All That Lives Must Die (33 page)

               36               

CRAMMING FOR THE MIDTERM

Robert focused on the five two-by-fours he’d duct-taped together and set on cinder blocks. He knelt before them as if in prayer.

One such board, even two would have been easy to break if you were trained or even if you wanted to “brute force” it and bruise your hand.

Sure, it was a stupid test. In their sparring sessions, Aaron had disdained such tricks.
“Breaking wood—fah! Useless. How many boards ever fight back?”

Robert struck.

The boards broke like eggshells.

He gathered the pieces and stacked them again, ten high.

He hit once more without hesitation.

The boards shattered—so did the cinderblock. The floor cracked, too.

Now
that
was more than a stupid test.

Robert flexed his fist and examined it. Red, but otherwise not a mark.

There was a lot more to Aaron’s lessons and Mr. Mimes’s Soma liquor than he’d first guessed. He knew he was part of some larger scheme they’d hatched—and he hated being used by them . . . but he couldn’t complain about the results.

That had been the deal, too, when he was a Driver for Mr. Mimes. There’d been danger and intrigue, but a heck of a benefits package that included near total freedom and an unlimited expense account.

His gaze fell on the stack of books by his futon. He should have been reading and taking last-minute notes for today’s midterm. That stuff was so dry, though. So many dates and facts to memorize. Besides, he figured he knew everything he was going to. Five more minutes wouldn’t . . .

Something was near. He sensed it in his apartment.

Robert whirled about, standing, and raised his hands . . . and found Mr. Henry Mimes leaning against the wall.

“Shall I send a carpenter to fix that?” Mr. Mimes nodded at the broken floor.

“No, thanks,” Robert said, hiding his astonishment at yet another of Mr. Mimes’s miraculous entrances. “There’s leftover bamboo from the remodel. I can handle it.”

“As you wish.” Mr. Mimes stood and rubbed his hands. “I just popped by before school for an update on young Eliot.” He waved at the two-by-fours. “Can he cause such destruction, too?”

“No, but he’s coming along. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, though. Kid’s full of surprises.”

“So you’re teaching him everything? Boxing? Grappling? Knife and clubs?”

“All the basics,” Robert said.

Mr. Mimes suddenly looked serious. “But?” he said. “There was a ‘but’ in there?”

Robert shook his head. He didn’t want to rat Eliot out, but Mr. Mimes would get it out of him anyway.

“Eliot is really smart,” Robert told him. “The guy can learn anything he puts his mind to, but it’s
why
he’s learning that bugs me.” He frowned. “There’s more to it than just not getting his head bashed in at school.”

Mr. Mimes brightened. “A girl, I hope? Is she pretty?”

Robert chewed over those questions. “Kind of. I mean kind of a girl. Pretty? Yeah—she’s off the charts. He doesn’t talk about her, but I’ve seen him looking at her . . . Jezebel the Infernal.”

Mr. Mimes tapped the tip of his nose, thinking.

“Eliot’s always been a little on the quiet side,” Robert said, “but now—geez. He mopes around in a constant funk. Not like any ordinary guy with an ordinary crush. This is different and darker. I’m worried that he might be drifting over to
their
side.”

“The Infernals?” Mr. Mimes laughed. “No, no, no, the symptoms you describe are that of
any
normal teenager. You think them extraordinary only because you yourself have never suffered those feelings.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Robert muttered.

Mr. Mimes looked him over. “Oh, I am sorry. I forgot. But keeping your distance from Fiona is essential at the moment. So much depends on it. Not least of all your personal safety.”

Robert was going to say thanks . . . for nothing, but his mind stuttered about the “so much depends” part of what Mr. Mimes had just said.

What plans did he have for the twins? He bet nothing the League was involved in. And if the League was willing to throw Robert in prison for a hundred years, or burn him alive forever, or something just as nasty for him breaking some
little
rule like kissing Fiona—what would they do to one of their most trusted people who pulled a
serious
fast one?

Mr. Mimes stepped closer to Robert and set one hand on his shoulder. “Best not to trouble your mind with such things. Keep on your studies, stay in the shadows, watch and protect . . . especially in light of Fiona’s new popularity. Remember, misdirection is most easily accomplished with a beautiful, shiny object.”

Robert nodded. He was used to taking orders. What choice was there? Cross Mr. Mimes?

Marcus Welmann’s famous last words echoed in his thoughts:
“They’re more force of nature than flesh and blood. Lose sight of that, cross them once . . . and you might as well try talking your way out of an tidal wave for all the good it’ll do you.”

But Robert was stronger now than Marcus had ever been. Strong enough maybe to stand on his own two feet and not take orders?

He buried that thought deep. Mr. Mimes had a way of guessing what you were thinking, especially when it involved him.

Mr. Mimes pulled out his silver flask and uncorked it. He took a sip and then handed it to Robert, saying, “For what ails you.”

Robert spied the liquid inside. Soma was what Mr. Mimes and Aaron had called it. The liquid gleamed like molten gold and reflected off the mirrored walls of the flask. In Miss Westin’s Mythology 101 class, Robert had learned a little about the drink.

“Mostly mythohistorical lies,”
Miss Westin had said. But Robert had figured out two things. First, over time it turned normal guys like him into the equal of the gods. And second, it changed who they were, made them more assertive and dominant.

Both of which went along perfectly with his plans.

He tipped the flask into his mouth, drank deep, and drained it.

Robert’s mind exploded, and he could see every memory, every sensation, and every nerve down to the primitive animal level. A sulfurous fire burned his throat and stomach. Vapors blasted through his lungs . . . and he exhaled, blinking away streaming tears.

“What’s in that stuff, man?”

“Sugar and spice for girls; snips and snails and puppy dog tails for you.” Mr. Mimes took the flask, frowning at its now empty state, and tucked it away. “But nothing illegal or even alcoholic, sadly. A few herbs, filtered water, the odd vitamin or two.”

As Robert regained his equilibrium, he asked, “So what do you want me to do about Eliot? I can introduce him to a lot nicer class of girl. Human, for starters.”

Mr. Mimes sobered. “I wouldn’t do that, Robert. I appreciate your concern, but if this Jezebel reciprocates Eliot’s affections, well, you would not want to deal with an Infernal woman scorned.
That
is on my list of the eleven most dangerous things in the universe—right after trying to balance a national economy by printing money.”

He leaned closer and whispered, “Besides, the Post children have a knack to twist fate to their own ends, regardless of what either Immortal or Infernal family desires, eh? Those two—by themselves—may represent an entirely new force for us to consider.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Robert asked, suddenly feeling protective of his friends.

Mr. Mimes stood straighter and brushed some imaginary dust off his silvery gray sports coat. “Oh, just silliness, a bit of random number mathematics I was toying with. Nothing at all for you to worry about.”

When Mr. Mimes said don’t worry like that, Robert
really
started worrying.

He filed that clue about the twins and them being a “new force” under stuff to follow up on later with his own investigations.

Mr. Mimes glanced at his watch. “Where does the time go?” he muttered. “I need to ask Cornelius. I must be off. So many things to attend to down in Costa Esmeralda.”

“That’s in Central America right?” Robert asked. “Near Panama?”

Mr. Mimes cocked his head, looking surprised at Robert’s grasp of geography.

“I rode through there once. Nice place. There some Mardi Gras or something you have to be at?”

“Something like that,” Mr. Mimes replied with a smirk. “In the late spring. You should visit.”

It must be a heck of a bash if Mr. Mimes recommended it. Robert made a note of that, too, filed away under Things to Do/Party/Spring.

Mr. Mimes paused. “One more thing, Robert. Midterms are today, are they not?”

“Sure. You got some more answers to Miss Westin’s tests for me?”

“Not quite. That was a one-time arrangement we made to get you inside Paxington. The rest is up to you, as I said. Besides, even I would not cross Lucy Westin on her home soil.”

“It’s cool,” Robert said, hiding his disappointment, and allowing his appreciation for Miss Westin to rise a notch. She intimidated even Mr. Mimes. “I’ve hit the books. I’ll pass.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Mimes whispered. “But to be on the safe side . . . pack your brass knuckles today, my boy.”

               37               

PRE-TEST JITTERS

A handful of the popular girls circled Fiona. They nodded as they walked by, but this morning everyone was too nervous to talk to Paxington’s newest social pinnacle.

Fiona pinned the silver rose token to her jacket lapel. She’d started wearing it last week. It had been given to her by the League when she was inducted into the Order of the Celestial Rose. She still didn’t know what that was, but it was pretty, part alive, and part silver, and it smelled as fragrant as the day it’d been given to her.

The entire freshman class had collected outside Plato’s Hall. The doors were shut and locked, and a sign rested on the handles:

MIDTERMS TODAY
Wait Outside for Instructions

Fiona was as nervous as everyone else, but because she was a goddess, she didn’t feel she ought to show it, like that might reflect poorly on the League.

She paused by the Picasso Archway. The portrait had been painted to resemble a real archway that led to a courtyard where anatomically jumbled students listened to a lecture and took notes. It was fascinating, but it also gave Fiona the creeps. Like someone had taken those people apart and put them together . . . wrong.

Fiona turned from it and smiled, hoping this masked the fact that she quavered inside. She wondered if she had time to go the girls’ restroom one more time.

Midterms were one third of her grade. Fail this, and she might as well not bother coming back tomorrow.

Where was Eliot?

She scanned the courtyard.

Team Wolf was in the far corner, and they all looked away when she glanced at them. Fiona was sure Donald Van Wyck was plotting something.

She moved her eyes away, searching for her brother. Eliot didn’t exactly pop out of a crowd, but she should have seen him by now. He’d skipped breakfast again this morning and left early. Was it possible he’d chickened out and wasn’t coming?

“Hey,” Eliot whispered.

He hadn’t sneaked up on her; Fiona just hadn’t seen her brother and had almost walked right over him. She didn’t jump, but for a split second she was speechless, thinking she’d seen his ghost.

Eliot stood in the shadows. Something was darker about him, and not just the ambient light.

“Where were you?” she whispered. “I was worried.”

Eliot shrugged. He glanced at her silver rose pin and frowned.

She wanted to say so much. About needing to stick together because they were stronger. How when she studied alone, it was like she had lost half her brain . . . well, maybe a quarter. How she had actually missed her brother these last few weeks—and what was he thinking always wandering off on his own?

But she could never say any of those things in public without dying of humiliation.

Why couldn’t Eliot say something? Why was it always she who had to do the talking? After all they’d been through together, he should just
know
how she felt.

“Let’s stick together today,” he whispered. “I have a weird feeling about this test.”

Fiona exhaled, relieved that no one had to admit to any stupid emotions—now of all times.

“Good idea,” she said. “I’ve got a funny feeling, too.”

Behind them, the archway clicked and slowly swung outward. Behind it was a doorway that so perfectly mimicked the arch in the painting, Fiona had to blink twice to make sure it had depth and was real.

Miss Westin emerged and glanced over Eliot and Fiona. “The Post twins,” she remarked. “What a pleasant surprise to find you on time for
this
exam.”

Fiona shivered. Beyond the now-open secret door was a passage of rough, wet granite that spiraled underground.

Miss Westin cleared her throat. “Your attention, students.”

Those in the courtyard who hadn’t noticed Miss Westin turned at the sound of her commanding voice and instantly stopped talking.

“Midterms are one third of your total grade,” she continued, “and there will be
no
makeups.”

Fiona swallowed and wondered what happened if you were sick today.

“There are three rules for today’s tests,” Miss Westin said. “First, your performance will be individually graded and mapped to a so-called bell curve as follows: For every one hundred students, there will be ten As, fifteen Bs, and fifty Cs.” As she said “C,” she looked as if she had just tasted one of Great-grandmother Cecilia’s home-cooked spinach casserole specialties.

“And, of course, the last twenty-five will be Ds and Fs.”

At this, the respectful silence of the gathered students crystallized into palpable terror.

And something else . . . everyone glanced suspiciously at one another.

The camaraderie that Fiona had felt a moment ago for her fellow students—the fact that they had helped one another and studied side by side for weeks—all that vanished.

It was everyone for themselves.

No, actually, it was worse than that: It was everyone against everyone. Twenty-five of them were going to
fail
this test, largely determined by how the best students performed, because of that bell curve.

It was bloody unfair . . . but there was no way Fiona was going to be one of those failing twenty-five.

As if a magnetic force had been turned on, the crowd of students shuffled apart from one another.

Fiona fought that feeling, though. She took a step
closer
to her brother.

“Second,” Miss Westin said, “students shall assemble as I call their teams before the midterm entrance.” She gestured to the now-open Picasso Arch. “This, however, is only to prevent bottlenecks during the examination.”

Fiona understood what Miss Westin said, but not what it meant. Bottlenecks during the exam? How could there be a bottleneck?

“Third,” Miss Westin continued, “answering a question incorrectly may be dangerous. I advise that you
not
risk guessing. If you do not know an answer, move to another path, or if you find yourself at a dead end, you may stop the examination by raising your hand and declaring yourself ‘done.’ You will be removed and your score tallied.”

These new facts sent waves of murmurs through the gathered freshmen.

Maybe because the notion of giving up was abhorrent to this crowd of overachievers. Or maybe, like Fiona, it was the idea of being utterly mortified by being “removed” from the exam in front of everyone.

Or just maybe it was because Fiona couldn’t imagine how putting down a wrong answer could be
dangerous
. . . although she took Miss Westin at her word.

This test obviously wasn’t going to be a normal pencil-and-paper, multiple-choice type thing.

Miss Westin opened her little black book and ran a bony finger down the page. “Ah, yes,” she said, “first up—Green Dragon. Gather before the entrance now.”

Eight students pushed forward through the crowd.

Eliot and Fiona got out of their way before they got trampled.

Green Dragon had some big people on it. The boys looked like seniors—giants compared with Eliot. Even the girls were all a head taller than Fiona. They shot one another sidelong glances and elbowed each other for the best forward positions.

Fiona didn’t get it. Okay, sure, they were all competing for the same good grades. But the people on Green Dragon had fought together in gym class. Didn’t that count for anything? She couldn’t imagine being so rude to anyone on her team . . . not even Sarah or Jeremy.

The Dragons nervously bounced on the balls of their feet as Miss Westin checked off their names in her book. She removed her silver pocket watch and made a note of the time.

“You may proceed,” she told them. “Good luck.”

They rushed the archway—pushed and shoved down the tight corridor, and then were gone.

The tunnel swallowed the sounds of their passing.

Fiona shivered.

Miss Westin flipped a page in her book and declared: “Team Scarab. Gather before the entrance.”

Adrenaline shot through Fiona. She wasn’t ready. She should have reread the
Clan Canticles
this morning. She definitely should have gone to the girls’ restroom one last time. Everything she had learned this semester seemed to be gone from her memory.

Eliot nudged her.

She turned on him, irritated.

Worry creased his brow as well, but amazingly, he looked ready to do battle. It was the same stoic concentration she’d seen when he fought those shadow demons in the alley.

Fiona snorted. Well, if he could keep his cool, then so could she.

Together they stepped toward Miss Westin.

The Headmistress gave them both a tiny nod of approval. Her gaze then darkened as it fell upon the rest of Team Scarab.

Behind them gathered Jeremy, Sarah, Mitch, Robert, Amanda, and last, Jezebel.

Jeremy and Sarah looked impeccable in their freshly pressed Paxington school uniforms. Both had their long hair pulled back tight and had looks of total focus on their faces. But they weren’t together like her and Eliot. They stood on opposite sides of the team, deliberately not looking at each other.

Amanda brushed aside her hair, spotted Fiona, and gave her a confident smile.

Fiona reciprocated the gesture, relieved that at least one other member of Team Scarab wasn’t putting friendship before grades.

Why was it an either/or choice? Fiona didn’t accept that to win this battle, one of her friends or someone on her team had to lose because of the grading curve.

Mitch and Robert simultaneously noticed her; Mitch grinned, Robert frowned—then they saw each other looking at her and quickly diverted their gazes.

She’d have to have a talk with Robert soon. This limbo state they were in relationship-wise was doing neither of them any good.

Fiona shook her head to clear those thoughts. She had to stay focused on how to help out her team while winning at the same time.

Jezebel limped up to join them.

She was, as ever, lovely and poised as a porcelain doll with perfect platinum curls . . . but broken, too. One arm hung in a sling, and tiny drops of black blood seeped through. There was a bruise on Jezebel’s check (although somehow its placement actually enhanced her strange attraction).

For the first time, Fiona felt something close to sympathy for the Infernal.

To have to go through midterms injured like that . . .

Fiona wondered what on earth could have done that to her. She wanted to go over there and offer her help.

There was no way, though, that proud Jezebel, Infernal Duchess of the Grand Whatsits was going to accept help from anyone, least of all her.

Eliot took a tentative step toward her, his face lined with concern.

But he halted when he saw her expression—just a quick glance at him, full of steel and venom and hurt—like if he took one step closer, she would either punch him in the face . . . or cry.

Jezebel then looked purposely away.

Eliot sighed and stepped back.

Fiona wanted to say something to her brother, but what? How did you help someone who didn’t want help?

The answer to everything came to Fiona: not only how to help Jezebel—but everyone on the team—and Eliot—
and
herself.

“Hey,” she whispered, and motioned Team Scarab closer.

Jeremy sniffed, and the rest of them looked about unsure. None of them moved an inch.

“Come on,” she chided, and then in a low whisper so only they could hear: “I’ve got a way to boost everyone’s grade on this thing.”

“Oh, very well,” Jeremy said, moving closer, acting like he was doing her the biggest favor in the world.

The rest of them followed, except Jezebel, who remained on the outside of their huddle. Fiona had no doubt, though, that with her Infernal ears, she’d be eavesdropping.

“I think we should work together on this,” Fiona started.

“Just as I said,” Jeremy whispered to Sarah, scowling. Then to the rest of the team, he muttered, “Don’t you understand that be the
one
thing we cannot do? Help one person, as well meaning as that might seem, you hurt yourself. That’s the way this grade curve works, lassie.”

Mitch looked sheepish and chimed in, “I hate to admit it, but he’s right. It’s a mathematics thing. Not personal.”

“It might be ‘right’ by the numbers,” Fiona shot back, “but you’re missing the bigger picture.”

Jezebel inched closer.

“And what is that?” Sarah said, managing to sound sweet and condescending at the same time.

“We’ve all studied the same stuff in Miss Westin’s class.” Fiona leaned in closer. “But each of us has an edge in a different area. Me, Eliot, and Robert know a lot about the Immortals and the League.”

She had spent most of her time learning about her relations so far this year. A little obsessed, really. Robert had a bunch of firsthand experience. And Eliot? Fiona just assumed that’s what he’d been studying, too.

“The Covingtons and Mitch know tons about the mortal magical families,” she added. “Jeremy especially has firsthand experience with the Middle Realms. . . .”

She added that bit to pander to his ego. She didn’t really count getting
lost
in the Valley of the New Year chasing some leprechaun as “experience.”

“Amanda has studied harder than anyone in the entire class,” Fiona continued. “She knows something about
everything
.”

Amanda looked down, blushing.

Fiona paused to glance over at Jezebel, who had her head turned away (but was obviously paying attention).

“So you’re saying we’re smarter together,” Robert said.

“Exactly,” Fiona replied. “We can help one another and, yeah, we’ll shift the grade curve . . . but because we’re
all
going to get higher grades.”

Sarah tapped her lips thoughtfully. “As long as the others don’t chance upon this bit of trickery,” she whispered, “it might work.”

“Isn’t it cheating, though?” Amanda squeaked.

Jezebel finally joined them. “It is not,” she answered. “Miss Westin said we would be
graded
individually, but there was no specific prohibition against
working
together.”