MORTAL COILS (84 page)

Abby
opened her palm and released a golden scarab into the air, then she turned to
speak to Beal. “The girl actually had Eliot cornered, but left at the last
moment.”

“It
appears,” remarked Ashmed, “she developed a conscience.”

“Really?”
Beal leaned forward. “After spending time in the Valley of the Poppies?”

Julie
pressed into the back of her seat, trying to escape Beal’s carrion stench. “No,
sir . . . not exactly.”

Mulciber
and Uziel looked up from their game of Rogue’s Chess, now interested as well.

“Then
what exactly?” Beal set one hand on her knee and squeezed until she yelped.

“It
was his music.” Julie struggled to keep her tears back. The air was so hot in
this realm that they dried instantly, staining her cheeks.

Sealiah
felt the child’s heart race within her chest . . . when it should not be beating
at all.

“I
could have brought Eliot to y’all,” Julie said, “but not after he played for
me.”

“We
have all heard him play,” Beal said. “But if my soul were at stake . . .”

“It
was worth it,” Julie said, whimpering. “It was like there were people singing
along with his music.”

Sealiah
froze.

This
was one detail that the girl had failed to tell her of—one she wished Julie
would now keep her mouth shut about.

“It
was like,” Julie said, struggling with her words, “it was a choir of angels.”

Everyone
in the railcar stopped what they were doing and looked at the girl.

Once
they all could sing thusly. The memory was dear and almost forgotten, and too
painful to be dredged up.

Sealiah
bit her lip until she tasted blood. Here was a possibility that she had never
considered: what if Eliot was indeed one of them, but free of

sin?
Neither mortal, nor Immortal, nor entirely Infernal because he was not damned?

Beal
laughed, breaking the spell over them. “Superstitious nonsense. I had these
dreams, too, when I was a boy. But that is all they were: silliness that we
left behind when we grew up.”

He
squeezed Julie’s knee. The bone broke.

Julie
curled toward Sealiah. She encircled one arm about Julie, unsure whether to
strangle the child to keep her quiet, or to protect her so she might be able to
extract more information later.

Clouds
crowded the desert horizon. The land sloped and the Royal Crowned Prince picked
up speed. Twisted trees laden with creepers and moss appeared as they rushed
past.

They
were, at last, entering Sealiah’s lands.

“I
think,” Beal said, glancing outside, “I would like to further examine this
child. A dissection might determine what her problem is.”

Sealiah
lowered the window. Brimstone choked the railcar. Julie wheezed and coughed,
but the stench quickly faded, and the rich scent of honeysuckle, vanilla, and
vegetative rot perfumed the air.

Sealiah’s
land was a steam-filled jungle, full of shadows and poison-dripping thorns and
blooming wildflowers.

“I
think,” Sealiah cooed back, “that you should have thought of that sooner, Mr.
Chairman.” The power of her realm boiled her blood and filled her to
overflowing. “I am no longer in a sharing mood.”

Beal
opened his mouth to say more, glanced again outside, then nodded, conceding the
point. He stood and ruffled his cloak. “I need a drink.” He strode to the wet
bar and poured whiskey.

Mulciber
and Uziel returned to their Rogue’s Chess, both of them somehow managing to
keep one eye upon Sealiah.

Lev
wiped the sweat as it slithered from his head and neck. “Is there
air-conditioning on this thing?” He sat up and maneuvered his bulk to the wet
bar. “I could use one of those,” he said to Beal.

Beal
grudgingly poured him a whiskey as well.

“We’re
ready to move on that Valley of the New Year thing,” Lev said. “I found a guy
who paints doors. Even dug up one of those antique brass knobs.”

“Valley?”
Beal asked distractedly. “What are you babbling about?”

“It
was your idea,” Lev muttered. “To get the twins separated, and out of the
League’s reach.”

“Oh,
yes, yes,” Beal whispered. “Of course. That Valley.”

“Is
there a balance point in Del Sombra?” Ashmed asked. “That is the best place to
set these things up. It extends their half-life.”

“The
Last Sunset Tavern,” Sealiah replied. “A few miles out of town. Isolated. In
between many sources of power.”

“I’ll
send my guy there,” Lev said, “unless our chairman has any objections?”

Beal
waved away Lev’s words.

Uri
stared at Sealiah—a dangerous gesture for him in front of his ever-suspicious
master. The chairman of the Board, however, was busy pouring himself another
generous whiskey.

Sealiah
glanced back at Uri. The thumb and forefinger on his left hand formed a right
angle: sign language for the letter L.

What
did L mean? And more intriguing, what would be so important that Uri risked
communicating in the open?

She
recalled when they had last spoken, he had told her that Beal believed their
long-thought-dead cousin Louis was still alive and in Del Sombra.

Was
Beal networking with Louis? That seemed unlikely, but then again, everything
about the Post children seemed to invoke unlikeliness.

She
had ordered Uri to contact Louis, perhaps influence him to their cause. Had
that gone well? Or was Uri’s signal an indication that it had not gone well?

Sealiah
cautiously glanced about the railcar.

Abby
and Ashmed had their backs to her, chatting once more. Beal and Lev likewise
were too occupied drinking to observe her.

Uziel
moved his Lawyer into attack position upon the chessboard, giggling with glee.

Mulciber,
however, still had one of his bloodshot eyes fixed upon her. Well, even the old
bat could not watch her and Uri and his game all at the same time.

She
sighed and reclined and gave a minuscule shrug, making sure to make eye contact
with Uri. This signaled her request for clarification.

The
fingers of Uri’s hand making the L curled inward, leaving his thumb pointing
downward.

Bad
news.

Sealiah
waited until Mulciber had to focus on his game or lose his Whore Queen, then
she curled her fingers inward—and made a quick sideways cutting gesture.

Her
message: Entice Louis to see things her way. If that failed, remove him.

Uri
nodded. He held her gaze for a moment, communicating all his longing, all his
remorse, and all the anguish that this might be their last time together.

This
was too much for Sealiah. She closed her eyes.

In
all likelihood she’d just ordered the best lieutenant she’d ever had to his
death. What choice was there? An alliance between the Great Deceiver and the
Lord of All That Flies was too terrible to contemplate: brains and brawn
combined. That had to be stopped, no matter what the cost.

She
inhaled deeply, reveling in the rich scent of decay and growth, the complex
perfumes of a thousand flowers, then she exhaled.

So
be it.

Pieces
were lost in the game. There was no other way to win.

The
train hissed, slowed, and pulled into a station covered with creeper vines and
shaded under banyan trees that stretched to the clouds.

Sealiah
turned to Julie. “Our stop, my dear.” She lifted Julia to her feet, and her
broken bones crackled. Julie cried out in pain.

“That,”
Sealiah assured her, “is the very least of your troubles now.”

She
escorted her limping charge to the door at the rear of the car.

“Cousins,”
Sealiah announced to them all, “I bid you adieu and look forward to our next
meeting . . . perhaps with the young Mr. Post to entertain?”

Lev
raised his glass to toast that sentiment.

Ashmed
stood, bowed, and told her, “I shall call you soon, m’lady.”

“Of
course you shall.” Sealiah smiled and, still grasping Julie, stepped off the
Royal Crowned Prince and into her jungle.

It
felt good to be home. The air was full of steaming vapors and nectar. Tiny
runners twined about her legs and curled around her wrist, blossoming with
orchids and poppies—delighted that their mistress was back.

She
moved to the stables alongside the station, pulling the creature that had
formerly been known as Miss Julie Katherine Marks roughly behind her.

There
was much to do. She would take great pleasure testing Julie’s new hope—see how
it fared under her delicate care. She might yet prove entertaining.

SECTION
VII

END
GAME

66

EVER
POISONED

Louis
knew everything would change today at sunset. He either had to deliver his son
to Beal or forfeit his own life and soul. Neither option especially struck his
fancy.

He
glanced at his new Rolex Cellinium. His fancy notwithstanding, the deal with
the Infernal chairman of the Board ended in twelve short hours.

Louis
stood in what had been his rented apartment under the Christian-studies store,
now further remodeled to suit his needs. The carpeting, light fixtures, and
wiring had been torn away. What remained were bare concrete walls and
foundation. Not the ritually cleaned basalt he’d hoped for, but it would have
to do.

That
he stood under a store that contained a hundred crucifixes, Bibles, and
beatific porcelain cherubs that stared helplessly down upon his blasphemous
self filled Louis with a shudder of delightful irony . . . and he almost forgot
that he could be dead in a few minutes.

He
consulted his watch again and mentally strained to alter the passage of time.
Alas, that power was far beyond him in this mere shell of flesh.

Ten
minutes, thirty, tops—that was how long he estimated before one of his numerous
cousins would try to amend his pact with Beal. Amend it, that is, by breaking
his feeble body.

He
was ready. Let them try.

This
last bit of treachery was almost a formality before the true doubledealing
began.

Louis
knelt and checked the circle he stood in. It was immaculately clean and just
large enough for his size-thirteen Italian leather loafers.

Surrounding
the circle, symbols and lines flowered across the floor, walls, and ceiling—a
lotus of a thousand arcs and ancient letters that twisted upon themselves. As
with all his plans, this circle was not what it appeared to be.

He
reexamined the edge, folding and coaxing the space with his finger-tips. Even
with his advanced payment of power, Louis had to take great care. It required a
delicacy he barely possessed. This particular trick he had learned from the
origami master Zhe the Blind.

64

Plans
inside plans. All this complication increased the odds of Louis’s true schemes
going awry. But what was one with so little power to do?