All That Lives Must Die (54 page)

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FIRST TIME IN THE HEADMISTRESS’S OFFICE

Fiona crossed her arms tight over her chest and watched the others pace. Nervous didn’t begin to cover it. When the Headmistress of Paxington called you up to her office . . . it wasn’t going to end well.

She and Eliot and Robert were probably here to get expelled for what they did in Costa Esmeralda. That was fine. Fiona had done the right thing saving those people. Miss Westin could kick her out of school if that’s what she wanted.

If that were the case, though, why had
everyone
on Team Scarab been called here?

“Here” was the waiting room outside Miss Westin’s office. It was on the thirteenth floor of the Clock Tower attached to the Southern Wing of the House of Wisdom. The tower was a twin to London’s Big Ben (except the roof of Paxington’s tower was polished copper and gold filigree).
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This tower looked all the more startling because Fiona hadn’t even seen it until this morning—not to mention the
entire
Southern Wing of the library. Where had
that
come from?

Like the smaller coliseum where she had her Force of Arms class and the helipad north of that . . . this was more of the Paxington campus that had just appeared as if it was kept hidden from freshmen. How much more of this place was there?

She gazed out the wall of windows. The school was laid out for her in miniature. The quartz paving stones in the main quad glittered like a jewel box. The Poseidon fountain was a blur of white spray, and a spiderweb of paths wound through the Grove Primeval toward Bristlecone Hall and other places that vanished deeper in the forest, and then there was the Main Gate.

Fiona squinted and swore she saw Mr. Dells standing there, looking back at her.

Blanketing the rest of the campus was thick, roiling fog.

As much as Fiona loved a good puzzle, she’d have to figure this one out later. There were more pressing problems today. She turned back to her teammates.

Apart from the large window, the other three walls of the waiting room were covered in cream-colored wallpaper with red pinstripes—perfectly aligned with the black-and-white checkerboard floor. The effect of pattern and reflection and geometry made her dizzy.

Jeremy and Sarah Covington stood together in the far corner, whispering, looking at her and then Eliot—probably, as usual, blaming her for this.

Amanda was by herself in the other corner, hovering near a standing bronze ashtray that smoldered with old cigars. She just stared off into the distance like she’d been hit over the head. Fiona was torn between going over there and asking what was wrong, and shaking her to snap her out of it.

Along the opposite wall were three red couches. Eliot and Robert sat there, far apart.

Eliot had his guitar in his lap. He looked at Fiona and shrugged apologetically . . . as if he had anything to be sorry for. It irked her that she’d needed saving in Costa Esmeralda, but she
was
grateful.

Fiona shrugged back. The Covingtons were probably right: If this trouble today was anyone’s fault, it probably was hers.

Robert reclined and looked obnoxiously comfortable. She bet he’d love to get kicked out of Paxington.

Jezebel, of course, was still missing.

And Mitch hadn’t shown up all week, either.

She sighed. This day had started out as normal as it could after yesterday.

She’d gotten stitched up last night and had her punctured lung fixed by Paxington medics. They’d told her that she healed at miraculous rate, owing to her genetics, and she’d be as good as new by morning.

A lot they knew: It hurt even to breathe, and every bone ached.

Of course, Audrey had insisted that if Fiona could stand, she walk to school. She wasn’t even allowed to take the bus.

Their mother seemed impossibly distant. As if now that Eliot and she knew about their heritage, they were supposed to take care of themselves like they’d been part of the League all their lives.

Or maybe the distance Fiona felt from her mother was her own fault. She didn’t bother to tell her about Costa Esmeralda. Uncle Henry and the others let her know. And why even
try
to win Audrey’s approval? Might as well try to catch a breeze with her bare hand.

At least Eliot was his usual mopey self this morning. She tried to thank him for yesterday, but he’d told her that it “hurt too much to talk.” She hadn’t seen any cuts or bruises on him. It had to be Jezebel still depressing him. When was he going to get over her?

She didn’t try to cheer him up with some vocabulary insult, either. Why waste calling someone a “monoicious Marchantiophyta” when they wouldn’t even hear you?
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Fiona’s gaze drifted to the fiery wood and bold brass fittings of Eliot’s new guitar. It creeped her out. That thing had more power than his violin (it was more like artillery than a musical instrument, as far as she was concerned).

Eliot had told her when she woke up on the helicopter that it was Lady Dawn transformed. The change in shape wasn’t what bothered her . . . it was that it was a magical thing . . . a thing that had been her father’s . . . an Infernal instrument.

Like her bracelet—useful, but not to be entirely trusted.

But the thing that’d really thrown a wrench into their morning had been at Paxington’s Front Gate. Mr. Dells gave them a note. On Paxington letterhead, in a typewritten script was the following:

The presence of Team Scarab is hereby requested in the Office of Miss L. Westin, Hall of Wisdom, Clock Tower, thirteenth floor.
PROMPTLY
at 9:45
A.M
.

And so here they were.

Fiona checked her phone to see if Mitch had texted or called, but then the door to Miss Westin’s office creaked open and a boy emerged.

He was maybe twelve years old, pale, and his dark hair was cropped short. He met none of their eyes. “You may go in now, good ladies and masters,” he whispered, and held the door for them.

Fiona went first, and the rest of her team followed.

Miss Westin’s office was long. There were no windows. The only light was from dozens of Tiffany lamps and light sconces. The walls were polished walnut, rubbed to a mirror sheen, and every five paces there were doors: double doors, tiny doors that looked like they belonged in dollhouses, even a round door. Between the doors were oil paintings, sketches, daguerreotypes, and modern photos of students in Paxington uniforms—some in powdered wigs, others in cloaks, some with peace symbol medallions. A few of the paintings were Rembrandts, Cézannes, and there was even a Picasso sketch.

There were no books, though. Not one volume.

That
made Fiona even more nervous.

Miss Westin’s desk was large and black, with thick claw-footed legs. The entire surface was a touch-screen computer. There were layers of icons and text files and windows.

Miss Westin looked up as they approached. With a single sweep of her hand, the screen blanked.

There were no chairs for them.

Fiona guessed Miss Westin didn’t often have guests in her office . . . and when she did, they weren’t supposed to feel comfortable.

Miss Westin assessed them from behind her octagonal wire-rim glasses and then said, “I have two announcements. I shall be brief, as we have class in ten minutes.”

She opened a filing cabinet and withdrew two letters. The first was neatly typed on white paper and signed at the bottom. The other was ancient vellum and curled as if it had been rolled. Its letterhead was festooned with poppies and vines. It smelled of vanilla and sulfur, and it repelled Fiona.

Miss Westin tapped the ordinary letter. “Mr. Stephenson has requested a two-week leave of absence, and I have granted it. His homework assignments shall be forwarded. His gym rank remains attached to Team Scarab’s, but obviously he cannot participate in any matches that may occur during his absence.”

“Is he okay?” Fiona blurted out.

Jeremy Covington cleared his throat. “How are we expected to perform without one of our best teammates?”

Miss Westin frowned at them. “I’m not at liberty to discuss Mr. Stephenson’s personal matters,” she told Fiona icily. To Jeremy, she said, “And I am coming to the matter of your so-called team, Mr. Covington, if you’d be kind enough to remain silent for thirty seconds.”

Jeremy flushed. He shut his mouth, though, and looked at his loafers.

Fiona suddenly didn’t care about her team or their ranking or anything other than what might be wrong with Mitch. She strained to read his letter upside down, but before she could make out a single word, Miss Westin set the other letter on top.

“My second announcement regards Miss Jezebel,” she told them. “Her guardian has petitioned me to withdraw her from this semester at Paxington, citing internal Infernal matters that cannot be avoided. I’m inclined to grant this request as well.”

Eliot stepped forward. “Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he whispered. All the color drained from him. “So she’s not coming back?”

Under normal circumstances, Fiona would’ve been happy to hear Jezebel was gone for good . . . but the expression on her brother’s face was almost more than she could bear. It looked like he was going to die.

Miss Westin sighed and her impassive features thawed—for a microsecond—as she told him, “She shall receive an incomplete for her work this semester. If, however, she enrolls in summer school, she will be able to make up her courses.”

Eliot nodded and stepped back.

“This leaves Team Scarab with but six members,” Miss Westin said. “If you choose to play in such a state, there is little chance you would win your next match, let alone survive the final. This leaves you two options.”

Miss Westin stood and straightened her shirt, donned her black wool jacket, and did up its pearl buttons all the way to her throat. She then picked up a slender leather folder that held her class notes and marched toward the door they had entered.

“Follow,” she ordered.

They did, and Miss Westin talked as they all walked. “According to school traditions, your first option would be to recruit two new members from disbanded teams. There are several excellent surviving players who now need a home.”

She paused at the door. “Or Team Scarab may disband . . . and you each would have to find new teams.”

Fiona felt as if she were sinking in quicksand. Disband the team?
Her
team? Had she been that much of a failure as Captain?

Miss Westin ushered them into the waiting room and locked her office door. “I leave the choice between those two options up to you.” Her gaze fell on Jeremy and then Fiona, lingered a bit on Eliot, and then she blinked. “I must, however, impress the seriousness of this. Your team is below the grade cutoff. Fail Mr. Ma’s class, and I will have no choice but to flunk all of you.”

And with that, she turned and left them there. Stunned.

Fiona recovered from the shock, and started thinking . . . and getting mad. “This is completely unfair,” she said.

“’Tis not like we haven’t seen it coming,” Jeremy told her. “Though ’tis a shame about Mitch. I thought him made of sterner stuff.”

“Shut up,” Robert said. “You don’t know what’s going on with Mitch. He said he’ll be back in two weeks—maybe in time for our next match.”

Sarah said to Robert, “I sympathize for whatever Mitch is going though, but I’m not going to risk graduating on ‘maybe.’ ”

Amanda skulked to a couch and sat, head between her hands. “Maybe we should just disband,” she muttered.

Fiona had to rally her team—while she still had a team. She went to Amanda and set a hand on her shoulder. The girl’s skin was blazing hot. “I’m not giving up. Scarab is a good team. We stick together, and we can get through this. We’ll win our next match, and who knows what the rankings will look like after that? Let’s not panic.”

Jeremy nodded. “No one be panicking, my dear Fiona. But we should consider the hard facts of playing without two key members. And what if we break apart as Miss Westin suggested? Would it be so bad to find open slots on a team that needs us?” He stared pointedly at Amanda as he said this.

“No way,” Fiona told him. “Like I said, Scarab is a good team—maybe the best team, regardless of Mr. Ma’s rankings. We beat
both
Dragon and Wolf teams during the midterm. And we would’ve won that last match against Falcon if Mr. Ma hadn’t cheated. It’s like they don’t want us to graduate.”

Jeremy considered this, then said, “A wee bit suspicious, I grant you. So let’s consider Miss Westin’s other alternative: get replacements for Mitch and our dearly departed Jezebel. If Mitch comes back—lovely—according to the rules, we then have an alternate attached to the team.”

Robert flopped onto the couch. “I don’t know. It makes sense . . . but it feels like we’re giving up on them or something.”

Sarah sat next to him, close, so her knees touched his. “They are the ones who left us,” she said. “And it’s not like we have much of a choice.”

“But we do,” Eliot whispered.

Fiona turned and saw Eliot standing by the door to the Headmistress’s office in the only shadow in the room. He gripped Lady Dawn tight in his hands, and his eyes were hard and cold. “There’s a third option Miss Westin didn’t mention.”

“Oh, come now, Post,” Jeremy said with a little laugh. “What other option could there be?”

“Jezebel,” Eliot said. “She’s not here because she’s trapped in Hell fighting a war. So . . .” He straightened and looked them all in the eye. “We go and rescue her.”

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. Much of the Paxington Institute in San Francisco was designed by Augustus Pugin (1812–1852). Pugin was an advocate for Gothic architecture (and attacked “Pagan” classical architecture). He is widely known for his work on the British Houses of Parliament and the clock tower Big Ben. After being recruited by the Paxington Architectural Trust, his views on classical design softened, and he blended Gothic and classical elements in what is now known as Mytho-Gothic. In his journal, he wrote, “My previous works are as pale imitations compared to Paxington. My dreams have taken on a life of their own.” Pugin never saw his work finished, as he died after a mental collapse in 1851.
Your Guide to the Paxington Institute (Freshman Edition)
. Paxington Institute Press LLC, San Francisco.