All That Lives Must Die (67 page)

This wasn’t happening. She wouldn’t let go. Not ever.

The flames crackled with renewed intensity, they flared and sputtered and sparked. Fiona felt his strength fade . . . and his very touch dissolve to dust.

The fire guttered and died.

Mephistopheles’ shadows were gone. His patchwork soldiers stumbled and fell apart. A mighty cheer rose from Sealiah’s knights.

Fiona had nothing but an armful of ashes. She tried to hold them; they blew away. When she looked up, her vision blurry with tears, she saw Robert standing near.

Louis sauntered up, and his smile faded as he beheld Fiona and her blackened hands.

Eliot ran up to her as well—stopped short, seeing the sword and the ashes—having no clue what had happened, but able to read Fiona’s pain.

And finally Sealiah and a retinue of knights approached. Where she stepped the soil churned with worms and roots and covered with flowering moss. She nodded at each of them, practically glowing with pleasure, and looking more regal and lovely than ever.

“The war is over,” the Queen of Poppies announced. “The House of Umbra has fallen. We are victorious.”

Fiona glared at them all—hating them more than she had anything, most of all Robert. She wanted to get up and cut them to pieces. The rage built within her until all she saw were red pulses.

But she held back.

Fighting without thinking—what had it cost her in blood and pain and the people she’d loved? That’s how she’d gotten here in the first place. She vowed she wouldn’t repeat that mistake.

It’d take time, but she had to consider what this meant to her. She wasn’t sure what exactly she had to do first . . . but Fiona knew with all her heart and soul that
her
war with the Infernals had just begun.

67
. The first printed Faust legend is
Historia von D. Johann Fausten
(1587) written by an anonymous German author. The publisher Johann Spies (1540–1623), however, claimed the chapbook was culled from the journal of the original Dr. Faustus. He explains that Faustus ritualistically invited the Devil to reside within him, so that the Devil could share mortal experiences (such as love), while he would gain Infernal knowledge. In a note scribbled on his first draft—Christopher Marlowe (1564–1593), author of the English
The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus,
claimed to have used the same ritual. Marlowe was reputedly an atheist, and while awaiting trial for heresy, Marlowe died. Numerous accounts say that he was killed in a drunken brawl, assassinated, while some claim that he stepped into a shadow and was never seen again. Marlowe was buried in an unmarked grave at St. Nicholas, Deptford, so this later assertion cannot be disproved. The Journal of Dr. Faustus resides in the Beezle Collection, part of the Taylor Institution Library Rare Book collection, Oxford University, and may be viewed only by special permission from the Stephenson Family Trust.
Golden’s Guide to Extraordinary Books
, Victor Golden, 1958, Oxford.

               81               

INFERNAL LORD

By the time Eliot pushed and shoved his way past Sealiah’s knights, all he saw was Fiona. Mephistopheles was gone.

Sealiah, Robert, Mr. Welmann, and even Louis were all there, staring at his sister.

Fire burned in Fiona’s lap. The coals disintegrated to ash even has Eliot watched. The heat didn’t seem to hurt Fiona or even scorch the shreds of her school skirt.

Eliot was about to ask her what had happened—but shut his mouth as his eyes met hers. They were red from crying and full of pain . . . and utter contempt for all of them.

Across the battlefield shadows dissolved and vanished; patchwork soldiers either fell apart, or they came to their senses and rejoined Sealiah’s army.

The war was over.

Eliot wanted to shout in triumph, but his elation died as he glanced at Robert, who looked like he’d been hurt, covered in blood . . . but more than that, hurt on the inside. Mr. Welmann held him back from Fiona.

Eliot couldn’t stand it. “Fiona,” he whispered. “What happened?”

The fire in her lap guttered and went out. Fiona examined her ash-covered hands. She finally looked up at Eliot. He’d never seen her in such agony.

“It was Mitch,” she said.

She had to be dazed. Eliot shook his head. “That’s not possible. It was Mephistopheles.”

In hushed tones, she explained exactly how it
was
possible. How Mephistopheles approached Mitch, the distant progeny of Dr. Faustus—how Mitch had let him in—how Mephistopheles purposely had
not
dragged them into this war . . . as it had been planned by Sealiah and Louis and the rest of the Infernal Board.

As she related this last bit, she glared at their father.

Louis rolled his eyes and made a gesture with his hands as if to say,
What exactly did you expect?

Eliot had never suspected Mitch. He’d studied and fought by an Infernal all year and hadn’t even sensed it? Eliot
had
known about Sealiah’s part in this, though. Jezebel had admitted as much. That little truth and trust between them had made it all the more difficult to abandon her.

But the thing that really got to Eliot was how connected it at all been. The Infernal Board had been involved? His father?

“Mephistopheles had just agreed to leave Sealiah a bit of land,” Fiona continued in a whisper. “He would have withdrawn. There could have been peace between everyone.”

There was more to this she wasn’t telling. Eliot picked up on it: how Fiona had liked Mitch . . . and how she’d been reaching out to him before Robert had struck him down. Things had been strained and awkward between Fiona and Robert before this. Now? There’d be a rift between them that’d never heal . . . because it wasn’t just Mephistopheles who had been ready to leave the battle—Fiona had been ready to go
with
him.

“There would have been peace?” Sealiah said with a toss of her coppery hair. “Then disaster has been averted. An ignoble death for our opponent, and all’s well that ends well.”

Eliot felt Sealiah’s power return in a tidal rush. Her connection reestablished to her lost domains . . . as well as Mephistopheles’ now-conquered lands. A crown of woven thorns snaked through her hair and blossomed.

Fiona glared daggers at the Queen, which Sealiah ignored as she turned Robert. “And our thanks to you, my Champion. You have Our favor.”

Robert nodded, accepting this “honor,” and handed Sealiah back her sword’s scabbard. All the color, however, drained from him as he took in Fiona’s pained expression.

Sealiah retrieved Saliceran from where it lay in the dirt. She flicked the blade and char sloughed off. The Damascus steel once more wept poison, and fumed where this dripped upon the earth.

Sealiah put the sword away. Eliot shuddered at the wet scraping sound as it slid back into its sheath.

“There is still much to do,” Sealiah told them, a smile spreading across her face. “There are the spoils of war. Celebrations. Honors and treasures to take!”

Fiona stood with great deliberation. She looked at them. Behind her gaze was unstoppable death. Hate rolled off her in waves.

She blinked, however, and looked away.

“
You
celebrate.” She turned and walked off. “I’ve lost . . . everything.”

No one followed her. No one said a thing.

Eliot knew that he should let her be. In her current emotional state, one wrong word could set her off. Better to let her cool and then they would talk.

But as much as he knew that was the logical thing to do, he couldn’t let her suffer alone. He had to stand by her side as he always had for him. Cee had always said: they were stronger together.

“Fiona,” he whispered, catching up to her. “Talk to me. Please.”

She turned and examined him. There was no hate or pain in her eyes anymore, just a long thoughtful glance. She shook her head.

Had this been his fault? Certainly part of it had. If they hadn’t come to Hell, Amanda would be alive, that’s for sure. Sealiah would’ve lost the war, though, which meant Jezebel would’ve been dead—or worse. And Mitch . . . wasn’t it better that they found out about him?

Either way, no matter what he would have done,
someone
lost.

And either way, one of the Infernals gained something: either Eliot helping Sealiah, or Fiona unknowingly falling in love with Mephistopheles.

“It’s not your fault,” Fiona whispered, guessing what he was thinking. “It’s theirs.” She nodded at the Queen and Louis. “The Infernals have used us from the start.”

“Yeah,” Eliot whispered back. “Maybe.”

“They are evil,” Fiona said. “We have to stop them.”

He nodded.

And yet, Eliot wondered how different the Infernals were from the League. The Immortals manipulated them; they manipulated the entire world. What had happened in Costa Esmeralda had to be the tip of the iceberg.

“Eliot,” Louis called. He made a come-hither gesture and pursed his lips tight to indicate some urgency.

“I better go see what he wants. Are you going to be okay?”

Fiona considered a moment. “No,” she said. “But I’m not going to do anything rash. This is going to take a lot of thinking to figure out.”

Eliot reached out and gave her elbow a squeeze. The corner of Fiona’s mouth worked into a microscopic smile, then faltered and collapsed.

Something inside Eliot wanted to take his sister’s hand and run as far and fast away from this place as he could. Everything was changing around them. Literally. The land thawed and grass pushed up from the earth. The sun shrank to a golden orb. Iron gray thunderheads lightened and spread across the sky in a silver layer of overcast.

There was more. He felt it. But he couldn’t
understand
any of it yet.

“Eliot,” Louis called.

Against his better instincts, Eliot jogged to his father.

Robert met him halfway. “How is she?” he asked. “I didn’t know it was him.”

He meant Mitch, or rather, Mephistopheles. Every trace of Robert’s cool was gone. He looked worried and guilty and more than a little angry that he had supposedly delivered the winning blow in this war . . . and lost Fiona in the process.

“It looked like he was going to . . .” Robert’s forehead creased. “I didn’t know what he was going to do. I just knew that I had to stop him.”

Eliot wondered for a split second—if Robert
had
known it was Mitch, would he have stopped and let him take Fiona? Or would he have still thrown the sword and killed him? No—he dismissed that idea. Robert didn’t work like that.

“Fiona will be okay,” Eliot told him. “She just has a lot to think about.”

Robert took a step toward her.

“I wouldn’t talk to her yet, though. Seriously.”

Robert considered that, nodded, and wandered off.

Eliot finally got to Louis, who arched an eyebrow at how long it had taken him. He motioned for Eliot to stand before him, and Louis set his hands on Eliot’s shoulders and angled him at Sealiah.

The Queen gave rapid orders to her knights: “Release any souls in thrall—those loyal to Mephistopheles grind up to replenish the land—send runners for engineers and gardeners—strengthen our borders or we may lose the edges.”

Louis cleared his throat.

Sealiah turned and regarded Louis with distain.

“You,” she murmured, “. . . are still here. Why?” Her gaze softened as she took in Eliot. “And my young Dux Bellorum who coaxed out the sun out and won the day. Worry not. Our Jezebel shall be reconstructed, lovelier than ever.”

“I believe you said something about the ‘spoils of war’?” Louis said.

Her face grew cold. “Did I?”

“As one of your generals,” Louis said, “I claim my share in land.”

Sealiah laughed. “Why not wish for the moon, Louis? You barely fought. It was Eliot, Fiona, and Robert who deserve the glory.”

Louis shrugged. “Nonetheless, I played my part as your Dux Bellorum. It matters not the state of my cowardice or the quantity of blood spilled. I was here. I participated. I claim my right.” His sly smile returned. “Unless you wish to renege? I could take my dispute to the Board.”

Sealiah’s red lips turned white. “Name the domain from our conquered enemy,” she said. “But try not my patience, Deceiver.”

“I would never dare such a thing,” Louis replied with a nod. “I claim . . .” He cupped his crooked chin, thinking. “Just an acre or two from the Hysterical Kingdom—far from here, I assure you. The Mirrored City?”

Louis’s gaze traveled to the ground and he licked his lips. He bent over and found a mass of twisted, charred cloth at their feet. “The small bit as well,” he said to her. “After all, it was mine to begin with.” He shook the tangle out and ashes filled the air. Eliot thought it might have been the remains of a black velvet cloak. Mephistopheles’? It was hard to tell.

“Done,” Sealiah declared. “But take great care, Louis, not to push your city limits farther into the Hysterical Kingdom . . . which is now mine.”
68

Louis bowed low—but not so low that he took his eyes off her.

Sealiah blinked and turned back to her knights.

Louis cleared his throat again and gestured to Eliot, as if presenting him to the Queen for the first time.

Sealiah seemed to understand this and smiled.

Eliot shifted, uncomfortable under her smoldering gaze.

Sealiah said, “And what treasure do you wish, my young noble born?”

“What do I want? I don’t—”

Louis poked a sharp fingernail into Eliot’s back.

Eliot stood straighter. That hurt, but it’d been a clear warning. Something was going on here that he did not understand . . . something Infernal.

What
did
Eliot want? Sealiah had already told him she would heal Jezebel. That’s what this had all been about: him and her. Right?

But it
wouldn’t
just be him and Jezebel; she would always be Sealiah’s protégée—her slave, actually.

Eliot felt sorry for Jezebel. He loved her, too. But the magnitude of political intrigue and her Infernal ties meant that they could never have a normal boyfriend-girlfriend relationship. If Sealiah ordered her later to stab Eliot in the back, he wasn’t sure Jezebel could refuse.

Why was it so complicated?

He was missing something, though, right in front of him. He could feel it just out of his mental reach . . . at his fingertips . . . in the air around him . . . in the dirt under his sneakers.

Yes, the land.

He cocked his head back to his father. “Why did you want land?”

Louis smile seemed to melt from its usual mocking crookedness to something genuine. “Land is
everything
.” He gave a theatrical wave of his hand. “If I were you, I would pick a Dolorous Archipelago on the Mirrored Sea, next to my city.”

“Quiet your wagging tongue, Louis.” Sealiah’s hand rested on the pommel of Saliceran. “Or I shall cut it out and feed it to my dogs.”

Louis shut his mouth with an audible clack of teeth.

“You do not want land, Eliot,” Sealiah told him as if he were a child about to stick his finger into a light socket. “It’s a tremendous responsibility, one that would be impossible to manage while you were at school.” She tapped her lower lip, considering. “Why not let me give you a mansion in San Francisco? One with swimming pools, game rooms, a kitchen, and a full staff?”

She sounded worried. Eliot had definitely stumbled onto something.

“Or a yacht,” Sealiah continued. “Or a real, living band and a recording deal. You would be the next big thing. The whole world would flock to your concerts.”

While Eliot had grown to appreciate having a band to play with, the thought of tens of thousands of people in an audience made his stomach churn.

What
was
he missing? Was what it about land that had everyone so worked up?

He knew it’d look strange, but was drawn to the earth, so he knelt and touched the dirt. There were worms and beetles and tiny bell-shaped flowers with blue veins that uncurled in the soil.

He remembered when he had touched the dirt through the Gates of Perdition—when Uncle Kino had ditched him and Fiona there. That earth had been dead, lifeless for a billion years . . . but there had been a “malleable” quality to it. It was hard to explain, just a feeling that he
could
make something out of it if he put his mind to it.

What Louis had said about land came rushing back to him:
“We are monarchs of the domains of Hell, the benevolent kings and queens over the countless souls who are drawn there to worship us. Without land, we would be the lowest of the low.”

“So,” Eliot said, “if you own land in Hell, you’re the king or queen of it? You control the souls there?”

“Land,” Sealiah replied, “is what defines an Infernal Lord. And yes, the souls belong to you . . . but the damned are far more trouble and time than they are worth.”

Fiona wandered back to where they stood.

“What’s going on?” Fiona asked, concerned. She must have sensed the same “something” about to happen as Eliot had. The change in the land, and more than that, the change about to happen in Eliot.