by Eric Nylund
“Wow!” Eliot breathed. “Thanks, really!” He got up and gave Audrey a hug.
“Thank you, Mother,” Fiona said. She got up and gave Audrey a hug as well.
“Now, go wash up.” Audrey brushed volcanic ash from Fiona’s skirt. “I cannot believe Cecilia allowed you to the dinner table in such a filthy state.”
Eliot and Fiona obeyed and ran to the bathroom.
Fiona got there first, and started washing her hands.
“This is great,” Eliot told her as he examined his new phone.
“Don’t be a dork,” she replied, scrubbing her face.
“What’s your problem now?”
“We wouldn’t be getting all these things unless we’re going to need them,” Fiona said. “Unless there was real trouble coming. Like our heroic trials this summer. Paxington, the League, our father’s family-Mr. Welmann was right: This is going to be a lot harder than we thought.”
The happiness drained from Eliot.
His sister was correct. Today with the tests, that preview of gym class, the duel they witnessed, and the ride to Hell and back-all that had happened on their first day of high school.
With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Eliot realized that ahead of him was an entire year of days like this.
SECTION II. RIGORS OF ACADEMIC LIFE
14. BLOOD PEDIGREE
Fiona and Eliot strolled into the Hall of Plato. One hundred and twenty-six students, the entire freshman class of Paxington (minus themselves), filled the amphitheater seating of the classroom. The gaslights were lowered. It smelled of chalk dust and old books.
Miss Westin stood upon center stage and peered at them over her glasses. Her gaze chilled Fiona to the bone.
Heads turned their way, and everyone whispered.
“Master and Miss Post,” said Miss Westin. “How good of you to join us again.” She stepped to the lectern, opened a black book, and made two marks.
There had been some confusion this morning because Eliot’s rusty alarm clock had finally busted, and the grandfather clock in the dining room had been sent out for cleaning. Fiona could have sworn they were an hour early. . which was why they had dawdled, wandering the halls of Paxington, admiring the murals and mosaics that covered the walls. The ones in Plato’s Court showed gods, their battles, and wondrous pastoral scenes with eighteenth-century ladies in flowing dresses.
“Find a seat,” Miss Westin said. She turned to blackboards suspended by chains from the ceiling. They were covered in her perfect cursive script, and one board had the title, Origins of the Modern Magical Families (Part One).
Fiona looked for seats. There were concentric circles of fold-down seats and desks, but all were taken.
In the dim light, she saw Mitch Stephenson and Robert; either boy, she bet, would have given up his seat. . which would have been nice, but she didn’t want to make any more of a scene than they already had.
“They’re all full,” Eliot whispered. He donned his glasses and looked around the lecture hall. “Should we stand in the doorway?”
How humiliating. Their first real class, and already they looked like total dorks.
“I guess so. . ”
As she turned, however, Fiona spotted Jeremy and Sarah Covington waving to her. They pulled off backpacks and jackets they had set in adjacent seats.
“Ugh. .,” Eliot said.
“Don’t be that way. Come on.”
She clambered down toward the Covingtons, but hesitated. Did she sit next to Jeremy, who had once tried to kiss her? Or next to Sarah, who, for some reason, intimidated her even more than Jeremy did?
Jeremy patted the seat next to him and smiled.
Fiona sat next to Sarah (who scooted away from her).
“Thanks,” Fiona whispered.
“You are most welcome, teammate,” Jeremy said.
Eliot and Jeremy exchanged awkward smiles, and then Eliot took the seat by him.
“About time,” said the boy in front of them, clearly annoyed by this disruption.
“Shhh.” Jeremy’s stare bored into the back of the boy’s head.
Miss Westin cleared her throat. “Before we start our lecture on the modern families, we shall review the origins of various magical lines.”
She pulled down a section of blackboard, revealing a gorgeous illustration of an oak tree in cross section-like those diagrams showing the evolution of protozoa, dinosaur, bird, chimpanzee, and finally modern man.
In this diagram, however, Fiona saw leaves and intricate wood grain, and upon the tips of the upper branches were neatly printed names, and on the lower branches Greek symbols, cuneiform. . and then older unrecognizable symbols.
“The ancient forces,” Miss Westin lectured, “the Old Ones, the gods, Infernals, and the Fey-these are our murky past, and much of what we know of it are lies. As you review the texts, note the obvious embellishments and question all ‘truths.’ ”
She gestured at the lowest branches, the ones gnarled and clearly dead. “We merely mention the existence of the Primordial Ones from before time. All are dead or forever banished-incomprehensible now and forever-more to mortals and Immortals alike. We leave their delicate and dangerous studies for your junior and senior years.”
The symbols on those lower branches were lines and dots and tangles of geometries that compressed to points as Fiona stared at them. She felt suffocated-strangled. She blinked, and the symbols were once more flat and plain chalk.
She should be writing this all down. Fiona fumbled out her notebook, accidentally nudging the boy in front of her.
The boy turned around. “Do you mind?” He was pale; his hair, dark and straight and falling in a neat angle across his glare.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Eyes up front, cad,” Jeremy spat back.
The boy snorted, but nonetheless turned back to face the lecture.
Fiona’s face burned. She was glad she was in the shadows. She nudged Eliot so he, too, could take notes, but his eyes were riveted on the blackboard to where Miss Westin next pointed.
“The Titans,” Miss Westin said. “Their origin and connection to the Old Ones is murky at best. This branch, with one notable exception, is now extinct.”
Fiona squinted. She read crossed-out names on that branch: Oceanus, Hyperion, and Tethys. The one not crossed out was Cronos, the Harvester, Keeper of the Sands of Time, founding member of the League of Immortals, aka Cornelius Nikitimitus.[17]
Uncle Cornelius? The frail old man on the Council was one of the oldest living things in the world?
Fiona scanned the other names, followed a side branch, and her breath caught in her throat as she read: (Son of Iapeuts) Prometheus, Bringer of Fire, aka Perry Millhouse.
Perry Millhouse had been a Titan, too. Nausea rolled inside her as she remembered how it had felt to cut through him.
“The Titans,” Miss Westin continued, “were the progenitors of many of the gods of the prehistoric and classical eras. Their children rose up to challenge them, recruiting some to their cause-but in most cases eliminating their parents altogether.”
Fiona’s mouth dropped open, horrified. Uncle Henry, her mother-they had murdered their own mothers and fathers? Was that what they were afraid Eliot and she might do one day? Was that the reason Immortals treated their offspring so badly? Because they were afraid of them?
“This transition from Titan to the Immortals,” Miss Westin said, “occurred circa eight thousand years B.C.E.”
That was ten thousand years ago. They were all so old. Fiona felt suddenly insignificant. Was that what she glimpsed when she looked into her mother’s eyes? The experience and knowledge of millennia judging her fifteen years of attitude and arrogance?
She searched the next branch-the Immortals-and found two familiar names: Hermes, messenger/spymaster for the League of Immortals, aka Henry Mimes; Ares, League of Immortals Warlord, aka Dr. Aaron Sears.
There was another branch next to this-connected only by a dotted line and punctua
ted by a question mark.
On this offshoot were three names: Atropos, Lachesis, Clothos.[18]
“Atropos,” Fiona whispered to Eliot. “Audrey. . Post.”
He nodded.
She wanted to ask Miss Westin what that dotted connecting line meant. Fiona started to raise her hand, but she hadn’t seen anyone else interrupt the lecture. She’d wait until the end of class.
Miss Westin indicated another branch. This one coiled up from the base, a snaking vine with a dozen names, like Sealiah, Leviathan, and several that had been crossed out, such as Satan and Beelzebub (which sent shivers down Fiona’s back).
One name was most peculiar in that it had been written, crossed out, and then rewritten: Lucifer-the Prince of Darkness, the Morning Star, aka Louis Piper, her father. .
“The Infernals are the exception to the preclassical cutoff date for living immortal beings,” Miss Westin explained. “Many of the fallen angels are still active in their Lower Realms. . and occasionally venture to the Middle Realms as well.
“Other immortal branches”-Miss Westin gestured to a half dozen others, grayed out-“the Fairies or Folk of the Aire, the King’s Men, Atlanteans, and the Heavenly Angels are all thought dead or departed.”
Jeremy leaned over Eliot’s lap, closer to Fiona. “The Fairies be hardly gone,” he said. “I’ve seen them-chased the little buggers, even held their gold. That’s how I came to find myself in the Valley.”
Sarah sighed as if she had heard this a hundred times.
Fiona nodded to be polite, but she really wanted to hear Miss Westin’s lecture, and wished he would shut up.
“Now,” Miss Westin said, “on to the mortal magical families.”
She pulled down a section of the adjacent blackboard. On it was a detailed expansion of the younger, topmost branches with dozens of names, including Van Wyck, Covington, Kaleb, and Scalagari. There were also more cryptic titles like “The Dreaming Families” and “Isla Blue Tribe.”[19]
“The thing about Fairies,” Jeremy continued to tell Fiona, oblivious of the lecture, “is that they didn’t want anyone to know they’re still alive. They had it in for me because I knew. Lured me with a trail of gold. . just to shut me mouth. What they didn’t know was-”
The pale boy in front of them turned and quietly but firmly told Jeremy, “Too bad they couldn’t keep it shut, Covington. Close your piehole, before I close it for you.”
Jeremy considered this threat, and his lips curled into a cruel smile.
“Here we go,” murmured Sarah. She closed her notebook and set down her pen.
Jeremy eased back in his seat and held up both hands. “Of course, laddie. My apologies.”
The boy glared at him a moment and then turned back to the lecture.
Jeremy picked up his copy of Bulfinch’s Mythology-and slammed it into the back of the boy’s head.
The boy reeled forward, scattering his papers onto the floor.
Fiona was stunned. She knew there could be fights at Paxington; she’d seen that duel the very first day. . but in class?
Miss Westin clapped her hands once. That instantly got the entire room’s attention. Even the boy who’d been clobbered looked at her, and didn’t move or say a word.
Miss Westin took a deep breath and in an even voice said, “Mr. Covington, Mr. Van Wyck-if you have differences to work out, do so outside my classroom.” She looked them over a moment, a gaze that reminded Fiona of glacier ice, utterly cold and unstoppably crushing. “I sense your blood is up, however, so the lecture will be suspended for ten minutes. Resolve this. Now.”
“Suits me perfectly,” Jeremy said, and stood. “This Van Wyck cad should be taught some manners, using such language before a lady.” He gave a quick bow in Fiona’s direction.
Fiona pushed herself deeper into her seat. She felt as if everyone were staring at her.
Jeremy hit him on her account? Or was that just an excuse?
The other boy got up.
Although he was on a lower row in front of them, he stood taller than Jeremy by a full head and was so bulky, it looked like he could, and would, pick up Jeremy with one meaty hand and crush him. “Okay, Covington, you’re on.” He stalked out of the lecture hall.
Jeremy pushed past Fiona. Sarah got up to follow her cousin.
So did Eliot. . and then Fiona. . and then everyone in the class.
Outside they all crowded about Jeremy and the Van Wyck boy. Looking at the ludicrous size difference between the two, Fiona was seriously worried Jeremy was going to get killed.
The Van Wyck boy looked down on Jeremy, pausing. . because perhaps he was wondering what it would prove to beat up someone in such a mismatch?
“Why don’t we forget about this,” the Van Wyck boy offered. “There’s no point in fighting. Unless you were going to use only magic.”
Robert Farmington sidled up next to Fiona. At first she didn’t recognize him in his neatly pressed school uniform. He had gotten a haircut, too.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Robert whispered to her.
“Me, too,” she said. “But now’s not the time.”
“Right.”
Robert sounded disappointed. But how did he expect her to talk when Jeremy was about to get pounded flat?
Jeremy stuck his face a hand’s span from the other boy’s. “You want to see me magic? Well, here’s some.”
Jeremy spit into his face.
The Van Wyck boy turned red. He stepped back, cleaning off the spittle with one quick angry wipe. “Okay, Covington-you asked for it!”
Jeremy backed off, smiled, and danced back and forth as the other boy started shrugging off his jacket.
Jeremy didn’t wait. He socked him in the nose.
Bone and cartilage cracked.
The Van Wyck boy fell backwards into the wall, both hands covering his face, tears gushing from his eyes.
The students cheered and yelled.
Jeremy punched him in the gut. He lashed out with his foot, connecting with the other boy’s knee.
The Van Wyck boy doubled over. His leg crumpled.
Jeremy kicked him once, twice.
Fiona felt something greasy in the back of her throat and thought she might be sick.
Miss Westin watched impassively, arms folded over her chest, almost as if she were grading the boys on a test.
If no one was going to stop this-Fiona would.
She pushed her way through the crowd.
Jezebel, though, got there first. The other students let her pass, seeming to fear getting in the way of an Infernal. She stepped between Jeremy and the Van Wyck boy just as Jeremy brought back his foot for another kick.
“You’ve won,” Jezebel said.
Jeremy blinked, and the rage faded from his eyes. “Do you think so?” He drew back, smiling, for one final coup de grâce.
“First blood”-Jezebel nodded to the downed boy-“is as far as they allow in campus duels.”
Jeremy lost his smile as he watched his opponent cough a globule of blood and snot from his face.
“Continue if you want,” Jezebel nonchalantly told him, “but it would be a shame to have a team member suspended over such a trivial rule.” She glanced at Fiona. “And over such a slight reason.”
Jeremy straightened his jacket and brushed back his silky blond hair. He knelt and told the boy, “That should teach you a lesson. Next time, mind your manners when in the presence of a lady.”
Jeremy then bowed to Fiona, and although he faced her, he seemed to be performing for the watching crowd. “Your honor be upheld, fair maid.”
A few girls giggled.
Fiona wanted to slap Jeremy’s grin off his face. . but there’d been enough violence for one day.
Miss Westin, without comment, turned and marched back to class. Most of the students took this as their cue to leave as well.
Fiona went to the Van Wyck boy to help him up, and even though it wasn’t her fault, she thought she should apologize.
The boy’s bloodshot eyes stopped her cold, however; it was pure spitting-cobra venom.
He blamed her. And there’d be no explaining or apologizing it away.
Fiona also knew that somehow, one day, he was going to get even with Jeremy… and with her.
15. THE TRUTH WILL HURT
Jezebel stepped off the Night Train, slipped off her loafers, and set her bare feet upon the black loam of the Poppy Lands of Hell.
She wriggled her toes, felt her blood pulse, and felt the warmth and life flow back into her bones.
Although she wore the uniform of a Paxington schoolgirl (not the pantyhose, however; there were limits to what she would endure), and although she looked much like a mortal girl (albeit one of extraordinary and enchanting beauty), within her heart beat pure poison and hellfire.
She was Infernal. This was her domain.
They belonged to each other.
Jezebel inhaled the pollen-laden air, tasted the odors of vanilla and honeysuckle, the sweet decay and mold spore.
Behind her, the train hissed and screamed and pulled out of the station house.
Jezebel picked up her book bag and strolled to the adjacent stables.
Servants bowed and scraped before the Duchess of the Many-Colored Jungle and Handmaiden to the Mistress of Pain.
They handed her the reins of the readied Andalusian mare.
The snow-white beast neighed, stomped with razor-shod hooves, and then bowed its head as well, recognizing her status.
Jezebel mounted, wheeled about, and galloped toward the Twelve Towers to make her report.
The Poppy Lands lay in perpetual twilight. Luxuriant fields of color spread in all directions; opium flowers and orchids looked like a galaxy of fallen stars. Between thunderous hoofbeats, she heard the endless churning of worm and cockroach through the rich soil. In the distant hills rose the jungle, thick and dark, covered with vines and moldering with resplendent fungus.
She dimly remembered what it was to be mortal in this realm, and she recalled being repelled by the narcotic decay and the overwhelming vapors.
This was a dim memory, though-the vestiges of her hope-filled human soul.