All That Lives Must Die (42 page)

Eliot starting eating—then stopped, picking up on Fiona’s train of thought. They’d discussed this at length: What had happened to the ancient families’ leaders? Satan and Zeus?

“Oh yeah,” he said. “At the Battle of Ultima Thule, when you and the others were fighting the Infernals.”

“What really happened to Zeus?” Fiona asked. “Mr. Ma said he died there. But there was no body. It was like he walked off or something.”

Fiona had a fascination with Zeus. He was the only one ever to lead the
entire
League of Immortals by himself. She’d studied everything there was about him in their assigned textbooks, and had checked out the more obscure references from the library (although there hadn’t been any time to crack them) like:
Lightning Eaters and other Tales of the Titans, The Seven Forbidden Lovers, and Divum sub Terra
.
44

At the mention of Zeus, however, her aunt’s smile vanished. Outside, fog swallowed the sun.

“Oh, him.” Dallas sneered. “The greatest womanizer in all history.”

Fiona knew what she meant—all those classical stories about his seductions, the transformation into swans and showers of gold (whatever that was).

“He had to be more than that, though,” Fiona whispered. “We saw him leading you. He looked so brave. He was willing to die to save you.”

Dallas waved her hands, dismissing those words. “In the old days, maybe. So far back, who can remember?”

“But he did lead the League,” Eliot pressed. “Before there was even a Council?”

The light outside further dimmed, and rain pelted the metal roof of their house.

“Yeah.” Dallas’s face hardened, and she sounded more like Audrey as her tone chilled. “He was a different man—organizing us against the Titans, saving us all . . . before the age of treaties and politics . . . before he grew fat and lazy and lecherous and forgot what he was.”

“Did he die?” Fiona asked.

Dallas was quiet a long moment, and then whispered, “I don’t think so. He was wounded at Thule . . . but he limped off the battlefield. After we started to talk peace with the other family, though, he said his time had come and gone . . . that things were changing, and he no longer wanted to change with them. He left us. Maybe to go die.”

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed out a half hour.

Cecilia came out of the kitchen. “Your lunches! I forgot.”

“Oh, stop clucking,” Dallas said, and her smile returned. “They’re made.”

On the table by the stairs sat two paper bags. Scribbled with crayon upon them were masterwork impressionistic scenes: one of the dark forest, the other a seascape.

“A little something for my favorite niece and nephew,” Dallas explained with a wink.

“Then off to school with you both,” Cee exclaimed. “Miss Westin will skin you alive today if you’re late.”

Fiona jumped to her feet, not sure if Cee was being literal or not.

Eliot raced for the stairs.

Fiona hesitated, glancing back at her aunt.

“You’re just like him,” Dallas whispered, “. . . minus the lechery.”

Fiona detected a bit of regret in her aunt’s eyes, and something else burned inside that she had seen in the Dallas who on the battlefield was fighting for her life—a fire full of power and life and passion.

Then Fiona blinked . . . and noticed the table by the stairs was empty.

She raced after her brother. That rat! He’d grabbed
both
lunches!

44
.
Divum sub Terra
(Latin for “Sky under Earth”) transcribed from scrolls (ca. 500 B.C.E.) and spirited away from the Library of Alexandra, lost, and then rediscovered in the walls of a Benedictine monastery and translated by Sir Eustace De Vires. The book details the sacrificial rites and prayers of the popular cult of Zeus prominent throughout classical society (
Zeus Olympios
) as well as the more secretive forms driven into hiding, but which survived well beyond the advent of the Christian era. One such cult was dedicated to the “underground” Zeus (
Zeus Katachthonios
) where the deity is often represented as snakes and a man intertwined. The book was ordered destroyed by Papal authority, but two copies survived the 1677 Great Burning in Wittenberg, and found their way to such collectors as Oliver Cromwell, Napoléon Bonaparte, and Charles de Galle, who have praised it for its insights into the philosophies of leadership.
Golden’s Guide to Extraordinary Books
, Victor Golden, 1958, Oxford.

               49               

ELECTIVES

Eliot and Fiona entered the Grand Spring Ballroom. It was the size of an aircraft hangar, filled with crystal chandeliers and miniature lights that mimicked the stars on a clear summer solstice night. Floor-to-ceiling tapestries of courtly dances, pastoral scenes, and major battles covered the walls and made the place seem even larger.

Freshmen usually weren’t allowed in here. Eliot shuddered. Good thing, too—because some freshman girls might get the idea they were supposed to have dances.

Miss Westin probably wanted her freshmen focused on studying (and surviving) their first year. For once, Eliot was grateful for homework.

In the center of the ballroom sat a dozen executive desks spaced ten paces apart. Around them students queued, waiting to sit and talk to the adults at the tables. It wasn’t just freshmen here, but Paxington upperclassmen, too.

He spotted Amanda, hair in her face, not exactly confident as she’d been the last time he saw her in gym glass—but still a long way from the shy and scared creature she’d been that first day of school.

He’d heard one of the dorms had caught fire over the break. Three students had been hospitalized. Amanda stayed in the dorms, and he was glad to see she was okay.

Eliot and Fiona started toward her, but then it was Amanda’s turn in line and she sat at one of the desks.

Eliot examined the adults at the tables. They were dressed in business suits, and each possessed that indefinable air of superiority he’d come to associate with people of power.

“Those must be our counselors,” Fiona whispered.

“Teachers?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “We’ve never seen the other teachers before, though. I mean other than Mr. Ma and Miss Westin.”

Jeremy and Sarah Covington sat at one table. Jeremy spoke vigorously to the little old man on the other side of the desk. Jeremy stood and paced, gesticulating wildly . . . although still smiling. The old man smiled, too, but kept shaking his head.

Sarah fidgeted in her seat. She made eye contact with Eliot and looked away.

The funny thing was, Eliot didn’t
hear
anything from their table . . . none of them, actually. Like the sound didn’t travel.

A group of girls spotted Fiona. “Oh, Fiona!” one called out. They all moved toward her.

That was her pack of admirers. They were always trying to make small talk and find out what it was like being a goddess in the League.

Fiona sighed, but nonetheless smiled and waved back to them . . . trying to move on, but she was too slow and they intercepted her.

Eliot dropped back.

How was it that everyone loved Fiona (or at least loved the fame, money, and immortality they thought she represented) but not one of the students at Paxington had made the connection that Eliot, her brother, her
twin
, might be in the League of Immortals, too?

It was like last week when he had followed Jezebel to the Market Street BART station. When he stayed in the shadows, no one saw him. Like he was invisible.

At school . . . he wasn’t invisible, not optically anyway. For some reason, though, he seemed to be
socially
transparent.

Maybe it was some Infernal power, a sort of mental sleight of hand that he was doing without thinking about it.

He looked for Jezebel, but saw not a trace of her platinum curls among the crowds. Jezebel didn’t blend well. She would have had a crowd of boys around her. That would be okay with Eliot—just to know that she was here, safe.

No luck.

And no Robert, either. Although if
he
had wanted to blend, Eliot was sure he couldn’t have spotted him. He made a note to ask how Robert did it . . . and compare notes on social invisibilities.

“Hey!” someone called out.

Eliot looked. Across the room, Mitch Stephenson waved at him.

So much for the “invisibility” theory. Mitch saw him just fine.

Eliot waved back.

That was a mistake, a humiliating one. Mitch had waved to get Fiona’s attention—not his.

He noticed Eliot waving like a complete dork, though, and shifted his glance a notch. His waved at Eliot, too, trying to make it look like that’s what he’d been doing.

Eliot appreciated the gesture, but didn’t feel any better about his near-zero social status.

“Mr. Post?”

Eliot turned to the deep baritone voice behind him.

Harlan Dells stood there, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked like a funeral director today in a black suit and tie, his blond beard braided into a single tight cord.

“Uh, hey, Mr. Dells. How are you?”

“Fine, young man, but you and your sister have an appointment now. And your counselor is not known for her infinite patience.”

Mr. Dells gestured to Fiona. She saw him even while surrounded by her pack. The other girls saw the Keeper of Paxington’s Gate as well, and all simultaneously shut up.

Fiona trotted to Eliot’s side. “Hello, Mr. Dells. What can I do for you?”

“There.” Mr. Dells nodded to the far corner of the ballroom. “Do not keep her waiting, more than you have already.”

Eliot squinted into the shadows. There was some light in the corner: four candles floated in the gloom. No . . . as his eyes adjusted, he saw the candles sat on the corners of large desk, almost hidden in the folds of black curtains.

And sitting, watching them, her glasses reflecting flames, was Miss Westin, her hands steepled on the desk.

“
She’s
our guidance counselor?” Fiona whispered.

Miss Westin looked like a spider in the center of a dark web . . . one that no student dared get close to. Just like the repellent field that Eliot seemed to have around him. Maybe he and the Headmistress had something in common, after all.

“Come on.” Eliot crossed the room, moving deeper into the dark, away from the crowds. He settled into one of the high-backed chairs across the desk from her.

Fiona caught up and sat in the other chair.

“Good morning, children,” Miss Westin said. She pulled out two file folders with their names printed on the sides and set them down.

“Good morning, Headmistress,” they said in unison.

“No sound may leave the confines of this desk,” Miss Westin said. “This session is completely confidential even from your parents.”

Eliot glanced at Fiona and she shot back the same curious look. Why the secrecy? It was just their class schedule. Like Audrey wouldn’t know what it was in a few hours anyway.

But maybe that was the point: Their mother would know
in a few hours
, after they’d signed up for their elected classes . . . and too late to make any objections. This would be entirely their choice. How often did
that
happen?

“Miss Post first.” Miss Westin opened Fiona’s file.

Miss Westin scanned her official Paxington record. From across the table, Eliot saw an account of her duel with Donald van Wyck, and photographs of her looking ferocious in gym class.

“Your performance last semester was remarkable,” Miss Westin said.

Fiona sat up straighter, basking in this rare praise from the Headmistress.

“Most freshmen, however, fail to maintain their grades in the second semester,” Miss Westin went on without looking up. “They are either too stupid to keep up with their studies, or more concerned with their social agendas to grow and excel.

“So,” she said to Fiona, “shall I sign you up for Mythology 102 and Mr. Ma’s classes and call it good?” There was a challenge in her voice.

It was wasted on Fiona, of course, because she had already decided to take that advanced fighting class, Force of Arms.

“No, ma’am,” Fiona smugly replied. “I’ve already picked out an elective.” She opened the catalog and turned it for Miss Westin to see.

Miss Westin smiled.

That smile chilled Eliot to the core. The only thing that came close was the lethal permanent grin of the crocodile oracle, Sobek. There was nothing unusual in her smile—just perfectly white and straight, but ordinary teeth, and yet Eliot sensed death in her bite.

Miss Westin glanced at the catalog. “Force of Arms?” One eyebrow arched.

“Is that a problem?” Fiona asked.

“There are prerequisites.” Miss Westin flipped to the next page. At the top, the Force of Arms entry continued.

Fiona looked startled, as if she hadn’t seen this before.

It read:

PREREQUISITES:
For sophomores or older students. Must have parental/guardian consent. Must pass a test of minimal expertise.

“Oh . . .” Fiona started to pull the catalog back, and her forehead wrinkled.

Miss Westin, however, kept the book, pinning it to the desk. “Perhaps,” she said, “in light of your record, it would be appropriate for me to waive to sophomore requirement . . . if you could manage to pass the qualifying test and obtain a signed permission slip.”

Fiona licked her lips. “I can pass any test, ma’am.”

Fiona, though, made no comment on the signed parental permission slip. That would be the tricky part.

Miss Westin made a few marks on Fiona’s record. “Very well. Let us hope that your talent for passing tests translates to real-world challenges.”

Miss Westin then closed her file and turned to Eliot’s.

Eliot had near identical grades. There were photos of him in gym class, too (although he looked more clueless than heroic somehow in
his
shots). There were also several handwritten notes on Paxington stationery. The script was too tiny for him to make out . . . but Miss Westin made disappointing clicking noises as she read over them.

She looked up. Because they were both sitting, and because the angle was just right, for one brief moment in the candlelight Eliot saw behind her glasses. Unfiltered by the lenses, her eyes were not their usual brown. Instead, the irises were clear and brilliant like cut diamonds.

“And for you Mr. Post? What shall it be? Trivial social pursuits? Or would you like to learn something this semester beyond the bare minimum and keep pace with your sister?”

Eliot bristled at that.

He wasn’t going to take any class that got him bruised and battered any more than he was already getting in gym (and with Robert after school).

“No, ma’am,” he replied. “I mean, yes, I’ll be taking an elective class.” He nodded at the catalog. “Page twenty-three, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Miss Westin ran a finger along the edge of the catalog, flipped open to the precise page, and scanned the class descriptions.

“Extraordinarily dangerous,” she murmured, and tapped her lower lip thoughtfully. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“What is it?” Fiona leaned forward.

Miss Westin turned the catalog to face him. “This one, correct?” She pointed to

THE POWER OF MUSIC
: Seminars discussing music as applied to theoretical magical structures. Practice for instruments and/or voice held twice a week with emphasis on emotive control. Periodic evaluation before live audiences. Prerequisites: Must pass an audition. Signed waiver for the student’s soul.

“For the soul?” Fiona whispered. “What does that mean?”

“The class is far more perilous than any physical combat,” Miss Westin explained. She turned Eliot. “But you know that already, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Eliot whispered.

When he first read that part about the soul, Eliot had thought it was a joke. But it wasn’t. It’s what he felt every time he played—and something weird and strange and wondrous happened. There was a connection between the magic and the music and his soul—and risk as well. He knew that his soul teetered on the edge of some unknown precipice when he played . . . and he had to know why.

Next to him, Fiona shuddered. She opened her mouth as if she had something to say, but couldn’t articulate it, and then after a moment, she whispered, “Are you sure about this?”

Eliot met his sister’s concerned gaze.

There was another reason to take the new course. Last semester, he and Fiona had had every class together. These electives would separate them. Cee had told them, and it’d been proved over and over, that they were stronger together.

But that was the point.

Eliot sometimes felt like he was
only
strong with his sister. He couldn’t go through his entire life depending on her. He had to stand on his own feet.

“Yeah,” he whispered back. “I’m sure.”

Worry and then resolve flashed over Fiona’s features, and she nodded . . . maybe even on some level understanding him for once, for once even
agreeing
.

Eliot guessed she had come to similar conclusions about the two of them—maybe she would be happy to finally be getting rid of her “little” brother . . . or maybe she had something to prove as well.

Miss Westin signed the bottom of Eliot’s record and closed it. “I do believe,” she said, “you will have a most enlightening experience this semester—provided you two survive.”