Authors: Unknown
Henry
looked uncertainly at the dice and gave them back to Eliot. “Reroll.”
Eliot
grew pale. He looked as he had after he had eaten month-old pepperoncini at
Ringo’s and spent the night vomiting. Fiona wanted to ask what was wrong, but
he was so focused on those dice, she wasn’t sure he would notice her.
He
threw them again.
They
spun through the air flashing, landed—scattered like popcorn exploding. They
spun off the stone, orbited one another, and slowly came to a halt . . .
resting crookedly against each other’s side.
“Fascinating,”
Henry breathed.
No
one spoke. Even Uncle Cornelius had stopped his scribbling.
Grandmother
stood. “This is a weak test,” she declared, looking down at them all. “Test
them. Really test them with deeds worthy of one of our family.”
Uncle
Aaron pounded the step. The impact raised dust and Fiona felt it through her
feet. “Yes! Like the old days. Heroic trials. How long has it been since we
have seen sport like that?”
Uncle
Henry cocked his head, thinking. “Two millennia . . . give or take.”
Fiona
thought this a joke, but no one, not even Uncle Henry, smiled at it.
“Three
such trials would be sufficient,” Cornelius said. “All would be determined with
ninety-nine percent accuracy.”
The
rosy tint drained from Aunt Lucia’s lips, and she opened her mouth to speak.
Cousin
Gilbert, however, spoke first. “A fine idea. Real tests for real potentials. I
put it forth as a motion.”
“Second
the motion,” Aaron said immediately.
“This
is turning into one of our best Council meetings,” Henry said. “A vote, then?
All in favor?”
“Aye!”
the four men said.
Lucia
remained silent, but her eyes locked with Grandmother’s.
After
a moment Grandmother said, “Of course, we should wait for the full Council to
determine the exact nature of these trials.”
Aunt
Lucia compressed her lips into a white line and gave her a slight bow. “Of
course.”
More
was being communicated between them than Fiona understood, but she guessed
Grandmother had just won some battle on their behalf. And Aunt Lucia had lost.
“Then
we accept the Council’s wisdom,” Grandmother said.
“Let
the record show,” Aunt Lucia declared, “that we shall test the children’s
potentials with three heroic trials. This will illuminate their characters and
determine their lineage. It will prove their possible worth to remain alive.”
She stared directly at Fiona, who felt the last of her strength slip away.
“Perhaps even their right to be part of this family.”
15
THE
NAGAS OF DHARMA
Sealiah
ran a crimson nail over the mirror, tracing the art deco geometry etched along
its edge. The buttons of this elevator were cabochon rubies, synthetic of
course, and smeared with greasy fingerprints.
The
elevator was emblematic of the entire Babylon Gardens Hotel and Casino. It was
a papier-mâché mask of glitz and chintz. It was the beating, bleeding heart of
Las Vegas.
She
hated the place. The quarter slots cheated. The shrimp cocktails were off. The
drinks all watered down.
Sealiah
adjusted the strap of her gown. It was gossamer scales and silver sea foam,
impervious to blade and bullet. She might have gone strapless—she had no
pretense of modesty save for seduction—but often these affairs turned brutal,
and one could not do battle with a tangled dress about one’s knees.
She
leaned back, resting against the bulk of her most faithful servant,
Urakabarameel. He wore his Corneliani tuxedo, looking like a mountain of
charcoal gray wool, and the only color upon him was the emerald skull tie tack
that marked him as hers.
“We
are being watched.” His voice was a subsonic rumble that she felt in her bones.
“I
expected no less,” she replied.
She
turned into him, unbuttoned his jacket, and slipped its voluminous folds around
her. In the mirrored walls she watched backward elevator numbers zigzag right
to left. Nestling against his chest, she whispered, “We can speak like this.”
“Will
it work?” His eyes were downcast, respectfully, but to maintain secrecy, to
keep his jacket shielding them, he had to encircle his arms about her. He did
so and drew Sealiah a tad closer than she thought necessary.
“There
is little chance of anything working as planned where our family is concerned.”
His
face darkened.
She
ran a hand down her leg to the hem of her dress, then up to her inner thigh . .
. stopped as she touched the cold metal sheath.
“There
is no choice,” she said. “Those two children may be the greatest threat, or the
greatest opportunity, for us.”
Uri
smiled. He had never before dared smile in her presence . . . so he probably
understood: this might be their last time together.
He had
been with her from the start. Now to lose him because another demanded tribute.
It seemed wrong even for their kind to do this. Yet, this was their way. If she
wanted to play the game, she had to pay the ante. This didn’t mean, however,
she couldn’t play both sides—with a pawn of both colors upon the board.
She
unbuckled the sheath along her thigh and pressed it against Uri’s chest.
His
eyes widened.
This
was Saliceran. Its eight-inch blade had a sinuous edge that followed the
contours of the Damascus patterned metal. Between the blackened and silver
layers it wept oily venom. Many claimed it was a living thing with a taste for
flesh equal to its owner’s.
“Take
it,” she said. “Quickly.”
Uri
gingerly grasped it with two fingers. He tucked it safely into one of his
jacket’s many pockets.
Sealiah
glanced at the lighted numbers. Only seconds left for them. Her vision blurred
with tears. How silly.
“M’lady,”
Uri whispered. He started to sink to his knees, but then remembered he had to
remain upright to shield their conversation. He fumbled out a handkerchief with
the utmost care and dabbed her cheek. “You honor me.”
She
sniffled, blinked, and cleared her mind. She could not afford such luxuries as
feeling, now of all times.
Uri
carefully tucked the handkerchief into the pocket over his heart. “Is there no
other way?”
She
accepted this question of her plan—not as insolence, but rather as wanting to
remain and serve—so she let it pass.
Sealiah
smoothed her dress and turned.
The
final number lit and the elevator pinged.
“I
shall miss you, Uri.”
The
mirrored doors pulled apart. Uri stepped off first to make certain the room was
secure—an impossibility, given the circumstances, but she appreciated his
futile sentiment.
Sealiah,
Queen of the Poppies, then made her entrance into the Penthouse Suite of the
Babylon Gardens Hotel and Casino. The walls were glass with a panoramic view:
on one side the sparkling Las Vegas Strip lay before them like a buffet of
jewels; on the other side, the moon cast a fragile illumination over the
silvered desert.
A
conference table of black basalt dominated the suite; all other furniture had
been removed. There were chairs but they had been pushed aside as the gathered
Directors preferred to stand.
On
their feet: the better to defend themselves.
The
Board members somehow seemed to absorb the qualities of darkness and light
surrounding them—chameleons all—transmuting the glamour of Vegas into a living
embodiment of moonglow, flash, and secrets.
Five
of them had gathered.
First
on her right stood Lev, Master of the Endless Abyssal Seas, older than salt,
taller than her Uri, and strong enough to crush her escort with one
age-hardened fist. He wore white polyester sweats that glistened from the strain
of containing his corpulence. About his neck he wore a hundred gold chains
encrusted with lucky charms, amulets, and medals. He looked like a
thick-throated sea lion . . . which was not too far from the truth.
“Fashionably
late,” he said to her, and graced her with a nod that made the forty pounds of
metal jingle.
“Salutations
to the Beast,” she replied.
To
Lev’s right was Abby, the Destroyer, Handmaiden of Armageddon, and Mistress of
the Palace of Abomination. She wore a translucent black veil that concealed
just enough of her slight albino form to entice the imagination. Smoky quartz
had been woven into the gauze, artfully placed over nipple, throat, and cheek.
She allowed her pet, a grasshopper, to crawl up her arm; the insect was
restless and never settled.
She
barely glanced at Sealiah—which for her might be considered a most generous
greeting.
Sealiah
let the insult go. One did not antagonize a Destroyer without good reason.
On
Sealiah’s immediate left at the table was a friendlier face, Oz, who ruled the
Doldrums of Glamour and the Circus Damnation Extravigiganticus. Oz had long,
curled hair and a meticulously groomed mustache and goatee. He wore a violet
velvet jumpsuit and ruffled shirt. Too much makeup covered lovely androgynous
features that needed none. This was all part of the “rock star” persona that he
fancied from time to time. His smile sparkled and he held out his hand to take
hers.
Sealiah
knew better and curled her hand inward, feigning coquettishness. That was for
the best: there would be no perceived insult . . . and she would retain her
arm.
Next
to Oz sat Ashmed, Master Architect of Evil. For a moment, Sealiah was actually
surprised, although she expertly hid any such expression. They all respected
Ashmed as he was the only one to keep his machinations entirely to himself. For
him, there were no false alliances, backstabbings, or double-dealings—just an
endless well of secrets.
Ashmed
rarely appeared at the Directors’ meetings, although he was a founding member.
He was clad in a simple blue business suit, with his black silk hair crew-cut.
His only extravagances were a gold ring and a smoldering Sancho Panza Belicoso
cigar.
“You
honor us with your presence,” he said, and gave her a little bow.
“As
do you, Master Architect.”
And
at last her gaze fell on Beal, the chairman of the Board.
She
knew he would be at the head of the table, but had refrained from looking
directly at him until now. He was vainglorious, and this breach of decorum was
calculated to annoy him as much as he annoyed her.
Beal
had cloaked himself in a mantle of feathers—fluffy ostrich, regal peacock, wild
pheasant, and speckles of iridescent hummingbird.
He
was bare-chested this evening. Sealiah admired his sculpted musculature and
idly wondered how easily one might rip out his heart. One day it would happen;
she would not be there to see it, but she would know and celebrate.
She
bowed low, keeping her eyes upon all of them. “Most humble greeting to the King
of the Blasted Lands, Prince of False Gods, and the Lord of All That Flies.”
Beal
barked a laugh. “Humble? Come Sealiah. Stand and be counted among your fellows.
Genuflection does not become you.”