MORTAL COILS (28 page)

The
girl obeyed. There was no fear in her eyes; instead, they smoldered with anger.

It
was delightfully refreshing.

This
one deserved a second looking over. She wore a tight spandex top with a
radiation warning symbol silk-screened on it. Stenciled under this were the
words ATOMIC PUNK. Tattered black-and-white-striped stockings clung to her
legs. Combat boots armored tiny feet, and a dog collar encircled her throat.
Razor-wire-motif tattoos were inked on skinny biceps. Her hair had once been
blond, but was now streaked with pink and black and greens. Beneath far too
much makeup was a heart-shaped face, full cheeks, and perfect lips. Pretty
enough.

“Why
did you leave the line?”

“I
don’t like to play unless I know I’m going to win . . . ma’am.” The girl’s
voice was honey-thick with an American Georgian accent.

She
had spunk—but was a poor liar. A potentially fatal flaw.

Sealiah
subdued her irritation. “I will tell you this just once, girl: never lie to me.
I can tell you are a gambler . . . for money . . . and other pleasures. Not a
very good one, either, or you would not be here.”

The
girl narrowed her eyes and spat out, “I left because the job you’re offering is
a trick, isn’t it? That’s what you people do. Get our hopes up and crush them.”

The
girl’s voice trailed off, and her anger vanished as she realized that she had
perhaps gone too far—that many things were worse than death—and that she stood
in front of one of them.

“We
do not get anyone’s ‘hopes’ up,” Sealiah cooed. “You do that all by yourself.”

She
took the girl’s hand, pulled, and twisted. A procession of needle tracks
punctuated the girl’s inner forearm. “As I said,” Sealiah murmured, “you
gambled for just a little more pleasure . . . and lost.” She released the limb.
“Tell me your name.”

The
girl curled her arm close to her chest, and a bit of the smoldering hate
rekindled in her eyes. “I’m Julie Marks, ma’am.”

“Julie
Marks, formerly what? A sixteen-year-old prostitute? Late of some back alley in
Atlanta?”

Julie’s
face reddened.

“Well,
I may have a job for you, Miss Marks, one with rich rewards, and no tricks—but
first a question to gauge your sensibilities. What is a woman’s most valuable
bodily asset in seduction?”

Julie
looked surprised, but recovered quickly and examined her figure, thinking. Her
body was full in all the right places, lean in the others.

Sealiah
could work with such material. Remove the makeup, pale her up a bit, and lose
the tattoos . . . she could be just what was needed. Possibly even
irresistible.

But
she was taking so long to answer. Sealiah feared the girl might say her most
valuable asset was “her brain,” in which case it was best to put the foolish
thing out of her misery.

Julie’s
eyes widened and her black fingernails touched her throat. “The neck?”

Could
the child actually know something? “Why?”

“The
other parts,” Julie replied, “they’re what get looked at first. Too obvious.
But there’s kind of a language to seduction. You get a man close, expose the
neck, and that’s like an invitation, isn’t it? And they’re such wolves . . .
especially the ‘gentlemen.’ It’s in their blood to go for the throat.”

So
she did understand a bit. Apparent supplication. The instinct to bite and
conquer. It made for a potent trap.

And
Julie Marks did have a lovely neck. Sealiah ran one finger across it. The girl
stiffened, but dared not move. She had the kind of translucent flesh and
delicate bones that Michelangelo would have burned his soul to capture.

“You
may do.”

“Yes,
ma’am,” Julie whispered with restrained rage. Her mouth worked without words,
then she found the ability to speak: “My auntie was a witch. Creole. And as old
as the swamp. She said you could sometimes make a deal with the devil . . . by
winning against him at dice.”

Sealiah’s
annoyance flared. Swamp witch! This sounded like one of Louis’s mythical
encounters. If she knew him, there was likely some seduction involved, as well.

It
was outrageous that this common Julie Marks asked for dice and terms. The girl
had no affiliation to any Infernal clan; she had no right to roll. Sealiah’s
hands clenched into fists so tight, the nails cut her palms.

Her
emotions subsided like the ocean calming after a hurricane. But then again,
there was no reason not to let her roll, either. Julie Marks was providing an
entire afternoon of entertainment—that alone was reason to see where this led.

“By
requesting dice, and me accepting, you have locked us into a time-honored
ritual,” Sealiah said. “I have asked you to do a job for me; you asked to roll
for terms. I will set the terms of the deal if you lose; you set the terms if
you win.”

Julie
swallowed. “I can ask for anything?”

Sealiah
nodded.

“Then
I want out of hell. I mean . . . I want to live again. Can you do that?”

This
girl had iron in her. She would indeed do nicely. “You may ask for that,”
Sealiah replied. “But in turn, if I win, I may ask for any terms I so desire.”

Julie
Marks trembled, but nodded.

Sealiah
pulled out a Naga of Dharma from her pocket. Ashmed had given her one of the
legendary dice after the Board meeting. It is an extraordinary gift, he had
said, for an extraordinary woman. She held the die out to Julie.

She
took it. “I just throw it?”

“Not
quite. This is my domain, so the odds are mine to set. I give you one chance in
six. The other five chances are mine. Pick your number.”

Julie
paled. “Okay. . . . It’s more of a chance than I had a second ago.” She turned
the die over and looked at the scrimshaw pips. “This one.” She held out the
face with six ravens for Sealiah to see. “I like the birds.”

“Birds
of black. Carrion eaters, razor-eyed, bringers of wisdom. A good choice. Go
ahead, child.”

Julie
swayed as if she might faint. She opened her hand . . . and let the Naga of
Dharma fall.

The
cube hit the dirt, bounced with a puff of dust, and rolled to a stop.

Six
ravens landed faceup.

Sealiah
felt a flutter of wingbeats thrum through the air; a black feather drifted and
settled next to the die.

“I
won,” Julie said, and her eyes turned up to the overcast sky. “Screw this
place—I am so out of here.”

Sealiah
picked up the Naga. “Not yet.” She set a hand on Julie’s shoulder and the girl
flinched. “There is the small matter of the task you must first perform: a
young man to seduce.”

Julie
was suddenly all business. “Right. I’m ready. What’s his name?”

“Eliot.
Eliot Post.”

SECTION
III

THE
FIRST HEROIC TRIAL

19

BROKEN

Fiona
moved before she woke up, making her bed and laying out her clothes. A lifetime
of schedules had been ingrained in her: she knew how to work even
semiconscious.

She
must have slept wrong, however; her arm throbbed. Rubbing her elbow, she went
to review her homework. Her essay on Isaac Newton sat on her desk—only
half-done.

Panic
fluttered through her heart. Grandmother did not tolerate unfinished work.
There’d be penalty assignments and extra chores.

No
. . . there wouldn’t be. Fiona was suddenly ice-water-splashed-into-her-face
awake. There were reasons her homework hadn’t been done last night.

She
examined her arm: bruises dotted the elbow where Mike had grabbed her.

Fiona
moved to her globe and traced their limousine ride—up the California coast to
the north pole and then down to the Mediterranean.

She
picked up the sweatshirt she’d worn yesterday and held it to her nose. It
smelled of deep-fryer oil, car leather, and sea salt—evidence these events
hadn’t been a dream.

An
entirely new family was in her life now, people who wanted her and her brother
dead unless they passed their “trials.” She had a feeling no one would be
asking them mathematical puzzles or Zen koans, either. What had Uncle Aaron
called them? “Heroic trials”?

How
did you prepare for something like that?

She
scratched her head and recoiled, disgusted with the greasy texture. Whatever
these family trials were, she wanted to be clean when she faced them.

She
marched into the bathroom before Eliot got there.

Fiona
halted in front of the mirror. Her hair curled into helices. She twined a
finger through it and sighed. It had to go. It looked amazing, but she couldn’t
stand the unclean feel.

She
twisted on the shower faucet and stepped in. The cold water shocked her, but
she relaxed as it heated. It wouldn’t last long. You’d think as building
manager Grandmother could have arranged for them to get all the hot water they
needed. No such luck.

Fiona
opened a bottle of Cee’s homemade shampoo. Sharp antiseptic vapors filled the
air. Cee made the stuff by rendering animal fat on the kitchen stove, adding
raw industrial-strength lye, then lacing it with toxic herbs and alcohol.
Nauseating. It did, however, clean to the pores, stripping away dirt, oil, and
a few layers of scalp. She scoured off the stink of Ringo’s until her skin
reddened.

One
good thing had come out of this new family and their trials: Fiona wouldn’t
have to go to work today.

Uncle
Henry had said that this was like a custody battle. But a battle occurred
between two or more sides, so where were her father’s family in all this? Why
hadn’t they sent a letter or called?

The
water cooled. Fiona stepped out and rubbed herself dry.

She
wiped the mirror and saw that her hair had curled into black ribbons even more
luxuriant than before. It would frizz into a mess as it dried, she was certain,
so she vowed not to look into another mirror today.

She
pulled on corduroy pants, a white shirt, and boots. These were her most
“adventuresome” clothes. They made her look like Grandmother and made her feel
as if she could take on the world.

She
could take on the world.

Fiona
opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and almost ran into Eliot.

“Hey,”
Eliot said, yawning. “Any hot water left?”

She
opened her mouth to call him an Eudyptula albosignata.24 She stopped, though,
remembering how angry she was with him. He didn’t deserve a clever insult like
that.

They’d
fought last night because Eliot didn’t trust anyone—as if this

24.
Commonly known as the white-flippered penguin. It is the smallest member of the
penguin family, only thirty centimeters tall (twelve inches) at
maturity.—Editor.

were
some sort of Machiavellian plot. He didn’t even trust Grandmother of all the
stupid things.

Fiona
moved past him, bumping him rudely in the shoulder.

She
looked back and he just stared at her, eyes narrowing . . . and more important,
not so much as one syllable of insult for her in return.