All That Lives Must Die (31 page)

               33               

THREE WORDS THAT CHANGED HER LIFE

Van Wyck struck at her.

It was a crude attack; Fiona easily sidestepped. She’d sparred with her uncle Aaron, the supposed God of War, Ares. Van Wyck was no master swordsman.

Almost too quick to follow, however, he angled his rapier up and it plunged straight at her heart.

Her last step had left her flat-footed, off balance.

Fiona twisted awkwardly aside.

The tip of the rapier grazed her jacket, neatly puncturing the heavy wool. Van Wyck ripped it free.

Too close. Fiona wouldn’t underestimate him again.

Sure this was to first blood . . . and if his one and only “first blood” wound pierced her heart, it might be okay as far as the rules covering Paxington freshman duels were concerned . . . but Fiona would be dead.

A smiled flickered over his face.

He was toying with her. Enjoying this.

Well, Fiona wasn’t about to let him play a lengthy game of cat and mouse.

She flicked out her yo-yo.

The smirk on his face vanished when he saw how fast it came at his head. He parried the wooden disk expertly . . . with the precise minimal deflection require so his rapier still pointed at her. This made the yo-yo’s string slide alongside his blade.

As Fiona had hoped.

She yanked the yo-yo. The string caught and wrapped about the blade at the guard.

Fiona focused her mind along the string’s length; it narrowed, almost vanished to a one-dimensional edge that left a wake in the air—as the string cut through the steel blade.

The students around them gasped.

Van Wyck, eyes wide, stared at his lovely weapon . . . now a useless stub.

Fiona stepped back three paces and took the opportunity to rewind her yo-yo.

She saw a crowd had gathered.

Van Wyck shook off his surprise, tossed the rapier aside, and raised his hands.

The color faded from the world about him. His fingertips went ghostly, and Fiona glimpsed flickers of his bones as if they were being X-rayed.

Technically, magic was permitted within the Paxington duel guidelines, but Fiona felt a lance of fear stab at her resolve because he was using the magic of the Van Wyck family: necromancy.
32

Whatever happened, Fiona couldn’t let him touch her. Miss Westin had been explicit on this point when she had lectured on the necromancers: it was simple for them to drain a person’s
entire
life force . . . easier, in fact, than draining a little.

They circled each other.

Fiona refocused her thoughts . . . not just on the yo-yo’s string . . . she became aware of the bumps and slick patches of cobblestones under her feet . . . of the air flowing over her sweaty skin . . . of her tensing muscles . . . of her quickening breath.

Van Wyck feigned right, then left.

Fiona moved in—straight.

His hand grazed her chest.

It was a cold the likes of which she had never experienced—not even the bone-numbing cold of the Valley of the New Year. This chill went beyond physical. It touched her soul. It fired every instinct within her to curl into a ball and shiver. To give up.

But her blood heated, resisting.

She blinked and regained her focus.

Fiona punched him in the jaw. Pain exploded down her hand and arm, and she stumbled back.

So did he.

She hadn’t hit him hard—but hard enough to break his concentration.

Before he recovered, before he could touch her with that awful magic again, she lashed out with her yo-yo.

It whipped forward.

Donald reacted, instinctively reaching to stop it with an outstretched hand.

And did so, catching the string.

Fiona jerked it. The string whipped through two of his fingers—severed them at the knuckles. She felt no resistance as it passed though his flesh and bones . . . but something vibrated though the string as it cut away the magic in his hand.

Fiona then swung the yo-yo and looped it about Van Wyck’s neck.

And then she stood stock-still, held her breath . . . and they faced each other.

He clutched his wounded hand. Blood streamed from it.

His magic was gone. His eyes were wild.

The crowd of students fell silent.

“That’s first blood,” Fiona whispered. “Now, you leave me and my brother, and my team alone . . . or I will end this. Permanently.”

She gave a tiny tug at the string about his neck.

Van Wyck didn’t flinch. Amazingly, he smiled weakly through his pain.

Did he think she wouldn’t go through with it?

Fiona wasn’t sure, either. She had killed before to defend herself and Eliot. This was different, though. Van Wyck was human. And the Paxington rules said she couldn’t go further than first blood.

On the other hand, she had to end this here and now.

Van Wyck didn’t sense her equivocation, or maybe he just wanted to live, because he finally sighed and said, “Very well, Fiona Post. I accept your terms. I pledge a truce between myself and your team.” His faint smile vanished as he clutched his maimed hand tighter. “Until, of course, we meet in gym.”

The students around them jeered and groaned . . . a few chanted, “Cut—cut!”

Fiona exhaled and relaxed her grip.

The small boy on Team Wolf grabbed the severed fingers off the ground. Others from Team Wolf wrapped Van Wyck’s hand, and they hurried him away.

As she watched them leave, she wondered if this would really be the end of their conflict.

She hoped so . . . but had a nasty feeling the answer was no.

Before she could figure it all out, everyone pressed closer, asking how she’d cut like that—what kind of magic it was—where her family came from—they’d never heard of the Post family before.

Eliot pushed closer to rescue her from all these impossible-to-answer questions.

Jezebel cleared her throat and said, “You’ve never heard of her family before?”

Everyone turned to her.

“Oh, you are all such idiots!” Jezebel continued, a sneaky grin creeping across her face. “Don’t you know? She’s a goddess.”

The students stood stunned and looked back at Fiona, examining her, some nodding, others mouths open.

Fiona couldn’t believe she had said that.

Jezebel knew? Of course, if she was working with the Infernals—they knew. And no League rules prevented
her
from just blurting out the very thing that would have landed Fiona or Eliot into serious trouble.

“Fiona Post,” Jezebel said with theatrical flair. “The daughter of Atropos, the Eldest Fate, the Cutter of All Things.”

Fiona started to protest, but everyone began talking at once, suddenly fascinated with her.

Jezebel, with those three words,
“She’s a goddess,”
had forever changed Fiona’s life.

And, having gotten over the initial shock of this deepest secret uncovered, feeling the admiration and instant popularity from all the students . . . Fiona thought that maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing, after all.

Until she saw Eliot.

Fiona tried to move toward him—but Tamara Pritchard and group of her girlfriends cut her off.

Completely ignored by the other students, he skulked away. The expression on his face was one of wounded pride . . . and something else . . . something dark.

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. There are four orders of necromantic power. The lowest allows communication with the dead. The next level enables the transfer of life essence (not to be confused with the Life/Death duality magics of the Dreaming Families). The third tier of mastery preserves life past injury, disease, and extreme age. The last order is the ability to raise and possibly command the dead. Other powers exist, but are secrets known only to practitioners—notably the Van Wyck family. The Van Wycks are also known for their pharmaceutical conglomerate.
Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 14, The Mortal Magical Families
. Zypheron Press Ltd., Eighth Edition.

               34               

OUTSIDER

Eliot left campus but didn’t walk home. He picked a direction at random—crossing two busy streets, down an alley between houses, and then angled north until he smelled the ocean.

He took this route so Fiona wouldn’t be able to catch him. Not that she was trying. She had been swamped by students—all asking questions and looking at her as if they’d just seen her for the first time, enamored by her presence.

Eliot hadn’t been able to stand it.

He tromped down a staircase and onto a smaller street, where the houses had tiny co-op gardens for front lawns. It was November and the squash and peas had long been harvested. A vine-strangled scarecrow with button eyes stared at him.

This afternoon had been nothing but one disaster after another. It started when Van Wyck had called Jezebel Team Scarab’s “succubus.”

Eliot had studied enough in Miss Westin’s class, and read the “Tale of the Amber Vixen” in
Mythica Improbiba
, to understand the reference. Succubi were demons that used love and sex to steal souls and make people do terrible things (although the succubus in the “Amber Vixen” had turned to ash rather than betray the human she’d fallen in love with).
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He’d let Van Wyck’s casual, non–vocabulary insult get to him.

Eliot paused to admire an antique white car parked a half block away. It was one of those long-nosed things from the 1930s. It was sleek and the silver trim gleamed like liquid mercury.

He shuddered, dismissing the sudden chill from the encroaching fog, and he moved on.

Eliot should likewise have ignored Van Wyck’s rude comment, but he’d seen himself as a knight riding to the defense of a lady’s honor.

Jezebel was no lady, though. She was Infernal and certainly capable of defending herself.

Eliot had been no knight, either.

He would’ve used his music, and who knew what would have happened. While his power seemed to increase every time he played, his
control
hadn’t. He’d probably have summoned a skeletal dinosaur or something equally weird, hurt lots of people, and gotten expelled.

But then the worst thing was that Fiona had stepped in and fought
for
him.

Eliot wasn’t buying her “Team Captain” excuse. She was trying to protect him, her little brother.

It was humiliating.

And to top it all off, Jezebel spilled the beans about Fiona being an Immortal.

Fiona’s social status had gone from nobody to instant celebrity.

They’d all made so much over her. Nobody even made the connection that he might be an Immortal, too. Maybe if he’d stuck around to bask in her glow, someone would’ve noticed—but he hadn’t been able to stomach all those fawning people.

Eliot glanced about. He’d lost sight of the bay. He was surrounded by old warehouses, and nothing looked familiar.

Great, add to his list of things gone wrong today: getting lost.

He reached for his cell phone. He’d use the global positioning to find out where he was . . . only Louis had stolen his phone, and Audrey had declared him too irresponsible to be given another.

He sighed. Could this day get any worse?

As if in answer, Eliot spotted that weird white car, parked ahead on the corner.

What were the odds of seeing two identical antique cars within a block? And even more astronomically impossible—what were they odds of two long vehicles like that finding parking spots in San Francisco?

Eliot marched toward it, suddenly angry.

Whoever it was—Immortal, Infernal—it didn’t matter. He’d demand to know what they wanted. He was tired of not being able to stand up for himself.

As he got closer, he saw the silver figure on the car’s hood: a woman with wings swept back and arms held forward. His eyes slid off the snow white surfaces, unable to find any angular features.

He blinked, strode up, and rapped on the driver’s window.

A window in back
thunked
down.

“Eliot.” Uncle Henry’s voice drifted from inside. “Get in.”

Eliot relaxed a notch. He didn’t trust Uncle Henry; he always seemed to be up to something, but he had tried to bend the League’s rules for him and Fiona. And although Eliot would never guess at the motives of a god, he believed Henry actually liked him.

The back door opened and Uncle Henry sat inside, wearing a white linen suit that matched the white leather interior. He smiled. “I was looking for you . . . but I sensed you needed time with your thoughts.”

“Yeah.” Eliot shrugged. “Not so much anymore, though.”

He glanced down the impossibly smooth length of this car, remembering how Robert had destroyed Henry’s last limousine, the black Maybach—crashing it into Beelzebub.

“Do you like it?” Henry asked. “She is my 1933 Rolls-Royce. We call her Laurabelle. I’ve given the girl a tad of engine and body work so she could keep up.” He patted the car lovingly.

“She’s great,” Eliot said. “Could you give me a lift home?”

“Unquestioningly. If you don’t mind a
slight
detour?”

“As long as it’s not like last time—Uncle Kino drove me to the edge of Hell.”

Henry tilted his head. “No. It’s not far. And it’s nothing dangerous.”

Eliot believed him. He got inside and sat opposite, facing Uncle Henry.

The Rolls-Royce accelerated and the streets became a blur—and then they were speeding though rolling hills of gold.

“So how are you?” Uncle Henry said. “Tell me everything—absolutely everything.”

Eliot did. He sketched his school year so far: the exams, gym class, his girl troubles (although he was vague about who and what Jezebel was), how Fiona was now Team Captain, and how Eliot seemed to be the social equivalent of a flaming leper.

Uncle Henry nodded and made sympathetic noises, but asked no questions.

Outside, coastal waters flashed. The road then plunged into green shadows.

“The worst thing,” Eliot said, “is all the fighting.”

He struggled with his words. Eliot wanted to talk about this, but he didn’t want to sound like a whiny kid.

“I mean, I know the Immortals and Infernals were at war, then there was the battle at Ultima Thule, and then the treaty, the
Pactum Pax Immortalis
, but there’s still violence and plots . . . as if both sides
want
to fight. Like it’s part of what they are.”

Eliot was careful not to say “what
we are
” because he still wasn’t sure how he fit within the Immortal and Infernal families.

Henry leaned forward. “Go on. . . .”

“It’s not only the families,” Eliot whispered. “It’s Paxington, too. Gym class is a battlefield. There are duels every day, and the other students are beyond competitive. Why is it that way?”

Henry considered this, tapping his lower lip. “We are creatures of struggle and strife, my dear Eliot. We kill to live, and some of us live to kill. Many have tried to make a lasting peace, but they perish, their words soon all but dusty histories. Those who fight, win and survive.”

Eliot sensed this to be true. Why then did it feel so wrong?

“We
have to
fight?” he asked. “There’s no other way?”

Henry eased back. “All living things fight to survive. Even gods.” He sighed. “Especially gods. Or perhaps”—a sly smile appeared on Henry’s lips—“there is another undiscovered way? Waiting for someone to find it?”

Eliot didn’t understand this, but he didn’t immediately ask what Henry meant. Something secret and powerful echoed in his words just then. Something that was part puzzle, part prophecy, and part, Eliot was sure, something even Henry didn’t quite understand.

The Rolls-Royce slowed.

Outside were palm trees and white sands, and a flock of red parrots took to the wing. The air conditioner kicked on.

Eliot had ridden with Uncle Henry before. His car could get anywhere in the world in a matter of hours. They could be in Florida, or Mexico, or farther.

Henry looked up. “We’ve arrived.”

Smears of the surrounding countryside resolved into sand dunes, plantain trees, and a wide river. Laurabelle ran along a four-lane road crowded with chemical tankers and older sedans—all of them bearing a molecular logo that had planet Earth as one of its atoms.

They turned a corner and the world changed.

A chunk had been ripped from the tropical landscape. For miles in every direction were stumps and smoldering fields.

Nestled in the center of this hell on earth (and Eliot thought he was qualified to make that distinction having recently been there) squatted a refinery. A multitude of towers shot flames and oily smoke into the air. Pipes wormed from every crevice, leaked sludge, and tinged the nearby ocean red.

The Rolls-Royce turned into a parking lot and pulled into a space marked
DIRECTOR MUY ESPECIAL
.

Eliot opened the door.

The smell overwhelmed him: burning plastic and sulfur and something so repugnant that his nose shut and he gagged. He was barely able to get out and stand.

“Ah,” Uncle Henry said, “that.” He covered his face with a handkerchief. “A rather unfortunate side effect of the manufacturing process. Come, let us retire to my office. My secretary makes the most wonderful iced tea.”

It was so hot, the pavement stuck under Eliot’s loafers. He shrugged out of his wool Paxington blazer, his shirt beneath already soaked with perspiration.

“Wait,” Eliot said. “Why’d you bring me here?”

Henry waved dramatically about. “For what every young man needs: a part-time job.”

Eliot blinked rapidly. “I don’t understand.” He had the same feeling he had had as he watched Louis shuffle his three cards at the café, like some misdirection was occurring.

Uncle Henry slipped out of his white jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. “I know you feel bad about Fiona’s rising prestige, especially within the League. I also heard from your mother how you lost your phone. So, I wanted to give you a chance to restore your confidence. ‘Step up to the plate,’ as the Americans say. I do love all their wonderful sports metaphors . . . and let you ‘knock it out of the park.’ ”

“Still not understanding,” Eliot said, getting annoyed.

“This place makes things,” Uncle Henry said. “Oh, I don’t know all the specifics—petrochemicals, pasta, plastics—something that begins with a
p
that the world simply cannot do without. It employs thousands of workers whose families would otherwise starve. And I am giving it all to you, my boy.”

Eliot stared at the place, revolted by the mess, the odor, and the devastation of the land . . . but trying nonetheless to see the good that Uncle Henry spoke of.

“Run it on behalf of the League,” Uncle Henry whispered. “Use its profits to buy a yacht or two—or reinvest the capital and transform it into whatever you desire.” He patted him on the shoulder. “I have faith in you.”

“Thanks . . . ,” Eliot reflexively said. Audrey had taught him to always thank everyone for everything, no matter if he wanted it or not. “I’m busy with school, though.”

“Oh, you don’t
actually
run it.” Uncle Henry laughed. “You have other people do that for you. You just make the big decisions.”

Eliot imagined himself sitting in a boardroom wearing a white suit and executives hanging on his every instruction.

Why not? Maybe he could turn this place into something better. Prove to the League that he was . . . what?

Responsible? Capable? One of them?

Like Fiona?

Something inside Eliot writhed and rebelled against this idea.

Eliot didn’t want to be molded into someone else’s notion of what they thought he should be.

He wanted . . . What? He wasn’t sure. But this factory wasn’t it.

And yet, he couldn’t just refuse and leave this place as it was. Uncle Henry was right on one count: It needed help.

“I appreciate the offer,” Eliot said, “but it’s not going to work for me.”

Uncle Henry’s face fell. “My boy, this corporation is worth a great deal. Millions . . . or billions . . . I forget.”

Money didn’t mean much to Eliot. When did he have time to spend money?

“I’m still saying no, Uncle Henry, but”—Eliot returned to the Rolls-Royce and got his backpack—“I think I can do something for you.”

“Oh?” Uncle Henry’s eyebrows quirked.

“Just come with me and listen.”

Eliot marched to the corner of the parking lot and mounted a sand dune to get a better view. The land was surrounded by a fringe of burning jungle. There were acres of plastic-lined pits holding pools of fluorescent lime and yellow chemicals. Eliot set one foot on a pipe that jutted from the earth and got his violin case.

He pulled out Lady Dawn and stroked her amber grain. “This time,” he whispered to her, “we work together.”

“Eliot?” Uncle Henry said, a slight unease creeping into his voice. “What are you doing?”

Eliot held his violin bow between Henry and himself, brandishing it like a conductor’s baton. “You said you wanted me to ‘step up to the plate’ and ‘knock it out of the park.’ That’s what I’m going to do.”

Eliot turned his back to him and focused.

He’d only been able to make little things happen
on purpose
: finding the crocodile, Sobek, in the sewers and Amanda Lane in that burning carnival—that dissonant chord he’d struck and sent a Team Knight student flying backwards.

The big things he’d done . . . summoning the dead, battling Beelzebub, and calling forth an army . . . those were from songs already written: “Mortal’s Coil,” “The Symphony of Existence,” and “The March of the Suicide Queen.”

He closed his eyes and set his bow to Lady Dawn’s strings. Under his fingertips, she pulsed.

For what he wanted to do now, Eliot would have to use bits and pieces of songs he knew, and invent new musical phrases as well.

He took a deep breath. He could do this.

First, the poisonous air, the layers and lakes of toxic chemicals—they had to go.

But not merely moved somewhere else. That would just poison another place. Eliot had to destroy the stuff . . .
unmake
it.