All That Lives Must Die (35 page)

Jeremy and Mitch trotted up last, joining the rest of Team Scarab on the field.

“We won’t play,” Fiona told them. “They can’t do this.”

“They
are
doing it,” Jeremy declared, “whether we play or not, dearie.”

Mitch said nothing, but moved to Fiona’s side. A ball of white-blue light appeared and smoldered in his clenched hand.

Fiona’s mind floundered. There were outnumbered, outpowered, about to get pounced on and torn to bits.

Eliot was unfazed. He took out Lady Dawn and set the instrument on his shoulder. “I’m ready to fight,” he told her. “Tell us what to do.”

Eliot’s unwavering confidence snapped Fiona out of her panic.

“Okay,” she told them. “I’ve got a plan—listen.”

Just then, however, Van Wyck took out Mr. Ma’s starting pistol.

If that was supposed to scare Fiona, it wouldn’t. That thing fired only blanks.

But he didn’t point the gun at her; instead, he aimed it into the air and—with the remaining three fingers on his hand—fired.

35
. Clan Kaleb are renowned for magic that enhances their fierce combat abilities. They receive extensive martial arts, blade, and marksman training prior to reaching puberty. Childhood mortality is common. The clan originates from nomadic desert tribesmen and can trace their lineage to 2600 B.C.E. There is an ancient saying about Kaleb warriors: “Only fools battle the desert winds.”
Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 14, The Mortal Magical Families
. Zypheron Press Ltd., Eighth Edition.

36
. In 1852, the war between the London Confederation of the Unliving (a loose alliance of undead factions) and mortal magical families (Covington, Gower, and Van Wyck) halted after three hundred years. The League of Immortals brokered an armistice for the living to retain possession of their Earthly realm. The Confederation of the Unliving were given dominion over the London Warrens and the adjacent Gloom Lands. Earth, while open to visitation and even residency, remains off-limits for predation by the undead. Although breaches do occur, the Confederation maintains an internal enforcement division to police offenders.
Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 7, Those That Live Not
. Zypheron Press Ltd., Eighth Edition.

37
. Although many variations of the “Alphabet of the Angels” appear in medieval grimoires, perhaps most notably in the infamous Beezle edition
Mythica Improbiba
(Taylor Institution Library Rare Book collection, Oxford University), none have authentically been deciphered. Those that claimed to have were all denounced later as fakes. Catholic Church officials claim that one must be blessed, i.e., be a saint or of angelic origin, to read the script.
Golden’s Guide to Extraordinary Books
, Victor Golden, 1958, Oxford.

38
.
Holy Bible,
King James translation, 1 Peter 5:8. —Editor.

               39               

TWO AGAINST ONE

Team Dragon and Team Wolf sprinted toward Eliot and the rest of Team Scarab.

Eliot wasn’t scared. He was ready to fight.

Robert had taught him how to stay cool and not burn through his adrenaline reserves when they’d sparred. He’d also learned when to move quick, strike, and finish an opponent before they knew what hit them.

The other teams spread out and slowed, making sure Team Scarab couldn’t escape.

One worry: Eliot had learned to fight only one-on-one.

How did you protect yourself against
sixteen
enemies at once? Or protect everyone else on your side?

Especially Jezebel. She looked like she’d already been through one major battle today.

For all Eliot knew, that could be true. Had she crossed some battlefield in Hell just to get to Paxington for midterms? He wished she’d open up and tell him.

Too much thinking. They had to take the initiative—or lose it.

“Fiona?” he whispered. “What’s the plan?”

She tore her gaze from the onrushing teams. She blinked, and her features screwed with intense concentration. “Right—the plan is to get to the jungle gym and our flag.”

Robert whispered, “You’re actually going to
play
this stupid game?”

“It be the only way,” Jeremy told him. “End the match, and then there’s no fighting allowed.”

“
If
that’ll stop Dragon and Wolf,” Mitch countered.

“At least on the gym, we’ll have some cover,” Sarah said, panic creeping into her voice.

Amanda’s hands were at her throat, too scared to add an opinion.

Fiona turned to Eliot. “Get us some cover to cross the field.”

Eliot nodded. He understood what she asked of him.

He might hurt the others. Or worse. But Van Wyck was out for
their
blood. Eliot had to defend himself and his teammates . . . whatever that took.

“Leave them to me.” His voice sounded hollow and cold and not his at all.

Eliot tapped his bow on Lady Dawn’s strings, the opening of “The March of the Suicide Queen,” and skipped a third of the way into the piece—where shrieking notes built to a crescendo: the entrance of the cannoneers.

He cast three shadows upon the grass, and through them wheeled forth cannon pushed by crews in mud-spattered blue uniforms with white bandoliers.
39

Their appearance from nowhere stopped the charging Dragons and Wolves dead in their tracks.

Van Wyck, after only a heartbeat to assess the situation, shouted, “Scatter! Quick! Circle around!”

The cannoneers lit the fuses while they sang:

Keep the powder dry
there’s little more dire
Watch your step, laddie
lest your boots a’mire
Stuff the wad with care
load the grapeshot, squire
Damn the devil back to hell
and let the cannons fire!

Flame and thunder belched from open metal maws.

A girl on Team Dragon motioned as a cannon ball arced toward her. The black iron blurred translucent and passed through her and into the earth.

Elsewhere, though, lawn exploded twice and cratered, and dirt showered into the sky.

Two on Team Wolf were blasted backwards—landed, bounced, and slowly crawled off . . . out of the fight for now.

Eliot worried how badly they were injured, but nonetheless played on.

His cannoneers tried in vain to reposition their artillery as the rest of Dragon and Wolf flanked them.

Well, Eliot could change tactics, too.

“Get ready to run,” he whispered to his team.

Only now did he look at his teammates. They watched the other teams, arms raised defensively . . . except Sarah and Jeremy, who stared at Eliot, astonished and openmouthed.

It was almost worth it to see their faces.

Eliot sank back into his music and played “The Symphony of Existence”—the part where you died and some spirits wandered aimlessly in limbo, forever lost.

Cannons and crews faded to shadow.

The air thickened as veils of haze collected into tendrils and then condensed into impenetrable fog.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he told them.

“Go, go!” Fiona urged.

Eliot heard their padded footfalls over the grass.

He did his best to keep the fog from closing on them, but the music was elusive and slippery . . . and the air filled with glowing eyes, outstretched skeletal hands, curling ropes of vapor . . . and drifting bodies that moaned.

Eliot paused and looked up.

Lost in the pea-soup-thick fog, he heard Van Wyck cry out, “Make fire. Call the winds. Anything to get rid of this stuff! And watch out for ghosts!”

Several of his Wolf teammates called back, unafraid.

It was only a matter of time before they undid his efforts. Every one one of them had magic. Eliot had to escape while he had a chance.

He started toward the jungle gym—but stopped, seeing that behind him was Jezebel.

She stood still, head cocked as if trying to pinpoint every sound whirling about her: spirit and flesh.

She hadn’t run with the others.

He took one step closer, hoping, his head spinning about one possibility. “You . . . you stayed?” he whispered. “For me?”

But the instant Eliot said it, he knew that was wrong.

Her eyes snapped open, jade green so intense, they seemed to smolder, and then her beautiful lips parted in a mocking smile.

“Young Prince Eliot Post,” she said, “so like his father, ever the hopeful romantic.” Her smile turned into a snarl.

Eliot’s face burned. He’d thought she cared enough to stay with him, endangering herself to do so. How did she always do this to him? Make him think she liked him, when she . . . what? Hated him?

But Eliot also burned on the inside . . . from the attraction he felt for her even now. In the middle of a pitched battle, surrounded by death and students who wanted to kill him, Eliot wanted nothing more than to embrace and kiss her.

This feeling sang in his blood and called to something in her blood. Something on fire. Something that moved and pounded and pulsed in time to her pulse.

Something diabolical.

Jezebel’s eyes widened. “Stop,” she breathed. “Do not. You do not understand.”

Eliot tried to heed her words, but found himself stepping closer. He could smell her cinnamon and vanilla perfume.

“Then explain,” he demanded in a hushed voice.

“You feel my . . .” Her gaze dropped and she flushed. “I
do
care,” she murmured. “But you feel my blood not because . . . because . . . of that, but because I give myself to the hate that burns within.”

That
stopped Eliot.

He blinked, indeed now feeling the screaming rage mixed with the passion swirling between them.

Eliot thought he understood. What he’d mistaken for an attraction . . . was not quite right. It
was
animalistic, primitive, and unstoppably building within her.

But it wasn’t lust. It was
blood
lust.

“You’re going to fight them,” he said. “All of them.”

“My injuries will only slow you. I choose to stand my ground.”

“They’ll tear you apart. I won’t let you.”

She laughed. “You
still
know nothing. I have been holding back. This seemed prudent, as Miss Westin and I had an agreement. But that pact was under normal circumstances . . . and this is very much
not
normal.”

Eliot felt her heat intensify, pulsing in waves.

Jezebel’s claws extended and fangs filled her mouth.

Mr. Ma had called it the “Infernal combat form.”

He took an instinctive step back. “Don’t do this,” he said. “Please.” He held out a hand, beckoning her to him.

“Run. Eliot,” she said. “Run while you can.” Jezebel’s voice deepened and darkened and seemed to echo from within a great space.
“Run before my rage blinds me. Before I consume all the living flesh that dares corrupt my dreadful presence!”

The air about her moved and charged with static. Her shadow spread outward in a black circle.

Jezebel’s claws dripped venom that hissed as it burned the sod. The faint blue-green veins under her skin bulged and twisted, some sprouting free as vines that twined with budding orchids. Delicate horns curled from her head, and snow-white bat wings ripped through her T-shirt—all swelling and unfolding, until she was twice his height.

She continued to grow, and Eliot stepped back, trying to see . . . losing her in the fog, making out only a winged silhouette towering thirty feet over him.

This was really Jezebel, Protector of the Burning Orchards and Duchess of the Many-Colored Jungle of the Infernal Poppy Kingdoms—terrible and magnificent.

Eliot felt hate flood and burn through his blood.

Was this what she truly was? Some fallen angel so far removed from the girl he thought he’d known?

He sighed, realizing his hate wasn’t for her. It would physically hurt Eliot to hate her. What she looked like didn’t matter.

She was willing to sacrifice herself for them. Maybe it was a rage-filled Infernal motivation, but she was going to throw herself at their enemies—vanquish them or, in turn, be vanquished.

Eliot wanted to join her. That’s why he felt the anger burn within. He wanted to be like his father, like her: Infernal, horrific, glorious—and destroy everything he touched.

Then reason returned and his blood chilled . . . and he was ordinary Eliot Post once more.

Team Dragon and Wolf were closing in.

Fiona and the others would need him.

He ran for the jungle gym.

39
. At the Battle of Waterloo, the field was muddy, and recoil caused cannon to bury themselves after repeated firing. One British squad known as the “Roaring Devils” remained to prevent French infantry from advancing, firing, according to legend, until three cannoneer teams perished, drowning in the mud. They were never found, but occasionally over the years, cannoneers in muddy uniforms are seen wandering under full moonlight—firing artillery at unseen foes.
Gods of the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 6, Modern Myths
. Zypheron Press Ltd., Eighth Edition.

               40               

GRUDGE MATCH

Eliot caught up to his teammates one story up on the jungle gym. They were on a landing and faced the balance beam bridge.

The beam was a single handsbreadth wide. There was no railing. Spiked steel balls swung over it, so to cross without getting your skull bashed in and then knocked off, you’d have to time it just right.

“Where’s Jezebel?” Fiona asked. She looked concerned, confused,
and
relieved that Eliot was alone.

Eliot shook his head, unable to explain, still trying to cool his blood.

He didn’t have to say anything, though. On the field, there was a thunderous roar and screams. Streaks of fire lit the fog, and a giant silhouetted shape moved.

“The Infernal combat form,” Jeremy whispered in awe.

“She’s buying us time,” Robert said.

Fiona gazed into the murk and bit her lower lip. “Okay—we have to go
now
. No more debate.”

Eliot looked away from his sister. Jezebel was strong, but she faced
two
teams. With her injuries, he wasn’t sure she could stop them all . . . or even survive. He wished he had stayed with her.

“Let me go first.” Sarah set a foot on the balance beam. “I’ll clear the way.”

Fiona frowned, but nodded and motioned her ahead.

Sarah pulled back her hair and tied into a knot. She walked onto the beam as graceful as a ballerina.

She approached the first deadly pendulum . . . took a deep breath, and then stepped
into
its path.

Eliot and Robert both involuntarily started toward her.

“No,” Jeremy warned. “Donna break her concentration.”

Sarah faced the spiked ball rushing toward her, one slender hand held to ward it off.

There was no way she’d stop it. The steel ball was as big as her head.

Her face was a mask of pure focus.

Inches before the ball struck Sarah—it burst into a cloud of confetti and fluttered to the ground in a thousand flashing colors.

“Bravo!” Jeremy cheered.

Of course. The Covingtons were conjurers, able to sometimes transmute one thing into another.

Sarah continued along the beam, confident now, pausing only to alter the deadly steel weights into more confetti, a splash of water, and a shower of tiny glittering garnets.

Robert, Fiona, and Mitch then crossed, using the now dangling lengths of chain for balance.

Amanda hesitated before the beam. Eliot thought she was going to chicken out, but she glanced back at him, turned, and stepped forward—not looking back.

Then Eliot went. It was like crossing the stone bridge from Uncle Henry’s island to the Council’s amphitheater. He moved without fear and found himself stepping onto a bamboo platform on the opposite side.

This new landing had ropes that ascended into the fog.

Jeremy was right behind him.

“Up!” Fiona told them—then she whirled around.

Donald van Wyck and four bruised members from Dragon and Wolf teams clambered onto the deck on the far side of the beam. They glared at Team Scarab across the distance.

Eliot looked behind his opponents to the field below.

The Infernal combat form of Jezebel took to the air, white bat wings beating in a vain attempt to fend off a pillar of fire on one side, a whirlwind on the other. Three students lay motionless on the ground, tangled in masses of flowering vines.

Eliot reached into his pack for his violin. He wouldn’t stand by and just watch her be hurt.

Fiona clamped a hand on his shoulder. “No way,” she whispered, and then as if knowing his thoughts, said, “The best way to help her now is to get to the flag. End the match.”

Eliot tore his gaze from the battle and nodded.

A boy from Green Dragon with military-cropped hair ran across the beam.

“He’s a Kaleb,” Jeremy whispered. “Don’t let him get close.”

“I’ve got him.” Fiona plucked the rubber band from her wrist. “Go!”

Eliot grabbed a rope and pulled himself up, hand over hand—a feat that a month ago would have been impossible. Robert was next to him on an adjacent strand. Mitch, Jeremy, and Sarah were behind them. Amanda struggled, but at least she was trying.

Fiona knelt and with one quick thrust severed the foot-thick balance beam.

The Kaleb boy and the timber fell into the fog.

Van Wyck pursed his lips and nodded to his teammates—one of whom vanished. The rest of them backed down. They’d have to find another way around.

Eliot climbed up onto the edge of straight runway. It was thirty feet long, five wide, and made of worn planks.

This gave him pause.

There was no trap to block their way . . . just a wide path that led to a wrought iron circular staircase.

At least there were no
obvious
obstacles.

Robert got up next, and together they helped the others climb.

Eliot and Robert, though, actually had to pull Amanda up. She clung to the rope stubbornly, her hair in her face but her mouth set in a grimace of determination.

Fiona joined them and marched forward.

“Wait. . . .” Mitch set a hand on her forearm. “It’s too easy.”

Eliot reached into his pack and strummed Lady Dawn.

The air along the path wavered. Spiderweb-fine wires appeared, resonating in sympathy with his violin.

These wires crisscrossed up and down and side to side, so it’d be impossible to pass. They were so thin, they’d have tripped over them—so razor sharp, they’d certainly have been sliced.

“What’s Mr. Ma trying to do to us?” Amanda set her hand to her throat.

“Apparently,” Sarah replied, “amputate a few arms and legs.”

Eliot wondered if Sarah was serious or just trying to scare poor Amanda.

“I’ll cut them,” Fiona said.

“You might not see them all,” Eliot countered.

He withdrew Lady Dawn and plucked three crisp notes.

Every wire twanged in sympathetic vibrations—and each one snapped, under so much tension that as they broke the air “cracked.”

Sarah hadn’t been kidding about amputation. Whoever engineered this had upped the stakes of gym class.

Robert took a careful step forward. “All clear. Should be easy from here on—”

Van Wyck and six more students swung through the fog on ropes and landed before them, on the far side of the runway.

He grinned as he approached Team Scarab.

“Finally,” Van Wyck said. “No more running. We settle this.” He snorted. “Although contrary to my best efforts, it appears we are evenly matched.”

“They just want a fight; they’re not even trying to win,” Fiona whispered. “The way to the flags is right behind them.” She looked to Robert and Jeremy and told them, “So we three will give them their fight.”

Then she glanced at Eliot, Amanda, Mitch, and Sarah. “And you guys get to the flag.”

Eliot started to protest.

But Van Wyck and the others charged.

Robert rushed to meet them. Fiona was right behind him. Jeremy, however, hesitated, and slinked to the edge of the runway.

Robert leaped, hitting Van Wyck and two other boys. They all went down in a heap of arms and legs. Eliot caught a glint of brass held in Robert’s hands as he punched one boy so hard, he broke the boards of the runway underneath.

Fiona skidded to a halt, both fists held out before her—her rubber band stretched between them.

Two girls and one boy stopped before her, confused, not knowing how to approach without getting cut.

Jeremy, meanwhile, touched the seasoned wood of the runway. The outer boards creaked and groaned and split away—the braces and supports beneath extending shakily outward along with them.

He turned and winked at them. Then, laughing, he jumped in the melee pile with Robert.

“Go!” Sarah urged. “He’s made a way around.”

Eliot jumped to the extended path. It was only a foot wide, and shuddered under his weight.

He held out his hands to Amanda (making sure he was braced).

She gulped, but jumped into his arms.

Mitch and Sarah leaped onto the boards as well, and they all ran past the fight.

A boy from Green Dragon pulled free of Jeremy’s grasp, whirled, and jumped into Eliot’s way.

The boy teetered, slightly off balance. He was twice Eliot’s size.

Eliot made a fist . . . shifted his center of gravity lower and hammered his fist upward, using his leg muscles to add to the force.

He felt the bone in the boy’s jaw crack.

The boy toppled, dazed, but managed to grab the edges of the board.

Eliot leaped over him and kept moving—

—until the entire jungle gym wrenched to the right.

Eliot dropped to all fours to keep from falling off.

Amanda toppled, but Eliot’s hand shot out and grabbed her.

The combat form of Jezebel crashed into the structure, snapping platforms, chain link, and oak support beams. One snowy white bat wing was on fire; the other bent and broken. In either massive taloned hand wriggled a member of Team Wolf, screaming as if their souls were being ripped from their flesh.

Two other opponents clung to Jezebel’s back. They blasted her with lightning, leaving craters of smoldering blackened flesh. Arcs of electricity played along her spine.

She stumbled, shattering the corner of the jungle gym to splinters.

The back part of the runway broke.

Eliot rocked forward. With one hand he gripped the plank; with the other he held on to Amanda, and they both stayed on.

Jezebel roared and tumbled to the ground.

Eliot felt his stomach fall with her. His fear and dread crystallized into raw determination, however. Eliot stood, pulling Amanda up with him. There was nothing he could do for Jezebel now except end this by winning.

He ran.

Sarah and Mitch followed his cue and they raced for the stairs.

Behind them, Van Wyck shouted, “Stop them. Quick, you fools!”

Eliot mounted the wrought iron staircase, circling up and around the spiral, practically dragging Amanda behind him.

He emerged on the top of the gym. Clouds raced alongside him. Hurricane winds whipped about and stung his eyes.

He spotted their flag—a fluttering black length and a flash of scarab gold.

Eliot ran for it . . . and with an outstretched hand, grabbed a fistful of silk.

So did Amanda. She shouted a primal victory scream.

Mitch and Sarah crashed into them, not bothering to slow down, grasping the flag as well.

A gunshot rang out.

The winds ceased.

The shuddering jungle gym stilled.

Van Wyck scrambled up the stairs and stopped. Rage colored his face as he saw them and realized that against all odds, Team Scarab had not only
survived
his cheating two-against-one grudge match . . . but they’d
won
.