All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [107]
Fiona looked unbelievingly at him. “It’s just part of their plan. Make you feel sorry for her. Draw you in deeper.”
“Maybe,” Eliot whispered. “But I can’t ignore the other side of our family any longer. I want to learn their game and play it to my advantage.”
Fiona’s mouth dropped open. “It’s no game. And they’ve been doing this for thousands of years. You can’t ‘play’ with them. Stay clear of Jezebel or”—Fiona hesitated, choking her words out—“or I’ll tell Audrey.”
Eliot stared at Fiona, shocked.
She stared back.
The world felt as if it had stopped spinning. Birds ceased singing. The traffic quieted.
Don’t tattle to Audrey or Cecilia: this was the one brother–sister protocol that they had never, ever violated. Why bother? Audrey always found out anyway.
“Do that, and I’ll tell about you and Robert,” Eliot blurted out.
Fiona shrugged. “What’s to tell? It’s over. Probably best for Robert if the League knows we’re not together, anyway.”
“So, I’ll tell Audrey about Mitch and your ‘date’ today. You could bring him home for her to meet.”
Fiona paled.
That hit a nerve. Eliot would never really have mentioned Robert or Mitch. He liked them both, and drawing either to Mother’s attention was dangerous. But it had been worth lying to see Fiona’s face, let her know how it felt to have people you care for get in the way of Infernal, or Immortal, forces.
“Okay!” She held up her hands. “You win. Do what you want—just leave me out of it.”
“Whatever,” Eliot muttered, and then because he still couldn’t believe she had seriously considering telling on him, added, “Onychophagist Phasmida.”
That was a not-so-clever opener for vocabulary insult.
Onychophagist meant “nail biter,” a reference to the old pre-goddess, nerdy Fiona. She used to bite her nails all the time. And Phasmida was the order of stick bugs, a shot at her too-slim figure.
Fiona reddened, angry and embarrassed, as she puzzled out the meanings. She narrowed her eyes and told him, “I wouldn’t talk with your mouth full, merdivorous Microcebus myoxinus.”
Okay, Eliot admitted his insult had been a little mean. Fiona’s, though, was cruel.
Merdivorous meant “dung eating” (he’d seen that one a bunch of times, looking up scarab references recently). And Microcebus myoxinus was the pygmy mouse lemur, the smallest primate in the world—with eyes so large, they looked as if they wore oversized glasses. Most lemurs were herbivorous, or occasionally insectivores, so that dung eater was just gratuitous . . . although the alliteration was a skillful twist.
He scoured his brain for some word he’d saved for a special occasion to blast Fiona back—then he spotted a Brinks armored truck in front of their house.
Two guards got out and walked up to the front door. One carried a box.
Eliot and Fiona glanced at each other—communicating this game of vocabulary insult was now paused—and raced toward them.
They met the guards on the porch just as Audrey open the front door.
Audrey eyed the men suspiciously, and then stared at the package.
Both guards looked uneasy. “Delivery for Ms. Audrey Post?” one said.
“I am she,” Audrey told them.
“Would you sign, ma’am?” One guard offered a clipboard with forms in triplicate.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Special delivery,” the other guard said, looking at Eliot and Fiona as if this explained everything.
Audrey continued to stare at the package and signed without looking at the forms. “Set it on the stoop, please.”
They did so and the guards left, practically running back to their armored car.
Audrey waited until the truck drove off. She then asked Fiona and Eliot, “How was school today, children?”
“Fine,” Fiona said, and shot a glance at Eliot.
It was a lot weirder than “fine,” but how could Eliot even start to explain? Even for them, it had been an unusual day.
Eliot decided to add nothing by way of explanation, and instead asked, “Is that package for us?”
Audrey continued staring at the box as if she could see through it. On it were labels with Cyrillic lettering and a dozen overlapping customs stamps.