All That Lives Must Die (27 page)

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SHADOW LEGION

Fiona returned from the girls’ restroom and found Mitch where she’d left him on the library steps. Robert was there talking to him.

Her first instinct was to walk away. She and Mitch were supposed to get some coffee and swap notes—all innocent enough, but how could she do that in front of Robert, with him and her all tangled up in League politics? He’d get the wrong idea.

But maybe it wasn’t the wrong idea.

She
did
like Mitch . . . although at this point, it was more of a theoretical “like” than anything else, because they’d never really had a chance to talk.

And there was an ugly reality that neither she nor Robert was facing: With her in the League, and him out, there was no way they could be more than friends. Even that might end up being dangerous for Robert.

She tried to smile as she walked up to them, but couldn’t quite make herself.

“Fiona.” Mitch looked up and smiled. “Robert and I were going over the battle. He’s got some insights into the Immortals’ tactics. Did you know that he actually worked for the League for a time?”

“Yeah, that’s great,” Fiona said.

Robert looked away and took a deep breath.

Mitch sensed something wrong. He missed only a single beat, though, and then set a hand on Robert’s shoulder. “You want to join us? Fiona and I were going to grab coffee and compare notes.”

“You had plans . . . together?” Robert looked up, unable to hide the surprise on his face—then quickly recovered. “That’s cool, uh, but no, I’ve got places to be this afternoon. Thanks anyway.” He nodded to Fiona (without looking at her) and made a hasty exit.

Fiona watched him go, her heart breaking. That
had
been necessary, hadn’t it?

She realized that her posture had slumped over and she looked, and felt, very much like the old always-too-shy Fiona Post.

Yeah, it was necessary.

Robert had to know they couldn’t be together anymore. The sooner they
both
adjusted to that reality, the better for everyone.

She stood tall again.

“There’s something between you two?” Mitch asked, an uneasy expression crossing his face. “I like Robert. He’s a good guy.”

“Ancient history,” Fiona replied. “Coffee?”

“Sure.”

Mitch smiled again, and Fiona knew it was going to be okay. Eventually.

They walked across the quad, close, but not touching. Mitch smelled faintly of cloves.

He paused at the fountain of Poseidon and tossed a quarter into the waters. “Tribute for dead gods,” he told her. “Brings luck—at least, that’s what my father told me.”

Poseidon was dead? Fiona filed that fact next to the possibly dead Zeus, and kept moving.

“You believe in luck, then?”

“Not really, but the Stephenson family can’t afford to take chances.”

They started to walk again side by side.

“The Stephensons—Miss Westin hasn’t covered them in lecture yet.”

Mitch chuckled. “She probably won’t. We’re not that important. Never been politically connected or financial powerhouses like the other clans.”

“Your family’s name sure managed to impress Jeremy and Sarah Covington, though, at team selection. That’s no small trick.”

“Oh, that. I guess that’s the one thing we Stephensons have going for us: a reputation. It’s no big deal. My many-times great-grandfather was Dr. Faust.”
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Fiona nodded, like she got this “Faust” reference. Thankfully, Mitch continued, so she didn’t have to ask a slew of embarrassing questions.

“Everyone thinks Faust really did make the best deal ever with the devil—if that’s not an oxymoron—and became the most powerful sorcerer of the age. Of course, he then squandered that power showing off.”

“So,” Fiona said, growing concerned, “what kind of reputation does your family have?”

“That’s a fair question.” Mitch sobered as if Fiona had touched a nerve. “After Faust died, some of his power passed to his children. They had a hard time, persecuted as witches, and then hunted by the Vatican. That changed when the Inquisition recruited them and trained them to use their power to fight evil. Since then, they’ve become the greatest practitioners of white magic in the world.”

This fascinated Fiona. Not just his story, although it was interesting, but also that Mitch knew so much about his family. It must have given him a sense of stability to know where he came from. It was something she envied.

“Is that why you were so interested in the Infernals at Ultima Thule?” she asked. “Taking notes on how to fight them?”

“Not exactly,” Mitch said, mounting the steps before the front gate. “It was more like being a marine biologist swimming in a tank with a megalodon. I never imagined that I’d get close to a
real
Infernal like Jezebel.”

Fiona tried to puzzle this out, but couldn’t. “Shouldn’t you two be mortal enemies?”

“No, thank goodness. All that devil-fighting stuff stopped centuries ago. Probably extended the longevity of my family. We still have a talent for white magic, exorcisms and stuff like that, but as far as the Infernal Lords are concerned—and certainly Jezebel, a real Duchess of the Poppy Lands—we’re small fry.”

Fiona studied Mitch. There were nobility and kindness in his face: high cheekbones, straight nose, hair the color of mahogany, and smoky eyes she could drown in.

They halted at the front gate.

Harlan Dells had his back to them, staring into the alley.

Mitch cleared his throat.

“I know you are there,” Mr. Dells grumbled. “Be quiet.” He took in a deep breath and held it, waited, and then finally said: “I can no longer hear them.”

“Who?” Fiona asked

Mr. Dells turned, his face more serious than usual. “Your brother, Miss Post. He and the Jezebel girl entered the alley . . . and they have taken a wrong turn beyond my senses.”

“Wait a second,” Fiona said. “I thought you said you could ‘hear grass grow on the other side of the world’?”

Mr. Dells stiffened. “I can, young lady.” His eyes narrowed. “In
this
world.” He flicked the switch that operated the iron gate, and it rolled aside. “I suggest you find him.”

Fiona and Mitch shared a glance wrought with concern.

The wrongness she had felt a second ago crystallized into fear. First, Eliot was with Jezebel. She couldn’t begin to count all the things that could go wrong with
that
situation. And second, there was no place to make a “turn” in the alley. It led straight out into the street.

This was just the kind of trouble only her stupid brother could get into.

“Please come with us,” Fiona asked Mr. Dells.

“My duties do not permit me to leave the campus.” Mr. Dells looked into the sun without blinking. “You need to hurry . . . before their light goes out altogether.”

Fiona wasn’t sure what he meant, because the sun was nowhere near setting, but it chilled her blood.

She and Mitch ran out into the alley where Mr. Dell had stared.

There was Xybek’s Jewelry and an Apple computer store for Paxington students—but no place where Eliot could have turned.

“How can you turn on a straight line?” she whispered.

Mitch cocked his head as if listening. “You add another line—another dimension.” He moved to the brick wall and touched it.

Fiona followed, hearing something, too: a violin, distant dull explosions, thundering horse hooves, the crash of metal, and screams.

Fiona swallowed. She understood now.

Eliot had taken a “wrong turn” as they had that first day when they found this alley. Normally, you weren’t supposed to be able to see the entrance, because it was hidden “sideways” from the perspective of normal three dimensions.

But there was no reason strange extradimensional passages couldn’t be hidden anywhere . . .
everywhere
, right in plain sight.

Maybe even ones you could’ve stumbled upon
without
wanting to.

She ran her fingers over the wall, searching.

She brushed over Mitch’s fingers and felt an electric thrill. Embarrassed, she almost jerked her hand away, but the sensation had been real . . . and not just because she’d touched Mitch. There was something there, underneath.

Fiona pressed harder, feeling a bump in the fabric of existence.

She let her vision drift out of focus; she felt a loose thread and pulled it out.

Fiona’s ears popped. She fumbled for Mitch’s hand and grabbed it.

She felt as if she were descending fast in an elevator.

Behind her, a long brick-lined passage stretched back toward the alley—and stretched farther as she watched, curving out of sight. Overhead buildings leaned closer.

Shadows were everywhere.

Fiona couldn’t see a thing. She felt like she was suffocating.

Mitch held his free hand up. A ball of light appeared in his palm—as brilliant as an arc welder. He gritted his teeth in pain.

The shadows retreated about them . . . screaming.

Mitch’s light revealed hundreds of creatures climbing over one another to retreat from the brilliance.

There were more of them, pushing and oozing to a point a quarter block ahead.

That’s where Fiona spied Jezebel and her brother.

The darkness crowded about them and obscured her view. She heard Eliot, though, playing Lady Dawn . . . something muffled by the smothering layers of shadow.

She and Mitch shuffled carefully forward.

The shadow creatures looked like man-sized bats (specifically the pug-nosed
Desmodus rotundus
, vampire bat). They dragged themselves on too-long skeletal limbs that ended in three curved talons. Their claws trailed an oily darkness like squid ink in water. When they smacked open their mouths, more teeth than should have been possible to fit inside their heads flexed outward.

One rushed Fiona, despite Mitch’s light, claws reaching.

Fiona lashed forward—finding her father’s gift, the bracelet about her wrist, once more transformed into a full length of real chain.

She cut the creature in half.

It hit the pavement with a wet splat . . . apparently more than mere shadow, reeking of hot gasoline and ozone.

Fiona gazed at the partially rusted chain and vowed to thank Louis if she ever saw him again.

She turned to Eliot. They had to get out before they got lost in the encroaching darkness.

Next to her, Mitch stared openmouthed at the severed monstrosity that oozed black blood at her feet . . . then to the chain she held. The color drained from his face.

She nodded to his upheld hand and the ball of intense light. “Can you make it brighter?”

“I can try,” he whispered. He licked his lips and concentrated.

The light blazed like a tiny sun. He grunted in pain and his hand blistered.

The shadows about them backed away, their edges sizzling in the intense illumination . . . clearing a path to Jezebel and Eliot.

Fiona now clearly heard Eliot’s music. It was the song he’d played at their first gym match. Only then, he had cautiously plunked out the song. Now he bowed with vibrato, and Fiona felt the music resonate in her bones; it made her want to march forward.

She resisted, though, because she didn’t understand what she saw.

Eliot and Jezebel stood in the center of a hundred shadow creatures that wheeled about them, circling closer.

Jezebel’s hands had finger-length needle claws that dripped venom. Where it spattered on the ground, the asphalt dissolved. Her arms were still slender and porcelain white, but her veins stood out, vinelike and pulsing. Her face was drawn, mouth filled with serrated teeth. But her eyes—they were wild and solid green, glimmered as if faceted emeralds . . . and reminded Fiona of the emotionless gaze of a praying mantis.

A shadow rushed Jezebel, its mouth extended in a gruesome smile.

Jezebel struck—so fast, Fiona barely saw the motion.

The creature fell screaming, withering, clutching at the holes that once contained its eyes, and then it died.

Only then did Fiona see dozens of liquefying corpses about the Infernal Jezebel, dribbling away to the drain in the center of the alley.

An overpowering scent of vanilla reached Fiona’s nostrils. She almost gagged.

Fiona had seen Infernals more disgusting at the Ultima Thule battle, even faced horrific Beelzebub in combat, but she hadn’t seen one part transformed, half human and half nightmare . . . and definitely not someone who sat next to her in class.

Maybe as Louis had said “the fires of Hell” burned in Fiona’s blood as well—but if being Infernal meant unleashing the monster within, then Fiona never wanted to let that side of her take control.

But more than Jezebel . . . it was Eliot that
really
threw her.

Eliot’s hands were blurs as he played. His eyes were unblinking, staring off into space. About him fog swirled, and Fiona glimpsed a battlefield beyond and hundreds of red-coated soldiers stepping into the alley, bayonets fixed upon rifles, firing in time with the music, and marching forward to battle the shadows. The soldiers fought blade to claw. They died, dozens of them—and still they materialized from the music, never broke ranks, never cried out or showed any emotion . . . like windup toys.

And they sang:

We live to fight until we die
Queen and country and flags to fly.
Brothers and sons a’glory sought
Our silent graves what we wrought.

Eliot bowed faster, his head bobbing. Horses rode from the fog into the alley. Their headless riders were armored, holding shield and lance. They charged into the fray, scattered the shadow monsters, impaling some, then slowed as they faced overwhelming numbers, switching to sword, horse rearing . . . but all falling in the darkness.

Eliot tapped his bow upon the strings.

Black iron cannon mounted on wagon-wheel bases maneuvered to the front—and fired!

Six flashes of thunder and smoke filled the alley. Blasts that blew shadow and flesh and claw to bits, battered brick walls down . . . and revealed more darkness beyond . . . a thousand shark-tooth grins . . . and an endless starless night.