looked confused, but his smile never faltered. The boy brushed back his mane of
blond hair. “Ah, quite right. The moment has passed, has it not? I suppose ye
shall have to wait a wee bit longer.”

“Who
are you?” Fiona touched the rubber band on her wrist. What was she going to do
if he tried to kiss her again? Cut him in half?

“I
be Lord Jeremy Covington of the Galloway Covingtons.” He took her hand in a
silky smooth gesture and kissed it. The touch of his lips sent a shiver up her
arm.

Her
entire life she would have killed to get attention like this. Now that she had
some, though, she had no idea what to do with it. How did normal girls manage?

She
yanked her hand back.

“Nice
to meet you. I’m Fiona Post. What is this place?”

“The
Land of Never. The Valley of the New Year.”

“Yeah,
I know that. But where is it?”

He
considered a moment, then nodded, seeming to understand. “If I not be mistaken,
before we declared independence, it used to be part of purgatory.”

67,68

67.
Sicilian navigator Ignacio Balermo (1211–58 CE), returned from an expedition to
Africa claiming to have sailed past the edge of the world and explored the
beginnings of heaven and hell and all the lands of purgatory between.
Questioned by the Church, Ignacio revealed that purgatory was a crossroads to
many lands. He was eager to return and explore. The Church refuted this account
and asserted purgatory led only to heaven. Ignacio recanted his tales and yet
was still subsequently burned at the stake. His maps (reported confiscated and burned
as well) later appeared in the possession of the thirteenth-century Benedictine
monk Sildas Pious. Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 2: Divine
Inspirations, 8th ed. (Zypheron Press Ltd.).

68.
“Here be dragons, Minotaur and giants, saints and sinners, fear for the Lost,
and revelations for the brave.” Note prefacing the cartography section of
Father Sildas Pious, Mythica Improbiba (Beezle edition), c. thirteenth century.

“Purgatory?”
Fiona murmured. She’d never heard of the place—and that was saying a lot given
her encyclopedic knowledge of geography, both modern and historical. “Is that
in Eastern Europe?”

Lord
Jeremy laughed. “No, no, purgatory—the place betwixt hell and heaven?”

Fiona
had heard of those places, of course, even with Grandmother’s rules. She
doubted, however, that this place was really between the two. Then again . . .
it made as much sense as any of the other strange things she had seen since her
birthday.

“Ye
be a newcomer then?” Jeremy’s smile faded and he looked concerned.

“You
can say that. How does one get out of purgatory?”

“Well,
’tis not truly purgatory as I told ye. The folk here did no like the way it was
set up—all those rules and cleansing fires and ritual chanting. What bloody
nonsense!”

“Someone
decided to throw a party instead?” Fiona said, looking around.

“A
New Year’s Eve party specifically. The only wee bit o’ trouble be, we never
quite get to midnight. Manage to get a good running start now and then, but
then we always seem to bounce off.”

Jeremy
sighed. “And just like that last moment, nothing ever quite satisfies here. The
drink. The food.” The glint returned to his eyes. “Even the lassies. Perhaps
ye’d like a taste? A glass of champagne to celebrate?”

Fiona
took a step back, suddenly feeling not at all comfortable so close to young
Lord Jeremy Covington. “I’ve had little experience with that. I’ll pass. Trying
to find satisfaction can be addictive.”

“It
can be at that.” He took another step closer. “Though it do no take away the
pleasure from trying.”

At
the edge of the village, a woman started to sing again. Bottle rockets shot
into the air.

“Here
we go.” Jeremy dug into the folds of his doublet and pulled out a mangled twig
of mistletoe. “Ye do know it be traditional to kiss on the New Year?”

“I
don’t think so.”