All That Lives Must Die (43 page)

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NO MATCH FOR HIS CHARM AND INTELLECT

Louis Piper took one of the many twisty and illegal passages that led to the main entrance thoroughfare of the Paxington Institute. He had to squeeze through shadows and push past trash cans and those homeless wretches who belonged neither in the Middle Realms nor in the island of space that Paxington occupied.

Bums. Beggars. Prostitutes.

Myths and heroes and nightmares who’d fallen on hard times: Mordred . . . Mr. Nox . . . the ever-blinded Gorgon. Why couldn’t they respectably crawl into a bottle and try to make themselves disappear as
he
had?

He avoided their lecherous, leprous touches and piteous calls, turned the corner—

—and emerged in the sunlight and relatively fresh air behind the Café Eridanus.

Louis glanced at the Dumpster but avoided it (although old habits died hard and he
was
famished). Best not to tarnish his image further, however. He sniffed at his shoulder to make sure he was unscathed by the unwashed in the alley.

In truth, his dapper appearance was for once not foremost in his thoughts. That honor was reserved for his beloved Audrey.

He had been thinking of her much—too much, such that it now interfered with his normal scheming. It was painful to dwell upon her. She was so lovely. And this entire affair so charged with unexpected nauseous sentimentality.

Who could’ve ever predicted he could still be in love? Or was it lust?

No. His lust was simply (if only ever temporarily) satiated.

But there was no cure for his desires now . . . to hold her hand . . . to be with her . . . those wants
never
ebbed.

He hissed out a sigh of frustration. See? Such reminiscing clouded rational thoughts—interfered with his making of plans most intricate.

And
that
was the kernel of the matter: He had spent considerable energy on figuring out ways to increase his power, gather lands, and rule all the realms . . . but at the same time, he sought benefit for his fledgling, broken family—Audrey, Eliot, and Fiona.

Well, at least to keep them from harm.

Or, perhaps, try not to get them all killed.

Why was it so difficult to think clearly?

Direct deception and intervention had not worked. That last call to Audrey—what had he been thinking? Confessing his love like some besotted teenager? He had almost died from mortification after she had rightly hung up on him.

So, no more of that—thank you very much.

A roundabout approach was his next-best option.

Louis smoothed out his camel-hair coat, straightened his black tie, and strode from the alley’s shadow.

He surveyed the few students sitting beneath the star-covered canopied tables outside the café. One boy caught his eye, a mortal with brown hair that curled down to his shoulders. He flashed a winning smile at the waitress as she served him cocoa.

Louis recognized him from Amberflaxus’s reports. This was the mortal he’d come to see: Mitchell Stephenson.

The boy stirred the whipped cream atop his hot chocolate. There were two empty cups on the table. Was he waiting for Fiona? Young Mr. Stephenson picked up the bill, considered, and then took out some cash and set it down for the waitress.

What delightfully perfect timing.

Louis whistled and strolled forward, waving away the hostess as she tried to seat him.

Mitch Stephenson hadn’t yet taken notice of him. Odd, given that the Stephenson family was infamous for their practice of white magic. Their attempts, for a mortal family, against Infernals was admirable . . . not because they had been successful, but rather that they had managed over the centuries not to be exterminated. According to Louis’s sources, the lad had gifts as well as training. Radiant conjurations. A flicker of witch sight, too.

One would think, then, he would know when the Prince of Darkness was in his midst.

The boy’s mental thickness was a small disappointment. But then again, it would be nice to interact with a mortal who was no match for his charms and intellect.

Louis cleared his throat.

Mitch looked up, and confusion wavered over his face. Perhaps Louis’s power and grace had overwhelmed the boy.

“Can I help you?” Mitch asked.

“You may indeed, young man. I am Louis.” He extended a hand to shake. “Louis Piper.”

Mitch’s confusion congealed into wariness, and he stared at the offered hand.

“Louis Piper,” Louis repeated. “Fiona’s father?”

“Ah!” Mitch smiled. “Fiona’s family.”

Louis instantly revised his opinion of the lad. That smile . . . Perhaps he was a little dense, but there was some quality about him that was endearing.

“Wait—her
father’s
side of the family?” Mitch’s grin disappeared, and he nodded dismissively at Louis’s hand.

Louis withdrew, wounded, his blood rising.

But then he understood. Mitchell Stephenson would, of course, know Infernal customs: They never shook hands unless the circumstances were extraordinary. One might lose fingers, arms . . . one’s soul if not careful.

Louis chuckled. He knew better now than to ask for a seat, so he took one across the table.

Mitch set both his hands on the table.

Excellent. Another proper Infernal custom. Hands in the open—a gesture to indicate that no weapons were being readied under the table, a prerequisite to any serious discussion. Louis mirrored the gesture.

What fun. This was like a game of chess with a Grandmaster on one side, a child on the other. Amusing, for now . . . although Louis feared it would soon grow dull.

Louis decided to play along and honor human customs as well. He would start with small talk and break the ice, the unnecessary social fluff that all humans seemed to enjoy.

“Isn’t the weather pleasant today?” Louis asked. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you, young man. An A-minus on your midterms—wonderful!”

One corner of Mitch’s mouth twitched, and he eased back into his chair.

This was so easy. Humans were ever so willing to be buttered up. Perhaps the Stephenson family was not all their reputation had led him to believe.

“Say what you came to say, Deceiver,” Mitch spat out, somehow managing to sound repulsed and polite the same time.

Louis blinked. The boy had some spine somewhere in all that base human flesh, after all.

“Very well,” Louis said. “Cards on the table, as you people say. I came to discuss my daughter.”

Mitch snorted. “You know she hates you Infernals? Every time they’re mentioned, her hackles rise.”

Louis quickly stopped a scowl from creasing his face, and hid his true feelings behind a smile.

Was this mortal baiting him? And why did his words sting so?

Fiona didn’t
hate
him, did she? No—they had had a wonderful discussion when last they spoke . . . although perhaps she was uneasy with Louis’s new and magnificent presence.

“Be that as it may,” Louis said with deliberate calm, “I thought it high time to speak to the young man courting her.”

“If you think I need your approval to go out with Fiona, you’ve wasted your time as well as mine.”

How had this conversation turned? The boy should not be acting like this. He should be charming and gracious, humble—or, at least, terrified of Louis. What were they teaching teenagers at Paxington these days? Whatever it was, he approved.

Or was there something else to this mortal?

Louis forged ahead. There were ways to appeal to young men, especially shrewd young men such as this.

“Of course,” Louis agreed. “Fiona knows her own mind. I could see she has chosen wisely. No, I came to offer
you
a deal.”

Mitch’s eyes flickered with interest, and he leaned forward. “What precisely are you offering?”

Louis had him now. He had but to tease just a bit more to set the hook. It was almost too easy . . . but that was fine. Louis could enjoy a small, simple victory, a long overdue sign that his luck was changing for the better. He’d purchase this boy’s soul with some trinkets and use him to worm his way into Fiona’s good graces.

Louis’s hands curled slightly on the tabletop, his nails scratching the glass in anticipation of victory.

“Why, I am offering you the world, young man,” Louis whispered with utmost sincerity. “Money, power, and all that goes with it. As much as you dare grab with both hands.”

Mitch cocked an eyebrow and leaned even farther forward. “And in return for these grand boons, sir, you expect . . . what?”

Louis almost laughed out loud at someone calling him “sir.” This was perfection.

“Just a trifling thing: an alliance of a sort.”

Mitch looked unconvinced, but he turned over one hand on the table, the traditional signal of his willingness to bargain.

Louis nodded at the empty cocoa cups. “It is obvious you require help with my daughter. If you truly knew her, you’d realize that the mere smell of chocolate is enough to make her disgorge her breakfast.”

Mitch’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t realized.”

“It’s the little things in romance that women notice,” Louis told him. “Details count. I have a nearly infinite amount of experience in these matters. Let me help you.”

“So you’re giving power and money and help with Fiona?” Mitch murmured. “But you mentioned an alliance? . . .”

“Only the smallest of considerations in my behalf,” Louis said with a careless wave. “Fiona and I have had our moments, but there are so many family matters we have yet to settle. Her mother has made things most difficult.”

“Still confused over here,” Mitch said, his eyes narrowing.

Something about this boy was achingly familiar. Had they spoken before? Louis searched his memory: there was nothing but suspicion.

“After I have helped you secure your relationship with my daughter, from time to time I would have you mention—as a natural part of the conversation, mind you—how misunderstood I am. As a Stephenson, being an authority on such things, you can just let it slip out that among the Infernals I am the noblest, kindest, and most generous of their ilk.”

“I get the idea,” Mitch said. “You want me to lie.”

Louis frowned. “ ‘Lie’ is such an overused word. But no, never lie to Fiona. She would know the instant you spoke such a thing to her.”

“She can hear lies already?” Mitch whispered.

“Yes, yes,” Louis continued. “All you need do is tell her the truth about me . . . perhaps embellish as you see fit. I do have her best interests at heart.”

Mitch stared into his eyes, searching. “Astonishing. I believe you do.” Then he blinked and was all business again. “So you don’t want my soul?”

Louis laughed. “No, what would I want with your soul?”

The point was moot. If young Stephenson made this deal, upon his death his soul would naturally seek Louis’s realm (provided he had land by then). Of course, there was no need to mention this detail.

Louis spread his hands to the edge of the table. “All that is within my power to give shall be yours.”

Mitch considered this a moment; then his smile returned.

Louis grinned as well. So easy.

Mitch lifted his hand off the table and reached across toward Louis.

Louis did the same. All that formal business with written contracts and blood signatures could wait—a handshake would suffice and be binding for now.

Mitch, however, didn’t clasp his hand. He instead grabbed the salt-shaker off the table. With a flick of his fingers and some sleight of hand trickery, the top popped.

Mitch upended it and dumped a line of salt on the table between them.
45

“May you one day choke on the truth,” Mitch said.

Most vile of insults! The boys
did
know their customs. Louis’s claws found purchase and cracked the glass tabletop.

He took a deep breath . . . resisting the impulse to remove the young man’s head. Not here. Too many witnesses. Someone would escape. And with his luck, Fiona would find out, and one more plan would backfire.

“So you, too, wish to bring Fiona to your side, Old Scratch?” Mitch laughed. “As always, behind the curve on such things. Fiona is her own side now. She doesn’t need to join yours.”

Louis hardly heard, so strong did the blood thunder through his body. Fiona her own side? What nonsense . . . and yet, he detected no lie.

“Clearly you are addled,” Louis whispered. “Or suicidal. Those are the only reasons for you being so reckless with such opportunities.”

Louis pushed away from the table, glaring at the salt between them. He reached out and scattered the offensive substance—as if such a trifling thing could ever stop him.

“When next we meet,” Louis growled, “there will be no table between us, young man. No veil of politeness, either. No deals. And no witnesses.”

Mitch nodded, unfazed. “I know. And I look forward to it, Deceiver.”

The boy smiled again, that same welcoming, warming smile Louis had first seen—only now there was an edge to it.

Outrageous! Louis strode back into the alley, where he could properly fume.

He had been a fool to deal with this boy. He should’ve realized that a practitioner of white magic would’ve been confused by Louis’s advanced sense of flexibile morality.

This left only one roundabout option . . . perhaps where Louis should’ve started in the first place: with his own kind. They, at least, would recognize the value of a double deal and proper backstabbing when presented with one.

Yes, he would approach Eliot’s potential paramour, the delectable Jezebel.

Although this would mean a trip to the Poppy Lands and a smoothing of things with Sealiah. Perhaps it was not a bad idea. He had dwelled far too long in the world of light. A trip to the old country would be rejuvenating.

And he could use Sealiah to forget, he hoped, Audrey.

Besides, providence had provided the cash for the train ticket and all appropriate bribes. He opened his hand and counted the money that young Mr. Stephenson had left on the table for the waitress—the money Louis had snatched as he scattered the salt.