All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [29]
She grasped a handful of his shirt.
The threads in the weave constricted about Henry’s ribs.
“As long as by ‘caring for Eliot and Fiona’ you mean you have their best interests in mind—and not yours.”
Henry started to protest, but found the air gone from his lungs.
“Did you know Fiona has learned the trick of cutting with string?” Audrey asked. “She has yet to discover that it can also be done with many strings at once . . . like woven cloth.”
Audrey pulled his shirt taut.
Henry had a sudden vision of Audrey ripping the shirt from his torso—like some stage magician trick—only this would not be trickery . . . and what would remain of his torso would fit though a martini strainer.
Audrey let go.
She tapped the EMERGENCY STOP button. The elevator continued up.
Henry recovered and straightened his turtleneck. He took one more swig from his flask.
The elevator doors parted, and cold fresh air blasted them.
They stepped onto the uppermost secret level of the Transamerica Pyramid.
The aluminum shutters on the angled walls were open, and mid-morning light streamed into the space. This level of the pointy part of the landmark building had been filled with dust bunnies before he’d had it renovated. The space had been redecorated with ultramodern velvet couches (designed in the 1960s, when there actually had been a vision of an ultramodern future).
Of course, the family was already here.
Lucia, Henry noticed first—Audrey’s sister, the Middle Fate, and sometimes called (although he thought with the greatest irony), Blind Justice. Then there was Gilbert, known first as Gilgamesh, whom Henry fondly remembered as the Once-King. Kino was next, the Guardian of the Underworld, dour and sour and unsociable as ever. And last was old Cornelius, what was left of the last of the Titans, the once mighty Cronos.
Lucia sat opposite the elevator, a strategic location where she could chastise those who came late. She wore a gray power business suit with bloodred pinstripes. It was conservatively sexy. The steel in her gaze communicated to Henry that she would tolerate none of his usual tomfoolery today.
So he would have to invent all-new tomfoolery for the occasion.
Gilbert crossed the room, a bottle of tequila in one hand, two glasses in the other. He poured Henry a tumbler, and one for himself. “Too auspicious a day to face sober, Cousin.”
Henry nodded and took the glass. Gilbert looked disheveled, his golden beard wild and dark circles under his eyes.
But when Henry sipped the drink, he found it disappointingly only iced tea.
Gilbert maintained pretenses, still silently on Henry’s side in this matter . . . part of their very, very long-range strategy. Henry was relieved to know that the First King Gilgamesh was still as smart as ever.
“Have you heard?” Gilbert gestured with his drink to a corner bathed in sunlight. “We have a special guest with us today.”
Henry squinted. Camouflaged in the radiance was Dallas.
Poor Dallas had been kicked off the Council last week, replaced with her older sister, Audrey. Lucia had thought her too soft. That was a mistake, Henry feared, that Lucia would one day pay for dearly.
Dallas wore a sundress of translucent sea green, high-heeled sandals, and carried a Versace clutch. The breeze made her dress and golden hair ripple.
Henry took a step toward her, irresistibly drawn to Beauty . . . but then noted the look in her eyes was pure liquid-nitrogen venom. She was, of course, here under protest at the behest of a Council’s summons. Henry understood it all in that instant—her part to play in their schemes and the intersibling politics—and checked his motion toward her.
The door to the emergency stairs banged open, and Aaron entered, lugging a duffel in one hand. He had marched up the forty-nine floors without breaking a sweat.
Aaron made a point of slamming the door. He dropped his duffel with a floor-shaking thud, shot everyone a glare, and then sat across from Lucia, propping his cowboy boots on the couch.
Tall, dark Kino spared him a deprecating glance.