All That Lives Must Die (66 page)

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THE LAST MOMENT WHEN EVERYTHING WAS STILL POSSIBLE

Knights and shadow creatures hacked one another to pieces, but Mephistopheles’ army had encircled and guarded him and Fiona (a relatively easy thing . . . because they were trouncing Sealiah’s soldiers).

Fiona sat with in a clearing twenty paces across: a spot of peace among the chaos and bloodshed—not that
that
made figuring out what she was seeing any easier.

“This is a trick,” she whispered to the thing that looked like Mitch.

Mitch was from the Stephenson family, wielders of white magic, and
enemies
of the Infernals. How could he be in Hell? He’d told her that he had to deal with “family matters . . .” that was back in Germany, wasn’t it?

“It
was
a trick,” Mitch—or Mephistopheles—or whatever he was said. “At least in the beginning.” He held up a hand and indicated the war. “All this, a plan concocted by the Infernal Board of Directors to draw the offspring of Atropos and Lucifer into our influence.”

Fiona heard the words but they didn’t make any sense. Her face contorted with confusion.

“It was actually your father’s suggestion.”

“Louis!”

Of course
that
made sense: him being the cause of their trouble. With all the restraint she could muster, however, she focused back on Infernal Lord standing in front of her. Fiona was going to ask how a war—of all stupid things—was supposed to get her and Eliot to
like
the Infernals.

Her mouth hung open, however, as the answer slammed into her brain.

She’d seen it happen: Eliot enraptured with Jezebel from day one at Paxington—her injuries during the school year calculated to yield the maximum sympathy—his rushing to her rescue like an idiot—Eliot almost gambling his life and soul away for her—and her “tragic” loss an hour ago at the tower.

The heroic drama would be irresistible to Eliot; that, and the honey-dipped, platinum-bleached bait.

Mephistopheles nodded as he saw her get it.

“What about me?” she asked.

If Jezebel had pulled Eliot into this, how was Mitch supposed to have gotten her involved? They’d been friends . . . he’d taken her on those wondrous walks . . . and there’d been that kiss. There could have been a lot more, too. Fiona had been willing and ready, but it’d been Mitch who’d stopped.

“I was supposed to bring you in,” he told her with a sigh. “Everything fell into place. The Stephenson boy was going to Paxington. I have a connection with their clan from the time of Dr. Faustus, so I approached him.”
67

“You killed him?”

“No . . . and yes,” Mephistopheles said slowly as if he were explaining this to a child. “Young Master Stephenson saw the wisdom of an alliance. I could help him in school and he would succeed beyond his wildest expectations.”

Fiona shook her head. Mitch would have never done that.

But what Paxington student
wouldn’t
have jumped at the chance at passing their classes—guaranteed? Mitch had been the only boy at school not obsessed with winning . . . but maybe that’s because he knew he already would.

“All he had to do was let me possess him—but as deep a possession as our kind can commit to with mortals to avoid detection of the other Immortals. It is a melding of personality and souls.”

“So you’re Mephistopheles
and
Mitch?”

“Yes.” Mephistopheles examined his bare hand. “But in truth, very much more of one . . . and very little of the other.”

Her stomach twisted. She had kissed him! The thing that had fangs and claws and had been a hundred-foot tall monster. She struggled to push down her rising bile.

Months ago Mitch had used white magic in that alley by Paxington to repel shadows creatures. He’d looked pained, and she’d thought then it had been the strain of producing such a powerful magic. But that hadn’t been it at all. The white magic had burned him because he was part, or mostly, Infernal.

Fiona wasn’t strong enough to stand . . . so she scooched back from him. “Was
everything
you said to me this past year a lie?”

She bet normal girls didn’t have to go through this when they broke up with their boyfriends. A little shouting, some hurt feelings, and it was over. Not a full-scale war; fighting with your about-to-be-ex until he almost kills you; and having thousands of broken, damned souls lament along with you.

Lucky her.

Mephistopheles looked as if she’d struck him. “I have
never
lied to you, Fiona.”

Fiona looked into his smoky brown eyes. She didn’t believe that. . . .

He took a step closer. “Everything changed once I knew you. I could not use you and I would never endanger you.” He glanced away. “So I left school to finish this war
without
your involvement, even if that meant losing my lands . . . and my life.”

Fiona snorted. “Looks like you did okay to me.”

Mitch smiled. It was the same smile that made her feel warm and loved, but there was an edge to it, something that reminded Fiona of a wolf.

Mitch’s voice became deeper. “Sealiah lost focus on the war, obsessed with wooing Eliot to her side. She succeeded, but his help was too little, too late.”

Eliot. And Robert.

Fiona had almost forgotten them, she was so engrossed in her own drama.

“Then why kill Robert?” she said, struggling to keep her voice from breaking with sorrow. “And why fight me if you cared so much?”

“I didn’t realize it was you and Robert until too late. I mean, I knew . . . but the blood . . . when it burns . . .” Mephistopheles looked exasperated as he tried to explain. “I would have never consciously harmed you.”

Fiona had felt that way before. When her blood ran hot—she could have killed without thinking.

But what about Robert? Dead on the field somewhere. How could she ever forgive that?

She couldn’t. But she couldn’t think about Robert anymore. Her blood would demand revenge . . . and that mustn’t happen now—not when she was on the verge of being able to accept Mitch’s mercy and get Eliot and herself out of here in one piece.

Oh, but Eliot! He’d never leave without his stupid Jezebel.

“Okay,” she said, lost for a moment as she struggled to hold her anger in check. “You were attacked. You got hot. You defended yourself. I get that. But winning isn’t everything.”

Mephistopheles gazed down at her, suddenly wary. “What do you mean?”

“Can’t you stop? Leave Sealiah one scrap of land so she can fix Jezebel?”

Mephistopheles looked like this was a bad joke—then his face fell. “For Eliot. Yes, as he goes, so do you.”

Was that true? Would she stay and fight even now for Eliot? After she had been so badly beaten? Amanda and Robert were gone, and she was tired of always fighting. There’d been so much bloodshed. She was sometimes even tired of being Eliot’s sister.

But that was the right thing to do. Family stuck together. No matter what.

Fiona looked up into Mitch’s face. Even if it was Mephistopheles . . . it was Mitch Stephenson, too. She couldn’t stop thinking of him as the boy she knew.

Eliot was playing his music again, that same song, the one full of hope.

The sky brightened.

Mephistopheles winced, but he didn’t notice the strange orange half light as he continued to stare into her eyes.

“Yes,” Mephistopheles told her. “For
you
I would leave on the brink of my victory.” He blinked, surprised by his own words. “What an impossible thing you have made possible.”

An impossible thing: hope in Hell, and mercy in the depths of darkness.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

The battle continued about them—shouts and gunfire and screams.

“I will leave,” Mephistopheles said, “
if
you let me take you back to school. And if we can go back to being friends . . . perhaps growing into something more in time.”

Him and her? Friends? More than that? After he had revealed what he was? After she’d seen him murder Robert? Taking his mercy and escaping Hell was one thing. Going back to the way things were? No way.

But would she have done any different in his place? Her Infernal blood on fire? She didn’t know.

Fiona’s head swam. This was so confusing. There were too many feelings to sort through . . . and since she’d cut herself, she didn’t trust her feelings anymore. She actually felt as if she were balancing on her tiptoes—one tiny push either way and she’d land . . . but which way? Give in to her burning hate and avenge Robert? Or stay collected, make peace, and live to fight another day?

This was the same decision she’d been struggling with all year: choosing between Robert and Mitch (although right now
neither
seemed like the correct choice, because one was
dead
, and the other was
evil
).

But while she was trying to figure this out, Eliot and others were dying around her.

She could stop the fighting. She
had to
stop it. For all their sakes.

So she decided. She and Eliot would get out of here alive.

It was funny—she was about to make peace with an Infernal Lord, one who’d been part of a plot to get her on their side, one who’d walked away from those schemes to save her . . . and they’d both ended up
exactly
where the Infernals had originally wanted them to be.

“Delicious irony is ripe in the air,” Mephistopheles whispered. “Let us not waste the moment.” He offered her his hand. It was the hand without the gauntlet, the one she’d cut off, the one that had grown back—flesh and shadow: white smooth skin and long articulated fingers, reaching for hers.

“Come with me, Fiona. Come and we will walk and talk and be together.”

The last thing in the world she wanted was to touch him . . . but something in her blood called to his blood. Like the bloodlust she’d felt before in battle . . . only this was far more passion than rage.

Fiona couldn’t help herself.

Her hand was drawn to his. She dared to reach for him, fingers outstretched.

They touched and he pulled her up to stand with him.

There was heat and life and the world around them stilled.

All other thoughts of the battle and her exhaustion and grief stilled. This was everything she’d wanted: a way to survive this war she’d been dragged into, and a way for Eliot to get his rotten girlfriend back so he wouldn’t make
everyone
miserable for the rest of his life.

And Fiona would be with Mitch.

Her suspicions slipped away. Her pulse hammered in his chest and throat.

In her haze she saw them together—not because of any tricks, but because he’d been noble and protected her when everyone else in her life only wanted to use her. With their powers combined they could leave—go anywhere—do anything . . . even if that was simply go back to school and figure things out, one slow step at a time.

Fiona felt hope and happiness and knew everything was possible for them. It would be a moment she’d treasure and reflect upon every day for the rest of her life.

A sound intruded on their moment: a helicopter
whoop-whoop
of blades slicing the air—then metal screeching against metal.

Mitch stiffened. His face contorted with agony. A dent popped in the center of his chest plate—pushed out from the inside.

His hand jerked from hers. He turned.

A sword stuck out from his back.

Fiona stared, shocked, dumbfounded . . . as she recognized the weapon. It was the broken sword her father had tried to kill Beelzebub with, the same one Sealiah had given Robert. It penetrated Mitch’s spine between his shoulder blades, and the Damascus steel dripped fire that transformed his black plate mail to ash.

He fell.

She caught him.

Robert stood at the edge of the clearing, staring at her and Mitch . . . looking triumphant . . . perplexed . . . and then shocked.

Robert was alive? But she’d seen him impaled.

Every shadow creature on the battlefield fell and dissolved under the brightening red sunlight.

Mitch coughed out smoke and embers. He and Fiona together sank to the ground. She turned him so he lay on his side in her lap.

Flames crackled and spread around the blade.

Fiona, horrified, reached for the handle to pull it out.

“No,” Mitch rasped. “That blade destroys whatever it touches—using the power of its wielder, whatever that may be. Touch it and you will
cut
me to my core and kill me. I would not have that weight upon your soul.”

“But you’re going to die with that thing in you,” she whispered.

The flames spread across his back. He shuddered with pain. He clutched her tighter. “Assassination,” he said. “Backstabbing. It is our way. Even you, Fiona, played your unwitting part.”

“Me?” She never wanted
this
. Fire licked Fiona’s arm and she didn’t feel it.

How had this happened? They had made their peace. It was all fixed. They’d be together and happy. But that one moment when nothing else mattered, when everything was still possible . . . now burned before her eyes.

“Sealiah found a hero and his lady in need of protecting,” Mephistopheles whispered. “With the sun coaxed by hope, and with the God-broken Blade, she concocted a brilliant last-minute gambit.” He chuckled. “Or perhaps she had it planned all along—the intricate, devious machinations of an Infernal. I have lost to a superior opponent.”

“No!” Fiona cried. “Don’t give up! Someone else can take the blade out.”

The last shadow on the field dissolved under the sun as it fully emerged from the moon. The ice on the ground steamed.

“Too late,” he told her. “The light has won this day. My time is over. Yours is just beginning, fair goddess. And our time, alas, was never to be.” He reached up and touched the tears that streamed onto her cheeks. “Still . . . a fine death if it be in your arms.”

“Fiona!” Robert cried.

She ignored him and held Mitch close. The flames rose higher and engulfed them both. Mitch held her. They burned together.