All That Lives Must Die (2 page)

SECTION

    I    

THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

               1               

NEW RULES

Fiona scrambled over the cool terra-cotta tiles and skidded to a halt in their new dining room. Bookshelves and half-built china cabinets were constructed along the walls. Unlike their old apartment in Del Sombra, this room had enough space for shelves
without
crowding the glorious picture window and its built-in seats.

The window framed the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. Early-morning light spilled through and made the plaster cornices of the room glow gold.

Cee carried in two trays from the kitchen. Their 104-year-old great-grandmother wore a brown dress with lace ruffles and looked like she belonged in a nineteenth-century tin daguerreotype with her hair pulled up tight and pinned in place. Some things would never change. That was okay. Cee, shaking and smiling, was always there for them.

“Let me help,” Fiona offered.

“No, no, my darlings,” Cecilia replied. “Just sit and eat. You have a momentous day ahead of you.”

With trembling arms, she set a platter of smoking black bacon on the table, and another platter with bowls of lumpy half-cooked oatmeal.

“Don’t you two look splendid in your uniforms?” Cee kissed Eliot on the cheek and then Fiona. It felt like the brush of dry leaves. She then went back into the kitchen.

“Thanks, Cee,” Fiona said, and tugged on her stockings. How could something so tight fit so poorly?

“Thanks,” Eliot murmured. He sat and dragged a bowl closer, grimacing.

Fiona shot him a look. Cee
did
try. It wasn’t her fault she no longer had a sense of smell or taste.

Eliot stirred the mixture in front of him in an attempt to make it palatable.

She pulled a bowl closer as well and segregated the inedible bits from the stuff that looked like it could be choked down.

Sometimes having a severed and only partially repaired appetite had its advantages.

Fiona spooned the lumps into her mouth. It tasted like sawdust . . . but then almost everything did these days. She knew she had to force herself to eat, or she’d faint from malnutrition.

So she chewed until the oatmeal could be swallowed without gagging.

In fact, if she didn’t force herself to feel something, she didn’t feel much of anything. That was because when she’d cut her appetite to save herself from those addictive Infernal chocolates . . . she cut deeper . . . cut part of the connection to her emotions. Like what she felt for Robert. It was so unclear. Did she really miss him? Or had it been some crush brought on by their shared adventures this summer?

No, there
was
something there.

It was complicated, because she was now part of the League of Immortals, and Robert had just been fired by the League.
Fired
meaning that some Immortals had a grudge against him, and if they ever saw him, it might be the end of his life.

How could she be with someone who was endangered by her very presence?

She watched Eliot struggle with his oatmeal, his face contorting through various shades of discomfort and strangulation as he swallowed. She
did
feel some tiny punitive pleasure from that.

Vermiform locomotion borne, huh?
She tried to smooth her stockings again, but it was hopeless. Her legs
did
look like two wrinkled worms.

Outside, fog covered the sun. The golden light tinged iron gray, and the temperature in the room dropped.

Audrey descended the spiral staircase that led to her office. She joined them at the table.

She wore faded jeans, chamois soft boots, and a deep blue silk blouse that matched the color of San Francisco Bay. Diamond studs adorned her earlobes and flashed cold rainbows upon her throat and slicked-back silver hair. She carried a slender briefcase. She was the picture of grace and understated elegance, and looked perfectly at ease in their new surroundings.

But it wasn’t only the new clothes that made Audrey look different today.

When Fiona came back from her summer vacation, this woman was no longer the “grandmother” she had known for the last fifteen years. That masquerade was over. She was her mother now and the goddess Atropos, and
both
titles seems equally perplexing to Fiona.

“Good morning, Audrey,” Fiona said. She couldn’t call her Grandmother anymore, and the word
Mother
caught in her throat, so Fiona had settled on Audrey.

“Good morning,” Eliot echoed.

“Good morning, children,” Audrey replied. She poked carbonized bacon with a fork and then decided to pour herself a glass of juice. “I’ve ordered the books you’ll need for Paxington . . . assuming you do well enough on the entrance examinations today. I have every confidence that you will.”

If she had every confidence, then why even mention it?

Those books—which would join the thousands and thousands already here—had to be ordered because many of their books had pages crossed out to the point of unreadability. Those were the books on mythologies, legends and folklores, ghost stories, tales of demons and gods—all omitted because their mother had the notion that she could hide Fiona and Eliot from the truth . . . and hide the truth from them.

“I guess . . . ,” Eliot started, but his voice died. He swallowed and tried again. “I guess that means Rule Fifty-five doesn’t apply anymore?”

Rule 55 was one of the 106 household rules that governed every aspect of Fiona’s and her brother’s lives. It was the “nothing made up” rule.

RULE 55:
No books, comics, films, or other media of the science fiction, fantasy, or horror genres—especially, but not limited to, the occult or pseudosciences (alchemy, spirituality, numerology, etc.) or any ancient or urban mythology.

Audrey looked at Eliot as if he spoke a language she didn’t understand.

How typical. Audrey was very good at telling them what to do—not so good at listening to anything they had to say.

“That’s why you’re sending us to Paxington, right?” Fiona asked. She worked very hard to keep anger from creeping into her voice. She made herself sound polite, quizzical—keeping this discussion on an intellectual level. “I mean, you’re sending us there to learn about our family, their history, and how we’re supposed to fit into this world.”

Audrey blinked. “Yes, Rule Fifty-five is naturally abolished. You must learn everything that has been omitted from your education as quickly as possible.”

Fiona nodded and kept her face an impassive mask, hiding her glee.

Audrey had never
lifted
a rule. The only changes to the rules for as long as Fiona had lived were
additions
.

She and Eliot would have to be careful. They couldn’t push. Audrey tended to push back ten times harder when confronted with the slightest force.

As if sensing the precise
wrong
thing to say, Eliot leaned forward and asked, “So, what about all the other rules?”

Fiona could have killed him.

“We will revisit them on a case-by-case basis.” Audrey took a sip of orange juice. “If necessary.”

“So then, what about Rule Thirty-four?” Eliot said. Both his hands gripped the edge of the dining table.

Fiona gave him a kick—hard.

Eliot flinched, but he didn’t look away from Audrey.

Rule 34 was the “no music” rule.

RULE 34:
No music, including the playing of any instruments (actual or improvised), singing, humming, electronically or by any means producing or reproducing a rhythmic melodic form.

Eliot had this stupid fascination with music—and an even greater fascination with the violin their father had given him.

In truth, though, Eliot and his music had done some amazing things. Magical things. Terrible things. But it was unpredictable, and that scared Fiona.

“Your music . . . ,” Audrey said.

She opened her mouth to say more, but for some reason Audrey hesitated, as if she was actually weighing the issues. Fiona had never seen her perseverate over anything in her life. Audrey always knew her mind—and she never changed it once made.

“We shall lift this rule as well,” Audrey finally said. “Play you must. I sense it is in your blood. But go slowly, Eliot, for you play with fire.”

“Yes, Mother.” Eliot eased back into his seat. “Thank you.”

So he was calling her Mother now? How annoying.

But maybe it was okay as long as he kept his mouth shut about the other rules. Even Eliot had to know better than to push their luck further. Two rules lifted in one day was real progress.

“Ah!” Audrey brightened. “I’d almost forgotten.” She opened her briefcase and retrieved a sheaf of legal-sized pages.

She set the inch-thick stack on the table and pushed it toward Fiona and Eliot.

Fiona grabbed it and pulled it away from her brother.

“The Council sent it this morning,” Audrey told them. “Turn to page six. That is the only relevant piece you need concern yourself with.”

Fiona flipped ahead.

She and Eliot read:

EDICTS GOVERNING NEW LEAGUE MEMBERS

1. New members must not under any circumstance, or by any means, convey, imply, or by means of not providing answers reveal the existence of the League of Immortals to non–League members.

2. With identical limitations as per Provision One, new members must not reveal their nonmortal status to mortals.

3. New members must not discuss the subjects of Provisions One and Two in public, where third parties may clandestinely eavesdrop, lip-read, or record conversations.

4. New members are accountable to these provisions/edicts and subject to penalties provided in Appendix D as sent forth by the Punishment and Enforcement Bureau circa 1878. (continued on the next page . . .)

“I hope,” Audrey said, “you two realized how seriously the League takes these matters.” She retrieved the pages, straightened them, and returned them to her briefcase.

“Wait . . . ,” Fiona said. The words she had read felt like concrete poured around her . . . slowly but inexorably solidifying. “So we’re in the League of Immortals, and for the first time special and different—but we can’t tell anyone who we are?”

“Of course you can tell people who you are,” Audrey said. The warmth she had had in her voice earlier evaporated. “You will, naturally, say that you are Fiona and Eliot Post. That should be enough for anyone—including yourselves.”

A spark of resentment fanned to life in Fiona. More lies? That’s what the League was expecting from them?

“Fine,” Fiona muttered. “Whatever.” She stood and turned to her brother. “Come on. We better go.”

Although Fiona now stood while her mother remained sitting, Audrey still managed to make it feel like she was looking down at her.

Fiona hated that imperial look.

So she had finally called her Mother . . . at least, in her mind.

But Audrey would never be the kind of mother who showed her how to put makeup on, or helped her pick out clothes, or had that heartfelt talk about the pleasures and perils of boys.

No. Fiona knew
exactly
what kind of mother Audrey was: the kind she read about in Shakespeare’s plays—mothers who plotted and schemed and murdered and then compulsively washed their hands.

“Sit, young lady,” Audrey told her. “We are not done.”

The spark of resentment in Fiona chilled. She obediently sank into her seat.

“You are correct,” Audrey told them. “There is a need to start school with all due haste, but you also need these materials if you are to have any chance of success . . . success, I might add, which the League considers
mandatory
.”

Fiona shot Eliot a look. He shrugged, and his forehead wrinkled at this new development.

If they didn’t do well at school, the Immortals would do what? Kick them out of the League? Something worse? Maybe. The League considered passing and failing tests a life-or-death matter. If they’d failed its three heroic trials, the League would have killed her and Eliot.

But come on—they were
in
the League now, considered an official part of the family. They didn’t have to constantly prove themselves. Did they?

Audrey withdrew a blue envelope from her briefcase and slid it to them.

The envelope had a bar code sticker and a bewildering collection of stamps from Greece, Italy, Russia, places Fiona did not recognize, and finally the United States. It was addressed to “Master Eliot Zachariah Post and the Lady Fiona Paige Post” at their new San Francisco address.

And it had been opened.

As if her mother anticipated Fiona’s objections, she said, “I filled out all the forms to save time. There is a list of rules and regulations, which you may read after the entrance and placement exams today.” Audrey pinned the envelope with a stare. “Most important, however, there is a map—which you require immediately.”

Fiona pulled out the first page.

The impressive Paxington Institute crest—a heraldic device with shield, helmet, and sword; a sleeping dragon; snarling wolf head; winged chevron; and gold scarab—dominated the scrollwork of a letterhead. Fiona’s eyes gravitated to the boldface portion of the letter:

All students must be at Bristlecone Hall before 10:00
A.M
., September 22, for placement examinations or their enrollment at Paxington will be
FORFEITED
.

Fiona and Eliot wheeled around. Their grandfather clock sat in the corner. It read a quarter until nine.

“Where is Paxington?” Eliot asked, sounding embarrassed he didn’t know.

Fiona riffled through the envelope, found the map, and pulled it out. She unfolded heavy cotton paper and saw exacting details of streets and landmarks like Presidio Park, Chinatown, and Fisherman’s Wharf. The edges of the map were yellowed with age.

She found the Paxington Institute address as well as these helpful directions:

The main entrance to the San Francisco Paxington campus is conveniently located at the intersection of Chestnut and Lombard Streets.