All That Lives Must Die (69 page)

Fiona sighed.

“But,” Miss Westin said, “
I
do not accept you missing
my
classes or final.”

She produced two more papers and slid one each toward Fiona and Eliot.

In the fine print was a list of books—
Bulfinch’s Mythology
, everything ever written by Cicero,
Languorous Lullabies, Golden’s Guide to Extraordinary Books
, and on and on, dozens of texts, endless volumes, and ancient scrolls.

“Read these over the next few months,” Miss Westin explained, “and you may then take my makeup final examination at the end of summer.”

This was as much reading as they’d been assigned for the entire year. So much for getting a break.

Fiona had read some of these already, however, digging up background on Zeus and the rest of her Immortal family. Still, even for her it’d be a spend-every-free-moment-of-vacation-with-nose-in-book deal.

“Thank you,” Eliot said, and tucked the paper into his pocket. “You didn’t have to do this.”

If Fiona had been sitting in the seat next to him, she would’ve elbowed him in the ribs. Why did he say that? Did he want her to change her mind?

Miss Westin’s features softened a bit, and she set her hands flat on her desk. “You’re quite welcome, Eliot. I recognize both your unique talents and your unusual circumstances.” Her face hardened once more. “But let me make this
perfectly
clear: You get only this
one
chance.”

Fiona swallowed. “Got it,” she said. “We’ll pass the final, no problem.”

Miss Westin took out her pocket watch and glanced at it. “Now, if you children don’t mind, I have another appointment.” She nodded to the door at the far end of her office.

Fiona and Eliot got up. Fiona tried to walk with as much dignity as possible toward the exit. Once she was outside—then she could collapse. How was it that she was able to march into Hell, charge an army of the damned, but almost flunking a few classes turned her to jelly?

She stood straighter. She was a goddess in the League of Immortals, after all. She didn’t
have
to feel this way.

Besides, there were lots of other more important things to consider than school. She still had to figure out her place in the world. How she fit in among the Immortals . . . and how to stop the Infernals from messing everything up again.

She nodded at the pale boy by the door and he opened it.

Fiona and Eliot walked into the waiting room. She blinked in the sudden sunlight. As her eyes adjusted, she saw two other students waiting for Miss Westin.

Sarah and Jeremy Covington.

Their uniforms were immaculate. Sarah had her hair up and coiffed. Jeremy’s long hair was back and tied with a black ribbon so he looked like a Colonial revolutionary.

“Why, Fiona!” Jeremy beamed and opened his arms wide as if to embrace her.

Sarah stood there, mortified. She looked at the floor.

“ ’Tis a delight to see you back,” Jeremy continued as if nothing were wrong—as if he hadn’t slammed the Gates of Perdition on them.

Fiona finally found her voice, at least a low growl of a voice, and said, “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t cut you in half—right here and now.”

Eliot, who had been calm and collected all morning, didn’t try to stop her; instead, he merely crossed his arms and glared at Jeremy.

“Ah . . .” Jeremy’s smile faded a bit. “Well, you’d miss my good looks and charm, wouldn’t ye?”

Fiona’s hands twitched and she fingered the rubber band on her wrist. It took all her will to keep her blood from boiling, and from doing something she wasn’t quite sure she’d regret.

The pale boy behind them said, “Pardon me, Masters and Ladies, but Miss Westin would like to see the Covingtons.”

Jeremy tilted his head. “And I suppose because you’d be murdering me in front of the Headmistress?” His impish smile returned.

Fiona hissed out a sigh.

Jeremy’s expression sobered. “Look dearie, what happened at the gate—’twasn’t what I had planned. But you and Eliot are all right. Perhaps we should let bygones be bygones?” He extended a hand.

Eliot snorted.

Fiona glared at his proffered gesture like it was a rattlesnake. “Once we are out of the picture, did you and Sarah get on a winning team like you wanted?”

Jeremy tilted his head, but said nothing.

“If I ever catch you off campus,” Fiona said, “there won’t be any rules or Headmistress to save you.”

“Oh, Fiona.” Jeremy retracted his hand. “I so love your hotheadedness. Completely endearing. You’ll come around.”

He squeezed past her and entered Miss Westin’s office.

Sarah remained where she was. “I am so, so sorry,” she squeaked. “He’s always doing things like this. There’s this archaic seniority system in the Clan Covington . . . and he’s technically the eldest member. I
have to
go along.”

“You don’t have to go along with
murder
,” Fiona said.

Sarah flinched. She looked deeply conflicted, and then finally said, “Aye. You’re right. There’s no excuse for what we did. I promise, I will make amends.”

She nodded to Eliot and then Fiona, and hurried into Miss Westin’s office.

“Maybe she wasn’t to blame,” Eliot said. “Jeremy did throw her back at the last moment before he locked the gate. She couldn’t have been responsible.”

“Whatever,” Fiona muttered. “I’ve got better things to do than worry about the Covingtons right now.”

She glanced at her book list, picking out the ones she’d already read trying to track down what had happened to Zeus.

Zeus, the once-leader of the Immortals, the one who had united them against the Titans, and had led them against all odds in battle with the Infernals.

A leader. That’s precisely what the world and the Immortals needed—now more than ever.

Fiona stood there . . . as a plan took shape in her mind.

               83               

LAST-MINUTE DETAILS FOR ARMAGEDDON

Sealiah, undisputed Queen of the Poppy Lands and the Hysterical Kingdoms, shivered with pleasure. No more armor. While the metal plates, layers of chain mail, and padding had been a necessity to survive, she required a new kind of protection for today’s dangers.

She spun, and the layers of gold chiffon drifted about her and then settled against the coppery curves of her body. Much better.

She was alone in her map room. No guards. No Jezebel. The Post twins long departed—and the sounds of all their whining and pleading for their lost loves finally silenced.

She lingered a moment, thinking of Robert Farmington.

Him
she would miss. She did so appreciate a hero of few words.

Overcast light filtered through the open windows and mingled with the shadows.

Sealiah slipped into a pair of gold sandals and checked the fit of her summer dress, making sure just enough was hidden and just enough showed through its sheer layers. It was infinitely impractical, and yet the most effective tack for those she was about to face: her cousins on the Board. Those malefactors would never dream of a simple frontal attack . . . when they had such expertise in the art of betrayal.

Her best defense was distraction.

She moved to the map table and examined the dire state of the battle when it had last been updated: her twelve towers surrounded and Mephistopheles marching upon her.

Tiny figurines lay on their sides, souls that had fought for her cause. She touched one, a Napoleonic dragoon, and righted it with her fingertip.

Tragic was their suffering . . . but why else had these souls come to her domain? That was their fate. It was what they deserved. It was what they wanted.

What would they do if she released them? Would the souls of the damned be lost without their torment? Would they even know where to go after all this time? Or would they crawl to her and beg her to take them back?

Well, she would never know. They were forever hers.

These philosophical musing aside, the important thing was that she had prevailed in the war by her superior cunning—or, at least, she had not been so distracted by noble sentiments as poor Mephistopheles had.

She touched the shattered obsidian figurine that represented her Infernal cousin.

And where was his soul now? Dust and ashes? Somewhere rich and strange and far beyond her? Or some place dark and deep—torment that not even she could imagine? That was always the question, was it not? The rhyme and reason for all that happened since they had left their brother and sister angels in the light.

She sighed. What silly sentimentality and dreams of things no longer possible.

She swept the obsidian shards off the table.

Mephistopheles has been a fool. He could have won; he
should
have won, had he but tempted Fiona to his side . . . the thing that almost happened at that last precarious moment.

Almost.

Pity. Love. Honor. Weaknesses all that had caused his downfall.

And yet, she wished, just for once, one of her kind would act thusly toward her. Even her departed Uri’s ambition had tainted his loyalty. Where was her unrequited, self-sacrificing hero?

Sealiah laughed halfheartedly and drew a cover over the map table, desperately trying to ignore the lump in her throat . . . the longing for just one taste of love again.

She inhaled and banished these thoughts. They were dangerous at any time for their kind—doubly so before a Board meeting.

She turned her attention to the smaller table that held the circular mat and stones of her Towers game.

Sealiah touched the cubes and retraced her moves—the maneuvering of her Jezebel to Paxington—capturing Eliot in her orbit and with him drawing in his sister and Robert—all vital pieces used in her final ploy.

She shuddered with satisfaction. It had been a good opening round.

But far from over.

She moved the basalt cube that represented Jezebel to the opposite side, stacking it upon the two stones that were now Eliot’s, nestled them together in the square that was his domain, The Burning Orchards. Precisely where she wanted them.

Wheels turning within wheels
, as Louis was fond of saying.

She then stroked the stack of three white stones that now displayed hairline cracks. That was Fiona Post. Indeed, she had plans for her as well.

Sealiah dragged her fingernail along the curve of the game board until she rested upon another white cube, whose edges had been smudged with soot.

Would this be her hero? A minor piece, to be sure, but often it was useful to let some pawns believe they were knights . . . at least for a time.

A knock on the door distracted her. Sealiah’s temper flared, and then cooled as she recalled the circumstances of today.

“Come,” she commanded.

The door opened, and one of her personal maids entered and immediately fell to her knees.

“Are they ready?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the maid said, groveling upon the floor. “They have assembled and await your glory.”

With a flourish, Sealiah floated past the supplicant maid and up the spiral staircase. She emerged atop the tower called the Oaken Keeper of Secrets. Overhead the sky was luminous silver, the sun properly buried behind puffy layers of steaming altostratus clouds.

She strolled into the hedge maze of her tea garden, past the legion of gardeners who made sure the topiary was in tip-top shape, clip-clip-clipping the thorns and twisted branches of the agonized souls within, which had been meticulously shaped into rows of flamingos and prancing horses and elephants balanced upon turtles.
69

Heirloom roses bloomed at her approach, and their colors popped along the perfumed pathway. She stepped in the center yard, where fountains sprayed champagne and a long table had been set with a hundred different teakettles, trays overflowing with pastries and sandwiches, and serving sets arranged with raw sugar and opium honey and lemons and cream and three dozen types of serving spoons and red current jam and orange marmalade and royal queen bee jelly.

All these preparations and delicacies, of course, were lost on her assembled cousins . . . save, perhaps, Ashmed, the Chairman of the Infernal Board and Master Architect of Evil.

He stood at her approach, brushed his lips with a napkin, and pulled out a chair next to his at the head of the table. Ashmed was as professional and handsome as ever, in a light gray suit and silver tie, tastefully accessorized with mirror-polished gold cuff links. His hair was groomed into a dark wave, and he smiled, genuinely pleased to see her.

And why not? Sealiah and delivered for him and the others the means of their salvation.

And Sealiah—now with lands and armies to rival Ashmed’s—was his near equal in power.

It was a powerful aphrodisiac.

She bowed graciously and took her seat (first, however, looking about the table for any potential threats . . . of which there were many).

Abby, The Destroyer, Handmaiden of Armageddon, and Mistress of the Palace of Abomination sat on her immediate left—a little too close for comfort. Abby had wrapped herself with black velvet ribbon, skintight over her slender curves. She played with a mouse, letting it scurry across the table—then trapping it with an upturned bone china cup—letting it go—capturing it again . . . and laughing all the while at the creature squeaking its sufferings.

A giant wasp sat on Abby’s shoulder, cleaning its antennae.

Across the table sat Leviathan, the Beast, Horror of the Abyssal Depths. About him was a disaster of broken plates and cups and saucers and spilled teas—which he dabbed up with a fistful of sponge cake. With his other hand, he brushed crumbs from the ripples of his tent-sized Nike jumpsuit and smiled a mouthful of food at her.

Sitting by himself at the other end of the table was Louis.

Sealiah hide her surprise as well, but she feared she let slip a double take.

Louis looked . . . delectable.

His hair had been trimmed short and neat on the sides, and the rest drawn back into a ponytail of silver and black and secured with a bloodred ribbon. His sideburns pointed to a stylish soul patch and pencil-thin mustache. He wore a black Armani tuxedo and a white shirt with diamond studs for buttons.

He smiled at her—all promises and remembrances of the passion that they had shared in the past.

This version of Louis had been copied by men throughout history: Don Juan, Clark Gable, Brad, and Johnny—all who were adored and made women’s hearts pitter-pat. None, however, did it as well as Louis . . . the original seducer of them all.

Flowing off his shoulders was a cloak so rich and black, the material seemed to absorb the light. It had been stolen by Mephistopheles long ago, and recovered by Louis on the battlefield. It looked better on Louis. Truly, Lucifer was back among them, the real Prince of Darkness, now fully restored to his proper power and prowess and pride.

Gooseflesh crawled up Sealiah’s arms and over her chest and caressed her neck. She shivered and regained her composure. “Lies and salutations, Cousins.”

“That was some nice work,” Lev muttered to Sealiah, spilling half-chewed contents from his mouth. “Never thought you’d get Meph to turn his back on
you
!” He made a fist and shoved it into the air for emphasis (jiggling his layers of fat as he did so). “Bang-O. A classic move.”

Abby lost her concentration at Lev’s motions and accidentally slammed her cup down too hard on her rodent plaything—smashing china and fur and splintering the table. She frowned at her broken toy, then shot the Beast a cross look.

She turned to Sealiah and raised both her eyebrows. “I suppose congratulations are in order,” she grudgingly offered.

That was the first. Sealiah had never heard Abby utter a kind word before.

Indeed, things were changing.

Sealiah inclined her head, and with tremendous difficulty, she replied, “Thank you very much, Cousins.”

Ashmed cleared his throat, uncomfortable with all these pleasantries. “Perhaps before we all lose our collective heads with Sealiah’s success, we should take care of one procedural item first.”

All of them glanced at Louis as he straightened in his chair, intensified his smile, and remained uncharacteristically silent.

“We have numerous petitions and pleas to be considered for the vacancy on the Board.” Ashmed gestured to a stack of paperwork on the table, considered it, and brushed it onto the ground. He lit one of his Sancho Panza Belicoso cigars and flicked the still-flaming match onto the heap of papers. They burned and the flames reflected in his dark eyes. “I move that we instead vote for Louis. His expertise with his son and daughter has proved invaluable . . . and will continue to do so.” Ashmed puffed and blew smoke rings. “Besides,” he added with mock sincerity, “we have
so
missed him.”

There was silence in the garden as the Board considered. Even the bees stopped their incessant buzzing, leaving only the sound of the foaming champagne fountain.

Sealiah had never recalled silence at any Board meeting. Perhaps after a scuffle when their personal retainers lay about bloody and dead, but this was something else.

Abby finally shrugged. “Fine,” she said. “Whatever.”

Lev nodded. “Yeah, sure, why not?”

Sealiah held her tongue as she considered all the possibilities swirling about her: war and peace, victory and obliteration, all deliciously tempting. But most curious to her was that her cousins seem to be agreeing and moving forward because of Eliot and Fiona. Those two were the catalysts.

Yes, it was the end of all they knew, and the beginning of something wonderfully horrid.

As Sealiah had predicted and wisely positioned herself to be in the center of . . . and benefit the most from all who would suffer.

The one thing she had not predicted, however, was Louis.

He looked proud of his new potential position on the Board, yet wary, his gaze flitting from person to person . . . and then lingering upon her.

Would he be her greatest adversary? An ally? Both?

Whichever outcome, she could ill afford
not
to keep him near, where he could be watched.

“Of course,” she said without taking her eyes off Louis. “He would be a most welcome addition.”

Louis smiled, part shield, part gloat—which faltered but for an instant.

But in that instant, Sealiah detected something else in the Great Deceiver’s eyes: a flicker of indecision. And yes . . . vulnerability.

She had seen such a look on him when he had been at his son’s side, proud and worried and so piteously feigning his indifference. She had also seen him protect Fiona on the battlefield (placing himself in danger for her sake). What else could it be but a father’s protectiveness? Even love?

Such foolishness. She envied him this love, but she also knew it would destroy him.

Sealiah settled into her chair, knowing everything was going to be all right now, her plans would remain on track, and soon she would command all.

There was, of course, one minor detail left to arrange: Fiona. But she would see to that soon enough. She smiled, thinking how pleasurable it might be.

“Very well,” Ashmed said, and stood. “By acclamation we welcome Louis Piper to the Infernal Board of Directors.”

Louis stood as if to make a speech, but Ashmed cut him off. “Alas, all ceremony and pomp must be postponed. The League of Immortals will move quickly to block our progress.”

Louis sank back into his seat, looking sullen.

Lev smashed his huge fist on the table—destroying that end of the table. “Let’s crush them before they can see it coming.”

“Precisely what I was thinking, Cousin,” Ashmed said. “Let us then discuss how to best use Eliot Post to destroy them, and how he will lead us in a glorious war.”

Sealiah’s smile intensified, knowing that war was inevitable. As was their victory.

69
. Father Francis Limehouse, an associate of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (aka Lewis Carroll) reported in his diary having related his “daft and endless” dreams to Mr. Dodgson of visiting a garden party with a less-than-mentally-stable hostess and company. In 1886, Limehouse was defrocked for alleged sexual liaisons with various socialites of the era, and soon thereafter died from a morphine overdose. Mythohistorians speculate that Lime house’s dreams may have been an opiate-induced, near-death experience—and the Mad Hatter’s tea party in Dodgson’s subsequent “Alice” books might have been a secondhand account of the Poppy Queen’s nightmarish realm in the nineteenth century.
Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 13, Infernal Forces
. Zypheron Press Ltd., Eighth Edition.