All That Lives Must Die (51 page)

               59               

PRACTICE DOESN’T MAKE PERFECT

Fiona crackled her knuckles and stretched. Team Scarab had the gym for an hour of practice, drills, and figuring out the new course. It was a golden opportunity and couldn’t be wasted.

She squinted though the hazy morning air at the new eight-story obstacle course. There were coils of razor wire and nozzles that belched frozen carbon dioxide. Chain-link ramps swayed in the breeze. Two new top levels rippled, swathed in plastic, and had
OFF-LIMITS
signs all over them. Inside workers hammered and sparked with arc welders. More surprises courtesy of Mr. Ma.

But the course wasn’t the only thing they had to figure out. They had to fight and win now against the grade curve, too.

Not only had Team Soaring Eagle been disbanded because of their disastrous accident . . . but Team Red Dragon, too; they’d been declared ineligible because they had too many injured players—and their remaining members had been picked up by other teams down a person or two.

The problem was that these two disbanded teams got
removed
from the ranks. All the other teams slid down—without moving the cutoff point for failing.

This morning when Fiona checked the roster, Team Scarab was now well below that cut.

She turned to face and rally her team . . . at least, the half of her team that was here.

Robert, Jeremy, and Amanda sat on the bleachers.

Amanda scanned a moldy book called
The Non-Illusion of Law
as she weaved her hair into a braid.

Jeremy peered into a little book, jotting the occasional note.

“We have to win the next match,” she told them. “Let’s get up there and practice.”

“We’re going to practice without everyone?” Amanda asked. “Let’s compare notes on Miss Westin’s last lecture instead. I’m not getting this whole ‘dharma’ thing.”

“What do you want us to do, Fiona?” Robert said, and picked at a crack in the wood. “Run a few laps?”

Fiona frowned and crossed her arms.

Eliot and Sarah were on a field trip for their music class. She didn’t blame them; they had to keep their grades up. It still irked her, though, knowing they were off having fun while the rest of them had to work.

Jezebel was still missing. Six weeks and she hadn’t even shown up at Paxington. Was she dead on some battlefield in Hell? They might be permanently down one team member.

And Mitch? He was missing, too.

“Did you try Master Stephenson’s cell phone?” Jeremy asked without looking up from his notebook.

“Twice,” Fiona said. “No answer. Just a text.”

He’d sent her a text message a few hours ago:

FIONA
I’LL BE LATE FOR PRACTICE. START W/O ME.
FAMILY STUFF TO DEAL WITH.
COFFEE LATER? A WALK?
MITCH

When she’d tried to call, she got the “subscriber out of service area” message. And when she texted back, there’d been no response.

Mitch had never missed a practice. It worried her. This “family stuff” he had to deal with . . . was that the same problem he’d hinted at over winter break?

Whatever the reasons for their missing teammates, Fiona got why no one wanted to practice: They needed one another.

Without Sarah here for Jeremy to boss around and show off in front of, he seemed more lazy than usual (if that were possible). Fiona made a mental note to ask Sarah later if they were first cousins or more distantly related. He was from the nineteenth century; Sarah from the twenty-first. Their relationship had to be . . . complicated.

And without Mitch, Robert seemed more rude than usual (which was
not
so hard for her to imagine). It was as if he acted civil these days only with Mitch around. What was up with that? Some too-cool alpha male thing? She doubted she’d ever understand the boy psyche.

Fiona had to do
something
to motivate her team, though.

“We should look at the new parts of the course,” she said, “see if we can figure out what tricks Mr. Ma has planned.”

“Wouldn’t that be breaking your sacred rules?” Robert said, arching one eyebrow.

“They’re not my rules,” she replied. “They are
the
rules—and those signs up there just say ‘off-limits,’ not ‘don’t peek.’ Besides, I’m willing to test the boundaries of the rules if it means saving the necks of my teammates.”

Amanda shook out her hair and closed her book. “Sure—let’s go,” she murmured. “I can’t wait to see if we’re going to get frozen solid next time or chopped into bits.”

Jeremy smirked. “A tad dark for you, lass, no?”

Amanda turned and held Jeremy’s gaze until he looked away.

Robert jumped off the bleacher suddenly, startled, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out his phone.

“You brought that to practice?” Fiona asked.

Robert shrugged. “I have people that need to get ahold of me.”

Fiona didn’t like that. Who needed to stay in touch with Robert so desperately that he couldn’t leave his phone in his locker for one hour? Was he still spying for Uncle Henry? Or maybe it was as simple as him having other friends she didn’t know about. Perhaps a girlfriend? Well, he was certainly entitled to have a life outside school—the only reason it irritated her was that it was cutting into
their
practice time.

Robert pressed the phone to his ear.

Amanda moved closer to Robert. “Is it Mitch?”

Robert held up a finger and shook his head. “Geez,” he said into the phone. “I can barely hear you. Speak up.”

He then looked at the phone’s screen, started to close it, then paused. “Not Mitch,” he told them. Robert texted whoever it was, waited, texted again—then snapped the phone shut.

He looked at Fiona and pursed his lips. “I’ve got to go. Sorry.”

“What!” Fiona said. “We’ve got the course for thirty more minutes. You can’t leave.”

Robert squinted at her, and his face flushed. In a low voice, he said, “I don’t work for the League anymore. You can’t order me around.”

It felt like he’d slapped her in the face.

She wasn’t ordering anyone around. She was just trying to win—so they could
all
graduate.

But before she could say any of this, Robert walked away.

She watched him go. Furious. Helpless.

Jeremy came to her side. “Let him go, lassie. There be no point in practicing today with so many missing, anyway.”

He stood so close, Fiona felt his body heat, too near for comfort. She took a step away.

“Whatever . . . ,” she muttered, trying as hard as she could to sound like she didn’t care.

“It only goes to show how unreliable some members of this team are.” Jeremy tapped his notebook. “I’ve been so bold as to prepare a list of suitable alternatives.”

“Alternates?” Amanda jumped up and came over. One of her tiny hands had balled into a fist. “You can’t just kick people off the team.”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Jeremy told her.

Fiona made a
calm down
gesture at Amanda. “It’s okay,” she said. “I think I know what he means. Planning ahead, right?”

Something had happened to Amanda over the break. She would’ve never stood up to Jeremy Covington like that before. Was it that dorm fire Fiona had heard about? Three people got hurt. Maybe Amanda had rescued them, and that had boosted her self-esteem. Fiona should’ve hung out with her more to find out . . . but oddly, Amanda hadn’t even tried to speak with her since the start of the new semester.

“Precisely,” Jeremy replied. “Planning ahead. What shall we do if our esteemed Infernal teammate never returns? Or Mitch? What if he has met some unpleasant fate? Or Robert . . . what if he just rides off one day?”

Now it was Fiona’s turn to glower at him. Mitch had
not
met some unpleasant fate. And Robert wouldn’t just ride off and leave them. But he did have a point about Jezebel.

Jeremy leaned closer and his silky blond hair fell into his face in a distractingly attractive way. He touched one finger to his lips, trying to hide the smile growing there. “Just in case . . . ,” he whispered.

Fiona glanced at his notebook and the list of names in neat calligraphy.

“We should start talking to some of the other students,” she said. “The ones on teams down two or three members already—before someone else snaps up the best of them.”

“Aye,” Jeremy said. “That be where my expertise is pure gold. I’ll be able to sort through the chaff for ye.”

Amanda gave a dismissive snort.

Fiona agreed with her assessment—at least that Jeremy was a relic, rude, chauvinistic—but she also saw the truth of the situation. The maneuvering for replacements, the politics of picking new teams; Mr. Ma had to have known this would happen in the later half of the year. She saw that this was part of gym class, too. Fiona had to learn how to recruit and, at the same time, stop other teams from getting
her
best players.

She imagined this process only accelerated as finals drew near. For most Paxington students, their loyalties would dissolve the instant they thought they were on a losing team.

“We’ll have to act quick,” Fiona whispered, more to herself than Jeremy. She was about to ask him what he had planned when she spotted someone on the far side of the field.

Mr. Ma emerged from the locker room. He wasn’t in his usual Paxington sweats. Today he wore camouflage fatigues, a khaki shirt, black combat boots, and a red beret. He looked all business, grim, and his dark eyes fixed upon her.

“Miss Post,” he said, as if her name were an accusation.

“We were just going to start,” she said, feeling suddenly guilty about not being on the gym.

But she stopped herself, disgusted at feeling so weak—when she’d done absolutely nothing wrong. Fiona stood straight and told him: “We’re just about to figure out the best strategy to get to the very top of the new course.”

A flicker of irritation passed over Mr. Ma’s face as he turned and glanced up to the top of the gym structure. He then looked over Jeremy and Amanda.

“A fine idea,” Mr. Ma said, “but there will be no practice for you today. Where is Mr. Farmington?”

“No practice? We need it,” Fiona protested. “Team Scarab was signed up for this time.”

She decided not to say anything about Robert’s phone call and his ditching. Why she was protecting him, though, she had no clue.

“Team Scarab, yes,” Mr. Ma agreed. “But
you are
coming with me. There’s a special field trip for the Force of Arms class today.”

“A trip?” Fiona said. “Where?”

“South,” Mr. Ma told her. “We have a chance to study a revolutionary war in progress . . . firsthand.”

               60               

THE TROUBLE WITH TRUANCY

Eliot had never ditched before, and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Study? That was the only thing that came to mind . . . but it sure seemed to defeat the purpose.

It was nice to be out of class and in the sunlight, though. And when Robert had picked him up (in a sidecar attached to his Harley) outside the Monterey Fairgrounds, the outraged look on Sarah’s face had been great. Ms. DuPreé, though, had said nothing, looking almost as if she approved of this rebellion.

He was sure he’d pay for it—but for now, he’d enjoy it while it lasted.

Robert slowed his bike as they got to the exit of the fairgrounds’ parking lot. “So where to?”

Eliot tried to think of something he’d always wanted to do, but never had the time or freedom for.

“How about miniature golf?”

Robert gave him a
you’ve got to be kidding
look.

Eliot shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Robert snapped his fingers. “There’s a Mardi Gras—a real blowout bash. Just a bit south, if you don’t mind the drive to Costa Esmeralda.”

There was something funny in Robert’s eyes, though; like this Mardi Gras thing was a deep memory surfacing . . . as if he was in a trace.

“Sounds good,” Eliot replied.

“Cool.” Robert grinned, and the look vanished. “Hang on.”

They drove fast—same as when Robert had chauffeured Uncle Henry’s limousine—breezing down the California coast to the border in ten minutes—then they blasted down the Pan-American Highway past cars and trucks, and through Mexico City traffic like it was frozen in amber.

Rocketing just a foot off the ground in the sidecar was scary
and
fun. Eliot might as well have been strapped into the front seat of a first-class roller coaster that never stopped (not that he’d ever ridden a roller coaster, but this was how he imagined it’d feel).

“That exit there!” Eliot shouted, and pointed.

Robert veered onto the off-ramp. They raced past a sign that read

COSTA ESMERALDA, CENTRO DE CIUDAD
8
KM

Eliot recognized this stretch of jungle coastline. It was the same place Uncle Henry had driven him a month ago, crowded with palm trees and ferns and flowers, and flocks of parrots that called out to him. In the roar of the wind and surf, he heard his rejuvenating song echoing still.

His guitar was wedged next to his thigh. He’d never be able to play such a delicate song on this new version of Lady Dawn, and almost regretted her transformation.

Eliot ran his hand over the mirror-smooth wood, the bold brass fittings, felt a thrum with her coiled steel strings. But there was more power in her now . . . or in him, and that was a good thing.

The jungle thinned; there were patches of bare dirt, and then pavement, and small buildings that crystallized into suburbs: tiny houses with dark metal roofs. Clean, too—not a speck of trash or pollution.

As they sped on, the houses became factories and then rose into clusters of office towers arranged in orderly rows.

And all of them without color: faded black asphalt, concrete sidewalks and walls, bare iron pipes and lampposts—everything shades of gray. It was depressing.

The strangest thing, though, was the traffic. There were three lanes full of honking cars and trucks, but all going north. On the southbound lane that they traveled on . . . it was empty.

Pretty weird, if there was a Mardi Gras.

Robert slowed as they approach the end of the off-ramp and looked around. Down either side of the street was a towering canyon of office buildings. The only movement was papers blowing in the gutters. No people.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Eliot asked.

“Positive,” Robert answered, annoyed. He sounded unsure now about the reliability of his
sure thing
Mardi Gras tip.

A few blocks away, thumps echoed from the city center.

“Come on,” Robert muttered. “Sounds like
something’s
going down. Maybe the party’s started or it’s a parade.”

Eliot nodded, but he detected something in Robert’s voice he didn’t often hear: worry.

Eliot’s hand rested on Lady Dawn’s strings, just in case.

Robert eased the Harley into gear and went slow, the bike’s engine shaking the frame.

Eliot had an urge to get out and walk, so, if nothing else, he could properly hold his guitar. It was claustrophobic in this sidecar. Sure, the leather padding was comfortable . . . but it kind of reminded him of a coffin on wheels.

On the other hand, maybe it was best to stay in the vehicle that could accelerate past the sound barrier—in case they had to make a quick exit.

They moved closer to the downtown office towers, each with the same dirty square windows, the same square entryways. There were, however, splotches of color here and there. Plastered on the walls were posters. In them, a man stood in a heroic pose holding a pistol in one hand, a sword in the other. He was drawn in angular red, white, and black lines. A red flag waved behind him. At the bottom of each poster, black bold letters proclaimed:
COL. V. C. BALBOA. PRESIDENTE DE POR VIDA
.

This guy gave Eliot the creeps.

Robert pulled up to a four-way stop and predictably rolled through the
ALTO
sign into the intersection. This gave them an unobstructed view into the center of Costa Esmeralda.

And they saw exactly who was throwing this “Mardi Gras.”

There were hundreds of soldiers. They wore faded green uniforms and held rifles with bayonets. A few hefted bazookas. Squads moved among the buildings, rounding up civilians and ordering them to stand against a wall.

One man shouted at the soldiers—and got clubbed to the ground for his trouble.

Eliot’s hands rolled into fists. Seeing this enraged him more than anything, even the unfair, potentially lethal classes at Paxington—those students were there because they wanted to be. They knew the risks. This was just a bunch of bullies picking on people.

Eliot wanted to climb out, grab Lady Dawn, and . . .

All his heroic thoughts ground to a halt.

On a corner three blocks away squatted an armored tank, its muzzle pointed down the street at head level . . . at
them
.

Robert gunned the Harley, spun around, and roared down a side street.

They went fast, but it was
just
fast. Not the fast that Eliot knew they could go—fast that made the rest of the world stand still.

They raced for two blocks, screamed around three corners, and Robert skidded to a halt. He doubled over, examining the bike’s exposed V-pistons.

“Something’s wrong,” Robert murmured.

A block behind them, two primer gray Humvees careened through an intersection.

Gunshots cracked.

Holes chipped in the wall over Eliot’s head. “No kidding something’s wrong! Just go!”

Robert twisted the throttle and they sped off, quickly outpacing the larger vehicles—slalomed around two corners—then down an alley.

Rolling to block the alley’s exit, however, were two more Humvees. These had their tops off, roll bars exposed . . . with mounted fifty-caliber machine guns. They fired.

“Holy—!” Robert ducked, spun them around, and peeled out, scraping the alley’s wall.

Behind them, gunfire chewed through the concrete. Eliot instinctively crouched deeper into the sidecar (as if the fiberglass were going to stop a bullet).

Robert plowed through a row of trash cans.

Sparks flew and bullets puckered the metal . . . both cans and the bike’s frame.

Then the Harley was around the corner.

Robert accelerated to ninety miles an hour . . . still nowhere near the magical speed Eliot
wished
they were going.

Four blocks away, a helicopter skimmed over the rooftops. It rose, spun, and angled toward them.

Robert spotted it, too. He pressed his body low and went faster.

But there was no way they’d outrun a helicopter. They needed another option.

Eliot gripped Lady Dawn. He could summon Napoléon-era cannoneers and cavalry. Or that ghostly fog. At least that’d give them some cover.

But nineteenth-century artillery and soldiers on horseback against automatic weapons, bazookas, or armored tanks? They wouldn’t last two seconds. Fog would get blown away by the helicopter, and besides . . . the spirits inside that fog wouldn’t care if they attacked soldiers or civilians.

The Harley flashed through an intersection.

Eliot looked for more Humvees or tanks. The adjacent street was a blur of concrete gray and iron black—except for a spot of gleaming white and chrome.

He knew those colors. Not
what
specifically they belonged to, just that he
had
seen them before.

He tapped Robert and made a
circle around
motion.

Robert nodded. He braked, turned, and gunned the bike back the way they’d come.

The helicopter thundered overhead, overshooting their position.

Eliot pointed down the side street. Robert leaned the bike into the turn so far that the sidecar wheels lifted.

One building on this street was different. It was three stories, and on top was an enclosed glass atrium, gleaming in the tropical sun. There was an iron statue in front: the same gun and sword-wielding Presidente in the posters. Red flags fluttered alongside the wide stairs that led to steel double doors.

But this is not what Eliot had recognized, not what now made his heart catch.

Parked in front of the building was a 1933 Rolls-Royce limousine, all white curves that seemed to never end, chrome that looked like dripping quicksilver, and the woman-with-wings-swept-back-and-arms-held-forward hood ornament.

It was Laurabelle. Uncle Henry’s car.

“Hang on and duck!” Robert shouted.

He veered past the limo’s bumper—over the curb, shot up the stairs, and crashed though the double doors.

The Harley flopped over and skidded into a wall. The engine coughed and died.

Eliot tumbled out, Lady Dawn in one hand . . . the room spinning.

He was in was a lobby with more flags and oil paintings of Colonel V. C. Balboa,
Presidente de por vida
, but otherwise it was deserted.

Robert went to the doors that hung askew in their frames and shoved them back (more or less) into place.

Eliot looked over his shoulder. There was a thump as that helicopter passed overhead and faded—then the shadow of a jet flashed across the street and there was a teeth-shaking rumble—followed by three Humvees that rolled by. They didn’t stop.

Eliot sighed and opened his mouth to ask Robert a million questions.

Robert shook his head. He pulled out a gun from the holster in the small of his back. He pointed his eyes and the up and down the lobby.

Eliot nodded, hung back, and slung Lady Dawn over his shoulder . . . fingers just over her strings.

Robert checked one end of the lobby, then came back and motioned Eliot to follow.

Eliot took one last glance outside. He didn’t see any pursuing soldiers.

He and Robert entered an abandoned courtroom. They crept past rows of seats, flags and official seals, and through the curtain behind the raised judge’s bench.

They found an office with walls of legal books. There was a mahogany desk upon which sat a drained bottle with hand-painted gold leaves embellishing a label that proclaimed:
TEQUILA
.

Robert nodded toward stairs that led up. A second bottle lay on the steps, liquor spilled, smelling smoky and pungent.

Uncle Henry had to be up there, or someone, at least, who had his car. Either way, there were answers, and maybe a way out of sunny, festive Costa Esmeralda.

They climbed up. Robert swept his aim as the stairs angled back and forth.

Two more flights. This reminded Eliot of the obstacle course in gym, and adrenaline surged though his blood and his fingertips lit upon Lady Dawn’s strings. The barest subsonic resonant thrum came in response to his feather touch. The paint on the walls crackled.

Robert looked at him, but said nothing.

They eased along the last steps to a glass door, pausing to let their eyes adjust to the sunlight.

On the other side was a garden of palm trees, cacti, and bromeliads with flowers like fanged mouths. There was a table with shade umbrella, and lounging there with his back to them was Uncle Henry in his white suit (his jacket off) and straw hat, shot glass tilted in his hand, its contents dribbling down his arm.

Robert eased open the door, scanned the garden right to left.

There was no one else there, but he didn’t lower his aim.

Eliot didn’t understand. It was Uncle Henry. He tapped Robert and gave him a
What are you doing
? look.

Robert shrugged him off and shot back a glare that could have given Fiona a run for her money in the withering-flesh department.

Without turning, Uncle Henry said, “Robert’s quite right to be wary, Eliot. This is a war, after all.” He gave a dramatic wave that sloshed out the remains of the tequila. “Dangerous elements loose in the streets . . .” He reached for the bottle and knocked it over. “Can’t even trust one’s liquor to stand still at such times.”

Robert sighed, clicked on his gun’s safety, and lowered it.

They went to Henry. Eliot plucked up the bottle and set it right.

“You’re drunk,” Robert said.

“I certainly hope so. Otherwise a perfect waste of several bottles of Tequila Casa Noble Extra Anejo.”

Eliot surveyed the city from behind the glass walls. Tanks and Humvees rolled into the city center where he and Robert had stopped. There were more people in the streets, and more soldiers shoving them around, and one thing he hadn’t seen on the far side of the city’s center square: an older section with a cobblestone courtyard and church that looked like it could have been built by the original Spanish missionaries. Dozens of people streamed toward the church, taking shelter within—scared people, crying people, children, and women carrying bundled babies.