MORTAL COILS (67 page)

Kino
bowed to Lucia and took his leave.

Cornelius
whispered to Henry, “I would like to see your molecular analysis of the
chocolates and the mirror.”

“I
have placed the relevant files on the League’s computer.”

Cornelius
accessed the files on his tablet as he followed Kino and Gilbert aboard The
Coelacanth.

Lucia
waited until the deck was clear before she said, “I know you enjoy dancing on
the edge of ruin, Henry, but was it absolutely necessary to offer Aaron more
liquor at a time like this?”

“It
was my duty as a host. Besides, that particular bottle of rum is laced with
enough haloperidol to sedate a bull elephant. Our pugnacious cousin should
sleep the rest of the afternoon.”

“Ah
. . .” She removed the band that held up her silky red hair and shook it out.
She then held out her hand to Henry. “May I?”

“Of
course.” He gave her the remote.

Lucia
flipped through successive photos of the destroyed carnival until she came to
mug shots they had seen before of Eliot and Fiona. “What do you think of them?”

“I
like them.”

“You
like everyone. I mean . . .” She struggled to find the right words. “Beyond all
the politics and the games you play with the Council. What do you think they
are? Off the record. Our family? Or the others?”

Henry
sat next to her. “I think they are the coming storm.”

“So
you believe Kino is correct? Remove them—to be safe.”

“I
might have thought that a week ago when this started. It’s too late for that
now.”

“Surely
they cannot be so powerful. Even with Audrey hovering over them as protector.”

“Audrey
is the least of our worries. The children are still weak, I agree . . . but
that is their greatest strength.”

Lucia
turned to him, her eyebrows angled together. “Must everything be subterfuge and
Zen riddles with you?”

Henry
shrugged. “Very well, I shall speak plainly, for once. Aaron has bent our rules
to unlock Fiona’s abilities. Someone in the other family has done the same for
Eliot and his music. I even have intelligence that dear little Dallas paid the
children a visit. One can only imagine the mischief she has tangled into the
weave of fate.”

Lucia
considered this. “They seem to be having an influence on some of us. All the
more reason to act quickly.”

Henry
set his hand upon hers—a gesture part consolation and part, he hoped,
seduction. “There was a time,” he whispered, “when we found ourselves in the
same situation. When powerful forces polarized around us—some wanting us dead .
. . some willing to be similarly influenced by our better natures, and they
raised us among the stars.”

Her
mouth opened, forming a little o as she remembered.

“When
we were young,” Henry continued, “we were the mixed breeds, the innocent, and
newfound in our powers.”

“But
we grew, learned everything so fast, and . . .”

“Killed
the Titans,” Henry said, “and then we took their place.”

Lucia
sat pondering this for a moment as the waves lapped at the hull of the Wayward
Lost.

“Evolution
may have finally caught up with us,” Henry said.

At
this Lucia stood and pulled Henry up with her. “We must go. Now. You and I to
see them.”

“And
the Council?”

“I
think we are past the Council,” she said. “It is time I took matters into my
own hands. We must not let the other family have such power over the future. We
must make those children ours.”

“And
failing that?”

“And
failing that . . .” Lucia suddenly looked sad and tired. “Failing that, I will
kill them myself. Audrey and Aaron can have their vendetta upon me, but the
family will survive.”

Henry
exhaled. Sometimes he wished he were half the romantic fool he dreamed he was,
because right now, to his utter disappointment, he found himself in complete
agreement.

52

A
BANNER OF WAR

Beal
Z. Buan, the Lord of All That Flies, was rarely surprised. The last time it had
happened he had arranged for a double to replace Archduke Franz Ferdinand, only
to have the man assassinated in front of him by a Bosnian Serb student.52

Of
course, the family had rallied to turn those regrettable events to their
advantage. That had been Louis’s plan, but Beal always thought his original
strategy would have turned out better.

This
morning he had received a message that the Board was convening for brunch, a
meeting called by its members—not him. It was technically allowed, but had
never before been done. It was the chairman’s function to call the meetings.
The Board’s general function was to argue and eventually fight over the scraps
of power he left behind.

“Drive
faster,” he told Uri.

Uri
floored the accelerator and the Cadillac limousine raced over the dry lake bed
and dunes of the Mojave Desert.

Las
Vegas wavered in the distance behind them in the morning light. Upon the
opposite horizon a tiny square of color fluttered: a circus tent. Uri angled
toward it, slowed, and parked next to the Humvees arranged in a haphazard line.

Beal
was fashionably late. Usually, that would’ve been fine. Not today. Someone on
the Board was trying to outmaneuver him, a someone whom he would make pay.

52.
The event often cited as sparking the start of World War I.—Editor.

He
jumped out of limousine before Uri could open the door and strode to the tent.
Desert winds blasted him with sand.

With
a flourish, he parted the tent flaps and entered—ready to tear into the ones
who had arrived before him.

The
interior was carpeted with ancient Persian rugs, and the air was thick with
incense. A side table offered poached ostrich eggs, bison bacon, kiwi flown in
from New Zealand, and a selection of pastries from Poujaran in Paris. Along the
opposite wall were video displays showing images of a circus. Fires raged on
several of the screens.

Beal
stopped . . . surprised for the second time today.

The
entire Board sat about the conference table. They had been talking as he
entered and, remarkably, even laughing.

All
conversation stopped and they turned to face him.

No
. . . the entire Board was not here. Oz was missing. And Sealiah sat in his
spot.

Lev
rose and gestured magnanimously at the head of the table for Beal to join them.
Lev wore a patch over one eye and was missing one of his front teeth. He smiled
anyway.

“Hope
you don’t mind,” he told Beal. “We started without you.”

Beal
smiled back as he palmed a transmitter from a hidden pocket. He flicked off the
remote detonator’s safety. He had come prepared (as unlikely as it had seemed
this morning) for a coup attempt.

Within
his limousine’s trunk were enough high explosives to level a city block . . .
which he would happily detonate if they moved against him. Or he would at least
threaten to do so, which usually did the trick.

None
other than Lev rose, however. There was no overt threat yet.

Beal
moved with deliberate grace and settled at the head of the table as if none of
this bothered him.

He
opened his mouth to protest calling a meeting without the chairman’s authority,
but he checked that impulse. To do so would come perilously close to claiming
there were rules, or more ridiculously some point of order, to the Infernal
Board. When in reality there had only ever been a fine tradition of disunion
and disorder.

“What
is this all about?” Beal asked with deliberate calm. “Who called this meeting?”

Abby
set her pet scorpion on the table. It waved its stinger dangerously about.
“What is a review of the latest League trial of the Post twins.” She nodded at
the displays.

“An
impressive performance,” Ashmed added as he brushed sand from his jet-black
suit. “And as for who called the meeting . . . well, I suppose we all did.”

Beal
looked at each of them, his gaze lingering upon Sealiah. She sat opposite him
at the foot of the table, a desert blossom in a gossamer wisp of a silk dress.

“Where
is Oz?” Beal demanded.

“He’s
a little under the weather today,” Lev explained.

Did
that mean he was dead? No, Beal would’ve heard if that were the case. There
would have been Oz’s domains and power to fight over. More likely Oz had been
grievously wounded at the last meeting and hid, licking his wounds.

“You
have seen this video?” Abby asked.

Beal
looked at the displays: extreme-long-range shots of Eliot and Fiona Post
running through a carnival, dodging flames and whirling animated rides, and
some League fire assassin chasing after them.

It
looked like the material Uri had obtained in California last night. How the
Board had managed to get these shots was something he would like answered. He
would review the security of his computer networks after this.

“Of
course I’ve seen them,” Beal replied.

The
“wrongness” of the situation crystallized in his thoughts: no one was fighting.

There
was not a single word of dissent over the twins. Beal would have expected blood
to have already been spilled—especially after he had engineered such brilliant
animosity among them all at the last meeting.

Beal
smiled and looked from Abby to Lev. “Well then, I think we can all agree that
their performance against the League champion was nothing less than
spectacular. And I’m sure we can all agree on our next course of action.”

He
hoped these comments would spark the usual dissent between these two. They
never “agreed” on anything.

Instead,
they said nothing.

“Quite,”
Ashmed said. He turned and reflected Beal’s smile to Sealiah.

She
sat and continued to coolly stare at Beal.

“Oh,”
Ashmed said, “I hope you don’t mind. We all decided that since Oz was
indisposed, dear cousin Sealiah would sit in on his behalf.”

Beal
nodded, kept smiling, but his mouth became as dry as the desert about him.

Was
this disastrous calm her doing? Certainly it was her style . . . move in
silently and slit her opponent’s throat before he knew what had happened.

“I
would like to hear the audio file again, if you don’t mind,” Sealiah said.

Abby
tapped the remote control.

A
sweet violin solo rolled through the tent: Eliot Post’s music.

It
was appreciably better than the last time Beal had heard it. The ancient notes
stirred long-forgotten emotions. His breath caught in his throat, and he
remembered older, better times . . . when he had been young . . . before life
had become so complicated.

A
new phrase in the music reminded him of little girls, and then a distant
calliope answered in its own singsong voice.

“Wonderful,”
he murmured.