All That Lives Must Die (50 page)

Jeremy might have been sneaky enough to set back his watch, but there was no way he’d be stupid enough to try such a simple lie on Mr. Ma.

“Could you please check again?” Fiona asked.

Mr. Ma stared at her. It felt just like when he stared at her that first day in the Force of Arms class—when he’d fought her.

“No,” he said.

“That’s not fair!” one of the boys from Team Falcon said. “We had a perfect record.”

“Had.”

Fiona understood then what felt so wrong. The rules of gym class were brutal, but in their own way fair (even if Mr. Ma was apparently
cheating
). The rules stated that if neither team reached their flags before time ran out, then
both
teams tallied a loss.

A loss for Falcon was no big deal. A little wounded pride. They were still at the top of the rankings.

But for Team Scarab, a loss bumped them below the passing/failing cut off.

She turned to the teammates. Robert glared after Mr. Ma. Eliot shook his head and wandered back to the locker room. Amanda slumped to the ground. Mitch ignored them, and kept helping some of his still-groggy classmates. Jeremy and Sarah crossed their arms and looked at Fiona as if this were her fault.

It was. She was their team captain, after all. It had been her decision to save lives instead of going for some stupid flag.

And what if she had gone for the flag? She’d bet Team Falcon would have died . . . and that gas would have ignited and blown them
all
to smithereens.

There had to have been a way to win, though.

Or did there? What if Mr. Ma was just trying to kill them?

There was only one thing she knew for sure: They
had
to win the next match, or they would flunk out of Paxington.

54
. Sulfur (aka brimstone) is often cited in relationship to evil within the Bible, and it is implied that Hell smells of brimstone (hence “fire and brimstone” sermons). In fact, sulfur is odorless. Its characteristic smell comes from hydrogen sulfide (the odor of untreated sewage, and flatulence [along with sulfur-containing mercaptans]) or sulfur dioxide (from burnt matches). Early Chinese doctors used sulfur for medicinal purposes (WARNING: See toxicity tables in Appendix), and gunpowder was likely discovered by Taoist monk-alchemists searching for the elixir of immortality. The fifteenth-century Swiss alchemist Paracelsus believed sulfur embodied the soul (along with the emotions and desires).
Primer of Alchemical Elements: Truth and Myth
, Dr. Kensington Park, Paxington Press LLC.

SECTION

    VI    

DITCHING

               58               

PERFORMANCE

Eliot stood on the sidelines. He was scared. There was no shame to admit that . . . not under these circumstances.

He’d faced Lords from Hell, stood up to a gigantic crocodile, the Hordes of Darkness, and a mother who was Death incarnate,
and
put up with a sister whose abrasive personality was probably what she used to cut through high-carbon steel.

This was different.

This was a
live
audience.

Eliot had watched the other students go first. It had all been arranged by Ms. DuPreé. One by one, they were supposed to go onstage between sets at the Monterey Jazz Festival . . . in front of people who knew music and had just listened to professional signers, jazz quartets, and the most inspirational folk singers that Eliot had ever heard.

Eliot reread the program clutched in his sweaty hands: “Hear California’s finest young musicians sing and play their souls out for you!”

Eliot hoped that was a metaphor. Although given the way things worked at Paxington, he wasn’t taking
anything
for granted.

“Practicing alone is one thing, playing for your classmates another
,” Ms. DuPreé had told them on the bus ride out. “
But when you stand in front of a real audience—you’re going to sink or fly, baby.”

So here Eliot was: On a sunny day in the wings of the open-air theater, waiting to go on next—just him, about a billion stage lights . . . and three thousand people in the audience.

Ms. DuPreé stood next to him and listened, as entranced as he, to Sarah Covington onstage, singing what she’d described as a “torch song.”

Sarah wore a dress as red as her hair. The fabric was tight and sparkled. A bass and piano accompanied her as she lamented about a man who had treated her so badly, but he could make her shiver with pleasure, and how she still loved him.

It was sad. It felt
real
to Eliot, as if Sarah had been through it all and still wanted to love this guy—even if it was a doomed relationship.

She held one last long note, reached out to the audience, and hung her head.

The crowd gave her a thunderous round of applause. Many stood.

When she looked up, though, all traces of her agony had vanished and she smiled and waved to her admirers.

There were hoots and yells for an encore.

Ms. DuPreé leaned close to Eliot so he could hear her over the noise, and said, “That is how it is done. She gave them everything, lost nothing, and got something more precious than gold.”

Eliot shot her a quizzical look back.

“Her moment in the spotlight, completely loved by them all,” Ms. DuPreé said as if this answered everything.

Eliot examined the audience and saw they did love Sarah at that moment.

He was also certain that clapping and love could easily turn to disgust and boos if they didn’t like someone’s performance.

Sarah bowed once more, and then exited the stage. The curtain fell behind her. She sauntered to him and Ms. DuPreé, all sparkles and grinning. She smelled of perspiration and Brandywine perfume.

“Knock ’em dead,” she told Eliot. “You’re better than all of us put together, you just don’t know it.” She said that like it was part compliment, part annoyance—and then she smiled at Ms. DuPreé and whirled back to the dressing rooms.

Ms. DuPreé gave him a gentle push forward.

Eliot moved, although his legs now seemed to be glued to the floor. It took all his strength to walk to the curtain, and then push through . . . where he froze.

The three thousand people who had been applauding before looked expectantly at him. There was a polite smattering of claps.

Which stopped as Eliot continued to stand there.

Like a complete dork.

What was he doing? Sure he could play. If you needed the dead conjured, gravity warped, or a legion of Napoléon-era soldiers to blow something up—then he was your guy.

But play for people? Be entertaining? Move them? No way.

He wasn’t like Sarah. She had a gift with people (even if she was really cruel when you got her alone). That was
real
talent.

And before her, David Kaleb had wowed the crowd with his silver horn flashing like a mirror under the lights; the audience had gotten to their feet and danced even!

Sarah and David had had fun with it. Music used to be something Eliot had fun with, too. Now, though, it was a constant struggle to do better, to control the wild magic in him and Lady Dawn.

And why in the world had Ms. DuPreé made him go last?

The people in the audience whispered as he stood there. Some got up and left.

Eliot watched them and narrowed his eyes.

No one walked out on him—not before they’d
heard
him, at least.

He marched out front and center on the stage.

There was more polite, encouraging applause.

But there ended his bravery. . . .

And Eliot was stuck again—in front of all those people—them waiting for him to impress them—and him unable to move. So he did the only thing he could. Stall.

He fiddled with the knobs on the lower edge of his new Lady Dawn guitar. He then checked the cable plugged into her socket—a cord that ran backstage but actually connected to nothing. It was just for looks.

By adjusting the dials, flicking a switch or two, his new guitar could sound like an ordinary unpowered instrument one moment, then blast out amplified noise with reverberating electronic feedback the next . . . all without having anything plugged in anywhere. Flip another switch, twist a dial, and the guitar echoed with the deepest bass notes.

He played it almost as well as he did the violin. It was like switching between writing in cursive script to block letters. It was something he could do without thinking about it.

His fingers drifted to the steel strings and twitched over them.

Faint sound pulsed. Pure and simple.

He’d start there.

He played the “Mortal’s Coil” nursery rhyme—straight up, one note after another, just like the first time he’d heard Louis play in that Del Sombra alley.

He kept his eyes on the strings, focused, and shifted notes up and down the scale. He made the sweetest sound, and there was a slight echo . . . as if there were another guitar accompanying him.

Eliot looked up.

The audience nodded and moved to the rhythm. They weren’t exactly captivated as they had been with Sarah or David, but that was okay. He didn’t entirely suck.

Now he had to up the stakes—get these people really excited. Like Ms. DuPreé had been trying to teach them: put his soul into his music.

But why?

He stopped. Right in the middle of the song. His hair fell into his face.

Why
was
he doing this? Really? He didn’t want to be here. He’d never wanted to impress anyone with his music.

He slammed his hand across the guitar stings. The sound that came out was odd and dissonant and abrupt.

The audience jumped.

It startled him, too.

He hadn’t known he could do that—scare people. Without magic.

Maybe that was the best magic of all. . . .

He played—and didn’t even think about it—just moved fingers over strings. It was classical, a bit like Mozart. It reminded him of the way he felt the first day at Paxington, at least, the way he thought it was
supposed
to have been: learning about mythology and his family, surrounded by books and other students just as smart and dedicated.

That music was too predictable for his mood, though . . . and it seemed like a lie to force himself to play it that way.

Eliot flipped a switch and the sound looped. He riffed over the piece, shifting to bass notes.

He picked up the pace and his music felt like all the fighting that went on at Paxington—the duels and the team battles in gym class.

It was rock and roll (one of several terms he had studied in class last week) and he made Lady Dawn snarl.

He dialed up the feedback and sound tore through the air.

Head down, he focused on the notes, no magic, no ghosts or chorus of kids singing along. He was alone and that suited him fine.

He even tuned out the audience. He didn’t look. He didn’t care.

Lady Dawn heated under his hands, her wood flashed like liquid fire, and her strings felt sharp as if he were pushing her past her engineered limits.

He shifted back and forth between styles that he’d just discovered—mariachi to bluegrass—classical Chopin to jazz to the ancient ballads of Charlemagne and then with a long slow grinding changeover, he beat out some heavy metal.

He wasn’t playing to
do
anything. No miracles. No life-or-death situations that he had to save himself from.

He wasn’t playing
for
anyone, either. Not to impress Julie, or Jezebel, or Ms. DuPreé.

He just played.

Music—for the thrill.

Because he wanted it.

Lady Dawn resonated and flexed under his hands, soaking up all his anger and frustration and power, amplifying it . . . and wanting more.

He blasted out the last power chord, flourished with the phrase of a little lullaby, and stilled her strings.

He was bored with this . . . and done.

He finally looked up.

Not a single person in the audience moved. They sat and stared openmouthed.

Far away, dogs barked and howled and a dozen car alarms warbled.

Eliot didn’t care what any of them thought. He turned and started to walk backstage.

Ms. DuPreé waited in the wings; Sarah had come out to listen to him as well, and both their eyes were wide at his audacity.

They hadn’t liked it? Maybe Ms. DuPreé would kick him out of her class. It seemed so silly and trivial now to play for her approval.

Eliot had almost reached the curtain’s edge when the applause came—waves of it along with wild cheering and calls for more.

He turned. Every single person in the audience was on their feet, clapping and waving their lighters in the air.

They’d loved his music and him.

And none of it mattered to Eliot.

He went to Ms. DuPreé and Sarah. The applause behind him intensified. The look on Ms. DuPreé’s face shifted, and her mouth snapped shut. She wasn’t astonished anymore; the narrowing of her eyes signaled something closer to disapproval. It was hard to tell.

Sarah’s mouth, however, remained dropped. Then she blinked and shouted to him over the applause, “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Do me a favor?” he shouted back.

“Anything!” She seemed out of breath.

“Borrow your phone?”

Sarah frowned, like this wasn’t what she’d wanted him to say, but nonetheless, she turned and rummage through her backpack. She handed Eliot her phone.

Eliot dialed, held the speaker to his head, and stuck his finger in the other ear.

There was a connection. The person on the other end picked up on the first ring. “Yeah?”

“Robert?” Eliot yelled as loud as he could.

“Geez,” Robert said. “I can barely hear you. Speak up.”

Eliot ended the called and texted Robert instead:
need 2 get out of here. give me a ride?

send gps
, Robert texted back.
ill get u—where 2?

anywhere
, Eliot thumbed.
just need to ride
.