All That Lives Must Die (18 page)

               18               

THE UNPREPARED TEST

Eliot had changed into his shorts and gym T-shirt (which had a nifty gold scarab embroidered on the right breast) and now stood on the field before the six-story-high obstacle course in the Ludus Magnus coliseum.

If there’d ever been a jungle gym event in the Olympics,
this
would have been it.

There were simple things like stairs, slides, and monkey bars—most of which were fifty feet high, though. There were less childlike things: rope bridges, balance beams, and zip lines. Then there were the things that looked dangerous: barbed wire mazes, and platforms held by single poles that swayed (even in no wind).

Eliot took a deep breath. He wasn’t afraid of heights . . . but even unafraid, you’d have to be nuts to climb this thing.

He’d had a week to prepare for his first gym class, a week he had spent with his nose stuck in books on myths, gods, and demons. He’d learned tons, but he should have been jogging, or doing push-ups or something to get ready for this.

One good fall and a busted neck . . . and all that reading would be moot.

Next to him, Jeremy Covington droned on to Mitch Stephenson about classic winning strategies on the Ludus Magnus course.

Mitch caught Eliot’s uneasy look and, with a flick of his head, invited him to join them.

Eliot waved back but didn’t approach.

In the last week, Jeremy had barely said five words to him. The Scotsman was a bully. He’d been in three fights—won them all with kicks to the groin and thumb jabs to the eyes. Eliot was also pretty sure he smelled whiskey on his breath yesterday, too.

Mitch, on the other hand, got along with everyone. He always said hi, had something cool to say, paid attention in class—he’d even protected poor clueless Amanda from getting hassled. But Mitch also kept everyone at arm’s length, like he used his friendliness as an invisible shield.

Standing to Eliot’s left were four boys. Eliot had seen them on campus, but didn’t know them.

On these boys’ black shirts was a different symbol: a white sword crossed over a white lance. They were Team White Knight.

Eliot had read that White Knights were supposed to be the good guys. The polite thing to do would have been to introduce himself . . . but from the boys’ cold assessing looks, he didn’t think they were here to rescue any damsels or do good deeds.

They whispered and nodded at the jungle gym—from the snippets Eliot overheard, coming up with a strategy to beat Team Scarab.

Eliot kept his distance. He wanted to be friends with everyone, but something told him that being friends might get in the way of winning.

It seemed Paxington had been engineered to promote a philosophy of “win at any cost” with its duels, academic bell curve, gym class, and social pecking order. But Eliot didn’t want to win if so many others had to lose.

Robert came out of the boys’ locker room and jogged over to Eliot. “Almost didn’t get here today,” he said. “Slept in.”

He had a faded bruise around one eye, like he’d been in a fight recently. His T-shirt was taut and flexed with muscle. He must be working out.

“I’ve been trying to catch you all week,” Eliot said, “but you’re gone as soon as the class bell rings.”

“Just studying,” he said without meeting Eliot’s gaze. “That reading stuff comes easy for you . . . not so much for a guy like me.”

All this was true, but it felt a bit off, like Robert had left out one important fact.

Eliot guessed what it was. “Are you avoiding Fiona on purpose?”

Robert took a big breath and sighed. “Probably,” he said. “Some folks in the League think I got off too light for breaking their rules. I could get Fiona in trouble just being seen with her.”

Eliot had figured as much. He wanted to have a long talk with Robert. Partially because he thought of him as a friend. Partially because Eliot needed someone to talk to . . . someone who wasn’t getting more and more concerned with how they looked, staying locked inside the bathroom every morning. It was like Fiona thought her hair was more important than school.

Before he could say more to Robert, however, four girls marched onto the field. They stood with the White Knight boys and eyed Eliot and Robert with a mix of curiosity and contempt. The White Knight boys spoke to the girls, pointing up the gym structure.

Jezebel then emerged from the girls’ locker room, followed a moment later by Sarah Covington.

“We’ll talk,” Robert said, “but later. Catch me after gym today, okay?”

Eliot nodded.

“Does the Infernal . . . ,” Robert whispered. “I know this sounds nuts, but she looks like that girl you hung out with this summer. What was her name?”

“Julie Marks.”

Eliot had thought it was just him, but she really did look like Julie. Uncurl her hair, add a little color to the dead white skin, and she could have been Julie’s twin.

But believing that was wishful thinking. Julie had been mortal; the only extraordinary thing about her was that she had liked Eliot. She even kissed him, before she’d left Del Sombra for Hollywood. Remembering made Eliot feel wonderful and miserable all at the same time.

Sarah Covington waved Eliot and Robert over to where the girls, Jeremy, and Mitch now stood.

Eliot grabbed his pack off the grass and they joined his teammates.

“Where’s Fiona and Amanda?” Eliot asked.

“There was a wee issue,” Sarah told him, and tucked a strand of red hair into her cap. “A girl thing. They’ll be out in a jiffy.”

Jeremy cleared his throat. “We need to be thinking up a strategy,” he told them. “First, we pick the Team Captain.”

“You?” Robert snorted.

“Who else?” Jeremy said. “I’ve studied freshman gym extensively. I know all the tactics.”

The thought of taking orders from Jeremy made Eliot’s skin crawl. “Seems simple to me,” Eliot countered. “Get to your flag before the others do.”

Sarah looked at Eliot like he was a bug. “You think it so simple? I can’t wait to see how you do up there.”

Eliot matched her stare. “Sure, it’s going to be harder than that. But what about Robert or Mitch . . . or Jezebel? It’d be nice to have someone leading us who—I don’t know—knows something about modern technology, like cell phones, for instance?”

Jeremy’s smile vanished.

“What do cell phones have to do with gym?” Mitch asked.

“Field communications,” Robert said, nodding. “We can get a conference call going. We should get headsets, too.”

“Perhaps,” Jezebel told Eliot, “you should be Team Captain.”

She said this without inflection. Eliot wasn’t sure if it was a joke. Her jade green eyes were not like Julie’s clear blue eyes at all . . . yet they had the same sparkle.

“Please m’lady,” Jeremy said. “We need someone with experience in these matters. Someone maybe who has struck another in anger before? . . . In case such a far-fetched possibility occurs.”

“So fighting’s the goal?” Eliot spat back. “Or getting to our flag and winning?”

If Jeremy wanted his résumé on fighting, he could tell him about the ten thousand rats he and Fiona had faced in the sewers, or Perry Millhouse, or an entire air force base, or the Infernal Lord of All That Flies.

Fiona and Amanda stepped out of the girls’ locker room, and seeing those two halted Eliot’s thoughts.

Amanda wore a stunned expression. Her hair was wet as if she’d just taken a shower. But
before
gym class?

Eliot caught Fiona’s eyes and she gave a shake of her head. Something had happened, but she couldn’t tell him—not now.

He met Fiona halfway and said, “We’re trying to figure out a strategy. Jeremy wants to pick a Captain first. It’s so stupid.”

“
He’s
so stupid,” Fiona said. She turned to Amanda. “Can you do this? Maybe you better sit it out.”

“No.” A spark of life returned to Amanda’s dark eyes. “I’m okay.”

Fiona stalked over to the rest of their team. She was mad, at whom Eliot didn’t know, but he felt the anger coming off his sister in waves.

“Ah, Fiona, me darling,” Jeremy said, “we be ready to vote for a Captain. I know I can count on your support.”

“You don’t have a Team Captain yet?” one of the girls from White Knight said. She was tall, tan, and stood with her hands on her hips—and she had obviously been eavesdropping. “What a bunch of losers.”

“Mind your own business, Tamara,” Sarah told her. “We’ll see who’ll be losing soon enough.”

“What do you expect?” one of the White Knight boys with a shaven head remarked. “They have an Infernal on their team. They’ve got to be disorganized.”

Jezebel turned to see who had said this, but her expression didn’t change, nor did she say a thing.

Somehow this scared Eliot more than if she had threatened him with hellfire.

“Hey!” Robert yelled back. “You’re going to sound pretty funny with a mouthful of fist, buddy.”

“Bring it,” the boy said, taking a step forward.

Mitch set a hand on Robert’s arm. “Save it for class,” he advised.

The air stilled and Eliot felt something.
Felt
, however, wasn’t quiet right, because this was just an itch below his threshold of conscious detection . . . a whispered warning that danger was near.

He, Fiona, and Jezebel turned.

A man walked onto the field. He held a clipboard and stopwatch. He wore black sweats with the Paxington crest. He moved with strength, confidence, and grace. He was darkly tanned and trim and very old. Deep laugh lines and wrinkles made a spiderweb of his face. His hair was white, thick, and gathered into a long tail.

Eliot felt the weight of the Ages on this old man. As if he’d seen everything and that nothing Eliot could do would ever impress him.

“I am Mr. Benjamin Ma,” the old man said. “You shall call me Mr. Ma or simply Coach.” He didn’t speak loud, but his voice was commanding. “I shall review the rules. Team Scarab and White Knight will then mount the course for their first match of the year.”

A lump of ice materialized in Eliot’s stomach. A match on their first day? He’d expected a warm-up.

“That’s not fair,” Mitch told Mr. Ma. “No one told us. We’re not ready.”

Some of the students on Team White Knight snickered.

Mr. Ma looked Mitch over, and then replied, “That is too bad, young man. In life we often find ourselves unprepared. How you perform in such circumstances is the only true test of one’s abilities.”

Mitch looked like he wanted to protest more, but he only nodded.

“Rule one,” Mr. Ma told both groups. “Half of your team members must get to their flag to win. These four must be moving under their own power.”

He nodded at the jungle gym. On the very top, two flags unfurled and fluttered, one with a golden scarab, the other with the helmet and lance of White Knight.

They were at least forty feet off the ground.

“Rule two,” Mr. Ma said. “You have ten minutes to reach your flag. If neither team gets four members to their flag, then
both
teams record a loss. If both teams get four across, then the team with the lowest time wins.”

Eliot knew that winning meant more than just bragging rights. The lowest-ranked teams were cut, and didn’t go on to their sophomore year.

“Rule three,” Mr. Ma continued. “You may use any means to cross the course. You may use any means to prevent your opponents from doing the same. Magic is allowed, but no weapons, specifically no guns,
no
blades, and
no
explosives.” His black eyes bored into them. “If I find such contraband, I shall use it
on
the offender.”

Eliot was sure he wasn’t kidding.

“Questions?” Mr. Ma asked.

“I have a question, sir,” Eliot said. He shifted his backpack and unzipped it.

He was the only student who’d brought a pack. He’d had to. At first he’d left Lady Dawn in his locker, but that felt wrong, and when he tried to walk away, his hand burned with pain and the old line of infection reappeared up to his elbow.

Eliot pulled out the battered violin case and opened it for Mr. Ma. “Is
this
a weapon?”

Jeremy and Sarah rolled their eyes.

The people on Team Knight laughed. “Going to play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’?” one of them asked.

Mr. Ma reached to touch the wood grain, but hesitated.

“Powerful.” He assessed Eliot with a look that made him feel like all his secrets were being turned inside out. “But not a weapon, technically, in my class, Mr. Post. She is approved.”

The chuckles from the White Knights died.

Eliot took Lady Dawn out. That Queen of Spades playing card was tucked inside the case. He’d put his father’s gift there for safekeeping.

He retrieved it and scanned the notes written on it. “The March of the Suicide Queen,” Louis had called it.

Eliot hadn’t had a chance to play it yet, but the song nonetheless came unbidden to his mind: a fanfare of horns, a swell of strings, and bass kettledrums. It was a military march. He imagined troops gathered upon a field of battle, soldiers with bayoneted rifles and horse-drawn cannon.

He unthinkingly plucked Lady Dawn’s strings.

The Ludus Magnus and the rest of the world fell away, and Eliot was alone in the darkness of his imagination, a single spot light illuminating him. A choir of baritone men joined, singing:

Off we go and march to war
sing our song to bloody chore
shoot and stab and rend and kill
Live to march o’er one more hill

Eliot stilled the strings, and the world came back into focus.

The gym structure swayed to the march’s rhythm, and then the entire thing leaned toward him as if it wanted him to play more.

Eliot wouldn’t, though. That song was too dark. It was about war and killing . . . and while he was certain it could help Team Scarab, it’d be like using artillery at a game of darts.

Everyone stood speechless, staring at him.

The White Knight boy with the shaven head whispered to his teammates, and they nodded—all of them watching Eliot like he was the most dangerous thing they’d ever seen.