All That Lives Must Die (41 page)

This was one more thing that was off today. Aaron had always jumped to Eliot’s defense before.

“What do you think, Audrey?” Lucia asked. “You know the boy better than any here.”

“I think . . .”

What she thought was largely irrelevant. These facts were inconclusive.

But what she felt—
that
was another matter entirely. When she imagined her Eliot, she saw him in shadows now.

“I think a brief recess would be beneficial.” She stood. “I find it too stuffy in here.” Audrey stared into Lucia’s eyes as she said this, and her gaze softened. It was a silent plea; she had to leave this room, the heat, and the swirling thoughts of the others.

Lucia sighed. “Very well. Thirty minutes.” She shook her tiny silver bell.

Audrey had to be alone for a moment . . . to think . . . to find a way to logically avoid coming to the same conclusion that Kino had: that Eliot was drifting to the other side.

As part Infernal–part Immortal, Eliot could bypass the neutrality treaty that kept the families from murdering one another. They’d already seen this was possible: Fiona had decapitated Beelzebub.

The opposite had to be true: If Eliot went to their side, became an Infernal Lord . . . he would be able to kill Immortals.

Their discretion now would save countless lives later. But that meant her son had to die.

               47               

TIPPED BALANCE

Audrey crunched over the ice-crusted snow into the woods. The spruce and pine were dense and deep and full of gloaming shadows.

This was what she wanted: to be alone, and cold, and in the dark.

She had to think things through with great care . . . and with no dangerous emotional responses.

Audrey extended her arms and felt everything hanging in balance in the weave of the world. It wasn’t just Eliot. He was a catalyst, but it all teetered: alliances and treaties, the entire League, and the fate of every creature in this realm.

The smallest action at this point—even her feeling the surface of the weave—could potentially tip it all one way or the other.

And she instinctively knew that once that happened, such an imbalance would accelerate, every thread would pull against the other and tangle and snap and snarl . . . and then the only way forward would be to
cut
it all to shreds.

She let her arms drop.

It started to snow; the flakes made a million downy impacts about her.

Henry had, of course, tried to come with her on this walk, but she’d firmly declined his offer of jabbering company. He was part of the problem, too.

As Audrey arranged her thoughts to encompass more factors, she realized that Henry might be a
real
problem.

Henry . . . and Aaron . . . and even Gilbert.

Henry was charming, and always scheming, and ever elusive. He was holding something back about Eliot and his transformation of the Del Mundo Pharma Chemical plant. And there was the matter of his no-longer-in-the-League Driver, Robert Farmington. Henry had somehow finagled him into Paxington . . . as his spy?

Audrey had been keeping tabs on Mr. Farmington, at first thinking he was at Paxington to keep track of Fiona. But now Eliot was going to his apartment almost every day after school. There was more to Henry’s agent, and she would have to investigate further.

Her conclusion, however, was the same: Henry was taking a too-personal interest in the twins.

To what end? Certainly not to help the Infernals, but it seemed he wasn’t really helping the League’s interests, either.

She considered questioning him directly, but that had never done any good. Henry was too slippery.

She set him aside in her thoughts and moved on to the next factor that made little sense in all this—Aaron.

He had initially taken such great interest in Eliot and especially Fiona. But now? He seemed to be maintaining a distance from them . . . or at least made it
appear
that way.

And then there was Gilbert, the Once-King, who was not here today. He, too, had been such a supporter of the twins. Why abandon them now? Gilbert had never walked away from a fight.

Unless he had chosen to fight on another
unknown
front?

Yes. Henry, Aaron, and Gilbert—all three of them were in this, working together. That was a dangerous possibility: brains, strength, and courage allied.

But again, to what end? It was unlikely they would move against the will of the League. They all had signed the Warrants of Death, in case one of the children turned Infernal.

Audrey felt a choking in her throat, and her hand covered her heart.

She was feeling. Despite her cut maternal ties, emotions churned inside her, acidic, boiling, so deep and powerful she dared not let them take control.

She squeezed her eyes shut and banished them . . . but not entirely.

Her thoughts remained clouded.

There was doubt now. Where was her sense of right and wrong? What happened to the certainty that her children should die, if necessary, to prevent war between Immortals and Infernals?

She had known exactly what the possibilities were the moment she realized was she pregnant . . . and who the father was.

Audrey took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled, regaining a bit of her icy control.

Eliot and Fiona had grown up all too quickly. Their roles within the families would soon be determined—a continuation of order within the League or a place in the Infernal clans, where they would be used to shatter the long peace.

That was the
only
factor to consider. The only reason to embrace Fiona and Eliot—or to destroy them. The choice and consequences were all clear.

Why, then, was this so hard?

Wasn’t it utter insanity to consider any other options?

Audrey then realized that she—as with everything else surrounding the twins—was also in balance. All she had to do was tip one way or the other . . . life or death for her children, ignore her feelings or embrace them . . . and the entire weave of the world shifted.

Which way?

Her front pocket buzzed, startling her. Her phone.

Who would dare call now? Henry, trying to cajole her into further discussion? Lucia, wanting her back . . . but it wasn’t time yet to reconvene. Or Cecilia with some new emergency at home?

Feeling a flutter of precognitive alarm, she pulled out the slender black phone . . . but hesitated. The icons indicated there was no service here, no satellites overhead to bounce a signal.

So
how
was her phone ringing?

Warily, she pressed the
TALK
button. “Hello?”

“Audrey, my darling . . .”

It was Louis.

The control Audrey had so carefully collected shattered at the sound of his voice. It was rich and dark, and without a trace of remorse for his countless deceptions.

“Did you get my gift?” he asked. “I do hope you remember Venice. It meant so much to me.”

As if she could ever forget . . . the only time anyone had ever fooled her so completely.

“I know you’re still there,” Louis continued. “I hear you breathing. Ah, you’re still angry at me. I don’t blame you. Tell me, though, what did you do with that egg? Dash it upon the floor? Throw it in the Dumpster?” He chuckled. “You know it was priceless. At least, in sentimental value.”

“Yes,” she finally answered. “To all your questions.”

That was not entirely true. Yes, the egg’s sentimental value was beyond measure, as was its monetary value. And while she had thrown it in the trash, after the children and Cecilia went to bed, she had retrieved it.

It was foolish to remember their time in Venice.

“My dear,” Louis cooed. “I wonder how we can care so much for each other, and yet find so much pleasure at this torture? Why we cannot speak about how we feel? But”—his tone brightened—“that is not why I called.”

Audrey gritted her teeth. He was toying with her! Making a game of her emotions.

Her hands balled to fists. No. She would not let him get the better of her.

Audrey did not understand how he was connecting, but she suddenly understood where he had gotten her number: Eliot’s stolen phone.

As if reading her mind, Louis said, “I want to talk to you about the children. First, this business about Eliot’s phone. Don’t blame or punish him. He is a lamb among a pack of wolves. Borrowing his phone was only so I could reach out to you.”

Audrey took a deep breath and felt a bit of her control return. While every word Louis spoke was a potential lie . . . this was a rare opportunity to find out what he was up to.

And how she could stop him.

“Speak plainly, Louis,” she said. “What is it you want?”

About her, the snow fell thicker and the temperature plummeted.

“I . . . I do not know,” he said.

For the first time, Audrey heard a hint of uncertainty in his voice, something possibly even bordering upon sincerity.

“I find myself oddly unmotivated by self-interest,” Louis mused. “Or rather, I’m more interested in finding a way to protect Eliot and Fiona while gaining all the usual advantages. It is most curious. Besides you, I have never even considered the well-being of another. . . .”

“You want to protect Eliot and Fiona?”

Audrey voiced this as a question, but it was not entirely directed at Louis.

A long time ago, she, too, pondered what was best for them without any other considerations. That was sixteen years ago. She had loved them all. The dream of a family, her and Louis and the children, it was still a possibility then—something resembling a normal life—the twins not in constant danger, not forever tested, and not inevitably marching toward bloodshed and war.

She had had hope—

—until she realized what and who Louis was, that his love for her, despite all his promises, was a charade.

For no Infernal had ever truly loved. And certainly none had ever loved an Immortal.

All contrivance.

“No, Louis,” she whispered. “I don’t believe you’re capable of thinking about anyone’s well-being but your own.”

“The obvious assumption.” He sighed. “I had hoped you would risk believing otherwise.”

Audrey moved her thumb over the
END
button.

She had to terminate this conversation before he tricked her again.

For some reason, however, her hand froze.

She hoped . . . what? That she’d been wrong so long ago? That creatures such as they, whose families had been enemies for centuries, held apart from bloodshed, and by the most tenuous of treaties, could actually feel for one another?

“Don’t go,” he said. “Please . . .” Louis struggled with his words as if each weighed a ton. “I had to tell you that, no matter what, I . . . love you, Audrey. The children, too. Against all reason, I love you.”

There was no mockery in his tone. His words were clear and unadorned. It was the truth. At least, she so wished to believe it was the truth from him.

It felt as if a hundred daggers plunged into her heart, and her blood flowed out of the rivers.

She pressed her thumb on the
END
button and dropped the phone into the snow.

Audrey sank to her knees and let out a tiny gasp.

Accursed weakness!

Only Louis could do this to her. She was still so vulnerable to him. Why had she not killed him when she had the chance?

She gazed up into the night, watched the spirals of falling snow stretching to the infinite, and let tears spill down her cheeks.

A moment of truth. For Louis. And for her.

With her emotions freed, she realized that, severed maternal ties or not, as impossible as it was, she loved her children and wanted them both to live.

No matter if the cost was every soul in every realm.

And there was one other thing she knew.

Louis loved her still . . . and she loved him, too.

SECTION

    V    

THE SEMESTER OF FIRE AND BLOOD

               48               

WHEN THERE WERE STILL LOTS OF OPTIONS

Fiona organized the pile of three-by-five cards on the dining table.

Some semester break. She’d done nothing but study for the quiz Miss Westin was going to give when they came back.

A spring-semester orientation package had been sent the first day of vacation as well. In the accompanying letter, Miss Westin had congratulated Fiona and Eliot for passing their winter freshman semester . . . what an honor it was . . . and blah blah blah.

It also said the grade bell curve had been “severely skewed” during midterms. A correction would be required, namely, a quiz covering Zulu mythologies and the lost histories of the Gypsy Clans.

Fiona glanced at the grandfather clock: Fifteen minutes before they had to leave.

To make matters worse, Audrey had been gone the entire week. “Council business,” Cee had said. But that could mean anything.

She’d so wanted to impress her mother with her midterm grade. If anything could have cracked Audrey’s diamond-hard exterior, that A–might have.

Fiona sighed, and then inhaled the orange zest and cinnamon wafting from the kitchen. At least she’d get a good breakfast.

Aunt Dallas had arrived at dawn in cutoff shorts and a red tank top, carrying a double armful of organic groceries. She announced that they were all getting a grand meal to start the new semester.

Cee, of course, had protested.

Dallas just danced into the kitchen, ignoring her, and proceeded to take out every dish, turn on every burner, and then shooed them all out—even Cee (who Fiona had thought unshooable).

Feathers ruffled, Eliot had tried to soothe Cecilia with that stupid Towers game they’d started playing this week. The circle mat sat on the other end of dining table. He and Cecilia had been there for an hour, moving stone pieces, building towers, and then toppling them over one another.

Fiona had more important things to do—namely, cram . . . and pick a new class.

The very first day, Miss Westin had explained that they had to take Mythology 101 and Mr. Ma’s gym class (still true for this semester). But if they made it to the second semester, they could also take an
elective
course.

Her hand rested on the Paxington catalog that had come in the orientation package. Bound in leather, the pages were whisper fine and translucent. Printed in tiny handset type was a description for every course at the school.

When she had first seen the catalog, Fiona laughed—like she had time for a third class.

It was only after she’d watched Eliot flip through the thing for an entire day that she grew curious.

There were the classes she had expected, like Introduction to Alchemy. Take that, and you’d learn how to manipulate the mythical elements and combine them with the mundane ones—brew universal solvents, dreaming potions, and similar stuff.

She could just see setting her hair on fire, or spilling the universal solvent, alkahest, on her books and dissolving them all.

No thanks.

But there were also ones like Mythic Forging Techniques, where you could learn how to blacksmith the Four Winds and the might of volcanoes into a blade. That sounded cool. Naturally, though, the prerequisite was two semesters of alchemy.

There were dozens of exotic languages that intrigued her: the ancient rune scripts of Atlantis, Egyptian hieroglyphics, and the anti-poetical cadence tongues of the Ancient Ones. (Although for that, you had to pass a psych evaluation, be at least eighteen years old, and sign an insanity waiver!)

It figured that the best classes were open only to juniors or seniors or had ludicrous requirements like “must have tamed animal spirit” or “endure trial by fire” or “must provide documentation of wilder ancestry” (whatever that was).

The one that really intrigued her, though, was a class called Force of Arms.

FORCE OF ARMS:
A series of weeklong intensive instructions, sparring exercises, and field trips to train the already proficient warrior in hand-to-hand techniques, fencing, athletic prowess, and strategies, with an emphasis on defending against magical techniques with physical force.

This was exactly what she needed for gym—which had seemed more battlefield than obstacle course during midterms. It was also a perfect fit for her after-school lifestyle—having to fight off an army of shadows or something else every other day.

She glanced at Eliot.

His eyes were on the Towers board, flicking among the stacks of stones Cecilia had on her side.

“This game would be better,” he murmured, “if there was an element of chance.”

“It has been suggested more than once,” said Cee without taking her gaze off the board.

“Something like dice.”

Cee looked up. “Your mother would not approve.”

“So what else is new?” Eliot moved a stack of three inward toward the center of the circular board.

Cee’s brows furrowed. “. . . Unexpected.”

Eliot brushed the hair from his face. It’d been a while since he got his hair cut—that is, since he let Cecilia put a bowl on his head for one of her trims.

Grooming habits weren’t the only thing changing with him. His already dark mood had gotten gloomier over break. He hadn’t gone over to see Robert once; he hardly studied; he just moped about pretending to do his chores; or occasionally he’d plunk out some sad little tune on his violin.

It was getting on Fiona’s nerves.

The only clue he’d given as to why was when he got home late that first night of vacation. Audrey was gone, and Cee was already in bed—or else Eliot would’ve gotten grounded. He’d told her that he tried to follow Jezebel and help her . . . and that hadn’t gone as planned.

Great. So her brother was still following the Infernal around, working overtime to find more trouble. Jezebel wasn’t some stupid, simple crush to him. Eliot was really hooked on her. And Jezebel was—by her own admission—trying to seduce him to the other side of the family . . . maybe drag Eliot down to Hell with her.

A confrontation was inevitable between Fiona and Jezebel.

If Eliot got any worse, Fiona would consider breaking their unbreakable rule about never telling on each other—and snitch to Audrey.

That’d put an end to Jezebel once and for all.

One day, though, Fiona was going to have to let Eliot solve his own problems.

Or maybe she should just let him be sad for the rest of his pathetic, moping life—if that’s what he really wanted. Talk about picking the absolute wrong person to fall for.

She’d
never make that mistake.

Fiona’s fingers brushed the envelope she used as a bookmark. Inside was Mitch’s letter. She’d never gotten a real personal letter before. (That card on the cursed box of chocolates earlier this year didn’t count.) She had it memorized.

Fiona,

Hope you’re having a great break. I’m visiting family, catching up with old friends, but wishing I was there with you.

What’s with Westin’s pop quiz? Check out
Our Shadows Wander,
by the way, for essays on the extinct Gypsy Clans.

It’s so obvious that she’s trying to make up for everyone on Team Scarab getting an A. Well, it’s Westin’s school and her rules, but if we stick together, she won’t be able to beat us.

I enjoyed our walk the other day. I hope we get to do it again.

M.

His letter was friendly, but not friendly in the way Fiona was hoping for.

Their walk around the world had ended in an embrace, but maybe it had been Mitch just trying to keep her from shivering to death in the chilled Gobi Desert night.

They’d watched the stars fade into the dawn. It was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her . . . but he
hadn’t
kissed her.

She was ready for it. Wanted it.

But he’d just taken her hand and then they’d “walked” back to San Francisco. There hadn’t even been any awkward abortive attempt to kiss her at the end of it all. Wasn’t that the way these things worked? She just didn’t know.

If she’d made the move, would he have gone for it?

Or was he too much of a gentleman to kiss on the first date?

Or was it a sign that he wanted to be friends? And
just
friends?

No way. All that talk about “looking into her soul” and “knowing she was the one for him.” That was not “friend” talk.

Maybe if they went out again . . . he’d kiss her. Really, what was the rush?

She fidgeted and sighed, exasperated.

The kitchen door swung open—kicked by Dallas as she entered with both arms loaded with plates. The sun broke through the Bay Area fog, and golden light filled the room.

Her aunt
did
know how to make an entrance.

She set the plates on the table.

There was wild mushroom quiche and crêpes suzette, steaming cinnamon buns with icing, fresh squeezed juices, croissants that smelled divine, artful arrangements of sliced fruits and cheeses, and for each of them—Fiona, Eliot, and Cee—their own steaming cups of cappuccino with heart shapes swirled in foam.

“It’s not much,” Dallas apologized, “but it was the best I could whip up in your dinky kitchen.”

Cee made a strangled coughing noise, poked a croissant, and then retreated back into her kitchen.

Eliot dug in.

So did Fiona. “M-thanks,” she said as she chewed fluffy egg and chomped drizzled cinnamon glaze.

Fiona’s stomach rumbled, feeling already full, but she forced herself to eat more. It was good.

Dallas sat cross-legged in the chair next to hers and grinned.

Fiona wanted to tell her that she could come over anytime, cook for them morning, noon, and night if she wanted to, but didn’t. It would’ve crushed Cee.

Eliot rolled his eyes. He was in the same predicament, not being able to thank Dallas properly—but not pausing in his feeding to do anything about it.

Fiona took a gulp of pomegranate juice.

“Thanks, Aunt Dallas,” she whispered.

Dallas nodded, but her attention was on the school catalog, reading it upside down . . . and her fingers touched Mitch’s letter.

Fiona wanted to snatch it away. But that would be rude, especially to someone who just cooked you the best breakfast ever. So instead Fiona gingerly tried to pull the catalog and letter across the table. “That’s nothing,” she told Dallas. “I was just worrying about classes this semester.”

“Anything you want to talk about?” Her tone indicated that she meant things more important than school. Dallas kept one finger on Mitch’s letter, as if she could discern the contents within the envelope through her fingertips.

Dallas considered, smiled, and released Mitch’s letter. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I was dizzy and confused the first dozen or so times I got married.”

Confused didn’t begin to cover how Fiona felt. What she didn’t know about boys could fill books, volumes—libraries, even. Someone should’ve told her how complicated it all got.

On the other hand, if she told Dallas about Mitch, wouldn’t that be like telling the League? Would they take an interest in him . . . make sure he was safe and appropriate for their youngest goddess?

And what if they found him wanting? Fiona shuddered.

What was Dallas? In cutoffs and a tank top, she looked more like her older sister than the goddess who had wielded two golden swords and stood toe-to-toe against Abbadon the Destroyer.

Fiona took another sip of juice to clear her throat. “No, I’m okay,” Fiona said, but then changed her mind. When would she ever get a chance to talk to an expert on boys? “Well, maybe . . .”

Fiona cast a frustrated glance at her brother.

He sighed, understood that she wanted him gone, and in a rare magnanimous gesture, Eliot excused himself to go to the bathroom.

When Fiona was sure he was out of earshot, she continued, “There’s one boy.”

Dallas’s eyes widened. “One you like, I take it?”

Fiona nodded, feeling the heat rise in her face. Why did she always lose her cool when it came to boys?

“What’s stopping you?” Dallas asked.

Fiona huffed out a tiny laugh. “The League. Mother. Who knows what they’d do if they found out I wanted to—”

Fiona couldn’t finish the thought. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from Mitch. To go out on more dates? To be his girlfriend? And then what?

It was crazy. In her life, with people trying to kill her, how was she supposed to ever have a normal relationship?

“Wait.” Fiona’s smooth forehead wrinkled with bewilderment.
“You
were married before? To people in the family?”

Dallas laughed. “Never to an Immortal, baby. Don’t get me wrong: some of your cousins and uncles are fun”—she looked away, distracted—“and
incredibly
talented, but that’s not what I need in a partner. I need someone who can appreciate me for me, not my power, or how being with me alters the politics of the League.” She sighed. “Not that it’s
ever
uncomplicated. I just get a better connection with a mortal.”

“And the League doesn’t mind?”

Dallas stiffened. “It’s none of their damned business.”

Fiona was stunned at this revelation.

Her aunt was 100 percent correct: It
was
none of their business. Fiona had rights as well as responsibilities in the League.

“For people like us,” Dallas whispered, “there come too few chances at bliss. You find something that makes you happy—grab it with both hands and don’t let go.”

Fiona had a lot to process. Like how to balance her life in the League and at school . . . with having a life
at all
.

“Thanks, Aunt Dallas. That helps. A lot.”

Dallas smiled. “It’s cool. Anytime.”

Eliot came back then (his entrance so well timed that Fiona suspected the sneaky
Rattus rattus
had been eavesdropping).

“Oh—there’s one more thing that’s been bugging us,” Fiona said. “Maybe you can clear it up.”