All That Lives Must Die mc-2

by Eric Nylund

“Aunt Dallas?”

  “I hope you weren’t expecting someone else,” Dallas said. “I have a surprise for you this afternoon.” She tilted her head and looked out the window. “And your friend, too. If you’re game.”

  22. A PROBLEM NEVER MEANT TO BE SOLVED

  Eliot watched Jezebel tromp down the corridor. The students who had gathered to watch them fight moved on as well.

  He had to find Fiona and tell her everything. They were smarter together. They could figure out what Jezebel, Infernal protégée, once Julie Marks, was doing here at Paxington.

  He backtracked to the lecture hall and spotted familiar faces from class, but no Fiona. Maybe she had gone to the library. He turned and marched toward the Hall of Wisdom.

  He thought about calling her, but remembered the “no cell phone” rule in the library. The staff confiscated them if they rang, and he wasn’t sure Fiona would have turned hers off.

  There were so many little things like their phones they still had to get used to. . let alone the big things.

  Like Jezebel being Julie.

  Eliot’s instincts about her had been right all along. But she wasn’t really Julie anymore. She was an Infernal. Dangerous.

  But was all of the Julie he’d known gone? There was hope, wasn’t there, that there was still something between them?

  Or was he just an extreme loser, and that was nothing but wishful thinking?

  Eliot sat on a bench. He set his roiling emotions aside-he’d try to sort through the facts.

  First, Jezebel was an Infernal. That’s how she’d announced herself at Paxington, and he believed Miss Westin wouldn’t let her lie about something like that.

  Second, she admitted she’d been Julie Marks.

  Third, she had told him the truth. . except when she told him she wished she’d never met him.

  Eliot knew it was a lie. How he knew exactly, he wasn’t sure. But from her reaction when he’d accused her, he was certain.

  All this left him with one solid speculation: The Infernal families were involved again in his and Fiona’s lives. They were using Jezebel. . or Julie as a piece in some game whose rules he didn’t know.

  And he knew this game could be deadly. Julie had been punished for her failure with him: killed again, dragged to Hell. . and tortured.

  Eliot’s mouth went dry.

  His first priority had to be to learn something about the Infernals’ game. Then he’d move a few pieces of his own. Defensive moves. And maybe, just maybe, learn how to capture Julie and bring her over to his side of the board.

  He got up and strode to the library to find Fiona.

  A few students had gathered to chat by the Little Faun Pool, where several bronze statues of dancing fauns and satyrs, giant mushrooms and gigantic flowers were artfully placed about a reflection pool filed with lotus and koi.

  Eliot recognized students from Team Wolf there. They’d won their first match in gym in six minutes four seconds, and inflicted three broken limbs on the other team to do so.

  He hoped Team Scarab got their act together before they faced them.

  Eliot veered away, not wanting any more confrontation today, and angled toward the House of Wisdom.

  Within the library’s twin sandstone pyramids and under its glittering golden dome, Eliot and Fiona had gotten lost twice so far this year in the stacks. Someone should have handed out maps. There were hundreds of thousands of medieval books; illuminated manuscripts; ancient Roman, Greek, Chinese, and Egyptian scrolls; and first-edition Shakespeare folios with stories Eliot had never even seen cataloged.

  They’d found weirder things, too: thin volumes that wavered as if they were mirages (he didn’t touch those), one room with marble busts whose eyes definitely followed him, and plenty of off-limits sections. Eliot wondered if there was a section of Infernal books.

  Eliot spotted Robert Farmington on the long sweep of library stairs. He spoke to a girl (not Fiona) who had her back to Eliot.

  He flashed Eliot a look of recognition and a warning to not interrupt.

  Eliot nodded, understanding as he saw the girl’s hair: a tangerine color that could belong only to Sarah Covington.

  Eliot didn’t want to cross paths with her. She’d been nothing but mean to him. He wondered how she had any friends at all-and yet, maybe being cruel was the secret to popularity at Paxington, because Sarah had dozens of admirers who surrounded her, smiled at her jokes, and hung on her every word.

  Eliot could pass Immortal heroic trials and survive Infernal plots, but he flunked the basics of how to get along with people.

  Robert and Sarah finished their conversation. She laughed and waved good-bye, and wandered up to the library without turning to acknowledge Eliot.

  Robert trotted over to him.

  “Hey,” Eliot said.

  “What happened to you?” Robert asked. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

  “It’s complicated.” Eliot glanced up the stairs at Sarah Covington. She joined with a group of girls, and laughing, they entered the library. “Why were you talking to her? She’s not. . very nice.”

  Robert wriggled uncomfortably inside his Paxington jacket. “You’d be surprised. She acts one way in public. I think it has to do with her family-so prestigious, they’re not supposed to bother with lesser people like me. Get her alone, though, and she’s nice enough.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” Eliot replied. “You think Jeremy’s like that?”

  “No way. That guy is pure grade-A jerk.”

  “Agreed,” Eliot said. “Have you seen Fiona?”

  “No. .” Robert looked around, uneasy, and Eliot knew there was something wrong between those two.

  Apparently even Robert, who had been all over the world, and probably had had a dozen girlfriends, still had problems with girls. Somehow, it was reassuring.

  “You headed out?” Robert nodded toward the front gate. “I’ve got to go. Too many people around for me to think.”

  Eliot decided he could talk to Fiona tonight about Jezebel. Finding Robert in a talkative mood was a rare thing, and he wouldn’t waste the opportunity.

  “Sure,” Eliot said. They walked together down the steps. “Maybe you can help me out. You ever been with a girl you thought hated you. . but she really liked you?”

  Robert laughed. “All the time.” He sobered. “Very recently, in fact-”

  “You mean Fiona. She’s just worried about how the League would react if, you know, they found out about you.”

  “I figured that out,” Robert said. “Figured, too, that there might no way for me to be with her. . and keep my skin in one piece. It sucks.”

  Eliot felt weird talking about his sister this way. Romance and boys and Fiona weren’t supposed to go together.

  Maybe everyone had trouble when it came to intimate relations. Heck, if supercool Robert got his heart stomped. . what chance did Eliot have?

  They walked in silence, crossed the quad, and approached the main gate.

  “So,” Eliot started again, “what do you do if you think you found the one special girl?”

  Robert halted and looked him, one eyebrow arched. “We’re not talking about Fiona anymore, are we?” He smiled-but that vanished quickly when he saw the seriousness on Eliot’s face.

  “Not Fiona,” Eliot admitted.

  Robert started walking again, his hand cupped to his chin. “I’ve found lots of girls I’ve liked, and a few who have even liked me back. Nothing has to be complicated about it.”

  Eliot wanted to believe that, but given his recent experience with girls-all one of them-he wasn’t sure.

  “But,” Robert continued, “the problem is, I’ve never figured out how to get the ‘one special’ girl. That always ends up complicated.” He sighed. “But it’s the complicated ones who get you going, huh? The ones that keep you up at night thinking about them. Maybe that’s the way it supposed to be, I don’t know.”

  Mr. Harlan Dells stood by the gatehouse. “Gentl
emen,” he said, and flicked the switch that made the gate roll back.

  As they walked through, Mr. Dells remarked to no one in particular, “There are some problems never meant to be solved: the philosophical struggle between good and evil, the many-body problem in classical mechanics. . and women.”

  He shut the gate behind them, leaving them to ponder this.

  “Need a ride?” Robert looked at Eliot, decided something, and then added, “I’m headed to my place. Why don’t you come with me? We could burn a few hours on video games or something.”

  Eliot started to say no; he had enough homework to drown in.

  But who was he fooling? His brain couldn’t focus on mythologies and ancient families no matter how hard he tried. Not with Jezebel rattling about inside his head.

  “Sure,” Eliot said.

  Robert nodded down the alley in front of Xybek’s Jewelers, where he’d parked his motorcycle. The double-twined exhausts of his bike were mirrored chrome. The rest of the machine was a curve of black steel, looking like it was ready to pounce on prey.

  Robert opened a saddlebag and pulled out a spare helmet for Eliot.

  Eliot wormed the helmet on, which mashed his ears, then got on to the Harley.

  Robert kicked over the motor and the bike thundered to life.

  Everyone in the alley looked their way, startled-then annoyed at the ruckus.

  Robert revved the engine in defiance and peeled out.

  They rocketed out of the alley and onto the street-so fast that the air in Eliot’s chest got squeezed out.

  At the intersection Robert turned on a red light without pause, leaning so low Eliot thought they were going to scrape asphalt.

  It was terrifying. And fun.

  Up a hill they raced-airborne for two wild heartbeats. . in which Eliot believed he’d left his internal organs behind-then they were back on the ground, tearing down the street.

  Before Eliot could get used to the neck-snapping acceleration, however, Robert slowed and turned into a driveway. Robert reached into his jacket, clicked a garage door opener, and the rolltop door before them squealed up, revealing a freight elevator.

  Robert drove in, turned the bike around, and killed the engine.

  “Hit six,” Robert told Eliot.

  Eliot removed his helmet (almost scraping off his ears) and tapped the top button.

  They rode up in that awkward elevator silence; then the car wrenched to a halt and the safety door rolled up.

  Robert pushed his bike into a corner of his loft, which was combination parking stall, motorcycle lift, and machine shop. A thousand chrome tools glistened on racks.

  In the center of the apartment was an entertainment center bolted to the brick wall. It held the biggest television Eliot had ever seen, music equipment he didn’t have a clue about, and a dozen speakers-from tiny cubes to floor-to-ceiling towers.

  The kitchen beyond was all stainless steel and littered with empty energy-drink cans, chips bags, and pizza boxes.

  One wall had three wide windows that overlooked rolling hills, the Transamerica Pyramid, and sailboats in the distance.

  The place was open, and light, and there wasn’t a bookshelf in sight.

  Eliot stepped off the elevator-an instant before the safety door slammed shut and the car simultaneously lowered.

  “Grab a bean bag,” Robert said, kicking one toward him, and moved to the television. “I got all the latest, greatest games. Martial arts stuff, first-person shooters-whatever floats your boat.”

  Something else caught Eliot’s notice, though. Tucked in the far corner were punching and speed bags. The floor was padded. There was a pole with wood arms and legs jutting out from its center. On the wall was a rack of free weights. . along with swords, clubs, knives, and shuriken.

  “You work out?” Eliot asked.

  “A little,” Robert replied.

  Eliot felt drawn to the equipment. His blood raced. His hands clenched into fists, and it felt good.

  “And you’re training to. . fight?”

  Robert was silent a moment then carefully said, “Paxington’s a dangerous place.”

  Why hadn’t Eliot figured this out before? He didn’t have to be the smallest, weakest, dorkiest kid. Why not study how to move and fight just like he studied ancient Roman history? Could boxing be any harder than trigonometry?

  Eliot turned to Robert. “Forget the games. Can you show me? I mean how to make myself stronger. How to fight?”

  The cautious look on Robert’s face broke into a grin. “I’d love to.”

  Eliot grinned back. He had a feeling he was going to leave here bruised and battered tonight-and he very much looked forward to it.

  23. SHOPPING FOR TROUBLE

  Paris. That’s where they were going.

  Fiona had always wanted to see the City of Lights. She’d dreamed she would go one day as a college student, alone in a city filled with art and style and wonderful romance.

  But not with her aunt as chaperone.

  And definitely not with Amanda Lane tagging along.

  They rocketed through forest and over roads barely visible on tundra plains, past oil-drilling derricks, and then back again into Sitka spruces. . only the stars wheeled overhead instead of the sun.

  “This is one of Uncle Henry’s limousines, isn’t it?” Fiona asked Dallas.

  No other car could break a half dozen laws of physics, drive faster than the speed of sound while being whisper quiet, and get you from one side of the world to the other in a few hours.

  Dallas shrugged. “He lent it to me,” she said. “Henry’s a darling and does whatever I ask.”

  Fiona imagined that no man could refuse her aunt Dallas anything. She had a perfect geometry of dimples, cheekbones, and mouth-which all animated into a dancing smile that made you want to smile along with her.

  Everyone seemed to like her. . which, ironically, made Fiona suspicious.

  Amanda had her face plastered to the window, gawking at the blurry scenery.

  They flashed by billboards covered with the backward s of Cyrillic writing. They had to be in Russia.

  “How long now?” Amanda whispered.

  “Just a few minutes.” Dallas poured them both more iced tea from a silver thermos.

  Earlier, when Fiona had protested that she needed to study, Dallas told her that she was right: She really didn’t need a shopping trip to Paris. She said that Fiona looked almost perfect in her Paxington uniform, and that she was nearly the flower of womanhood.

  Fiona got the message.

  Almost. Nearly. Two lousy adverbs that communicated loud and clear that she still was awkward and nerdy, and likely a total embarrassment to the League of Immortals.

  So here she was, getting a stupid fashion makeover on a school night.

  She looked over at Amanda to watch her expression at their magical journey. But she wasn’t blown away like when Fiona and Eliot had first ridden in one of Henry’s cars.

  Had she driven with Uncle Henry before? Maybe when he took her home after they’d rescued her? What did Amanda’s parents think of her going to Paxington? They were probably normal people. So why did they let her go to a dangerous school full of magic and Immortals?

  “So where do you live?” Fiona asked Amanda.

  Amanda turned from the window and looked at the floor. She paled and twisted her hands. “In the dorms on campus,” she murmured. “It’s easier that way. For everyone.”

  “We’re there,” Dallas said, and her eyes sparkled. “Driver, slow down. I want them to see absolutely everything.”

  Smears of head-and taillights resolved into traffic. The limousine turned onto the Boulevard Périphérique. Strings of lights draped over manicured trees and the classic architecture of every building. Statues glowed as if dipped in silver.

  They angled onto Avenue des Champs-Élysées and Fiona’s breath caught as she saw the towering Arc de Triomphe, gleaming a rosy gold in a column of illumination.

  Dallas
sighed. “There’s no time to see it all. And I think your mother would kill me if I got you home too late. A pity.” To the Driver she said, “Take us to Art d’air.”[25]

  The car turned onto smaller and smaller streets. Only the occasional lamppost punctuated the darkness now as they twisted onto byways so narrow that Fiona feared they’d scrape the walls. . although the Driver managed to squeak through somehow.

  The buildings here weren’t classic architecture or decorated with gold lights; they were crumbling brick and leaning against one another as if too tired to stand by themselves.

  The limo halted before a storefront, its windows partially boarded. A spot of light cast from a wrought-iron lamppost revealed a sign over the doorway with curling vapors rising about a cavorting nymph.

  “We’re here!” Dallas said gleefully.

  She started to get out.

  “I thought we were going shopping,” Fiona said.

  “My dear, I could have taken you to Gucci or Prada, but this is where those designers come to steal their best ideas. I wouldn’t dream of giving you more secondhand things to wear.”

  She meant Cecilia’s clothes: hand-stitched with love but also with an amazing lack of skill. . things she had found at deep-discount stores and then altered to fit. . or not fit, as the case might be.

  The older Driver held out a hand and helped Dallas out, then Fiona, and Amanda.

  It smelled like someone had urinated on the nearby wall.

  Down the street, a group of boys eyed them. There were seven of them. They looked dangerous and hungry. They spoke to one another, and one called out to them-French so gutturally accented and drunkenly slurred that Fiona couldn’t decipher a word.

  Dallas shouted back-the same primitive dialect-and then made a rude gesture.

  The boys all laughed at the one who had yelled at her.

  “They won’t bother us,” Dallas said, and entered the store.

  Her Driver remained with the car and polished the side mirror.

  Fiona glanced one last time at the gang-she didn’t like their looks-and then hurried Amanda in front of her into the shop.

  Inside were mirrors: silver dusted and gold variegated, lit with soft lighting and angled so Fiona couldn’t help but look at a dozen copies of herself and Amanda. Aunt Dallas smiled at herself and preened.