All That Lives Must Die (12 page)

He slowed. “You two wouldn’t know a kid named Robert Farmington? We used to work together. Haven’t seen him here yet. I wondered if he was okay.”

“Sure, we know Robert,” Eliot said. “He’s a friend.”

“We know him,” Fiona echoed, unsure what Robert and she were to each other anymore. He had acted so strange today.

Mr. Welmann, however, did not look happy at this. “He’s still driving for Mr. Mimes?”

“Not exactly,” Fiona replied. “Uncle Henry fired him. But it’s not what it sounds like. He helped us . . . just got into a little trouble with the League.”

“He’s going to Paxington now,” Eliot added.

Mr. Welmann halted and his eyes narrowed. “That can’t be right,” he said. “No one gets fired from the League and walks away. Robert’s a great kid, but he doesn’t have the brains or the pedigree to be in a place like Paxington, either. Something stinks. . . .”

“Could he still be working for the League?” Fiona asked. “Watching out for us?”

That would explain his standoffish behavior. As a secret bodyguard, it would be a conflict of interest to get too close emotionally. Her pulse quickened. So it was a forbidden attraction . . . all the more dangerous for them, and exciting.

Mr. Welmann shook his head and started walking again. “The League don’t work like that. When they fire you, it’s permanent.”

“He did mention having to lie low,” Fiona said.

“And when Uncle Kino showed up,” Eliot said, “did you see how fast he took off?”

“Do me a favor,” Mr. Welmann said. He walked up to the Little Chicken Gate and set one hand on it. “Tell Robert whatever he thinks he’s doing, he’s in way over his head on this one. Tell him to leave Paxington and ride—just ride. He’ll know what I mean.”

Despite what Fiona had seen before, the gate was only wooden posts and loose chicken wire strung across their path.

Mr. Welmann opened it for them and gestured them through.

“Thank you,” Fiona told him.

“You’re welcome, kid. Take care, huh? And don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I don’t see either of you again.”

She nodded and stepped through.

The sun dimmed. The air felt heavier. Every color dulled.

But this
was
San Francisco. Fiona spotted the paved road and the National Cemetery. It would be a long walk home, but at least they
could
get home now.

She turned to thank Mr. Welmann again for everything.

But although there were footsteps in the grass, and even a little swish where the gate had opened—the Little Chicken Gate and Mr. Welmann were gone.

13
. Ye Borderlands be not claimed by good or evil, or anything but whisper and void. Be the wend and winds through the Middle Realms. Shortcut, maze, and dangerous path. Filled with wonders beatific and demonic. Dream and nightmare. Even lost with ye proper guide. Be warned.
Mythica Improbiba
(translated version), Father Sildas Pious. ca. thirteenth century.

14
. Little Chicken Gate is a rickety structure often mistaken for an abandoned garden or a long-forgotten graveyard. Appearing at random throughout mythohistorical accounts, the gate allows the dead one-way passage to the crossroads that lead them to their ultimate destinations. For living travelers, however, these rules of transit may be bent, and passage to the nether realms is permitted (although perhaps not desirable), and there is the possibility of
two-way
travel. Extreme caution is urged. The gate can disappear as quickly as it appears.
A Primer on the Middle Realms
, Paxington Institute Press, LLC.

               12               

HERO-IN-TRAINING

Robert Farmington sat on his Harley Davidson, a curve of blackened steel, dual twin matte black pipes, and the massive
V
of double cylinders between his legs. The ignition, though, was off, and the bike was in neutral as he rode in the freight elevator to the top of this six-story brick building in the Tenderloin District.

There was no way he was leaving his bike on the street in
this
neighborhood. Not that he could have found a parking spot if he wanted to.

The freight elevator ground to a stop.

This had been one giant hassle of a day—but nothing a ride down the coast, a few cervezas, some fishing, and a long nap in a hammock on the beach couldn’t fix.

The elevator door rolled up, and Robert pushed his bike into the loft where Mr. Mimes had told him to meet.

The top floor of this building had been one of those industrial sweatshop operations—now stripped, and in the process of being renovated into a tragically hip and overpriced condominium. Ugly brick walls had been meticulously restored. There were tangles of wiring and computer cables and sophisticated halogen lighting dangling from the rafters. Bluestone tiles made a jigsaw on the floor.

Robert pushed his bike ahead, but halted half in and half out of the elevator.

Aaron Sears was in the loft. He lifted a heavy punching bag onto a hook. He was four hundred pounds of muscle poured into jeans, desert combat boots, and a T-shirt that read
BEEN THERE
on one side and
DONE THAT
on the reverse.

Aaron was on the League Council, and had wanted Robert punished for his rule-breaking. Mr. Mimes told them he’d taken care of it . . . but if they found Robert here, unpunished, he was a goner.

Aaron was the Red Rider of the Apocalypse, Ares, the god of war, and half a dozen other aliases—all of them potential trouble and a nasty end for Robert.

He spared a glance at Robert. “I suggest you drag your bike in here, young man, before you lose it.”

The elevator door lowered. Robert pushed his bike inside.

The door clicked and locked behind him, and the elevator descended, stranding him.

“Ah, Robert—there you are.” Henry Mimes was in the kitchen, hidden by the open stainless steel refrigerator door. He emerged with a bottle of wine and a glass.

“New digs, Mr. Mimes?”

“Do you like it?”

Robert shrugged. His eyes were glued on Aaron.

“Don’t worry about him,” Mr. Mimes said with a careless wave. Wine slopped out of his glass. “He’s here to help.”

So, they were all friends now? Robert doubted that.

Aaron released the heavy bag on its hook. The beam overhead creaked. It had to be filled with sand and must have weighed half a ton.

Aaron hit it bare-knuckled. The bag deformed and careened back.

“Where’s your Paxington uniform?” Mr. Mimes asked.

Robert had stripped out of the jacket and down to his plain white T-shirt the moment he got off campus. Next order of business was to find some jeans and proper riding boots. He hitched his thumb at his saddlebag, where he had stuffed the blazer.

“It’s dry clean only,” Mr. Mimes said with a sigh. “Well, no matter. Give us your report.”

“Okay, hang on a second. My brain feels turned inside out and wrung dry from the placement exam. I’m glad I only had to do one day of this stuff.”

“You
did
have all the answers,” Mr. Mimes said, his brows scrunching together with concern.

“Yeah. Those helped. But the answers you gave me weren’t in the right order, and guessing which ones went where wasn’t easy. Some of the stuff seemed like Greek to me—heck, some of the stuff
was
in Greek.”

Robert had cheated under the watchful gaze of Miss Westin. He wasn’t sure what she was, but she could give any Immortal in the League a run for their money in the “icy stare” department.

He shuddered.

“And what of the other students?” Mr. Mimes inquired.

“Paxington snobs,” Robert said. “Their noses are stuck so far into the air, you’ve got to wonder how they walk without tripping. Spoiled pukes with a little power inflating their already empty heads.”

“As I expected,” Aaron grumbled.

“Well, not one girl—that Amanda Lane you wanted me to check out. She’s clueless. Made it through her exams somehow, though. I kind of feel sorry for her.”

“Ah, good,” Mr. Mimes said. “An education is the least we can do for her. The League owes that girl much.”

Aaron and Mr. Mimes shared a quick glance.

Robert knew from that simple look there was more to Amanda Lane than they were telling him.

“And the twins?” Mr. Mimes asked.

Eliot and Fiona. A raw nerve twinged in Robert.

He had been glad to see them alive and in good spirits, but the feelings he had for Fiona . . . There was too much there, and it was all so complicated. Robert wasn’t built to deal with stuff like this.

“They’re fine. Great,” Robert muttered. “And, of course, they passed their exams.” Robert swallowed, suddenly uneasy. “Only one thing happened at the end . . . Kino.” His mouth went dust dry. “He picked them up after school.”

Robert was sure he hadn’t been spotted by Kino. He’d been just one more clueless Paxington punk in a uniform to him. Robert had gotten out of there quick, though, probably saving himself some fate-worse-than-death League payback.

“Kino moves faster than we thought,” Aaron commented. He waved Robert closer.

“Than
you
thought,” Mr. Mimes said.

Robert wasn’t sure what Aaron had in mind, but he dared not disobey. He moved closer.

Aaron lifted Robert’s hands and slipped on lightweight boxing gloves. He indicated that Robert hit the bag.

Robert gave him a
you’ve got to be kidding
look, but Aaron waited. Robert tried a tentative jab.

The bag was rock solid. Literally.

Aaron frowned, and this made his mustache droop. “With your entire body,” he told Robert. “Use your legs. They are your most powerful muscles.”

“Now, give me your report from the top again,” Mr. Mimes said, “but this time everything about the twins.”

Right. The twins. That’s what this was all about. Robert was just a spy, a glorified errand boy.

Robert punched. This time he threw his entire weight behind it, and the bag rocked a bit. He shouldn’t have been able to do that. He’d never been
that
strong.

Aaron nodded. “Give me twenty like that.”

Robert punched as he spoke: “They passed the placement tests. They’re both on Team Scarab—the same team I’m on. There’s also that Amanda Lane girl on the team. Two from the Clan Covington. One from the Stephenson family. And”—he punched so hard that the bag swung wildly and he had to duck as it came back at him—“an Infernal protégée. A girl called Jezebel.”

“Kino is not the only one who moves fast,” Aaron said.

“It is nothing unexpected,” Mr. Mimes said.

Aaron pushed the punching bag as it swung back—accelerating it to a blur before Robert could react.

It slammed into his face—followed a dizzying moment later by the floor hitting Robert’s face as well.

Aaron came over and helped him up, lifting his chin and looking into his dazed eyes. “Should have broken his nose,” he told Mr. Mimes. “The Soma appears to be taking.”

Robert shrugged off Aaron’s hands—got angry for a split second . . . and then cooled down. Getting mad at Aaron, you might as well get angry at a mountain for all the good it would do.

Robert touched his face. It stung, but there was nothing broken. Taking a blow that hard, he should at least have squirted some blood.

“Tell me more about the Infernal,” Mr. Mimes said. He had a new glass in his hand, this one with a straw and something that looked like cola inside. He held it out for Robert to sip.

Robert reached for it, but realized he still had on the boxing gloves, so he used the proffered straw.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t cola. It was liquid fire and curlicues of multicolored smoke that blasted through his thoughts. It was velvet and honey and a thousand open flowers . . . and sulfur, too, like someone had lit a match under his nose.

Robert exhaled, felt bubbles popping, and the sensations faded.

He’d had this stuff before. Mr. Mimes gave him some when he’d been sprung from that Immortal prison cell.

Was that was Aaron was talking about? What did he call it? Soma? He’d said
“the Soma appears to be taking.”
15

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Mimes said, noting the quizzical look on Robert’s face. “I took the liberty of stocking the refrigerator with a few bottles of this for you. It will do you worlds of good. Now, the Infernal? What did you call her? Jezebel?”

“She’s pretty, like you’d expect,” Robert said. “Drop-dead pretty, in fact. She had titles . . . Protector of the Burning Orchards, Handmaiden to the Mistress of Pain. Gave me the serious creeps.”

“Sealiah’s minion,” Aaron said. “There will be subterfuge as well as blood.”

“Don’t sound disappointed,” Mr. Mimes said. “The snakes in the grass will make themselves known soon enough—then you can cut off their heads.”

“I don’t understand how you know who this Jezebel even is,” Robert said. “She could be
any
Infernal.”

Mr. Mimes cocked one eyebrow. “How so?”

“Well,” Robert said, “Lucifer—what did you call it—he ‘cloned’ me last summer. Made himself look like me to trap Fiona in that Valley of the New Year. Infernals can look like anyone they want to, right?”

“No,” Aaron said as he pulled on boxing gloves. “Most have only the humanoid and combat forms.”

“To be precise,” Mr. Mimes added, “only two Infernals could ever shift their shape like that: Lucifer and the great Satan. The latter is long departed, his bones dust. And I doubt this Jezebel is Louis in disguise. Even he wouldn’t be able to fool the Headmistress and certainly not Paxington’s eagle-eyed Gatekeeper.”

Robert agreed. That Gatekeeper was an Immortal. Harlan Dells had that look of righteous condescension and unquestionable superiority. It was interesting, though, that he wasn’t in the League . . . or that there could even be Immortals
outside
the League’s control.

Aaron approached. He wore boxing gloves now and had his hands up.

“You have got to be kidding,” Robert said.

“I don’t ‘kid’ when it comes to combat,” Aaron said. “Defend yourself.”

He jabbed Robert. It was bullet fast.

Robert sidestepped and swatted the fist away at the absolute last split second. It felt like a steel piston, and would’ve taken off his head if it had connected.

“Hey!” Robert shouted.

Aaron circled. There was no escape. No way Robert could turn and make it to the elevator.

Mr. Mimes leaned against the wall, watching, and took a sip of wine. “Now, Robert, I want you to tell me about Fiona. How do you
really
feel about the girl?”

“Feel? Wha—?”

Robert never finished the thought. Aaron’s fist impacted his gut, squishing the soft bits. Something popped.

There was blackness.

Robert found himself peering through a tunnel, and a high-pitched ringing filled his head. He kneeled, blood streaming from his mouth.

“I said
defend
yourself, boy.”

Robert stood.

Slowly stood. But he shouldn’t have been able to.

At best, he should barely be able to crawl toward the phone and dial 911 after a sledgehammer punch like that.

“Okay,” he said through gritted teeth. He clenched his hands so tight, the knuckles popped.

Aaron came at him again—right and left and straight punches.

Robert intercepted them with strikes of his own. The force knocked him back, but he kept his head down, as Marcus Welmann had taught him.

He kept fighting. Faster and harder.

One of his jabs caught Aaron in his ribs.

Aaron grunted, grimaced . . . and then he smiled.

There was motion—not even a blur, really—just a flicker in the corner of Robert’s vision.

. . . When he came to this time, he was flat on his back on the floor.

It felt like his body had been hung up and both Mr. Mimes and Aaron had hammered on it for a few days.

Aaron reached down and hauled Robert to his feet. He turned to Mr. Mimes and said, “He has the potential.” Then to Robert, he said, “I shall set up a schedule for you and me to train.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Mimes said, raising his glass to toast Robert. “Now, Robert, the girl—you’re about to tell me how you feel. . . .”

“Oh, man,” Robert said, regaining his wits enough to understand what Mr. Mimes was asking. He took a few steps back from Aaron. “Okay. Fiona. I don’t know.” He felt his insides tighten. “I like her. But it’s not that simple. She’s in the League.”

“Of course it’s that simple,” Mr. Mimes countered. “You’re a boy. She’s a girl.”

“Yeah, I got that part. But she’s a girl who could get me killed.”

“How is that different from any other girl in the world?” Mr. Mimes asked. “Do you love her?”

The question caught Robert as off guard as when Aaron had sucker-punched him. “Love?” Robert laughed. “Come on, man. That stuff is for kids!”

There was no way Robert bought into all that. Love was one of two things: what you saw at the movies (fantasies of what girls thought guys should act like); or it was like his mom, who had worked her way through half a dozen boyfriends and stepfathers by the time Robert left home. Even with all the slammed doors, the shouts, the bruises and busted lips—she had “loved” them all.

Any way you sliced it, love was a slippery, dangerous thing.

But Fiona wasn’t like any other girl.

There was something more there. She was a goddess . . . maybe . . . and Robert couldn’t figure out how that fit into the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing.

“Yeeeees,” Mr. Mimes said. “I see the flames inside you.”

Robert shook his head and held up his hands. “Come on, Mr. Mimes. Just tell me what my next assignment is. I need to move, get out of this place.”