All That Lives Must Die (23 page)

“
Oui, mademoiselle
. Very generous.”

Amanda trembled with joy and took Dallas’s hands. She looked like she was going to cry.

“Thanks, Aunt Dallas,” Fiona replied. “I don’t know what to say. . . .”

She really didn’t know what to say. She was grateful, more than she could express, and she
did
want the clothes—all of them—but wanting them felt a little like those truffles that she had gotten this summer—delicious and sweet . . . and poisoned. It was too much, too perfect.

Audrey’s often-repeated mantra came to her:
Too-generous presents come with strings
.

Outside the store came muted shouts.

Fiona moved to the window as Dallas and Amanda fell on the rack of clothes, riffling for a new selection.

Those boys again—only this time, their attentions were focused on an old woman carrying two bags of groceries.

They pushed her down. One boy grabbed her bag and scattered vegetables across the sidewalk, stomping on tomatoes, laughing.

Fiona was horrified.

Dallas came to Fiona’s side.

“We have to do something,” Fiona told her.

“Why?” Dallas said. “I told you those boys wouldn’t bother us.”

“But that old woman . . .”

“She will be fine,” Dallas reassured her, and gently tugged on her arm. “It’s just a few tomatoes.”

Fiona pulled away.

Her anger kindled. It had been banked and ready to be blown into a full raging inferno . . . and this time Fiona welcomed it.

She
was
mad.

She’d been mad for a while, and it was time she admitted it. She was mad that Team Scarab had lost their first match. Mad at her brother for always getting into trouble. Mad at Amanda for being sad, pathetic, and looking
better
than her in her dress. And most of all mad at Aunt Dallas for wasting her time and not doing anything to help that old woman.

“Is this what the League does?” Fiona whispered. “Let people get hurt . . . while
they
shop?”

Dallas gave her a look as if to say she should grow up. “My sweet, the ‘people’ always get hurt, and they never appreciate help. There is nothing that can be done for them.”

“Yes, there is.”

Fiona stalked out of the shop.

Only distantly did she realize she must look ridiculous in this wispy little dress and in her bare feet. The cool night air whipped about her. She crunched over broken glass, and it didn’t hurt.

The boys hadn’t seen her—they still taunted the old woman while she wept on the ground.

“Hey!” Fiona yelled.

Fiona shoved the limo out of her way. It had to weigh two tons, but it felt like cardboard.

The boys turned, shocked to see her push aside a car, more shocked to see the look of pure hatred in her eyes.

“You want to fight a woman? Try me.”

In her hand, she clutched the slightly rusted chain Louis had given her. One moment, it had been on her wrist, an ordinary bracelet; the next, a
real
chain—six feet long and heavy. It scraped and sparked along the ground, every link twisted to lie flat, angled to a fine sharpened edge—the entire length feeling like an extension of her arm.

She hadn’t recalled unclasping the thing, but there it was. It felt like it had always been there, too: a part of her.

Fiona whipped the chain around her once—and then lashed it toward the lamppost.

It wrapped around the sculpted wrought iron.

She glared at the boys, who, astonished and openmouthed and frozen, could only stare back.

She imagined her chain wrapped about their necks—and then yanked.

The metal cleanly severed.

The light went dark. The lamppost twisted and fell into the street with a deafening wrench.

The gang of boys stood for a heartbeat . . . then ran—almost knocking each other over to get away from her.

Fiona smiled. That had felt good. Not just saving the old woman from further indignity, but the primeval urge to cut something, too. To tear and rip and rend; she felt it surge and sing through her blood. She wanted more.

The old woman got shakily to her feet. Her eyes were wide and dark, like some deer about to be eaten, as she stared at Fiona . . . like she was looking into the face of Death.

She backed away, then turned and ran, crossing herself, whimpering . . . leaving her groceries scattered on the street.

Aunt Dallas, Madame Cobweb, and Amanda stood behind Fiona in the doorway of the shop.

“That was the most amazingly cool thing I’ve ever seen!” Amanda cried, clapping her hands.

“
That’s
what you could have done,” Fiona told Dallas.

Dallas sighed and shook her head, but nonetheless looked the tiniest bit impressed. “
Just
like your mother,” she whispered.

Fiona stood taller. Dallas’s words—obviously not a compliment—for some reason made Fiona feel better than any new clothes ever could.

25
. “Art of the Air.” Translated from French. Also a play on words, as often pronounced as “Art Dare” in English. —Editor.

SECTION

    III    

ADVERSARIES

               24               

FIRST STEP ON A CROOKED PATH

Eliot walked alone to school on Halloween morning. Most houses in Pacific Heights had carved pumpkins on their doorsteps, leering at him as he passed.

He was sure no one was going to let him dress up in costume and go out this evening. It was a school night and candy wasn’t allowed in the house. There wasn’t a rule about candy, per se, but Cecilia claimed her peanut brittle was better than anything you could buy . . . and if you liked eating reinforced concrete, she was right.

Eliot tromped along, doing his best to ignore the festive decorations. He was by himself because Fiona was still taking her time trying on all her new clothes—not just the new dresses Aunt Dallas had bought her, but her new custom-tailored Paxington uniforms.

He tugged on his own Paxington jacket. Still too big.

But it
was
starting to fit better.

For two weeks he’d gone to Robert’s after school. Eliot was on a new physical regime of tai chi, calisthenics, and free weights. Robert had also taught him the basics of fighting. Every muscle ached, and the ribs on Eliot’s left side hurt where Robert had left a tattooing of bruises.

Eliot curled his hands into fist and flexed his forearms. It’d been worth it, though. He felt stronger.

Near school, Eliot saw more students. Some walked alone like he did, although most collected in groups of three or four, chatting along the way. Others sputtered by on motor scooters.

Funny how on that first day he’d seen only one or two other students—now he saw them everywhere. Had they all been here and he’d never noticed? Was it something about the uniform that made them blend in?

He spotted the Paxington entrance half a block away and went to it. He touched the rough granite blocks . . . and hesitated.

He should go inside. He’d heard there might be a field trip today. He also had to cram for a rumored pop quiz in Miss Westin’s class. But it didn’t feel right entering without Fiona.

Then there was the matter of Jezebel, which remained
completely
unresolved. The revelation that she had been Julie Marks, and was now an Infernal . . . he hadn’t told anyone.

The problem was he still didn’t know much about Infernals. Their studies in Miss Westin’s class hadn’t covered them in detail.

And Eliot hadn’t had a chance to talk again with Jezebel. She disappeared after class. And in gym—they’d been so busy drilling for the handful of remaining all-important matches, there’d never been a chance to get her alone.

If this was some Infernal game of chess with Jezebel as a living pawn . . . he had to make sure he made the right move.

Telling Fiona would be a move; it would set her in motion, possibly provoking a confrontation between the two girls.

He wasn’t ready for
that
.

And telling Robert? He’d wanted to at first. But now it felt like a family matter . . . dangerous . . . and private.

He sighed, feeling completely alone—and walked through the there-but-not entrance to school.

Off the main street there, Paxington students browsed store windows, ogling the jewelry, watches, and latest computers. There were fashion boutiques with gaudy dresses and flashy tuxedos and the zombie, vampire, and robot costumes for Halloween. Café Eridanus was packed.

A man sat at one of the café’s outdoor tables. He waved Eliot closer.

Eliot’s spirits soared as he recognized him.

“Louis!”

He was the one person he could talk to about this stuff.

Eliot tried to sit next to his father, but as he pulled out a chair, he saw a black cat curled upon it. Amber eyes blinked at him. It didn’t move, and returned to its nap.

Eliot thought about petting it or lifting it over to the next chair.

“Ignore that wretched animal.” Louis gestured to the seat on his left.

Eliot sat there. “I’m glad to see you.”

Louis smiled warmly, but that happiness faded as he gazed at Eliot. “What has happened?”

“There’s so much,” Eliot replied. “But I don’t want to be late for class.”

He took out his phone and set it on the table where he could watch the time. “You’re just
not
late for Miss Westin’s class more than once.”

“A new phone? A gift from your mother? Or, perhaps the League?” Louis reached for it. “Do you mind?

“Sure,” Eliot said, pushed it closer. “It does everything.”

Eliot regretted letting the phone out of his grasp the second Louis touched it. If anything happened to it, Audrey would kill him.

Louis poked and turned it this way and that. For an instant the phone seemed to vanish—but that was just a trick of the light, because then Louis immediately set it back on the table.

“I must upgrade mine one of these days. Now, explain what weighs so heavy upon your heart.”

Eliot told Louis about Jezebel—that she was an Infernal like him—then backtracked to when she’d been mortal Julie Marks at Ringo’s Pizza Parlor, and how she’d been nice to him, and how they’d been at the Pink Rabbit and he’d serenaded her.

“I have heard that melody,” Louis said, wistful. “A lovely thing. Ripe with hope. So tragic.”

“Yeah,” Eliot whispered.

Thinking about her song made him sad. Like there was no longer any hope for the Julie Marks he’d known . . . and there was even less hope for
them
now that she was the Infernal Jezebel.

Louis made an encouraging gesture, indicating that he go on.

Eliot then told how Jezebel had arrived at Paxington, her titles, how she looked so much like Julie, and so much
not
like her, how she fought and saved him in gym class . . . and then how he had confronted her about the truth, and how she had revealed everything.

“She lied to you?” Louis asked, bemused. “And you told her as much? You know, there is no greater offense for an Infernal to be caught in a lie.” He smiled, but there was a hint of malice to it.

“Her lie . . . ,” Eliot said. “The words sounded hollow. I don’t know. I could just tell.”

“Of course,” Louis replied. “Any Infernal can hear
obvious
lies.”

The black cat seated next to Louis looked up and glanced at Eliot, ears flicking forward.

“How is that possible?” Eliot asked.

“How does a dog hear the faintest whisper? How do bees see ultraviolet? Superior senses, my boy.”

Eliot remembered what his father had told him long ago:
that the truth would be best between them
. He wondered now if the reason for that was entirely moral . . . or if it was just good Infernal politics.

“Can the others, the Immortals, hear lies, too?”

“No more than any other person with a modicum of wit.” Louis chuckled. “They are entirely different creatures.”

This halted Eliot’s thoughts cold.

“Wait—if you’re different species, how’d you and my mother . . . ? I mean, Fiona and me . . . how’d you . . . ?”

Eliot blushed, unable to finish.

Louis held up both hands. “How foolish of me! I am sorry, Eliot. I should have realized your education in this would have been conveniently ‘forgotten’ by Audrey. I shall give you all the details.”

He dug into his pocket and pulled forth a string of individually wrapped foil packets, each the size of a half dollar.

Condoms.

Eliot’s blush heated to a blazing intensity, and he quickly waved them away. “That’s okay,” he said. “Cecilia covered basic, uh . . . reproduction last year.”

“A pity.” Louis looked disappointed as he shoved the condoms back into his pocket.

Not that any contact with the opposite sex had been possible with Rule 106, the “no dating” rule in effect. Still, Eliot had had to learn everything about reproduction: earthworm sex organs, chromosomes, and the inherited hemophiliac anomalies of Russian royalty.

“So . . . I’m a mule?” Eliot whispered. Mules were a sterile hybrid and a genetic dead end.

Louis frowned, and sparks danced in his eyes. “No. You and your sister are hybrids akin to the mighty griffon—half eagle and half lion—noble, powerful, and awe-inspiring. No Infernal has
ever
been anything less!”

Eliot’s pulse quickened as he listened, almost believing that he could be special. “So why are Infernals different? I’ve seen Miss Westin’s family tree. Infernal, Immortals, even the mortal magical families, they all have a common origin.”

“Oh . . . that,” Louis said, and sniffed. “Well, we have evolved.
We
have land. The others do not.”

Eliot crinkled his forehead. “Land? Like office buildings? Uncle Henry has land.”

“No,” Louis said, drawing out the
o
. “We are
monarchs
of the domains of Hell, the benevolent kings and queens over the countless souls who are drawn there to worship us.
That
gives us true power. Without land, we would be the lowest of the low.”

Eliot pondered this comparison of formidable Uncle Aaron or even Audrey to the “lowest of the low.”

And yet, he sensed no
outright
lie in Louis’s words.

But if true, why didn’t the Infernals overthrow the Immortals? Rule everyone? Why have a neutrality treaty at all?

And who ruled that blasted landscape and all those people who had rushed the gate in Uncle Kino’s Borderlands? None of them seemed “benevolently ruled.” Something wasn’t right with Louis’s picture.

“Do you have one of these domains in Hell?” Eliot asked.

Louis eased back. “Ah, well, regrettably there were setbacks to my personal portfolio when I was demoted to mortal status.” He set a long hand atop Eliot’s and patted it. “Worry not. I have plans in motion to reclaim what was once mine.

“But let us talk more of
your
problem,” Louis said. He twisted off his pinkie ring. It was a battered gold band with a clear crystal cabochon. He held it up to the light and squinted. “I believe I have met your Jezebel once before. Observe.”

A tiny figure appeared in the ring’s stone . . . which reflected and wavered in the water glasses on their table . . . then in the curves of the spoons and forks . . . and then along the inner curve of Eliot’s glasses.

Everywhere Eliot looked: there was Jezebel.

She stood with head lowered, wearing a black velvet cloak that highlighted her pale skin and platinum locks.

Eliot stopped breathing.

“I see the reason for your interest,” Louis whispered. “But there is another to focus your attentions upon.”

A second woman appeared in the ring. And as impossible as it seemed to Eliot, she was more beautiful than Jezebel, with copper red hair and feral eyes. She radiated power—waves of the stuff that made Eliot’s pulse quicken.

She was intoxicating and overwhelming.

“That
creature
,” Louis explained, “is Sealiah, Queen of the Poppy Realms and your poor unfortunate Jezebel’s mistress. She is the reason for her being at Paxington. A rather clumsy attempt to seduce you . . . one that I fear is working, however.”

“Yeah, I know,” Eliot sighed. “But there has to be a way to save Jezebel while not falling into the trap.” He gazed up at his father, every fiber of his being hoping Louis could help.

Louis tapped his pointed chin, thinking. “I admire you wanting it all. . . . I shall consider the situation and concoct something.”

Eliot nodded, truly grateful. He was completely out of his depth. Any advice would be welcome.

He tried to envision that family tree Miss Westin had drawn in class and where this Sealiah, Queen of Poppies fit. He couldn’t remember—although now that he reimagined it, there was something else that had nagged him about the Infernal family tree.

“I keep seeing this name come up in class,” Eliot said. “One Infernal who might or might not be dead? No one seems sure. Satan?”

Louis’s face went rigid. “Oh . . . him.” An eyebrow twitched in irritation. “Do you know people
still
confuse the two of us?”

“What happened? His name was scratched off the family tree, not erased like if he’d died.”

Louis shrugged. “He left. Said he grew tired of the endless bickering. Can you imagine?” He picked up a napkin and made a great show of wiping his hands. “Who can say if he lives or not? When a puppy goes missing for ten years, one assumes it was run over by a truck, no?”

Eliot remembered what Mr. Welmann had said: That the dead grew restless and moved on. If Satan were dead, where would he move on to? Did Infernals go to Hell if they died?

Louis tapped the table. “Remain focused on our relations in the here and now, my boy. The ones trying to stab you in the back, eh?”

Eliot nodded.

“For now,” Louis said, “watch your Jezebel, but keep your distance. Neither be cool nor solicit her attentions. And tell no one of
my
involvement. I fear your sister and mother would not understand what is clearly an Infernal family matter.”

Not telling Audrey—that would be easy. She might take the matter of Jezebel up with the League. That could get messy, fast. But not telling Fiona felt wrong.

He decided, though: He’d trust Louis this once.

Eliot held out his hand for his father to shake. “Deal.”

Louis’s face split into a crooked smile, and he grasped Eliot’s hand.

It felt as if Eliot grasped lightning and raw pumping blood and had a tiger by the tail all at once.

But it also felt good—like he and his father were now in this together.

Sure, it was stupid and dangerous to trust his father, the self-admitted Prince of Darkness, but at the same time, it also felt like the smartest, most important thing Eliot had ever done.