MORTAL COILS (42 page)

Fiona
shone her flashlight into the water.

It
was three feet deep. The current was strong, but it eased off once it flowed
into the larger “lake” room.

She
stepped off the ledge. Her boots filled with water. It was cold, but the effect
of the chocolate she had eaten repelled this chill. She hated wet socks. The
discomfort, though, would keep her mind off the insane thing she was about to
do.

Wading
forward, she made sure the shotgun was held high—well away from her splashing
strides.

Eliot
stepped in after her, but veered toward the curved wall. He started playing his
violin, a slow song that was half the reptile tune he had invented . . . and
half dreamlike meander.

Fiona
blinked, surprised to find herself yawning. It was working. What else could her
brother do with his music?

The
crocodile yawned as well.

This
instantly sobered Fiona. The beast’s mouth had more spike teeth than she had
ever seen on any animal—hundreds of interlocking ivory daggers.

Fiona
then grasped the proper proportion of things. It had been hard to make out the
dimensions of this chamber outside, but inside she saw the room was fifty feet
across with a central shaft filled with misty light.

The
island in the center was larger than she had realized. It stretched twenty feet
across. How many things had died and been eaten to make that pile of bones?

No—best
not to think about that. Better to focus on moving ahead. Keep the shotgun
ready, finger on the triggers.

Then
the last dimension of the scene clicked into place: the crocodile. It wasn’t
just large. It barely fit half-curled upon the island, and its tail trailed
into the water.

Fiona
had read that some record crocodile specimens had been twenty feet long. This
animal was twice that size.

She
halted, suddenly feeling the fear she had managed to keep at bay so long. The
joints in her arms and legs locked.

Did
it really matter how big it was? A twenty- or forty-foot reptilian eating
machine—it would kill and eat her just the same, right?

She
took a deep breath and reached for another chocolate. Fiona forced herself to stop.

The
last thing she needed was to have that thing charge when her hand was stuck in
her bag. She had to have both hands free for the flashlight and shotgun. She’d
have to do this without eating another chocolate.

Fiona
licked her lips, marched to the edge of the island, and crunched onto the
bones.

The
crocodile didn’t stir, appearing half-asleep, eyes just slits.

Her
heart raced. She was certainly inside its “lunge” range.

She
kept the gun pointed at its head, waiting for it to strike.

She
glanced at Eliot playing. If this didn’t work, if the crocodile turned on her
and she failed to stop it . . . her unarmed brother wouldn’t stand a chance.

She
gingerly stepped over rib and skull and hip bones around to the far side to the
protruding sliver of metal. Both ends had indeed been chewed away. Fiona could
only imagine the jaw pressure needed to do that.

She
inched closer.

One
crocodile eye rotated, tracking her.

To
pull the metal free she’d need both hands; she’d have to set her shotgun down.
This close, however, she might never get a better shot at the creature. She
could aim for the eye. Point-blank, surely that would penetrate the skull
through the occipital orb, pulp the brain—kill it.

That’s
what they were supposed to do, wasn’t it?

But
why? This thing was alive and intelligent. Yes, it killed, but to eat, not
because someone had told it that’s what it had to do to pass some stupid,
arbitrary test.

Shooting
it in self-defense would have been a different story. She almost wanted it to
turn and lunge.

Grandmother
would have shot it. She would already have done it. She wouldn’t be wasting any
time thinking about it.

So
Fiona decided. She decided that she would not take a life without a better
reason.

She
set down the shotgun.

Her
pulse pounded so hard she no longer heard Eliot’s music. Her vision narrowed on
the metal shard, the animal’s shoulder, the black blood oozing.

The
only way to get the metal shard out would be to pull or push straight through.

She
reached for it, but paused when she saw its jagged edges. She had to be smart
about this or she’d cut herself to ribbons.

And
how docile would the crocodile remain if it smelled her blood?

She
picked up two femurs and set them into teeth-made indents in the metal. The fit
was good.

The
crocodile shifted as she did so.

Fiona
froze. It was too late to reach for the gun. If it wanted to, it could turn and
snap her in half before she’d react.

The
crocodile settled.

Fiona
took a deep breath. She counted: one, two, three! She pulled up with all her
strength.

The
metal spike resisted—then wrenched free, metal grating over the tendon and
bone. It tore out of the flesh with a sucking sound and a splash of blood.

The
crocodile roared and spun.

Its
tail swept out her legs and it pinned her with one clawed foot.

Directly
over her was death: an open maw filled with a hundred teeth . . . and beyond a
blackness so profound she knew it stretched forever.

She
couldn’t do anything but stare into that emptiness. Every thought froze in her
brain. Petrified.

Darkness
swelled around her. A chill penetrated her soul. She felt as if she were
falling.

“Fiona!”
Eliot yelled. There was a distant splash in the water.

She
hoped he wasn’t idiot enough to try to do something. He had no gun. And she
very much doubted a lullaby was going to calm a now enraged two-ton reptile.
What was he thinking?

At
least contemplating how stupid her brother was got her brain working again.

She
could barely breathe with the weight on her chest, but she did see the shotgun
on the ground next to her. It was just out of reach.

If
she could stretch, just a little, she might be able to grab it—shoot straight
up into the crocodile’s open mouth as Robert had told her.

But
this was wrong.

Why
wasn’t it eating her? Crocodiles weren’t known for taking a few moments to
savor the quality of their dinners before devouring them.

Was
it testing her? Waiting to see if she would go for the gun? Give it a reason to
kill her? Not that it needed one. But still, it hadn’t moved a muscle after
knocking her down.

She
waited, too.

The
only detectable motion was Fiona’s heart: a rapid-fire, machine-gun drumroll
beat in her chest.

The
pressure eased and the crocodile stepped off her. It closed its titanic black
hole of a mouth.

Fiona
blinked. Light and warmth seemed to flood back into the world. She slowly sat
up.

The
crocodile regarded her with hypnotic golden eyes and said, “Thank you.”

Eliot
sloshed onto the island, his violin and bow held high. He was so foolish
sometimes, or was he just foolishly brave? She was glad he was here.

He
knelt next to her. “You okay?”

She
probed her ribs—tender, bruised—but not broken. “I’ll be fine.”

He helped
her stand and they faced the crocodile.

“You’re
welcome,” she said to the beast.

It
gave a little shake of its head. “Most odd,” it murmured. “My readings are
never wrong. I scry the trash that floats by as a Gypsy might read tea leaves.”

The
crocodile opened and closed its mouth—a quick smacking snap that sent a chill
down Fiona’s spine. “The signs said that two heroes would come to end my
misery.”

“Yeah,”
Fiona replied, “that’s what we just did.”

The
calm in her voice surprised her . . . but then speaking to a giant, intelligent
reptilian oracle didn’t feel much different from speaking to Grandmother.

The
crocodile breathed out a long, contemplative hiss. “A literal reading is rare
in my line of work. You must be strong to so influence omens.” It bobbed its
head, the equivalent of a bow, Fiona guessed. “Souhk, I am called. I am in your
debt.”

That
sounded promising, as if maybe it wasn’t going to eat them.

She
did her best to approximate a curtsy (not an easy thing to do in rubber boots
and with bruised ribs).

“This
is my brother, Eliot. And I’m Fiona. Fiona Post.”

“I
foresaw the coming of children from two great families. Momentous things are
writ in your destiny. Terrible things. Or perhaps nothing if you fail tests and
temptations.”

Why
was everyone always referring to her and Eliot as “children”? Fifteen years
old—you’d think someone might call them teenagers.

“You’re
talking about the Council’s heroic trials, right?” Eliot asked.

Souhk
nodded. “I worked for them long ago. There is nothing more loathed than a
middleman, no?”

Fiona
took a tiny step back. “This is very awkward, sir, but we were sent to . . .”
How to politely explain that for them to live, they had to kill their new
acquaintance?

“‘Vanquish’
me,” Souhk finished for her. “An unlikely outcome for two children.” He snorted
a great blast from his nostrils at the shotgun on the ground. “Even with such
an instrument.”

“Then
we lose,” Eliot whispered.

Souhk’s
mouth cracked open into a terrifying crocodile smile. “Oh, no, child. You have
won.”

Fiona
and Eliot looked at each other, puzzled.

“One
definition for vanquish,” Souhk said, “is to defeat in war. Another, however,
is to demonstrate superiority in contest or argument . . . or in your case,
with kindness.”

“I
don’t get it,” Eliot said.

“No,
I do, listen,” Fiona said. “Robert said we had to ‘vanquish the beast.’ And we
did. We made him our friend.”

Souhk’s
smile widened. “Temporary allies is closer to the truth. ‘Friends,’ however,
will carry a certain sentimental shock value when this is told to the Council.”
It chuckled.

Relief
washed through Fiona. They had found a way to pass the trial without killing,
or getting killed.

But
a new doubt tugged at her. “Will the Council accept this? I mean, I’m pretty
sure they meant for us to kill you.”

“So
they did. They will most certainly look up the definition of vanquish in many
dictionaries before they allow it. Allow it they will, though. The Council
adheres to their laws . . . to the very letter.”

The
crocodile shifted and pointed toward one of the passages that led into the Del
Sombra sewers. “I am filled with hunger,” Souhk said in a deeper, more primal
voice. “I must feed.”