All That Lives Must Die (21 page)

               21               

UNEXPECTED RENDEZVOUS

The gaslights brightened, and class was over. Fiona gathered her things and left.

She blinked once in the strong sunlight, but welcomed the warmth after sitting in that chilled room for the last two hours. Miss Westin kept the place like a tomb.

Fiona walked away quickly. The Headmistress gave her the creeps—more even than Uncle Kino. Something
inside
that woman was a lot colder than her classroom.

Despite the gloom of the place, Fiona had wanted to linger, though. She had yet to talk to Robert and find out how he was coping now that he wasn’t in the League. He could be so stoically stubborn sometimes. Where was he living? How did he eat?

But maybe it was better to stay apart a little longer . . . as painful as it might be. If Robert attracted any League attention, she had a feeling that even Uncle Henry wouldn’t be able to get him off the hook this time.

Beside, she had to catch Eliot. He bolted before he’d written down tonight’s reading assignment—something he never forgot. He was so distracted lately.

As she tromped down the corridors, one archway caught her eye. It wasn’t a real passage, but rather a mural that gave the illusion of depth. The mural was a Picasso: cubist students with too many arms and legs, their faceted heads listening with disjointed ears to a lecturing stick figure Plato.
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The real reason she had to find her brother, though, was that he—without fail—got into trouble without her watching out for him.

Like in gym class. She should have known better than to leave him behind.

“Fiona?” a voice squeaked behind her.

She turned. Amanda Lane trotted up to her. Ever since Fiona had stopped Sarah from tormenting her in the locker room, Amanda had decided they were best friends and stuck close.

Like Fiona needed another person to look after.

Amanda’s school uniform was a mass of wrinkles. She carried a pile of books, and her backpack was filled to the bursting point. Fiona felt bad for her. Amanda’s eyes rarely left the ground, she wasn’t able to talk to anyone, and her hair has half tangle, half cowlick.

“Hey,” Fiona said. “What’s up?”

Amanda tried to brush the hair from her face, but couldn’t with her arms full. “Headed to the library?” she asked. “Maybe we could compare notes? I’m in the middle of Lovecraft’s unpublished
Languorous Lullabies
. His histories of the Dreaming Families are so poetical. Did you know that parts can be read backwards for an entirely different meaning? It’s called reflective/reflective style.”
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For someone never exposed to magic before, Amanda seem to have a knack, if not for its practice, then at least its study.

“I read those,” Fiona told her. “Eliot and I still needed to tackle the
Canticles of the Clan
.”

Fiona had to study the canticles, not only for Miss Westin’s class, but also because it was
practical
knowledge. They told (in excruciating minutia and with endless commentary) the political intrigues among from the nineteenth- and twentieth-century mortal magical families.

Covingtons, Scalagaris, Pritchards, Kalebs—these families taught their children fencing, etiquette, the art of small talk, poisons, and assassination from the time they were toilet trained. Politics that translated into duels and alliances and vendettas here at Paxington.

She had a lot of catching up to do.

Fiona snapped her fingers. “There’s one thing, though, we have to do before we hit the homework: find the others on our team and talk strategy.”

“Oh . . .” Amanda drew her books closer and dropped her head.

“Slip too far in the rankings,” Fiona explained, “and all the studying in the world won’t matter.”

Amanda curled even farther behind her books and said, “I’m really sorry about what happened.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Fiona said. “We’ll
all
do better next time.”

Amanda brightened.

She was a real liability. If only Fiona could boost the girl’s confidence, she might actually get her
onto
the obstacle course next time. Funny how Amanda seemed to have no trouble relating to Eliot. Maybe they had an equivalent nerd quotient.

Amanda glanced past Fiona. “There’s your brother and that Jezebel. Let’s go say hi.”

“Jezebel?” Fiona whirled about. She squinted through archways and spotted them in the adjacent corridor.

Just as she had feared: Eliot in trouble again.

This was 100 percent weirdness. Why was he pushing his luck and talking to that thing? And why was Jezebel even listening to him?

And yet there they were.

This was typical Eliot: making well-intentioned but stupid friendly overtures. Probably still thought she was related to Julie Marks. He’d be lucky if the Infernal didn’t kill him. But what could Jezebel do to him here out in the open? Challenge him to a duel? Even her brother wasn’t foolish enough to accept an invitation to fight an Infernal.

The worst that might happen is a wounding of her brother’s ego.

But they were still just talking. It felt like a private moment between them, though . . . almost intimate.

Fiona’s face heated. “I guess it’s him,” she told Amanda. “Whatever.”

She turned away and marched toward the gate.

“I thought you wanted to talk about gym . . . ,” Amanda said, running after her.

“Sure—with Robert or Mitch, even Sarah or Jeremy. But I can talk to Eliot anytime. And I’m not going to waste time with Jezebel. Not with a million things to read.”

They crossed the quad, and the sparkling quartz flagstones dazzled her. Fiona veered by the fountain of Poseidon and let the spray cool her face.

“You never said why you’re here,” Amanda said. “You and Eliot, your Uncle Henry . . . you’re not part of any of the magical families we’re studying.” She continued with difficulty, forcing the words out: “But you’re not normal, either, are you?”

Fiona glanced at the fountain and the marble face of the dead god who had the same high forehead as her mother and her. “Not exactly,” she told Amanda. “It’s complicated.”

“So what isn’t?” Amanda said, and retreated behind her disheveled hair.

Maybe it was time to open up—not break any League rules, of course, but just share stories about families. It’d be a breath of fresh air to talk to someone other than her brother.

“Let’s grab something to drink at the café,” Fiona said. “We can talk.”

Amanda tilted her head up. “Really?”

“Sure. Iced Thai coffees. My treat.”

Eliot could waste his time with the Infernal all day if he wanted to—and he could figure out the reading assignment on his own, too.

Fiona turned. She felt a cold sensation at her back, like the shadows behind them had somehow darkened. She resisted the urge to look, however, and mounted the steps, making her away along the path to the front gate.

Mr. Harlan Dells stood there. The large man wore a suit that matched his blond beard and hair. He smiled at her and Amanda.

“Miss Post . . . Miss Lane, I hope you girls are doing well with your studies. Not letting
too
many boys distract you?”

Amanda convulsed with what might have been a silent giggle.

Fiona felt like he’d stabbed her in the heart, and her lifeblood pumped out there in front of the iron gates, spattering over the cobblestones. She thought about Robert. Deep inside, she wanted to be with him . . . but not if it got him into trouble . . . or killed.

“No,” she told him, “no boys. Just books.”

He looked into her eyes and said, “That is for the best. Trust me.”

“Yes, sir.”

She took a little step toward the gate, but Mr. Dells didn’t open it.

“One more thing, Miss Post.” His voice deepened. Fiona sensed a weight settle about his person like he could’ve halted her and Amanda and an entire army with one upraised hand. “Please tell your family not to block my driveway again. There is a fire code, and I will have them towed.”

Fiona glanced around his massive bulk.

A sleek black ultra-modern Mercedes limousine sat in the alleyway. It looked like one of Uncle Henry’s.

“Pass along my deepest and warmest regards to your relation,” Mr. Dells told her.

“Sure,” Fiona said.

He flicked a switch and the gate rolled back.

Fiona ran to the limo.

The driver’s door opened and a man in a black jacket and cap climbed out. It was the same uniform Robert had worn when he’d been Uncle Henry’s Driver. But this man wasn’t Robert. He was old and wrinkled. He bowed to Fiona and opened the back door for her.

“Thank you,” she said. She leaned into the back section. “Uncle Hen—”

Inside, Fiona saw slender toes slipped from a high-heel sandal, attached to a shapely tanned calf, and a leg and a black skirt. A smile and dimples flashed from the shadows, and a tousle of honey blond hair shook free. A woman grinned at her.

“Aunt Dallas?”

“I hope you weren’t expecting someone else,” Dallas said. “I have a surprise for you this afternoon.” She tilted her head and looked out the window. “And your friend, too. If you’re game.”

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. Painted by Pablo Picasso in the fall of 1921, the arch was acquired by the Paxington Institute for an undisclosed amount in a 1940 auction (just before the Nazi occupation of Paris, where the arch originally resided). The arch is unusual in that it incorporates classical Renaissance elements—only deconstructed. Art historians cite as the piece’s major influence Picasso’s marriage to ballerina Olga Khokhlova, who introduced him to the high society of 1920s Paris (at odds with Picasso’s core bohemian aesthetic). Close friends cite Picasso calling this piece a “mistaken dream” that was destined to be destroyed by evil. –Editor.

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. The Dreaming Families exist on Earth and in a middle realm known as Meriden, or the “dreaming lands.” Every night when they sleep, they enter that world, and when they sleep there, they dream of Earth. This dual existence is said to be the reason for their unusual dual magic. Some speculate that never truly sleeping affects their mental stability.
Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 14, The Mortal Magical Families.
Zypheron Press Ltd., Eighth Edition.

               22               

A PROBLEM NEVER MEANT TO BE SOLVED

Eliot watched Jezebel tromp down the corridor. The students who had gathered to watch them fight moved on as well.

He had to find Fiona and tell her everything. They were smarter together. They could figure out what Jezebel, Infernal protégée, once Julie Marks, was doing here at Paxington.

He backtracked to the lecture hall and spotted familiar faces from class, but no Fiona. Maybe she had gone to the library. He turned and marched toward the Hall of Wisdom.

He thought about calling her, but remembered the “no cell phone” rule in the library. The staff confiscated them if they rang, and he wasn’t sure Fiona would have turned hers off.

There were so many little things like their phones they still had to get used to . . . let alone the big things.

Like Jezebel being Julie.

Eliot’s instincts about her had been right all along. But she wasn’t really Julie anymore. She was an Infernal. Dangerous.

But was all of the Julie he’d known gone? There was hope, wasn’t there, that there was still something between them?

Or was he just an extreme loser, and that was nothing but wishful thinking?

Eliot sat on a bench. He set his roiling emotions aside—he’d try to sort through the facts.

First, Jezebel was an Infernal. That’s how she’d announced herself at Paxington, and he believed Miss Westin wouldn’t let her lie about something like that.

Second, she admitted she’d been Julie Marks.

Third, she had told him the truth . . . except when she told him she wished she’d never met him.

Eliot
knew
it was a lie. How he knew exactly, he wasn’t sure. But from her reaction when he’d accused her, he was certain.

All this left him with one solid speculation: The Infernal families were involved again in his and Fiona’s lives. They were using Jezebel . . . or Julie as a piece in some game whose rules he didn’t know.

And he knew this game could be deadly. Julie had been punished for her failure with him: killed again, dragged to Hell . . . and tortured.

Eliot’s mouth went dry.

His first priority had to be to learn something about the Infernals’ game. Then he’d move a few pieces of his own. Defensive moves. And maybe, just maybe, learn how to capture Julie and bring her over to his side of the board.

He got up and strode to the library to find Fiona.

A few students had gathered to chat by the Little Faun Pool, where several bronze statues of dancing fauns and satyrs, giant mushrooms and gigantic flowers were artfully placed about a reflection pool filed with lotus and koi.

Eliot recognized students from Team Wolf there. They’d won their first match in gym in six minutes four seconds, and inflicted three broken limbs on the other team to do so.

He hoped Team Scarab got their act together before they faced
them
.

Eliot veered away, not wanting any more confrontation today, and angled toward the House of Wisdom.

Within the library’s twin sandstone pyramids and under its glittering golden dome, Eliot and Fiona had gotten lost twice so far this year in the stacks. Someone should have handed out maps. There were hundreds of thousands of medieval books; illuminated manuscripts; ancient Roman, Greek, Chinese, and Egyptian scrolls; and first-edition Shakespeare folios with stories Eliot had never even seen cataloged.

They’d found weirder things, too: thin volumes that wavered as if they were mirages (he didn’t touch those), one room with marble busts whose eyes definitely followed him, and plenty of off-limits sections. Eliot wondered if there was a section of Infernal books.

Eliot spotted Robert Farmington on the long sweep of library stairs. He spoke to a girl (not Fiona) who had her back to Eliot.

He flashed Eliot a look of recognition and a warning to not interrupt.

Eliot nodded, understanding as he saw the girl’s hair: a tangerine color that could belong only to Sarah Covington.

Eliot didn’t want to cross paths with her. She’d been nothing but mean to him. He wondered how she had any friends at all—and yet, maybe being cruel was the secret to popularity at Paxington, because Sarah had dozens of admirers who surrounded her, smiled at her jokes, and hung on her every word.

Eliot could pass Immortal heroic trials and survive Infernal plots, but he flunked the basics of how to get along with people.

Robert and Sarah finished their conversation. She laughed and waved good-bye, and wandered up to the library without turning to acknowledge Eliot.

Robert trotted over to him.

“Hey,” Eliot said.

“What happened to you?” Robert asked. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“It’s complicated.” Eliot glanced up the stairs at Sarah Covington. She joined with a group of girls, and laughing, they entered the library. “Why were you talking to her? She’s not . . . very nice.”

Robert wriggled uncomfortably inside his Paxington jacket. “You’d be surprised. She acts one way in public. I think it has to do with her family—so prestigious, they’re not supposed to bother with lesser people like me. Get her alone, though, and she’s nice enough.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Eliot replied. “You think Jeremy’s like that?”

“No way.
That
guy is pure grade-A jerk.”

“Agreed,” Eliot said. “Have you seen Fiona?”

“No . . .” Robert looked around, uneasy, and Eliot knew there was something wrong between those two.

Apparently even Robert, who had been all over the world, and probably had had a dozen girlfriends, still had problems with girls. Somehow, it was reassuring.

“You headed out?” Robert nodded toward the front gate. “I’ve got to go. Too many people around for me to think.”

Eliot decided he could talk to Fiona tonight about Jezebel. Finding Robert in a talkative mood was a rare thing, and he wouldn’t waste the opportunity.

“Sure,” Eliot said. They walked together down the steps. “Maybe you can help me out. You ever been with a girl you thought hated you . . . but she really liked you?”

Robert laughed. “All the time.” He sobered. “Very recently, in fact—”

“You mean Fiona. She’s just worried about how the League would react if, you know, they found out about you.”

“I figured that out,” Robert said. “Figured, too, that there might
no
way for me to be with her . . . and keep my skin in one piece. It sucks.”

Eliot felt weird talking about his sister this way. Romance and boys and Fiona weren’t
supposed
to go together.

Maybe everyone had trouble when it came to intimate relations. Heck, if supercool Robert got his heart stomped . . . what chance did Eliot have?

They walked in silence, crossed the quad, and approached the main gate.

“So,” Eliot started again, “what do you do if you think you found the one special girl?”

Robert halted and looked him, one eyebrow arched. “We’re not talking about Fiona anymore, are we?” He smiled—but that vanished quickly when he saw the seriousness on Eliot’s face.

“Not Fiona,” Eliot admitted.

Robert started walking again, his hand cupped to his chin. “I’ve found lots of girls I’ve liked, and a few who have even liked me back. Nothing
has
to be complicated about it.”

Eliot wanted to believe that, but given his recent experience with girls—all one of them—he wasn’t sure.

“But,” Robert continued, “the problem is, I’ve never figured out how to get the ‘one special’ girl.
That
always ends up complicated.” He sighed. “But it’s the complicated ones who get you going, huh? The ones that keep you up at night thinking about them. Maybe that’s the way it supposed to be, I don’t know.”

Mr. Harlan Dells stood by the gatehouse. “Gentlemen,” he said, and flicked the switch that made the gate roll back.

As they walked through, Mr. Dells remarked to no one in particular, “There are some problems never meant to be solved: the philosophical struggle between good and evil, the many-body problem in classical mechanics . . . and women.”

He shut the gate behind them, leaving them to ponder this.

“Need a ride?” Robert looked at Eliot, decided something, and then added, “I’m headed to my place. Why don’t you come with me? We could burn a few hours on video games or something.”

Eliot started to say no; he had enough homework to drown in.

But who was he fooling? His brain couldn’t focus on mythologies and ancient families no matter how hard he tried. Not with Jezebel rattling about inside his head.

“Sure,” Eliot said.

Robert nodded down the alley in front of Xybek’s Jewelers, where he’d parked his motorcycle. The double-twined exhausts of his bike were mirrored chrome. The rest of the machine was a curve of black steel, looking like it was ready to pounce on prey.

Robert opened a saddlebag and pulled out a spare helmet for Eliot.

Eliot wormed the helmet on, which mashed his ears, then got on to the Harley.

Robert kicked over the motor and the bike thundered to life.

Everyone in the alley looked their way, startled—then annoyed at the ruckus.

Robert revved the engine in defiance and peeled out.

They rocketed out of the alley and onto the street—so fast that the air in Eliot’s chest got squeezed out.

At the intersection Robert turned on a red light without pause, leaning so low Eliot thought they were going to scrape asphalt.

It was terrifying. And fun.

Up a hill they raced—airborne for two wild heartbeats . . . in which Eliot believed he’d left his internal organs behind—then they were back on the ground, tearing down the street.

Before Eliot could get used to the neck-snapping acceleration, however, Robert slowed and turned into a driveway. Robert reached into his jacket, clicked a garage door opener, and the rolltop door before them squealed up, revealing a freight elevator.

Robert drove in, turned the bike around, and killed the engine.

“Hit six,” Robert told Eliot.

Eliot removed his helmet (almost scraping off his ears) and tapped the top button.

They rode up in that awkward elevator silence; then the car wrenched to a halt and the safety door rolled up.

Robert pushed his bike into a corner of his loft, which was combination parking stall, motorcycle lift, and machine shop. A thousand chrome tools glistened on racks.

In the center of the apartment was an entertainment center bolted to the brick wall. It held the biggest television Eliot had ever seen, music equipment he didn’t have a clue about, and a dozen speakers—from tiny cubes to floor-to-ceiling towers.

The kitchen beyond was all stainless steel and littered with empty energy-drink cans, chips bags, and pizza boxes.

One wall had three wide windows that overlooked rolling hills, the Transamerica Pyramid, and sailboats in the distance.

The place was open, and light, and there wasn’t a bookshelf in sight.

Eliot stepped off the elevator—an instant before the safety door slammed shut and the car simultaneously lowered.

“Grab a bean bag,” Robert said, kicking one toward him, and moved to the television. “I got all the latest, greatest games. Martial arts stuff, first-person shooters—whatever floats your boat.”

Something else caught Eliot’s notice, though. Tucked in the far corner were punching and speed bags. The floor was padded. There was a pole with wood arms and legs jutting out from its center. On the wall was a rack of free weights . . . along with swords, clubs, knives, and shuriken.

“You work out?” Eliot asked.

“A little,” Robert replied.

Eliot felt drawn to the equipment. His blood raced. His hands clenched into fists, and it felt good.

“And you’re training to . . . fight?”

Robert was silent a moment then carefully said, “Paxington’s a dangerous place.”

Why hadn’t Eliot figured this out before? He didn’t have to be the smallest, weakest, dorkiest kid. Why not study how to move and fight just like he studied ancient Roman history? Could boxing be any harder than trigonometry?

Eliot turned to Robert. “Forget the games. Can you show me? I mean how to make myself stronger. How to fight?”

The cautious look on Robert’s face broke into a grin. “I’d love to.”

Eliot grinned back. He had a feeling he was going to leave here bruised and battered tonight—and he very much looked forward to it.